The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  Men broke from the lines and converged on the Mossad officer as the Baj raced through the platform doors and ran against the stream of one-way traffic.

  “Get out of here!” she roared, stopping the slowly approaching limousine by banging on the window and leaping into the rear seat beside a startled Nicolo.

  “Where to, ma’am?” asked the driver.

  “The nearest hotel, as decent as possible,” answered the Baj breathlessly.

  “There are several right here at the airport.”

  “Then the best will do.”

  “Basta, signora!” said Nicolo, his large dark eyes riveted on Bajaratt and continuing in Italian as he closed the glass partition between the chauffeur and the rear of the limousine. “For the last two hours I have tried to talk to you but you will not listen. You will listen now.”

  “I have a great deal on my mind, Nico. I have no time—”

  “You will make time now, or I will stop the car and get out.”

  “You’ll what? How dare you?”

  “It is not such a dare, signora. I simply tell the driver to stop, and if he does not, I will force him to.”

  “You are an insolent child.… Very well, I will listen to you.”

  “I told you, I spoke to Angelina—”

  “Yes, yes, I heard you. The actors are on strike in California and she is flying home tomorrow.”

  “She’s flying into Washington first, and we shall meet at two o’clock in the afternoon at National Airport.”

  “It’s out of the question,” said Bajaratt firmly. “I have plans for tomorrow.”

  “Then make them without me, Aunt Cabrini.”

  “You cannot—you must not!”

  “You don’t own me, signora. You tell me you have a great cause and people die because you say they will stop this great cause of yours … although I cannot see how an island servant and a driver can be so important—”

  “They would have betrayed me, killed me!”

  “So you have told me, but you tell me nothing else. You give me too many orders that I do not understand. If this great cause of yours is so good and so virtuous, so cherished by the Church, why must we pretend to be people we are not?… No, I think perhaps I will not touch the lire in Napoli, and you will not give me orders any longer, or tell me I cannot see Angelina. I am strong and I am not stupid. I will find work—perhaps Papa Capelli will help after I tell him the truth, and I will tell him the truth.”

  “He’ll throw you out of his house!”

  “I will have a priest accompany me, with the blessings and absolution of my confession. He will know I’m sincere, that I am truly repentant for my sins of falsehood … however, I will not speak of the man who tried to kill me. He has paid his debt, and I will not be punished for what I had to do.”

  “You would speak of me?”

  “I will tell them that you are not the countess, but a wealthy woman of high birth who enjoys the games among the rich that we on the docks know are very fashionable. How many times have we prepared yachts in Portici and Napoli for the grand signores and signoras, who in truth are pimps and whores from Rome?”

  “You cannot do that, Nicolo!”

  “I will not speak of the bad things—I know nothing of them, and you deserve my silence for bringing Angelina Capelli into this poor young man’s life.”

  “Nico, listen to me. Only one more day and you are rich and free!”

  “What are you saying …?”

  “Tomorrow—only tomorrow. In the evening, just the evening, for a short while! That’s all I ask of you, and I shall be gone—”

  “Gone …?”

  “Yes, my adorable boy, and then the money in Napoli is yours, a great family in Ravello ready to accept you as their own—it’s all for you, Nicolo! The dream of a thousand children on the piers; don’t throw it away!”

  “Tomorrow evening?”

  “Yes, yes, barely an hour of your time.… And certainly you may meet Angel in the afternoon—I was preoccupied and not listening. I myself will go with you to the airport. It’s settled, then?”

  “No more lies or fast stories, Signora Cabrini. Remember, I am a dock boy from the streets. I think I hear the truth quicker than you do. It is much less complicated.”

  Hawthorne hung up the phone in Ingersol’s study and looked around. He walked inside the private bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There were various medications, including Valium tablets, antacid pills, two styptic pencils, shaving cream, a bottle of shaving lotion, a small can of Band-Aids, and a roll of adhesive tape. On the counter was a marbled box containing facial tissues. He pulled out five or six layers, angled his head into the mirror, pressed the gash in his skull together, and placed the tissues over the wound. Frantically manipulating his fingers, he tore off strips of tape and stretched them over the tissues, locking his hair and the wound together as best he could. He went back into the study, found a Burberry checkered hat in the dead attorney’s closet, and clamped it on his head. The rough dressing would absorb the blood until he reached Langley—he sincerely hoped.

  He walked out into the hallway, suddenly wondering if he could find a way to steal the guest book, so obviously placed and signed by the mourners who were so eager to be noted. The gatehouse log at Van Nostrand’s had been selectively helpful—and someone in this house was a Scorpio. The death of an old man was proof, the unfamiliar weapon in Tyrell’s belt further evidence. However, all thoughts of the theft were voided when he reached the front door.

  “Are you leaving, sir?” asked young Todd Ingersol, joining Hawthorne in the foyer.

  “I’m afraid I have to,” answered Tyrell, sensing a quiet anger in the boy-man’s voice. “My business was official because I have a job to do, but your family has my sympathies.”

  “I think we’ve had enough of them, sir. This place is beginning to look like a dull, half-smashed fraternity party, so I’d like to find my grandfather.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s as sick of this crap as I am. After a short sentence about my father, everyone in there is talking about himself. For starters, look at that Cro-Magnon, General Meyers, he’s really holding forth. Dad hated his guts; he just pretended to tolerate him.”

  “I’m sorry. This is Washington.” Suddenly a burly man with close-cropped hair and wearing a plain blue suit rushed through the front door, passing Hawthorne and Ingersol’s son. He walked rapidly up to Meyers and spoke intently into his ear, almost as though he were giving orders to the general. “Who’s that?” asked Tyrell.

  “Maximum Mike’s aide. He’s been trying to get him out of here for the last half hour. I actually saw him grab the general’s arm a little while ago.… Where’s my grandfather? Mr. White said he was talking to you. He can throw these ball-breakers out nicely—I can’t, because I wouldn’t be nice and my mother would be mad as hell.”

  “I see.” Hawthorne had studied the young man’s face briefly. “Listen to me, Todd—your name is Todd, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This won’t make sense to you right now, but your grandfather loves you very much. I don’t know a great deal about him, but the few minutes I spent with him told me that he’s a very superior man.”

  “We all know that—”

  “Cling to it, Todd, believe it.… At least as far as you’re concerned.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I just want you to know that I’m leaving this house with clean hands.”

  “Your face, sir. Look at your face!”

  Tyrell felt the rivulets of blood rolling down his cheeks. He turned and ran out the door.

  Hawthorne was halfway toward Langley when he slammed on the brakes, propelling the State Department car into the shoulder of the road. Meyers! Maximum Mike Meyers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A “heavyweight” at the Pentagon—O’Ryan’s description—was it possible? The name at first had meant nothing to Tyrell; he was not a follower of mili
tary structure, in fact, he avoided most articles pertaining to the services. But the nickname Maximum Mike had stuck in his memory, if for no other reason than he loathed it, loathed everything the sobriquet stood for. And the last name was Meyers. The heaviest of the heavyweights!

  Tyrell yanked out the dedicated line to Poole and pressed the button.

  “Here I am,” replied the lieutenant’s voice instantly.

  “What’s the word on Cathy?”

  “She moved her left leg, that’s supposed to be a maybe, not conclusive. How about you?”

  “Scratch Langley. Call Palisser and tell him I’m on my way to his house. We’ve got a new tornado.”

  30

  “Keep going!” Bajaratt ordered as the driver of the limousine swung into an entrance of an airport hotel. “I’d prefer something farther away.”

  “They’re all pretty much the same, ma’am,” said the chauffeur.

  “Try another, please.” The Baj kept her eyes on the window, on the receding circular drive outside, watching for any sign of a following automobile, a hesitant car, wavering headlights—anything. She could sense her pulse racing as she gripped the package on her lap and felt the perspiration rolling down her neck. The Mossad had found her, found her despite every tunnel she had buried! Jerusalem was now in the equation, sending over the one man they knew might identify her more quickly than anyone else, a one-time lover who knew her walk, her body, the small gestures indelibly printed on the memory of an intelligence officer who beds a suspicious target.

  How did the Mossad fit in? How? What was its connection to Washington’s Little Girl Blood circle?… The newest leader of the Scorpions, would he know? He had as much as admitted that he not only knew but approved of her mission. Remember Dallas thirty years ago? We do, he had said enthusiastically. He had also mentioned that he hated the goddamned pansies in Washington who wouldn’t give us the firepower in ’Nam. It was worth a try; he was worth a try.

  “Driver,” Bajaratt called out. “Take us into one of the parking areas, if you please.”

  “What, ma’am?”

  “I realize it’s inconvenient, but there are several items I’d like to get from my luggage.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  “And please make sure there are convenient public telephones.”

  “There’s a real convenient one right here.”

  “I’d prefer the other—”

  “Yeah, folks are doing that more and more, I saw it on television. People can listen in on these cellephone things.”

  “Hardly my concern.” But something else was, considered the Baj. An outside parking lot was an enclosed area; cars coming and going were easily spotted. If they were being followed, she’d know it in a matter of moments, and vast shadowed areas at night were familiar places to Amaya Aquirre … Bajaratt. She fondled her purse, feeling the hard steel of her automatic. It was fully loaded.

  The only automobile that arrived within minutes of their entry was a brightly painted Jeep, the driver and her passengers boisterous young people. The exit was several hundred meters across the lot, beyond the rows of parked cars. They were safe; there was no surveillance. There was, however, a telephone booth.

  “It is I,” said the Baj. “May we speak?”

  “I’m in my Pentagon chariot, give me ten seconds to put us on scrambler and I’ll be back on the line.” Eight seconds later, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs returned. “You’re anxious, lady. I gave the blueprint to a G-2 specialist on my payroll who knew all about it; he’s worked the Middle East. It’ll be delivered tomorrow morning, no later than seven A.M.”

  “You’re very professional, Scorpio One, but that’s not what I called about. May we talk freely, or are you monitored?”

  “You could spell out the nuclear codes and no one could intercept.”

  “But you’re in an automobile—”

  “A very special vehicle. I just came from paying my respects to a yellowbelly you did me the courtesy of getting rid of. The son of a bitch would have blown the whistle on all of us.”

  “Perhaps he did.”

  “No way, lady, I’d know about it.”

  “Yes, you said you were privileged—”

  “All the way to the max,” Meyers cut in, “which is kind of funny, considering my nickname.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing, just a little inside humor.”

  “What I must ask you is not remotely humorous. The Mossad has shown up. What do you know about it?”

  “Over here?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’ll be goddamned. It’s not in any of our circulations and I’d pick it up if it were. I have a couple of special friends over there, the right ones, not the lefties.”

  “That hardly gives me confidence.”

  “I separate and distinguish, lady. Mine comes first, everybody else gets in line.”

  “Including me?”

  “You’re the top of my priorities right now. You’re going to bring us back to where we should be, so there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I can smell the fires, hear the shouting of the scared-shitless mobs, see the columns as we continue the march. We’ll be in charge again.”

  “Muerte a toda autoridad.”

  “What did you say?”

  “It matters not to you. Only to me.”

  Bajaratt hung up the parking lot phone, frowning in thought. The man was a zealot; she liked that, if it was true and not a charade. Was he genuine, or was he an accomplished plant inserted by the same inner circle he disavowed? She would know in the morning when she disassembled the Allah’s Boot, verifying its structure and components as only a skilled activist knew how to do. A technician could build an authentic-looking facsimile, but there were three contact points that could not be duplicated without lethal consequences. Friend or enemy, it didn’t really matter. She had told him nothing.

  The Baj inserted another coin and called the Carillon to get her messages from the concierge. They were numerous, supplicants all but one. That message was from the office of Michigan’s Senator Nesbitt, and the words were magnificently precise. The countess’s appointment at the White House is scheduled for eight o’clock tomorrow evening. The senator will call her in the morning.

  Bajaratt walked back to the limousine, instinctively searching the parking lot for new arrivals and the dark sky for hovering aircraft.

  “Take us back to the first hotel,” she said to the driver. “I was too hasty.”

  Hawthorne stood over the butcher-block table in the secretary of state’s kitchen; his angry, reluctant host sat beside the ever-present coffeepot. Their exchange was heated.

  “You sound like a jackass with a commensurate IQ, Commander! Have you lost all skepticism?”

  “You’re the jackass if you’re not listening to me, Palisser!”

  “May I remind you, young man, that I’m the secretary of state.”

  “Right now, you’re the secretary of guacamole!”

  “You’re not at all amusing—”

  “You said that the last time, about Van Nostrand. You were wrong then and you’re wrong now. Will you please think, and follow me?”

  “I listened to everything your aide, what’s his name, told me, and my head’s still spinning.”

  “His name is Poole, and he’s a first lieutenant in the air force, and he’s a hell of a lot brighter than you or me, and everything he told you is true. I was there, you weren’t.”

  “Let’s get this straight, Hawthorne,” said Palisser. “What makes you think that under the circumstances old Ingersol has any of his marbles left? He’s damned near ninety, his son was brutally murdered, and he’s been flying all day against six or seven time zones. Considering his age and the stress he’s under, a bereaved old man like Ingersol might well fantasize, conjure up an army of demons marching out of hell to wreak havoc, including the murder of his son.… Good God! A network of Scorpions with elite leaders who carry out the demands
of a mystical order of the Providers? It’s all out of some outrageously implausible novel!”

  “So was the Schutzstaffel.”

  “The early Nazis?”

  “The same thugs who had uniforms and several thousand pairs of leather boots when a wheelbarrow full of deutsche marks couldn’t buy a loaf of bread. Certainly not during the Weimar economic collapse.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “A very relevant pattern, Mr. Secretary. Somebody supplied all those uniforms and boots; they didn’t just materialize out of thin air—they were bought and paid for by very special interests who wanted a country! The Providers here aren’t much different. They intend to gain control of this government and one way they can do it is with the assassination of the President and the chaos that would follow. They’re in place in the Senate and the Pentagon, that much we know, and probably in the courts and communications, ready to jump into the power vacuum.”

  “What do you mean, we know?”

  “The Ingersols, father and son, put it together, from what the son knew as a reluctant Scorpio, and from what Van Nostrand told the old man on the Costa del Sol.”

  “Van Nostrand …?”

  “You heard me. That piss-elegant son of a bitch was at the heart of the whole thing. He laid it on the line to our former justice of the Supreme Court—made it clear that he and his crowd were going to run Washington and there was nothing Ingersol or his son could do about it. Those two were the proof—from generation to generation.”

  “Absurd!”

  “And as sure as you and our late secretary of defense, Howard Davenport, are clean, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs isn’t. He’s one of them.”

  “You’re stark raving mad.…”

  “I’m mad as hell, Palisser, but I’m as sane as I’ve ever been, and I’ve got a gash in my skull to prove it.” Hawthorne yanked off the Burberry hat he had stolen from the younger Ingersol’s closet, bent over, and revealed the bloody tape on his head.

  “That happened at Ingersol’s place?”

  “Roughly two hours ago, and Maximum Mike Meyers, the almighty chairman of the Joint Chiefs, was there. One of the Scorpios was described as ‘a heavyweight at the Pentagon, the heaviest.’ Do you need a roadmap to get from Ingersol’s house to the Pentagon, Mr. Secretary?”