“Uncle Finead was a saint!” Maria Santoni O’Ryan had shouted through her tears. “The Lord God told him my Paddy was the most beloved of Jesus Christ! In my hour of sorrow and torment, you’ve got to come here with such questions?”
Not good enough, Mrs. O’Ryan, Tyrell thought. But then, you don’t have any answers. Neither had the three sons and two daughters in varying degrees of innocent anger. Something was rotten, the smell overpowering, but Hawthorne could not locate the source of the odor.
It was close to nine-thirty when he swung into the McLean, Virginia, private road that led to the large colonial house belonging to the Ingersols. The long double-lined circular drive was filled with dark limousines and expensive cars—Jaguars, Mercedes, and a smattering of Cadillacs and Lincolns; a separate lawn to the left of the house was also a parking area, served by attendants who parked the visiting mourners’ automobiles.
He was greeted at the door by David Ingersol’s son, a pleasant young man, sincere, courteous, and with a pool of sadness in his eyes, Tyrell thought as he showed him his credentials.
“I think I’d better get my father’s partner,” said the dead man’s son. “I wouldn’t be of any help to you—whatever you’re here for.”
Edward White, of Ingersol and White, was a compact, medium-size man with a balding head and piercing brown eyes. “I’ll take care of this!” he said curtly after studying Hawthorne’s identification. “Stay by the door, Todd. This gentleman and I will go into the corridor.” Once in a narrow hallway, White continued. “To say that I’m appalled at your appearance here tonight would be an understatement. A State Department investigation, when the poor soul hasn’t even been … finished at the funeral home? How can you?”
“Very easily and very quickly, Mr. White,” replied Tyrell. “Immediacy is vital to us.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because David Ingersol may have been the prime mover in a massive money-laundering operation involving both the old Medellín and the new Cali drug cartels. Both were brokered out of Puerto Rico.”
“That’s utterly preposterous! We have clients in Puerto Rico, David’s clients mainly, but there’s never been a scintilla of wrongdoing. I was his partner, I ought to know.”
“Perhaps you know less than you think. Suppose I were to tell you that through State Department intercession we’ve learned that David Ingersol has accounts in Zurich and Bern in excess of eight figures, American. Those sums didn’t come from your law firm. You’re rich, but not that rich.”
“You’re either a liar or a paranoiac.… Let’s go into David’s study; this is nowhere to talk. Come this way.” The two men bypassed the crowd inside the large living room and walked down another hallway, where Edward White opened a door. Inside was a book-lined study; it was wood-paneled with dark brown leather everywhere—chairs, tables, two couches, even the tall back of a turned-around desk chair behind the huge surface that held David Ingersol’s papers. “I don’t believe you for an instant,” White said as he closed the door.
“This isn’t an arrest, Counselor, merely one arm of an investigation. If you doubt me, call the State Department. I’m sure you know the right people to reach.”
“You callous son of a bitch! Think of David’s family!”
“I’m thinking of several foreign accounts that could have been designed by the BCCI and an Asmerican citizen who used his considerable influence to keep the drug mobs in business.”
“Are you all things to this highly suspect investigation, Mr. Hawthorne? Police, judge, and jury? Have you ever considered how simple it is to establish ‘foreign accounts’ in any name you like simply by writing out a scan-proof signature?”
“No, I don’t, but you apparently do.”
“Yes, I do, because I’ve made a minor study of them, and any client of our firm has to have a damn good reason for possessing one, especially if we’re paid from such an account.”
“That’s a world I don’t know anything about,” lied Tyrell, “but if what you say is true, all we have to do is fax David Ingersol’s signature to Zurich and Bern.”
“Machine facsimiles are not acceptable to spectrograph scans. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
“You’re the expert, not me. But I’ll tell you what I am an expert in—I’m a terrific observer. I watch you limousine cowboys drive around this city, bathed in respectability, while you peddle your influence to the highest bidders. And when you cross over the line, I’m there to nail you.”
“That’s hardly State Department language; you sound like a paranoid comic-book avenger, and you’re way out of line. I think I will make that phone call you suggested—”
“Don’t bother, Edward.” A third voice in the room startled both men. Suddenly, the high-backed leather chair behind the desk swiveled around, revealing an old man, slender, obviously quite tall, and dressed so perfectly, so fashionably that Tyrell gasped, believing for a moment in the dim light that he was staring at Nils Van Nostrand.
“My name is Richard Ingersol, Mr. Hawthorne, formerly associate justice of the Supreme Court. I believe we should talk—by ourselves, Edward, but not in this room. Not in any room in this house.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” said the astonished partner of Ingersol and White.
“There’s no way you could, dear fellow. Please keep my daughter-in-law and grandson occupied with all those … limousine sycophants. Mr. Hawthorne and I will slip outside through the kitchen.”
“But Justice Ingersol—”
“My son is dead, Edward, and I don’t think he cares what the society pages of The Washington Post write about his well-heeled mourners, a number of whom in the legal fraternity have undoubtedly sought out his personal clients.” The old man struggled out of the chair and walked around the desk. “Come along, Hawthorne, there’s no one here who can tell you anything. Besides, it’s a lovely night for a stroll.”
A frustrated White held the door as Tyrell followed the elder Ingersol down the hallway, through the hectic kitchen, and out into the fenced back lawn complete with a lighted swimming pool and what appeared to be an immense garden fronting a row of twenty-foot-high hedges. The former associate justice stepped onto the brick deck of the pool and spoke.
“Why are you really here, Mr. Hawthorne, and what do you know?”
“You heard what I told your son’s partner.”
“Money laundering? Drug cartels?… Come, sir, David had neither the inclination nor the audacity even to consider such activities. However, your reference to Swiss accounts is not without merit.”
“Then maybe I should ask you what you know, Justice Ingersol.”
“It’s a macabre story with elements of triumph and anguish and a fair degree of tragedy—Athenian to the core but without the majesty of Greek drama.”
“That’s very eloquent, but it doesn’t tell me anything.”
“You looked at me strangely inside,” said Ingersol, disregarding Tyrell’s remark. “It wasn’t merely the surprise of finding me there; it was something else, wasn’t it?”
“You reminded me of someone.”
“I thought so. Your crude appearance here smacked of a shock strategy—throw the subjects off balance, perhaps into panic. Your reaction to me confirmed it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Certainly you do. Nils Van Nostrand—Mr. Neptune, if you prefer.… The similarity of our appearance struck you instantly; it was in your expression, although I assure you the similarity is surface only. Given certain characteristics—height, figure, and coloring—men of our advanced age and station tend to look alike. In our case it’s basically sartorial. You know Van Nostrand, and the last place on earth you expected to find him was in this house. That told me a great deal.”
“Considering what it told you, I’m surprised you admit you know Neptune.”
“Oh, that’s part of the story,” continued Ingersol, entering a latticed arch to a garden profuse with fl
owers, an isolated arbor away from the house and the crowds. “Once all the pieces were in place, Nils came to the Costa del Sol a number of times. I didn’t know who he was, of course, but we became friendly. He seemed like so many of us—elderly drifters with enough money to jet from place to place in search of shallow amusement. I even sent him to my personal tailor in London.”
“When did you learn he was Neptune?”
“Five years ago. I’d begun to suspect that there was something off kilter about him, about his sudden brief appearances and abrupt departures, also his family background when he’d discuss it, even his wealth, which seemed elusive at its sources.”
“That’s an odd thing to say,” interrupted Tyrell. “I don’t know too many people from your part of town who open their portfolios for their neighbors.”
“Of course not, but fundamental origins are generally known. A man invents something or provides something the marketplace doesn’t have, filling a gap; or he starts a bank at the right time, or develops real estate; these are the springboards to the portfolios you speak of. In my case, before my ascension to the Court, I was the founder and senior partner of an immensely lucrative law firm with offices both in Washington and New York. I could easily afford the honor of the Court.”
“Yes, you could,” Hawthorne said, recalling the dossier on David Ingersol which included copious data on the father. The one missing piece was the real reason Richard Ingersol had resigned. Suddenly, Hawthorne knew he was about to hold the missing piece in his hands.
“Neptune,” Ingersol said as if reading Tye’s thoughts. He sat down on a white wrought-iron bench at the far end of the isolated garden. “It’s part of the story, a rather seedy part and unnecessarily brutal. One night on the yacht club veranda, overlooking a moonlit Mediterranean, Van Nostrand, ever observant, said, ‘You find something strange about me, don’t you, Mr. Justice?’ I replied that I assumed he was a homosexual, but that was nothing new. The international set was rife with them. Then, with the most diabolical thin smile I’ve ever seen, he said to me, ‘I’m the man who ruined you, the man who rules the future of your son. I’m Neptune.’ ”
“Jesus Christ! He came right out with it?”
“I was shocked, of course, and asked him why he wanted me to know at this late date. What cruel and perverse satisfaction could he derive? I was eighty-one years of age and hardly in a position to challenge him, much less kill him. My wife had died and I was alone, frankly wondering each night when I went to bed whether I’d wake up in the morning. ‘Why, Nils?’ I asked him again. ‘Why did you do it, and why tell me now?’ ”
“Did he have an answer?”
“Yes, Mr. Hawthorne, he had an answer. It’s why I came back.… My son was not killed by an itinerant drug addict; he was methodically murdered by the people who ‘ruined’ me and ‘ruled’ him, to use Van Nostrand’s words. I’m eighty-six now, and the way I live means I’m living on stolen time, utterly confusing my doctors. But one day soon I won’t wake up to greet the sun, I accept that. What I cannot accept is that I’ll carry to that ostentatious grave of mine the secret that turned a dishonorable life into one of utter disgrace, and in the doing killed my son.”
“Neptune’s answer?” Tyrell pressed.
“Delivered with that same malicious smile and the ice-cold eyes that held such fire behind them. I remember the words precisely, they’re burned into my mind.… ‘Because we proved we could do it, Dickie old sport—over two generations. Given time, we can run the United States government—Mars and Neptune. I wanted you to see it, know it, and realize that you can do nothing.’… That was his satisfaction, throwing it in my face, in the face of a helpless old man whose reborn wealth was built on corruption. But when they killed my son, I knew it was time to come out from the luxurious heaven of my hell and find someone to whom I could tell the truth. I wasn’t sure where to begin, for there are some things that can never be told. I have a fine grandson to protect—potentially far better than his father and grandfather—but the rest must be told. Then I heard you in the study, Mr. Hawthorne, and turned the chair around and studied you. You’re elected, young man; there’s something about you that gives rise to cautious confidence.” Ingersol’s eyes bored into Hawthorne’s. “You’re not simply doing a job,” he said. “You’re committed to it; that probably accounts for your excessively forceful appearance on our stage here.”
“I’m not an actor, Ingersol.”
“We’re all actors, Hawthorne, we who move in and out of other people’s lives, either for self-preservation, self-enhancement, or settling scores.”
“Who does that leave out?”
“As I said, we’re all actors.… Now, to my unwritten contract—”
“What contract?”
“I’m prepared to give you certain information as long as it’s understood that my identity is never revealed. I’m your unknown ‘source,’ our communications must be private, beyond scrutiny.”
“That’s out of bounds. I need confirmation.”
“Then after the funeral I shall return to the Costa del Sol; and if Van Nostrand shows up, my last act will be to take a small revolver from my pocket, shoot him in the head, and throw myself at the mercy of the Spanish court. An act of personal honor without elaboration; it’s not unknown.”
“Van Nostrand won’t show up. He’s dead.”
The old man stared at Tyrell. “There’s been no news, no reports of his death—”
“You’re one of the privileged few. It’s been silenced.”
“For what purpose?”
“To confuse the enemy is as good an answer as any.”
“The ‘enemy’? Then you know there’s a structured organization.”
“We do.”
“Recruited, as my son was recruited. Extortion, blackmail, and guaranteed destruction if the candidates don’t comply; guaranteed compensation if they do.”
“Except for the few we found or think we found—all dead—we don’t know who they are or where they are. Can you help us?”
“I think you mean can I help you.”
“Friends of mine were killed, one probably crippled for life, let’s leave it at that.”
“Again, I accept your reply.… They’re called the Scorpios, One through Twenty-five, the first five above the rest insofar as they transmit the orders from, shall we say, the board of directors.”
“What board of directors?”
“They’re known, aptly enough, as the Providers.”
“Who are they?”
“Is my contract accepted? With you?”
“How can you ask me to keep my mouth shut? You have no idea what’s involved.”
“I know that I will not involve my grandson. Todd has his whole lifetime in front of him, and I refuse to have him stigmatized as the offspring of corrupt men.”
“You realize I could lie to you.”
“You’ll think about it, but I don’t believe you will, not if you give me your word. It’s a risk I’ll take.… Your word?”
Tyrell took several angry steps to Ingersol’s right, gazed briefly at the pale moon, then turned back and looked down into the old man’s sad but steady eyes. “You’re asking me to relay information based on an unknown source? It’s crazy!”
“I don’t think so. There was a Deep Throat, remember, and the integrity of a newspaper that followed his leads.”
“Can you furnish me with concrete information?”
“I can furnish you with leads I believe are substantial; the rest is for you to establish.”
“Then you have my word,” said Hawthorne finally, softly. “And I’m not lying.… Go ahead.”
“Van Nostrand had one of those small but very expensive villas, the sort designed for single people who don’t care to have overnight guests, except for lovers, of course. After he told me who he was and what he had done, I had that villa under what the intelligence branches call a microscope. I bribed his help, as well as the local telephone office and the swi
tchboards at our clubs. I knew I couldn’t kill the man without facing consequences I didn’t care to face, but if I could learn everything there was to learn about the bastard, perhaps I might reverse the hold he had on my son and me.”
“By using his own technique?” interrupted Tyrell. “Extortion? Threatening to expose what you learned?”
“Precisely … in conjunction with what my son told me. We had to be extraordinarily cautious, you understand. No letters, no telephone calls, nothing like that.… David traveled a great deal, oddly enough at times reporting to the Central Intelligence Agency on matters they asked him to look into—”
“I was told that,” Hawthorne broke in again. “When I first broached his name, the head of naval intelligence said I was an idiot. Your son was so clean he was a CIA asset when they wanted him.”
“It’s all so ironic, isn’t it?… Nevertheless, we would meet secretly, taking every precaution not to be seen together. In the crowds of Trafalgar Square, or in boisterous cafés on the Rive Gauche, or in out-of-the-way country inns. David gave me the telephone codes—they’re satellite transmissions, incidentally—”
“We know that—”
“You’ve made progress.”
“Not enough. Go on.”
“He knew Van Nostrand socially, that was unavoidable within the Washington circles they traveled, although they rarely spoke to each other in public. Then, due to an emergency that required immediate action—an urgent analytical revision at the CIA—Van Nostrand instructed my son to carry the revised information to Scorpio Two.”
“Scorpio Two …? O’Ryan?”
“Yes. You see, David was Scorpio Three.”
“He was one of the top five, then.”
“With the utmost reluctance, I assure you. As to why, that is not part of the information I will give you.”
“Who are the other two? Of the five highest Scorpios, I mean.”
“He never specifically learned, but he assumed that one was a senator because Van Nostrand once told him that the Senate Intelligence Committee was an excellent source of information. As to the fifth man, David said O’Ryan had traced him, but would say only that S-Five was ‘a heavyweight—the heaviest at the Pentagon.’ ”
The Scorpio Illusion Page 49
