The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Then why the gatehouse log? It’s not silver or crystal or an art object.”

  Tyrell squinted, staring at Neilsen in the moonlight. “Thank you, Major, you just told me something I should have realized. Our illusive stranger is further up the totem than I considered. That log is worthless, except to somebody who knows how important it is. I’ve really been away too long.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Whatever it is, very carefully. You’ve got a gun, don’t you?”

  “Jackson gave me the one he took from the radioman. I think it’s bigger.”

  “That’s better. Hold it out so it’s obvious and follow me. Do as I do—circle every few steps, countering my turns, if you can. I’ll circle left, you circle right; that way all points are covered. Can you do that?”

  “Can I handle a minisub I never saw before?”

  “It’s not the same, Major. You’re not handling a machine now, you are the machine. This is firing into a shadow that may or may not be human, and there can’t be any excuse for not doing so. Our lives could be over in a moment of indecision.”

  “I read, speak, and understand English, Tye, and if you’re trying to frighten me, you’ve succeeded.”

  “Good. Bravery frightens me; you can die from it.” Moving carefully, the two circling figures crossed the vast lawn toward the great house; they reached the shattered library window, the subdued lighting inside emphasizing the jagged shards of glass within the frame. Tyrell hammered the barrel of his weapon along the bottom ledge to reduce the risk of cutting themselves when they climbed through. “Okay, I’ll go first and pull you up,” said Hawthorne as a nervous Catherine Neilsen stood behind him, facing the darkness, her automatic sweeping back and forth.

  “I’m not sure I even want to turn around,” said Cathy. “I really don’t like guns, but right now I feel very user-friendly with this ugly thing.”

  “I approve of your attitude, Major.” Tyrell leapt up, vaulting through the frame with his left hand, the .38 in his right. “All right,” he continued, standing inside the window. “Put the gun—wherever you can put it—and grab my arm.”

  “My God, it scratches like hell!” cried Neilsen, slipping the automatic into the top of her belted dress, and grabbing Hawthorne’s extended left arm. “Now what?”

  “Put your feet against the side of the building and do what comes naturally as I pull you up. It’s only a couple of steps, you’ll make it … but don’t put your feet on the ledge, if you can help it. You don’t have shoes.”

  “I was wearing high heels, remember? They don’t go with running for your life.” The major did as she was told, her dress raised to her hips as she scaled the four feet to the window. “And modesty can go down the tube,” she added, muttering, “if my underwear turns you on, that’s your problem.”

  The bodies of Van Nostrand and his security chief lay where they fell; there was no sign that anything had changed, that anyone had been in the library since the gunfire that ended their lives. To make sure, Hawthorne crossed rapidly to the heavy paneled door; it was still locked.

  “I’ll cover us from the window,” said Tye. “Check the telephone console; there should be a memory bank describing what numbers reach whom. See if there are speed dials to the limousines.”

  His back against the wall, Hawthorne stood by the shattered glass frame as Neilsen went to the desk. “There’s a large plastic square that must have covered an index on the front of the phone,” said Cathy. “It’s been ripped out; there are pieces of thick paper around the edges, as if someone had trouble removing it.”

  “Look in the drawers, the wastebaskets, anyplace it might have been thrown.”

  Drawers were rapidly pulled open and slammed shut. “They’re empty,” she said, picking up a brass wastebasket and putting it on the desk chair. “Not much here—oh, wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a receipt from a shipping company, Sea Lane Containers. I know that firm; the high brass use it when they’re being transferred to an overseas post for a couple of years.”

  “What does it say?”

  “ ‘N. Van Nostrand, thirty-day storage, Lisbon, Portugal.’ Then, below under Items: ‘Twenty-seven cartons, personal effects, resealable tapes for customs inspection.’ It’s signed by a G. Alvarado, secretary to N.V.N.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Only other thing is a line after Instructions. It says: ‘Sender will claim at S.L.C. Lisbon depot.’ That’s it.… Why would anybody discard a receipt for twenty-seven cartons of personal possessions when a great many of them have to be terribly valuable?”

  “The first thing that comes to mind is that if you’re a Van Nostrand, you don’t need a receipt to claim your shipment. What else is in the wastebasket?”

  “Nothing, really.… Three candy wrappers, a couple of crumpled-up memo pages with nothing on them, and a stock market computer printout dated today.”

  “Useless,” said Tyrell, his eyes on the grounds outside. “Or maybe not,” he added. “Why would Van Nostrand throw away that receipt? Or, put another way, why would he even bother to throw it away?”

  “Are you taking lessons from Poole? You’ve lost me.”

  “He had a secretary; why didn’t he simply give it to her? She was obviously handling everything, so why did he keep it?”

  “To claim the shipment in Lisbon—oh, oh, forget it, as you would say. He threw it away.”

  “Why?”

  “Damned if I know, Commander. I’m a pilot, not a psychiatrist.”

  “Neither am I, but I know a plant when a cactus is shoved down my throat.”

  “That sounds clever, but I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m not clever, just experienced. Van Nostrand, for reasons I can’t understand, wanted that receipt to be found.”

  “After his death?”

  “Of course not. He had no idea he was going to die; he was on his way to Charlotte, North Carolina, but he wanted it to be found.”

  “By whom?”

  “By someone who would make a connection with something that hasn’t happened—maybe. Call it warped intuition, but it’s pretty strong.… Look around. Everywhere. Pull what books are left out of the shelves, check the cabinets, the bar, everything.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Anything that’s hidden—” He stopped abruptly, then said, “Hold it! Turn off the lights!”

  Neilsen switched off an upright lamp and then the light on the desk. The room went dark. “What is it, Tye?”

  “Someone with a penlight—a tiny circle on the grass—our undeparted stranger.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Walking straight toward this window—”

  “With the lights off?”

  “Good question. He didn’t stop or even pause when you put them out. He just keeps walking forward like some kind of robot.”

  “I found a flashlight!” Neilsen whispered from behind the desk. “I thought I saw one in the bottom drawer; I was right.”

  “Crawl around and roll it to me.”

  Cathy did so and Tyrell flagged it with his left hand, pulling it to his side as the zombielike figure kept marching toward the house. In seconds it had reached the window. Suddenly a hysterical scream pierced the silence.

  “Get out of there! You have no right in his private quarters! I’ll tell Mr. Van. He’ll have you killed!”

  Hawthorne snapped on the flashlight, the .38 aimed at the figure’s head. To his amazement, the figure was an old woman, her face deeply lined, with perfectly coiffed white hair and wearing an expensive dark print dress. She clutched the blood-stained gatehouse log under her left arm. She held no weapon, only a drugstore penlight in her right hand. She was pathetic, her eyes wild with unfocused fury.

  “Why would Mr. Van Nostrand want to kill us?” asked Tyrell calmly, softly. “We’re here at his request; in fact, his plane brought us here. As you can see by this broken window, he had ev
ery reason to ask for our assistance.”

  “You’re from his army, then?” the old woman asked, her voice lower, more controlled, yet still harsh and slightly accented.

  “His army?” Tye moved the flashlight beam above the old woman’s head, away from her eyes.

  “His and Mars’s, of course.” The woman paused, as if gasping for elusive breath.

  “Of course.… Neptune and Mars, isn’t that right?”

  “Certainly. He said he would call you one day; we both knew it was coming, you see.”

  “What was coming?”

  “The uprising, naturally.” Again the woman breathed deeply, her eyes eerily straying. “We must protect ourselves as well as our own—everyone who’s with us!”

  “From the rebels, of course.” Hawthorne studied the intense face. Though she was clearly unbalanced, her appearance and demeanor, even in anger and fear, bespoke an aristocracy … in South America? That was the accent, Hispanic or Portuguese.… Portuguese, Rio de Janeiro? Mars and Neptune—Rio!

  “From the human garbage, that’s who!” Her voice was as close to a shriek as her breeding would permit. “Nils has worked all his life to improve their lot, to make things better, when all they want is more and more and more! And they deserve nothing! They’re lazy, indulgent; they only make babies, they don’t work!”

  “Nils …?”

  “Mr. Van to you!” The woman coughed, the rattle hoarse, vibrating in her throat.

  “But not to you … naturally.”

  “My dear young man, I’ve been with the boys for years, from the beginning. In the early days I was their hostess … all those glorious parties and banquets, even their own carnavales! Marvelous!”

  “They must have been great,” agreed Tyrell, nodding. “Still, we have to protect our own, everyone who’s with us. That’s why you took the gatehouse register, isn’t it? I hid it in the dirt, under the bushes.”

  “It was you? Then you are a fool! Nothing of consequence must be left behind, don’t you realize that? I’ve a mind to tell Nils about your negligence.”

  “Left behind …?”

  “We’re leaving in the morning!” whispered the former hostess of Mars and Neptune, once again coughing. “Hasn’t he told you that?”

  “Yes, he has. We’re making preparations.”

  “They’ve all been made, you ass! Brian just flew out in our plane to make the final arrangements. Portugal! Isn’t it wonderful? Our belongings have already been sent.… Where is Nils—Mr. Van? I must tell him I’m finished.”

  “He’s upstairs, checking on … his personal effects.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Brian and I cleaned everything out this morning, and we don’t miss a thing. I laid out his clothing, a pair of pajamas, and his toiletries, which can be left behind for those Arabs!”

  “Arabs? Forget it! What did you just finish for him—Miss Alvarado … that is your name, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is, Madame Gretchen Alvarado. My mother’s first husband was a great hero in the war, a member of the High Command.”

  “You’re the whole ball of wax, lady,” said Tyrell quietly.

  “Madre de Dios,” continued G. Alvarado dreamily. “Those early days with Mars and Neptune were truly magnificent, but naturally we never talk about them.”

  “What did you just finish for Mr. Van?”

  “Praying, naturally. He asked me to go to our stone chapel on the hill and pray to our Savior for safe deliverance. As I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Van Nostrand is as devout as any priest you or I have ever known.… In truth, young man, my prayers were somewhat shortened, as there’s apparently a malfunction in the air circulation machinery. My eyes teared and I could hardly breathe. Don’t tell him, but there’s still a terrible pain in my chest. Say nothing. He’d worry so about me.”

  “You left the chapel …?”

  “I walked down the road and saw you running—I thought it was Brian—so I ran after you and watched you put the gatehouse book on the ground and cover it with dirt.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m not sure. I was upset, naturally, and tried to shout at you, but I suddenly found it terribly difficult to breathe—don’t tell Nils—then everything went dark. When things became clear—clearer—I was on the ground, and there were fires everywhere! Do I look presentable? Nils always wants me to look quite grand.”

  “You look fine, Madame Alvarado, but I have to ask you a question—quickly. Mr. Van told me to call one of the limousines. It’s an emergency. How do I do that?”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple.… When I saw the lights over here, I had to find out just who—” The aristocratic old secretary could not go on; she went into convulsions, so severe the thick entry log fell away from her arm as she brought her hands to her chest. Her face appeared swollen, her eyes bulging.

  “Easy!” shouted Tyrell, unable to reach the woman through the window. “Lean against the side—but you’ve got to tell me! How do I call the limousines? You say it’s simple—what do I do?”

  “It … was … simple.” She struggled with the words, gasping for air. “Not now. Nils had me … delete everything in … the phone system.”

  “What are the numbers?”

  “I… don’t know—it’s been years.” Suddenly, the old woman let out a strangled cry. She was holding her throat, her swollen face turning blue under the wash of Tye’s flashlight.

  Hawthorne leapt through the window, crouching on the grass as he hit the ground, the flashlight flying out of his hand. He got up and ran to Alvarado as Catherine Neilsen appeared above in the shattered frame. “The wet bar inside,” shouted Tyrell. “Turn on a lamp and get some water!”

  Hawthorne had started to massage the old woman’s throat when the lights went on in the library, throwing a glow over the outside. Tye froze, the sight of the face beneath him sickening. It was grotesque, the contorted flesh a dark grayish-blue, the eyes red, the pupils dilated, the perfectly coiffed white hair a wig, halfway up her bald head. Madame Gretchen Alvarado was dead.

  “Here!” Cathy was at the window, holding out a crystal pitcher filled with water. Then she saw the face below at Hawthorne’s side. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, turning away, as if she might vomit, instantly forcing herself to turn back. “What happened to her?” she asked, more of a plea than a question.

  “You’d know if you smelled the odor down here—or maybe you wouldn’t. The more macho chemists call it crash gas; you inhale it for a moment or two and it spreads like a lethal fungus in your lungs, choking off all exhalation. Unless it’s washed out instantly—literally washed out—a person will die within an hour, usually less.”

  “And unless an experienced doctor handles the flushing process,” said Poole, emerging out of the shadows, “the patient drowns. I’ve read about that stuff; it was a max-priority in Desert Storm.… Who is she?”

  “Mars and Neptune’s loyal factotum and once-celebrated hostess,” answered Tyrell. “She just got her pension while praying for them all at their chapel. A cylinder in the air ducts is my guess.”

  “Nice fellas.”

  “Top drawer, Jackson. Come on, give me a hand. Let’s put her in the library next to her beloved employer and get out of here.”

  “Get out?” Catherine Neilsen was stunned. “I thought you wanted to tear this place apart.”

  “lt’d be a waste of time, Cathy.” Hawthorne reached down for the bloodied gatehouse entry log and shoved it awkwardly under his belt. “This lady may not have been playing with a full deck, but she was a damned efficient robot for Van Nostrand. If she said the place was cleaned out, it was.… Get that shipping receipt, I want to take it with us.”

  The chauffeur was still naked, bound, and unconscious, and for convenience would stay where he was, so Poole drove the limousine, in deference, he said, to the extreme physical stress placed upon an aging former naval officer. “All that runnin’ and leapin’ in and out of windows—mah word!”

  “Your executi
on is not yet out of the question,” said Tyrell, alone in the back seat, stretching out his unacknowledged painful legs. “Major, check the telephone up there,” he ordered Neilsen, who was in front with her lieutenant. “See if there are any instructions or numbers to reach the other limo. Look in the glove compartment too.”

  “There’s nothing,” said Cathy as Poole raced down the entrance road after raising the gate under Hawthorne’s instructions. “Maybe I can call the operator, ask her to trace it.”

  “You’d have to have the number, or at least a license plate,” said Jackson. “Otherwise they won’t give it to you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “More than sure, it’s FCC regulations.”

  “Shit!”

  “What about Captain Stevens?”

  “I’ll try anything!” exclaimed Hawthorne, reaching for the back seat phone attached to the strip between the doors. He pressed the numbers rapidly, telling a navy subordinate that he was in a car nearby and his call was urgent. “Four-zero emergency, sailor!”

  “What are you doing up here?” shouted the head of naval intelligence. “You’re in Puerto Rico, goddamn it!”

  “No time, Henry! There’s a limousine owned by a Nils Van Nostrand, Virginia license plate, but I don’t know the number—”

  “The Van Nostrand?” an astonished Stevens interrupted.

  “That’s who. I’ve got to have the telephone number of that limo.”

  “Do you know how many limousines there are in the state of Virginia, especially this close to Washington?”

  “How many are carrying Bajaratt?”

  “What?”

  “Do it, Captain!” shouted Tye, trying to read the jiggling digits on the phone. “Call me back—here’s the number.” Hawthorne gave it to him and hung up the phone, twice missing the cradle in his anxiety.

  “Where to, Commander?” asked Poole.

  “Drive around for a while. I don’t want to stop anywhere until he calls back.”

  “If it’ll make you feel a bit relieved,” continued the air force lieutenant, “that Gulfstream is headed straight through to Charlotte. It’ll land in an hour and a half, plus or minus for a few thunder-bumpers.”