“What are you saying to me? My life, my husband, we are nothing?” The Baj sprang off the cushion as the robed Ahmet appeared in the doorway. “I’m willing to die for the greatest cause in history! Death to the pigs of authority!”
“That’s what we must talk about, Amaya.… Leave us, Ahmet, she has no weapon.… Your willingness to die is not terribly important, my dear. There are men and women all over the world willing to die for what they believe in, and the vast majority are never heard of, either before or after the act.… No, I want more than that for you, for us.”
“What do you want from me?” asked Bajaratt, slowly lowering herself to the cushion, her eyes locked with the beautiful, aging, yet ageless woman across the room.
“You’ve come this far brilliantly, with certain assistance, of course, but basically because of your own extraordinary talents. In a matter of mere days you’ve become an influential force, a behind-the-scenes power whom powerful men seek out for what they believe you can deliver. None of us could have done that for you; it had to spring from the idea, the concept you created, and it was absolutely brilliant. The young man, a baron in training, no less, and a family in Ravello with millions to invest. Even the child actress—such an appealing sideshow, so genuinely touching. You deserve ‘the Baj’s’ reputation.”
“I do what I do, and let others judge. Their judgments, frankly, are insignificant to me. I ask again, what do you want from me? I was told by the Baaka Councils to reach you prior to my last days here—quite possibly my last days alive. Either way, they are approaching.”
“You understand that we—I—have no authority over you. That is reserved for the High Councils alone.”
“I understand that. However, I am to render you the respect due a true friend, an ally of our cause, and listen to your words.… I’m listening.”
“Friend, yes, Amaya, but an ally only up to a point, my dear. We are no part of Van Nostrand’s Scorpions, that group of underground opportunists whose only aim is to profitably serve the Providers, whose only cause is wealth and power. I—we—have enough of both over here.”
“Who are you, then? You know a great deal.”
“It’s our job to know.”
“But who are you?”
“The Germans had an applicable term during the Second World War. Der Nachrichtendienst. An elite intelligence unit that even the Third Reich’s High Command knew little or nothing about. It was comprised of fewer than a dozen elderly members, Prussians mainly, aristocrats all, who collectively brought nearly eight hundred years of expertise and influence to the table. They were German to the core, but they operated above the fray, above the passions of war, seeking only what was best for the Fatherland, realizing the disadvantages of their nation being led by Adolf Hitler and his thugs.… As we recognize the disadvantages we face with terrorists murdering women and children in Israel. It’s simply counterproductive.”
“I think this conversation has gone far enough!” said the Baj, rising to her feet. “Have you and your elitists considered the displacement of an entire people? Have you been to the refugee camps? Have you watched the Israeli bulldozers plow down your own homes on mere suspicions? Have you forgotten the bloodbaths of Shatila and Sabra?”
“We’re told your appointment with the President is tomorrow night, approximately eight o’clock,” said the woman quietly, resting farther back on the satin pillows.
“It is tomorrow, then? Eight o’clock?”
“It was originally scheduled for three o’clock in the afternoon, but considering the nature of the ‘contessa’s’ American visit, which is to further foreign investment—a delicate subject these days for a proud country—it was suggested to the White House that perhaps a later hour, an evening hour, might be more appropriate. There’d be less chance of the press learning that the President was giving preferential treatment to an ambitious foreign aristocrat taking advantage of the economy here.”
“Their reaction …?” asked a bewildered Bajaratt.
“The Chief of Staff instantly and enthusiastically approved. He hates accommodating senators and congressmen, but the President equally loathes offending anyone politically. Also, you’ll have a far better chance to escape—escape and fight again—if you strike at eight o’clock. The White House guard details change then, which means there’s a degree of relaxation at their posts as up-to-the-minute records and instructions are given to the relief contingents. You will be aided by three men, one in a chauffeur’s uniform, who will guide you, under the pretense of protecting you from the press, through backstairs corridors that lead to another limousine. Ours. They will use a name to identify themselves. Ashkelon. I trust you approve.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bajaratt. “Why would you do this? You just led me to believe that you disapproved—”
“Of your other intentions,” the Arab woman interrupted sharply. “However, for your life, we have something to ask of you, demand of you if you wish. You see, we have no objective disagreement, geopolitically or specifically, with the assassination of the American President; he’s ruled by polls, not principle, and therefore expendable. The people sense it; he arouses no passion. Oh, there’ll be outrage and endless investigations, but it will all dwindle. The Vice President is extremely popular. And although we think it’s melodramatic, we can even accept the killings in England and France if you insist. They are sophisticated governments—European governments—who don’t make idols of their political leaders. Instead, they face harsh realities and negotiate. Frankly, with the chaos of an American power vacuum, we can further escalate our influence here, but more to the point, a message will be sent to this President’s successors and their Cabinets. We may not have the Jewish vote or its money, but we have something else, something worthy of the celebrated Mossad. We are not a myth or a fantasy of the lunatic fringe. We are real. As you said only minutes ago, we have men and women who will die to cut off the head of a snake. That’s visceral, my child, and as you have proved with your brilliant strategy, they’ll never know where we’re coming from or when, and in the back corridors of power they’ll think twice before constantly kissing the Israeli boot. Then in a word, America, too, will become sophisticated.”
“What do you ask of me, demand of me, for my life, which is of no great consequence?”
“Don’t kill the Jew. Call off your people in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.”
“How can you say that? It’s our final statement, the vengeance of Ashkelon!”
“And the death of thousands upon thousands of our people, Amaya. Israel acts unilaterally, personally if you like. She really doesn’t care what happens beyond her borders, unless it threatens her; and if any other small country had gone through the German Holocaust, that country wouldn’t either. I told you, we are coldly objective. You assassinate a Jewish leader, sorties of Jewish planes day and night will fly over and bomb our camps and settlements for weeks on end until they’re utterly destroyed, reduced to rubble and burning flesh. Consider recent history—the Jews released twelve hundred prisoners for six Israeli soldiers, and later exiled more than four hundred Palestinians over the death of one soldier. Their leader is the equivalent of ten thousand Jewish soldiers, for he is more than a man, he is the living symbol of their nation.”
“You ask a terrible price of me,” said Bajaratt barely above a whisper. “One I’m not prepared to pay. I’ve waited all my life for this moment, this one magnificent moment that will justify so much of my having lived at all.”
“My child—” the woman began.
“No! I am not your child or anyone’s child,” said Bajaratt, her voice distant, frozen. “I was never a child. Muerte a toda autoridad.”
“I don’t understand you—”
“It is not your business to understand me. As you yourself said, you have no authority over me.”
“Certainly not, I agree. I’m only trying to reason with you, protect you.”
“Reason?” whispered the Baj. “Where has re
ason gotten your people, or my people? Yours are at least in camps, no matter how filthy, but mine are hunted like animals in the mountains, executed, slaughtered on sight—beheaded. Muerte a toda autoridad! Everywhere they must die.”
“Please, my dear,” said the ageless dark-skinned woman, her expression conveying her alarm at the sight of the mesmerizing figure in front of her. “Please, I am not your enemy, Amaya.”
“I see it now,” Bajaratt said. “You’re trying to stop me, aren’t you? You have an armed servant who can easily kill me.”
“And have the wrath of the Baaka descend on all our necks? You are their adopted, most-favored daughter, wife of the dead hero of Ashkelon, a woman so revered, the Councils seek your advice and forever give you their blessings. For all I know, the Baaka had you followed to this house.”
“Never! I act on my own, never to be interfered with!”
“I’m sure that’s your understanding, but I have no such assurance, therefore no harm would ever come to you here. Please, you’re overwrought, and I say again, I’m not your enemy, I’m your friend.”
“Yet you’re saying you want me to eliminate the Jerusalem agenda, how can you?”
“For the reasons I just gave you—among them the slaughter of perhaps a million Palestinians. There would be no Palestinian cause, then, for the heart of a people would be ripped out.”
“They’ve taken our lands, our children, our future, why not our hearts?”
“Words, Amaya, foolish declarations—”
“They will never take our souls!”
“Even more foolish words. Souls can’t fight without bodies. One must survive to fight, you of all women must know that. You are the supreme strategist.”
“And you? Who are you, living in all this, to lecture me?” Bajaratt’s hand swept the opulent room.
“Ah, this,” the ageless beauty said, laughing softly. “The image of wealth and self-indulgence, a combination that denotes power and influence, for one follows the other in this materialistic world. We all show off. It’s always the images that are important, isn’t it? I don’t have to tell you that, you are an imagiste extraordinaire.… We’re not so different, Amaya Aquirre. You create diversions from the outside, aimed at penetrating the exterior; I, on the other hand, bore my way into the interior, and when the time is right, blow apart the shell with the ammunition at hand.… You are that ammunition, that nitroglycerin, my child—and don’t tell me you are not my child in this cause, this holy cause—because you are now my daughter.”
“I am no one’s daughter any longer! I sprang from death, watching death!”
“You are mine. Whatever you watched, whatever you observed, is nothing compared to what I went through. You spoke of Shatila and Sabra, but you weren’t there. I was! You think you want vengeance, my non-Arab child? I want it far more than you can ever imagine.”
“Then how can you stop me from killing the Jew?”
“Because you will unleash a thousand air strikes against my people—my people, not yours.”
“I am one with you, and you know it! I’ve proved it. I gave you my husband and I’m willing to give you my life.”
“It’s not terribly difficult to give away something one despises, Amaya.”
“And if I refuse your request, your misplaced demand?”
“Then you will not reach the White House, much less the Oval Office.”
“Ridiculous! My access to the White House is guaranteed! The man who accommodates me is committed to the Ravello millions, and he’s not a fool.”
“And this man, this Senator Nesbitt from the state of Michigan who accommodates you, what do you know about him?”
“You know who he is, then?”
The woman shrugged. “The appointment was changed, Amaya.”
“Yes, of course.… He appears to be the usual American politician, and I’ve done considerable research. He must be reelected in a state that has widespread unemployment, therefore he has to convince the voters that he deserves his office. What better way than to bring hundreds of millions into a depressed workplace?”
“Yes, you’ve done your research, my dear. But what of the man himself? Would you say he’s a good man, an honest man?”
“I have no idea, nor do I care. I was told he was a lawyer or a judge, if it means anything.”
“Not much, there are judges and then there are judges.… Had you ever considered that he might be a Scorpio? That he might be accommodating you because he was ordered to do so?”
“No, that never occurred to me—”
“We know there is a Scorpio in the Senate.”
“He would have revealed himself,” said Bajaratt defensively. “Why not? Van Nostrand did; he gave me the telephone codes to reach the Scorpios.”
“Untraceable satellite transmissions. We know all about them.”
“I find that hard to believe—”
“It took us nearly three years, but we finally found and bought our own Scorpion. As a matter of fact, you met her in Florida. Your hostess in Palm Beach. It is a very pleasant estate, is it not? Sylvia and her husband could not possibly afford it without enormous assistance. The husband’s one unique talent was going through an inheritance of over seventy million dollars in less than thirty years. She’s the Social Register Scorpio, unearthed by Van Nostrand. Very useful. Quite simply, we traced her through Van Nostrand, offered more than the Providers, and enlisted an ally.”
“She introduced me to Nesbitt—they’re both Scorpions!”
“She is, yes; the senator, absolutely not. It was my idea to fly him down to Palm Beach for what he believes are perfectly legitimate political reasons. He hasn’t the slightest idea who you really are or why you’re here. He knows only the Countess Cabrini with an immensely wealthy brother in Ravello.”
“Then you confirm my judgment. You cannot stop me unless you kill me, and you yourself have accurately described the consequences from the Baaka. I think this conference is at an end. I’ve fulfilled my obligation to the Councils, for I’ve listened to you!”
“Listen a bit further, Amaya. It will do you no harm and might be instructive.” The Arab woman got to her feet slowly, with the grace of a cat, startling Bajaratt with her size. She was short, barely five feet tall, an elegant doll-like figure contrarily projecting immense authority. “We knew you were working with the Scorpions—our Palm Beach ally was apprised of it through Fort Lauderdale immigration—and since we learned of your imminent appearance at the White House, I had to make certain you came here first.”
“You knew I would,” interrupted the Baj. “Our meeting was scheduled weeks ago in the Baaka, the pertinent information coded in Arabic. Address, day, date, and hour.”
“I had every confidence in you, but then I didn’t know you; surely you can understand my apprehension. If you had not arrived tonight, a Madame Balzini would have been picked up at the Carillon hotel in the early hours of the morning.”
“Balzini … the Carillon? You knew all that?”
“Certainly not through the Scorpios,” the woman replied as she walked across the room to a gold-plated intercom in the wall, “for they didn’t know either,” she continued, turning back to Bajaratt. “Our friend in Palm Beach called and said even she was having trouble reaching her superiors through the Scorpio telephone codes. In point of fact, she stopped trying for fear of exposure.”
“There have been several problems,” the Baj offered without further comment.
“Apparently.… However, we had no need of the Scorpions, as you will see.” The sleek, diminutive woman reached up without looking and pressed a silver button on the intercom. “Now, Ahmet,” she said, her eyes still on Bajaratt. “What you are about to observe, dear Amaya, is a man with two distinctly different personalities, even identities, if you like. The one you already know is as real as the one you are about to observe. The first is a dedicated public servant, an honest man, a good man. The other is someone who has endured the pain of an unfortunate lif
e, no matter his trappings of power.… Unfortunate is inadequate; unbearable is far more appropriate.”
Stunned, Bajaratt watched as a man she barely recognized walked down the wide staircase, flanked by the robed servant Ahmet and a striking blond-haired woman dressed in a sheer negligee that revealed the flesh beneath, clearly emphasizing the swell of her breasts and the sinuous movement of her hips. The man was Nesbitt! Each held the senator from Michigan, steadying him down the steps. His face was pale, nearly death-white, his eyes two ceramic balls devoid of movement, his expression frozen as if in a trance. He wore a bathrobe of blue velveteen; his feet were bare, the veins apparent.
“He’s had his injection,” said the Baj’s hostess softly. “He won’t recognize you.”
“He’s drugged?”
“Medically prescribed by an excellent physician. He’s a dual.”
“Dual?”
“Dual personality, Amaya. A Jekyll and Hyde without the evil, only with unfulfilled hungers.… Shortly after his marriage more than forty years ago, a tragic event took place, an assault that left his wife physically and psychologically impaired, in a word, permanently frigid. The act of intercourse was repugnant to her, the mere thought of it sending her into hysterics, and for good reason. She had been raped by a psychopath, a burglar who broke into their apartment, bound the young lawyer, and forced him to watch the rape. From that night on, his wife could not fulfill her marital obligations. Yet he was a devoted husband, and far worse, a religious man; he sought no release from his perfectly natural sexuality. Finally, after she died three years ago, the burden destroyed him, or, I should say, destroyed a part of him.”
“How did you find him?”
“There are a hundred senators, and we knew that one of them was a Scorpio. We studied them all, starting alphabetically—every shred of their lives.… Alas, we never found the Scorpion, but we discovered an obviously deeply disturbed man whose frequent and mysterious absences were covered up by the only close friend he had, his housekeeper of twenty-eight years, a woman in her seventies.”
The Scorpio Illusion Page 47
