The Scorpio Illusion

by Robert Ludlum

  “Are you feeling all right, Tye?” Neilsen turned, looking over the partition at Hawthorne’s stretched-out legs and the hands that were massaging them.

  “What does that mean? I’m perfectly fine, except I’m a charter, not a commando.”

  “I can stop and get some ice,” said Poole.

  The telephone rang; Tyrell grabbed it. “Yes?”

  “This is the cellular operator, sir. Is this number—”

  “Never mind, operator, I’d know that bark anywhere,” said the overriding voice of Henry Stevens. “We’ve got the wrong limo.”

  “We’re very sorry, sir, please excuse the inconvenience—”

  Hawthorne hung up. “At least he’s moving fast,” said Tyrell.

  They drove around the Virginia countryside, seeing little because of the darkness, and passing the large estates of the hunt-country millionaires, only innocuous comments filling the void of pertinent conversation. The tension was driving the three of them to the point of babbling. Then exactly eighteen minutes later, the limousine phone rang again.

  “What have you walked into,” asked an ice-cold Captain Henry Stevens.

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Something neither one of us wants to hear. We traced the cellular number of Van Nostrand’s limousine—his other limo—and had the operator verify for line interference. All we heard on the override was the usual, recorded ‘driver has left the vehicle.’ ”

  “So? Keep trying!”

  “No reason to. Our crossover computers picked up a state police report with the identical license plate and registration—”

  “They were stopped? Hold them—”

  “They weren’t stopped,” Stevens broke in, his cool manner becoming frigid. “Have you any idea who Van Nostrand is?”

  “Enough to know he went around you to reach me, Henry.” As an astonished Stevens started to reply, Tyrell cut him off. “You were out of the loop, Captain, and you’d better bless your stars you weren’t in it. If you had been, I’d have cut your throat with your eyes wide open.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I was summoned to my own execution—fortunately, I survived.”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  “Believe me, I don’t lie where my life’s concerned. We’ve got to find that other limo, find Bajaratt. Now, where is it?”

  “At the bottom of a ravine off a back-country road in Fairfax,” said the stunned chief of naval intelligence in a quiet monotone. “The driver’s dead.”

  “Where are the others? There were two, one of them Little Girl Blood!”

  “You say—”

  “I know! Where are they?”

  “There was no one else, just the driver—shot in the head.… I ask you again, Tye, do you know who this Van Nostrand is? The police are on their way to his place right now!”

  “They’ll find him in the library, stone-cold deep. Good-bye, Henry.” Hawthorne hung up the phone and leaned back in the seat, his legs and arms in pain, his head throbbing from the anxiety and the tension. “Forget the limousine,” he said, bringing his hand to his leaded eyes. “It’s totaled, the driver’s dead.”

  “Bajaratt?” Neilsen whipped her head around. “Where is she?”

  “Who knows? Somewhere within a hundred-mile radius is as good a bet as any, but we’re not going to find her tonight. Maybe we’ll learn something from the gatehouse log, maybe more from the Charlotte airport … or perhaps even more from a combination of both. Let’s find a place where we can rest and get something to eat. As an old trainer once told me, both are weapons.”

  “We passed a pretty nice-lookin’ place a while back,” said Poole. “Actually, I don’t know where we’d find another; it’s the only motel I’ve seen, and we’ve been drivin’ all over the area. As a matter of fact, Cath and I were supposed to be registered there, courtesy of Van Nostrand. Of course, we weren’t—never meant to be.”

  “The Shenandoah Lodge, wasn’t it?” asked the major.

  “That’s it,” replied the lieutenant.

  “Turn around,” said Tyrell.

  20

  Nicolo Montavi of Portici paced rapidly back and forth, trembling from fear and exhaustion, rivulets of sweat rolling down his face, his eyes wide and darting this way and that at nothing, betraying his panic. Less than an hour before he had committed not only a terrible crime but a mortal sin in the eyes of God! He had assisted in the taking of a human life—not the killing itself, thanks be to Christ—but he had not stopped it in that swift second or two when he saw Cabrini take the gun from her purse. He had been confused, still appalled, horrified by the gunfire that accompanied their escape from the huge estate. The signora had ordered the chauffeur to stop the limousine, that was all! Then she withdrew her gun and shot him in the back of his head as coldly as if—as if she were swatting a fly, that was it! Moments later she had commanded her dock boy to push the car off the side of the road, where it plunged down the embankment into a ravine. He could not disobey, for the weapon was in her hand, and he knew in his heart—for it was in her eyes—that she would kill him if he refused. Madonna della tristezza!

  Amaya Bajaratt sat on the couch in the minisuite at the Shenandoah Lodge, facing a hysterical Nicolo. “Is there anything else you wish to say, my dear? If so, please lower your voice.”

  “You are a madwoman, completely insane! You shot that man for no reason at all—you will send us both to hell!”

  “I’m glad you understand that you’re included on the journey.”

  “You shot him just as you shot that black servant on the island, and he was only a driver!” interrupted the young Italian feverishly. “The lies, the clothes, this juego we play with such important people … ah, bueno, che cosa? games for the rich who pay money, it is not so different on the docks in Portici … but not killing two such people. My God, a simple driver!”

  “He was not a simple driver. When I told you to search his pockets, what did you find?”

  “A gun,” the dock boy replied quietly, reluctantly.

  “Do simple drivers carry weapons?”

  “In Italy, many do to protect their employers.”

  “Possibly, but not here in the United States. Here there are laws we don’t have.”

  “I know nothing of such laws.”

  “I do, and I tell you that man was a criminal, an agente segreto sworn to destroy our great cause.”

  “You have such a great cause?”

  “The greatest, Nicolo. There is none like it in the world today, a cause the Church itself silently blesses us for dedicating our lives to it.”

  “Il Vaticano? But you are not of my church! You have no faith!”

  “In this area I do, I give you my solemn word, and that’s all I’m permitted to tell you. So you see, your concerns are not that important. Now do you understand?”

  “No, I do not, signora.”

  “You don’t have to,” Bajaratt broke in firmly. “Think how rich you are in Napoli, and of the great family that welcomes you as its own in Ravello. While you’re doing so, go into the bedroom and unpack us.”

  “You are a very difficult woman,” said Nicolo in a monotone, his eyes unblinking.

  “Ever so. Quickly now, I have calls to make.” The young Italian retreated into the bedroom as the Baj reached for the telephone on the side table. She dialed the number of their hotel and asked for the concierge. She identified herself, giving instructions for the luggage she had left behind, and inquired as to her messages, for which she had handsomely tipped the concierge.

  “Thank you for your generosity, madame,” said an unctuous voice at the hotel in Washington, “and be assured that your needs are being looked after with utmost care. We’re sorry you had to leave so abruptly, but hope to have you back when you’re again in the nation’s capital.”

  “The messages, please.” There were five, the most important one from Senator Nesbitt of Michigan; several others were in varying de
grees helpful but not vital, and the last enigmatic. It was from the red-haired young political consultant they had met in Palm Beach, the oped contributor to The New York Times who had steered them to the dangerously inquisitive reporter from The Miami Herald—so dangerous Bajaratt had had to eliminate him quickly, with a jab of her lethal bracelet. She called the senator first.

  “I have promising if unconfirmed news for you, Countess. My colleague in the Senate has tentatively set a meeting with the President in three days. Of course, it will be pursuant to our understanding—”

  “Naturalmente!” interrupted the Baj. “The barone will be so pleased, and you will not be forgotten, Senator, believe me.”

  “That’s most kind of you.… Your appearance will be off the books, that is, not listed on the President’s schedule. There’ll be only one photographer, approved by the White House Chief of Staff, and you will sign a release specifically stating that the photo session is for personal use and not for the press, either here or abroad. Extreme personal embarrassment would follow if the release is violated.”

  “Completely private!” Bajaratt agreed. “You have the word of a great Italian family.”

  “And that’s completely acceptable,” said Nesbitt, his tone of voice lighthearted, allowing a chuckle. “However, should the baron’s financial interests prove politically favorable, especially in regionally depressed areas, I guarantee that the Chief of Staff will have the photo of the President and the baron’s son published all over the place. To counter that conceivable eventuality, my colleague from Michigan and I will have separate photographs taken flanking your nephew—without the President.”

  “How interesting,” observed the Baj, laughing softly.

  “You don’t know the Chief of Staff,” said Nesbitt. “If that Oval Office picture has mileage, no one else climbs on the trolley.… Where may I call you? The hotel said it was taking your messages—”

  “We’re traveling so much, you see.” The Baj, sensing a problem, broke in quickly. “I trust one day soon we’ll be going to your state of Michigan, but everything is happening so rapidly. Dante Paolo has the energy of six young bulls.”

  “It’s none of my business, Countess, but I’d think it would be far easier on you, and perhaps more efficient, if you had an office and a staff—at least a secretary who knew where to find you. I’m sure through the baron’s many friends here, dozens would be available to you. And I certainly could help you there, perhaps my own office.”

  “The answer to our prayers, but, alas, it cannot be. My brother is above reproach in all things, but he prizes confidentiality as thoroughly as he does ethics, no doubt because there are so many unethical men in world finance. The staff and the secretaries are in Ravello, nowhere else. We call every day, frequently twice or three times. They’ve been with him for years.”

  “He’s a cautious fella,” said the senator, “and damned right to be so. The BCCI fiasco, along with Watergate and Iran-contra, has taught us all that. I just hope your telephones are secure.”

  “We travel with point-of-origin scramblers calibrated to reception frequencies, signore. What could be more secure?”

  “My, that is sophisticated. The Defense Department tells us that terrorists have homed in on that technology. Pretty damned impressive.”

  “We would know nothing about such people, Senator, but for us it provides a measure of safety.… I will, of course, check with the hotel’s concierge every hour or so.”

  “Please do, Countess. In the Washington circus, three days could become tomorrow or yesterday.”

  “I understand completely.”

  “You received the additional materials my office sent you, didn’t you?”

  “At this moment, Dante Paolo is talking to his father most enthusiastically on the other telephone about your proposals.”

  “You know, it’s really remarkable, Countess. A young man that bright, that intuitive. The baron must be terribly proud. And you, Countess, a knowledgeable, lovely sister he can confide in, a woman of such charm, such diplomacy. Have you ever thought of politics?”

  “I think of them all the time,” the Baj replied, a smile in her voice. “And how I wish they’d all disappear—they destroy me so.”

  “Please, some of us need the work. I’ll leave a message for you with the specifics of your visit to the White House.… And, of course, you know how to reach me if you have news from Ravello.”

  “Not if, Signor Nesbitt, merely when. Arrivederci.” Bajaratt replaced the phone, her eyes on the Shenandoah stationery on which she had written the numbers and the names she had been given by the hotel in Washington. Three of them could wait, so could the last, but sheer curiosity forced her to lift the receiver and dial the red-haired young political consultant from Palm Beach.

  “Reilly’s Plumbers,” said the cheerful voice on the answering machine. “If your message relates to payment for my services, press one. If it doesn’t, get the hell off the line and let someone worthwhile call me. You may, however, leave your name and even your number, but I make no promises.” A long beep followed and the Baj spoke.

  “We met in Palm Beach, Mr. Reilly, and I’m returning your call—”

  “Glad you did, Countess,” the political consultant interrupted, breaking into the line. “You’re not an easy lady to track down.”

  “How did you, Mr. Reilly?”

  “Sorry, that’ll cost you,” answered the young man, laughing. “On the other hand, since you didn’t press one, I’ll tell you for nothing.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “It was simple. I remembered a few of the Washington bears who were sniffing around your campfire and called their secretaries. Two out of three told me where you were.”

  “They were so free with the information?”

  “They sure were after I explained that I just flew in from Rome with a confidential message for you from the big-shot baron—and how grateful he’d be to know the name of anyone who helped me. Also, I happened to mention that diamond bracelets spelling out the name Ravello weren’t out of the question. You know how expansive these rich Italians are.”

  “You are a rogue, Mr. Reilly.”

  “I keep trying, Countess. This town is filled with pros.”

  “Why did you wish to reach me?”

  “I’m afraid that will cost you, lady.”

  “What service could you possibly render to me that I would pay for?”

  “Information.”

  “Of what nature, what value?”

  “That’s two different things, and to be perfectly honest, I can answer the first but I can’t put a price on the second. Only you can.”

  “Then answer the first.”

  “Okay. Someone’s looking in the sewers for a couple of people who may or may not be you and the kid, emphasis on the not, because it would be too farfetched. But then, I’ve got a wild imagination.”

  “I see.” Bajaratt froze. So near, so close! “We are who we are, Mr. Reilly,” she said, her control at maximum. “Who might the others be?”

  “Like I said, sewer rats. Hustlers, maybe Mafia drug missionaries looking for better markets, or just plain scam artists from Sicily who know who to hold up.”

  “We could be mistaken for such people?”

  “Hell, not on the surface. The woman’s a lot younger than you, and the kid’s described as an illiterate, muscle-bound thug.”

  “It’s all preposterous!”

  “Yeah, that’s what I kept thinking, but as I say, I’ve got a crazy imagination. Do you want to meet?”

  “Certainly, if only to put this insanity to rest.”

  “Where?”

  “In a city or town called Fairfax, there’s an inn or a hotel of sorts called the Shenandoah Lodge.”

  “I know it. So do most of the wandering husbands in Washington—surprised you could get in. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “I’ll be in the parking lot,” the Baj said. “I don’t care to upset Dante Paolo, baron
e-cadetto di Ravello.”

  Ashkelon!

  Forever. What news?

  We’re about to enter phase one. Prepare for countdown.

  Allah be loved; Allah be praised.

  Praise an American senator.

  Are you joking?

  Not for an instant. He’s come through for us. The strategy was successful!

  Details?

  You don’t need them. Still, in case I don’t survive, his name is Nesbitt. You may have need of him after I’m gone. And your Allah knows, he’ll be vulnerable.

  The limousine, driven by Poole, pulled into the entrance of the Shenandoah Lodge. The Van Nostrand name secured two adjoining double rooms despite the lateness of the hour and the disheveled appearance of the three travelers.

  “What do we do now, Tye?” said Cathy, walking into the room Tyrell and Poole were sharing.

  “Order some food, get some rest, and start making calls—oh, my God!”

  “What is it?”

  “Stevens!” cried Hawthorne, rushing to the telephone. “The police… they could cripple Charlotte, take the pilots into custody, the whole scenario could be blown away!”

  “Can you stop them?” Neilsen asked as Tyrell dialed furiously.

  “It depends when they got there.… Captain Stevens, four-zero emergency!… Henry, it’s me. Whatever’s happening at Van Nostrand’s, you have to push every button you’ve got to keep it quiet!” Hawthorne fell silent, listening intently for nearly a minute. “I have to take back a few of the things I’ve laid on you, Captain,” he said finally, less excitedly, relief in his tone. “I’ll call you in a couple of hours with some names. Put each one under a microscope, twenty-four-hour details, telephone logs, scumbag material, the whole bag of dirty tricks.… Good thinking, Henry. By the way, I’ve been doing some thinking too, reevaluating maybe, on another subject. This may sound crazy at a time like this, but how well did you know Ingrid?” A sad smile creased Tyrel’s face, his eyes briefly closing. “That’s what I thought. Speak to you around midnight. Will you be at the office or at home?… Right, I shouldn’t have asked.” Hawthorne hung up the phone, his hand still on it as he raised his head and spoke. “Stevens anticipated the scenario. He’s pulled a black drape over the Van Nostrand estate.”