The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “We asked no more, signore. Only a photograph for my brother, the barone di Ravello.”

  “Well, the President wanted you to know—he’ll probably tell you himself—he wishes that grave matters of state caused the brevity, but the truth is that his very large family, including eleven grandchildren, are visiting him this week, and the First Lady has a very definite schedule.”

  “What mother, or especially a grandmother, doesn’t? We Italians are not famous for small families or the chaos that results.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Come, sit down.”

  “What a magnificent room, is it not, Dante Paolo?”

  “Non ho capito.”

  “La stanza. Magnifica!”

  “Ah, si, zietta.”

  “It houses the power of the universe … we are so honored!”

  “I don’t know about the universe, Countess, but certainly a large part of the world.… Senators, would you care to sit down?”

  “Thanks, Fred, I don’t think so,” replied the younger senator. “We’re all sort of in a hurry, aren’t we?”

  “Young man …? Mr. Baron …?”

  “My nephew is too nervous to sit, signore.”

  “Ah, bene,” said Nicolo as if he had only vaguely understood his aunt’s words.

  Suddenly, from the corridor outside the Oval Office came a booming voice, the figure speaking blocked by the two senators. “Jesus, if one more kid punches me in the stomach, or slathers my face, or puts me in a hammerlock, I’ll make commercials for birth control!”

  President Donald Bartlett briefly, automatically, shook hands with the senators and walked into the room. He was a man in his late sixties, short of six feet, with straight gray hair and the lined, clean-cut features of an aging actor holding on to the enthusiasms of years past. In essence an accomplished politician capable of summoning the required energy and humor for a host of situations. He was a presence that would not be denied.

  “The Countess Cabrini and her nephew, the baron of … the baron, Mr. President,” choked the Chief of Staff.

  “Good Lord, I’m terribly sorry!” exclaimed Bartlett sincerely. “I thought I was early.… Scusi, Confessa. Non l’ho vista! Mi perdoni.”

  “Parlare Italiano, Signor Presidente?” asked the astonished Bajaratt, rising from her chair.

  “Not all that well,” said the President, shaking her hand. “Per favore, si sieda.” The Baj sat down. “I had to learn some in the war. I was a supply officer in the invasion of Italy, and let me tell you, we had a lot of help from some of your great families. You know, people who weren’t too fond of Mussolini.”

  “Il Duce, the pig!”

  “Heard a lot of that, Countess. Before the landings we flew in drops of supplies at night in case things went screwy—pazzo—and our troops were cut off heading north. We called ’em distribution points. In fact, I mentioned to the judge here—the senator—that I think I met your brother in Ravello.”

  “I believe it was our father, Mr. President. A man of honor who could not tolerate the fascisti.”

  “You’re probably right. Scuzzi di nuovo. I’m getting so old that decades seem like years! Of course it was your father. You were a mere child, if you were around at all.”

  “In many ways I am still a child, sir, a child who remembers many things.”

  “Oh?”

  “Non importa. May I present my nephew, the barone-cadetto di Ravello.” Bajaratt again rose to her feet as Bartlett turned and shook hands with Nicolo, who was appropriately dignified as well as awed. “My brother, who is ready to make substantial commitments to American industry, asks only for a photograph with you and his son.”

  “It’s no problem, Countess. However, I’ve got to tell you, this young fella may be the next baron, but from where I stand, he could be a wide receiver for the Washington Redskins.… Hey, boys, maybe I should stand on a box, this kid dwarfs me!”

  “I did my homework, Mr. President,” said the White House photographer. “I suggest you both be seated in two chairs behind your desk. Shaking hands, naturally.”

  As the photographer and the Chief of Staff arranged the chairs, Bajaratt slid her small pearl-beaded evening purse into the cushions of the chair, and as the flashes of the camera erupted, she pressed it farther, completely out of sight.

  “That is wonderful, Mr. President! My brother will be so enthusiastic, so grateful!”

  “I’ll be grateful if Ravello Industries sees fit to—shall we say—seek an industrial base or two in this country.”

  “Be assured, sir. Why not discuss the specifics with your two senators? I’ve made my brother’s position clear, and it will not disappoint you, Mr. President.”

  “I intend to, Countess,” said Bartlett, smiling and nodding pleasantly as he and Nicolo got out of their chairs. “At least as long as it takes to have a cool drink and stay away from those hooligans upstairs for a few peaceful minutes.”

  “You are a brigante, signore!” said Bajaratt, laughing, accepting the President’s hand. “But I know you love your family.”

  “I do indeed. Give my regards to your brother.”

  “Ma guardi,” said the Baj, looking at her diamond-encrusted wrist watch; it was shortly past eight o’clock. “My brother. I really should call him on our special telephone in less than a half hour.”

  “My car will take you back to the hotel,” said Nesbitt.

  “I’ll show you to the portico, Countess,” added the White House escort. “I’ve already arranged for the senator’s limousine to be there.”

  “We’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. President. And the baron will be so disappointed if I don’t reach him.”

  “Special phones, special times, special frequencies, even satellites now,” said the President. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to all that electronic stuff.”

  “You beat the fascisti, Tenente Bartlett! You won on human terms, what greater triumph is there?”

  “You know, Countess, I’ve been called a lot of things, good and bad, and it goes with the office. But that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said about someone like me.”

  “Ponder it, Mr. President. On this earth we must all win on human terms. Otherwise, there is nothing.… Come, Paolo, we must think of your father.”

  8:02 P.M.

  Hawthorne drove the State Department car through the South Gate of the White House, having been cleared by red line highest authority, no identifications asked for, the car noted by instant radar the moment it turned into the drive. Phyllis Stevens had done her job, and then some. Tyrell swung right toward the West Wing entrance, screeching to a stop in front of the steps. He got out and raced up the marble stairs to a marine captain who stood in front of a four-man unit of White House security guards. “The Oval Office,” said Hawthorne, no equivocation in his order.

  “I hope to hell you have credentials, Commander,” said the marine officer, his hand on his unlatched holster. “They say you do, but nothing like this has ever happened, and it’s my ass if you’re a freak!”

  “Freaks don’t get through that gate, Captain. Let’s go.”

  “Hold it! Why the Oval?”

  “I’m going to interrupt a meeting. Which way?”

  “No way!” shouted the marine, stepping back, slapping his .45 Colt out of his holster and nodding at his unit, all of whom did the same.

  “What the hell are you doing?” yelled Hawthorne, furious, as five weapons were leveled at him. “You have your orders!”

  “They’re voided when you deliver an outright lie.”

  “What?”

  “There is no meeting!” said the marine officer menacingly. “We got that call fifteen minutes ago, and we checked it out—I personally checked it out.”

  “What call?”

  “The same one that cleared you with the emergency watch codes. I’ll be damned if I know how you did it, but this is as far as you go—”

  “For Christ’s sake, what are you talking abou
t?”

  “ ‘Locate Zeus,’ the man-on-high says. ‘Get him out of his meeting and secure him in the cellars—’ ”

  “So far you’ve got it right—”

  “Wrong! There is no meeting! We high-tailed it down the hallway here to the O.O., and who do we find but the Chief of Staff. He told us—me to my face—that we should check our logs, that the President hadn’t scheduled anything for tonight; and if we wanted to take him anywhere, we’d have to go up to the private quarters and convince the First Lady, because the whole family was there, including a passel of grandchildren!”

  “That’s not the information I have, Captain.”

  “Well, you can add this to whatever you’ve got, Commander. Since we’re a roving patrol, the Chief of Staff made it clear that if the press had screwed around with us for a little snooping, tabloid style, we could kiss goodbye to the sweetest jobs we’d ever see in the Corps.”

  “That’s stupid—”

  “I put it a different way, but he got the point in respectful military terms. Now you’re going to get the point too, freak. You’re lockstepping it over to security—”

  “Get off it, you idiot!” roared Tyrell. “I don’t know what games are being played around here, but I know what the stakes are! Now, I’m running as fast as I can down that hallway, Captain, and you can open fire if you want to, but all I’m trying to do is prevent someone from killing the President!”

  “What did you say?” The stunned marine officer was suddenly frozen in place, his words barely heard.

  “The part you got right, Captain. Get him out of that meeting.”

  “There is no meeting! The Chief of Staff said—”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want you to know about it, maybe that’s why it isn’t on the schedule—maybe, since I’m cleared to get in here—you ought to find out!… Let’s go!”

  Hawthorne raced ahead, down the long, wide hallway as the leader of the roving guard unit looked at his men and nodded. In seconds the four marines were flanking Tyrell, the captain beside him.

  “What are we looking for?” the marine officer whispered breathlessly.

  “A woman and a kid—”

  “A kid … a little kid?”

  “A big kid, a young guy in his late teens.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “It doesn’t matter, we’ll know them.… How much farther?”

  “Right around the corner, a large door on the left,” answered the captain, gesturing toward a T-shaped cul-de-sac twenty feet ahead.

  Tyrell held up his hand, instructing the others to stop and walk slowly as they approached the end of the hallway. Suddenly, there were voices, a cacophony of “adios” “arrivedércis,” and “good-byes,” followed by the appearance of three men in the opposite east corridor; two were dressed in dark business suits, the third in a chauffeur’s gray uniform and visored cap, all with plastic clearance tags attached to their lapels.

  “Ashkelon!” cried the chauffeur, addressing someone on the other side.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked the stunned marine captain.

  “FBI, assigned to the State Department for diplomatic security,” said the startled man next to the chauffeur, his eyes switching back and forth between the officer and the unseen figures emerging from the Oval Office. “We’re escorting the countess to her hotel. Didn’t the dispatcher alert you?”

  “What dispatcher? Bureau or no Bureau, where the Oval is concerned, our security calls me with a minimum P.M. lead time of an hour, it’s standard!”

  “He’s lying!” mumbled Hawthorne, moving himself partially behind the marine as he pulled the automatic from his belt. “They used the name Ashkelon, and that means only one thing.… Bajaratt!” yelled Tyrell suddenly, whipping around and firing into the ceiling, instantly realizing how foolish the warning shot was. Staccato gunfire erupted, the marine captain hit first, the blood spilling out of his stomach as the other marines spun into the hallway walls. The Ashkelons lunged backward, shooting wildly and shouting, intent only on pulling someone to them for cover while they minimized the crossfire. A mariné pivoted around the east corner and shot five rounds, felling the two men who claimed to be federal agents, one of whom kept firing from the fetal position as a woman dashed across the T-shaped cul-de-sac, screaming.

  “Kill him, kill the boy!” she shrieked. “He must not live!”

  “Cabi … Cabi!” came the screams from the unseen teenager beyond the corner of the wall. “What are you saying?… Auhh!”

  A second marine guard lunged forward, firing two rounds, blowing apart the head of the chauffeur, who fell in Bajaratt’s path. Tyrell grabbed the second marine. “Get the President out of there!” he shouted. “Get everybody out!”

  “What, sir?”

  “Just do it!”

  Bajaratt shoved the falling dead body of the chauffeur out of her way, grabbed his gun, and ran down the corridor as the marine, joined by his colleagues, raced into the Oval Office. Hawthorne, his weapon extended, crouched and spun around, looking for the woman he once thought he loved but now hated, a serpent with glass eyes and a mouth filled with poison. She was nearing the end of the hallway! Tyrell sprang forward with such force, the wound in his thigh split open, the blood spreading throughout his trousers as he raced after her.

  When he was halfway down the corridor, there was a massive explosion from the Oval Office. Horrified, Hawthorne whipped around, stunned by the smoke and the flying debris, then instantly relieved by the sight of blurred, excited figures on a lawn beyond an open side door at the far end of the hall. The marines had done the job; the President and several others were running around in panic, but they were out of the White House, out of harm’s way. Spinning again, Tyrell was paralyzed—where was Bajaratt? She had disappeared! He ran, reaching a large circular room with three hallways beyond a wide staircase; she had chosen one of them—which one? Suddenly, sirens and ear-shattering bells echoed throughout the hollow caverns of the executive mansion. Then there were voices—screams, commands, mass hysteria—seemingly from everywhere and nowhere. And through the chaos a tall figure walked slowly down the staircase, a figure with one arm, his face taut, his eyes wide and bright, as a cruel man looks observing an act of brutality that excites him profoundly.

  “It’s done, isn’t it, General?” shouted Hawthorne. “You really did it, didn’t you?”

  “You!” yelled the chairman of the Joint Chiefs as streams of marines and civilians raced out of the hallways, crossing the large circular room toward the Oval Office corridor, oblivious of the celebrated general and the bleeding man who limped to the staircase below the soldier. “And you were too late, weren’t you, mister?” Meyers moved his arm behind him as he stared at the gun in Tyrell’s hand. “I’ve faced a thousand weapons and none have ever frightened me.”

  “You don’t have to worry about this one, General. I may blow both your kneecaps off, but I want you alive. I want the rest of your wriggling carcass for all the world to see—because I wasn’t too late. You lose.”

  Without warning, without the slightest body movement, Meyers arced his arm from behind him, and in a single motion brought the blade of his bayonet slashing down across Hawthorne’s chest. Tyrell leapt backward, firing his gun as rivulets of blood spread throughout the shirt under his jacket. And General Maximum Mike Meyers fell forward down the staircase, most of his neck obliterated, a mass of white tissue and soaked, bright red flesh, his head more off the rest of his body than on.

  Bajaratt! Where?

  A gunshot—a scream! From the far right hallway. Dominique had killed again—no, Bajaratt!

  Bunching his shirt together to absorb the blood, Hawthorne limped to the corridor where the shot and the scream had come from; the walls were soft yellow, the light from crystal chandeliers, not neon tubes. It was a short hallway with anterooms, probably for social functions, where invited guests primped for state occasions, two doors on the right, two on the left. There was no corpse in evidence,
but there were blotched streaks of red, as if a body had been dragged into the second door on the right. A killer setting a trap had made a mistake that only another killer would recognize. In such a situation, one did not follow the blood, one looked in another direction. Tyrell sidestepped down the hallway, his back against the left wall, the wound in his thigh now draining profusely. He reached the first door and, summoning what strength he could, spun around, crashing his shoulder into it while twisting the knob with his left hand. The ornate room was empty, several full-length mirrors reflecting Hawthorne’s image; he limped quickly back into the hall, into the pandemonium of screaming sirens and deafening bells. He proceeded to the second door in the left wall; it was the assassin’s illogically logical sanctuary, he knew it, he felt it.

  Once again, finding what was left of his reserves, he turned the knob and propelled his body against the door, sending it crashing back into the inside wall. Nothing!… Then, in a microsecond flash of understanding, he whipped around and lunged to the right—for knowing her pursuer, Bajaratt had reversed the trap! She came flying through the open door from the room across the hallway, half her clothes torn to shreds, her face the face of the demonically possessed, her eyes wild, her features stretched in fury. She fired twice, the first bullet creasing Tyrell’s left temple as he swung his head away, the second shattering a mirror on a dressing table, the third attempted shot … a click. The gun she had taken from her fallen colleague was out of bullets.

  “Shoot!” screamed Bajaratt. “Kill me!”

  Thunder cracked across Hawthorne’s mind, bolts of lightning searing his inner eyes, blinding his thoughts yet leaving him the torture of outer sight. Opposing wind shears of loathing and remembered love collided as he stared at the contorted features of the hellhound who had slept in his arms in another time, in another life. “Whom would I be killing?” he asked weakly, taking long gasps of breath. “Dominique or the terrorist they call Bajaratt?”

  “What does it matter? Neither of us can live any longer, can’t you understand that?”