The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “You sure as hell didn’t show it back on Saba.”

  “I was angry, as angry as you would have been if a stranger had walked into your sphere of operations and said he was taking over.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Of course you did. You made it abundantly clear when you said ‘get your asses’ on board. That’s when I knew you were still Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne.”

  “Hold it!” came the cry from the AWAC II’s huge hull, so loud it was heard over the engines, while sending shock waves through the earphones. “It’s crazy!” Jackson Poole was standing up over his elongated Formica desk and waving his arms.

  “Cool it, my darling!” ordered Major Neilsen, steadying the aircraft. “Sit down and tell us calmly what you’ve got.… Commander, please put on the earphones so you can hear everything.”

  “ ‘My darling’?” Tyrell interrupted involuntarily, his voice carrying harshly over the intercom.

  “It’s aircraft slang, Commander. Don’t read anything into it,” said Major Neilsen.

  “Not a thing, Navy,” added the master sergeant of security called Charlie. “You may have the brass, sir, but you’re still a guest here.”

  “You know, Sergeant, you’re becoming a large pain in the ass!”

  “Put a lid on it, Hawthorne,” said the blond-haired pilot. “What did you find, Lieutenant?”

  “What doesn’t exist, Cathy! It’s not on any of the charts—the area maps—and I’ve checked every detailed program on the screen!”

  “Be clearer, please.”

  “The signal bounces off a Japanese satellite and beams down to nothing, at least nothing on our maps. But it has to be there! The transmission’s clear.”

  “Lieutenant,” Tyrell broke in, “can your machines tell us where the transmission’s coming from?”

  “Not specifically; our big brothers probably could, but we’re limited. All I can do is give you a computerized laser projection.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “You know, like those indoor golf games where you hit a ball off a tee into an electronic screen and you get an instant picture where it goes down the fairway.”

  “I’m not a golfer, but I’ll take your word for it. How long will it take you?”

  “I’m working on it while we’re talkin’…. I can almost guarantee this one.”

  “This one what?”

  “The transmission to our nowhere downstairs. It’s from someplace in the Mediterranean, by way of the Japanese satellite Noguma.”

  “Italy? Southern Italy?”

  “Could be. Or northern Africa. That’s the general area.”

  “That’s our target!” said Hawthorne.

  “You’re sure?” asked Neilsen.

  “I’ve got a raw shoulder to prove it, three strips of tape and all. Lieutenant, can you give me precise, and I mean precise, navigational coordinates to that nowhere downstairs?”

  “Hell, yes, Yankee, I punched ’em in. Small land masses about thirty miles due north of Anguilla.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know them! Poole, you are a genius.”

  “Not me, sir. It’s the equipment.”

  “We can do better than coordinates,” said Catherine Neilsen, inching her wheel forward into a descent. “We’ll find that ‘nowhere downstairs’ so clearly that you’ll know every inch of the terrain.”

  “No.… Please don’t do that.”

  “Are you nuts? We’re here, we’re above it, and we can do it!”

  “And whoever’s down there will know you’re doing it.”

  “You’re damn right.”

  “And that’s damn wrong. What’s the nearest place where you can land this cow?”

  “This aircraft, which I’m very fond of—admittedly an awkward cow—may not land on foreign territory; that’s strict military regulations.”

  “I didn’t ask you whether you may, Major, I simply asked you where you can. Where?”

  “My charts say St. Martin. It’s French and Dutch.”

  “I know that, I’m a charter man, remember?… Is there anything in this panoply of exotic equipment in front of me that can operate as a perfectly normal telephone?”

  “Certainly. It’s called a telephone and it’s right there below your armrest.”

  “You’re kidding.” Hawthorne found it, pulled it out of its cradle, and asked, “How do I use it?”

  “As you would a normal telephone, but with the knowledge that your conversation is recorded by Patrick Air Force Base and immediately forwarded to the Pentagon.”

  “I love it,” said Tyrell, dialing furiously. In seconds he continued. “I-One and make it quick, sailor! The code is four-zero and my main man is Captain Henry Stevens, and do me a favor and bypass the asshole who wants my life history. The name Tye—spelled T-Y-E—will get you through.”

  “Hawthorne, where are you? What have you got?” Stevens was on the line barely three seconds later, his words running over one another.

  “Our conversation’s being taped and forwarded to Arlington—”

  “Not from that plane it isn’t; I’ve got a black drape on it. You can assume you’re in a confessional with the high priest of secrets. What’s the news?”

  “This fat, ugly aircraft you spun out of Patrick is a wonder. We found the transmission target, and I want a lieutenant named Poole made immediately a colonel or a general!”

  “Tye, are you drinking?”

  “I wish to hell I were. Also, while you’re at your Pentagon games, there’s a pilot named Neilsen, first name Catherine, who I insist be made head of the air force. How does that grab you, Hank?”

  “You are back on the sauce,” said Stevens angrily.

  “No way, Henry.” Tyrell spoke softly, his sobriety apparent. “I just want you to know how good they are.”

  “Okay, I accept that, and commendations will follow, okay? Now, what about the target?”

  “It’s unlisted, unmapped, but I know that cluster of so-called uninhabited islands—there must be five or six—and thanks to this plane here, I have the exact coordinates.”

  “That’s terrific. Bajaratt’s got to be there! We’ll send in a strike!”

  “Not yet. Let me go in first to make sure she is there. And if she is, who her conduits are. They’re the link to the terrorist network working our side.”

  “Tye, I’ve got to ask you, you were very effective years ago at this sort of thing, but it’s been a while.… Can you hack it, Commander? I don’t want … your life on my slate.”

  “I assume you’re alluding to my deceased wife, Captain.”

  “I refuse to go into that again. We had nothing to do with her death.”

  “Then why do I keep wondering?”

  “That’s your problem, Tye, not ours. I just want to make sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew.”

  “You don’t have anybody else, so let’s bypass the horseshit. I want this plane to land in St. Martin, the French side. So you reach the Deuxième in the Quai d’Orsay and clear it with Patrick Air Force Base in Florida. We land, and I’m given whatever equipment I need. Over and out, Henry. Move.”

  Hawthorne replaced the phone, closed his eyes briefly, then turned to the pilot. “Head for St. Martin, Major,” he said wearily. “We’ll be cleared, I assure you.”

  “I was on the telephone channel,” said Neilsen with quiet authority. “Actually it’s a captain’s responsibility to monitor all conversations from such aircraft as this. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “I’m sure I have to.”

  “You mentioned your wife—the death of your wife.”

  “I guess I did. Stevens and I go back a long way, and sometimes I bring up things I shouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. About your wife, I mean.”

  “Thank you,” said Tyrell, falling silent. It was those two simple words “my darling” that had so unnerved him, making him behave like a fool. It was as though the endearment belonged to him
and no one else, certainly not to an arrogant American female air force officer speaking to a subordinate. It was so essentially a European expression, to be said quietly, either with feeling or so casually that deep and abiding warmth was implicit. Only two women in his life had ever used those words with any regularity. Ingrid and Dominique—the only women he had ever loved, one a wife he adored, the other a gossamer creature of loveliness as elusive as she was real, who had nurtured him back to sanity. Those words belonged to them, and addressed only to him. Still, he had behaved like an idiot; expressions were not the single property of anyone, he knew that. Still, again, they should not be abused, trivialized. Oh, Christ! He had to snap out of it. There was work to do. The target!

  “St. Martin dead ahead … Tye,” said Major Neilsen softly.

  “What?… Oh, sorry, what did you say?”

  “You were either in a trance or you dozed with your eyes open for a few minutes. I’ve been given clearance to land in St. Martin—both by Patrick and the French authorities. We’ll park at the end of the field and a guard detail will surround the aircraft, which Charlie will secure.… I asked that you be professional, but I never expected anything like this.”

  “You called me Tye.”

  “You ordered me to, Commander. Don’t read anything into it, sir.”

  “I promise not to.”

  “According to Patrick and the French, we’re assigned to you until you release us. They said that could be all day and perhaps tomorrow.… What the hell is going on, Hawthorne? You talk about terrorists and links to terrorists, and we find unmapped islands that the goddamned navy is prepared to blow out of the water! I’d say that’s a little out of the ordinary, even for our work.”

  “It’s all out of the ordinary, even the extraordinary, Major … Cathy—don’t read anything into that, Madame Pilot.”

  “Be serious; we have a right to know. You call the shots as to where we go. You just proved that. But I am the pilot and I’m responsible for this very expensive aircraft and its crew.”

  “You’re right, you are the pilot. So why don’t you tell me, where’s your first flight officer, your copilot, as we land-based civilians call it?”

  “I told you, Poole’s qualified,” answered Neilsen, her voice dropping.

  “Gee whiz, Major Neilsen, why does it strike me that someone’s missing on this bird?”

  “All right,” said Catherine, embarrassed. “Your Captain Stevens was emphatic that we leave Patrick on the dot of zero-minus this morning, but we couldn’t reach Sal, who usually sits in your seat. We all know there’ve been some marriage problems, so we didn’t look too hard—as I say, Lieutenant Poole’s as good a pilot as I am, and that’s going some.”

  “It certainly is. And this Sal is another extremely qualified female officer?”

  “Sal is short for Salvatore. He’s a terrific guy, but he’s got a flaky wife, very heavy into booze. Since we were covered, we took off to accommodate the navy’s request—request, hell, demand.”

  “Isn’t that against regulations?”

  “Look, don’t tell me you’ve never covered for a friend. We thought this was a two- to four-hour sky search—we’d get back and no one would be the wiser, and maybe Mancini could solve some of his problems. Is that such a crime, for a friend?”

  “No, it isn’t,” replied Hawthorne, his mind racing, going back over a score of gaps that had nullified a hundred covert operations in his other life. “Can Patrick monitor communications from this plane?”

  “Of course, but you heard Stevens. Nothing’s logged or sent to the Pentagon. It’s a black drape.”

  “Yes, I understand that, but the air base in Florida can listen in.”

  “A select few, yes.”

  “Radio the base and ask to speak to your friend Mancini.”

  “What? And louse him up?”

  “Just do it, Major. Please, remember, I’m in control of this aircraft except for airborne contingencies.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Just do it. Now.”

  Neilsen got on the Patrick frequency and, with deeply felt reluctance, spoke. “My subflight officer would like to speak with Captain Mancini. Is he there?”

  “Hi, Major,” said the female voice over the loudspeaker. “I’m sorry, Sal left for home about ten minutes ago, but since we’re not logged or anything, I gotta tell you, Cathy, he really appreciates what you did.”

  “This is Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne, naval intelligence,” Tyrell broke in, the microphone at his lips. “Did Captain Mancini overhear our communications?”

  “Sure, he’s select—who’s the navy spook, Cathy?”

  “Just answer his questions, Alice,” said Neilsen, staring at Tyrell.

  “When did Captain Mancini arrive at your commcenter?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, about three or four hours ago, roughly two hours after the AWAC II was airborne.”

  “Wasn’t his appearance awkward for him? He was scheduled to be on board, but he wasn’t.”

  “Hey, Commander, we’re all human, not robots. They couldn’t reach him in time, and we all know that plane is covered pilot-wise.”

  “I still want to know why he was in your select comm-center under these circumstances. It seems to me he’d be better off to remain unreachable.”

  “How do I know … sir? Captain Sal’s a very concerned person. I guess he felt guilty, or something. He took notes on everything you guys said.”

  “Put out an order for his arrest,” said Hawthorne.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Immediate arrest and total isolation until you hear from a man named Stevens at naval intelligence. He’ll instruct you what to do.”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  “Believe it, or you’re not only out of a job, Alice, you may be in a penitentiary.” Hawthorne replaced the microphone.

  “What the hell have you done?” cried Catherine Neilsen.

  “You know exactly what I did. A man on constant security alert, reachable by whatever number he gives to his base, including a government-provided vehicle telephone, doesn’t get any message but suddenly turns up at his base’s comm-center?… How did he know to be there? He supposedly hadn’t received any call, and even if he did, it’s the last place he’d want to be seen.”

  “I don’t want to believe what you’re thinking.”

  “Then give me a logical answer.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then let me give you one, and let me quote verbatim from a man you’ve talked to who’s on top of this operation.… They’re everywhere, they know everything we do.’ Does that make a little bit of sense to you?”

  “Sal wouldn’t do that!”

  “He left ten minutes ago for his home. Call back your base and tell them to patch you through to his car.”

  The pilot did as she was ordered, switching the radio connection to the flight desk’s loudspeakers. They heard the steady ringing on Captain Mancini’s car telephone. There was no answer. “Oh, God!”

  “How far is his house from Patrick?”

  “About forty minutes,” said Neilsen softly. “He has to live away from the base. I told you, he has serious problems with his wife.”

  “Have you ever been there? To his house?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever met his wife?”

  “No. All of us know when to butt out.”

  “Then how do you know he’s even married?”

  “It’s on his record! Also, we’re very close here; he talks.”

  “That’s a joke, lady. How often do you cross the Caribbean?”

  “Two or three times a week. It’s routine.”

  “Who coordinates your routings?”

  “My flight officer, naturally.… Sal.”

  “My order to Patrick stands. Take us into St. Martin, Major.”

  Captain Salvatore Mancini, out of uniform and dressed in casual clothes, a white guayabera, dark trousers, and leather sandals, walke
d into Wellington’s on Miami Beach’s Collins Avenue. He approached the crowded, raucous bar and exchanged glances with the bartender, who proceeded to nod his head twice, so subtly that none of the customers noticed.

  The captain continued toward a wide corridor that held the rest rooms with a pay telephone at the far end. He inserted a coin and dialed collect to a number in Washington, D.C., giving his name as “Wellington” to the operator.

  “Scorpio Nine,” said Mancini into the phone when the line was picked up. “You have a message?”

  “You’re finished, get out of there,” replied the voice on the other end.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Your associates are sorrier than you are, believe me,” said the voice. “You’re to hire a rental car under your third driver’s license and go to the West Palm airport, where there’s a reservation for you under that name to the Bahamas on Sunburst Jetlines. It’s the four P.M. flight to Freeport. You’ll be met there and flown to wherever they say.”

  “Who the hell’s going to be the watchman for the old man’s island? Who keeps us away from there?”

  “Not you. I myself picked up the order on our secure line from Patrick, Scorpio Nine. The order has gone out for your arrest. They found you.”

  “Who … who?”

  “A man named Hawthorne. He was part of this outfit five years ago.”

  “He’s a dead man!”

  “You’re not alone in that projection.”

  7

  Nicolo Montavi of Portici leaned against the wall by a window overlooking the hotel’s courtyard café on the island of St. Barts. Muted voices floated up, mingled with the soft sounds of clinking glasses and quiet laughter. It was late afternoon, the natives and the tourists about to enter the evening hours where pleasures could be had and profits made. It was not so different from the shoreline cafés in Naples, not so grand perhaps, but grander than those in Portici.… Portici? Would he ever see his home again?

  Certainly not in any normal way, he understood that. He had been condemned by the waterfront, un traditore ai compagni, a traitor to all the work crews on the piers. He would be dead now were it not for the strange, rich signora who had saved him from being thrown off a dock with a rope around his neck. And the weeks when she hid him, running from town to town, city to city, constantly aware that he was being pursued, afraid to go outside, even at night, especially at night, when the hunters roamed the streets—crate hooks, knives, and guns their weapons of vengeance. Vengeance for a crime he did not commit!