The Scorpio Illusion

by Robert Ludlum

  “Where are they taking us?” asked Hawthorne.

  “They didn’t tell me. Just out of here.”

  “What about the pups?” demanded Poole. In the distance the confused baying of the guard dogs could still be heard. “I ain’t leavin’ until they’re looked after.”

  “A K-9 trainer will be on the aircraft to take care of the animals, as well as the gardener; he’ll accompany the investigating unit. They’ll stay here for a day or so.”

  “I repeat, where is your plane from Patrick taking us?”

  “I don’t know. Probably back to the base.”

  “No way! I’m being dropped off on Gorda if I have to ’chute out. I’ve done it before.”

  “Why?”

  “Because two of my friends were killed there, and I want to know why and by whom! That’s the trail I intend to follow; it’s the only one that makes sense. That bitch psycho is operating from the islands.”

  “Once we’re on board the aircraft, you can get in touch with anybody you like. You’ve already proven you can reach the people who make decisions.”

  “You’re right,” Hawthorne agreed, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry, I’ve no right blowing up at you.”

  “No, you don’t. You lost two friends, and in our own way so did we. I thought we were on the same side. You made a pretty good case for it a few hours ago.”

  “I think what the major’s trying to say is that if you hop off in Virgin Gorda, we’re going with you,” said Poole. “We distinctly remember our orders. We were assigned to you, and we want to help,” he added, wincing as he raised his back against the concealed breakwall.

  “You’re not going to be much help in your condition, Lieutenant.”

  “That’ll change in a day with a couple of hot tubs and maybe some cortisone,” Jackson said. “Remember, I’ve got experience in the physical areas. I know when I’m hurt and when I’m hurt. I ain’t.”

  “All right,” said Tye, fatigue overwhelming his resistance, “suppose I don’t send you back to your base, will you both accept the fact that I’m running the show? You do as I say?”

  “Naturally,” said the major. “You’re in command.”

  “That hasn’t made much impact so far.”

  “What she means, Commander—”

  “Will you stop telling him what I mean,” said the major, sinking cross-legged to the sand as she stared at Poole menacingly.

  “Okay, okay,” Tye interrupted. “You’re on board. For what, God knows.”

  “Talking about being on board,” said Neilsen, looking at Tyrell. “You don’t get along with Captain Stevens, do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not accountable to him.”

  “He’s your superior officer—”

  “The hell he is. I was hired by MI-6, London.”

  “Hired?” exclaimed Poole.

  “That’s right. They met my price, Lieutenant.” Hawthorne arched his neck; he was exhausted.

  “But everything you said about this incredible terrorist and the army of fanatics behind her, all ready to commit mass assassinations—you joined up for a price?”

  “That’s the way it was, yes.”

  “You’re one strange guy, Commander Hawthorne. I’m not sure I understand you at all.”

  “Your understanding me, Major, isn’t germane to this operation.”

  “Of course not … sir.”

  “It isn’t germane, Cath, ’cause you’re cuttin’ around the nerve endings,” said Poole, his back against the vine-laden breakwall.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Hawthorne. His eyes half closed, he kept blinking back the exhaustion but with each blink was nodding closer to sleep.

  “I was on the Patrick phone too. Your wife was killed for what you figure were the wrong reasons, that much I got, and that’s why you wouldn’t go back to your old crowd even if they offered you half the real estate in Washington.”

  “You’re very observant,” said Hawthorne softly, his chin sinking into his chest. “Even if you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then something else happened,” continued Poole. “When we picked you up on Saba, you made like you didn’t give a shit, but you did. You were like a man on fire when my equipment began deliverin’. You began to see something you didn’t see before, and you got real sharp. You even nailed Sal Mancini like a rattlesnake strikin’ out at a rat.”

  “What are you driving at, Jackson?” asked Cathy.

  “Somethin’ he knows and won’t tell us,” replied Poole.

  “… The bastards,” whispered Tyrell, his head nodding up and down, his eyes closed now.

  “How long has it been since you slept?” asked Catherine, moving over in the sand next to Hawthorne.

  “I’m fine.…”

  “The hell you are,” said the pilot, her hand steadying Tyrell’s weaving shoulder. “You’re spiraling out of action, Commander.”

  “Dominique?” murmured Hawthorne suddenly, his body arching back, as if in slow motion, held by Neilsen’s arm.

  “Who?”

  “Hold it, Cath,” said Poole, extending his right hand in the moonlight. “Is Dominique your wife?”

  “No!” rasped Tye, only half conscious. “Ingrid …”

  “She was the one who was killed?”

  “Lies! They said she was on a … Soviet payroll.”

  “Was she?” asked Neilsen, now cradling the failing Hawthorne.

  “I don’t know,” said Tyrell, barely able to be heard. “She wanted everything to stop.”

  “Everything what?” pressed the lieutenant.

  “I don’t know—everything.”

  “Go to sleep, Tye,” said Cathy.

  “No!” objected Poole. “Who’s Dominique?” But Hawthorne had lapsed into unconsciousness on the beach. “That man’s got problems.”

  “Shut up and build a fire,” ordered the major.

  Eighteen minutes later, the flames of the fire casting shadows over the beach, the limping Poole sat down on the sand and looked over at Cathy, who was staring down at the sleeping Tyrell. “He does have problems, doesn’t he?” said the major.

  “More than we ever had, including Pensacola and Miami.”

  “He’s a good guy, Jackson.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Cath. I’ve been watchin’ you, your bullshit and all, and like the commander said, I’m pretty observant. You and he could make one hell of a couple.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Look at him. He’s clouds above Pensacola. I mean, he’s a man, not some prick who keeps lookin’ into mirrors.”

  “He’s not too terrible,” said the air force pilot, holding Tyrell’s head as she piled a pillow of sand below it. “Let’s say he’s not unqualified.”

  “Go for it, Cath. I’m the genius, remember?”

  “He’s not ready, Jackson. Neither am I.”

  “Do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Do what comes naturally.”

  The major looked over at the lieutenant, then down at the reposed face of Tyrell Nathaniel Hawthorne partially on her lap. She leaned down and kissed his parted lips.

  “Dominique?”

  “No, Commander. Somebody else.”

  “Buona sera, signore,” said Bajaratt, leading her reluctant barone-cadetto to the reporter from The Miami Herald who spoke fluent Italian. “The red-haired young man suggested that we come and speak with you. Your account of the press conference yesterday was most flattering indeed. We thank you.”

  “Sorry we only made the beachfront pages, but he’s a hell of a kid, Countess,” said the journalist pleasantly. “You’re both pretty awesome, in fact. By the way, my name’s Del Rossi.”

  “Yet something troubles you?”

  “You could say that, but I’m not ready to go into print with it.”

  “And what exactly is that?”

  “What’s your game, lady?”

  “I do
n’t understand you—”

  “But he does. He understands every word we’re saying in English.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I’m bilingual. It’s always in the eyes, isn’t it? A flash of understanding, a glint of resentment or humor having nothing to do with a tone of voice or an expression.”

  “Or partial comprehension, perhaps strengthened by previously translated conversation—is that not possible, fellow linguist?”

  “Anything’s possible, Countess, but he does speak and understand English—isn’t that right, young fella?”

  “What—che còsa?”

  “Case closed, lady.” Del Rossi smiled under Bajaratt’s glare. “But, hey, I don’t fault you for it, Countess. Actually, it’s pretty damned smart.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” asked the Baj icily.

  “It’s called deniability by way of misinterpretation. The old Soviets, the Chinese, and the White House are experts at it. He can say anything he likes, then retract it and claim he didn’t understand.”

  “But why?” pressed Bajaratt.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet, which accounts for my not going into print.”

  “But were you not one of the journalists who spoke to the barone himself in Ravello?”

  “That’s right, and to be frank, he wasn’t the best source I’ve ever had. He kept saying ‘tutto quello che dice è vero’ and ‘qualsiasi cosa dica.’ Essentially, ‘whatever he says is the truth.’ What truth, Countess?”

  “The family’s investments, of course.”

  “Maybe, but why did I get the feeling that talking to the great baron was about as helpful as talking to an answering machine?”

  “An overactive imagination, signore. It is late and we must leave. Buona nòtte.”

  “I’m going too,” said the reporter. “It’s a pretty long drive to Miami.”

  “We must find our host and hostess.” The Baj took Nicolo’s arm, leading him away.

  “I’ll stay a proper twenty paces behind,” added Del Rossi, obviously enjoying the moment.

  Bajaratt turned, suddenly looking at the reporter warmly, the ice gone from her eyes. “Why, Signor Giornalista? That would be very undemocratic of you. It would appear that you disapprove of us, disapprove of our positions.”

  “Oh, no, Countess, I neither approve nor disapprove. In my business we don’t make judgments, we just tell it like it is.”

  “Then do so, but now you walk on my other side and I shall be between two handsome italiani as we say our farewells.”

  “You’re something else, lady.” Del Rossi stepped forward, politely offering his arm.

  “And you’re too elliptical for me, signore,” said the Baj as all three began across the lawn. Then, without warning, the Countess Cabrini lurched downward, her body twisting, her heel apparently caught in a patch of soft grass or a sprinkler head. She cried out as Nicolo and Del Rossi instantly sprang down to her, both on their knees, their hands reaching for her. “My foot! Free it, please, or remove my shoe!”

  “I’ve got it,” said the reporter, lifting her ankle gently off the grass.

  “Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Bajaratt, grabbing Del Rossi’s leg for support as guests raced over, surrounding them.

  “Ouch!” sputtered the reporter as a trickle of blood appeared on his trousers while he and Nicolo lifted the countess to her feet.

  “Thank you—thank you all. I’m fine, really I’m fine. I’m simply mortified at my awkwardness!” A chorus of sympathy and understanding greeted her, so the contessa and her escorts proceeded to their hosts, who were on the patio, saying good night to departing guests. “Good heavens!” said Bajaratt, seeing the thin rivulet of blood on Del Rossi’s right pant leg. “When I grabbed you, that damned bracelet of mine ripped your trousers. Worse, it cut you! I’m so dreadfully sorry!”

  “It’s nothing, Countess, just a scratch.”

  “You must send me the bill for your trousers!… I adore this bracelet, but those gold points are frightening. I shall never wear it again!”

  “Hey, the pants are off the rack at a discount place. Don’t worry about any bill.… Just remember, lady, you’re nice and I’m nice, but I haven’t stopped digging.”

  “ ‘Digging’ what, signore? Dirt?”

  “I don’t touch dirt, Countess, I leave that to others. But earth that’s been made toxic, that’s something else.”

  “Then dig, please,” said the Baj, glancing at the gold bracelet firmly in place around her right wrist, the point of a golden thorn red with blood, its tiny orifice dark … open. “There will be nothing.”

  The Miami Herald

  Reporter Killed in Accident

  WEST PALM BEACH, Tuesday, Aug. 12—Pulitzer Prize winner Angelo Del Rossi, an outstanding reporter for this newspaper, was killed last night on Route 95 when his car swerved off the road and crashed into the concrete housing of an electrical relay station. It was presumed that Del Rossi fell asleep at the wheel. Several of his bereaved colleagues expressed not only sorrow but reluctant understanding. “He was a tiger, a real news-hound,” said one. “He’d go for days without sleep for a story.” Last evening Del Rossi was returning from a buffet dinner honoring the recently arrived barone-cadetto of Ravello, one Dante Paolo. The young baron-to-be expressed both shock and horror, saying through his interpreter that he had struck up an immediate friendship with the Italian-speaking Del Rossi, who had promised to teach him how to play golf.

  Mr. Del Rossi is survived by his wife, Ruth, and two daughters.

  II Progresso Ravello

  (translated)

  Baron on Mediterranean Cruise

  RAVELLO, 13 Aug.—Carlo Vittorio, of Ravello, the much-decorated baron, citing a recurrence of poor health, will embark on an extended cruise aboard his yacht, Il Nicolo, throughout the Mediterranean. “The islands of our great sea will restore me so I may return to my responsibilities,” he said at a farewell party on the dock at Napoli.

  13

  The early orange sun pulsated across-the blue-green waters as foraging birds whistled and cawed in the upper palms and the hanging tropical foliage. Tyrell snapped open his eyes, startled, unsure, then astonished to realize that his head was touching Cathy’s shoulder, her sleeping face only inches away from his. Slowly, he rolled away and got to his hands and knees, blinking at the brilliant light, suddenly whipping around at the popping sounds of a fire and the sight of a limping Poole dragging debris which he threw over the flames. The rising dark smoke was the only obstruction in a clear, cloudless sky.

  “What’s that for?” asked Hawthorne, instantly repeating the question in a whisper as the lieutenant brought his index finger to his lips. “What’s it for?”

  “I figured if the pilot of the aircraft got a wrong number in the coordinates, he’d spot the fire. Just a backup, that’s all.”

  “You’re walking …?”

  “I told you it wasn’t more than a couple of bruises. I spent a half hour in the water soakin’ ’em and movin’ ’em; they’re tolerable now.”

  “When’s the plane due?”

  “Six o’clock, give or take, weather permitting,” answered Catherine Neilsen, her eyes still closed. “And you can both stop whispering.” The pilot raised herself on her elbows, pulled up the sleeve of her unzipped wet suit, and looked at her watch. “My God, it’s a quarter to!”

  “So?” said Poole. “You got an appointment at the beauty parlor?”

  “Not too distant a relative, Jackson. This girl has to head up into the vines and pull a contortionist’s act.… Speaking of which, would you two gentlemen please return to your suits? Two men in their shorts—one revealingly wet, I might add—and a lone female officer on a proverbial desert island isn’t the image I want carried back to Patrick.”

  “To Patrick?” objected Hawthorne sharply. “Who said anything about your air force base?”

  “We’ve been over that, Tye, and if you don’t remember, nobody can blame
you. Three hours ago you were just about the most exhausted man I’ve ever seen. You could still use a week’s sleep.”

  “You’re right, not about the sleep, but I remember. Regardless of the orders, I’ll reach Stevens in D.C. and get off at Gorda.”

  “Wrong,” protested Poole. “You don’t get off at Gorda, we get off. You may have a score or six to settle, but we have one that’s damned important to Cath and me. The name’s Charlie—you do remember him?”

  “I do,” said Tyrell, studying the lieutenant. “We’ll get off at Gorda.”

  “There’s the plane!” cried Cathy, jumping to her feet. “I’ve got to hurry!”

  “Believe me,” said the lieutenant. “They’ll wait until you have your permanent.”

  “Get into your suits!” snapped the major, hurrying up the embankment and into the shoreline woods.

  “Ashkelon,” whispered the voice in London.

  “Forever,” replied the Baj. “I may not be able to contact you at the assigned times and telephones for the next several days. We’re flying to New York and things will be hectic.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re doing splendidly. One of our people has just been hired for the security detail at Downing Street’s transport pool.”

  “That is splendid.”

  “About you, Baj?”

  “The same. The circles are widening, yet growing more selective. Vengeance will be ours, my friend.”

  “I’ve never doubted it.”

  “Reach Paris and Jerusalem with my news, but tell them to adhere to our schedule of times and locations in case of an emergency.”

  “I spoke to Jerusalem this morning; the hot-headed bastard’s ecstatic.”

  “How so?”

  “He fell in with a group of senior staff officers from the I.D.F. at a restaurant in Tel Aviv. It was a drunken night and they loved his singing. He’s been invited to several parties.”

  “Tell him to be careful. His papers are as false as his uniform.”

  “There’s no one better under cover, Baj. Besides, he recognized two of the officers; suckling pigs of the butcher Sharon.”

  “Interesting,” said Bajaratt after a moment of silence. “Sharon could be a welcome bonus.”