The Scorpio Illusion (62 page)

I
t was 4:35 in the afternoon and Andrew Jackson Poole V was impressed as he sat at the desk in the Shenandoah Lodge in front of the equipment supplied by the Central Intelligence Agency. He had received the two components he had insisted upon: a reverse noninterceptor line to Hawthorne that bypassed the CIA traffic, a single yellow X on his screen indicating invasion; and a second miniature screen whose movable blip confirmed Hawthorne’s operating transponder. The personnel at Langley were outraged, believing their integrity was being challenged, but as Tye had made clear to the DCI, there could be another O’Ryan, whether Gillette wanted to consider it or not.

“You read me, Tye?” said Poole, flipping the switch on the small console to the isolated line that connected him to Hawthorne’s frequency.

“Yes, I do,” replied Tyrell in the car, his voice echoing over the speaker. “Are we alone?”

“Totally dedicated,” replied the lieutenant. “I can read these scans like findin’ honey in a biscuit. We’re one on one, no intercepts.”

“Anything from the hospital?”

“Nothing one way or another. All they’ll say is that Cath is stable, whatever the goddamn hell
that
means.”

“It’s better than the alternative, Jackson.”

“Man, you’re one cold prick.”

“I’m sorry you think that.… Where do the grids put me?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got you in operation and Langley
has you southeast on Route 270, approaching a local intersection that branches off into 301. The girl on the map-screen says she knows it. There’s a run-down, third-rate amusement park on your left, where the Ferris wheel gets stuck, and you can’t win anything at the shooting gallery because the sights are fixed.”

“I just passed it. We’re in good shape.”

The console telephone erupted, its ring continuous. “Hold it, Tye, my emergency Langley connection’s blowin’ smoke. I’ll get back to you.”

Inside the car with the State Department plates, Hawthorne kept his eye on the road and the late afternoon traffic, but his mind was elsewhere. What could have happened at CIA headquarters that caused the emergency? Any and all emergencies should be coming from him, not from anything at Langley. He was within perhaps forty-five minutes of Chesapeake Beach and the O’Ryans’ summer house; if there was going to be an emergency, it would happen there. Tyrell felt the plastic lighter in his shirt pocket that emitted electrical impulses when he was out of the car and was being called. Poole had tested it; it worked, but it was weak, perhaps too weak. Had Langley found the malfunction? That could be an emergency.

“Good Lord, it’s terrible!” came Jackson’s excited voice, “but nothing’s changed. We go on!”

“For Christ’s sake, what’s terrible?”

“Director Gillette was found dead in his office. It was his heart; he had a history of cardiac problems and was on medication.”

“Who says so?” demanded Hawthorne.

“His doctor, Tye,” replied Poole. “He told the CIA medics that one day it was inevitable, but he didn’t expect it so soon.”

“You listen to me, Lieutenant, and listen hard. I want an immediate—and I mean
immediate
—independent
autopsy on Gillette, concentrating on substances from the trachea to the bronchi and into the stomach. It’s got to be done within a couple of hours. Have it done now!”

“What are you talkin’ about …?” stammered Poole. “I told you what his own doctor said.”

“And I’ll tell you what Gillette told me barely three hours ago! ‘Coincidence is rarely, if ever, a factor.’ And the death of the director of Central Intelligence, who’s ultimately responsible for this operation, is just too goddamned
coincidental
! Tell them to look for evidence of digitalis!” he went on. “It’s as old as scopolamine before the Amytals, and every bit as effective. You don’t need a heart condition to blow a person into arrhythmia, and even with a mild dysfunction, a short dose will do it. It also disappears in the blood quickly.”

“How do you know that …?”

“Son of a
bitch
,” Hawthorne swore, “because I just
know
it! Now,
move
, and until you have an outside analysis with a lab that will go on record that he was clean, these communications are shut down. If and when you get such a report, give me five shocks on your transmitter. I won’t answer otherwise, and I don’t care if it takes all night!”

“Tye, you don’t understand. Gillette was found roughly two and a half hours ago. His body was taken to Walter Reed emergency—”

“A government-operated hospital!” exploded Hawthorne. “We’re shut down.”

“That’s just plain dumb,” Poole broke in. “I know this equipment, and Langley knows I know it. There’s no one tapping into us. I ran two invasives and both showed up. We’re one on one, nobody else here.”

“I’ve got a long litany of Washington double-crosses, Jackson. I say we
could
be.”

“Okay, let’s go bayou and say you’re right, which is impossible, and there are other nasty people in Langley like Mr. O’Ryan, who figure to follow you and treat you poorly. We cut the
grids
off, not communications.”

“I take off my belt with the transponder in the buckle and throw it out the window,” said Tyrell, no question in his words.

“May I suggest, sir, that you take the next U-turn, go back to that amusement park, and leave the goldarned thing near the fun house? Or maybe that Ferris wheel?”

“Poole, you really
do
have possibilities. I’m heading back to the fun house. I can’t wait till I hear about a team of deep-cover CIA agents assaulting the tunnel of love.”

“Or maybe, with luck, stuck on top of that Ferris wheel.”

The flagstone path led to the colonnaded entrance, the home a huge replica of a pre—Civil War plantation’s great house. Bajaratt walked up the steps to the thick, carved double doors, the bas-reliefs depicting the journeys of Mohammed as he came to understand the teachings of the Koran as shown to him by the mountain prophets.
“Rubbish
!” she whispered to herself. There were no exalted mountains, no Mohammed, and the prophets were ignorant goatherds! There was no Christ either. He was a radical Jew troublemaker manufactured by the semiliterate Essenes, who hadn’t the ability to cultivate their land. There was no God but the voice within the aroused individual, the inner commands that made a man or woman do what he or she had to do to fight for justice—for all who were oppressed. What else
was
there? The Baj spat on the flagstone porch, then composed herself, raised a ladylike hand, and pressed the bell.

Moments later the door was opened by a caftanned Arab, his robes gliding over the parquet floor. “You are expected, madame, and you are late.”

“If I were later still, would you have denied me entrance?”

“It is possible—”

“Then I shall leave—now,” said Bajaratt. “How dare you?”

A female voice came from within. “Please permit the lady to come inside, Ahmet Ashad, and do put away your weapon, it’s most discourteous.”

“It is not in evidence, madame,” the servant called out.

“That is even more discourteous. Show our visitor in.”

The room was a perfectly normal suburban living room in terms of its windows, curtains, and wallpaper, but that was where the ordinariness ended. There were no chairs, only enormous cushions placed around the floor with miniature tables in front of each. And reclining on one such hill of scarlet satin was a dark-skinned woman of extraordinary beauty and indeterminate age, her face a supple mask of classic features, yet warm, somehow not rigid or masklike at all. When she smiled, her eyes lit up like opals, communicating interest and genuine curiosity.

“Sit down, Amaya Aquirre,” she said in a soft, mellifluous voice that belonged to the emerald-green silk pantsuit she wore. “You see, I know your name and something more than that about you. As you can also see, I subscribe to the Arabic custom that we be on the same level—for us, the floor, as it is with the Bedouin sand—so that no individual has a symbolic position over the other. I find it one of the more attractive Arab concessions; we treat even our inferiors with equal eye contact.”

“Are you saying that I’m inferior?”

“No, not at all, but you are not an Arab.”

“I have fought for your cause—my husband died for your cause!”

“In a foolish expedition that served neither the Jew nor the Arab.”

“The Baaka permitted it, gave us its blessing!”

“The Baaka conceded because your husband was a
firebrand, a hero of the people, and his death—which was a foregone conclusion—would make him a symbol, a battle cry.
Remember Ashkelon
! I think you’ve heard the phrase. It was all nonsense, except for the emotional appeal.”

“What are you saying to me? My life, my husband, we are
nothing
?” The Baj sprang off the cushion as the robed Ahmet appeared in the doorway. “I’m willing to die for the greatest cause in history! Death to the pigs of authority!”

“That’s what we must talk about, Amaya.… Leave us, Ahmet, she has no weapon.… Your willingness to die is not terribly important, my dear. There are men and women all over the world willing to die for what they believe in, and the vast majority are never heard of, either before or after the act.… No, I want more than that for you, for us.”

“What
do
you want from me?” asked Bajaratt, slowly lowering herself to the cushion, her eyes locked with the beautiful, aging, yet ageless woman across the room.

“You’ve come this far brilliantly, with certain assistance, of course, but basically because of your own extraordinary talents. In a matter of mere days you’ve become an influential force, a behind-the-scenes power whom powerful men seek out for what they believe you can deliver. None of us could have done that for you; it had to spring from the idea, the concept you created, and it was absolutely brilliant. The young man, a baron in training, no less, and a family in Ravello with millions to invest. Even the child actress—such an appealing sideshow, so genuinely touching. You deserve ‘the Baj’s’ reputation.”

“I do what I do, and let others judge. Their judgments, frankly, are insignificant to me. I ask again, what do you want from me? I was told by the Baaka Councils to reach you prior to my last days here—quite possibly my last days alive. Either way, they are approaching.”

“You understand that we—I—have no authority over you. That is reserved for the High Councils alone.”

“I understand that. However, I am to render you the respect due a true friend, an ally of our cause, and listen to your words.… I’m listening.”

“Friend, yes, Amaya, but an ally only up to a point, my dear. We are no part of Van Nostrand’s Scorpions, that group of underground opportunists whose only aim is to profitably serve the Providers, whose only cause is wealth and power. I—we—have enough of both over here.”

“Who are you, then? You know a great deal.”

“It’s our job to know.”

“But who are you?”

“The Germans had an applicable term during the Second World War.
Der Nachrichtendienst
. An elite intelligence unit that even the Third Reich’s High Command knew little or nothing about. It was comprised of fewer than a dozen elderly members, Prussians mainly, aristocrats all, who collectively brought nearly eight hundred years of expertise and influence to the table. They were German to the core, but they operated above the fray, above the passions of war, seeking only what was best for the Fatherland, realizing the disadvantages of their nation being led by Adolf Hitler and his thugs.… As we recognize the disadvantages we face with terrorists murdering women and children in Israel. It’s simply counterproductive.”

“I think this conversation has gone far enough!” said the Baj, rising to her feet. “Have you and your elitists considered the displacement of an entire people? Have you been to the refugee camps? Have you watched the Israeli bulldozers plow down your own homes on mere suspicions? Have you forgotten the bloodbaths of Shatila and Sabra?”

“We’re told your appointment with the President is tomorrow night, approximately eight o’clock,” said
the woman quietly, resting farther back on the satin pillows.

“It
is
tomorrow, then? Eight o’clock?”

“It was originally scheduled for three o’clock in the afternoon, but considering the nature of the ‘
contessa
’s’ American visit, which is to further foreign investment—a delicate subject these days for a proud country—it was suggested to the White House that perhaps a later hour, an evening hour, might be more appropriate. There’d be less chance of the press learning that the President was giving preferential treatment to an ambitious foreign aristocrat taking advantage of the economy here.”

“Their reaction …?” asked a bewildered Bajaratt.

“The Chief of Staff instantly and enthusiastically approved. He hates accommodating senators and congressmen, but the President equally loathes offending anyone politically. Also, you’ll have a far better chance to escape—escape and fight again—if you strike at eight o’clock. The White House guard details change then, which means there’s a degree of relaxation at their posts as up-to-the-minute records and instructions are given to the relief contingents. You will be aided by three men, one in a chauffeur’s uniform, who will guide you, under the pretense of protecting you from the press, through backstairs corridors that lead to another limousine. Ours. They will use a name to identify themselves.
Ashkelon
. I trust you approve.”

“I don’t understand,” said Bajaratt. “Why would you do this? You just led me to believe that you disapproved—”

“Of your
other
intentions,” the Arab woman interrupted sharply. “However, for your life, we have something to ask of you, demand of you if you wish. You see, we have no objective disagreement, geopolitically or specifically, with the assassination of the American President; he’s ruled by polls, not principle, and therefore expendable. The people sense it; he arouses no passion. Oh, there’ll be outrage and endless investigations,
but it will all dwindle. The Vice President is extremely popular. And although we think it’s melodramatic, we can even accept the killings in England and France if you insist. They are sophisticated governments—European governments—who don’t make idols of their political leaders. Instead, they face harsh realities and negotiate. Frankly, with the chaos of an American power vacuum, we can further escalate our influence here, but more to the point, a message will be sent to this President’s successors and their Cabinets. We may not have the Jewish vote or its money, but we have something else, something worthy of the celebrated Mossad. We are not a myth or a fantasy of the lunatic fringe. We are real. As you said only minutes ago, we have men and women who will die to cut off the head of a snake. That’s visceral, my child, and as you have proved with your brilliant strategy, they’ll never know where we’re coming from or when, and in the back corridors of power they’ll think twice before constantly kissing the Israeli boot. Then in a word, America, too, will become sophisticated.”