The Scorpio Illusion

by Robert Ludlum

  The morning-coated manager of the elegant hotel rushed out with two assistants, one of them obviously an Italian, more obviously a translator. Greetings were exchanged in both languages until the guardian aunt of the barone-cadetto held up her hand and announced: “The young barone has many things to do in this great country of yours, and he would prefer that you address him in English so he might absorb the language. He will not at first understand much of what you say, but he insists—and, naturally, I’m at his side to translate for him.”

  “Madame,” said the manager quietly, standing beside Bajaratt as the considerable luggage was gathered by the bellhops. “There’s no reason for you to put up with the inconvenience should you not care to, but there are reporters from several local newspapers as well as their photographers in one of our larger conference rooms. They’d like to meet the young baron, naturally. How they were alerted to his presence, I have no idea, but I can assure you it was not through this hotel. Our reputation for confidentiality is unparalleled.”

  “Oh, someone was naughty!” exclaimed the contessa Cabrini, breaking into a resigned smile. “Don’t worry, Signor Amministratore, it happens whenever he goes to Rome or London. Not Paris, however, for France abounds with false nobility, and the socialist press no longer cares.”

  “You may avoid these, of course. It’s why I had our security place them in the conference room.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll speak to the barone-cadetto; we’ll give the journalists a few minutes. After all, he’s here to make friends, not antagonize your newspapers.”

  “I’ll go ahead then and tell them, and also make it clear it can’t be a long session. Jet lag’s a universal fatigue.”

  “No, signore, I shouldn’t say that. He arrived yesterday and actually bought clothes not five minutes away from here. We wouldn’t care to give false information so easily contradicted.”

  “But the reservation was for today, madame.”

  “Come now, we were both his age once, weren’t we, signore?”

  “I never looked like he does, I can assure you of that.”

  “Very few young men do, but neither his looks nor his title alter his perfectly normal youthful appetites, do you see what I mean?”

  “It’s not difficult, madame. A close personal friend for the evening.”

  “Even I do not know her name.”

  “I understand. My assistant will see you inside and I’ll take care of everything.”

  “You are a wonderful man, Signor Amministratore.”

  “Grazie, Countess.”

  The manager nodded and walked up the carpeted steps as Bajaratt turned and approached Nicolo, who was talking to the assistant manager and the interpreter. “What are you three conspiring about, Dante?” asked the contessa in Italian.

  “Ma niente,” replied Nicolo, smiling at the interpreter. “My new friend and I were discussing the beautiful surroundings and the fine weather,” he continued in Italian. “I told him my studies and my father’s business have taken up all my time, so I have not learned to play the golf.”

  “Va bene.”

  “He says he will find me an instructor.”

  “You have too much work to do for such things,” said the Baj, taking Nicolo by the arm and leading him to the carpeted steps as the young man nodded pleasantly to the two men behind him. “Nico, do not be so familiar,” whispered Amaya. “It’s not becoming for a man of your station. Be cordial, but keep in mind that he is beneath you.”

  “Beneath me?” asked the assumed barone-cadetto as the doors of the lobby were held open for them. “Sometimes you talk in circles, signora. You want me to be somebody else, which I have learned by memory, yet you also want me to be myself.”

  “That’s exactly what I want,” said Bajaratt in a harsh whisper, still in Italian. “The one thing I do not want is for you to think for yourself. I think for you, is that understood?”

  “Of course, Cabi. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s better. We’ll have a grand time tonight, Nico, for my body aches for you, you’re so beautiful, as I knew you would be!” As the dock boy started to put his arm affectionately around her shoulder, she suddenly moved away. “Stop. The assistant manager is rushing up to take us to the reporters and the photographers.”

  “The what?”

  “I told you last night. You are going to meet the press. It’s nothing grand, merely the society pages.”

  “Oh, yes, and I understand very little English. I turn to you with the questions, is that right?”

  “All the questions.”

  “This way, please,” said the manager’s first assistant, “it’s just a short walk to the Regal Room.”

  The press conference lasted exactly twenty-three minutes. The small crowd of journalists and photographers had their ingrained hostility toward enormously wealthy European nobility rapidly diffused by the tall, shy, ingratiating barone-cadetto. The questions came with staccato regularity, initially negative, and repelled by the Contessa Cabrini, an aunt of the barone-cadetto di Ravello, who, as was agreed to in the ground rules, would be referred to only as the “interpreter.” Then an Italian-speaking reporter from The Miami Herald asked in the young baron’s language: “Why do you think you’re accorded all this attention? Do you think you deserve it? What have you really done outside of being born?”

  “I really don’t believe I deserve anything until I can prove what I can do, which will take a long time.… On the other hand, signore, would you care to accompany me on a dive into the Mediterranean waters to the depth of a hundred or so meters on behalf of oceanographic science? Or perhaps you might join me on the search-and-rescue teams in the Maritime Alps, where we have scaled down the rocks several thousand feet to bring the presumed dead back to life.… My life, signore, may be one of privilege, but it has not been without its modest contributions.”

  The Contessa Cabrini instantly translated for the audience of journalists as flashbulbs snapped, streaks of light illuminating the handsome face of the unpretentious young baron as his “interpreter” stepped away, out of the photographs.

  “Hey, Dante!” yelled a female correspondent. “Why don’t you give up the nobility bit and get yourself a television series? You’re a hunk, kid!”

  “Non capisco, signora.”

  “I agree with the girls,” an elderly male reporter in the front row broke in above the laughter. “You’re a good-looking young fella, but I don’t think you’re here to bowl over our young ladies.”

  Upon the instant, unnecessary translation, the young baron replied, “Please, Mr. Journalist, if I understand you, I should very much like to meet American girls, whom I would treat with great respect. On the television they are so alive and attractive—so Italian, if you’ll forgive me.”

  “Are you running for political office?” asked another reporter. “If you are, you’ve got the women’s vote.”

  “I only run in the mornings, signore. Ten or twelve miles. It is very good for the body.”

  “What’s your agenda here, baron?” continued the reporter in the front row. “I checked with your family in Ravello, your father, in fact, and he made it clear that you were to bring back a number of recommendations based on your observations of American investments, their viability, their projections. Is that correct, sir?”

  The translation was complex and quiet, several points repeated several times, instructions as to his reply contained therein. “My father has schooled me well, signore, and we will speak each day on the telephone. I am his eyes and his ears, and he trusts me.”

  “Will you be traveling a lot?”

  “I believe a great many entrepreneurs will be coming to him,” interrupted the contessa without translating. “Firms are only as good as the executives who run them. The barone-cadetto is trained in economics, for his responsibilities are great. He will look for conviction and integrity and match them against the figures.”

  “Outside of profit-and-loss statements,” said an inten
se female reporter, her short, dark hair framing an angry face, “has any thought been given to the socioeconomic conditions prevalent in those areas targeted for investment, or is it just business as usual—go where the profits are?”

  “I suggest that is—how do you say it?—a prejudiced question,” replied the contessa.

  “A loaded question,” a male voice at the rear corrected her.

  “But I should be happy to answer it,” the contessa continued. “Perhaps the lady might place a telephone call to any journalist of her choosing in or around Ravello, even Rome. She will learn for herself the high esteem accorded the family in the provincia. In good times and not so good they have been most generous in the areas of medicine, shelter, and employment. They treat their wealth as a gift that requires responsibility as well as authority. They have a social conscience and it will not change over here.”

  “The kid can’t answer for himself?” pressed the querulous reporter.

  “This kid, as you call him, is far too modest to extol his family’s virtues in public. As you may notice, he cannot understand everything you say, but the look in his eyes will tell you that he is much offended, particularly since he cannot comprehend the reason for your hostility.”

  “Mi scusi,” said the reporter from The Miami Herald in fluent Italian. “I also spoke with your father, the baron in Ravello—on background, naturally—and I apologize for my colleague,” he added, aiming a nasty grin at the woman. “She’s a pain in the ass.”

  “Grazie.”

  “Prego.”

  “If we may revert to English,” said a heavyset journalist in the front on the right. “I certainly don’t subscribe to our colleague’s innuendos, but the young baron’s spokeswoman has raised a point. As you know, there are deep pockets of unemployment in this country. Would the family’s social conscience conceivably extend to those areas?”

  “If the proper situation were presented, I’m sure they’d be among the first, sir. The barone di Ravello is an astute international businessman who recognizes the value of loyalty as clearly as he does the satisfaction of charity.”

  “You’re going to get a hell of a lot of phone calls,” said the heavyset reporter. “It’s not hard news by a long shot, but it could be.”

  “I’m afraid that will be all, ladies and gentlemen. It’s been a trying morning and we have the rest of the day to go through.” Smiling and nodding graciously to the reporters, Bajaratt led her handsome charge from the room, delighted with the flattering comments about him. There would, indeed, be many phone calls, just as she had planned.

  The Palm Beach social network operated with frightening efficiency. By four o’clock that afternoon they had received sixteen firm invitations and eleven inquiries as to when various hostesses might plan luncheons or dinner parties in honor of Dante Paolo, barone-cadetto di Ravello.

  With equal efficiency Bajaratt went through her notebooks and selected five of the most prestigious invitations to accept, houses where the elite of politics and industry were most likely to attend the functions. She then called the rejects and with profound apologies demurred, hoping with all her heart that they would meet at so-and-so’s and so-and-so’s, who had reached the young baron first. Cats stalk, considered the Baj, striking out with their claws only when a piece of the mouse is withheld from them. They would all be wherever she and Nicolo went.

  Muerte a toda autoridad!

  It was only the beginning, but the journey would be swift. It was time to check London, Paris, and Jerusalem. Death to the merchants of death at Ashkelon.

  “Ashkelon,” said the quiet male voice in London.

  “It’s Bajaratt. Are you progressing?”

  “Within a week we’ll have Downing Street covered. Men in police uniforms, refuse details in lovely garbage-spotted white overalls. Vengeance for Ashkelon!”

  “It may take me more than a week, you understand that.”

  “No matter,” said London. “We’ll be all the more entrenched, all the more familiar. We cannot fail!”

  “Forever Ashkelon.”

  “Ashkelon,” said the female voice in Paris.

  “Bajaratt. How are things?”

  “Sometimes I think too simple. The man comes and goes flanked by such nonchalant guards we would have them executed in the Baaka. The French are so arrogant, so careless of danger, it’s ludicrous. We’ve checked out the rooftops—they’re not even covered!”

  “Beware the nonchalant French dandies, they can turn and strike like cobras. Remember the Résistance.”

  “That’s merde, as they say. If they know about us, they’re not taking us seriously. Don’t they understand that we’re willing to die? Vengeance for Ashkelon!”

  “Forever Ashkelon.”

  * * *

  “Ashkelon,” whispered the guttural voice in Jerusalem.

  “You know who I am.”

  “Of course. I led the prayers for you and your husband under the orange trees. He will be avenged, our cause avenged, believe me.”

  “I’d rather hear about your progress.”

  “Oh, you’re so cold, Baj, so cold.”

  “My husband never thought so. Your progress?”

  “Shit, we’re more Jew-like than the odious Jews! Our black hats and our black braids and our stupid white shawls all move rhythmically as we peck our heads at that fucking wall. We can blow that bastard away when he walks out of the Knesset. A few of us may even escape to fight again. We only wait for the news, for your signal.”

  “It will take a while.”

  “Take all the time you like, Baj. During the evenings we put on I.D.F. uniforms and climb upon hungry sabra women, each of us praying to Allah that an Arab will grow in their bellies.”

  “Stick to business, my friend.”

  “We stick it to the Jew whores!”

  “Not at the expense of your mission!”

  “Never. Vengeance for Ashkelon!”

  “Forever Ashkelon.”

  Amaya Bajaratt left the bank of public phones in the hotel lobby, having replaced in her purse the various credit cards supplied her by Bahrain. She took the elevator upstairs and walked down the elegant corridor to their suite. Inside, the dimly lit sitting room was empty, lonely. She crossed to the open door of the darkened bedroom. Young Nicolo was, as usual, naked and supine on the large bed; he was fast asleep, his magnificent body inviting. As she studied him, she could not help but think of her husband, her so-brief husband. Both men had long, slender, muscular bodies, one far younger than the other, of course, but the similarity was there. She was drawn to such bodies, as she had been drawn to the naked Hawthorne barely two days earlier. Suddenly, she heard and felt her own breathing; she touched the swelling nipples of her breasts and was aware of the aching urgency of her groin. It made up for so much she could never have. Years before, a doctor in Madrid had performed a simple operation that would forever preclude conception—this was all she had.

  She walked to the foot of the bed and undressed, now as naked as the body in front of her, below her.

  “Nico,” she said gently. “Wake up, Nicolo.”

  “What …?” stuttered the young man, blinking open his eyes.

  “I am here for you … my darling.” You must, she thought. It’s all I have left!

  “What’s the number in Paris?” asked Hawthorne, standing over the padrone but addressing Poole in the doorway.

  “That I checked out,” answered the lieutenant. “It’s around ten o’clock in the morning there, so I figured I wasn’t going to put anybody into shock.”

  “And?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, Tye. It’s a travel agency on the Champs-Élysées.”

  “What happened when you called?”

  “Sure as possumshit it was a private number. The lady said something in French, and when I said in English that I hoped I had the right number, she asked me in English if I was calling a French-sounding travel agency, and I said I sure as hell was and it was urgent.… That�
�s when she asked me what my color was, and naturally I said white, and she said ‘and,’ and I didn’t know what to say, so she hung up.”

  “You didn’t have the code, Jackson; there’s no way you could have.”

  “I guess I didn’t.”

  “I’ll put Stevens on it, unless I can convince our padrone here to be more cooperative.”

  “I know nothing of such things!” shouted the invalid.

  “No, you probably don’t,” agreed Tyrell. “Those last calls, the undeleted calls, weren’t made by you, but by someone who didn’t know how to erase them. Shades of Rosemary Woods, padrone.”

  “Nothing. I know nothing!”

  “What about Palm Beach, Lieutenant?”

  “Just as crazy, Commander. It’s the number of a very ritzy restaurant on Worth Avenue. They said I had to make a reservation two weeks in advance unless I was on their preferred list.”

  “That’s not crazy at all, Jackson, it’s part of the mosaic, part of the pay dirt. The preferred list is just that, preferred by way of a name you couldn’t invent and followed by words you couldn’t know. I’ll turn that over to Stevens with the Paris conduit.” Tyrell looked down at the old man; the bleeding in his left cheek had ebbed, blotted by a wad of tissue that hung from his flesh. “You’re going on a trip, paisan,” said Hawthorne.