"Then judges are paid a lot more in the States than they are in Canada. He's damned lucky we had space."

"It's the summer season, sir. We usually have available space during these months."

"Don't remind me. ... All right, so we've got two illustrious relatives who want to meet privately but go about it in a very complicated way. Maybe you should call the judge and tell him what villa Fontaine is in. Or Prefontaine-whichever the hell it is.

"I suggested that courtesy to my uncle, sir, and he was most adamant. He said we should do and say absolutely nothing. According to my uncle, all great men have secrets and he would not care to have his own brilliant deduction revealed except by the parties themselves."

"Beg your pardon?"

"If such a call were made to the judge, he would know the information could only come from my uncle, the deputy director of Montserrat's immigration."

"Christ, do whatever you want, I've got other things on my mind. ... Incidentally, I've doubled the patrols on the road and the beach."

"We'll be stretched thin, sir."

"I've shifted a number off the paths. I know who's here, but I don't know who may want to get in here."

"Do we expect trouble, sir?"

John St. Jacques looked at the assistant manager. "Not now," he said. "I've been out checking every inch of the grounds and the beach. By the way, I'll be staying with my sister and her children in Villa Twenty."

The hero of World War II's Resistance known as Jean Pierre Fontaine walked slowly up the concrete path toward the last villa overlooking the sea. It was similar to the others, with walls of pink stucco and a red tiled roof, but the surrounding lawn was larger, the bordering shrubbery taller and denser. It was a place for prime ministers and presidents, foreign secretaries and secretaries of state, men and women of international stature seeking the peace of pampered isolation.

Fontaine reached the end of the path where there was a four-foot-high white stuccoed wall and beyond it the impenetrable overgrown slope of the hill leading down to the shoreline. The wall itself extended in both directions, curving around the hill below the villas' balconies, at once demarcation and protection. The entrance to Villa Twenty was a pink wrought-iron gate bolted into the wall. Beyond the gate the old man could see a small child running about the lawn in a bathing suit. In moments a woman appeared in the frame of the open front door.

"Come on, Jamie!" she called out. "Time for dinner."

"Has Alison eaten, Mommy?"

"Fed and asleep, darling. She won't yell at her brother."

"I like our house better. Why can't we go back to our house, Mommy?"

"Because Uncle John wants us to stay here. ... The boats are here, Jamie. He can take you fishing and sailing just like he did last April during the spring vacation."

"We stayed at our house then."

"Yes, well, Daddy was with us-"

"And we had lots of fun driving over in the truck!"

"Dinner, Jamie. Come along now."

Mother and child went into the house and Fontaine winced thinking about his orders from the Jackal, the bloody executions he was sworn to carry out. And then the child's words came back to him. Why can't we go back to our house, Mommy? ... We stayed at our house then. And the mother's answers: Because Uncle John wants us to stay here. ... Yes, well, Daddy was with us then.

There might be any number of explanations for the brief exchange he had overheard, but Fontaine could sense warnings quicker than most men, for his life had been filled with them. He sensed one now, and for that reason an old man would take a number of walks late at night for "circulatory purposes."

He turned from the wall and started down the concrete path so absorbed in thought that he nearly collided with a guest at least his own age wearing a foolish-looking little white cap and white shoes.

"Excuse me," said the stranger, sidestepping out of Fontaine's way.

"Pardon, monsieur!" exclaimed the embarrassed hero of France, unconsciously slipping into his native tongue. "Je regrette-that is to say, it is I who must be excused."

"Oh?" At his words the stranger's eyes briefly widened, almost as if there had been recognition that was quickly hidden. "Not at all."

"Pardon, we have met, monsieur?"

"I don't believe so," replied the old man in the silly white cap. "But we've all heard the rumors. A great French hero is among the guests."

"Foolishness. The accidents of war when we were all much younger. My name is Fontaine. Jean Pierre Fontaine."

"Mine's ... Patrick. Brendan Patrick-"

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, monsieur." Both men shook hands. "This is a lovely place, is it not?"

"Simply beautiful." Again the stranger seemed to be studying him, thought Fontaine, yet, oddly enough, avoiding any prolonged eye contact. "Well, I must be on my way," added the elderly guest in the brand-new white shoes. "Doctor's orders."

"Moi aussi," said Jean Pierre, purposely speaking French, which evidently had an effect on the stranger. "Toujours le médecin à notre âge, n'est-ce pas?"

"All too true," replied the old man with the bony legs, nodding and making the gesture of a wave as he turned and walked rapidly up the path.

Fontaine stood motionless watching the receding figure, waiting, knowing it would happen. And then it did. The old man stopped and slowly turned around. From a distance their eyes locked; it was enough. Jean Pierre smiled, then proceeded down the concrete path toward his villa.

It was another warning, he mused, and a far more deadly one. For three things were apparent: first, the elderly guest in the foolish white cap spoke French; second, he knew that "Jean Pierre Fontaine" was in reality someone else-sent to Montserrat by someone else; third ... he had the mark of the Jackal in his eyes. Mon Dieu, how like the monseigneur! Engineer the kill, make sure it is done, then remove all physical traces that could lead back to his methods of operation, in particular his private army of old men. No wonder the nurse had said that after his orders were carried out they could remain here in this paradise until his woman died, a date that was imprecise at best. The Jackal's generosity was not so grand as it appeared; his woman's death, as well as his own, had been scheduled.

John St. Jacques picked up the phone in his office. "Yes?"

"They have met, sir!" said the excited assistant manager at the front desk.

"Who have met?"

"The great man and his illustrious relative from Boston, Massachusetts. I would have called you at once, but there was a mix-up concerning a box of Belgian chocolates-"

"What are you talking about?"

"Several minutes ago, sir, I saw them through the windows. They were conferring on the path. My esteemed uncle, the deputy director, was right in all things!"

"That's nice."

"The Crown governor's office will be most pleased, and I'm certain we shall be commended, as will, of course, my brilliant uncle."

"Good for all of us," said St. Jacques wearily. "Now we don't have to concern ourselves about them any longer, do we?"

"Offhand I would say not, sir. ... Except that as we speak the honored judge is walking down the path in haste. I believe he's coming inside."

"I don't think he'll bite you; he probably wants to thank you. Do whatever he says. There's a storm coming up from Basse-Terre and we'll need the CG's input if the phones go out."

"I myself shall perform whatever service he requires, sir!"

"Well, there are limits. Don't brush his teeth."

Brendan Prefontaine hurried through the door of the circular glass-walled lobby. He had waited until the old Frenchman had turned into the first villa before reversing direction and heading straight for the main complex. As he had done so many times over the past thirty years, he was forced to think quickly on his feet-usually running feet-building plausible explanations that would support a number of obvious possibilities as well as others not so obvious. He had just committed an unavoidable yet stupid error, unavoidable because he was not prepared to give Tranquility Inn's desk a false name in case identification was required, and stupid because he had given a false name to the hero of France. ... Well, not stupid; the similarity of their surnames might have led to unwanted complications where the purpose of his trip to Montserrat was concerned, which was quite simply extortion-to learn what so frightened Randolph Gates that he would part with fifteen thousand dollars, and having learned it perhaps collect a great deal more. No, the stupidity was in not taking the precautionary step he was about to take. He approached the front desk and the tall, slender clerk behind it.