The Scorpio Illusion (24 page)

“What are you saying?” asked Tyrell.

“This equipment can do everything but make moonshine, and it’s been used by someone who knows how to erase the memories on the first and second recalls and did just that. There’s zilch on every disk except for three printouts near the end of the last one. Whoever used it then must have been someone else, because the delete-memory wasn’t touched.”

“Would you mind speaking English, not computerese?”

“I pulled up three telephone numbers, area codes and all, then checked the destinations. One was to Switzerland, and I’ll bet my hush puppies it’s to a bank; the second was to Paris; and the third to Palm Beach, Florida.”

11

T
he white limousine drew up to the canopied entrance of The Breakers hotel in Palm Beach and was immediately surrounded by the gold-braided doorman, the assistant doorman, and three red-uniformed bellhops. It was a scene reminiscent of a modernized Belle Époque, masters and servants knowing their places, content with their privileges and enthusiastic in their servitudes. The first to emerge was a full-figured, middle-aged grande dame dressed in the finery of the Via Condotti, Rome’s avenue of high fashion. Her wide-brimmed hat above the flowered silk dress cast shadows across a tanned face that bespoke generations of aristocracy. The features were sharp and harmonious, the skin smooth, what lines there were more imagined than seen. Amaya Bajaratt was no longer a wild, unkempt terrorist on a raft or a boat at sea, or a uniformed fighter from the Baaka Valley, or a frumpish ex-pilot for the Israeli Air Force. She was now the Countess Cabrini, reputed to be one of the wealthiest women in Europe, with an industrialist brother in Ravello who was even richer. She threw her head back gracefully and smiled as the tall, extremely handsome young man stepped out of the limousine, resplendent in a crested navy blue blazer, gray flannels, and patent leather Imperiale loafers.

The morning-coated manager of the elegant hotel rushed out with two assistants, one of them obviously an Italian, more obviously a translator. Greetings were exchanged in both languages until the guardian aunt of the
barone-cadetto
held up her hand and announced:
“The young
barone
has many things to do in this great country of yours, and he would prefer that you address him in English so he might absorb the language. He will not at first understand much of what you say, but he insists—and, naturally, I’m at his side to translate for him.”

“Madame,” said the manager quietly, standing beside Bajaratt as the considerable luggage was gathered by the bellhops. “There’s no reason for you to put up with the inconvenience should you not care to, but there are reporters from several local newspapers as well as their photographers in one of our larger conference rooms. They’d like to meet the young baron, naturally. How they were alerted to his presence, I have no idea, but I can assure you it was not through this hotel. Our reputation for confidentiality is unparalleled.”

“Oh, someone was naughty!” exclaimed the
contessa
Cabrini, breaking into a resigned smile. “Don’t worry,
Signor Amministratore
, it happens whenever he goes to Rome or London. Not Paris, however, for France abounds with false nobility, and the socialist press no longer cares.”

“You may avoid these, of course. It’s why I had our security place them in the conference room.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll speak to the
barone-cadetto
; we’ll give the journalists a few minutes. After all, he’s here to make friends, not antagonize your newspapers.”

“I’ll go ahead then and tell them, and also make it clear it can’t be a long session. Jet lag’s a universal fatigue.”

“No, signore, I shouldn’t say that. He arrived yesterday and actually bought clothes not five minutes away from here. We wouldn’t care to give false information so easily contradicted.”

“But the reservation was for today, madame.”

“Come now, we were both his age once, weren’t we, signore?”

“I never looked like he does, I can assure you of that.”

“Very few young men do, but neither his looks nor his title alter his perfectly normal youthful appetites, do you see what I mean?”

“It’s not difficult, madame. A close personal friend for the evening.”

“Even I do not know her name.”

“I understand. My assistant will see you inside and I’ll take care of everything.”

“You are a wonderful man,
Signor Amministratore
.”

“
Grazie
, Countess.”

The manager nodded and walked up the carpeted steps as Bajaratt turned and approached Nicolo, who was talking to the assistant manager and the interpreter. “What are you three conspiring about, Dante?” asked the
contessa
in Italian.

“
Ma niente
,” replied Nicolo, smiling at the interpreter. “My new friend and I were discussing the beautiful surroundings and the fine weather,” he continued in Italian. “I told him my studies and my father’s business have taken up all my time, so I have not learned to play the golf.”

“
Va bene
.”

“He says he will find me an instructor.”

“You have too much work to do for such things,” said the Baj, taking Nicolo by the arm and leading him to the carpeted steps as the young man nodded pleasantly to the two men behind him. “Nico, do not be so
familiar
,” whispered Amaya. “It’s not becoming for a man of your station. Be cordial, but keep in mind that he is beneath you.”

“Beneath me?” asked the assumed
barone-cadetto
as the doors of the lobby were held open for them. “Sometimes you talk in circles, signora. You want me to be somebody else, which I have learned by memory, yet you also want me to be myself.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” said Bajaratt in a harsh
whisper, still in Italian. “The one thing I do
not
want is for you to think for yourself. I think
for
you, is that understood?”

“Of course, Cabi. I’m sorry.”

“That’s better. We’ll have a grand time tonight, Nico, for my body aches for you, you’re so beautiful, as I knew you would be!” As the dock boy started to put his arm affectionately around her shoulder, she suddenly moved away. “
Stop
. The assistant manager is rushing up to take us to the reporters and the photographers.”

“The what?”

“I told you last night. You are going to meet the press. It’s nothing grand, merely the society pages.”

“Oh, yes, and I understand very little English. I turn to you with the questions, is that right?”

“
All
the questions.”

“This way, please,” said the manager’s first assistant, “it’s just a short walk to the Regal Room.”

The press conference lasted exactly twenty-three minutes. The small crowd of journalists and photographers had their ingrained hostility toward enormously wealthy European nobility rapidly diffused by the tall, shy, ingratiating
barone-cadetto
. The questions came with staccato regularity, initially negative, and repelled by the Contessa Cabrini, an aunt of the
barone-cadetto di Ravello
, who, as was agreed to in the ground rules, would be referred to only as the “interpreter.” Then an Italian-speaking reporter from
The Miami Herald
asked in the young baron’s language: “Why do you think you’re accorded all this attention? Do you think you deserve it? What have you really done outside of being born?”

“I really don’t believe I deserve anything until I can prove what I can do, which will take a long time.… On the other hand, signore, would you care to accompany me on a dive into the Mediterranean waters to the depth of a hundred or so meters on behalf of oceanographic science? Or perhaps you might join me on the search-and-rescue teams in the Maritime Alps, where we have
scaled down the rocks several thousand feet to bring the presumed dead back to life.…
My
life, signore, may be one of privilege, but it has not been without its modest contributions.”

The Contessa Cabrini instantly translated for the audience of journalists as flashbulbs snapped, streaks of light illuminating the handsome face of the unpretentious young baron as his “interpreter” stepped away, out of the photographs.

“Hey,
Dante
!” yelled a female correspondent. “Why don’t you give up the nobility bit and get yourself a television series? You’re a hunk, kid!”

“Non capisco, signora.
”

“I agree with the girls,” an elderly male reporter in the front row broke in above the laughter. “You’re a good-looking young fella, but I don’t think you’re here to bowl over our young ladies.”

Upon the instant, unnecessary translation, the young baron replied, “Please, Mr. Journalist, if I understand you, I should very much like to meet American girls, whom I would treat with great respect. On the television they are so alive and attractive—so
Italian
, if you’ll forgive me.”

“Are you running for political office?” asked another reporter. “If you are, you’ve got the women’s vote.”

“I only run in the mornings, signore. Ten or twelve miles. It is very good for the body.”

“What’s your agenda here, baron?” continued the reporter in the front row. “I checked with your family in Ravello, your father, in fact, and he made it clear that you were to bring back a number of recommendations based on your observations of American investments, their viability, their projections. Is that correct, sir?”

The translation was complex and quiet, several points repeated several times, instructions as to his reply contained therein. “My father has schooled me well, signore, and we will speak each day on the telephone. I am his eyes and his ears, and he trusts me.”

“Will you be traveling a lot?”

“I believe a great many entrepreneurs will be coming to him,” interrupted the
contessa
without translating. “Firms are only as good as the executives who run them. The
barone-cadetto
is trained in economics, for his responsibilities are great. He will look for conviction and integrity and match them against the figures.”

“Outside of profit-and-loss statements,” said an intense female reporter, her short, dark hair framing an angry face, “has any thought been given to the socioeconomic conditions prevalent in those areas targeted for investment, or is it just business as usual—go where the profits are?”

“I suggest that is—how do you say it?—a prejudiced question,” replied the
contessa
.

“A loaded question,” a male voice at the rear corrected her.

“But I should be happy to answer it,” the
contessa
continued. “Perhaps the lady might place a telephone call to any journalist of her choosing in or around Ravello, even Rome. She will learn for herself the high esteem accorded the family in the
provincia
. In good times and not so good they have been most generous in the areas of medicine, shelter, and employment. They treat their wealth as a gift that requires responsibility as well as authority. They have a social conscience and it will not change over here.”

“The kid can’t answer for himself?” pressed the querulous reporter.

“This
kid
, as you call him, is far too modest to extol his family’s virtues in public. As you may notice, he cannot understand everything you say, but the look in his eyes will tell you that he is much offended, particularly since he cannot comprehend the reason for your hostility.”

“
Mi scusi
,” said the reporter from
The Miami Herald
in fluent Italian. “I also spoke with your father, the baron in Ravello—on background, naturally—and I apologize
for my colleague,” he added, aiming a nasty grin at the woman. “She’s a pain in the ass.”

“Grazie.
”

“Prego.
”

“If we may revert to English,” said a heavyset journalist in the front on the right. “I certainly don’t subscribe to our colleague’s innuendos, but the young baron’s spokeswoman has raised a point. As you know, there are deep pockets of unemployment in this country. Would the family’s social conscience conceivably extend to those areas?”