The Scorpio Illusion (68 page)

“Then make them without me,
Aunt
Cabrini.”

“You cannot—you
must
not!”

“You don’t own me, signora. You tell me you have a great cause and people die because you say they will stop this great cause of yours … although I cannot see how an island servant and a driver can be so important—”

“They would have betrayed me,
killed
me!”

“So you have told me, but you tell me nothing else. You give me too many orders that I do not understand. If this great cause of yours is so good and so virtuous, so cherished by the Church, why must we pretend to be people we are not?… No, I think perhaps I will not touch the lire in Napoli, and you will not give me orders any longer, or tell me I cannot see Angelina. I am strong and I am not stupid. I will find work—perhaps Papa Capelli will help after I tell him the truth, and I
will
tell him the truth.”

“He’ll throw you out of his house!”

“I will have a priest accompany me, with the blessings and absolution of my confession. He will know I’m sincere, that I am truly repentant for my sins of falsehood … however, I will not speak of the man who tried to kill me. He has paid his debt, and I will not be punished for what I had to do.”

“You would speak of
me
?”

“I will tell them that you are not the countess, but a wealthy woman of high birth who enjoys the games among the rich that we on the docks know are very fashionable. How many times have we prepared yachts in Portici and Napoli for the grand signores and signoras, who in truth are pimps and whores from Rome?”

“You cannot do that, Nicolo!”

“I will not speak of the bad things—I know nothing of them, and you deserve my silence for bringing Angelina Capelli into this poor young man’s life.”

“Nico, listen to me. Only
one
more day and you are rich and free!”

“What are you saying …?”

“Tomorrow—only tomorrow. In the evening, just the
evening, for a short while! That’s all I ask of you, and I shall be gone—”

“Gone …?”

“Yes, my adorable boy, and then the money in Napoli is yours, a great family in Ravello ready to accept you as their own—it’s all for
you
, Nicolo! The dream of a thousand children on the piers; don’t throw it away!”

“Tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, yes, barely an hour of your time.… And certainly you may meet Angel in the afternoon—I was preoccupied and not listening. I myself will go with you to the airport. It’s settled, then?”

“No more lies or fast stories, Signora Cabrini. Remember, I am a dock boy from the streets. I think I hear the truth quicker than you do. It is much less complicated.”

Hawthorne hung up the phone in Ingersol’s study and looked around. He walked inside the private bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There were various medications, including Valium tablets, antacid pills, two styptic pencils, shaving cream, a bottle of shaving lotion, a small can of Band-Aids, and a roll of adhesive tape. On the counter was a marbled box containing facial tissues. He pulled out five or six layers, angled his head into the mirror, pressed the gash in his skull together, and placed the tissues over the wound. Frantically manipulating his fingers, he tore off strips of tape and stretched them over the tissues, locking his hair and the wound together as best he could. He went back into the study, found a Burberry checkered hat in the dead attorney’s closet, and clamped it on his head. The rough dressing would absorb the blood until he reached Langley—he sincerely hoped.

He walked out into the hallway, suddenly wondering if he could find a way to steal the guest book, so obviously placed and signed by the mourners who were so
eager to be noted. The gatehouse log at Van Nostrand’s had been selectively helpful—and someone in
this
house was a Scorpio. The death of an old man was proof, the unfamiliar weapon in Tyrell’s belt further evidence. However, all thoughts of the theft were voided when he reached the front door.

“Are you leaving, sir?” asked young Todd Ingersol, joining Hawthorne in the foyer.

“I’m afraid I have to,” answered Tyrell, sensing a quiet anger in the boy-man’s voice. “My business was official because I have a job to do, but your family has my sympathies.”

“I think we’ve had enough of them, sir. This place is beginning to look like a dull, half-smashed fraternity party, so I’d like to find my grandfather.”

“Oh?”

“He’s as sick of this crap as I am. After a short sentence about my father, everyone in there is talking about himself. For starters, look at that Cro-Magnon, General Meyers, he’s really holding forth. Dad hated his guts; he just pretended to tolerate him.”

“I’m sorry. This
is
Washington.” Suddenly a burly man with close-cropped hair and wearing a plain blue suit rushed through the front door, passing Hawthorne and Ingersol’s son. He walked rapidly up to Meyers and spoke intently into his ear, almost as though he were giving orders to the general. “Who’s that?” asked Tyrell.

“Maximum Mike’s aide. He’s been trying to get him out of here for the last half hour. I actually saw him grab the general’s arm a little while ago.… Where’s my grandfather? Mr. White said he was talking to you. He can throw these ball-breakers out nicely—I can’t, because I wouldn’t be nice and my mother would be mad as hell.”

“I see.” Hawthorne had studied the young man’s face briefly. “Listen to me, Todd—your name
is
Todd, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This won’t make sense to you right now, but your grandfather loves you very much. I don’t know a great deal about him, but the few minutes I spent with him told me that he’s a very superior man.”

“We all know that—”

“Cling to it, Todd, believe it.… At least as far as you’re concerned.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. I just want you to know that I’m leaving this house with clean hands.”

“Your face, sir. Look at your
face
!”

Tyrell felt the rivulets of blood rolling down his cheeks. He turned and ran out the door.

Hawthorne was halfway toward Langley when he slammed on the brakes, propelling the State Department car into the shoulder of the road. Meyers!
Maximum Mike
Meyers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A “heavyweight” at the Pentagon—O’Ryan’s description—was it possible? The name at first had meant nothing to Tyrell; he was not a follower of military structure, in fact, he avoided most articles pertaining to the services. But the nickname Maximum Mike had stuck in his memory, if for no other reason than he loathed it, loathed everything the sobriquet stood for. And the last name was
Meyers
. The heaviest of the heavyweights!

Tyrell yanked out the dedicated line to Poole and pressed the button.

“Here I am,” replied the lieutenant’s voice instantly.

“What’s the word on Cathy?”

“She moved her left leg, that’s supposed to be a maybe, not conclusive. How about you?”

“Scratch Langley. Call Palisser and tell him I’m on my way to his house. We’ve got a new tornado.”

30

“K
eep going!” Bajaratt ordered as the driver of the limousine swung into an entrance of an airport hotel. “I’d prefer something farther away.”

“They’re all pretty much the same, ma’am,” said the chauffeur.

“Try another, please.” The Baj kept her eyes on the window, on the receding circular drive outside, watching for any sign of a following automobile, a hesitant car, wavering headlights—anything. She could sense her pulse racing as she gripped the package on her lap and felt the perspiration rolling down her neck. The Mossad had found her,
found
her despite every tunnel she had buried! Jerusalem was now in the equation, sending over the one man they knew might identify her more quickly than anyone else, a one-time lover who knew her walk, her body, the small gestures indelibly printed on the memory of an intelligence officer who beds a suspicious target.

How did the Mossad fit in?
How
? What was its connection to Washington’s Little Girl Blood circle?… The newest leader of the Scorpions, would he know? He had as much as admitted that he not only knew but
approved
of her mission.
Remember Dallas thirty years ago? We do
, he had said enthusiastically. He had also mentioned that
he hated the goddamned pansies in Washington who wouldn’t give us the firepower in ’Nam
. It was worth a try; he was worth a try.

“Driver,” Bajaratt called out. “Take us into one of the parking areas, if you please.”

“What, ma’am?”

“I realize it’s inconvenient, but there are several items I’d like to get from my luggage.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“And please make sure there are convenient public telephones.”

“There’s a real convenient one right here.”

“I’d prefer the other—”

“Yeah, folks are doing that more and more, I saw it on television. People can listen in on these cellephone things.”

“Hardly my concern.” But something else was, considered the Baj. An outside parking lot was an enclosed area; cars coming and going were easily spotted. If they were being followed, she’d know it in a matter of moments, and vast shadowed areas at night were familiar places to Amaya Aquirre … Bajaratt. She fondled her purse, feeling the hard steel of her automatic. It was fully loaded.

The only automobile that arrived within minutes of their entry was a brightly painted Jeep, the driver and her passengers boisterous young people. The exit was several hundred meters across the lot, beyond the rows of parked cars. They were safe; there was no surveillance. There was, however, a telephone booth.

“It is I,” said the Baj. “May we speak?”

“I’m in my Pentagon chariot, give me ten seconds to put us on scrambler and I’ll be back on the line.” Eight seconds later, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs returned. “You’re anxious, lady. I gave the blueprint to a G-2 specialist on my payroll who knew all about it; he’s worked the Middle East. It’ll be delivered tomorrow morning, no later than seven
A.M.
”

“You’re very professional, Scorpio One, but that’s not what I called about. May we talk freely, or are you monitored?”

“You could spell out the nuclear codes and no one could intercept.”

“But you’re in an automobile—”

“A very special vehicle. I just came from paying my respects to a yellowbelly you did me the courtesy of getting rid of. The son of a bitch would have blown the whistle on all of us.”

“Perhaps he did.”

“No way, lady, I’d know about it.”

“Yes, you said you were privileged—”

“All the way to the max,” Meyers cut in, “which is kind of funny, considering my nickname.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, just a little inside humor.”

“What I must ask you is not remotely humorous. The Mossad has shown up. What do you know about it?”

“Over
here
?”

“Precisely.”

“I’ll be goddamned. It’s not in any of our circulations and I’d pick it up if it were. I have a couple of special friends over there, the right ones, not the lefties.”

“That hardly gives me confidence.”

“I separate and distinguish, lady. Mine comes first, everybody else gets in line.”

“Including me?”

“You’re the top of my priorities right now. You’re going to bring us back to where we should be, so there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I can smell the fires, hear the shouting of the scared-shitless mobs, see the columns as we continue the march. We’ll be in charge again.”

“Muerte a toda autoridad.
”

“What did you say?”

“It matters not to you. Only to me.”

Bajaratt hung up the parking lot phone, frowning in thought. The man was a zealot; she liked that, if it was true and not a charade. Was he genuine, or was he an accomplished plant inserted by the same inner circle he disavowed? She would know in the morning when she disassembled the Allah’s Boot, verifying its structure and
components as only a skilled activist knew how to do. A technician could build an authentic-looking facsimile, but there were three contact points that could not be duplicated without lethal consequences. Friend or enemy, it didn’t really matter. She had told him nothing.