The Scorpio Illusion (27 page)

“Hired
?” exclaimed Poole.

“That’s right. They met my price, Lieutenant.” Hawthorne arched his neck; he was exhausted.

“But everything you said about this incredible terrorist and the army of fanatics behind her, all ready to commit mass assassinations—you joined up for a
price
?”

“That’s the way it was, yes.”

“You’re one strange guy, Commander Hawthorne. I’m not sure I understand you at all.”

“Your understanding me, Major, isn’t germane to this operation.”

“Of course not … sir.”

“It isn’t germane, Cath, ’cause you’re cuttin’ around the nerve endings,” said Poole, his back against the vine-laden breakwall.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Hawthorne. His eyes half closed, he kept blinking back the exhaustion but with each blink was nodding closer to sleep.

“I was on the Patrick phone too. Your wife was killed for what you figure were the wrong reasons, that much I got, and that’s why you wouldn’t go back to your old crowd even if they offered you half the real estate in Washington.”

“You’re very observant,” said Hawthorne softly, his chin sinking into his chest. “Even if you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then something else happened,” continued Poole. “When we picked you up on Saba, you made like you
didn’t give a shit, but you did. You were like a man on fire when my equipment began deliverin’. You began to see something you didn’t see before, and you got real sharp. You even nailed Sal Mancini like a rattlesnake strikin’ out at a rat.”

“What are you driving at, Jackson?” asked Cathy.

“Somethin’ he knows and won’t tell us,” replied Poole.

“… The
bastards
,” whispered Tyrell, his head nodding up and down, his eyes closed now.

“How long has it been since you slept?” asked Catherine, moving over in the sand next to Hawthorne.

“I’m fine.…”

“The hell you are,” said the pilot, her hand steadying Tyrell’s weaving shoulder. “You’re spiraling out of action, Commander.”

“Dominique
?” murmured Hawthorne suddenly, his body arching back, as if in slow motion, held by Neilsen’s arm.

“Who?”

“Hold it, Cath,” said Poole, extending his right hand in the moonlight. “Is Dominique your wife?”

“No!” rasped Tye, only half conscious. “Ingrid …”

“She was the one who was killed?”

“
Lies
! They said she was on a … Soviet payroll.”

“Was she?” asked Neilsen, now cradling the failing Hawthorne.

“I don’t know,” said Tyrell, barely able to be heard. “She wanted everything to stop.”

“Everything what?” pressed the lieutenant.

“I don’t know—everything.”

“Go to sleep, Tye,” said Cathy.

“No
!” objected Poole. “Who’s Dominique?” But Hawthorne had lapsed into unconsciousness on the beach. “That man’s got problems.”

“Shut up and build a fire,” ordered the major.

Eighteen minutes later, the flames of the fire casting shadows over the beach, the limping Poole sat down on
the sand and looked over at Cathy, who was staring down at the sleeping Tyrell. “He
does
have problems, doesn’t he?” said the major.

“More than we ever had, including Pensacola and Miami.”

“He’s a good guy, Jackson.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Cath. I’ve been watchin’ you, your bullshit and all, and like the commander said, I’m pretty observant. You and he could make one hell of a couple.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Look at him. He’s clouds above Pensacola. I mean, he’s a man, not some prick who keeps lookin’ into mirrors.”

“He’s not too terrible,” said the air force pilot, holding Tyrell’s head as she piled a pillow of sand below it. “Let’s say he’s not unqualified.”

“Go for it, Cath. I’m the genius, remember?”

“He’s not ready, Jackson. Neither am I.”

“Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Do what comes naturally.”

The major looked over at the lieutenant, then down at the reposed face of Tyrell Nathaniel Hawthorne partially on her lap. She leaned down and kissed his parted lips.

“Dominique
?”

“No, Commander. Somebody else.”

“
Buona sera, signore
,” said Bajaratt, leading her reluctant
barone-cadetto
to the reporter from
The Miami Herald
who spoke fluent Italian. “The red-haired young man suggested that we come and speak with you. Your account of the press conference yesterday was most flattering indeed. We thank you.”

“Sorry we only made the beachfront pages, but he’s a hell of a kid, Countess,” said the journalist pleasantly.
“You’re both pretty awesome, in fact. By the way, my name’s Del Rossi.”

“Yet something troubles you?”

“You could say that, but I’m not ready to go into print with it.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“What’s your game, lady?”

“I don’t understand you—”

“But
he
does. He understands every word we’re saying in English.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I’m bilingual. It’s always in the eyes, isn’t it? A flash of understanding, a glint of resentment or humor having nothing to do with a tone of voice or an expression.”

“Or partial comprehension, perhaps strengthened by previously translated conversation—is that not possible, fellow linguist?”

“Anything’s possible, Countess, but he
does
speak and understand English—isn’t that
right
, young
fella
?”

“What—
che còsa
?”

“Case closed, lady.” Del Rossi smiled under Bajaratt’s glare. “But, hey, I don’t fault you for it, Countess. Actually, it’s pretty damned smart.”

“And what do you mean by
that
?” asked the Baj icily.

“It’s called deniability by way of misinterpretation. The old Soviets, the Chinese, and the White House are experts at it. He can say anything he likes, then retract it and claim he didn’t understand.”

“But
why
?” pressed Bajaratt.

“I haven’t figured that out yet, which accounts for my not going into print.”

“But were you not one of the journalists who spoke to the
barone
himself in Ravello?”

“That’s right, and to be frank, he wasn’t the best source I’ve ever had. He kept saying
‘tutto quello che dice è vero’
and
‘qualsiasi cosa dica.’
Essentially, ‘whatever he says is the truth.’ What truth, Countess?”

“The family’s investments, of course.”

“Maybe, but why did I get the feeling that talking to the great baron was about as helpful as talking to an answering machine?”

“An overactive imagination, signore. It is late and we must leave.
Buona nòtte
.”

“I’m going too,” said the reporter. “It’s a pretty long drive to Miami.”

“We must find our host and hostess.” The Baj took Nicolo’s arm, leading him away.

“I’ll stay a proper twenty paces behind,” added Del Rossi, obviously enjoying the moment.

Bajaratt turned, suddenly looking at the reporter warmly, the ice gone from her eyes. “Why,
Signor Giornalista
? That would be very undemocratic of you. It would appear that you disapprove of us, disapprove of our positions.”

“Oh, no, Countess, I neither approve nor disapprove. In my business we don’t make judgments, we just tell it like it is.”

“Then do so, but now you walk on my other side and I shall be between two handsome
italiani
as we say our farewells.”

“You’re something else, lady.” Del Rossi stepped forward, politely offering his arm.

“And you’re too elliptical for me, signore,” said the Baj as all three began across the lawn. Then, without warning, the Countess Cabrini lurched downward, her body twisting, her heel apparently caught in a patch of soft grass or a sprinkler head. She cried out as Nicolo and Del Rossi instantly sprang down to her, both on their knees, their hands reaching for her. “My foot! Free it,
please
, or remove my shoe!”

“I’ve got it,” said the reporter, lifting her ankle gently off the grass.

“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Bajaratt, grabbing Del Rossi’s leg for support as guests raced over, surrounding them.

“Ouch
!” sputtered the reporter as a trickle of blood appeared on his trousers while he and Nicolo lifted the countess to her feet.

“Thank you—thank you
all
. I’m fine, really I’m
fine
. I’m simply mortified at my awkwardness!” A chorus of sympathy and understanding greeted her, so the
contessa
and her escorts proceeded to their hosts, who were on the patio, saying good night to departing guests. “Good heavens!” said Bajaratt, seeing the thin rivulet of blood on Del Rossi’s right pant leg. “When I grabbed you, that damned bracelet of mine ripped your trousers. Worse, it cut you! I’m so dreadfully sorry!”

“It’s nothing, Countess, just a scratch.”

“You must send me the bill for your trousers!… I adore this bracelet, but those gold points are frightening. I shall
never
wear it again!”

“Hey, the pants are off the rack at a discount place. Don’t worry about any bill.… Just remember, lady, you’re nice and I’m nice, but I haven’t stopped digging.”

“ ‘Digging’ what, signore? Dirt?”

“I don’t touch dirt, Countess, I leave that to others. But earth that’s been made toxic, that’s something else.”

“Then dig, please,” said the Baj, glancing at the gold bracelet firmly in place around her right wrist, the point of a golden thorn red with blood, its tiny orifice dark … open. “There will be nothing.”

13

T
he early orange sun pulsated across-the blue-green waters as foraging birds whistled and cawed in the upper palms and the hanging tropical foliage. Tyrell snapped open his eyes, startled, unsure, then astonished to realize that his head was touching Cathy’s shoulder, her sleeping face only inches away from his. Slowly, he rolled away and got to his hands and knees, blinking at the brilliant light, suddenly whipping around at the popping sounds of a fire and the sight of a limping Poole dragging debris which he threw over the flames. The rising dark smoke was the only obstruction in a clear, cloudless sky.

“What’s that for?” asked Hawthorne, instantly repeating the question in a whisper as the lieutenant brought his index finger to his lips. “What’s it for?”

“I figured if the pilot of the aircraft got a wrong number in the coordinates, he’d spot the fire. Just a backup, that’s all.”

“You’re walking …?”

“I told you it wasn’t more than a couple of bruises. I spent a half hour in the water soakin’ ’em and movin’ ’em; they’re tolerable now.”