The Scorpio Illusion (41 page)

The second Cadillac swung around a circle in the road, a U-turn that was the end of a quaint, countrified cul-de-sac, eliminating the need for reversing the vehicle on its way back to the front gate. It came to a sudden stop, the tires screeching as two figures raced out of the guesthouse, the larger one carrying two suitcases. Tye could not let them escape, he had to stop them.

He fired his automatic in the air. “Stay where you are!” he shouted, getting to his feet and rushing forward. “Don’t get in that car!”

Out of the darkness there was a blinding spotlight centered on Hawthorne, its wash illuminating two men climbing into the limousine too briefly for him to see anything clearly.… Spotlights at night and racing figures were a part of his past; he stopped, spun to his right, then pivoted and lunged to his left, rolling violently over and over, out of the beam’s periphery, lurching behind a clump of shrubbery as a staccato volley of gunfire ripped up the dark lawn where he was presumed to have sought safety. The car sped away, its tires spinning crazily on the dirt road, swirls of dust hovering over the surface. Tye closed his eyes in fury and attacked the earth with the handle of his gun.

“Hawthorne, where
are
you?” It was Cathy’s voice, calling frantically as she ran across the road below his position.

“Jesus Christ, Cath, that was a regular
fusillade
!” joined in Poole, not far behind her. “Tye, say something! Oh, my God, he may have been shot—”

“No,
no
…!”

“I’m not sure,” said Hawthorne, raising his voice, and slowly, painfully, getting to his feet, momentarily pausing, his hands on his knees.

“Where are you …?”

“Over here,” Tyrell answered, the rushing clouds in
the sky permitting a few moments of the moon, its light revealing him as he walked haltingly around the shrubs.

“There he is!” cried Neilsen, racing ahead.

“Are you hurt?” the lieutenant asked as he and the major converged breathless on Hawthorne. “Are you?” pressed Poole, holding Tye’s arm. “Hurt?”

“Not from the fire,” Hawthorne answered, grimacing and arching his neck.

“What from?” asked Cathy. “Those were machine guns!”

“One weapon,” Jackson broke in, “and by its lower register a MAC, not an Uzi.”

“Can a MAC-10 be fired by a man driving a large car on a narrow dirt road?” posed Tyrell.

“Not too easily, I wouldn’t think.”

“Then I might be struck dead, but you could be wrong, Lieutenant.”

“What goddamned
difference
does it make?” protested Neilsen.

“None at all,” admitted Hawthorne. “I was just pointing out the possible fallibility of the pope from Pontchartrain.… No, I’m not wounded, only bruised by an evasive action I haven’t practiced lately. How are Van Nostrand’s pilots?”

“Only out of their minds,” replied Cathy, “and I’m sure it’s got something to do with Jackson’s opinion that they’re not up for good-conduct medals. They want out of here!”

“You left them before this happened—the gunfire?”

“Three minutes ago, no more,” said Neilsen.

“Then there’s nothing to stop them, and maybe that’s for the best.”

“Oh, there’s somethin’ to stop ’em, Commander.”

“What are you talking about? They can just take off.”

“You hear anything like a plane goin’ airborne?” Poole grinned. “Ah played a kid’s game with them. It’s called Watch-the-Possum.”

“Poole, I may just have you before a firing squad—”

“Oh, hell, it’s a simple game and it always works—simple things usually do. While we’re standin’ around outside debatin’ with these two kinda’ hysterical vagrants, I pull back and look beyond the tail of the aircraft and sort of yell, ‘Who the hell is that?’ Naturally, they whip their heads around, probably expecting a group of vigilantes on motorcycles, so I lean inside the plane and take the door key out of the recessed shelf. ’Course they don’t notice after I tell ’em it’s a stray deer; they just breathe deep and lower their blood pressure as I shut the only open door, which locks automatically.… They’re not goin’ anywhere, Tye. And when they do, if they do, we can be with them.”

“I was right about you, Lieutenant,” Hawthorne observed, his eyes locked with Poole’s. “Your instincts are terrific and your various capabilities match them—how’s that for a service report?”

“Well, damn, Commander. Ah
thank
you, sir!”

“Not so fast. Those same attributes could put us in a hairy mess.”

“How?” asked Cathy defensively.

“Since that plane didn’t take off, it depends on what’s happening at the front gate after the guards heard the machine gun firing, and what will happen when the cook can’t reach Van Nostrand or her husband. They’ll know we’re still here because the plane
didn’t
take off.”

“If I remember,” said Neilsen, “her husband was our driver.”

“And the limousine has a telephone,” added Tyrell.

“Holy shit, he’s right!” exclaimed Poole. “Suppose the front gate tries the limo, then calls the police? Suppose they’ve already called ’em? They’ll be here any minute, huntin’ for us!”

“My instincts tell me they won’t,” countered Hawthorne, “but then, I don’t have the confidence I once had. I’ve been away too long.”

“It comes down to the gate,” said Poole.

“Exactly,” agreed Hawthorne. “If I’m right, there
should be cars or golf carts or at least men with flashlights racing down to this area of the compound, but there’s nothing. Why not?”

“Maybe we should find out,” said Jackson. “Maybe I should sort of stroll up there and see what’s goin’ on.”

“And get shot, you idiot?”

“Come on, Cathy, I’m not carryin’ a drum and a bugle.”

“She’s right,” said Tyrell. “I may be an antique in some areas, but not this one. I’ll go, and we’ll meet at the plane.”

“What happened here?” asked Neilsen. “What did you see?”

“Two men, one pretty tall and carrying suitcases, the other shorter and thinner and wearing a hat. They jumped into the car when the spotlight centered in on me.

“Who thinks about a hat at a time like that?” said Poole.

“Bald men, Jackson,” answered Hawthorne. “It’s a mark of identification. Standard procedure.… Take Cathy back to the plane and try to control the pilots—”

“He doesn’t have to take me, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Oh, shut up, Cath,” Poole interrupted. “He only means that if those two creeps decide to mutiny, it’s better I stop ’em than you shootin’ them. Okay.”

“All right.”

“And listen to me,” continued Tyrell, his voice firm. “If I run into trouble, I’ll fire three rapid shots. That’s your signal to fly out of here.”

“And leave you behind?” asked Neilsen, astonished.

“That’s right, Major. I think I told you that I’m no hero—I don’t like heroes because too many die, and the prospect has no appeal for me. If there’s trouble, I’m better off getting out of here alone, without any baggage.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“It’s what I was trained for, paid for.”

“Hey, suppose I went with you?” said Poole.

“You answered that yourself, Lieutenant. Suppose the pilots decide to revolt?”

“Come on, Cath!”

The pale gray Defense Department Buick was parked off the road, out of sight, branches from the surrounding trees covering its hood and the windshield. It stood diagonally across the half-mile wooded drive that led to Van Nostrand’s estate, the four men inside bored, irritated, and resentful that they had been given an after-hours assignment without either the authority to take action or an explanation as to why they were there. They were simply to observe, and not, under any circumstances, to be observed.

“There it goes!” said the driver, instantly reaching for his cigarettes on top of the dashboard as a limousine emerged from Van Nostrand’s entrance and swung right. “If a stretch comes out of there after twenty-one hundred hours, we’re home free.”

“Then let’s
go
home,” said a Defense security officer in the back seat. “This was bullshit.”

“Someone upstairs probably wanted to know who was humping who,” added a second voice from the back.

“Pure bullshit,” the man beside the driver said, reaching for the vehicle’s radio. “I’ll call it in, and let’s get out of here. God love the pinstripe crowd.”

Bajaratt sat back in the limousine, stunned, unable to formulate her thoughts. The man in the spotlight was
Hawthorne
! How could it be? It was impossible, yet he was there! Was it coincidence? Ridiculous. There had to be a pattern that permitted the impermissible—what was it? The
padrone
? Was that it? My God, it
was
.… The
padrone
, Mars and Neptune! The passions of remembered
flesh intertwined with a coequal passion for power and supremacy. One taken from the other, killed by another. Oh, the goddamned fool! Van Nostrand could not let it go; he had summoned Hawthorne in order to kill him—
he’s mine, no one else’s
—and the Baj would never hear from him again after tonight.

It was a chess game invented in hell, the kings and the pawns irrevocably at odds, unable to eliminate one another without a breakthrough that could destroy them both.… But it could not happen. She was so close—a few days, and Ashkelon would be avenged—her whole wretched life mean something!
Muerte a toda autoridad
! She could not be stopped, it was unthinkable!

Paris
. She had to find out.

“What is happening?” asked Nicolo, whispering, still breathing hard, erratically, from the gunfire and their swift escape. “I think you had better tell me.”

“Nothing that concerns us,” replied the Baj, reaching for the limousine’s telephone.

Bajaratt dialed the overseas codes to Paris, then the number on the rue du Corniche. “Pauline?” she said emphatically. “I will speak to no other.”

“It is I,” confirmed the woman in Paris. “And you are—”

“The
padrone
’s only daughter.”

“It is enough. What can I do for you?”

“Has Saba called again?”

“
Certainement, madame
. And quite excited. He asked about your not being on the island of Saba, and I believe I assuaged him. He is satisfied.”

“How satisfied?”

“He accepted the fact that your uncle left for another island and that you knew where to reach him when you returned to the Caribbean.”

“Good. His Olympic Charters, Charlotte Amalie, right?”

“I would not know, madame.”

“Then forget I told you. I’ll leave him a message.”

“Of course, madame.
Adieu
.”

Bajaratt pressed the End button, discontinuing the call, then dialed the 809 number in St. Thomas for Olympic Charters. What she heard was precisely what she expected to hear at this hour of the night.

“You have reached Olympic Charters, Charlotte Amalie. The office is closed and will open at 6
A.M
. tomorrow. If this is an emergency, please press one, which will connect you to the Coast Guard patrol. Otherwise, you may leave a message.
”

“My darling, it’s Dominique! I’m calling from a boring cruise off the coast of Portofino and, my darling, it is, as you Americans say, the
pits
! But the good news is that I’ll be back in three weeks. I’ve convinced my husband that I must return to my uncle—he’s on Dog Island now. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, but I did tell you he keeps moving, didn’t I? Good heavens, Pauline scolded me so for not being clearer. It doesn’t matter, we’ll be together soon. I love you!”

The Baj replaced the phone, annoyed by Nicolo’s stare. “Why did you say those things, Cabi?” asked the young man. “Are we flying back to the Caribbean? Where are we going?… Tonight, the gunfire, our racing away like this! What is happening, signora? You must tell me!”

“I cannot tell you what I don’t know, Nico. You heard the driver, he said there was a robbery in progress. The owner of that estate is wealthy beyond our imaginations, and these are bad times in America. There is crime everywhere. That’s why there’s a gatehouse and guards and high fences. They must always be prepared for such terrible things. It has nothing to do with us, believe me.”

“It is difficult for me to do that. If there are guards and so much protection, why are we running away?”

“The police, Nicolo! The police have been summoned, and we certainly don’t want to be questioned by the police. We are visitors to this country; it would be
embarrassing, humiliating.… What would Angelina think?”

“Oh.…” The dock boy’s unrelenting gaze briefly softened. “Why did we come here?”

“Because, through a friend, I was told we’d have our own quarters, and servants … and our host would provide me with a secretary, for I have dozens of letters to write.”

“You have so many words, and you are so many people.” The young Italian continued to stare in the flashing shadows at the woman who had saved his life on the docks of Portici.

“Reflect on your lire in Napoli, my dear boy. I have to sort things out.”

“Perhaps you should sort out where we will stay tonight.”

“Ah, now you are thinking.” The Baj pressed the intercom button for the driver. “Are there acceptable accommodations around here that you might suggest, my friend?”

“Yes, madame, I’ve called ahead and they are prepared for you. Guests of Mr. Van Nostrand, of course. It’s the Shenandoah Lodge; you’ll find it quite acceptable.”

“Thank you.”

Tyrell crept along the edge of the grass in the shadows of the bordering pine trees. The stone gatehouse with the forbidding barriers across the dual-lane road was no more than a hundred feet away, the last thirty or forty, however, without the cover of the pines. It was open space, a manicured lawn between the road and a ten-foot-high stockade fence with ominous-looking metal points atop each rounded shaft; it took no expertise to know that a powerful electric current flowed from tip to tip. Nor did it take years of experience to realize that
the two barriers that fell across the wide entrance road were no mere wooden planks; their thickness indicated plates of laminated steel. Only a tank could crash through them, an automobile of whatever size would impact and be shattered as if it had crashed into a wall of iron. They were lowered now.