“I cannot leave this house.”
“Oh, you’re leaving, scungilli—”
“Then put a bullet in my head now, you might as well.”
“It’s tempting, but I don’t think so. I want you to meet some former associates of mine, from another life, you might say—”
“Everything is here to keep me alive! You want a dead man on your hands?”
“Not really, although it’s a moot point in your case,” replied Tyrell. “So I’d suggest you point out the specific equipment you need for a short flight, just the basic stuff. You’ll be in a mainland hospital in a few hours, and guess what? I’ll bet you’ll have a private room.”
“I cannot be moved!”
“Would you care to place a bet?” asked Hawthorne, reaching into his pouch as static erupted from the radio.
Neilsen’s words were spoken in a monotone, control imposed over anxiety. “We have a problem.”
“What happened?” barked Poole. “Are you in trouble?”
“What’s wrong?” asked Tyrell.
“The pilot of the seaplane radioed the Brit patrol boat—his left rudder snapped, then flew off! He went down roughly a hundred and twenty kilometers north of the hover’s fix. They’re going after him, assuming the poor guy survives.”
“Cathy, answer me as honestly as you can,” said Hawthorne. “From what you know about that aircraft, could it have been sabotage?”
“What do you think’s been busting my head for the last couple of minutes? I hadn’t even considered it and I should have! Good God, our AWAC was blown up—Charlie!”
“All right, calm down. Stay the course. How could it have been sabotage?”
“The cables, damn it to hell!” Rapidly, Cathy explained that every movable part of the plane was operated by dual steel cables. That both sets of cables could shard at once was inconceivable.
“Sabotage,” Tyrell concluded quietly.
“Both were shortened together so they’d snap at the same time,” said Neilsen, more controlled now. “And I never even considered the possibility. Shit!”
“Will you please stop whipping yourself, Major? I didn’t consider it either. Someone in St. Martin slipped by the Deuxième, and if he or she could do that, we were stationary ducks.”
“The mechs!” yelled the pilot over the radio. “Bring in every goddamned mechanic on that island and burn his feet. It’s one of them!”
“Believe me, Cathy, whoever it was is gone. That’s the way it is.”
“I can’t stand it! The Brit flying that plane may be dead!”
“That’s the way it is,” repeated Hawthorne. “Maybe now you’ll understand why a lot of people in Washington, London, Paris, and Jerusalem are afraid to leave their desks, their phones. We’re not dealing with a single psychopathic terrorist, we’re dealing with an obsessed zealot who’s running a network of raging fanatics perfectly willing to die to make their kills.”
“Christ, what do we do?”
“Right now you beach the sub in the cove and come up to the house. We’ll raise the shutters so you can see it clearly.”
“I should stay in touch with the hovercraft—”
“Things won’t change whether you do or not,” interrupted Tyrell curtly. “I want you up here—”
“Where’s Poole?”
“Right now he’s wheeling our patient out into the hall. Beach the sub, Major, nothing’s going to happen here. That’s an order!”
But suddenly, without a decibel of noise, without a hint of impending devastation, everything happened. The explosions were everywhere, walls collapsing, marble columns breaking, crashing into the marble floors below; beyond the archway to the communications complex, the equipment began bursting apart, wires splattering against each other in shattering electric contact, short bolts of lightning shooting into the air. Tyrell raced into the foyer, rolling on the floor over and over to avoid the falling debris, his eyes focused on Poole, whose leg was caught beneath a shelving unit beyond another collapsing archway. Hawthorne sprang to his feet and ran to the lieutenant, pulling him out from under the attached shelves and dragging him toward the arch. It fell apart, heavy slabs of marble plummeting to the floor; Tye yanked Poole back until there was a break in the collapse, then rushed through, hauling the lieutenant behind him as the arch fell, leaving a jagged wall of marble that would have crushed them both. Hawthorne looked above it, seeing only the padrone, laughing hysterically in his wheelchair as his entire surroundings crashed down upon him. With a final effort Tyrell looped his right arm around Poole’s chest, and angling his shoulder, burst through the heavy glass door and the hurricane shutters beyond. Together, they hit the trunk of an ersatz palm as the lieutenant screamed.
“Stop! My leg! I can’t move!”
“You damn well better. These palms are going to go up next!” With those words Hawthorne dragged Poole, zigzagging through the real and false foliage until they reached the dry grass.
“Lemme go, fer Christ’s sake! We’re flat and I’m hurting real bad!”
“I’ll tell you when you’re hurting enough,” cried Tyrell, his voice carrying over the fires and the continuous conflagrations within the once-châteaulike estate. The moment came barely thirty seconds later. The entire ring of ersatz palm trees exploded with the force of twenty tons of dynamite.
“I don’t believe it!” whispered Poole, nearly comatose as he and Hawthorne lay beside each other, prone in the dark, harsh, sun-parched field. “He blew the whole fuckin’ thing up!”
“He didn’t have a choice, Lieutenant,” Tye said grimly.
Poole, however, was not listening. “Oh, my God—Cathy!” he screamed. “Where’s Cathy?”
Across the field, a black-suited figure appeared, racing around the towering flames and screaming incoherently. Hawthorne got to his feet and ran forward, shouting at the top of his voice. “Cathy, we’re here! We’re okay!”
In the mountainous light of the fires, Major Catherine Neilsen raced into the dark, harsh field and fell into the arms of Lieutenant Commander Tyrell Hawthorne (Retired). “Thank God, you’re all right! Where’s Jackson?”
“Over here, Cath!” Poole cried from the shadows beyond. “That Yankee son of a bitch and me are even now. He pulled me out of there!”
“Oh, my darling!” shouted the major in a most unmilitary fashion as she released the commander and ran to the lieutenant, falling down and embracing him.
“I’m really, really missing something,” said Hawthorne quietly to himself as he walked toward the two figures on the ground.
12
The subdued string quartet played gracefully on a balcony above the outside terrace that overlooked the pool, sparkling blue from the underwater lights; altogether, it was an appropriate mise-en-scène for an early evening on Palm Beach’s Gold Coast. Three bars and twice as many buffet tables were placed around the large, manicured lawn, lighted by torches and manned by servants in yellow jackets who courteously dispensed food and drink to the resort’s elite, resplendent in their summer formal wear. It was a splendid picture of the good life, richly deserved by the privileged. And the center of attraction was a tall, bewildered, extremely handsome young man with a crested scarlet sash replacing his tuxedo’s cummerbund. He was not entirely sure what was happening to him, but it was far better than any attention he had ever received on the docks of Portici.
Following the reception line, during which his aunt, the contessa, acted as his interpreter, he was paraded around the large gathering by a possessive hostess with very white teeth too large for her mouth, and bluish-white hair. Amaya Bajaratt followed, never more than several steps behind her “nephew.”
“The one she’s bringing you to—you met him in the line—is a senator, and very powerful,” she whispered, hastening forward, as their hostess steered them toward a short fat man. “When you meet him now, rattle off whatever you like in Italian, and when he speaks, turn to me. That’s all.”
“All right, all right
, signora.”
Reintroductions were made by the enthusiastic hostess. “Senator Nesbitt, the barone di Ravello—”
“Scusi, signora,” broke in Nicolo gently. “Il barone-cadetto di Ravello.”
“Oh, yes, of course—I think. My Italian’s quite rusty.”
“If it was ever shiny, Sylvia.” The senator smiled good-naturedly at Nico and bowed his head at the contessa. “A pleasure, young man,” he continued, shaking hands. “You’re not your father yet, and I trust not for many years.”
“Si?” replied the impostor, instinctively turning to Bajaratt, who translated in Italian. “Non, per centi anni, Senatore!” exclaimed Nicolo.
“He says he hopes not for a hundred years,” explained the Baj. “He is a devoted son.”
“Nice to hear that these days,” said Nesbitt, his eyes leveled at the presumed contessa. “Perhaps you might ask the young baron—forgive me, that’s probably not correct—”
“Barone-cadetto,” rejoined Bajaratt, smiling. “It simply means the next-in-line. The more common term is baroncino, but his father is of the old school, and believes ‘barone-cadetto’ is less diminutive, with more authority. Dante Paolo was simply clarifying his title, which is far less meaningful to him than learning whatever he can from such an experienced man as yourself, Senator.… You wished me to ask him what?”
“I read the newspaper account of his press conference yesterday—to be frank, my secretary pointed it out, as I’m not an avid reader of the society pages—and I was struck by his statement about loyalty and charity. How his family values the benefits of loyalty as highly as it values the satisfaction of charity.”
“Quite true, Senator Nesbitt. Both have served the family well.”
“I’m not from this state, madame—excuse me, contessa—”
“irrelevant, believe me.”
“Thank you … I suppose you could call me a country lawyer who went higher than he ever expected.”
“The ‘country,’ as I undesrstand you, is the true spine of any nation, signore.”
“That’s nicely phrased, nicely phrased indeed. I’m the senior senator from the state of Michigan, where in all honesty there are many problems, but in my judgment, an equal number of investment opportunities, especially at today’s prices. The future is in growth with a dedicated, skilled work force, and we have a great deal of both.”
“Please, Senator, reach us tomorrow. I’ll clear your call through the front desk and explain to Dante Paolo how impressed I am by your credentials and your expertise.”
“Actually, I’m on vacation,” said the gray-haired man, a diamond-encrusted Rolex his personal symbol of achievement as he raised it for a third time in four minutes to check the hour. “Have to get near a phone pretty soon—a call from those sleepless gnomes in Geneva, you do understand?”
“By all means, signore,” replied the Baj. “The barone-cadetto and I are most impressed by your suggestions—really remarkable investments.”
“I tell you, Countess, the Ravello family could realize sizable profits. My companies in California are literally supplying seven percent of the Pentagon’s allocations, and it can only grow. We’re high tech; all the rest are low tech by comparison, if you catch my meaning. Others will fall, but not us; we’ve got twelve former generals and eight admirals on our payroll.”
“Please, reach us tomorrow. I’ll clear your call.”
* * *
“You understand, ma’am, that I’m not at liberty to give you or the young royal fella here all the details, but space is where it’s at and we are there. We’ve got the ears of all the future-thinkin’ members of Congress—not a few of whom have invested heavily in our stock for research and development in Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri—and the payoffs are goin’ to be stratospheric! I can put you in touch, kinda quietly, you understand, with a corral full of congressmen and senators.”
“Please, reach us tomorrow. I’ll clear your call.”
“Party politics are a national game,” said a grinning, red-haired man in his early thirties after shaking hands with the barone-cadetto and bowing lower than necessary to the contessa. “You’ll find that out if you’ve circulated without your hostess, our Madame Defarge with an overbite.”
“The evening’s getting late, and I think Sylvia gave up,” said the Baj, laughing. “She began to leave us several guests ago, having assured herself that Dante had met everyone of importance.”
“Oh, then she forgot about me,” countered the redhead. “She should know better; after all, I got a hurry-up invitation.”
“And who are you?”
“Only one of the brightest political campaign strategists in the country, but unfortunately my reputation hasn’t spread much beyond the state level—a number of states, however.”
“Then you are not really important,” concluded the contessa. “Except insofar as you received an invitation. How so?”
“Because my unique talents persuaded The New York Times to run my op-ed opinions on a fairly regular basis. It’s lousy pay, but in my business, if you get your name in print enough times in the Big Mother, you’ve got a bigger paycheck down the road. Simple as that.”
“Yes, well, this has been a most charming and enlightening conversation, but I’m afraid the barone-cadetto and I are exhausted. We shall say good night, Signor Giornalista.”
“Please wait, Countess. You may not believe it, but I’m on your side, if you’re for real, if he’s for real.”
“Why would you think otherwise?”
“He’s right over there.” The young op-ed columnist nodded his head through the crowds at a medium-size, swarthy-faced man who stared at them through the passing figures. It was the reporter from The Miami Herald who spoke fluent Italian. “Talk to him, lady, not me. He thinks you’re both fakes.”
Hawthorne, his whole body aching from the furious activity on the smoldering hill, sat with Poole on the dark moonlit beach, both men stripped to their shorts, the wet suits discarded. They waited for Catherine Neilsen to emerge from the minisubmarine, secured by its weight in shallow water.
“How’s the leg?” asked Tyrell, his speech slowed by exhaustion.
“Nothing broken, just a bunch of damned painful bruises,” replied the lieutenant. “What about your shoulder? You got a mess of blood still oozing under Cathy’s bandage.”
“It’s stopping. She didn’t butterfly the tape, that’s all.”
“Are you criticizing my superior officer?” asked Poole, smiling.
“I wouldn’t dare—not in front of you, my darling.”
“Hey, that really grabs you, doesn’t it?”
“No, Jackson, it doesn’t grab me anywhere. Only I find it a touch mystifying in light of our previous conversation, in which you made reference to unrequited affection.”
“I think I said ‘letch,’ Commander, nothin’ permanent.”
“Do I hear another Poole?”
“No, you hear a Louisiana husband-to-be whose bride didn’t get to the church on time.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Hawthorne, opening his sagging eyelids and staring at the half-grinning air force officer in the moonlight.
“Oh, I had to beg more pardons than you ever will—so many it became a joke, like ‘my darlin’.’ ”
“Would you care to fill me in?”
“Sure.” Poole smiled, then chuckled at the memory. “I got pissed and went bayou wild, that’s what happened. My intended and I lined up the finest Baptist church in Miami, which ain’t easy to locate in the better parts of that fair city, and my family and her family were there, and after two hours of waitin’, her maid of honor came screamin’ into the fuckin’ place with a note for me.… My bride had run off with a guitar player.”
“Good Lord, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. Better then than after a couple of kids—but that’s when I went bayou.”
“Bayou?” Despite the crying need for sleep, Tyrell could not keep his eyes off Poole.
<
br /> “I ran out of that place like a laser, got myself a couple of bottles of bourbon—and drove my honeymoon car, danglin’ cans and spray-painted windows and all, into downtown Miami and the roughest strip joints I could find. The more I drank, the more I figured I should at least get laid—oh, the pity.”
“For God’s sake, don’t stop there.”
“Well, Cathy, Sal, and Charlie figured I was goin’ bayou, so they came after me. They weren’t so goddamned smart like they thought they were; hell, that car was kinda outstanding you know what I mean?”
“It’s a given. What happened?”
“A riot, Commander, that’s what happened. They found me in a joint where I was slightly misbehavin’, like with the Cubano owner’s favorite chick-of-the-week. Now, Sal and Charlie were pretty proficient in hand-to-hand—not in my class, but adequate—and they convinced a number of the enemy to leave me alone, but the problem was to get me out of there.”
“Christ, why?”
“I still wanted to get laid.”
“Oh, my God.” Hawthorne dropped his chin, half in astonishment, half in fatigue.
“So Cathy wrapped her arms around my head and kept whispering into my ear, sorta loud, ‘my darlin’, my darlin’, my darlin’,’ as she dragged me out of there. That’s how it happened.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Silence. Finally, Tyrell spoke wearily. “You know, you really are lunatics.”
“Hey, Commander, who found you this place?”
“All right, you’re not dumb lunatics—”
“Listen up!” shouted Major Neilsen, climbing out of the tiny sub into the waist-high waves in her wet suit. “We’ve got our orders through the Brit hover, confirmed by Washington and Paris. A flyboat from Patrick will be here by dawn, in about three to four hours, and we get on board. Oh, and the pilot survived; a broken leg and half drowned, but he’ll make it.”
The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel Page 19
