The Scorpio Illusion (31 page)

“Speaking of which, a very intense Lieutenant Poole has just arrived. He’s scanning the tables for us.”

Andrew Jackson Poole V pulled back a chair and sat down, his spine rigid. “The next time you got a conference with those muleshoes, you go yourself, big guy!” he whispered harshly. “Those assholes can’t speak a simple declarative sentence.”

“It’s called obfuscation, Lieutenant,” said Hawthorne, smiling. “As in they didn’t really say what you heard, but you drew your own conclusions which they can reject at a later date. Therefore, whatever goes wrong is your fault, not theirs.… Did you give them my message?”

“Oh, they’ve got no problem with that. You can go after your X-rated pilot, or whatever he is, but there’s a new wrinkle that could make him obsolete.”

“What is it?”

“Some big-shot dude who must be pretty high in Washington has information for you, and as sure as ’gators eat meat, it’s got something to do with the current situation.”

“Let’s have it.”

“This wrinkle has a wrinkle on it, Tye. He passed over your old buddy Stevens and came directly down here by way of the secretary of defense, who had you traced. Stevens is out in the cold on this.”

“What?”

“He’ll talk only to you.”

“Why? Who is he?”

Poole reached into his recently purchased, very expensive navy blue blazer and took out an official-looking envelope with thick red security tape bonded to the center of the paper. “You tell us, if you’ve a mind to,” said the lieutenant. “This is for you, and I gotta explain that the head intelligence honcho at the base—some wide-eyed
cat who took me into his office and told me he was ordered to keep his mouth shut—was scared shitless. He said he expected only you, and when I said you weren’t available, he said he wouldn’t give it to me, so I said, ‘That’s fine, he’ll never get it,’ so he said he’d send me back to wherever we were under escort, and that escort would observe me delivering the envelope to you personally, probably with a high-speed camera.”

“Goddamned kindergarten games,” said Hawthorne.

“He’s the ensign looking over the flower box on our left,” said Cathy. Tye and Jackson turned around; the head behind a row of orchids ducked, the epauleted white shirt dashing to the right toward the entrance. “The ball’s in your court, Commander.”

“Let’s see if it is,” said Tyrell, ripping the tape and opening the envelope. He extracted the one-page note and, reading it, closed his eyes. “What’s left?” he said, his voice barely audible. He dropped the paper on the table, his eyes staring into nothing across the room.

“May I?” asked Catherine, slowly picking up the note, but not turning it over to read until she understood there would be no objection from Hawthorne.

A telephone number was in the lower left corner; other than that there was no identification whatsoever on the handwritten note. However, there was a postscript below the initials.

“What does he know?” said Hawthorne, finding a faint, frightened voice, asking the question of himself as much as of his two companions. “Who
is
he?”

“If the base honcho knows, he’s not saying, which means he doesn’t because he would have said it.”

“How can you be sure of that?” asked Cathy.

“I told him my leader wasn’t in the market for unsolicited communiqués that weren’t cleared by the navy spooks in D.C. That’s when he dumped on me about the secretary of defense and all the secrecy that went with the trace.”

“You do have balls, Jackson,” said Tyrell sincerely.

“I’m also just army enough to get a mite jumpy when strict chains of command are skirted by civilian hush-hush bullshit. That’s when I smell rodents goin’ around secure channels to nail another military. I can give you chapter and verse going back to Pearl Harbor.”

“In this case, there could be a very good reason, Lieutenant. My wife was murdered in Amsterdam.”

“I know that, but why has this dude kept his mouth shut for five years if he’s got something to tell you? Why now?”

“He made that clear, and you said it yourself. He believes there’s a connection to the present situation; he spelled it out. My wife was
sacrificed
.”

“And I’m truly sorry about that, but we’ve seen what these scumbuckets can do, what they’ve
done
, and the contacts they’ve got in D.C. and Paris and London … and you tell Cath and me that it’s all just a little tip of the iceberg, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So this world we know could be in a real goddamned international mess, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think I tried to make that clear.”

“Then who are you to stand between whoever this big shot is and his goin’ directly to the President of the United States and all the national security agencies that man’s got wired into his console?”

“I don’t know.”

“So think about it! He even gives you an option whether or not to act on the information he
thinks
you know. Considerin’ everything involved, what kind of reasonin’ is that? One ex-lieutenant commander in the navy who’s not exactly held in high esteem against the life of the most powerful leader in the world? Think, Tye!”

“I can’t,” mumbled Hawthorne, a tremble developing in his hands, his eyes wavering. “I just can’t.… She was my wife.”

“Cut it out, Commander, no tears from you.”

“Stop it, Jackson!”

“The hell I will, Cath. This whole thing smells!”

“I have to
know
—” Tyrell’s voice broke off, then, as suddenly as his painful introspection had arrived, it vanished, replaced by a blinking, very controlled Hawthorne. “We’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we?” he said, sitting up as straight as Lieutenant Poole. “Until then, I’m going after that pilot. He’s in Old San Juan.”

“This has to be very difficult for you.” Neilsen covered
Tyrell’s extended left hand with her own. “You’re a strong guy.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” said Hawthorne, his tired eyes locked with Catherine’s. “Until I talk with the man who wrote this ‘communication,’ I’m the biggest coward you ever met.”

“So let’s go after the X-rated pilot,” Poole broke in, his voice steady.

“Jackson, please—”

“I know what I’m doing, Cath. It’s no good stewin’ while you wait for the moonshine to drip. C’mon, Commander, let’s roll into San Juan.”

“No, you stay here with Cathy, I’ll go alone.”

“Negative,
sir
.” Poole rose from his chair, standing at attention above Hawthorne.

“What did you say?” Tyrell blinked his eyes and looked up at the young air force officer, his expression strained, angry. “I said I’m going-alone, didn’t you hear me?”

“Affirmative, sir,” replied Poole in a military monotone. “However, I’m exercisin’ a junior officer’s prerogative when, in his best judgment, his superior is in need of assistance, and that assistance in no way compromises his current duties. It’s clearly spelled out in the Air Force Manual of Regulations in Article Seven, Section—”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Don’t argue with him,” said Catherine softly, squeezing Hawthorne’s hand as she removed hers. “He’ll quote every regulation to counter you from page one on if you do. He’s done it with me more times than I can count.”

“Okay, you win, Lieutenant.” Tyrell rose from his chair. “Let’s roll. Into Old San Juan.”

“May I suggest, sir, that we stop in the men’s room first?”

“I’m fine. I’ll wait outside.”

“I further suggest, sir, that you join me.”

“Why?”

“My answer will explain why the meeting with your friends at naval intelligence took so long. Bein’ stationed in Florida, I’m familiar with San Juan. It took a little time to locate the shops I needed to find, especially one which would cooperate. The ensign was too scared to argue.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Since we left those outsize guns we had in Gorda, I took the liberty of buying us a couple of weapons—figuring you had that pilot in mind, and knowing something about Old San Juan. Walther P.K.—autos, eight rounds, three clips apiece, and with a two-and-one-half-inch barrel, very unobtrusive in coat pockets.”

“He knows guns too?” asked Hawthorne quietly, looking down at Catherine.

“I don’t think he’s ever fired one in anger,” answered the major, “but he’s got a master’s equivalent in weapons analysis.”

“How are you in brain surgery?”

“I got as far as lobotomy procedures, but it was too messy.… Look, I don’t think it’s too smart to hand you a gun and three clips of ammunition right out in the open. Frankly, I’m too tall and good-lookin’ for people not to notice, you know what I mean?”

“You’re the essence of modesty, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, hell, you’re not so bad yourself, even if you’re kind of maturelike.”

“Stay in the suite, Cathy,” said Tyrell.

“Check in with me every half hour, I insist on it.”

“If we can, Major.”

“Ashkelon
!” cried the voice over the public telephone in the Hay-Adams hotel in Washington.

“I’m here, Jerusalem,” said Bajaratt. “What happened?”

“The Mossad picked up our lead man!”

“How?”

“There was a party at the kibbutz Irshun outside of Tel Aviv. Several were less drunk than the others, and they found him raping a sabra in the field.”

“The
idiot
!”

“They’ve got him in chains inside the kibbutz jail-house, awaiting their superiors from Tel Aviv.”

“Can you get to him?”

“There’s a Jew we can bribe, we’re sure of it.”

“Then do it. Kill him. We can’t allow him to be put under drugs.”

“It is done. Ashkelon forever.”

“Forever,” said Bajaratt, hanging up the phone.

Nils Van Nostrand walked into the study at his immense estate in Fairfax, Virginia. The huge room was devoid of its usual accoutrements, for they were all packed in cartons, all designated by shipping labels to a freight depot in Lisbon, Portugal, ultimately, secretly, to be delivered to a mansion on the shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland. The rest of the house, its interiors and all its grounds, stables, horses, and various livestock—domestic and wild—had been sold confidentially to a Saudi sheikh who would legally take possession in thirty days. It was all Van Nostrand needed, far more, in fact. He went to his desk, picked up the secure red telephone, and dialed.

“Scorpio Three,” said the voice on the line.

“This is S-One and I’ll be brief. My time has come. I’m retiring.”

“My God, that’s a shock! You’ve been a rock for all of us.”

“These things happen. I know when to leave. Tonight, before I disappear, I’ll program this phone to you and send word to our Providers. One day they’ll summon you, for you are now accountable to them. Incidentally, if a woman calls, identifying herself as the Baj, give her whatever she needs. That’s an order from the
padrone
.”

“Understood. Will we hear from you again?”

“Frankly, I doubt it. I have a last assignment to complete, and then it’s absolute retirement. Scorpio Two is adequate and has extensive expertise, but he doesn’t possess your background or sophistication. He’d be out of his depth.”

“I think you mean he doesn’t have my law firm in Washington.”

“Regardless, tomorrow morning you will be Scorpio One.”

“It’s an honor I shall take to my grave.”

“Not too quickly, I trust.”

Bajaratt climbed out of the taxi, beckoning Nicolo to hurry. The young man followed as the Baj paid the driver through the window.

“Thanks, lady, that’s very nice of you. Hey, isn’t that the young fella we’ve all been reading about? From Italy?”

“I’m afraid he is, signore.”

“Wait’ll I tell my wife, she’s Italian. She brought home one of those papers from Shoppers World with pictures of that actress, Angel Capell, and his royal highness there.”

“They’re just good friends—”

“Hey, I don’t make no judgments, lady. She’s a terrific kid, everybody loves her, and those tabloids are garbage!”

“She’s a delightful girl. Thank you, signore.”

“Hey, it’s my pleasure.”

“Come, Dante.” Bajaratt took Nicolo’s arm, propelling him into the fashionable café-of-the-moment in Georgetown. The luncheon crowd was a mix of matrons in silks, younger women in Armani blouses and Calvin Klein denims, along with the usual parade of wealthy, would-be young Turks—recent appointees whose faces reflected their own images of the best-and-the-brightest—and
lastly, a few working members of Congress who impatiently kept glancing at their wristwatches. “Remember, Nico,” said the Baj as the maître d’ made obsequious gestures amid more obsequious welcomes. “He is the senator you met in Palm Beach, the lawyer from the state of Michigan. His name is Nesbitt.”

Effusive reintroductions accomplished and iced coffee ordered for all three, the senator from Michigan spoke. “I’ve never been here before,” he said, “but one of my aides knew it immediately. Apparently it’s very popular.”

“It was merely a whim, signore. Our hostess the other night in Palm Beach mentioned it, therefore I suggested it.”

“Yes, she would.” The senator glanced around, amusement in his eyes. “Did you get the material I sent to your hotel last evening?”

“Indeed, yes, and I went over it for several hours with Dante Paolo—
Vero, Dante? Le carte di ieri sera, ti ricordi
?”