The Bourne Ultimatum

"The harm, sir, is to our superiors in the organization-that was made explicitly clear to me personally."

"What's the name of this international organization?"

"I don't know, Sir Henry. That is part of the confidensheeality, do you not see?"

"I'm afraid you're the one who doesn't see, Mr. Pritchard," said Sykes, his voice clipped, his anger surfacing.

"Oh, but I do, Sir Henry, and I shall prove it to you!" interrupted the deputy, looking at each man as if to draw the skeptical Sykes and the astonished attorney, as well as his adoring nephew, into his confidence. "A large sum of money was wired from a private banking institution in Switzerland directly to my own account here in Montserrat. The instructions were clear, if flexible. The funds were to be used liberally in pursuit of the assignments delegated to me. ... Transportation, entertainment, lodgings-I was told I had complete discretion, but, of course, I keep a record of all expenditures, as I do as the second highest officer of immigration. ... Who but vastly superior people would put such trust in a man they knew only by an enviable reputation and position?"

Henry Sykes and Jonathan Lemuel again looked at each other, astonishment and disbelief now joined by total fascination. Sir Henry leaned forward over the desk. "Beyond this-shall we say-in-depth observation of John St. Jacques requiring the obvious services of your nephew, have you been given other assignments?"

"Actually not, sir, but I'm sure that as soon as the leaders see how expeditiously I have performed, others will follow."

Lemuel raised his hand calmly a few inches off the arm of his chair to inhibit a red-faced Sykes. "Tell me," he said quickly, gently. "This large sum of money sent from Switzerland, just how large was it? The amount doesn't matter legally, and Sir Henry can always call your bank under the laws of the Crown, so please tell us."

"Three hundred pounds!" replied the elder Pritchard, the pride of his value in his voice.

"Three hundred?" The solicitor's words trailed off.

"Not exactly staggering, eh?" mumbled Sir Henry, leaning back, speechless.

"Roughly," continued Lemuel, "what's been your expenses?"

"Not roughly, but precisely," affirmed the deputy director of immigration, removing a small notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform.

"My brilliant uncle is always precise," offered Buckingham Pritchard.

"Thank you, Nephew."

"How much?" insisted the attorney.

"Precisely twenty-six pounds, five shillings, English, or the equivalent of one hundred thirty-two East Caribbean dollars, the EC's rounded off to the nearest double zero at the latest rate of exchange-in this case I absorbed forty-seven cents, so entered."

"Amazing," intoned Sykes, numbed.

"I've scrupulously kept every receipt," went on the deputy, gathering steam as he continued reading. "They're locked in a strongbox at my flat on Old Road Bay, and include the following: a total of seven dollars and eighteen cents for local calls to Tranquility-I would not use my official phone; twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents for the long-distance call to Paris; sixty-eight dollars and eighty cents ... di

"That will do," interrupted Jonathan Lemuel, wiping his perspiring black brow with a handkerchief, although the tropical fan was perfectly adequate for the room.

"I am prepared to submit everything at the proper time-"

"I said that will do, Cyril."

"You should know that I refused a taxi driver when he offered to inflate the price of a receipt and soundly criticized him in my official position."

"Enough!" thundered Sykes, the veins in his neck pronounced. "You both have been damn fools of the first magnitude! To have even considered John St. Jacques a criminal of any sort is preposterous!"

"Sir Henry," broke in the younger Pritchard. "I myself saw what happened at Tranquility I

"Exactly!" roared Sykes. "And do you believe Joh

"Stranger things have happened in the outside criminal world, Sir Henry," said Cyril Sylvester Pritchard knowingly. "In my official capacity I've heard many, many stories. The incidents my nephew described are called diversionary tactics employed to create the illusion that the scoundrels are victims. It was all thoroughly explained to me."

"Oh, it was, was it?" cried the former brigadier of the British army. "Well, let me explain something else, shall I? You've been duped by an international terrorist wanted the world over! Do you know the universal penalty for aiding and abetting such a killer? I'll make it plain, in case it's escaped your attention-in your official capacity, of course. ... It is death by firing squad or, less charitably, a public hanging! Now, what's that goddamned number in Paris?"

"Under the circumstances," said the deputy, summoning what dignity he could despite the fact that his trembling nephew clutched his left arm and his hand shook as he reached for his notebook. "I'll write it out for you. ... One asks for a blackbird. In French, Sir Henry. I speak a few words, Sir Henry. In French-Sir Henry."

Summoned by an armed guard dressed casually as a weekend guest in white slacks and a loose, bulky white linen jacket, John St. Jacques walked into the library of their new safe house, an estate on Chesapeake Bay. The guard, a muscular, medium-sized man with clean-cut Hispanic features, stood inside the doorway; he pointed to the telephone on the large cherry-wood desk. "It's for you, Mr. Jones. It's the director."

"Thanks, Hector," said Joh

"As necessary as 'Hector.' My real name's Roger ... or Daniel. Whatever."

"Gotcha." St. Jacques crossed to the desk and picked up the phone. "Holland?"

"That number your friend Sykes got is a blind, but useful."

"As my brother-in-law would say, please speak English."

"It's the number of a café on the Marais waterfront on the Seine. The routine is to ask for a blackbird-un oiseau noir-and somebody shouts out. If the blackbird's there, contact is made. If he isn't, you try again."

"Why is it useful?"

"We'll try again-and again and again-with a man inside."

"What's happening otherwise?"

"I can only give you a limited answer."

"Goddamn you!"

"Marie can fill you in-"

"Marie?"

"She's on her way home. She's mad as hell, but she's also one relieved wife and mother."

"Why is she mad?"

"I've booked her low-key on several long flights back-"

"For Christ's sake, why?" broke in the brother angrily. "You send a goddamned plane for her! She's been more valuable to you than anyone in your dumb Congress or your corkscrew administration, and you send planes for them all over the place. I'm not joking, Holland!"

"I don't send those planes," replied the director firmly. "Others do. The ones I send involve too many questions and too much curiosity on foreign soil and that's all I'll say about it. Her safety is more important than her comfort."

"We agree on that, honcho."

The director paused, his irritation apparent. "You know something? You're not really a very pleasant fellow, are you?"

"My sister puts up with me, which more than offsets your opinion. Why is she relieved-as a wife and mother, I think you said?"

Again Holland paused, not in irritation now, but searching for the words. "A disagreeable incident took place, one none of us could predict or even contemplate."

"Oh, I hear those famous fucking words from the American establishment!" roared St. Jacques. "What did you miss this time? A truckload of U.S. missiles to the Ayatollah's agents in Paris? What happened?"