“Anywhere,” repeated Ingersol. “We don’t know what they look like or where they are—no descriptions, no photographs—”
“MI-6 and the Deuxième sent us purported photographs of her; frankly, they’re useless. It could be one person or three separate women, and considering her talent for changing appearances, no help at all.”
“As you say, they’ve disappeared; we don’t even know if they’re traveling together or apart, or even what the young man’s function is.”
“He’s a combination strong arm—a dull-witted bodyguard who does what he’s told—and a necessary companion.”
“I don’t understand.”
“From what the customs personnel in Marseilles can recall, he’s a large, awkward Slovak kid they doubt can either read or write, but would probably break a man in half if ordered to.”
“What is a ‘necessary companion’?”
“The shrinks worked up a psychiatric profile based on everything they were fed by Israel’s Mossad, and by Paris and London. A lot of it’s psychobabble, but there’s also some good common sense.… Like most fanatics, this Bajaratt does everything to excess, the extremes supposedly justifying what the head boys call the ‘emotional intemperance’ of her commitments. The profile suggests that she may be sexually active to the edge of nymphomania, but too careful to hop into strange beds, unless she does it on purpose. So, as a result, she needs a dumb stud whom she can control.”
“They’ve vanished; they really could be anybody, anywhere, and always getting closer. What can we do? They could be simple tourists going through the White House, or protesters in front of it or on any side driveway with a bag full of grenades.”
“All tours through the White House have been suspended—due to renovations, of course—and presidential motorcades into Washington have been eliminated. Both are unnecessary, frankly, because what you suggest isn’t Bajaratt’s style. Her tactics are to outwit and strike, not outgun and get slaughtered. It goes back to her childhood.”
“Her childhood?”
“That’s part of the access I have and you don’t, Davey-boyo. It’s why I’ll be Scorpio One in all but the name.”
“But what can we do?” Ingersol repeated.
“We wait. Before she strikes, she’ll have to reach you, Scorpio One, if for no other reason than to facilitate her escape—that’s assuming she survives.”
“Suppose she’s made her own arrangements?”
“Nobody in the field of black operations relies on one set of circumstances to get the hell out of ground-zero. That’s another thing you don’t know, S-Three. I’ve had covert field agents who’ve made out-of-sanction deals with three other departments, figuring I might not come through for them. It’s standard. Loyalty’s bullshit, survival is everything.”
“Then you think she’ll call me?”
“If she’s got a brain in her head, she will, and I understand she’s got a big one.… She’ll call.”
Amaya Bajaratt casually walked through the lobby of the hotel, very much the fortyish contessa, when she stopped, her whole body paralyzed. The blond-haired man at the front desk—the blond hair new, bleached—was a Mossad undercover agent, previously with dark brown hair, she had known in Haifa, slept with in Haifa! Gathering her thoughts, she hurried toward the elevators, instantly deciding the obvious. She and Nicolo had to move immediately—but where? And with what explanation? So many calls were coming to her at the hotel, calls from important men in the Senate and the House, politicians she was keeping on the Ravello string, not the least of whom was Nesbitt, the senator from Michigan, the man who could bring her to the ultimate confrontation, the final confrontation with the President of the United States. It was Wolfsschantze revisited, but she would be far more successful than the cadre of desperate generals who had opposed Adolf Hitler.… Enough! Now she had to get away from the hotel! She ran into an open elevator and pressed the button for the floor of her suite.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Cabi?” cried Nicolo. He was sitting in front of the television set in the living room, watching a 6:30 rerun of Angel Capell’s western series. “I spoke with her an hour ago, can you believe it? And there she is!”
“Basta, Nico! Remember, she is attracted to the barone-cadetto of Ravello, not an impoverished scum from the docks of Portici!”
“Why do you hurt me, signora?” asked Nicolo, his angry eyes locked with hers. “You said it was all right if I felt certain things about Angelina.”
“Not any longer. We’re moving!”
“Why?”
“Because I say so, you stupid boy,” replied the Baj, going to the desk and the telephone. “Pack us, both of us. Now!” Bajaratt dialed the number that had been indelibly printed on her extraordinary memory. It was a single call, no pattern to be established, so she could use the hotel phone.
“Yes?” said the voice in Fairfax, Virginia.
“It is I, and I must have shelter, not at this hotel, not in Washington.”
“Impossible. Not here, not tonight.”
“I order you in the name of the padrone, and all his sources from the Baaka, through Palermo and Rome! They will hunt you down and kill you if you refuse me!”
Silence. Finally.
“I’ll send a car for you, but we will not meet, not tonight.”
“That doesn’t matter. I need a telephone number. I have calls coming.”
“You’ll be in the farthest guest house on the compound, and each phone is on a dedicated line. When you’re escorted there, you may call the hotel and give them the number. It’s routed through the state of Utah and transmitted by satellite back here, so you have nothing to be concerned about.”
“Grazie.”
“Per cento anni, signora. But I must warn you, tomorrow you are on your own.”
“Perchè?”
“I will be gone, and you will know nothing. You are simply a friend from Europe who expects to hear from me soon, any hour, any day. However, you may use this number to reach my successor.”
“I understand. Will I hear from you?”
“No. Never.”
The Gulfstream jet entered the coastline of the United States east of Chesapeake Bay, over Cape Charles, Maryland. “Another fifteen minutes,” said the pilot.
“Add a few,” the copilot interrupted, studying the computerized map on the dashboard. “There’s a rough front coming in, and we’re circling north above it.”
“Can you really land this bullet on someone’s private property?” asked Poole. “You’ve got to have a three-thousand-plus strip.”
The copilot glanced around at Poole in his civilian clothes. “You a pilot, mister?”
“Well, I’ve accumulated a few hours, nothin’ like you fellas, but enough to know that you can’t put this thing down in a cabbage patch.”
“It’s no patch, sir, it’s a four-thousand-plus rug of asphalt with its own tower, which isn’t exactly a tower ’cause it’s like a glass cottage on the ground. We did a couple of practice runs this morning, and let me tell you, Mr. Van Nostrand goes first class.”
“Apparently,” said a visibly disturbed Hawthorne from the rear seat.
“You okay, Tye?” asked the major.
“I’m fine. I just want to get there.”
Twenty-one minutes later the jet circled the vast, dark Virginia countryside. Below, cut out of the fields, was an airstrip bordered by amber lights; it was nearly a mile long. The pilot set the plane down, then taxied back to a waiting limousine; a golf cart was beside it.
Climbing out of the aircraft, the three passengers were met by two men, one in a black suit and a visored black hat, the other hatless, wearing a sport coat and tan slacks. Both were standing in the darkness in front of the amber lights.
“Commander Hawthorne?” said the hatless, jacketed man on the right, addressing Tyrell. “May I drive you in our cart to the main house? It’s only a few hundred yards.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“And the lady and
the gentleman,” said the chauffeur on the left. “Your rooms are ready for you at the Shenandoah Lodge, courtesy of Mr. Van Nostrand, of course. It’s only ten minutes from here. Would you step into the limousine, please?”
“Certainly,” replied Cathy.
“Nice wheels,” said Poole.
“I’ll join you later,” added Hawthorne.
The driver of the golf cart stopped and looked at Tyrell. “Your accommodations are in the main house, sir. Everything’s prepared for you.”
“That’s kind of Mr. Van Nostrand, but I have other plans after our meeting.”
“He’ll be very disappointed and I’m sure he’ll persuade you to stay, Commander,” added the chauffeur, opening the door of the limousine for Neilsen and Poole. “The chef has prepared a terrific dinner. I know, she’s my wife.”
“My apologies to her—”
“My Lawd, I forgot mah manners!” exclaimed Poole, turning from the huge Cadillac and looking over at the plane.
“What manners?” asked Cathy, leaning forward from inside the limousine.
“You and the commander said good-bye to those two pilots, but Ah didn’t, and they were very nice showin’ me how all those instruments work.”
“What …?”
“Be right back, y’all!” The lieutenant ran to the jet; he could be seen speaking briefly to the pilots, who were still in the flight deck, their lights on. Poole shook hands and walked rapidly back to the car as Hawthorne climbed into the golf cart, watching the young air force officer with curiosity. Poole had not only said good-bye to the pilots, he had done so effusively. “There, Ah feel better now. Mah daddy always says one should show courtesy and true gratitude to strangers who treat you kindly. Let’s go, mister, Ah can’t wait to have a hot shower; Ah haven’t had one in days! My momma would strap me good for gettin’ so mildewed.… See you later, Commander!” The lieutenant climbed into the limousine. Tyrell frowned as the golf cart drove between the amber lights and across a huge lawn toward the house.
The large Cadillac spun off the airstrip and entered a winding road that abruptly straightened; in the distance the headlights revealed a large iron gate with a guardhouse on the left side. There was another limousine as well; it had just been admitted and passed them in seconds, too rapidly for the occupants to be seen. Suddenly, Jackson Poole lurched from the rear seat onto the jump seat, and to Catherine’s astonishment, he had the Walther automatic in his hand.
“Mah word, Mr. Driver, we gotta stop right now! Would you believe I forgot somethin’?”
“What was that, sir?” asked the startled chauffeur.
“Commander Hawthorne, you mudhog!” The lieutenant pressed the barrel of the automatic into the terrified driver’s right temple. “Swing this mother around and shut off the headlights!”
“Jackson!” shouted Neilsen. “What are you doing?”
“This whole goddamned thing is rotten, Cathy. I said it before and I’ll say it again—turn, you bastard, or your brains’ll be all over the window!” The limousine made a swift, uncertain U-turn, careening into the grass as the chauffeur lunged to his right—a red alarm button! His hand never reached it. Poole hammered the gun into the man’s neck, the crack sickening. The driver was instantly immobilized as the lieutenant yanked him away from his seat and plunged over the glassless partition, grabbing the wheel and steering the limousine into darkness; his foot found the brake. They slammed to a stop under the spreading limbs of a pine tree, less than seven feet head-on from the trunk. Poole arched his head back, breathing deeply.
“I think it’s time for an explanation,” said a shaken Neilsen from the back seat. “Jackson, you’re implying that a man who told Tye openly to check him out with the secretaries of state and defense, along with the director of Central Intelligence, is not only a liar but something more than that!”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize, and quit the military, and join my little sister in California and get rich like she is.”
“That’s not an explanation, Lieutenant! Let’s have it!”
“I went back to those two pilots—”
“Yes, you certainly did, telling us you hadn’t said good-bye, which you most definitely had, and then announcing that you hadn’t had a hot shower in days, when you spent forty-five minutes in one five hours ago in San Juan.”
“I hope Tye got the message—”
“What message?”
“That things were rotten. Those two pilots aren’t Van Nostrand’s regulars,” he explained. “The permanent airborne help is on vacation. Remember, they said they’d made a couple of practice runs this morning?”
“So? It’s summer. People take vacations in summer!”
“What do we do when we want to keep a segment of an ongoing operation quiet?”
“We replace the personnel in relays, naturally. Usually from other bases. Again, so?”
“No contact, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then put this together in your head, Cathy. Those two sky jocks were clearing a civil flight plan to Douglass International in Charlotte, North Carolina, overseas departures, government escort to meet the plane in a secure area. There’s supposed to be a single male passenger with diplomatic clearance authorized by the State Department. I tell you, those two pilots have never dealt on this level. They’re a little nervous, and my guess is it’s because they’re not too clean.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Jackson?”
“They’ve been told the passenger is Van Nostrand himself, and they’re scheduled to take off in one hour.”
“In an hour?”
“Not much time for a fancy dinner and a damned important meeting, is it? The way I figure, those two jocks are sky vagrants, dishonorables or drug droppers who move from one job to another through the underground network.”
“They seemed so nice—”
“You’re a country girl, Cath, I’m from N’Orleans. We play a sweet trumpet while you get fleeced—not that Ah ever did such a thing—”
“What do we do now?”
“I hate bein’ an alarmist, but do you still have Tye’s weapon?”
“No. He strapped it to his leg.”
“I’m checking our driver—Christ, he’s got two! A big one and a little bitty thing.… Here, you take the big one and stay in the car; I’ll put the other in my fancy jacket here. If anyone approaches the car, don’t ask questions, just shoot; and if this son of a bitch moves, crack him good in the head.”
“Bullshit, Lieutenant. I’m going with you!”
“I don’t think you should, Major.”
“I just gave you an order, Poole.”
“There’s an article in the Air Force Regulations that clearly states—”
“Forget it! Where you go, I go! What about the driver?”
“Give me a hand.” Jackson pulled the chauffeur out of the limousine and started dragging him over the ground under the wide pine tree. “Take off his clothes, his shoes first,” he continued as Cathy scurried alongside, yanking the driver’s loafers off his feet. “Now the trousers,” added Poole, reaching a tall hedgerow, where he stopped. “I’ll take off his jacket and shirt … leave his shorts on, I’ll get them last.”
A minute later the stark-naked figure of the chauffeur was bound and gagged with strips of fabric torn from his clothing—none wide enough to service his dignity. The lieutenant delivered a final chop to the man’s neck; the body shivered spastically, then once again was immobile.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” asked Neilsen, grimacing.
“If I stay here another five seconds, I may just do that. This bastard was gonna kill us, Cath, and I’m going to prove it to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s go back to the limo, it’s got a telephone. I’m damn sure I’m right.”
Poole started the engine, activating the cellular phone, then yanked it out of its cradle and dialed information for the number of the Shenandoah Lodge.
“This is an urgent call from Patrick Air Force Base,” he said in monotonal officialese. “Please connect me with either Major Catherine Neilsen or a Lieutenant A. J. Poole. I repeat, this is an emergency.”
“Yes, sir—yes, sir!” the flustered operator replied. “I’ll check our room computers immediately.” The line went silent; thirty-one seconds later a relieved operator came back on the phone. “There’s no one by either name registered at the Shenandoah, sir.”
“You need anything more, Major?” The lieutenant replaced the phone. “The bastard was going to kill us before we ever got to that place. Then maybe ten years from now our decomposed bodies are found in one of these ’Ginia swamps.”
“We’ve got to get to Hawthorne!”
“You’ve got that right,” Poole said.
Hawthorne was escorted into the enormous book-lined library of his host, Nils Van Nostrand. He declined a drink offered by the golf-cart driver, who stood in front of an elaborate glass-paneled bar.
“I drink only white wine, thanks,” said Tyrell. “The cheaper the better and in small quantities.”
“There’s some excellent Pouilly-Fumé, sir.”
“My stomach would revolt. It’s used to lesser bouquets.”
“As you wish, Commander, but I’m afraid I must ask you to remove the weapon attached to your right leg.”
“My right what …?”
“Please, sir,” said the golf-cart chauffeur, taking a tiny plug out of his ear. “You’ve passed by four X-ray machines, from the front entrance through the hallway to this room. It was revealed on each camera. Remove it, please.”
“It’s just an old habit,” said Hawthorne lamely, sitting down in the nearest chair and raising his trouser leg. “I’d do the same if I were meeting the Pope.” He tore apart the Velcro, releasing the automatic, and kicked it across the floor. “Satisfied?”
“Thank you, sir. Mr. Van Nostrand will be here presently.”
“You were the advance security, then?”
“My employer is a cautious man.”
The Scorpio Illusion Page 29