“That’s good. Because I’m going to leave you a half mile offshore. You can handle the rest.”
“With the sharks?”
“There hasn’t been a shark in these waters for over twenty years. The coral odors repel them.”
* * *
The Sicilian killer was lying, Hawthorne knew it. Whoever was behind the attempt on his life had bought the whole marina and closed it down. The Baaka Valley couldn’t do that, Mafia or no Mafia. There was someone else who knew the islands and which buttons to press. Whoever that was was protecting the psychopath Bajaratt. Hawthorne, having stolen a pair of soiled coveralls, watched from the outside corner of the machine shop as the exhausted capo stumbled out of the mild surf onto the beach, so spent he lay prone on the sand, his body heaving, catching his breath. He had discarded his jacket and his shoes, but his bulging right trouser pocket indicated that he had put whatever possessions he felt necessary into it. Tyrell counted on him having them; a carrier pigeon without a capsule was a useless bird.
Two minutes passed and the mafioso raised his head in the glare of the floodlights. He awkwardly, painfully, got to his feet, looking swiftly to his right and his left, obviously trying to orient himself. The capo’s head stopped swiveling, his eyes centered on the machine shop. That was the place where he and his dead colleague had initiated their operation; there was no other. The switch for the floodlights was there, the money passed inside. And there was a telephone on a counter.… At this point, thought Hawthorne, remembering a dozen such entrapments in Amsterdam, Brussels, and Munich, the mark was a programmed robot. He had to follow his instincts to survive. He did.
Breathless, the mafioso ran down the beach to the steps to the shop. Gripping the rail, he climbed them, every now and then grabbing his shoulder and grimacing at his minor wound. Tyrell smiled; his own shoulder had been cleansed by the sea and only trickled. Band-Aids would take care of them both, but psychologically the capo was singing melodramatic opera.
The killer reached the machine shop, kicked open the door with unnecessary force, and burst inside. Seconds later the floodlights were extinguished and a lamp was turned on. Hawthorne crept to the open door and listened as the mafioso argued with a Caribbean operator over the telephone.
“Sì! Yes, yes, it is a Miami numero—number!” The capo repeated the digits and Hawthorne printed them indelibly in his memory—my God, the games! “Emergènza!” yelled the mafioso, having reached Miami. “Cerca il padrone via satellite! Presto!” Moments passed before the panicked man, now holding his groin, spoke again, screamed again. “Padrone, esso incredible! Scozzi è morto! Un diavolo da inferno …!”
Tyrell could not understand all the frenzied Italian shouted by the capo into the phone, but he had picked up enough. He had a number in Miami, and the existence of someone called padrone, who was reached by an access-satellite relay—someone here in the islands who was aiding and abetting the terrorist Bajaratt.
“Ho capito! Nuova York. Va bene!”
Those last words, too, were not difficult to understand, thought Hawthorne as the mafioso hung up the phone and started anxiously toward the door. The capo was being ordered to New York, where he could disappear until summoned. Tyrell picked up one of the discarded rust-encrusted anchors that lay on the machine shop’s platform, and as the killer walked through the door, he swung the heavy dual-pronged object into the mafioso’s lower legs, fracturing both knees.
The capo screamed, collapsing to the wooden-planked floor, unconscious.
“Ciao,” said Hawthorne, bending over the body and plunging his hand into the right trouser pocket, pulling out everything inside. He studied the objects, disgusted with the owner. There was a thick black prayer book written in Italian, rosary beads, and a money clip with nine hundred French francs—approximately a hundred and eighty dollars. There was no billfold or wallet, no other papers—Omertà.
Tyrell took the money, rose to his feet, and raced away. Somewhere, somehow, he had to find a plane and a pilot.
The frail figure in the wheelchair rolled himself out of his study into his marbled aviary, where Bajaratt waited.
“Baj, you must leave immediately,” he said firmly. “Now. The plane will be here within the hour, and Miami is sending two men to attend me.”
“Padrone, you’re crazy! I’ve made the contacts—your contacts—they’re flying here to see me during the next three days. You’ve confirmed the Baaka deposits in St. Barts; there will be no paper trail.”
“There is a far worse trail, my only daughter. Scozzi is dead, killed by your Hawthorne. Maggio is in hysterics on Saba, claiming your lover is a man from hell!”
“He is only a man,” said Bajaratt coldly. “Why didn’t they kill him?”
“I wish I knew, but you must leave. Immediately!”
“Padrone, how can you possibly think that Hawthorne could ever connect you with me, or even more impossibly think that Dominique Montaigne has any connection with Bajaratt? My God, we made love this afternoon and he believes I’m on my way back to Paris! He loves me, the fool!”
“Is he more clever than we believe?”
“Absolutely not! He’s a wounded animal, ripe for succoring, therefore a perfect tunnel.”
“How about you, my only daughter? Four years ago, I remember well your filling these halls with songs of delight. How you obviously cared for that man.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I was within an instant of killing him only hours ago, when I realized that the front desk knew I was in his room.… You approved of my decision, padrone, even praised my caution. What can I say?”
“You don’t say, Baj. I say. We’ll fly you to St. Barts; you get your money in the morning and then you’ll be taken to Miami or wherever you choose to go.”
“What about my contacts? They expect to find me here.”
“I’ll take care of them. I’ll give you a telephone number. Until you’re reached by a higher authority, they’ll do your bidding.… You are still my only daughter, Annie.”
“Padrone, the telephone! I know exactly what to do.”
“I trust you’ll inform me first.”
“We both have friends in Paris?”
“Naturalmente.”
“Molto bene!”
Hawthorne desperately needed to find a plane and a pilot, but they were not the first priorities. There was another: an unmitigated rat named Captain Henry Stevens, United States Naval Intelligence. The specter of Amsterdam suddenly rose like a fiery bird from the black ashes of a shattered dream. St. Barts and the disappearance of Dominique felt too similar to the horrible events that had led to the death of his wife. Nothing made sense! If Stevens was even remotely involved, Tye had to know! After giving a hundred French francs and spelling out his name and resumed rank to the sole uninterested radio operator in the control tower, which was neither a tower nor had much control over anything except for the strip lights, he had the use of Saba airfield’s telephone. He had committed the Miami number to memory; Washington’s was reflex.
“Department of the Navy,” said the voice fifteen hundred miles north.
“Division One, Intelligence, please. Security code four-zero.”
“An emergency, sir?”
“You’ve got it, sailor.”
“I-One,” said a second voice moments later. “Did I understand that this is a four-zero?”
“You did.”
“Of what nature?”
“That can be relayed by me only to Captain Stevens. Track him down. Now.”
“They’re working overtime upstairs. Who’s this?”
“Amsterdam will get you through. He’d want you to hurry.”
“We’ll see.” The aloof intelligence officer obviously saw within seconds, as Stevens’s voice came forcefully on the line.
“Hawthorne?”
“I thought you’d catch the connection, you son of a bitch.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You know damned well what it means! You
r robots found me, and because your little egos couldn’t handle MI-6 recruiting me, you took her to find out what you could, because you knew I wouldn’t tell you a goddamned thing! I’m going to put your ass in a military court-martial, Henry.”
“Whoa, back up. I don’t have a clue as to where you’re coming from or who the her is! I spent two lousy hours with the DCI yesterday, getting this ass reamed out because you wouldn’t even talk to me, and now you’re sounding off about our ‘finding’ you—wherever the hell you are—and kidnapping a woman we never heard of. Get off it!”
“You’re a fucking liar! You lied in Amsterdam.”
“I had my evidence, you saw it.”
“You built it!”
“I didn’t build anything, Hawthorne, it was built for me.”
“This is Ingrid all over again!”
“Bullshit! And I repeat, we have no one in the islands who knows anything about you or any woman!”
“Really, Captain? A couple of your clowns phoned me down here and tried to sell me a tale of D.C. panic. They knew where I was; the rest would be easy, even for them.”
“Then they know something I don’t! And since I’m meeting with all of my so-called clowns this morning, maybe they’ll tell me.”
“They must have followed me to St. Barts, seen her with me, and grabbed her when she went out.”
“Tye, for God’s sake, you’ve got it all wrong! Of course I admit we tried like hell to pull you back in—we’d be damn fools if we didn’t. But in point of fact we didn’t succeed, did we? The Brits and the French did, but we didn’t! We have no one down there who knows you from a—what was it you used to say?—oh, yeah, a baked potato.”
“I’m not difficult to find; I even take out ads.”
“And considering the fact that we want your help, the last thing we’d do is to take into custody a friend of yours for questioning. That’s just too dumb.… Tye, are you back on the sauce?”
“A momentary lapse. It’s irrelevant.”
“Maybe it isn’t.”
“It is. I couldn’t sail my charters if I were, and you know that.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“We both do,” said Hawthorne quietly. “She was on her way back to Paris today, then down to Nice. She didn’t want to go.”
“Hell, that’s probably it. She also probably didn’t want any long good-byes.”
“I won’t accept that!”
“Maybe your temporary lapse won’t let you.… Is it possible?”
“You know,” replied Hawthorne reluctantly, the fight suddenly out of him, “she did it before, she just disappeared.”
“I’ll bet my pension she did it again. Call her in Paris tonight; my guess is you’ll find her there.”
“I can’t. I don’t know her husband’s name.”
“No comment, Commander.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I don’t care to try—”
“We go back four … five years.”
“Now I really tune out. That’s when you left us.”
“Yes, I left you. I left because I sensed something, sensed that something was really fouled up in Amsterdam, and it’ll stay with me for the rest of my life.”
“I can’t help you there,” said the head of naval intelligence after several moments of silence.
“I don’t expect you to.” Again there was silence.
“Are you making any progress with MI-6 and the Deuxième?” asked Stevens finally.
“Yes, as of less than an hour ago.”
“I spoke with London and Paris at the suggestion of Gillette at Central Intelligence. I’m sure you’ll want to confirm it, but since I’m closest, I’m to supply you with whatever you need.”
“I don’t have to confirm it. You’d be hanging yourself if you lied in a situation you can’t control, Captain. You’re not prone to doing that.”
“You know, Hawthorne,” said Stevens quietly, “I can put up with your shit only just so far—”
“You’ll put up with whatever I care to dish out, Henry, let’s get that straight! You’re a cog and I’m an independent contract, and don’t you forget it. I give the orders to you, you don’t give them to me, because if you try, I’ll walk away. Understood?”
A third and prolonged silence ensued before the naval intelligence chief spoke. “Do you want to give me a progress report?”
“You’re damn right I do, and I want immediate activity. I’ve got a number in Miami that has an access satellite relay to a phone here in the islands. I need the location as soon as you can get it.”
“Bajaratt?”
“It’s got to be. Here’s the number.” Tyrell recited it, requested confirmation for accuracy, gave him the airstrip number on Saba, and was about to hang up the telephone when Stevens broke in.
“Tyrell!” he said. “Our differences aside—and I mean that—can you give me any background, any fill?”
“No.”
“For Christ’s sake, why not? I’m your official liaison now, cleared, incidentally, by all your governments, and you know what that means—’a cog’ says it very well. I’ll be making heavy demands and people will want explanations.”
“Which means the inner sanctum reports are circulated, right?”
“On a maximum security basis. It’s standard, you know that.”
“Then my answer’s emphatically no. The Baaka Valley could be a ski resort as far as you’re concerned, but not to me. I’ve seen their goddamned tentacles reach out from Lebanon to Bahrain, from Geneva to Marseilles, from Stuttgart to Lockerbie. Your crowd is riddled, Henry, but you just don’t see it.… If you get anything soon, call me here on Saba; if later, reach me at the yacht club in Virgin Gorda.”
During the next hour and a half, three private aircraft flew into the Saba strip but none would consider the disheveled Hawthorne’s pleas of urgency and promises of money to fly him to Gorda. According to the radio operator, a fourth and last plane was due in approximately thirty-five minutes. After its arrival, the strip was shut down for the night.
“Does he make contact before landing?”
“Sure, mon, it’s dark up in the approach. If there’s any wind, I give him direction and velocity.”
“When the pilot checks in, I want to talk to him.”
“Sure, mon, anyt’in’ for the gov’mint.”
Forty-one anxiety-filled minutes later, the tower radio erupted. “Saba, this is incoming flight from Oranjestad, F-O-four-six-five, as scheduled. Are conditions normal?”
“Another ten minutes, mon, and you got no conditions ’cause we got rules. You’re late, F-O-five.”
“Come off it, boy, my people are good customers.”
“Not in that plane, mon. I don’t know you—”
“We’re a new run. I can see your lights. Repeat, is everything normal? There’s been a hell of a lot of dicey weather recently.”
“Normal, mon, except there’s someone here who wants to speak to you, honkie.”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to—”
“This is Commander T. Hawthorne, U.S. Navy,” said Tyrell, grabbing the outdated microphone. “We have an emergency here on Saba and must appropriate your aircraft to fly me to British Virgin Gorda. The flight plan has been approved and you will be generously compensated for your time and inconvenience. How’s your fuel? We’ll get out a truck if necessary.”
“Aye, aye, sailor!” came the excited response over the loudspeaker as Hawthorne stared out the large window that reached to the ceiling and overlooked the airstrip. Then to his astonishment, the lights of the descending plane swung upward, banking to the right, getting away from Saba as fast as possible.
“What the hell is he doing?” yelled Tyrell. “What are you doing, pilot?” he repeated into the microphone. “I just told you, this is an emergency!”
There was no reply over the speaker, only silence.
“He don’ wanna land here, mon,” said the radio op
erator.
“Why not?”
“Maybe ’cause you talked to him. He say he out of Oranjestad—maybe yes, maybe no, mon. Maybe he fly out of Vieques, which maybe mean he fly from Cuba.”
“Son of a bitch!” Hawthorne slammed his hand on the back of a chair. “What are you people running here?”
“Don’ yell at me, mon. I make my reports every day but no gov’mint people ever listen. Bad planes come in here alla’ time, but nobody listen.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tye, looking at the concerned face of the black radioman. “I’ve also got another call to make. The navy will pay.” He dialed interisland to Gorda.
“Tye-Boy, where the hell are ya?” shouted Marty. “Yer supposed to be here.”
“I couldn’t—I can’t—get a plane out of Saba. I’ve been trying for damn near three hours.”
“Those minnow islands close up early.”
“I’ll survive until morning, but if I can’t get a flight then, I’ll call you to send one over.”
“No sweat.… But you got a message, Tye—”
“From a man named Stevens?”
“If he’s from Paris. The front desk called me a couple of hours ago askin’ if your charter was still here and, naturally, having talked to yer friend Cooke, I said I was takin’ all yer messages. I got it right here. It’s from Dominique, with a telephone number in Paris.”
“Give it to me!” Hawthorne grabbed a pencil from the tower desk. The mechanic from Gorda spelled out the number slowly. “One last thing,” said Hawthorne. “Hold on a minute.” Tye turned to the radio operator. “I obviously can’t get a flight out tonight, so where can I stay? It’s important.”
“If it’s that important, mon, you can stay here—there’s a bed in a room over there, but you won’t get no food, except plenty of coffee. My superiors will bill the navy and take the money themselves, but you can stay here when I shut down. I’ll bring you something to eat in the morning. I arrive at six.”
“And you’ll get enough money from me to tell your superiors to pound sand!”
“That is attractive.”
“What’s the number here?” The radio operator gave it to him, and Hawthorne returned to the phone, repeating it to Marty. “If a man named Stevens—hell, if anyone calls me—give him that number, okay? And thanks.”
The Scorpio Illusion Page 9
