The Scorpio Illusion (74 page)

I
t was 8:12
A.M
. when the Carillon hotel welcomed back Madame Balzini and her nephew, all formalities confidentially taken care of by an accommodating concierge who was far richer for his labors. At 8:58 Bajaratt phoned the Baaka Valley’s bank of choice in the Cayman Islands, used her pass code, and was assured that the sum of fifty thousand American dollars would be delivered to the hotel within the hour, no mechanism of transfer sought nor one offered. The money arrived in a document envelope.

“Should I take it?” asked Nicolo when the bank executive left.

“You’ll take what I give you. I trust the noble dock boy understands that I may have made some provisions for myself. You shall have your twenty-five thousand, but the rest is for me, for my endeavors. Why are you looking at me so strangely?”

“What’s going to happen to you, signora? Where will you go, what will you do?”

“Everything will be answered for you tonight, my child lover, whom I adore.”

“If you adore me so, why don’t you tell me? You say you will leave me tonight—you are vanished, gone, I am alone.… Can’t you understand me, Cabi? You’ve made me a part of you. I was nobody and now I am somebody
because
of you. I will think of you for the rest of my life. You cannot just disappear and leave me with confusion, a nothingness.”

“There’ll be no confusion, and as for your being alone, you have your Angel, don’t you?”

“It is a faraway hope only.”

“Enough talk,” said Bajaratt, crossing to the desk and opening the envelope by breaking the three seals and ripping the tab of the striped tape. She removed twenty-six thousand dollars, handing Nicolo a thousand, placing twenty-five on the table, and leaving twenty-four thousand in the envelope. The Baj pressed the seals together and gave it to the dock boy from Portici, along with the thousand dollars. “That should be enough for your expenses to New York,” she said. “Can I be fairer or more honest with you than this?”

“Grazie
,” said Nicolo. “I will give the envelope to Angelina this afternoon.”

“Can you trust her, dock boy?”

“Yes. She’s not of your world, and not of the waterfront. I spoke to her a few minutes ago, she was on her way to the airport. She’ll be here at two twenty-five, gate seventeen. I cannot
wait.
”

“What will you say to your famous lady?”

“Whatever comes from my heart, signora, not from my head.”

Bruce Palisser, secretary of state, had been awakened by the White House at 5:46
A.M
. and was in his limousine, heading toward the Oval Office, by ten past six. Syria and Israel were at an impasse; hostilities—conceivably nuclear—were about to break out unless the combined efforts of the United States, England, France, and Germany could cool off the hard-liners of both countries. At six-thirteen Palisser’s wife took the call from Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne, asking to speak with the secretary right away. It was urgent.

“Apparently something else is also,” Janet Palisser replied. “He’s at the White House.”

*    *    *

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve been ordered not to interrupt the Security Council meeting under any circumstances—”

“Suppose,” interrupted a frustrated Tyrell, “just suppose a ballistic missile was in the air, headed directly at the White House! Could I get through then?”

“Are you saying there is such a ballistic missile—”

“No, I’m not saying that! I’m saying that I’ve got to reach the secretary of state on an extremely urgent matter!”

“Call the State Department.”

“I can’t call the State Department!… He made it clear that I was to speak only to
him.
”

“Then call his emergency beeper—”

“I don’t know how to—”

“If you don’t have the number, you can’t be very important.”

“Please, I’ve got to get a message to Secretary Palisser!”

“Wait a sec—what did you say your last name was?”

“Hawthorne.
”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, sir. Your name was added at the end of the list in the computer. The letters are so small, you know what I mean? The message, please.”

“Have him call me immediately. He knows where, and I’ll be waiting. He’ll get it right away?”

“I’m sending it down, sir.” There was a click and the line went dead.

Hawthorne turned to Poole, who sat forward in an armchair, listening. “There’s an emergency meeting at the White House, and the switchboard has to read the small print to get me through to Palisser to tell him that a maniac general who’s probably in that room is aiding and abetting the assassination of the President.”

“What do we do now?”

“We wait,” said Tyrell. “It’s the worst part.”

*    *    *

The couple walked out of U.S. Customs and into the main terminal of Dulles International Airport. Their manner was casual, their presence in the United States was not. They were agents of the Mossad and their assignment was as vital as any in recent memory. They carried the identity of the man who was the key figure in the Bajaratt enterprise, a senator named Nesbitt, who, beyond reasons of sanity, was leading the terrorist to her kill, a kill that would take place any day, any hour.

They had arrived on El Al, Flight 8002, from Tel Aviv, and, as they had explained to the customs official, their stay would be brief. They were engineers employed by the Israeli government, in Washington to attend a fund-raising conference relative to further irrigation projects in the Negev desert. The uninterested clerk wielded his stamp, wished them a good day, and raised his head for the next applicant.

The Mossad officers continued rapidly into the terminal, the woman dressed in a severe black business outfit, her male companion in a similarly somber gray suit. Each carried a fabric-covered flight bag and identical attaché cases. Together, they approached a row of public telephones; the dark-haired woman spoke.

“I’ll telephone his private number at the State Department, the one Colonel Abrams gave us.”

“Quickly,” said her colleague, a blond man whose hair had thinned perceptibly, the strands matching the flesh of his scalp. “But remember, if there’s no answer after the fifth ring, hang up.”

“I understand.” After five rings the major replaced the telephone. “There’s no answer.”

“Then we’re to call his house. We are to avoid all switchboards.”

“I’ve got the number right here.” The major retrieved the quarter from the slot, inserted it, and dialed.

“Hello?” A woman spoke.

“The secretary of state, please. It’s most urgent.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” replied the irritated voice. “If you’ve got something urgent to tell the secretary, get in line and call the White House.
I’m
going to our beach house in St. Michaels.”

“A rather angry woman hung up,” said the bewildered Mossad officer, turning to the captain. “She said to call the White House—”

“Which we’re prohibited from doing,” broke in the subordinate. “We are to speak only to the secretary of state.”

“He’s obviously at the White House.”

“We can’t go through that switchboard—no one is to be trusted, only Palisser. Abrams sent word through diplomatic channels that he was to expect two visitors. The colonel and the secretary are friends, and coming from Abrams, Palisser will assume our urgency.”

“Then I disagree with our instructions. Since Palisser’s at the White House, I see no reason why we don’t call the switchboard and get a message to him. Abrams said every hour was vital.”

“What kind of message? We’re not to identify ourselves.”

“We’ll leave word that the cousins of his friend Colonel David have arrived, and will call him as often as possible on his private line or his house, or even his office if we have to—”

“His office?” the captain interrupted, frowning.

“Every hour is vital,” said the major. “We’re not identifying ourselves, and he can instruct an aide or a secretary or a servant how and where we can reach him. We must get Nesbitt’s name to him.… Let’s find a limousine—with a telephone.”

The seemingly oblivious customs official waited several minutes until he was sure the couple would not return to watch him. Convinced they had left, he placed the red
delay sign on his counter and picked up his telephone. He pressed three numbers, instantly reaching the head of immigration security in an upper office, the room itself having two rows of mounted television monitors on the wall slightly above the myriad electronic consoles.

“The two Israeli possibles,” said the clerk. “Male and female, ages and descriptions roughly similar.”

“Occupations?”

“Engineers, verbal and written. It’s on their cards.”

“Purpose of visit?”

“Fund-raiser for projects in the Negev desert. They should be in the terminal by now. The female’s slightly taller and dressed in black, he’s in a gray suit, both carrying flight bags and attaché cases.”

“We’ll pick them up on a monitor and check them out. Thank you.”

The head of immigration security, an obese middle-aged man with a puffed face and neutral eyes, rose from his desk behind a large glass partition and walked into the outer room, where five people sat in chairs in front of their consoles and television monitors.

“Look for a couple,” he ordered. “The woman’s taller and dressed in black, the guy’s in a gray suit.”

“I’ve got ’em,” said a woman in the fourth chair barely thirty seconds later. “They’re talking by a telephone.”

“Good work.” The security chief crossed to the female operator. “Give me a closer look.” The woman turned a dial on her console, which in turn activated a telescopic lens on a terminal camera. The figures came into larger focus, the sight only to be greeted with disgust by the chief. “Christ, they don’t look anything like the photographs. Forget it, kiddo. We got a trigger-happy stamper down there.”

“Whaddya looking for, Stosh?” asked one of the men.

“A couple who may be bringing in diamonds.”

“May I go down and escort them to my personal jeweler?”

The superior laughed with his crew and headed for the outer door. “For that you cover my phone. I gotta take a leakeroonie.” The security official went out into the narrow corridor, turned left, and hurried to the end, where there was a railing and an even narrower balcony that overlooked much of the terminal. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hand-held radio, and switched to another frequency. He then held it to his lips and spoke while squinting down at the crowds until he saw what he had seen on the television monitor. “Rattler, it’s Catbird. Come in.”

“Rattler on. What is it?”

“Targets are confirmed.”

“The M couple? Where?”

“They’re heading for the limo platform. He’s in a gray suit; she’s taller and dressed in black.
Move
!”

“I see them!” whispered a third voice over the radio. “I’m not fifty feet away. Jesus, they’re picking up speed; they’re in a hurry.”

“So are we, Copperhead,” said the chief of immigration security, listed among the Scorpios as number fourteen.

The two Mossad officers sat in the back of the limousine, their attaché cases on top of their flight bags on the jump seats; the captain’s case was open. In his left hand, the blond undercover agent held a laminated card, four by six inches in size, that listed every nonsecure telephone number he might possibly need in the United States, from major addresses to embassies and consulates, from allied and enemy intelligence agencies to favorite restaurants, bars, and several women he felt might welcome his attention.

“Where did you get that?” asked the major.

“I made it myself,” answered the captain. “I hate
looking things up in telephone books. Remember, I was posted here for eighteen months.” He slid a credit card through the telephone slot, waiting for the word
dial
to appear on the thin panel. “Be quiet now,” he continued as he pressed the numbers on his index. “This is the White House switchboard, and they don’t care to ask questions; they only take messages.”

“You’ve done this before …?”

“Frequently. There was a sweet thing, a maid in the third floor private quarters—…
Shhh
! I’ve got an operator.”

“The White House,” said a tired female voice on the line.

“Forgive me, miss, but I’ve just spoken with the secretary of state’s wife, Mrs. Bruce Palisser, who informed me that her husband was with the President. I should like to leave a message for Mr. Palisser, please.”

“Are you cleared, sir? Otherwise, the Security Council can’t be interrupted.”

“I would not presume to interrupt, madam, I simply wish to leave a message.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just tell him that the cousins of his old friend, Colonel David, are in town and will be in touch with his residence and his office as frequently as we can. He may leave word where we can reach him at his convenience.”

“You want to give me a number?”

“That would be presumptuous on our part, and I wouldn’t care to put you to any more trouble.”

“He’ll get your message as soon as the meeting’s over.”

The Mossad captain replaced the phone and leaned back in the seat. “We’ll take turns calling his office and his residence every five minutes. As you say, we’ve got to get Nesbitt’s name to him even if we have to give it over the phone,” he said. The captain had leaned forward to put his laminated telephone index back into his briefcase, when he suddenly looked to his left outside
the closed window. A second limousine was crowding them off the highway! Its rear windows were open … and in those dark spaces were weapons!

“Get
down
!” he screamed, throwing himself over the major as an unending fusillade of gunfire exploded, sending full-jacket bullets through glass and metal, penetrating the bodies inside. During the murderous attack, a grenade was lobbed through the shattered window. The limousine spun off the highway, rolling over and over on the shoulder of the road until it crashed into a metal sound wall and exploded in fire.

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