“Who are you?” The female voice on the line was accented. “You are not the same man.”
“Temporary backup, nothing unusual.”
“I don’t like changes.”
O’Ryan thought quickly. “He’d rather keep his gallbladder too, so what? Even we get sick, you know, and if you think I’m going to give you his name and the hospital he’s at, forget it, lady. You have your results; Ingersol’s dead.”
“Yes, yes, I acknowledge that and I commend your efficiency.”
“We try to oblige.… The padrone told me we were to accommodate you in any way we could, and I think we’ve done so.”
“There is one other man who must be taken out,” Bajaratt said.
O’Ryan’s voice went cold. “We’re not in the killing business. It’s far too dangerous.”
“This must be,” Amaya Bajaratt whispered intensely. “I demand it!”
“The padrone’s gone, so perhaps there are limits to your demands.”
“Never! I will send out teams from the Baaka to find you through our routes in Athens, Palermo, and Paris! Do not joke with me, signore!”
The analyst was cautious; he was all too aware of the terrorist mentality, the proclivity for rash and violent behavior. “Okay, okay, cool down. What do you want?”
“Do you know of a man named Hawthorne, a former naval officer?”
“We know all about him. He was pulled in by MI-6, London, because of the Caribbean connection. The last we heard he was in Puerto Rico, sizzling his ass in San Juan.”
“He’s here, I saw him!”
“Where?”
“At a place called the Shenandoah Lodge in Virginia—”
“I know it,” O’Ryan interrupted. “He followed you?”
“Kill him. Send the animales!”
“You got it, lady,” said O’Ryan, his impulse to promise the fanatic anything. “He’s dead.”
“Now, as to the package—”
“What package?”
“The hospitalized Scorpione Uno said his predecessor left a package for me. I’ll send the boy for it. Where?”
O’Ryan pulled the phone away from his ear, thinking rapidly. What the hell had Ingersol done? What package?… Still, “the boy” could be had. Whatever his purpose, or wherever he fitted into Bajaratt’s agenda, he could be eliminated. “Tell him to drive south to Route 4 until it meets 260, then head for a place called Chesapeake Beach; there are signs along the way. When he gets here, have him call me from a diner down the road with a telephone outside. I’ll meet him ten minutes later on the rocks of a jetty on the first public beach.”
“Very well, I’m writing this down.… I trust you have not opened the package.”
“No way, it’s not my business.”
“Bene.”
“I think so too. And don’t concern yourself about this Hawthorne. He’s finito.”
“Your Italian improves, signore.”
Nicolo Montavi stood in the rain on the rocks of the jetty, watching the taillights of the taxi that had brought him to this deserted spot recede. The taxi was literally commanded by the hotel’s stern doorman to take the young man where he wished to go or not to bother coming back for fares. The nearly two-hour trip had angered the driver; he left quickly. Nico trusted that Cabrini’s associate would find him a way back. The darkness was now complete, and the stevedore from the docks of Portici watched as the figure came into view in the wet, gray-black night. The nearer the man came, the more uneasy Nicolo felt, for there was no package in his hands; instead, they were in the pockets of his raincoat, and a person meeting another person at night in a heavy rain did not walk so slowly—it was not natural. The figure climbed up the irregular rocks of the man-made seawall; he slipped, both hands yanked out of his pockets to break his fall. In his right hand was a gun!
Nicolo spun around and plunged over the rocks into the dark waters as gunshots filled the night and the rain, a bullet grazing his left arm, another exploding above his head. He swam underwater for as long as he could, silently in panic thanking the docks of Portici for giving him the skill to do so. He surfaced less than thirty meters from the beach, spinning again until he could concentrate on the barrier of rocks. His would-be murderer now held a flashlight, its beam crisscrossing the water as he walked out to the end of the jetty, apparently satisfied that the killing had taken place. Nico stayed in the water, slowly making his way back to the wall of stone. He took off his shirt, raising his hands in the darkness and wringing out the cloth as best he could; it would float for a minute or two before sinking. Perhaps it would be enough, if he could place it correctly; he sidestroked along the jetty as the figure headed back toward the beach. Only moments now; then it was the moment! He lobbed the shirt ahead of him as the flashlight beam waved back and forth over the water.
The gunfire was thunderous, the punctured cloth erupting under the impact of the bullets before it sank. And then Nicolo heard what he wanted to hear: the repeated clicks of an empty magazine. He lunged up, his hands scraped and bleeding from the jagged rocks, then dived forward, gripping the ankles of the stunned figure with the empty automatic. The heavyset man roared in defiance, but his bulk was no match for the lean, strong swimmer from Portici. The young Italian leapt up, crashing his fists into the man’s stomach, then his face, finally clutching his throat and hurling him down over the rocks. The body lay still, the head shattered, the eyes wide. Slowly in the night rain, the dead man slipped into the water.
Nicolo felt the panic spreading through him, paralyzing him, causing the sweat to break out on his face and his neck despite the cold rain and his drenched clothing—what was left of it. What had he done—yet what else could he do? He had killed a man, but only because that man had tried to kill him! Still, he was in a strange country, a foreigner in a foreign land, where they executed men for killing other men because people who were not there decided that those who killed should die, believing their judgments replaced the eyes of God.
What should he do now? Not only were his trousers soaking wet but his bare chest was scraped and bleeding, the wound in his shoulder open, although not deep. He had been cut worse by the ancient stones and anchors while diving for the ocean scientists; it was not an explanation he could offer the polizia in America. They would say it was not pertinente; he had killed an American; perhaps he was a capo-subalterno in the hated Sicilian Mafia. Mother of Christ, he had never been to Sicily!
He had to get hold of himself, Nicolo understood that. He had to think, not waste time imagining useless possibilities. He had to reach Cabrini—Cabrini the bitch! Had she sent him out to die for a “package” that was not there?… No, he was too important to the grand contessa; the barone-cadetto was too important. Something had gone wrong for his signora salvatora puttana; a man she thought she could trust wanted only to destroy her—by killing one Nicolo Montavi, dock boy from Portici.
He rushed along the slippery jetty in the downpour, deciding that he could make better and safer time in the shallow water. He jumped down and raced to the beach, then up across the sand to the parking area; there was only one other automobile, without doubt his would-be killer’s. He wondered if he could yank the ignition wires, cross them, and start the engine as he had done so many times before with others.
He could not. The car was an expensive macchina da corsa, a sports car for the rich, who protected their investment. One never touched them in Napoli or Portici; even if one could open the hood, an alarm was heard for three hundred meters, the battery neutralized, the steering wheel incapable of being turned.
The roadside restaurant with the enclosed glass booth that had a telephone! He had coins in his pocket, several thrown at him by the angry taxi driver, until he apologized when Nico gave him a twenty-dollar mancia, telling the man he knew how important tips were. He started down the road in the rain, staying on the side and constantly turning his head, dashing into the bordering woods whenever he saw headlights or taillights.
Thirty-fi
ve minutes later he reached the restaurant, its glaring red neon sign spelling out ROOSTER’S NEST. He crouched in the shadows at the edge of the building as automobiles and trucks came and went, only a few stopping in front of the telephone booth. The outside phone was a familiar sight in the Italian cafés; a convenience that more often than not led callers inside for food and wine.… Suddenly, a furious woman inside the booth screamed so loudly she could be heard through the downpour. She then smashed the receiver with such force against the folding glass door that it shattered, then she walked unsteadily outside and vomited in the nearby bushes of the front parking lot. Several newcomers dashed around her in the rain, and Nicolo knew the time was right; the light was still on in the booth, the broken glass menacingly reflected in its wash. He raced across the pavement, the coins in his hand.
“Informazioni—information, if you please? The number for the Carillon hotel in Washington?” The operator gave it to him as he scratched it with the rim of another coin on the ledge. Without warning a large truck stopped in front of the booth, the driver a heavyset man with a full, unkempt beard, his fleshed eyes squinting. He shouted, seeing Nicolo’s bleeding upper torso.
“Who the fuck are you, Speedo?”
Instinct propelling him, the large, muscular dock boy crashed open the shattered door and yelled. “I have been shot, signor! I am Italian and there are mafiosi surrounding this place. Will you help me?”
“In your fuckin’ dreams, Eyetal!” The truck burst forward and Nicolo completed his call.
“You what?” said Bajaratt harshly.
“Do not show anger with me, signora!” replied a furious Nicolo over the telephone from Chesapeake Beach. “That terrible man came to kill me, not to give me a package.”
“I cannot believe it!”
“You did not hear the gunfire or nearly have your left arm shot off, which mine was, and is swollen and still bleeding a little.”
“Il traditore! Bastardo!… Something has happened, Nico, something very wrong, very horrible. The man was not only to guard your safety with his life, but to deliver a package for me.”
“There was no package. You cannot do this to me, and do not tell me it is part of our contract! I will not die for you, not for all the money in Napoli!”
“Never, my boy-man, never! You are my young love, have I not proven it to you?”
“I’ve seen you kill two people, a maid and a driver—”
“I explained both to you. Would you rather they killed us?”
“We run from one place to another—”
“As we did in Napoli, in Portici … to save your life.”
“There is too much I cannot understand, Signora Cabrini! Perhaps tonight is the last!”
“You must not think that way, never think that way! There is too much at stake!… Stay where you are and I will come to you—where are you?”
“At a restaurant called Rooster’s Nest in this Cheez-a-peake Beach.”
“Stay where you are, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Remember Napoli, Nicolo; think of your future. Stay there!”
The Baj slammed down the phone, furious, shaken, uncertain where to turn. The Scorpios would die, all die, but to whom could she give the order? The padrone was gone, Van Nostrand incommunicado somewhere in Europe, a man claiming to be Scorpio Two had been killed by Nicolo on an obscure American beach, and the unknown Scorpio One was unreachable in a hospital under a name she did not know. The primitive dock boy was right; it was all insane. Yet where could she turn? The Baaka’s network extended everywhere, all over the globe, but she had relied on the padrone’s connections in America. The Scorpios. Oh, God, had the Scorpion leadership turned against her, her one extraordinary asset now a terrible liability?
It could not happen! The final statement of her life of pain, the only reason she had left to survive the agony of the Pyrenees—Muerte a toda autoridad! She could not be stopped by men in dark suits and grand estates and large limousines that carried them from one place of power to another like the killer pharaohs of Egypt in their chariots. It could not be! What did they know of earthbound brutality, of the horror of being forced to watch as their mothers and fathers were beheaded in front of their eyes by the authorities?… It was like that in so many places; whole Basque villages in flames because they wanted something of their own; her beloved husband’s people slaughtered, their homes bulldozed out of the ground because they wanted their own, stolen from them by a people armed by the giants of the world because they carried the guilt of not stopping the killers of Jews, which her husband’s people had nothing to do with! Where was the justice, where the humanity?… No, the “authorities” everywhere had to be taught a lesson. They had to be hurt, had to learn that they were as vulnerable as those they destroyed with their false agendas.
Bajaratt picked up the phone and dialed the numbers given her by Nils Van Nostrand. There was no answer. She remembered the padrone’s words.
All my connections have devices, like pacemakers, that tell them they must answer the calls immediately, no matter their situations. And if their situations deny them access for an excessive length of time, another descending number is programmed. Wait twenty minutes, then try again.
But what if there still is no answer, my only father?
Don’t trust anyone. Electronic codes can be broken in these days of extraordinary technology. Be conservative, my child, assume the worst and leave wherever you are.
What then?
The Baj is on her own, my only daughter. Use others.
Bajaratt waited twenty minutes and called once more. Nothing. As instructed by the padrone, she assumed the worst. Scorpio Two had tried to kill Nicolo and had been killed in the attempt.
Why?
It was 4:36 A.M. when the shrill ring of the telephone assaulted Hawthorne’s ears in the room he shared with Poole at the Shenandoah Lodge.
“You got it, Tye?” asked the far more alert lieutenant in the other bed.
“I’m getting it, Jackson.” Tyrell fumbled the phone off the hook and pulled it to his ear at the side of the pillow. “Yes?” he asked.
“Is this Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne?”
“Was, yes. Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Allen, John Allen, naval intelligence, temporarily standing in for Captain Stevens, who has relieved himself from duty to get some much needed rest, sir.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
“I’ve been briefed on a restricted need-to-know basis, Commander, but I wanted to get a quick analysis from your point of view on a recent development that conceivably might influence my disturbing Captain Stevens—”
“For Christ’s sake, speak English!”
“Do you know, or have you ever known, or recently been in contact with, or been apprised of a Central Intelligence analyst by the name of Patrick Timothy O’Ryan?”
Tyrell paused, then answered quietly. “Never heard of him. So?”
“His body was found by a Chesapeake oyster boat, entangled in one of its nets, I’m told, about an hour ago. I thought I’d call you first before disturbing the captain.”
“Where did you get the report from?”
“The Chesapeake C.G.—that’s the coast guard, sir.”
“Are the local police informed?”
“Not as yet, sir. When this kind of thing happens, like when that navy commander was shot in a rowboat ten or twelve years ago, we try to restrict it temporarily just to us, with nothing touched—”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant, I understand. Keep it all secure until I get there. Where are you?”
“At the River Bend Marina, about two miles south of Chesapeake Beach. I’m heading out there now, sir. Should I call Captain Stevens?”
“No way, Lieutenant. Let the man sleep. We’ll take it from here.”
“Thank you, sir. He can get real mad.”
Hawthorne swung out of the bed as Poole, already on his feet and across the room, turned on the lights. “Here we go, Jackson,” said
Tyrell. “This is a breakthrough, a real one.”
“How do you figure?”
“I said I didn’t know a dead man named O’Ryan, and I don’t personally, but I know he’s just about the best son-of-a-bitch analyst the Agency ever had.… He also floated through Amsterdam six or seven years ago on one of those silent CIA evaluation exercises, looking to find fault with military input. Fellows like me avoided him as though he had the plague.”
“So what’s the relevance?”
“He was the best, and Bajaratt uses only the best until he or she doesn’t serve her any longer. Then she discards them, kills them to cut off any connection.”
“That’s wild, Tye. You’re really reachin’.”
“Maybe, Jackson, but I feel it, I sense it—he must have been the primary leak. It’s all I have to go by.”
“That’s pretty awesome, Commander. You’re talkin’ the top of our secret intelligence charts.”
“I know, Lieutenant. Wake up the major.”
* * *
On a tree-lined street in upper-class Montgomery County, Maryland, a low hum persisted on the telephone beside Senator Paul Seebank’s bed. It was so muted, it could not be heard by his wife, who slept beside him, a cellolike sound that awoke only the person next to the instrument. Seebank opened his eyes, reached over, and pressed the redial button, terminating the hum, then quietly, slowly, got out of bed and went downstairs to his book-lined study. He repressed the lighted redial button, inserted the code for reception, and heard the following words in a flat British monotone.
There is a problem with our associates as our lines are no longer operative. You will receive all calls. Assume all authority.
Senator Paul Seebank, one of the leaders of that august legislative body, with trembling fingers pressed the appropriate numbers that gave him access to the Providers’ clandestine personnel. He was Scorpio Four, now for all intents and purposes, the first of the Scorpions.
The senator froze in his chair, his face chalk-white, the blood drained. He could not ever remember when he had been more terrified.
The Scorpio Illusion Page 41
