The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  Nicolo turned the wheel so sharply that Bajaratt was thrown against the door. Frowning, she studied him.

  Secretary of State Bruce Palisser leapt to his feet above the butcher-block table, sending his chair crashing to the floor. “Nils can’t be dead!”

  “Captain Stevens is still in his office over at naval intelligence. Call your night watch and have it connect you; he’ll confirm it.”

  “Oh, my God, you wouldn’t make such an outrageous, unbelievable statement … unless you could back it up.”

  “It’d be a waste of time, Mr. Secretary, and in my judgment, there’s no time to waste.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.” Like a far older man than he was, Palisser awkwardly leaned over and righted his chair. “It’s all so incredible.”

  “That’s why it’s real,” said Hawthorne. “Because they’re all so incredible. Here and in London, Paris, and Jerusalem. They’re not going for the big bomb, a nuclear weapon or anything like that; they don’t have to, it’s counterproductive. They’re out to vent their rage with instability, with chaos. And whether we want to accept it or not, they can do it.”

  “They can’t, she can’t!”

  “Time’s on her side, Mr. Secretary. The President can’t live in a deep freeze. Sometime, somewhere, he’ll show up where she can get to him, kill him, and while the waiting begins, London, Paris, and Jerusalem are building their assaults against the others. They’re not stupid, get that through your head!”

  “Nor am I, Commander. What is it? What have you left out?”

  “Van Nostrand alone couldn’t have done what he tried to do with you. There had to be others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said he was leaving the country and wasn’t coming back.”

  “That’s true. It’s what he said.”

  “And everything had happened so fast, in a matter of a couple of days, you implied.”

  “He implied, and it was damn near hours, was hours. He had to get to Europe immediately, before that son-of-a-bitch husband knew he was there. That was the story he gave me! He had to reach his child before she died and take the mother of that child away, to be with the woman he loved at all cost.”

  “That’s part of what bothers me,” said Hawthorne. “The cost. Let’s start with that not-so-minor San Simeon of Van Nostrand’s—it’s worth millions.”

  “I think he said he sold it—”

  “In a couple of days, forget hours?”

  “He wasn’t terribly clear, nor did I expect him to be.”

  “And the assets he must have had all over the place, more millions, multi-millions. A man like Van Nostrand doesn’t leave all that behind him without making arrangements, and those arrangements take time, a hell of a lot more than a couple of hours.”

  “You’re out of your depth, Commander. These are the days of computers and legalized memoranda of intent sent across the world instantly. Lawyers and financial institutions take care of such matters every day, funds cross and recross the oceans in increments of millions every minute.”

  “Aren’t they all traceable?”

  “The vast majority, yes. Governments are loathe to forgo the taxes due them.”

  “But you said Van Nostrand was going to disappear, had to disappear. Traceability sort of louses that up for him, doesn’t it?”

  “Goddamn it, I imagine it does. So …?”

  “So he needed someone to bury whatever transactions could lead to him and his whereabouts.… In my former life, Mr. Secretary, I learned that the smart ones avoided making deals with criminals who could easily expedite their needs, not from any moral postures, simply to avoid future extortion. Instead, they went after the highly respectable, either convincing them or corrupting them to do their bidding.”

  “You unmitigated bastard!” Palisser uttered contemptuously as he moved back his chair, his eyes glaring. “Are you for a second suggesting that I was corrupted—”

  “Oh, hell, no, you were convinced,” Tyrell interrupted. “You’re not lying, you bought the whole barnyard, manure and all. What I’m saying is that someone else as legitimate as you made it possible for him to disappear, really disappear, the paper trail eliminated.”

  “Who the devil could do that, would do that?”

  “Another Secretary Palisser, perhaps, convinced he was doing the right thing.… By the way, did you issue him a false passport?”

  “Good heavens, no! Why would I? He never asked for one.”

  “I did—in my former life—dozens of times. False names, false occupations, false backgrounds, false photographs. I needed them because the real me had to disappear.”

  “Yes, Captain Stevens said you were an exceptional undercover intelligence officer.”

  “It must have turned his stomach to say it, but do you know why I needed all those fake documents?”

  “You answered that yourself. Commander Hawthorne had to disappear, another in his place.” Palisser nodded in recognition. “Van Nostrand needed another passport,” he said. “Because to disappear he had to have one.”

  “Two points for the secretary of state.”

  “You are an insolent young man.”

  “I intend to be. I’m being very well paid and I do the best I can when people pay me well.”

  “I won’t try to comprehend your malodorous justifications, Mr. Hawthorne, but I think I’ve got you on this one. No one but the State Department can issue a legitimate passport, and since you rule out illegitimacy where Van Nostrand’s concerned, where would he get one?”

  “To answer your question, a high-level parallel government agency or department who can access your technology sufficiently to override it.”

  “That is corruption!”

  “Or conviction, sir. You weren’t corrupted.” Tyrell paused. “A last question, Mr. Secretary, and maybe one I shouldn’t ask, but I will, I have to. Have you any idea how I landed in Van Nostrand’s private plane from Puerto Rico, walking into, as I said a few minutes ago, my own execution?”

  “I haven’t even considered it. I assume Captain Stevens was involved; he’s apparently your liaison, if not your superior, here in the States.”

  “Henry Stevens was in shock when I told him I was here because he couldn’t understand how it happened. Every move I’ve made has been monitored, when I wanted it to be monitored, by the closed circle of Little Girl Blood hunters. But this should have been known because it was expedited by one of your major players. He went around you and the entire intelligence community to have Van Nostrand reach me with a letter I had to follow up. I grabbed the bait, and if it weren’t for two extraordinary people, I’d be a corpse in Fairfax and your Saint Van Nostrand would be landing in Brussels, leaving Bajaratt to operate from his compound.”

  “Who did it? Who reached you?”

  “Howard Davenport, secretary of defense.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Palisser shouted. “He’s one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known! You’re lying. You’ve gone too far. Get out of my house!”

  Hawthorne reached into a pocket of his safari jacket and pulled out Van Nostrand’s letter, the cracked blue tape on the sealed side apparent. “You’re the secretary of state, Mr. Palisser. You can call anybody anywhere in the world. Why not reach the chief of naval intelligence at the base in Puerto Rico? Ask him how this letter got to me and to whom he had to report that it did.”

  “Oh, my God …!” exclaimed Bruce Palisser, his gray-haired head arched back over the chair, his eyes pressed tight. “We’re a government of opportunists or benign reformers, of inconsequential minds, too often predators who have no right to govern. But that isn’t Davenport! Howard could never have done what he did for personal gain, he just didn’t know!”

  “Neither did you, sir.”

  “Thank you for that, Commander.” The secretary of state drew himself up and looked penetratingly at Tyrell. “I accept what you’ve told me—”

  “I want it on the record,” Haw
thorne cut in.

  “Why?”

  “Because Van Nostrand’s our only link to Bajaratt, and on the assumption that she doesn’t know he’s dead, she’ll try to reach him.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, not that I won’t agree to call Captain Stevens to verify everything you’ve told me, but again, why?”

  “Because I want to use your name around this town to climb down a ladder to Little Girl Blood, and I don’t relish thirty years in Leavenworth for illegal impersonation.”

  “Then I believe we should discuss your proposed agenda, Commander.”

  The telephone rang, startling both men. The secretary rose from the chair, his eyes on the walled console as he crossed rapidly to the instrument. “Palisser here, what is it?… He what?” The color drained from the secretary of state’s face. “It doesn’t make sense!” Palisser turned to Hawthorne. “Howard Davenport just committed suicide! The maid found him—”

  “Suicide?” broke in Tyrell softly. “Want to make a bet on that?”

  22

  Bajaratt, her face veiled in dark lace, sat alone at a desk in the room of a cheap, out-of-the-way country motel, hastily chosen. She had reached the senator from Michigan, pleading exhaustion from the onslaught of calls and callers at the previous hotel, adding that her one-day move to an acquaintance’s estate was, if possible, more trying, as her friend proved to be the monarch of social butterflies.

  “I believe I mentioned that you’d be swamped,” Nesbitt had said. “It’s why I suggested an office and a staff.”

  “And I believe I told you why that was impossible.”

  “Yes, you did, and I can’t blame the baron. This city’s a whirlpool, perhaps a cesspool, of intruders, intruding where they shouldn’t.”

  “Then perhaps you might help Dante Paolo and myself.”

  “In any way I can, Countess, you know that.”

  “Is there a hotel you could recommend that’s, shall we say, not in the center of activity but has the appointments we require?”

  “One comes to mind immediately,” replied the legislator from Michigan. “The Carillon. It’s usually fully booked, but these are the summer months and tourists can hardly afford it. I’ll make the arrangements if you like.”

  “The baron will be apprised of your kindness and cooperation.”

  “I’d appreciate it. In your own name or would you prefer to be incognito?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t care to do anything illegal—”

  “It’s not illegal, Countess, it’s your right. Our hotels are interested only in payment; they’re not concerned with why you choose anonymity. My office will guarantee your reliability; what name would you like to use?”

  “I feel so—how do you say it?—unclean doing such a thing.”

  “Don’t, you’re not. What name?”

  “I suppose it should be Italian … I shall use my sister’s. Balzini, Senator. Madame Balzini and her nephew.”

  “It’s done. Where can I call you back?”

  “It’s … it’s better if I call you.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, you are wonderful!”

  “I won’t press the point, but I’d be grateful if you’d tell the baron that.”

  “Certo, signore!”

  The new, elegant hotel was perfect, confirmed by the Baj’s recognizing four minor members of the Saudi royal family in Savile Row clothes. In the early days she would have shot them on sight and raced away, but now the stakes were so high, the rewards so magnificent, she nodded politely as the quartet of the blood-stained Saudi inheritors passed her in the lobby.

  “Nicolo!” she called, getting up from the desk in the suite’s sitting room, suddenly noticing the lighted button on the telephone. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling Angel, Cabi!” replied the voice from the bedroom. “She gave me her number at the studio.”

  “Please hang up, my darling.” Bajaratt rushed to the bedroom door and opened it. “I’m afraid you must do as I say.”

  The young man did so angrily, his bewilderment obvious. “She did not answer. She told me to let the telephone ring five times and then to leave a message.”

  “You left a message?”

  “No, there were only three rings when you shouted at me.”

  “Bene. I’m sorry I spoke so harshly, but you must never use the telephone unless you tell me first and I say it’s all right.”

  “Use the telephone …? Who else would I call? Are you so jealous—”

  “Really, Nico, you can sleep with a princess or a whore or a donkey and it makes no difference to me, but you may not place calls that can lead back to us.”

  “You told me to call her when we were at the other hotel—”

  “There we were registered under the names we are using, here we are not.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “You don’t have to; it’s not part of our contract.”

  “But I promised to call her!”

  “You promised …?” The Baj reflected while glaring at the dock boy from Portici. Nicolo had been acting strangely contrary, given to brief outbursts of temper like a young caged animal increasingly annoyed by his confinement. That was it; the restrictions had to be loosened. At this point, so near to her magnificent kill, it would be foolish to have an even more resentful dock boy on her hands. Besides, there was a call she had to make, and, as others might follow, forming a “pattern,” as Van Nostrand had warned, it should not be made from the hotel phone. “You’re right, Nico, I’m being far too strict. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I need a few things from the farmacia across the street, so I’ll go downstairs and you’ll have privacy. Call your bella ragazza, but do not give her the number here or the name of the hotel. Tell her the truth, Nico, for you should not lie to your lovely friend. If you have to leave a message, say we’re moving within the hour and you’ll reach her later.”

  “We just got here.”

  “Something happened; our plans have changed.”

  “Madre di Dio, what now?… I know, I know, it is not part of our contract. If we ever get back to Portici, I should bring you to Ennio Il Coltello. He frightens everyone, for they say he kills; he shaves men below the beard with his knife when he is displeased, and one never knows where he’ll be next or what he will do. I think, Cabi, that you would frighten him.”

  “I did, Nico,” Bajaratt said simply, a slow smile on her face. “He helped me find you, but no one on the docks should fear him any longer.”

  “Che?”

  “He’s dead.… Make your call to your beautiful actress, Nicolo. I’ll return in fifteen minutes.” The Baj picked up her purse from a chair, walked to the door adjusting her veil, and let herself out.

  Alone in the elevator, she silently repeated the telephone number Van Nostrand had given her, the number now programmed to reach the new Scorpio One. The order she was about to issue had to be obeyed without question and within twenty-four hours, preferably far sooner. If there was the slightest hesitation, the wrath of the Baaka Valley, especially the Ashkelon Brigade, would descend on all the Scorpio leadership. Death to those who would interfere with Ashkelon!

  The doors opened and Bajaratt stepped out into the small, tasteful lobby, crossing directly to the gold-filigreed entrance. On the pavement outside she nodded to the uniformed doorman.

  “May I get you a cab, Madame Balzini?”

  “No, grazie, but how gracious of you to know my name.” The Baj studied the man from beneath her veil.

  “It’s the Carillon’s policy to know our guests, madame.”

  “Very impressive.… It’s such a lovely afternoon, I thought I’d get a bit of air.”

  “A fine day for a walk, madame.”

  Bajaratt nodded again and strolled down the sidewalk, stopping at several storefronts, ostensibly to admire the expensive merchandise but in reality to further appraise the courteous doorman with casual glances as she touched her hair or her veil.
She did not trust such polite employees who could relay the comings and goings of hotel guests; she had bribed too many in the past. Her concerns vanished rapidly, however, as the doorman aimlessly glanced at pedestrians but never once in her direction. That would not be the case, she considered, had she dressed normally, without the matronly padding Nicolo so detested. She continued down the pavement, seeing what she hoped to find: a public telephone near the corner across the street. She hurried to it, once more repeating the number that was now so vital to Ashkelon. So vital!

  “Scorpione Uno?” said the Baj softly but sharply enough to be heard over the occasional automobile horn on the quiet street.

  “I assume you’re speaking Italian,” replied the flat, hesitant voice on the line.

  “And I assume that the numerous odd sounds that followed my dialing this number have led me to the man I must speak with—in total confidentiality, without fear of being overheard.”

  “You may be assured of that. Who is this?”

  “I am Bajaratt—”

  “I’ve been waiting for your call! Where are you? We must meet as quickly as possible.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Our mutual friend, who is now somewhere in Europe, left you a package he said was crucial to your … enterprise.”

  “What is it?”

  “I gave my word I would not open it. He told me it was for my own benefit not to know the contents. He said you’d understand.”

  “Of course. You could be interrogated with chemicals, with drugs.… So Van Nostrand survived, then?”

  “Survived …?”

  “There were gunshots—”

  “Gunshots? I don’t—”

  “Never mind,” Bajaratt instantly interrupted herself. Van Nostrand’s security had saved him from his would-be assassin, Hawthorne. At the last, the retired intelligence agent was no match for the serpentine Neptune. Van Nostrand had Hawthorne followed, then arrested at the Shenandoah Lodge, no doubt leaving a corpse or two at the estate directly implicating the troublemaker from naval intelligence. Arrested! She had seen it for herself! How delicious, how exquisitely devious. “Then our previous Scorpion is safely in another country, no longer to be heard from?” she added.