| know him very well. You wouldn’t have a house and I wouldn’t have Tranquility Inn if it wasn’t for him.” “Is he in touch with the governor? I mean right now, is he keeping the CG posted about what’s going on here. Think, Johnny. It’s important. There’s a phone in that villa; he could be in contact with Government House. Is he?” “You mean with the CG himself?” “With anyone over there.” “Believe me, he’s not. Everything’s so quiet not even the police know what’s going on. And as far as the CG is concerned, he’s only been given the vaguest scenario, no names, nothing, only a trap. He’s also out on his boat and doesn’t want to know a damn thing until it’s all over… Those were his orders.” “I’ll bet they were.” “Why do you ask?” “I’ll explain later. Hurry up!” “Will you stop saying that?” Jason put down the radio and turned to Fontaine. “We’re clear. The governor isn’t one of the Jackal’s army of old men. He’s a different kind of recruit, probably like that lawyer Gates in Boston—just bought or frightened, no soul involved.” “You’re certain? Your brother-in-law is certain?” “The man’s out on his boat. He was given a bare-bones outline but that’s all, and his orders were that he’s not to be told anything else until it’s all over.” The Frenchman sighed. “It’s a pity my mind is so old and so filled with salt. If I had remembered, we could have |
nylon shoulder holster, that silently shot immobilizing darts into attacking animals, such as pit bulls; two flares designed to assist stranded drivers in broken-down cars to attract or deter other motorists; a pair of small Zeiss Ikon 8x10 binoculars attached to his trousers by a Velcro strip; a penlight; raw-hide laces; and finally, pocket-sized wire cutters in case there was a metal fence. Along with the automatic supplied by the Central Intelligence Agency, the gear was either lashed to his belt or concealed in his clothing. The darkness came and Jason Bourne walked into the woods. The white sheet of ocean spray burst up from the coral reef and appeared suspended, the dark blue waters of the Caribbean serving as a backdrop. It was that hour of early evening, a long sundown imminent, when Tranquility Isle was bathed in alternating hot tropical colors, pockets of shadows constantly changing with each imperceptible descent of the orange sun. The resort complex of Tranquility Inn had seemingly been cut out of three adjacent rock-strewn hills above an elongated beach sandwiched between huge natural jetties of coral. Two rows of balconied pink villas with bright red roofs of terra-cotta extended from each side of the resort’s central hub, a large circular building of heavy stone and thick glass, all the structures overlooking the water, the villas connected by a white concrete path bordered by low-cut shrubbery and lined with ground lamps. Waiters in yellow guayabera jackets wheeled room-service tables along the path, delivering bottles |
