The Scorpio Illusion (77 page)

H
aving instructed Poole to stay by the phone at the Shenandoah Lodge, basically for news about Catherine Neilsen, Hawthorne drove down the tree-lined suburban street, swinging into the curb in front of the house of Captain Henry Stevens, murdered head of naval intelligence. In the driveway was a gray Navy Department vehicle, a security patrol car. An armed and uniformed chief petty officer admitted Tyrell; the man nodded toward the living room, where a woman dressed in black stood looking out a window at the far end.

The meeting between Phyllis and Tye was at first the awkward reunion of two former friends grown apart by the distance born of a deep personal loss, now seeing each other again under circumstances that painfully, inevitably, recalled the earlier tragedy in Amsterdam. More was said in silence, and in their eyes, until Hawthorne approached her and she rushed into his arms, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “It’s all so rotten, so goddamned
rotten
!” she cried.

“I know, Phyll, I know.”

“Of course you do!”

They held each other, the unspoken words understood, two decent people who had lost a part of their lives, the folly of those deaths essentially incomprehensible. The long moment passed and Hawthorne slowly released Henry Stevens’s wife.

“May I get you something, Tye? Tea, coffee, a drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Hawthorne, “but a rain check’s accepted.”

“Then it’s offered. Sit down, please. I’m sure you didn’t come out here simply to be kind; you’re far too busy for that.”

“How much do you know, Phyll?”

“I’m an intelligence officer’s wife, not necessarily a highly intelligent one, but I’ve pieced together perhaps more than Henry suspected. My
God
, that man went nearly four days without sleep … and he was worried sick about
you
, Tye. You must be exhausted.”

“You know we’re hunting someone, then?”

“Obviously. Someone extremely dangerous, with equally dangerous people behind her—”

“Her
? You know it’s a woman?”

“Hank told me that much, a female terrorist from the Baaka Valley. If he hadn’t been so tired, I doubt he would have.”

“Phyllis,” said Hawthorne, leaning forward in a chair next to the widow, looking hard at his old friend from the embassy in Amsterdam. “I’ve got to ask you some questions about the days before Hank was killed. I know it’s not the time, but we don’t have any other—”

“I understand. I’ve been around this scene for years, remember?”

“You’re alone here?”

“Not now. My sister flew down from Connecticut to be with me; she’s out now.”

“I mean you and Hank lived here alone—”

“Oh, yes, with all the usual trappings. Armed navy vehicles cruising around the clock, limousines to pick him up and bring him back from the office, and an alarm system that would frighten rocket scientists. We were secure, if that’s your question.”

“Forgive me, but obviously you weren’t. Someone came in and killed Henry while he was on the phone with me.”

“I didn’t know it was you, but I discussed that with
both the navy and the police; the regular kitchen phone was off the hook. But in one area you’re right—obviously. We have the usual deliveries and repairmen; you can’t stop them all, we’d be stigmatized, and probably couldn’t order a pizza. Hank generally called the patrols when we expected guests, but over the months he frequently forgot; it was so unnatural here, not like Amsterdam. He called it paranoid.”

“In other words, a guy in overalls with a toolbox, or a man in a business suit carrying a briefcase, or a military in uniform might not be challenged,” said Tyrell, not asking a question.

“Probably not,” agreed the widow, “but to anticipate you, both the navy and the police have this information, the patrol on duty at the time was interrogated at length. The two S.P.’s said that except for a newspaper boy, no one came near the house.”

“And they were parked outside the whole time?”

“Not actually, not like the security outside now, but I’d have to say it’s not terribly relevant. As I mentioned, they cruised. Hank insisted on that for both practical purposes and neighborly relations.”

“Cruised …?”

“Around the block, a distance that takes less than a minute and ten seconds to drive.”

“And Hank’s ‘practical purpose’ was just that,” said Hawthorne, nodding. “A stationary patrol, marked or not, is a target.”

“Unmarked,” Phyllis interrupted. “And our neighbors would certainly not appreciate a series of unfamiliar cars parked in front of the house for long periods of time. It’s not the turf for it, although it might spice up the street. If I weren’t so old, they might think I was running my own cat house.”

“You’re not old, Phyll, you’re a very beautiful woman.”

“Ah, the charmer returns. I missed that when you left the embassy.”

“So anybody who had access to the security routine here could be Henry’s killer. A minute and ten seconds is an hour and ten minutes in tactical, nonchronological time.”

“You mean someone in the navy?”

“Or high enough in the military to have access.”

“Please be clearer,” said Phyllis sternly.

“I can’t, not now.”

“He was my husband!”

“Then I’ll tell you what your husband would have told you, and I’ll be as honest as I can. There are things I can’t log you into yet.”

“That’s pure shit, Tyrell! I have a
right
to know! Twenty-seven years’ worth of privilege, sir!”

“Come on, Phyll.” Hawthorne grabbed Phyllis’s hands, holding them in his grip. “I’m doing exactly what Henry would do if he were me right now. Contrary to what I often told him, he was a terrific analyst—maybe not the best in the field, that wasn’t his bag—but in the foreseeables department there weren’t many in his league. I respected him for that … even more for having you as his wife.”

“Oh, stop it, you snake-oil salesman,” said Phyllis Stevens, smiling briefly, sadly, as she squeezed his hands and withdrew hers. “Get on with your questions.”

“It really comes down to three. When and how often and to whom did he mention my name?”

“When you were shot at that beach resort in Maryland—he went out of his mind, thinking he was responsible again—”

“Again?”

“Later, I beg you, Tye,” said the widow softly.

“Ingrid
?”

“It’s complicated. Later, please.”

“All right.” Hawthorne swallowed, his face flushed with the rush of blood to his head. “Go on.”

“He said your name, maybe three or four times, de
manding that you be given the finest treatment available, and that he’d hang whoever gave you less.”

“To whom, Phyll?”

“Hell,
I
don’t know. Someone who was tight with whatever you’re doing. Hank told him he wanted a full report circulated—no room for error.”

“Which means the entire Little Girl Blood circle got it, including the heavyweight.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Forget it—”

“I wish you’d stop saying that. In Amsterdam, whenever people who cared about you and saw you come back with an arm in a sling or a swollen face and asked you what happened, all you ever said was
‘forget
it.’ ”

“I’m sorry, really I am.” Tyrell frowned, slowly shaking his head.

“Is there anything else, old friend?” asked the widow.

“I can’t think of anything. I’ve got a pattern. As Henry always said, ‘There’s got to be a pattern, that’s what you look for,’ when I usually looked for the small pieces.”

“But when you found them, that’s when Hank put together the patterns. He never stopped giving you credit for that, if not to your face.”

“Never to my face.… Okay, at least we’ve got another clamp in the trap for a pathological general, unless there’s anything,
anything
, no matter how seemingly inconsequential that you haven’t told me, Phyll.”

“I suppose there are the calls from London—”

“London
?”

“They started about seven or eight o’clock this morning, my sister took them, I refused.”

“Why?”

“Because, old friend, I’ve had it! Henry gave his life for this rotten,
rotten
business, and I don’t want calls from London, or Paris, or stations in Istanbul, or Kurdistan, or Mediterranean fleet intelligence. For God’s sake, the man is dead! Leave him—and me—in peace!”

“Phyll, those people don’t
know
he’s dead!”

“So what? I told my sister to tell them to call the Navy Department. Let those bastards make up the lies,
I
can’t do it any longer.”

“Where’s the phone?”

“Henry never allowed one in the living room. It’s on the sun porch—
they’re
on the sun porch—three of them in different colors.”

Hawthorne got to his feet and raced through the open French doors to the glass-enclosed sun porch. On a table in the left corner were three phones: beige, red, and dark blue, all partially concealed by a louvered panel that had been spread halfway open. He picked up the red telephone, pressed the
O
button, and spoke to an operator. “This is Commander Hawthorne, acting attaché for Captain Henry Stevens. Connect me to the senior officer on the N.I. watch.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Captain Ogilvie, red line,” said the voice at naval intelligence headquarters. “Your name’s Hawthorne? I’m entering it.”

“The same, Captain, and I have to ask you a question.”

“On this line I’ll answer whatever I can.”

“Have there been any messages from London to Captain Stevens’s office?”

“None that I’m aware of, Commander.”

“I don’t want an ‘aware of,’ Captain, I need—repeat
need
—a confirmation one way or another.”

“Hold on.” There was silence for roughly ten seconds, then Ogilvie returned. “Nothing from London, Commander. No messages at all.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Tyrell hung up the phone and walked back into the living room. “There was nothing from London for Henry at his office,” said Hawthorne.

“That’s crazy,” said Phyllis, her head snapped up at Tyrell. “They must have called a half-dozen times.”

“I wonder if it’s back channel,” said Hawthorne. “Do you know which phone the calls came in on?”

“No. I told you, my sister answered. All she said to me was that each time it sounded like the same very official, very agitated Englishman. And each time she told him to call the Department of the Navy.”

“But he never did,” said Hawthorne. “He kept calling
here
. Why?… What else did your sister say?”

“Not much, I wasn’t really listening.”

“Where is she?”

“Down at the supermarket, getting some things. She’ll be back any minute; actually, when you arrived I thought it was she.” There was a short burst of a horn from outside. “There she is. The chief will go and help with the packages.”

The introductions were brief and rapid, the urgency apparent to the sister. The chief petty officer carried her grocery bags as she was escorted into the living room by Tyrell.

“Mrs. Talbot,” he began.

“Joan’s fine; Phyll’s told me a lot about you. Good Lord, what’s happened?”

“That’s what we have to find out from you.… The calls from London, who were they from?”

“They were simply dreadful, I never felt so uncomfortable in my life!” cried Joan Talbot, the words rushing out. “That horrible man kept asking for Henry, saying it was urgent, and how could he reach him immediately. And
I
had to say we were trying to locate him, and had his office checked with the Navy Department, and he kept telling me the navy said he was unavailable—unavailable, my God, the man’s
dead
and the navy won’t admit it and I can’t say it! It’s all sickening.”

“There are good reasons, Joan, very good reasons—”

“For putting my sister through this
hell
? Why do you think she doesn’t want to, and I won’t let her, answer the phone? Either I do or the ‘admiral’ in the hallway
does. Let me tell you. All this time people have been calling for Henry, and she had to say, ‘Oh, he’s in the shower,’ or ‘Oh, he’s playing golf,’ or ‘Oh, he’s in a meeting somewhere’… as if she expected him to walk through the door and ask what’s for dinner! What kind of ghouls
are
you people?”

“Joannie, stop it,” said Henry Stevens’s wife. “Tye is simply doing his job, a distasteful job he has to do. Now, answer his question. Who were the calls from?”

“It was like mumbo-jumbo talk, made worse by that bastard’s ‘veddy Eenglish’ accent, damn near sinister, in fact.”

“Who was he, Joan?”

“He didn’t give a name, just M something or other, and Special something.”

“MI-6?” asked Hawthorne. “Special
Branch
?”

“Yes, that sounds right.”

“Christ,
why
?” whispered Tyrell, as if to himself, his mouth stretched, his eyes wandering, seeing nothing but clouds of confusion. “It’s got to be deep back channel.”

“More mumbo jumbo?” said the sister from Connecticut.

“It may be,” admitted Hawthorne. “Only you can tell me. Which phone did the calls come in on?”

“The blue one, always the blue one.”

“That’s it, the ‘blue boy.’ Direct, dedicated lines constantly swept for intercepts.”

“I’m beginning to understand,” added Phyllis. “Whenever Hank wanted to talk to someone in his position in Europe or the Middle East, he always used that phone.”

“Makes sense. It’s a global network designed for the head honchos of allied intelligence and their counterparts in the military. You can’t get any more internationally secure than with a blue boy, except you have to have a number to call, and I don’t have one. I’ll reach Palisser, he’ll get it for me.”

“You mean the number in London?” asked Joan Talbot. “If you do, it’s on a pad next to the phone.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Only after he repeated twice that it would be … ‘altered in the morning, madam,’ each word pronounced as though he were giving a satanic benediction.”

“It may not have to be.” Hawthorne walked rapidly back into the sun porch, found the pad, and started dialing the fourteen numbers for London. As he did so, he felt a sharp pain in his chest, sharp but hollow, a warning he had experienced too often to count, a warning that had nothing to do with his physical health, instead a state of mind born of instinct. In questioning Phyllis he had hoped to find a gap, a word, a scrap that led to a linkage between himself and the killing of Henry Stevens. He knew he had found it with Henry’s having demanded a full circulated report on his condition after Chesapeake Beach, a report demanded as a threat to ensure his proper care, but one that inevitably reached every member of the Little Girl Blood circle, including a Scorpio named Meyers, Maximum Mike Meyers, scourge of civilian thought, who could easily access the routine of a military patrol car guarding Stevens’s house. That information was the linkage he had been looking for, but the deep back-channel calls from MI-6, London, outflanking naval intelligence to Stevens’s home blue line, was a totally unexpected occurrence, a tactic that engendered panic, thus accounting for the sharp pain in Tyrell’s chest.
Axiom:
Beware the outrageously unexpected when it comes from user-friendly territory. Something was off-the-charts, as Poole might say.