“And what do you trade, signore?”
“A certain aristocratic legacy, one might say, purveyed primarily among the diplomatic corps—the corps of many countries—generally at the behest of the State Department.”
“How intriguing.”
“It’s that, of course,” agreed the stranger, smiling. “However, since I’m neither an alcoholic nor politically ambitious, and have a rather splendid estate that I truly enjoy displaying, the State Department finds my environs an attractive neutral ground for visiting dignitaries. You can’t ride horses with a man or a woman, then play tennis, or swim in a pool with a cascading waterfall, have an attractive meal, and subsequently behave like a boor in negotiations.… Naturally, there are other inducements, both male and female.”
“Why are you telling me all this, signore?” asked Bajaratt, studying the self-proclaimed aristocrat.
“Because everything I own, everything I learned, came to me years ago in Havana, my dear,” the man replied, his eyes locked with those of the Baj. “Does that tell you anything, Countess?”
“Why should it?” said Amaya, her expression totally neutral, her breathing, however, suspended.
“Then I’ll be quick, for we have only moments before some sycophant interrupts us. You have several numbers, but you don’t have the telephone codes over here, and now you must. I left a waxed envelope for you at your hotel; if there are cracks in the wax, call me immediately at the Plaza and everything will be changed. The name is Van Nostrand, Suite Nine B.”
“And if the seal is intact?”
“Then from tomorrow on, use those three numbers to reach me. I’ll be at one of them night and day. You now have a friend you need.”
“A ‘friend I need’? You talk in circles, really, you do.”
“Stop it, Baj,” whispered the Rolls-Royce advertisement, again smiling. “The padrone is dead!”
Bajaratt gasped. “What are you saying?”
“He’s gone.… For God’s sake, look pleasant.”
“The disease won, then. He lost.”
“It was not the disease. He blew up the entire compound, himself in it. He had no alternative.”
“But why?”
“They found him; it was always a possibility. Among his last instructions were to befriend you and offer you whatever assistance I could should anything happen to him—naturally or unnaturally. Within limits, I’m your obedient servant … Contessa.”
“But what happened? You tell me nothing!”
“Not now. Later.”
“My true father—”
“No longer. He’s gone. You turn to me now, and through me to my considerable resources.” Van Nostrand arched his head as if responding with laughter at a remark made by the countess.
“Who are you?”
“I told you, a friend whom you need.”
“You are the padrone’s contact here in America?”
“His and others’, but mainly his. In every other sense, I was solely his.… Havana, I did mention Havana.”
“What did he tell you—about me?”
“He adored you and admired you enormously. You were a great comfort to him, and he therefore demanded that I help you in any way that I can.”
“Help me in what way?”
“Using my assets to get you from one place to another, one person to another, with as little or as much attention as you wish. And to obey your orders as long as they are not in conflict with mine—ours.”
“Ours?”
“I am the leader of the Scorpios.”
“Scorpiones!” The Baj kept her voice barely above a whisper, muted and mingling with the hum of the guests, her control absolute. “The head of the High Councils spoke of you. He said I would be watched, tested, and if I were accepted, someone would reach me and I would become one of you.”
“I shouldn’t go that far, Contessa, but you may well be given extraordinary assistance—”
“I simply never associated the Scorpios with the padrone,” Bajaratt said.
“Genuine credit is elusive, isn’t it?… The padrone created us, with my invaluable assistance, of course. As to your being tested, what you accomplished in Palm Beach eliminates any further examination. It was simply outrageous—and outrageously marvelous!”
“Who are the Scorpios, can you tell me?”
“In a general way, yes, nothing specific. We are twenty-five in number, that’s our limit.” Again Van Nostrand laughed heartily at another nonexistent remark. “We’re in various professions and occupations, selected very carefully for maximum advantage—I made those decisions with an eye toward profiting our many clients. The padrone always felt that if a day passed without realizing at least a million dollars, it was a day wasted.”
“I never knew that side of—of … my only father. Can all the Scorpions be trusted?”
“They’re terrified into being so, and that’s all I’ll tell you. They obey orders, or death is a preferable option.”
“Do you know why I’m here, Signor Van Nostrand?”
“I didn’t need our mutual friend to explain it to me. I have very close ties with rarefied government officials.”
“And?” said the Baj, staring at Van Nostrand.
“It’s madness!” he whispered. “But I can see where the padrone would find it exhilarating.”
“And you?”
“In death as in life, I am beholden only to him. I was and am nothing without the padrone. I did mention that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. He was everything they say in Havana, no?”
“He was the fierce, golden-haired Mars of the Caribbean, so young, so magnificent. Had Fidel enlisted his genius rather than banishing it, Cuba today would be an island paradise, wealthy beyond imagination.”
“And the padrone’s island, how was it found?”
“A man named Hawthorne, a former officer in naval intelligence.”
The color drained from Bajaratt’s face. “He will die,” she said quietly.
The interlude in Brooklyn was endurable for the Baj only because the strategy was sound. Angelo Capelli and his wife, Rosa, a strikingly handsome couple, for none but such a union could produce the young actress Angel Capell, were delighted by the modest barone-cadetto, who in turn was overwhelmed by the Salumeria Capelli, a delicatessen in the old tradition, where more and more was better and better, and small round tables were placed about for those caring to eat the Casa Capelli on the premises. Photographs of the family’s daughter were everywhere, the majority scenes from the television series, and Angel’s younger brother, a sixteen-year-old, shorter but nearly as handsome as Nicolo, rapidly became friends with the barone-cadetto. Provolone was cut, prosciutto and salami sliced, and a cold pasta with Rosa’s own tomato sauce presented, along with several bottles of Chianti Classico. The tables were clustered and a full-fledged antipasto misto was had by all.
“See, cara Zia, I told you!” cried Dante Paolo in Italian. “Isn’t this better than eating with all those stuffed shirts?”
“Our host was mortified, my nephew.”
“Why? Whose ass was I supposed to kiss next? There weren’t any left!”
The roar of laughter was punctuated by Bajaratt’s humorous admonition. “Really, Dante—but I suspect you’re right.”
“You kiss nobody’s ass!” roared Angelo Capelli.
“Please, Papa, your language—”
“You please, daughter. He is the cadet-baron of Ravello! Anyway, he said it first.”
“He’s right, Angelina—Angel—I did.”
“Such a nice young man,” said Rosa. “So natural and down-to-earth.”
“Why shouldn’t I be, Signora Capelli?” asked an exuberant Nicolo. “I did not demand to be born with a title. I just arrived—oh, Mother mine, did I just arrive!”
Again there was an explosion of laughter, the democratization of nobility complete. And then there was a knocking at the delicatessen’s locked door. The Baj spoke in English. “Forgive
me, famiglia Capelli, but my nephew wished so much to have memories of this evening that he asked me to have a photographer come around to take some pictures. If it offends you, I’ll send him away.”
“Offend us?” cried the father. “It is an honor beyond our expectations. My son, let the man in, quickly!”
Having secured a limousine for the next morning at the concierge’s desk, Bajaratt walked across the hotel lobby to the bank of pay phones. Taking a scrap of paper from her purse, she dialed the Plaza, asking for Suite 9B.
“Yes?” answered the male voice.
“Van Nostrand, it is I.”
“You’re not calling from your room, are you?”
“I shouldn’t dignify that question, but of course not. I’m in the lobby.”
“Give me the number, I’ll go downstairs.”
The Baj did so, and seven minutes later the public telephone rang. “Was that necessary?” she asked, lifting the receiver before the first ring was completed.
“I shouldn’t dignify the question,” replied Van Nostrand, chuckling, “but yes, it was. I’m a known confidant of the State Department, and there are numerous people vitally interested in my communications. Hotel switchboards can be bribed; the cost is minimal and those paying are frequently quite impressive.”
“Espionage?”
“Rarely beyond our shores these days, rather in Washington itself. It’s called turf sniping. But enough of my perhaps overly cautious procedures. Was my envelope intact?”
“It was, I studied it under a glass in the harshest light.”
“Good. I don’t have to tell you that where possible, the calls should be made from public phones. It’s not altogether necessary, but preferable when there is more than one call. We don’t like patterns.”
“No, you don’t have to tell me that,” Bajaratt broke in. “However, since you have close ties, as you put it, with government officials, where is this former naval intelligence officer named Hawthorne now?”
“I would prefer that you leave him to me. As I understand your objective, hunting him would only impede your progress—and that of your associates.”
“He’s too clever for you, old man.”
“You sound as if you know him—”
“I know his reputation. He was the best in Amsterdam … he and his wife.”
“How interesting. I happen to know that information is off the books.”
“I, too, have my sources, Signor Van Nostrand.”
“Even the padrone did not know, and I had no chance to tell him. Extremely interesting.… As to my being old, my dear Baj, may I remind you that I have at my disposal over here a thousand times your resources in the dark arts.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Oh, yes, I do!” interrupted the State Department liaison in sudden fury. “You may call him your only true father, but he was my life!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” said Van Nostrand coldly. “For thirty years we shared everything—everything. Havana, Rio, Buenos Aires—two lives as one, he the master, of course. Until he was diagnosed ten years ago, and he sent me away to serve him in other endeavors.”
“I had no idea—”
“Then let me ask you a question, young lady. In the two years you spent on that island, did you ever see another woman except for Hectra, the black Amazon?”
“Oh, my God.”
“Does it shock you?”
“Not sexually, that’s immaterial. I just never even considered it.”
“None ever did. ‘Mars and Neptune’ he called the two of us, one ruling for all the Caribbean to see, the other underneath, guiding him, instructing him in the courtesies and subtleties an education brings.… Now, you understand me, Baj! This Hawthorne is mine to kill, no one else’s!”
The limousine crisscrossed Manhattan, east and west, north and south, from the United Nations to the television studios by the Hudson River, from Battery Park to the Museum of Natural History, each new sight enthralling the excited “Dante Paolo” to the delight of Angel Capell, whose celebrated presence instantly opened doors and gave rise to special tours. And somehow, some way, there were photographers everywhere. It was no surprise to Angel, who was used to the attention, and who kept telling Nicolo, “Anche i paparazzi devono vivere”—they, too, had to make a living. However, what neither the young television star nor her escort noticed was that not one photograph was taken of Amaya Bajaratt. It was a preordained condition, negotiated by the “contessa” in return for access to the limousine’s schedule.
Lunch at the Four Seasons on 52nd Street was capped by the two ingratiating owners presenting the young couple with the establishment’s Chocolate Velvet Cake, the white lettering on the top welcoming the handsome barone-cadetto and his beautiful companion, who was an American treasure.
As the youngsters lingered over second helpings of cake and coffee, the countess interrupted. “Perhaps we should return to our limousine,” said Bajaratt. “We have four other places I promised Dante we’d see.”
“Then I’ll ask the waiter to put the cake in a container for the driver.”
“You are very considerate, Angelina.”
On the way out, the Baj slowed her pace on the staircase, for below by the hatcheck counter were three photographers. They did their jobs as the privileged young couple smiled graciously at each other.
Perfect.
The New York Times
(Business Section)
BROOKLYN, Aug. 28—Dante Paolo, the barone-cadetto of Ravello, who is representing his father, the immensely wealthy baron, has struck up a friendship with one of America’s favorite young television stars, Angel Capell, of the TV series Saddles Ride for Revenge. The accompanying photograph shows Miss Capell, born Angelina Capelli and who speaks fluent Italian, with the baron-to-be and her family in Brooklyn. It is reported that numerous corporations in the tri-state area have put out interoffice memoranda seeking executives who speak Italian.
The New York Daily News
Italian Royal and America’s Sweetheart an Item?
Other photos inside. Is it a whirlwind courtship?
The National Enquirer Is the Angel of America Pregnant?
Who knows? But they’re more than “friends”!
“This is disgusting!” shouted Nicolo. The newspapers in his hand, he paced the hotel room. “I’m so embarrassed! What can I say to her?”
“Nothing at the moment, Nico, she’s on a plane to California. She gave you her telephone number, so call her later.”
“She’ll think I’m a monster!”
“I don’t believe so. I suspect she’s had more experience in these matters than to take such articles seriously.”
“But where did all those photographers come from? How did they know where to be?”
“She told you herself, my handsome young man. The paparazzi also must make a living; she understands that. What perhaps she did not modestly make clear was just how famous she is.… I should have known better, of course.”
The Baj walked out of the elevator into the hotel lobby and crossed to the bank of public telephones. The numbers memorized, she dialed them and reached Van Nostrand.
“Well, the young man and his girlfriend are certainly all over the papers,” he said. “Good heavens, what publicity—nearly on a par with Grace and Rainier! Of course, the American public laps it up, it’s their fantasies, naturally.”
“Then I have accomplished my purpose. The coverage in Washington was adequate?”
“Adequate? From the Post to the Times to every rag in the supermarkets, the two of them are prime copy! And I should tell you, since it was mentioned in several society columns that I was there in New York, I’ve had numerous calls from the elite of the Beltway asking if I knew the young baron—more to the point, if I knew his father.”
“What did you say?”
“No comment, which is naturally comment enough, since close friendships are never commented upon in this
city unless there are reasons to do so. So far, the price in terms of influence is not high enough, but it will get there. Not that it matters, frankly.”
“Then it’s time we move on to Washington—without publicity.”
“As you wish.”
“You can accommodate us?”
“What do you mean? I can send a plane for you, of course.”
“I mean at your grand estate, the estate you own because of Havana.”
“It’s out of the question,” said Van Nostrand curtly.
“Why is that?”
“I have my own agenda. I expect to have former Commander Tyrell Hawthorne as my guest within forty-eight hours. Twelve hours later, you and the boy can have the run of the whole goddamned place, for I’ll be gone.”
14
Tyrell Hawthorne, dressed in a lightweight, many-pocketed safari jacket and khakis he had purchased at the airport, looked at his bandaged hand in the moonlight. It had been wrapped by Major Catherine Neilsen the day before on the island of Virgin Gorda. They were now in the open candlelit courtyard of the San Juan Hotel in Isla Verde, Puerto Rico, both waiting for Lieutenant A. J. Poole to return from a conference with U.S. Naval Intelligence, a conference Tyrell had refused to attend. “If I’m not there, I’m not committed to their stupidities” was the way he had phrased it. “Let Jackson be the conduit. I can always shoot him and say I never heard a word.” A third glass of Chablis arrived at the table. The air force major was still nursing her large iced tea.
“Why do I think you’re used to harder stuff?” said Cathy, nodding at the wine.
“Because I was until I found out it wasn’t to my benefit. Is that sufficient?”
“I wasn’t trying to pry—”
“Where the hell is he? That goddamned meeting couldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes if he told them what I wanted him to!”
“You need them, Tye. You can’t act alone, you know that.”
“I got the name of Cooke and Ardisonne’s pilot from a general aviation mechanic, and for the moment that’s all I need. Alfred Simon, scum-plus!”
“Come on, you yourself said he was a hired hand—an X-outside you called him, although I haven’t the vaguest idea what it means.”
The Scorpio Illusion Page 22