The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Well, Mr. Grimshaw, our instructions are to give it only to Captain Hawthorne.”

  “Yes, of course, but he’s not here and I am, and I’ve fully identified both the captain and Mr. Cooke as our—well, basically our employees—haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have, sir, no question about it.”

  “Good. You’ll go far with my London friends. Now, let me have your card, young fella.”

  “Actually, I don’t have a card—it hasn’t been printed yet.”

  “Then spell out your name on one of those registration slips, that’ll catch old Bascomb’s attention.” The clerk did so with alacrity. The stranger named Grimshaw took it and smiled. “Someday, son, when I’m staying at the Savoy and you’re the manager, you might send me a dozen of those great oysters.”

  “With great pleasure, sir!”

  “The envelope, please.”

  “Of course, Mr. Grimshaw!”

  The man named Grimshaw sat in his room, the telephone in his gloved hand. “I have everything they’ve got,” he said into the phone to Miami, “the whole enchilada, including three photographs of the Baj, presumably unseen since they were sealed in an official Brit envelope. I’ll burn them and then I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve no idea when this Hawthorne or the Sixer named Cooke will show up, but I can’t be here.… Yes, I understand the seven-thirty curfew on planes; what’s your suggestion?… A seaplane dead south on Sebastian’s Point?… No, I’ll find it. I’ll be there. Nine o’clock. If I’m late, don’t panic, I’ll get there.… There’s something I have to take care of first, a matter of communications. Hawthorne’s message center has to go.”

  Tyrell stood with Major Catherine Neilsen and Lieutenant Jackson Poole in the holding room of the St. Martin’s airport, waiting for word from Master Sergeant Charles O’Brian, chief of security for the AWAC II.

  Suddenly, the sergeant stormed through the double doors, his head turned, his eyes on the field outside, and announced, “I’m staying on board, Major! No one in that detail speaks English, and I don’t like anybody who can’t understand me.”

  “Charlie, they’re our allies,” said Neilsen. “Patrick cleared them, and we’re going to be here for the rest of the day and probably overnight. Let the bird go, nobody’s going to touch it.”

  “Can’t do that, Cathy—Major.”

  “Damn it, Charlie, loosen up.”

  “Can’t do that either. I don’t like it here.”

  Sundown. Then darkness, and Hawthorne studied the computerized printouts expunged from Lieutenant Poole’s airborne printer, the junior officer at his side in the hotel room. “It’s got to be one of these four islands, then,” said Tyrell, holding the lamp over the printouts.

  “If we could have gotten low enough, like Cathy wanted to do, we’d have verified which one.”

  “But if we had, they’d have known we were doing just that, correct?”

  “So what?… My major was right, you’re pigheaded.”

  “She really doesn’t like me, does she?”

  “Oh, hell, it’s not you. She’s what we call in Loosiana a real feminyne firster, brass balls and all.”

  “But you seem to get along with her.”

  “ ’Cause she’s the best there is, why not?”

  “Then you don’t object to the feminyne-first routine.”

  “The hell I don’t, I sure do! She’s my boss, but I’d be a damn liar if I didn’t say I couldn’t get a letch for her—I mean look at her, man, that’s a woman. But like I say, she’s my superior. She’s air force to the core. Don’t mess.”

  “She thinks the world of you, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, sure, like an idiot kid brother who happens to know how to tune in a VCR.”

  “You really do like her, don’t you, Jackson?”

  “Let me tell you something, I’d kill for that lady, but I’m not in her class. I’m a techno-nerd, and I know it. Maybe sometime—”

  The rapping on the hotel door was frantic. “Goddamn it, open up!” screamed Major Catherine Neilsen.

  Hawthorne reached the door first and unlatched the lock as the major burst inside. “They blew up our aircraft! Charlie’s dead!”

  The padrone hung up the phone, the features of his gaunt, withered face rigid, resigned. Once again a coward had come through for him, for the luxuries he provided. A coward in the French Deuxième who was afraid to face life without the “inheritance” that the unknown force in the Caribbean could eliminate in the morning. The man was a weakling, forever succumbing to his elegant and elegantly carnal appetites, yet forever pretending to be above the corruption that both sustained him and potentially destroyed him. One always looked for an influential coward, puffed him up, and let his inflated carcass hang out to dry, his perpetual sweat keeping him functional. Now it was outrage piled upon outrage, from Miami to St. Martin, with an important theft on British Gorda they would soon learn about. The Baj’s hunters would be in panic, searching in all the wrong disparate places, peering into shadows when they should look toward the light. There would be no fancy American planes flying over the area for at least three hours or more, after which all transmission receivers would be shut down, all beams deflected back into nothing.

  The infirm old man picked up the phone, leaned forward in his wheelchair, and carefully pressed a series of numbers on his electronic console. The ringing on the other end of the line stopped, interrupted by a flat, metallic voice. “At the signal, enter your access code.” The long beep ceased and the padrone touched five additional digits; the ringing continued until another voice spoke. “Hello, Caribe, you’re taking a chance with this transmission, I hope you know that.”

  “Not as of eight minutes ago, Scorpio Two. The flying intruder is no longer.”

  “What?”

  “It was just eliminated at its temporary resting place; there’ll be nothing in the air for at least three hours or so.”

  “The news hasn’t reached us.”

  “Stay by your phone, amico, it will soon.”

  “You may have longer than you think,” said the man in Washington, D.C. “The nearest thing to that aircraft is at Andrews.”

  “That’s good news,” the padrone said. “Now, Scorpio Two, I have a request, a necessity which I’d rather not discuss in depth.”

  “I’ve never asked you to discuss anything, padrone. Thanks to my ‘inheritance,’ my children are getting fine educations. They certainly wouldn’t be where they are on my government salary.”

  “And your wife, amico?”

  “Every day is Christmas for that bitch, and every Sunday she offers prayers at Mass for a nonexistent horse-breeding uncle in Ireland.”

  “Molto bene. Your life is in order, then.”

  “In ways the government should have paid for long ago. I’ve been the brains here for twenty-one years, but they don’t think I dress right or walk right or look right, so the announcements are made to the press by idiots who use my findings, and my name is never even mentioned!”

  “Calma, amico. As they say, you have the last laugh, the silent one, is it not so?”

  “I sure do, and I’m grateful.”

  “Then you must accommodate me now; it should not be a difficult task.”

  “Name it.”

  “In your official capacity you can order immigration and customs personnel to pass private aircraft flying into the country without examining those on board, am I correct?”

  “Certainly. National security. I need the name of the company that owns the plane, its identification, the international airport of entry, and the number of passengers.”

  “The name is Sunburst Jetlines, Florida. The number, NC twenty-one BFN; the port of entry, Fort Lauderdale. There’s a pilot, his copilot, and a single male passenger.”

  “Anyone I ought to know?”

  “Why not? We have no intention of withholding his name or bringing him into your country illegally—quite the contrary; within days his presence will be known in all th
e wealthy circles and he’ll be much sought after. However, he wants those few days to move about freely and see old friends.”

  “Who the hell is he, the Pope?”

  “No, but there are hostesses from Palm Beach to Park Avenue who will treat him as though he were.”

  “Which means I probably never heard of him.”

  “You probably haven’t and I assure you it’s no disgrace. Naturally, all his proper papers will be furnished your officials in Fort Lauderdale, who undoubtedly never heard of him either. We only prefer that he remain on board until he reaches the private field in West Palm Beach, where his limousine will meet him.”

  “Since it doesn’t matter, what’s his name?”

  “Dante Paolo, son of the baron of Ravello, the Ravello both his surname and the province which his family settled several centuries ago.” The padrone lowered his voice. “Confidentially, he’s being trained to assume extraordinary responsibilities. He’s the son of one of Italy’s wealthiest noble families. The barony of Ravello, to be precise.”

  “Top-grade Fortune 500, is that it?”

  “Enviably so. Their vineyards produce the finest Greco di Tufo, and their industrial investments rival those of Giovanni Agnelli. Dante Paolo will be studying potential acquisitions in your country and report back to his father. All very legitimate, I might add, and if we can do a great Italian family an incidental favor, perhaps at a later time we may be remembered kindly. Is it not the way of our world?”

  “You don’t even need me for this one. The Department of Commerce would break their asses to accommodate your megabucks traveler.”

  “Of course, but to remove such grand nobiltà from seeking such accommodations eliminates a degree of inconvenience, doesn’t it?… And they know who did it for them, no? So you do it for me, capisci?”

  “It’s done. Cleared on arrival, no jerking chains. What’s the ETA and the equipment?”

  “Seven o’clock tomorrow morning, and the plane is a Lear 25.”

  “Check, I’ve got it.… Hold it, my red phone’s blowing off the hook. Stay there, Caribe.” A minute and forty-six seconds later, the padrone’s contact came back on the line. “You were right, we just got the word! Patrick’s AWAC II was blown up in St. Martin with a crewman on board! We’re on full alert. Do you want to discuss the situation?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Scorpio Two. There is no situation, the crisis is over. As of this call, I am shut down, incommunicado. I have disappeared.”

  Eighteen hundred miles northwest of the fortress island, a heavyset man with thinning red hair above a puffed, freckled face sat in his office at the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. The cigar in his mouth had lobbed ashes on his blue polyester tie; he blew them off, the spittle forming circles on the water-resistant fabric. He replaced the ultrasecure telephone in the steel drawer on the lower base of his desk. To the casual—even the attentive eye—it was no drawer at all, merely part of the desk next to the rug. He relit his cigar; life was good, really good. So who gave a shit.

  8

  The body was covered by a hospital sheet and driven away in an ambulance under the airport’s floodlights. Hawthorne had made the formal identification from what was left of the remains, insisting that Major Neilsen and Lieutenant Poole stay away while he did so. In the near distance, the smoldering hulk of the surveillance aircraft had been reduced to an ugly skeleton, twisted black struts protruding above the charred, smoking ruins of the disembodied fuselage, the metal sheets of its walls peeled back like the dismembered chest cavity of a huge, burning, upturned insect.

  Jackson Poole wept openly, collapsing to the ground and vomiting in whatever shadows he could find. Tyrell knelt beside him; there was nothing else to do but put his arm around the lieutenant’s shoulders and hold him; words from a stranger about a dead friend held no meaning, only unwarranted intrusion. Tye looked over at Catherine Neilsen, Major, air-force-to-the-core, and saw that she was standing rigid, her features strained, holding back her tears. He slowly released Poole, got to his feet, and approached her.

  “You know, it’s okay to cry,” he said gently, standing in front of her but offering no contact, his arms at his sides. “There’s nothing in the officer’s manual that says it’s prohibited. You lost someone close to you.”

  “I know—both,” said the major, swallowing, tears appearing in her eyes, obviously reluctantly, as she began to tremble. “I feel so helpless, so inadequate,” she added.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m trained not to be.”

  “No, you’re trained not to appear that way in the presence of your subordinates during moments of indecision, which everyone has. There’s a difference.”

  “I… I’ve never been in combat.”

  “You are now, Major. Maybe not ever again, but now you’ve seen it.”

  “Seen it? Oh, my God, I’ve never even seen anyone killed … much less anyone I cared deeply for.”

  “It’s not a requirement for flight training.”

  “I should be stronger, feel stronger.”

  “Then you’d be a fraud as well as a goddamned fool, and both make lousy officers. This isn’t a dumb movie, Cathy, it’s real. No one trusts a military superior who has no emotions in the face of personal loss. Do you know why?”

  “I don’t know anything right now—”

  “Let me tell you: He’ll get you killed.”

  “I got Charlie killed.”

  “No, you didn’t, I was there. He insisted on staying in that aircraft.”

  “I should have ordered him not to.”

  “You did, Major, I heard you. You went by the book, but he refused to obey your order.”

  “What?” said Neilsen, her eyes barely focused as she stared at Hawthorne. “You’re trying to comfort me somehow, aren’t you?”

  “Only in the most reasonable way, Major. If my purpose was to lessen your grief, I’d probably hold you and let you cry your eyes out, but I won’t do that. Number one, you’d despise me for it later; and number two, you’ve got to face the American consul general and several of his staff. They’ve been held at the gate, but they’re now screaming diplomatic privilege and will be allowed out here in about five minutes.”

  “You did that?”

  “So cry now, lady, let it out for Charlie now, then go back to your rule book. It’s okay, I’ve been where you are and no one ever demoted me for it.”

  “Oh, God, Charlie!” sobbed Neilsen, her head falling into Hawthorne’s chest. He held her, his arms soft, encompassing.

  The minutes passed; her tears subsided and Tye tilted her chin up with an unobtrusive hand. “That’s all the time you’ve got, that’s another thing I learned. Dry your eyes as best you can, but in no way think you have to deny what you feel.… You can use the sleeve of my coveralls.”

  “What … what are you talking about?”

  “The consul and his men are driving out. I’m going over to see Poole; he’s on his feet now. I’ll be right back.” Hawthorne started away, stopped by Neilsen’s hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” he asked, turning.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head as the flag-bearing official car of the American consulate raced across the field toward them. “Thank you, I guess.… It’s government time,” she added. “I’ll deal with them. It’s up to Washington now.”

  “Then shape up, Major … and you’re very welcome.” Tyrell reached Jackson Poole, who held on to the rail of a fire engine’s hose track, a handkerchief at his lips, his head sunken, his face conveying a terrible. sadness. “How are you doing, Lieutenant?”

  Poole suddenly lurched from the rail and grabbed Hawthorne by the front of his coveralls. “What the hell is this all about, goddamn you to hell,” he shouted. “You killed Charlie, you fucker!”

  “No, Poole, I didn’t kill Charlie,” said Tye, making no attempt to interfere with the lieutenant’s hands. “Others did, but I didn’t.”

  “You
called my buddy a large pain in the ass!”

  “That had nothing to do with his death or with the plane having been blown up, and you know that.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” said Poole quietly, releasing the bunched cloth of Hawthorne’s coveralls. “It’s just that before you came along it was Cathy, Sal, Charlie, and me, and we had a good thing goin’. Now we’ve got no Charlie, and Sal’s disappeared, and Big Lady’s a pile of Beirut garbage.”

  “Big Lady?”

  “Our AWAC. We named it for Cathy.… Why the hell did you come into our lives?”

  “It wasn’t my option, Jackson. Actually, you came into mine. I didn’t even know you existed.”

  “Yeah, well, everything’s just so screwed up, I can’t figure anymore, and let me tell ya’, I figure things out better than most anybody I know!”

  “With computers and laser beams and access codes and squeaks the rest of us don’t understand,” said Hawthorne sharply, harshly. “But let me tell you something, Lieutenant. There’s another world out there, and you haven’t got a clue about it. It’s called the human quotient, and it hasn’t a goddamned thing to do with your machines and your electronic wizardry. It’s what people like me have had to deal with on a day-to-day basis for years—not blips on a printout but men and women who may be our friends or may want to kill us. Try factoring those equations into your steel whirligigs!”

  “Christ, you’re really pissed off.”

  “You’re goddamned right I am. I heard what I just said to you a couple of days ago from one of the best undercover men I ever knew, and I told him he was crazy. Oh, boy, do I take it back!”

  “Maybe we both should cool it,” said the subdued lieutenant as the consulate vehicle sped back across the field. “Cathy just got finished with the government boys and looks a tad unhappy.”

  Neilsen approached, frowning, uncertainty mixed with bewilderment and sadness. “They’re heading back to their scramblers and some specific instructions,” she said. Then she looked hard at the former officer of naval intelligence. “What have you really gotten us into, Hawthorne?”