The Scorpio Illusion (70 page)

The general got up slowly, his left hand propelling the weight of his body from the arm of the leather chair and, reaching down for his drink, he walked over to the bar. He placed the glass down on the black marble surface and turned his wrist to check the time. Seven minutes had passed since Johnny had left; he picked up the phone and pressed the numbers clearly written on the notepad by his aide.

“This is Palisser,” said the secretary of state on the line.

“Bruce, forgive me,” apologized Meyers firmly. “The sergeant’s a worthy adjutant, but his handwriting’s lousy. I called three other numbers until I deciphered this one. I sent him out before I started, of course, and we’re phone secure.”

“I was about to call you back, Michael. Something terrible has happened—terrible and grotesque, but may very well be tied in with the Bajaratt woman.”

“My God, what is it?”

“You were at the Ingersols’ tonight, is that right?”

“Yes, my office agreed that I should show up. David was a friend to the Pentagon; we frequently called on him for pro bono advice in our dealings with the defense contractors.”

“That may have been misguided, but you’d have no way of knowing it.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“You’ve kept up with the Little Girl Blood progress reports, haven’t you?”

“Naturally.”

“Then you’re aware of the fact that it’s been determined she has an organization behind her—loose or
tight, we have no idea—but there are influential people working on her behalf.”

“It’s a given,” said the general, smiling grimly for the benefit of no one but himself. “She couldn’t have eluded all the dragnets if she didn’t.”

“A new development came today. It hasn’t been sufficiently documented to be circulated, but it’s legitimate. Tonight proves it.”

“Proves what?”

“Ingersol was part of the Bajaratt group.”

“David
?” exclaimed Meyers in mock astonishment. “That’s the last thing on earth I ever expected to hear.”

“There’s more. So was his father, the former justice of the Court.”

“That’s very hard to believe. Who’s advanced this?”

“Commander Hawthorne put it together.”

“Who
?… Oh, the retired N.I. deep cover recruited by the Brits, I remember now.”

“He’s lucky to be alive. He was at the Ingersols’ too.”

“Alive …?” Startled, Meyers quickly recovered. “What happened?”

“He was out in the garden, behind the pool, talking to the old man and learning a number of shocking details about both father and son. Apparently, they were followed, and someone shot Richard Ingersol in the head, killing him instantly. Before Hawthorne could adjust, that same someone assaulted him, rendering him unconscious and leaving the murder weapon in his hand.”

“This is incredible!” said the general in a harsh monotone.

“Incidentally, a CIA salvage unit was sent out to remove the body, taking it through the adjacent woods. Mrs. Ingersol and her son were told that the old man was tired of the whole affair and was driven to a hotel.”

“Did they buy it?”

“The son did. He said if he had known, he would have joined his grandfather. Since this is tied to Little
Girl Blood, we’ve got to keep it quiet and figure out what to say later.”

“I agree, but Jesus, Bruce, I didn’t hear any gunfire and I’d recognize it a half mile away!”

“You wouldn’t have. The commander has the weapon, it’s a .357 Magnum with a silencer. He regained consciousness before anything was discovered—thorns from a rosebush awakening him, he says—and got out of there.… Here, let me put him on the phone, he wants to talk to you.”

Before the startled chairman of the Joint Chiefs could assimilate the news, Hawthorne was on the line.

“General Meyers?”

“Yes …?”

“By the way, sir, I’m an enormous admirer of yours.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ve got to talk right away, sir, and not on the phone. We’ve got to go over everything you and I witnessed tonight, every person you saw or spoke to, because I didn’t know anybody. I know only this, General. Someone who was there is working for Bajaratt!”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“I can come to your place.”

“I’ll be waiting, Commander.” General Michael Meyers hung up the phone, briefly staring at the stump of flesh that protruded from his shoulder. He had not come this far to be stopped by a turncoat sailor.

31

The shirt-sleeved Colonel Daniel Abrams of the antiterrorist unit assigned to the Bajaratt enterprise sat at the head of the conference table. On his right was a woman in her late thirties with sharp features, her skin tanned by the Israeli sun, her dark hair swept back and woven into a bun at the nape of her neck. On his left was a boyish-looking man with thinning blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a reconstructed nose that had been smashed during his capture by the Hezbollah Party of God in south Lebanon. They were, respectively, a major and a captain in the Mossad, both experienced in undercover operations.

“Our man Yakov was outflanked by Bajaratt,” said the colonel. “He found her in the El Al terminal at Dulles Airport, but she reversed the trap. She nearly created a riot by screaming that he was a disguised Palestinian terrorist and got away. Yakov was damned near killed by enraged travelers, mostly American, until our people listened to him and pulled out his papers.”

“He never should have approached her alone,” said the woman major. “She couldn’t help but recognize him; he had cultivated her in the Bar-Shoen kibbutz. She had an immediate advantage.”

“Or it could have been the other way around,” suggested the young captain. “Yakov never knew she was Bajaratt when she was at the kibbutz. We established that later, after Ashkelon, from our agents in the Baaka.
He was simply suspicious; he speculated that she might be someone, or something, else.”

“She certainly turned out to be,” said Abrams. “Why did Yakov let her go?”

“He didn’t. He took her out a few times, very unofficial, very low key, to see if he could learn more about her. She must have had her own ideas, and learned more about him than he did about her. One morning she didn’t show up for the kibbutz breakfast; she’d disappeared.”

“Then it was stupid of him to be in the vicinity by himself, much less confront her alone.”

“Look, Major,” said the captain, “would you rather have had a circle of agents closing in on her, no doubt resulting in indiscriminate gunfire, perhaps killing a number of people, mostly Americans? We decided to send him and let him act alone because he might recognize her despite her well-known talents for disguise. In addition, Yakov changed his own appearance; his black hair was made blonder than mine, what’s left of it, and his eyebrows were bleached, shaped far differently from their natural curve. It wasn’t perfect, only surgery could do that, but it was sufficient for even short distances.”

“Men glance at a face, then study the body. Women appraise a body, then study the face.”

“Please,” interrupted Colonel Abrams, “let’s not descend into sexist psychospeculation.”

“It’s proven, sir,” insisted the major.

“I’m sure it is, but something else came out of this misadventure and we must determine how to use it.… We broke the Palestinian we had in custody, the singer of songs that so entertained our ever-alert officers, the idiots. A guard reported an attempted bribe to free him, so we moved our prisoner to the Negev and sent the guard to another outfit.”

“I thought Bajaratt’s Ashkelons had sworn to be tortured to death before revealing anything,” said the female officer scornfully. “So much for Arab courage.”

“That’s a stupid remark, Major,” rebuked the colo
nel. “In all likelihood, no amount of torture—which we do not employ in the accepted sense—would have produced a thing. When will we learn that these people are as committed as we are? Only when we accept that will there be peace. We used chemicals.”

“I stand corrected, Colonel Abrams. What did we learn?”

“We walked him through Bajaratt’s various phone calls from the United States, probing each for a word, a name, a phrase—anything that might lead to something. About two hours ago we found it.” The Mossad officer took a notebook from his shirt pocket and opened it. “Here are the words. ‘—an American senator … strategy successful … he’s come through for us … name is Nesbitt.’ ”

“Who?”

“A senator from the state of Michigan named Nesbitt. He’s the key. We’ll forward it to Washington, of course, but not by the usual channels. To be frank, I don’t trust the traffic; too many things have gone wrong.”

“We would have caught her by now,” agreed the boyish-looking Mossad officer. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Arrogance doesn’t become us, Captain. We’re not there, and she’s an accomplished adversary. She’s also as dedicated as anyone I’ve ever studied. It all goes back to her childhood, and perhaps that’s the only way her fanaticism can be explained.”

“The channel you wish to use, sir?” The female major was impatient.

“You two,” replied the colonel. “We’re flying you over tonight; you’ll be there in the morning, Washington time. You’re to go directly to Secretary of State Palisser, no one else—you’ll be cleared for an immediate audience.”

“Why
him
?” the captain half protested. “I’d think you’d choose an intelligence branch or the Secret Service.”

“I know Palisser. I trust him. I don’t really think I
know anybody else I
can
trust. That sounds paranoid, I guess.”

“Yes, it does, sir,” said the major.

“So be it,” said the colonel.

Bajaratt stood by the airport hotel’s thick window that muted the sounds of the arriving and departing jets. The early sun was breaking through the mists, announcing the most important day of her life. The exhilaration she felt was not unlike the excitement she had experienced spreading through her so many years before when she led a Spanish soldier into the forest, a long-bladed knife strapped to her thigh under her dress. The similarity was there, for the brutish army pig was her first kill and filled her with purpose, but today was far beyond that child’s raw emotions. Today was the triumph of the woman, a thinking adult who had outthought the Praetorian guard of the most powerful nation on earth. She would go down in history, for she would
change
history, her life at last justified.
Muerte a toda autoridad
!

The child that was smiled up at her, at the giant who was the woman, and in that smile was love and gratitude, vengeance for all that had been done to both of them.
We walk together, my young self, into the bloodred glory of revenge. Be not afraid, my child who was me. You weren’t afraid then, be not afraid now. Death is a peaceful sleep, and perhaps the cruelest thing for us would be to survive. But if we do, you angry youngster, keep the fire in your eyes, the fury in your breast
.

“Signora!” exclaimed Nicolo from the bed. “What time is it?”

“Too early for you to be awake,” replied the Baj. “Your Angel hasn’t even boarded her plane in California.”

“At least it’s morning,” said the dock boy, yawning audibly and stretching. “I kept waking up, hoping to see sunlight.”

“Call room service for one of your gargantuan breakfasts, and when you’re finished I have a chore for you. I want you to dress and take a taxi to the Carillon. Pick up the rest of our luggage, along with a package addressed to me at the concierge’s desk, and bring everything here.”

“Good, it will pass the time.… Can I order something for you?”

“Just coffee, Nico. After a cup. I’m going for a walk, a very long walk in the very bright sun that is climbing gloriously in the sky.”

“Is that poetry, signora?”

“If it is, it’s not very good, but for me it’s superb. The day is superb.”

“Why do you stare out the window and speak so quietly?”

The Baj turned and looked down at the dock boy from Portici on the bed. “Because the end is near, Nicolo, the end of a long and very difficult journey.”

“Oh, that’s right, you said that after tonight I was free to do what I wished. To go back to Napoli and all the money you have left for me, and even to the great family in Ravello you say would welcome me as their own.”