@@@@@And if the somewhat older American was at
@@@@@And if the somewhat older American was at the time given the status of a saint, I
shall never forget him
“Don’t now, I need you
“It is you, Alexander?”
“It is and I’ve got a problem with D
And it was, but the weather was insolubleThe storm that had battered the central Leeward
Islands two nights before was only a prelude to the torrential rain and winds that swept up from the
Grenadines, with another storm behind itThe islands were entering the hurricane season, so the
weather was not astonishing, it was merely a delaying factorFinally, when clearance for takeoff
was around the chronological corner, it was discovered that there was a malfunction in the far
starboard engine; no one argued while the problem was traced, found and repairedThe elapsed
time, however, was an additional three hours
Except for the churning of his mind, the flight itself was uneventful for Jason; only his guilt
interfered with his thoughts of what was before him—Paris, Argenteuil, a café with the pro
vocative name of Le Coeur du Soldat, The Soldier’s HeartThe guilt was most painful on the short
flight from Montserrat to Martinique when they passed over Guadeloupe and the island of Basse-
TerreHe knew that only a few thousand feet below were Marie and his children, preparing to fly
Robert Ludlum ?? THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM
188
back to Tranquility Isle, to the husband and father who would not be thereHis infant daughter,
Alison, would, of course, know nothing, but Jamie would; his wide eyes would grow larger and
cloud over as words tumbled out about fishing and swimming and Marie—Christ, I can’t think
about her! It hurts too much!
She’d think he had betrayed her, run away to seek a violent confrontation with an enemy from
long ago in another far-off life that was no longer their lifeShe would think like old Fontaine, who
had tried to persuade him to take his family thousands of miles away from where the Jackal
prowled, but neither of them understoodThe aging Carlos might die, but on his deathbed he would
leave a legacy, a bequest that would hinge on the mandatory death of Jason Bourne—David Webb
and his familyI’m right, Marie! Try to understand meI have to find him, I have to kill him! We
can’t live in our personal prison for the rest of our lives!
“Monsieur Simon?” said the stoutish well-tailored Frenchman, an older man with a closecropped
white chin beard, pronouncing the name Seemohn
“That’s right,” replied Bourne, shaking the hand extended to him in a narrow deserted hallway
somewhere in Orly Airport
“I am Bernardine, Fran?ois Bernardine, an old colleague of our mutual friend, Alexander the
Saint
“Alex mentioned you,” said Jason, smiling tentatively“Not by name, of course, but he told me
you might bring up his sainthoodIt was how I’d know you were—his colleague
“How is he? We hear stories, of course“Banal gossip, by and large
Wounded in the futile Vietnam, alcohol, dismissed, disgraced, brought back a hero of the Agency,
so many contradictory things