The Scorpio Illusion

by Robert Ludlum

  “It comes down to the gate,” said Poole.

  “Exactly,” agreed Hawthorne. “If I’m right, there should be cars or golf carts or at least men with flashlights racing down to this area of the compound, but there’s nothing. Why not?”

  “Maybe we should find out,” said Jackson. “Maybe I should sort of stroll up there and see what’s goin’ on.”

  “And get shot, you idiot?”

  “Come on, Cathy, I’m not carryin’ a drum and a bugle.”

  “She’s right,” said Tyrell. “I may be an antique in some areas, but not this one. I’ll go, and we’ll meet at the plane.”

  “What happened here?” asked Neilsen. “What did you see?”

  “Two men, one pretty tall and carrying suitcases, the other shorter and thinner and wearing a hat. They jumped into the car when the spotlight centered in on me.

  “Who thinks about a hat at a time like that?” said Poole.

  “Bald men, Jackson,” answered Hawthorne. “It’s a mark of identification. Standard procedure.… Take Cathy back to the plane and try to control the pilots—”

  “He doesn’t have to take me, I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “Oh, shut up, Cath,” Poole interrupted. “He only means that if those two creeps decide to mutiny, it’s better I stop ’em than you shootin’ them. Okay.”

  “All right.”

  “And listen to me,” continued Tyrell, his voice firm. “If I run into trouble, I’ll fire three rapid shots. That’s your signal to fly out of here.”

  “And leave you behind?” asked Neilsen, astonished.

  “That’s right, Major. I think I told you that I’m no hero—I don’t like heroes because too many die, and the prospect has no appeal for me. If there’s trouble, I’m better off getting out of here alone, without any baggage.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “It’s what I was trained for, paid for.”

  “Hey, suppose I went with you?” said Poole.

  “You answered that yourself, Lieutenant. Suppose the pilots decide to revolt?”

  “Come on, Cath!”

  The pale gray Defense Department Buick was parked off the road, out of sight, branches from the surrounding trees covering its hood and the windshield. It stood diagonally across the half-mile wooded drive that led to Van Nostrand’s estate, the four men inside bored, irritated, and resentful that they had been given an after-hours assignment without either the authority to take action or an explanation as to why they were there. They were simply to observe, and not, under any circumstances, to be observed.

  “There it goes!” said the driver, instantly reaching for his cigarettes on top of the dashboard as a limousine emerged from Van Nostrand’s entrance and swung right. “If a stretch comes out of there after twenty-one hundred hours, we’re home free.”

  “Then let’s go home,” said a Defense security officer in the back seat. “This was bullshit.”

  “Someone upstairs probably wanted to know who was humping who,” added a second voice from the back.

  “Pure bullshit,” the man beside the driver said, reaching for the vehicle’s radio. “I’ll call it in, and let’s get out of here. God love the pinstripe crowd.”

  Bajaratt sat back in the limousine, stunned, unable to formulate her thoughts. The man in the spotlight was Hawthorne! How could it be? It was impossible, yet he was there! Was it coincidence? Ridiculous. There had to be a pattern that permitted the impermissible—what was it? The padrone? Was that it? My God, it was.… The padrone, Mars and Neptune! The passions of remembered flesh intertwined with a coequal passion for power and supremacy. One taken from the other, killed by another. Oh, the goddamned fool! Van Nostrand could not let it go; he had summoned Hawthorne in order to kill him—he’s mine, no one else’s—and the Baj would never hear from him again after tonight.

  It was a chess game invented in hell, the kings and the pawns irrevocably at odds, unable to eliminate one another without a breakthrough that could destroy them both.… But it could not happen. She was so close—a few days, and Ashkelon would be avenged—her whole wretched life mean something! Muerte a toda autoridad! She could not be stopped, it was unthinkable!

  Paris. She had to find out.

  “What is happening?” asked Nicolo, whispering, still breathing hard, erratically, from the gunfire and their swift escape. “I think you had better tell me.”

  “Nothing that concerns us,” replied the Baj, reaching for the limousine’s telephone.

  Bajaratt dialed the overseas codes to Paris, then the number on the rue du Corniche. “Pauline?” she said emphatically. “I will speak to no other.”

  “It is I,” confirmed the woman in Paris. “And you are—”

  “The padrone’s only daughter.”

  “It is enough. What can I do for you?”

  “Has Saba called again?”

  “Certainement, madame. And quite excited. He asked about your not being on the island of Saba, and I believe I assuaged him. He is satisfied.”

  “How satisfied?”

  “He accepted the fact that your uncle left for another island and that you knew where to reach him when you returned to the Caribbean.”

  “Good. His Olympic Charters, Charlotte Amalie, right?”

  “I would not know, madame.”

  “Then forget I told you. I’ll leave him a message.”

  “Of course, madame. Adieu.”

  Bajaratt pressed the End button, discontinuing the call, then dialed the 809 number in St. Thomas for Olympic Charters. What she heard was precisely what she expected to hear at this hour of the night.

  “You have reached Olympic Charters, Charlotte Amalie. The office is closed and will open at 6 A.M. tomorrow. If this is an emergency, please press one, which will connect you to the Coast Guard patrol. Otherwise, you may leave a message.”

  “My darling, it’s Dominique! I’m calling from a boring cruise off the coast of Portofino and, my darling, it is, as you Americans say, the pits! But the good news is that I’ll be back in three weeks. I’ve convinced my husband that I must return to my uncle—he’s on Dog Island now. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, but I did tell you he keeps moving, didn’t I? Good heavens, Pauline scolded me so for not being clearer. It doesn’t matter, we’ll be together soon. I love you!”

  The Baj replaced the phone, annoyed by Nicolo’s stare. “Why did you say those things, Cabi?” asked the young man. “Are we flying back to the Caribbean? Where are we going?… Tonight, the gunfire, our racing away like this! What is happening, signora? You must tell me!”

  “I cannot tell you what I don’t know, Nico. You heard the driver, he said there was a robbery in progress. The owner of that estate is wealthy beyond our imaginations, and these are bad times in America. There is crime everywhere. That’s why there’s a gatehouse and guards and high fences. They must always be prepared for such terrible things. It has nothing to do with us, believe me.”

  “It is difficult for me to do that. If there are guards and so much protection, why are we running away?”

  “The police, Nicolo! The police have been summoned, and we certainly don’t want to be questioned by the police. We are visitors to this country; it would be embarrassing, humiliating.… What would Angelina think?”

  “Oh.…” The dock boy’s unrelenting gaze briefly softened. “Why did we come here?”

  “Because, through a friend, I was told we’d have our own quarters, and servants … and our host would provide me with a secretary, for I have dozens of letters to write.”

  “You have so many words, and you are so many people.” The young Italian continued to stare in the flashing shadows at the woman who had saved his life on the docks of Portici.

  “Reflect on your lire in Napoli, my dear boy. I have to sort things out.”

  “Perhaps you should sort out where we will stay tonight.”

  “Ah, now you are thinking.” The Baj pressed the intercom button for the driver. “Are there acce
ptable accommodations around here that you might suggest, my friend?”

  “Yes, madame, I’ve called ahead and they are prepared for you. Guests of Mr. Van Nostrand, of course. It’s the Shenandoah Lodge; you’ll find it quite acceptable.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tyrell crept along the edge of the grass in the shadows of the bordering pine trees. The stone gatehouse with the forbidding barriers across the dual-lane road was no more than a hundred feet away, the last thirty or forty, however, without the cover of the pines. It was open space, a manicured lawn between the road and a ten-foot-high stockade fence with ominous-looking metal points atop each rounded shaft; it took no expertise to know that a powerful electric current flowed from tip to tip. Nor did it take years of experience to realize that the two barriers that fell across the wide entrance road were no mere wooden planks; their thickness indicated plates of laminated steel. Only a tank could crash through them, an automobile of whatever size would impact and be shattered as if it had crashed into a wall of iron. They were lowered now.

  Hawthorne studied the gatehouse itself. The stone structure was square; the windows were of thick glass on the two sides that he could see, and a decorative turret reminiscent of a medieval castle completed the roof. The late Van Nostrand, a.k.a. Neptune, was a cautious man; the entrance to his extraordinary estate was break-proof, bulletproof, and heaven help the misguided penetrator who scaled the stockade fence. He’d be nuked until he was charred black flesh.

  There was no one to be seen in either window, so Tye raced across the open space, hugging the stone of the gatehouse once he reached it. Slowly, very slowly, he inched his head to the left side of the impenetrable thick glass. What he saw not only stunned him—it made no sense! Seated in a chair, his body slumped over a Formica desk perhaps ten feet from the entrance, was a uniformed guard, his head covered with blood. He had been shot not once but several times in the skull.

  Hawthorne circled the building to the door; it was open. He rushed inside and tried to assimilate everything there was to see. It was a kaleidoscope of high technology: three tiers of television screens, all in continuous motion, covering every area of the compound, even to the extent of picking up sound. The chirps and caws of birds mingled with the flapping of windblown leaves and the rustle of the tall grass in the outer perimeters of the enormous estate.

  Why had the guard been killed? Why? Where was the benefit? And where were his backups? A man like Neptune, much less his paranoid chief of security, would never assign a main gate to one individual alone; it was crazy, and neither Van Nostrand nor the coldly efficient Brian was crazy—warped, perhaps, but not stupid. Tye studied the equipment, wishing that Poole were in the gatehouse with him; various markings on different machines indicated that audio as well as visual tapes were in operation. Answers might be found if the right buttons were pressed, but conversely, everything could be erased if the wrong ones were activated.

  The most mystifying fact was that the place was deserted. What did they know that caused them to run away? The gunfire? That did not make sense; the patrols were armed, as witnessed by the dead man in the chair, his holster still housing a .38 revolver. And Van Nostrand obviously hired and paid for complete loyalty; why hadn’t his overpaid, loyal troops rushed to protect their benevolent employer? On cursory observation, it was doubtful they would find better jobs.

  The gatehouse telephone rang, not simply startling Hawthorne, but shocking him into inaction.… Impose a freeze control on yourself, Lieutenant. Ice cold, and in neutral. If the unexpected happens, make fucking sure you convey the fact that it’s perfectly natural.

  Words from an early trainer in deep-cover naval intelligence, words Tyrell himself had passed on to so many others behind him … in Amsterdam.

  Tyrell picked up the phone and coughed several times before speaking. “ ’N’eahh?” he said, his voice indistinct, in the tone of a hostile greeting.

  “What’s happening out there?” a woman shouted over the line. “I can’t reach anybody, not Mr. Van or Brian or my husband in the car—nobody!… And where have you been for the last five minutes? I keep ringing—nothing!”

  “Lookin’ around,” replied Hawthorne gruffly.

  “Those were gunshots, lots of ’em!”

  “Huntin’ deer maybe,” said Tyrell, recalling Poole’s game of Watch-the-Possum with the two pilots.

  “With a machine gun? At night?”

  “Different strokes, different folks.”

  “Crazy people, everybody’s crazy here!”

  “Yeah—”

  “Well, if you reach Mr. Van or any of the others, you tell ’em I’m staying right here in the kitchen with all these heavy doors locked up tight. If they want dinner, they can call me!” With that declaration, the estate’s chef slammed down the phone.

  The status quo was even more bewildering if only because the woman confirmed it—everyone had fled, perhaps killing the one man who would not join them, who might implicate the others. It was as though the specter of some Armageddon had spread through the compound in whispers. The time has come. It’s tonight. Save ourselves! What else could it be?… Still, there were answers here, but the only true answer, the sole connection to Bajaratt, was in the dead cells of the dead Van Nostrand’s brain.

  Hawthorne removed the blood-splattered .38 from the slain guard’s holster; he held it between his thumb and forefinger, carrying it into the small open bathroom, where he wiped it with paper towels and shoved it into his belt. He walked back out to the gatehouse’s equipment and once again studied it, concentrating on the panel above the counter nearest the entrance, presuming it would operate the road barriers. There were six outsize colored buttons forming two triangles, side by side, each identical. The buttons on the lower left were green; to their right, brown; and above, somewhat larger than those below, they were bright red. Beneath each was a yellow plaque with black lettering; in sequence, they read: OPEN, CLOSE, and under the red button above, the letters larger, ALARM.

  Tyrell chose the triangle on the left and pressed the green OPEN; the nearest barrier rose slowly. He pressed the brown; it returned to its lateral position. The left triangle was obviously for vehicles entering the estate, the right for those departing. To be certain, he repeated the procedure on the second triangle; the far barrier rose and fell. So much for high tech; there was no point in activating the alarm and every reason not to.

  He had made up his mind, assuming the risk was minimal, at least temporarily. He would rendezvous with Neilsen and Poole at the airstrip and announce his decision. They could either fly out with the pilots and follow up the Charlotte, North Carolina, connection—find out who specifically came out to escort Van Nostrand to his international departure gate—or they could stay with him and tear apart Van Nostrand’s study. The option was theirs, either alternative a positive step. The airport “clearance” could come from any number of people, its origin bureaucratically buried or falsely attributed, but a specific escort could be traced upward. On the other hand, Tyrell could use two additional pairs of eyes to scrutinize whatever they might find in Van Nostrand’s study, as well as in his living quarters. A man leaving his home under the stressful conditions self-imposed by this lord of the manor could easily become careless, forgetful.

  Hawthorne pulled the dead guard off the blood-drenched desk, gripped him under the armpits, and dragged the corpse into the small bathroom. He had stopped to wash his hands in the tiny sink when he heard the sudden roar of a car’s engine—loud, even furious, screeching to an abrupt stop.… Was he wrong? Were the police answering an emergency? Barely thinking, he raced out of the bathroom, grabbing the guard’s cap off the floor, and stood facing the thick window; he was instantly relieved. The blue Chevrolet was civilian, and it was not entering the compound, it was leaving. He looked at the counter, at the buttons, instinctively knowing he would choose the one to the right, the exit triangle.

  “Yes?” he said, flipping the toggle switch next to the built-
in microphone.

  “What the hell d’ya mean, yes, you dumb ninny?” came the excited voice over the gatehouse speakers. “Let me out of here! And when that jackass husband of mine comes back in the limo, tell him I went to my sister’s; he can reach me there.… Hey, wait a minute! Who are you?”

  “I’m new, ma’am,” said Tyrell, pressing the green button on the second triangle. “Have a pleasant night, ma’am.”

  “Loonies, you’re all lunatics! Planes flyin’ in, guns goin’ off, what next?” The Chevrolet raced out into the darkness as Hawthorne lowered the far barrier. Glancing around, he wondered if there was anything he should do, anything he should take.… Yes, there probably was; on the Formica desk, wet with glistening blood, was a large ringed notebook. He opened it and turned the loose-leaf pages; they held the names, dates, and times of Van Nostrand’s guests going back to the first of the month, some eighteen days. In his haste, or anxiety, Neptune may have made his first mistake. Tyrell closed the notebook, put it under his arm—then suddenly, the obvious striking him, he slammed it back down on the desk and quickly flipped through the pages to that night’s entry. The limousine that had sped away with two escaping passengers from the farthest guesthouse. Only one name was listed, but it was enough to set Hawthorne’s brain on fire! For within it was part of a name the visitor had no idea her hunters were aware of, yet her maniacal ego demanded that it be there, a trail for official commissions and scholars of history to follow. She would not be denied that ultimate recognition.

  Madame Lebajerône, Paris.

  Lebajerône.

  The Baj.

  Dominique.

  Bajaratt!

  19

  Tyrell left the gatehouse door ajar and ran up the road toward the break in the enormous lawn where he would cut across to reach the airstrip. Once on the grass, however, he slowed down, bewildered but not at first sure why; then he understood. He instinctively expected to see a wash of amber light the nearer he came to the runway. It was not there; there was only darkness. He resumed running, faster than before, racing through a narrow space in the tall hedgerow that bordered the edge of the field.