“I wish I could give you an answer, Major. All I know is that it’s a hell of a lot more than I bargained for. Tonight proved it. Charlie proved it.”
“Oh, God, Charlie …!”
“Stop it, Cathy,” said Jackson Poole suddenly, firmly. “We’ve got work to do, and by the Lord Jesus I want to do it. For Charlie!”
It was not an easy decision, but it was reluctantly made by the furious command at the air force base in Cocoa, Florida, beaten into submission by the combined powers of the Department of the Navy, the Central Intelligence Agency, and finally, irrevocably, the subterranean strategy rooms at the White House. The sabotage of the AWAC II was to be kept under wraps, a cover story put out to the effect that a faulty fuel line caused the explosion of a Patrick training aircraft that had landed in the French territory for emergency repairs. Fortunately, there were no casualties. Relatives of the unmarried Master Sergeant Charles O’Brian were brought to Washington and briefed separately by the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, whose orders to the team of investigators were to “run silent but run deep.”
“Little Girl Blood,” as the search was labeled in the most secret circles, was red line, the ultimate concern of the combined services. Every international flight from all points of the compass was scrutinized, passengers detained, some for hours as each targeted traveler or travelers, together or apart, were placed in isolation, their papers put under computer scans, checked, and rechecked for flaws of origin. The number of detainees reached hundreds, then more than a thousand. The New York Times called it “excessive harassment without foundation,” while the International Herald Tribune reported it as “American paranoia, not a single weapon or illegal substance found.” Yet no answers, much less explanations, came from London, Paris, or Washington. The name Bajaratt was never to be mentioned, the scenario never revealed.… Look for a woman traveling with a young man, a teenager, nationality unknown.
And while they searched, the Lear 25 flew into Fort Lauderdale, the pilot a man who had flown the route several hundred times, the copilot a heavyset woman, formerly of the Israeli Air Command, her dark hair swept up under her visored cap; in the rear seat was a tall young man. Among the customs personnel recruited for the occasion was a pleasant official who greeted them in Italian and swiftly processed their immigration papers. Amaya Bajaratt and Nicolo Montavi of Portici had landed on American soil.
“I swear to God I don’t know how come you can reach so high,” said Jackson Poole as he entered the hotel room on St. Martin where Hawthorne and Catherine Neilsen were studying the lieutenant’s printouts, “but it sure as hell doesn’t exceed your grasp.”
“In a Minnesota farm girl’s vocabulary, does that mean we’re cleared?” asked Cathy.
“Hell, Major, this Yankee charter pirate just adopted us, with or without our consent.”
“I also run a slave ship,” said Tyrell softly, returning to the computerized charts, employing a hastily supplied magnified micro-ruler under the glare of a table lamp.
“Clarification, please, Lieutenant?”
“He owns us, Cath.”
“I can assure you not totally,” Major Neilsen said.
“Well, we kinda volunteered too. The orders are not to use any pilot here because someone here blew up Big Lady and everything stays in a blackout. Since you’re checked out in seagoing props, you elected yourself, Cath. And since I’m a lot younger than he is, probably stronger too, Patrick kinda threw up its hands and said ‘whatever he needs.’ ”
“Is there anything else you’d like to add?” said Hawthorne, bending over the table. “Like how you take me for walks and make sure I get my Geritol?”
“Hey, come on,” Catherine Neilsen broke in. “You made it clear that you wanted to use us, but you couldn’t ask us, much less order us, to help. We told you we wanted to. For Charlie.”
“I don’t know what’s out there, and I put limits on my authority.”
“Cut the bullshit, Tye,” demanded Cathy. “Where do we go from here?”
“I know these islands. They’re like a short volcanic atoll not worth pulling into because there’s nothing there, just rocks and beaches that can slice through your Dock-sides. They’re garbage.”
“One of ’em isn’t,” countered Poole. “Take my equipment’s word for it.”
“I do,” agreed Hawthorne. “So we’ve got to get close up. The French are giving us a seaplane—muffled dual engines—and we’ll coordinate tonight five miles south of the southernmost island with a two-man minisub hauled by a British P.T. hovercraft out of Gorda.”
“Two-man?” cried Neilsen. “What about me?”
“You’re staying with the plane and the hover.”
“The hell I will. You tell the Brits to send along a pilot without any explanations; it’s done all the time.… Forget rank, Charlie was like my older brother, if I had one. I go where you and Jackson go. Anyway, you need me.”
“May I ask why?”
“Certainly. While you two men are on your scouting patrol, what do you intend to do with the sub? Let it sink into the mud?”
“No, we’ll beach it under camouflage, which I happen to know something about.”
“Considering an obvious alternative, that’s a poor decision where survival tactics are concerned, which I happen to know something about. Should you find the island you hope is there—”
“It’s there,” said Poole, interrupting. “My machines don’t lie.”
“Then say you do,” Cathy conceded. “I submit that such a place would be extremely well protected both in manpower and technology, especially the latter. It would be a relatively simple matter to ring a small coastline with electronic detectors. Do you agree, Jackson?”
“Hell, yes, Cath.”
“I further submit that it would be a lot smarter to surface offshore, eject you, and let you swim to your point of entry, which we can determine on-scene.”
“Try slipping over the side, no ejections, no bodies flying in the air, and I still don’t like it. You’re exaggerating a primitive, minimally inhabited small island’s technical resources.”
“I don’t know about that, Tye,” the lieutenant countered. “I could set up a computerized scanner system like Cathy described with a P.C., a three-hundred-dollar generator, and a couple of dozen sensor disks, and I’m not exaggeratin’.”
“Are you serious?” Tyrell looked hard at Poole.
“I’m not sure how I can explain this to you,” Poole continued, “but ten or twelve years ago, when I was a teenager, my daddy bought a VCR with a remote control. It was the worst damn thing he could have done to us short of buyin’ a desktop computer. He never got it right, especially when he tried to tape a Saints game or a program he couldn’t see at the time but wanted to watch later. I mean, he got real angry, screamin’ and hollerin’ and finally throwin’ that nemesis of his out with the trash. And my daddy’s smart, one hell of a lawyer, but the numbers and the symbols and all those buttons you gotta press to get what you want became his personal enemies.”
“Is there a point to this?” Hawthorne asked.
“There surely is,” Poole answered. “He hated what he wasn’t brought up with because he couldn’t get used to it, not in mech-tech terms—”
“In what …?”
“He’s a generous man in human terms, like when the blacks ran for government positions; he thought that was just fine, and it was about time. But he couldn’t adjust to the high-tech advances because they came too fast and they weren’t human. He was afraid of them.”
“Lieutenant, what the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“That it’s really all so simple once you get used to it. My little sister and I were brought up on P.C.s, school computers, and video games—Daddy never objected, he just refused to watch us—and we got used to all those buttons and the symbols, even chip production.”
“What’s your goddamned point?”
“My kid sister’s a programmer in Silicon Val
ley and already makin’ more money than I ever will, but I’m using equipment she would kill for.”
“So?”
“So Cathy’s right and I’m right. Her projections and my expertise coincide. She’s theorized what could be on that island and my provable concept of a simple P.C., a three-hundred-dollar generator, and a couple of dozen disks confirms it. No big deal technically, but it could be big trouble for us.”
“What you’re really saying after all this horseshit is that I should go along with her, right?”
“Listen, Tye, this lady is very important to me, and I don’t like what she’s doing any more than you do, but I know her. When she’s right, she’s damned right, especially where tactics and procedures are concerned; she’s read all the books.”
“How about skippering a minisubmarine?”
“Anything that goes forward or backward in the sky, on the ground, or in the water, I can handle,” said the major, answering for herself. “Give me an hour with the controls and a set of diagrams, and I’ll get you from A to Z with twenty-five stops in between.”
“I like your modesty. I also don’t trust it.”
“I also know that underwater demolition teams can be taught to drive them in twenty minutes.”
“It took me a half hour,” said Hawthorne futilely.
“You’re slow, as I expected. Look, Tye, I’m not an idiot. If anyone suggested that I go on a scout-and-search with you, I’d have to refuse. Not because I’m a coward, but because I’m neither physically suited nor mentally trained for such work and I could be a detriment to you. But in a machine that I can handle, I can be an asset. We’ll be in radio contact, and I’ll be wherever you want me at any given time. I’m your backup if you get into trouble.”
“Is she always so logical, Jackson?”
Before a grinning Poole could reply, the telephone rang, and as he was nearest, he walked to the bedside table and picked it up. “Yes?” he answered cautiously, then, after listening, turned to Hawthorne, his hand over the phone. “Someone named Cooke is calling you.”
“It’s about time!” Tyrell took the receiver from the lieutenant. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.
“I might ask the same of you,” said the voice from Virgin Gorda. “We just got back here, found absolutely no messages from you, and discovered that we’ve been raped!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I had to call that ass Stevens to learn where you were.”
“Didn’t you check with Marty?”
“Marty’s gone, as well as his friend Mickey. They’ve simply vanished, old boy.”
“Son of a bitch!” roared Hawthorne. “What’s the rape?”
“The envelope I left for you in the vault is also gone. Everything—our whole agenda to date.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“In the wrong hands, that material—”
“I don’t give a damn about wrong hands or right hands, I want to know where Marty is, and Mickey! They wouldn’t take off like birds, that’s not like them. They’d leave a note, a reason!… Doesn’t anybody know anything?”
“Apparently not. They say a fellow they call Old Ridgeley went down to the shop where the boys were supposed to be working on his engines, and he found both the bloody motors apart and no one there.”
“It smells!” yelled Hawthorne. “They’re friends of mine—what the hell have I done?”
“If that bothers you, perhaps you should know the worst,” Cooke said. “The clerk who gave the envelope away claims he correctly delivered it to a ‘gentleman’ of great reputation in London named Grimshaw, who identified all of us, and made it clear that it was his rightful property, as he had paid us for the information.”
“What information?”
“Inspection of a yacht his club in San Diego was buying, cost specifications of equipment that had to be replaced, and general seaworthy evaluation. I must say it was a convincing story. Unfortunately the young man bought it.”
“Have the son of a bitch shot or at least fired.”
“He’s already left, old boy, terminated his employment when he was first soundly criticized. He said he was assured of a position at the Savoy in London, and was altogether sick of this backwater bog island. He took the last flight out of here for Puerto Rico, arrogantly stating that he rather hoped he’d be on the same plane to London as this Grimshaw. He actually told the manager here that the poor fellow might not have his job in a day or so.”
“Check the P.R. passenger manifests for all flights to—” Tyrell stopped, audibly sighing. “Hell, you’ve already done it.”
“Naturally.”
“No Grimshaw,” said Hawthorne.
“No Grimshaw,” confirmed Cooke.
“And he sure as hell isn’t there at the club.”
“His room is spotless, the telephone wiped clean, both doorknobs as well.”
“A professional.… Goddamn it!”
“It’s done; we can’t dwell on it, Tye.”
“I can dwell on Marty and Mickey, and you can bet your ass on that!”
“We’ve sent out the British Navy P.T.’s, and the authorities are searching the island.… Wait a minute, Tyrell, Jacques just came in; he has something to tell me. Stay on the line.”
“Will do,” said Hawthorne, capping the mouthpiece and turning to Catherine Neilsen and Jackson Poole. “We’ve been deep-sixed in Gorda,” he explained. “A good friend of mine who was acting as my conduit, and his sidekick, also a friend, have disappeared. Also, all the material we had on that bitch.”
Neilsen and Poole looked at each other. The lieutenant shrugged, conveying the fact that he did not understand Tyrell’s words. The major agreed by way of arched eyebrows and a shrug, followed instantly by a shake of her head, telegraphing the order not to inquire.
“Geoff, where are you?” Hawthorne shouted into the phone, the prolonged silence over the line not only irritating but ominous. Finally, the voice was there.
“I’m so terribly sorry, Tyrell,” Cooke began quietly. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this. A patrol boat picked up the body of Michael Simms about nine hundred meters offshore. He’d been shot in the head.”
“Oh, my God,” said Hawthorne quietly. “How did he get out there?”
“Based on preliminary evaluation, essentially flakes of paint on his clothing, the authorities believe he was shot, placed in a small motorized boat, and sent on automatic speed into open water. They think he was probably hanging over the side and the chop sent him overboard.”
“Which means we’ll never find Marty, or if someone does, he’ll be deep dead in a skiff with an empty gas tank.”
“I’m afraid the British Navy agrees with that assessment. The orders from London and Washington are to keep everything quiet.”
“Damn it! I put both those guys into this bullshit. They were heroes in war, and they were killed for bullshit!”
“Forgive me, Tye, but I truly believe it’s not bullshit. If anything, this coupled with the massacre in Miami, your own experience on Saba, and that plane in St. Martin proves we’re dealing with a problem of enormous severity. This woman—these people—have resources beyond any previous estimates.”
“I know,” said Hawthorne, barely audible. “I also know how a couple of new associates of mine feel about Charlie.”
“Who?”
“Nothing, never mind, Geoff. Did Stevens fill you in on our plans over here?”
“Yes, he did, and frankly, Tyrell, I must ask you, do you honestly think you’re up to it? I mean, you’ve been away from this sort of thing for a few years—”
“What the hell did you and Stevens have, an old maid’s sewing circle?” Hawthorne interrupted angrily. “Let me explain something to you, Cooke, I’m forty years of age—”
“Forty-two,” whispered Catherine Neilsen from across the room. “The dossier—”
“Shut up!… No, not you, Geoff. The answer to your question is yes. We’re leaving
in an hour and we’ve got a lot to do. I’ll contact you later. Name your conduit.”
“The manager?” offered the man from MI-6 over the line.
“No, not him. He’s too busy running the place.… Use Roger, the chickee bartender, he’s perfect.”
“Oh, yes, the black fellow with the gun. Good choice.”
“Be in touch,” said Tyrell, hanging up and turning to Major Neilsen. “My age being an inconsequential oversight, I was accurate when I said we’ll be in a two-man submarine, because that’s what it is. Not three or four, but two. I hope you and your ‘darling’ are pretty damned familiar, because since you insist on being on board, you’ll either be on top of him or below him!”
“There’s a minor amendment to the minisub’s nomenclature, Commander Hawthorne,” the major interjected. “In back of—or perhaps I should say aft of—the rear seat is a lateral storage compartment equal to if not larger in size than the personnel stations. It holds an inflatable PVC life raft, basic provisions for five days, as well as weapons and flares. I suggest we dispense with the provisions, you store whatever equipment you need, and there’ll be no problem with space for me.”
“How do you know so much about minisubs?”
“She used to go out with a navy sky jock from Pensacola who was heavy into the underwater world,” replied the lieutenant. “Sal and Charlie and I were happy as hogs in a mud hole when she told him to go fly to Saturn; he was one miserable arrogant stiff.”
“Please, Jackson, some things are not for discussion.”
“You mean like dossiers?” asked Hawthorne.
“That was military protocol.”
“Dug up from the War of 1812.… All right, forget it.” Hawthorne walked to the table and the papers. “We can take the P.T. to within, say, a mile or so south of the first island, all lights out, of course, going only by Loran. Now, over here.” Tyrell pointed his ruler to the data faxed down from Washington that spelled out everything that was known about the atoll. Fortunately included were charts prepared by such men as Hawthorne going back sixty years. Reefs that had to be marked, unseen volcanic rocks noted so that sailors would not be smashed into them or drowned in the angry waters. “There’s a break in the outer reef here,” he said, touching a spot on a sailing chart.
The Scorpio Illusion Page 14
