The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “My employer is a cautious man.”

  “He must have a lot of enemies.”

  “On the contrary, I couldn’t possibly name one. He is, however, extremely wealthy, and as his chief of grounds security, I insist on certain procedures when people he does not know come to visit him. As a former intelligence officer, I’m sure you can approve.”

  “I obviously can’t object. What were you, Army G-2?”

  “No, Secret Service, assigned to the White House. The President was reluctant to see me go, but he understood the financial responsibilities of a married man with four children to put through college.”

  “You do your job well.”

  “I know. I’ll be right outside the door when Mr. Van Nostrand arrives.”

  “Let’s get something straight, Mr. Secret Service. I was brought here by your boss, I didn’t invite myself.”

  “What kind of guest is it who straps a Walther P.K. to his leg? If I’m not mistaken, it’s a favorite weapon of dangerous men.”

  “I told you, habit.”

  “Not here, Commander.” He bent down and picked up the gun.

  The door opened and the imposing figure of Nils Van Nostrand came into the room, his expression one of conviviality itself. “Good evening, Mr. Hawthorne,” he said, approaching Tyrell and offering his hand as his visitor rose from the chair. “Forgive me for not greeting you when you arrived, but I was on the phone with a man I suggested you reach, the secretary of state.… I believe I recognize your jacket. Safarics, Johannesburg. Top grade.”

  “Sorry. Tony’s Tropic Shop, San Juan Airport.”

  “Damn fine imitation. I dabbled for a while in fabrics. It’s the pockets that make a bush jacket; all men like lots of pockets. At any rate, I do apologize for not meeting you at the airstrip.”

  “The time was put to good use,” said Hawthorne, studying his host, almost mesmerized by Van Nostrand’s appearance. A big guy … with gray hair and very high-class… like those advertisements for fancy men’s clothes. “You’ve got terrific security.”

  “Oh, Brian here?” Van Nostrand laughed softly, gracefully, glancing kindly at his chief of grounds security. “Sometimes my good friend takes his job too seriously. I trust there was no inconvenience.”

  “None, sir.” The man named Brian unobtrusively slipped the automatic into his pocket. “I offered the commander a drink, your Pouilly-Fumé, but he refused.”

  “Really? It’s an excellent year, but then, perhaps Mr. Hawthorne prefers bourbon, sour mash to be precise.”

  “You’ve done your homework,” said Tyrell, “but I’m afraid that’s history.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told. Would you please leave us, Brian? Our man in Amsterdam and I have confidential matters to discuss.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The former Secret Service agent crossed to the door and let himself out.

  “Now we’re alone, Commander.”

  “We’re alone, and you made an extraordinary statement concerning my wife and Captain Henry Stevens. I want to know what you’ve got to back it up.”

  “We’ll get to that in time. Please, sit down, we’ll chat for a few minutes.”

  “I don’t care to chat! Why did you say what you did about my wife? You answer that and we may talk about other things, but it’ll be a damn short conference.”

  “Yes, I was told you couldn’t stay for dinner or even accept my hospitality for the night.”

  “I didn’t come for dinner or to be your guest. I came to hear what you have to say about my wife’s murder in Amsterdam and one Captain Henry Stevens. He may know something I don’t, but you brought in another equation. Explain it!”

  “I don’t have to. You’re here. And as eager as you are to learn of those circumstances, I’m equally filled with curiosity to know what happened on a certain obscure island in the Caribbean.”

  Silence. They stood only several feet apart, their eyes intensely on each other. Finally, Hawthorne spoke.

  “You’re Neptune, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed, I am, Commander. However, that information will never leave this room.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Definitely. You are about to die, Mr. Hawthorne. Now, Brian!”

  18

  The gunfire shattered the silence of the immense compound as Poole and Catherine Neilsen repeatedly, in panic, pulled the triggers of their weapons, causing the library windows to collapse, shards of glass falling both inside and outside. The young lieutenant crashed through the remnants, rolling on the floor and propelling himself to his feet, his automatic leveled at the fallen bodies.

  “You okay?” he shouted at the stunned Hawthorne, who had lurched into a corner behind a chair.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” asked a breathless Tyrell, unsteadily getting to his knees. “I was finished, gone!”

  “I figured something like that—”

  “Those excessive good-byes to the pilots?” Hawthorne interrupted, gasping for breath, sweat breaking out on his forehead, “and the hot shower you hadn’t had in days?”

  “I’ll catch you up later, but our driver’s in the bushes and isn’t goin’ anywhere. Cathy and I walked around the house, saw you in here, and when that smooth-talkin’ gorilla ran in with a gun in his hand, we figured we didn’t have time to think.”

  “Thanks for not thinking. He told me I was dead.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “Will somebody help me through this goddamned window without slicing my flesh apart?” Cathy complained. “Incidentally, there are men racing up the road from the gate.”

  “We’ll turn them around,” said Hawthorne, joining Poole, lifting the major through the window, then running to the library door and locking it. When the knocking began, Tyrell did his best to imitate Van Nostrand’s voice, mid-deep, mid-Atlantic. “Everything’s fine, Brian was showing me a new automatic—return to your posts.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the single reply. Automatically they reacted to a familiar name uttered by unquestioned authority. The footsteps receded.

  “We’re clean,” said Tyrell.

  “And you’re out of your mind!” Cathy said in a harsh whisper. “There are two dead bodies here!”

  “I didn’t say forever, just for now.”

  “That jet’s scheduled to take off in thirty-five minutes,” said Poole. “I say we should be on it.”

  “Thirty-five minutes?” exclaimed Hawthorne.

  “That’s only part of it. Their passenger is supposed to be Van Nostrand, destination the international airport in Charlotte, North Carolina; accommodations, diplomatic cover. Not much time for a leisurely dinner or a pleasant overnight stay, unless you consider a lye pit in the woods a nice place to rest.”

  “My God, it was timed down to minutes!”

  “Let’s soar up to that lovely, safe, wild blue yonder.”

  “Not yet, Jackson,” persisted Tye. “There are answers here. Van Nostrand was Alfred Simon’s Mr. Neptune, and that puts him on a passenger list to the padrone’s island … and that makes him central to Bajaratt.”

  “You’re sure you got it right?”

  “I certainly am, Lieutenant. He admitted being Neptune, making it clear that the information wouldn’t survive my execution.”

  “Wow!”

  “A car came in when we were leaving,” said Neilsen. “Could there be a connection with tonight?”

  “Let’s find out,” said Tyrell.

  “There are cottages all around the place, guesthouses probably, four or five at least,” said Poole as he and Tyrell helped Catherine out the window. “I spotted ’em from the limo.”

  “There are no lights on anywhere,” said Hawthorne, rounding the east end of the house, the expanse of lawn and foliage in darkness.

  “There were before, I saw ’em only a few minutes ago.”

  “He’s right,” said Cathy. “Over there, in that direction.” She pointed southwest; again, there was only darkn
ess.

  “Maybe I should go back to the strip and tell the pilots everything’s okay. Those fellas were nervous, and that was before the shooting.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Tyrell. “Tell them Van Nostrand was showing off his gun collection, that he’s got a private gallery in the house.”

  “Nobody would buy that!” said Cathy.

  “They’ll buy anything as long as it’s an explanation. They expect to be out of here in half an hour with a large paycheck, and that’s all they care about.… As a matter of fact, seeing you will reassure them. Go with Jackson, will you?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Scout around. If you and Poole saw lights just a little while ago, why aren’t they there now? We can assume no one else is in the house except the cook—not considering what Van Nostrand planned for me—and he sure as hell wasn’t receiving other guests since he was flying out of here right away.”

  “Here’s your gun,” said the lieutenant, reaching into his belt and removing the automatic. “I took it from that bastard’s pocket along with the Magnum in his hand. You can have that one too. I feel like an ammo depot ’cause I found two more on the limo driver.”

  “You gave one to me, Jackson,” said Neilsen.

  “Won’t do you much good, Cath. By my count, you’ve got one shell left.”

  “Which I sincerely hope I never use—”

  “You two get over to the airstrip. Make sure those pilots think that so far everything’s on schedule, but if there’s a delay, it’ll be short. Van Nostrand’s making calls to God and/or several ranking members of the administration who’ve got some explaining to do. Go on, hurry!”

  “I had an idea, Tye,” said Poole.

  “What?”

  “Both Cathy and I can fly that bird—”

  “Forget it,” Hawthorne interrupted. “I want those pilots to disappear. I don’t want them here to be questioned when the bodies are found. My death was set up on a closed circuit; the only people who could identify us are the two drivers, and from what I gather, one’s unconscious and the other’s dead. It gives us space.”

  “Good thinking, Commander.”

  “That’s what I used to get paid for, Major. Go on now.”

  The air force officers walked rapidly across the lawn toward the airstrip while Tyrell studied the southwest terrain. There was a profusion of pine trees symmetrically positioned, as if to lend a degree of privacy to each guest cottage beyond, barely seen in the erratic moonlight. Two were vaguely visible across a narrow dirt road, separated by several hundred feet. One of them had had its lights on less than ten minutes ago; which one was it? Guessing would not help; getting closer might. And getting closer meant moving very carefully while studying the rushing cloud cover that intermittently blocked the brighter moonlight, then deciding when to crawl or when to scramble during those moments of comparative darkness. Once more, memories of his other life flashed across his inner screen. Incidents when an outwardly perfectly normal, dull, bureaucratic protocol officer became another person, running assets during night rendezvous, meeting men and women in fields and cathedrals, in alleyways and across border checkpoints that had been penetrated by unreconstructed rebels. Where a single foolish indiscretion could mean a bullet in the head from one side or the other. The enemy or one’s own. Madness.

  Hawthorne looked up at the sky; a large cumulus was drifting south; it would intercept the light of the moon in a matter of seconds. The moment came and Tyrell raced across the road, diving to the grass. He pounded the earth on his hands and knees toward the nearer guesthouse on the right, stopping instantly as the cloud passed. Lying motionless on the lawn, he gripped his automatic at his side.

  Voices! Low, carried on the Virginia breezes as the winds high above carried the clouds. Two voices. They were similar but not the same, the pitches were different; one was only slightly deeper, perhaps harsher, yet both were excited, speaking rapidly—but not in English. What was it? Hawthorne slowly raised his head.… Silence. Then the two quiet voices were there again, but they did not come from the nearest cottage, they came from farther in the distance, from the guesthouse on the left, several hundred feet away.

  A light! Small, tiny, no more than a spot, a penlight perhaps, but not a match, for it was steady, unflickering. Someone was moving around inside, the beam swinging rapidly back and forth—someone in a hurry, looking for something. Somehow, some way, they were involved! Then, as if to confirm his judgment, headlights suddenly appeared, rushing up the narrow dirt road that bisected the grounds between the main house and the cottages on the south side of the estate. It was another limousine, undoubtedly the one Poole and Neilsen had seen entering the gate as they were approaching it. The car was now returning to pick up its alarmed passengers from barely a half hour ago; two people had heard gunshots; they were not seeking any explanation but, instead, getting away from Van Nostrand’s compound as quickly as possible!

  The second Cadillac swung around a circle in the road, a U-turn that was the end of a quaint, countrified cul-de-sac, eliminating the need for reversing the vehicle on its way back to the front gate. It came to a sudden stop, the tires screeching as two figures raced out of the guesthouse, the larger one carrying two suitcases. Tye could not let them escape, he had to stop them.

  He fired his automatic in the air. “Stay where you are!” he shouted, getting to his feet and rushing forward. “Don’t get in that car!”

  Out of the darkness there was a blinding spotlight centered on Hawthorne, its wash illuminating two men climbing into the limousine too briefly for him to see anything clearly.… Spotlights at night and racing figures were a part of his past; he stopped, spun to his right, then pivoted and lunged to his left, rolling violently over and over, out of the beam’s periphery, lurching behind a clump of shrubbery as a staccato volley of gunfire ripped up the dark lawn where he was presumed to have sought safety. The car sped away, its tires spinning crazily on the dirt road, swirls of dust hovering over the surface. Tye closed his eyes in fury and attacked the earth with the handle of his gun.

  “Hawthorne, where are you?” It was Cathy’s voice, calling frantically as she ran across the road below his position.

  “Jesus Christ, Cath, that was a regular fusillade!” joined in Poole, not far behind her. “Tye, say something! Oh, my God, he may have been shot—”

  “No, no …!”

  “I’m not sure,” said Hawthorne, raising his voice, and slowly, painfully, getting to his feet, momentarily pausing, his hands on his knees.

  “Where are you …?”

  “Over here,” Tyrell answered, the rushing clouds in the sky permitting a few moments of the moon, its light revealing him as he walked haltingly around the shrubs.

  “There he is!” cried Neilsen, racing ahead.

  “Are you hurt?” the lieutenant asked as he and the major converged breathless on Hawthorne. “Are you?” pressed Poole, holding Tye’s arm. “Hurt?”

  “Not from the fire,” Hawthorne answered, grimacing and arching his neck.

  “What from?” asked Cathy. “Those were machine guns!”

  “One weapon,” Jackson broke in, “and by its lower register a MAC, not an Uzi.”

  “Can a MAC-10 be fired by a man driving a large car on a narrow dirt road?” posed Tyrell.

  “Not too easily, I wouldn’t think.”

  “Then I might be struck dead, but you could be wrong, Lieutenant.”

  “What goddamned difference does it make?” protested Neilsen.

  “None at all,” admitted Hawthorne. “I was just pointing out the possible fallibility of the pope from Pontchartrain.… No, I’m not wounded, only bruised by an evasive action I haven’t practiced lately. How are Van Nostrand’s pilots?”

  “Only out of their minds,” replied Cathy, “and I’m sure it’s got something to do with Jackson’s opinion that they’re not up for good-conduct medals. They want out of here!”

  “You left them before this happened
—the gunfire?”

  “Three minutes ago, no more,” said Neilsen.

  “Then there’s nothing to stop them, and maybe that’s for the best.”

  “Oh, there’s somethin’ to stop ’em, Commander.”

  “What are you talking about? They can just take off.”

  “You hear anything like a plane goin’ airborne?” Poole grinned. “Ah played a kid’s game with them. It’s called Watch-the-Possum.”

  “Poole, I may just have you before a firing squad—”

  “Oh, hell, it’s a simple game and it always works—simple things usually do. While we’re standin’ around outside debatin’ with these two kinda’ hysterical vagrants, I pull back and look beyond the tail of the aircraft and sort of yell, ‘Who the hell is that?’ Naturally, they whip their heads around, probably expecting a group of vigilantes on motorcycles, so I lean inside the plane and take the door key out of the recessed shelf. ’Course they don’t notice after I tell ’em it’s a stray deer; they just breathe deep and lower their blood pressure as I shut the only open door, which locks automatically.… They’re not goin’ anywhere, Tye. And when they do, if they do, we can be with them.”

  “I was right about you, Lieutenant,” Hawthorne observed, his eyes locked with Poole’s. “Your instincts are terrific and your various capabilities match them—how’s that for a service report?”

  “Well, damn, Commander. Ah thank you, sir!”

  “Not so fast. Those same attributes could put us in a hairy mess.”

  “How?” asked Cathy defensively.

  “Since that plane didn’t take off, it depends on what’s happening at the front gate after the guards heard the machine gun firing, and what will happen when the cook can’t reach Van Nostrand or her husband. They’ll know we’re still here because the plane didn’t take off.”

  “If I remember,” said Neilsen, “her husband was our driver.”

  “And the limousine has a telephone,” added Tyrell.

  “Holy shit, he’s right!” exclaimed Poole. “Suppose the front gate tries the limo, then calls the police? Suppose they’ve already called ’em? They’ll be here any minute, huntin’ for us!”