The Scorpio Illusion (30 page)

Again there was an explosion of laughter, the democratization of nobility complete. And then there was a knocking at the delicatessen’s locked door. The Baj spoke in English. “Forgive me,
famiglia Capelli
, but my nephew wished so much to have memories of this evening that he asked me to have a photographer come around to take some pictures. If it offends you, I’ll send him away.”

“Offend us?” cried the father. “It is an honor beyond our expectations. My son, let the man in, quickly!”

Having secured a limousine for the next morning at the concierge’s desk, Bajaratt walked across the hotel lobby to the bank of pay phones. Taking a scrap of paper from her purse, she dialed the Plaza, asking for Suite 9B.

“Yes?” answered the male voice.

“Van Nostrand, it is I.”

“You’re not calling from your room, are you?”

“I shouldn’t dignify that question, but of course not. I’m in the lobby.”

“Give me the number, I’ll go downstairs.”

The Baj did so, and seven minutes later the public telephone rang. “Was that necessary?” she asked, lifting the receiver before the first ring was completed.

“I shouldn’t dignify the question,” replied Van Nostrand, chuckling, “but yes, it was. I’m a known confidant of the State Department, and there are numerous people vitally interested in my communications. Hotel switchboards
can be bribed; the cost is minimal and those paying are frequently quite impressive.”

“Espionage?”

“Rarely beyond our shores these days, rather in Washington itself. It’s called turf sniping. But enough of my perhaps overly cautious procedures. Was my envelope intact?”

“It was, I studied it under a glass in the harshest light.”

“Good. I don’t have to tell you that where possible, the calls should be made from public phones. It’s not altogether necessary, but preferable when there is more than one call. We don’t like patterns.”

“No, you don’t have to tell me that,” Bajaratt broke in. “However, since you have close ties, as you put it, with government officials, where is this former naval intelligence officer named Hawthorne now?”

“I would prefer that you leave him to me. As I understand your objective, hunting him would only impede your progress—and that of your associates.”

“He’s too clever for you, old man.”

“You sound as if you know him—”

“I know his reputation. He was the best in Amsterdam … he and his wife.”

“How interesting. I happen to know that information is off the books.”

“I, too, have my sources, Signor Van Nostrand.”

“Even the
padrone
did not know, and I had no chance to tell him. Extremely interesting.… As to my being old, my dear Baj, may I remind you that I have at my disposal over here a
thousand
times your resources in the dark arts.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Oh, yes, I do!” interrupted the State Department liaison in sudden fury. “You may call him your only true father, but he was my
life
!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” said Van Nostrand coldly. “For
thirty years we shared everything—
everything
. Havana, Rio, Buenos Aires—two lives as one, he the master, of course. Until he was diagnosed ten years ago, and he sent me away to serve him in other endeavors.”

“I had no idea—”

“Then let me ask you a question, young lady. In the two years you spent on that island, did you ever see another woman except for Hectra, the black Amazon?”

“Oh, my God.”

“Does it shock you?”

“Not sexually, that’s immaterial. I just never even considered it.”

“None ever did. ‘Mars and Neptune’ he called the two of us, one ruling for all the Caribbean to see, the other underneath, guiding him, instructing him in the courtesies and subtleties an education brings.… Now, you understand me, Baj! This Hawthorne is
mine
to kill, no one else’s!”

The limousine crisscrossed Manhattan, east and west, north and south, from the United Nations to the television studios by the Hudson River, from Battery Park to the Museum of Natural History, each new sight enthralling the excited “Dante Paolo” to the delight of Angel Capell, whose celebrated presence instantly opened doors and gave rise to special tours. And somehow, some way, there were photographers everywhere. It was no surprise to Angel, who was used to the attention, and who kept telling Nicolo,
“Anche i paparazzi devono vivere
”—they, too, had to make a living. However, what neither the young television star nor her escort noticed was that not one photograph was taken of Amaya Bajaratt. It was a preordained condition, negotiated by the
“contessa
” in return for access to the limousine’s schedule.

Lunch at the Four Seasons on 52nd Street was capped by the two ingratiating owners presenting the young
couple with the establishment’s Chocolate Velvet Cake, the white lettering on the top welcoming the handsome
barone-cadetto
and his beautiful companion, who was an American treasure.

As the youngsters lingered over second helpings of cake and coffee, the countess interrupted. “Perhaps we should return to our limousine,” said Bajaratt. “We have four other places I promised Dante we’d see.”

“Then I’ll ask the waiter to put the cake in a container for the driver.”

“You are very considerate, Angelina.”

On the way out, the Baj slowed her pace on the staircase, for below by the hatcheck counter were three photographers. They did their jobs as the privileged young couple smiled graciously at each other.

Perfect
.

“This is disgusting!” shouted Nicolo. The newspapers in his hand, he paced the hotel room. “I’m so embarrassed! What can I say to her?”

“Nothing at the moment, Nico, she’s on a plane to California. She gave you her telephone number, so call her later.”

“She’ll think I’m a monster!”

“I don’t believe so. I suspect she’s had more experience in these matters than to take such articles seriously.”

“But where did all those photographers come from? How did they know where to be?”

“She told you herself, my handsome young man. The
paparazzi
also must make a living; she understands that. What perhaps she did not modestly make clear was just how famous she is.… I should have known better, of course.”

The Baj walked out of the elevator into the hotel lobby and crossed to the bank of public telephones. The numbers memorized, she dialed them and reached Van Nostrand.

“Well, the young man and his girlfriend are certainly all over the papers,” he said. “Good heavens, what publicity—nearly on a par with Grace and Rainier! Of course, the American public laps it up, it’s their fantasies, naturally.”

“Then I have accomplished my purpose. The coverage in Washington was adequate?”

“Adequate? From the
Post
to the
Times
to every rag in the supermarkets, the two of them are prime copy! And I should tell you, since it was mentioned in several
society columns that I was there in New York, I’ve had numerous calls from the elite of the Beltway asking if I knew the young baron—more to the point, if I knew his father.”

“What did you say?”

“No comment, which is naturally comment enough, since close friendships are never commented upon in this city unless there are reasons to do so. So far, the price in terms of influence is not high enough, but it will get there. Not that it matters, frankly.”

“Then it’s time we move on to Washington—without publicity.”

“As you wish.”

“You can accommodate us?”

“What do you mean? I can send a plane for you, of course.”

“I mean at your grand estate, the estate you own because of Havana.”

“It’s out of the question,” said Van Nostrand curtly.

“Why is that?”

“I have my own agenda. I expect to have former Commander Tyrell Hawthorne as my guest within forty-eight hours. Twelve hours later, you and the boy can have the run of the whole goddamned place, for I’ll be gone.”

14

T
yrell Hawthorne, dressed in a lightweight, many-pocketed safari jacket and khakis he had purchased at the airport, looked at his bandaged hand in the moonlight. It had been wrapped by Major Catherine Neilsen the day before on the island of Virgin Gorda. They were now in the open candlelit courtyard of the San Juan Hotel in Isla Verde, Puerto Rico, both waiting for Lieutenant A. J. Poole to return from a conference with U.S. Naval Intelligence, a conference Tyrell had refused to attend. “If I’m not there, I’m not committed to their stupidities” was the way he had phrased it. “Let Jackson be the conduit. I can always shoot him and say I never heard a word.” A third glass of Chablis arrived at the table. The air force major was still nursing her large iced tea.

“Why do I think you’re used to harder stuff?” said Cathy, nodding at the wine.

“Because I was until I found out it wasn’t to my benefit. Is that sufficient?”

“I wasn’t trying to pry—”

“Where the hell is he? That goddamned meeting couldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes if he told them what I wanted him to!”

“You need them, Tye. You can’t act alone, you know that.”

“I got the name of Cooke and Ardisonne’s pilot from a general aviation mechanic, and for the moment that’s all I need. Alfred Simon, scum-plus!”

“Come on, you yourself said he was a hired hand—an
X-outside you called him, although I haven’t the vaguest idea what it means.”

“It’s simple. Someone who’s hired to do a job but he’s outside the circle—he doesn’t actually know who hired him.”

“Then what good is the name?”

“Because if what minor skills I once had haven’t completely deserted me, there’s a chance I can penetrate that circle.”

“By yourself?”

“I’m not an idiot, Cathy, and the category of dead heroes has never appealed to me. That’s when I call in all the firepower I can muster. Until then I can move faster alone, in or out of sanction.”

“What does that mean?”

“No one to tell me that I should or shouldn’t do this or that because it will have an effect on something else they
can’t
tell me about.”

“You sound like you’re excluding me and Jackson.”

“Oh, no, Major, you’re in till things get hairy, and your bayou genius is in for the duration, unless he quits on me. I need a base camp manned by people I can trust.”

“Thank you for that, and while I’m at it, thanks for the clothes. They have nice shops here.”

“That’s one thing our Henry Stevens is good for. He wires money as if he has the codes to the Fort Knox vaults, which he probably has.”

“I kept all the receipts—”

“Burn ’em, they’re traceable paper and undesirable in the extreme. Don’t you know
anything
, Major Neilsen? You’d make a lousy field officer. You must never leave an excess of contingency funds, it just isn’t ethical.”

“I’ll try to remember that, Commander.”

“As Poole would say, you do look gorgeous.”

“Why, thank you, sir. Jackson chose this outfit.”

“You know that kid could become obsessive instant hate. We should put him in a cell with my younger
brother; those two Mensa brats would refry each other’s brains with their intense intellectuality.”