It was 6:47. She could walk calmly back onto the path and return to the hotel. She had five calls to make—two to London, one to Paris, one to Jerusalem, and the last to a bank that held the unlimited Baaka Valley reserves. It did not matter that she used the hotel phone, nothing mattered any longer. She would be out of there within the hour and leave the address of another hotel in Washington where Nicolo should bring their belongings, the only address where he would receive his money. Insignificant funds that he would never use.
* * *
KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON
On Brompton Road, directly across from the entrance to Harrods, three men waited in a van, elaborately marked with the name The Scotch House. The electronic equipment inside was far beyond the ken of mortals who could barely read their television manuals. The walls of the soundproof vehicle had three tinted windows above the equipment on both sides. Those looking outside could see clearly, those outside looking in saw nothing. The man currently by the curbside window was the black MI-6 officer named James. His eyes roamed the area around the public telephone booth while his two companions kept checking their dials and the sonic grids with the weaving green lines, their headsets in place.
“There he is,” James said, sharply but calmly.
“Which one?” A middle-aged technician in shirtsleeves raised his eyes to the window.
“The chap in the gray suit and the regimental tie, with a newspaper under his arm.”
“He doesn’t look like either of the two you described in the Soho joints,” commented the third, a slender, bespectacled man, swiveling in the street-side chair and partially rising from his electronic panel. “More like a tight-assed loan officer in a bank on The Strand.”
“He very well may be, but right now he’s glancing at his watch and moving toward the booth.… Look! He’s just spotted a woman hell-bent on getting there first!”
“Good lad,” said the shirt-sleeved man, grinning. “He’s probably a rugby player; he damned near body-checked the old girl.”
“She’s pissed, all right,” noted the slender colleague operating the street-side equipment. “She’s looking daggers at him, she is.”
“She’s also in too much of a hurry to stand there making a scene,” said James, concentrating on the disagreement between strangers outside. “She’s heading for the booth down the street.”
“Ninety seconds to program scan,” erupted a voice from a speaker on the curbside panel.
“Recheck your Washington line,” ordered the MI-Sixer.
“D.C. Special Force, are you there, old chap?”
“Ready and waiting, London.”
“Is our frequency still confirmed as being free of all intercepts?”
“Right down to the last static pebble; revolving astronauts couldn’t pick us up. But we’d like to wing whatever we get to the police in the surrounding areas so we can dispatch personnel to the trace faster. We’ll simply call it Priority Red, no mention of the particulars beyond the descriptions of the subjects.”
“We have no problem with that, D.C. Go ahead.”
“Thanks, London.”
“All channels switch to activate,” said the black MI-6 officer. “The program scan’s begun.”
Silence.
Eighty-seven seconds passed and only the quiet breathing of the three intelligence personnel could be heard. Suddenly a woman’s voice, amplified by the speakers, pierced through the accompanying undercurrent of static.
“Ashkelon, it is I!”
“You sound tense, our beloved daughter of Allah,” said the bemused voice thirty feet from the van in Knightsbridge.
“It is tonight—early tonight, my devoted one!”
“So soon? We have much to be thankful for and we’re ready! You’ve worked with amazing speed.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Where you’re concerned, nothing surprises me. I have only astonishment at your capabilities. Are there any particulars we should be aware of?”
“None. Just stay by your radios. When you hear the news, be prepared to act. Governments everywhere will be called into immediate session. There will be chaos throughout the capitals, massive disorder. Need I tell you more?”
“I trust not, for darkness there still means darkness here. Darkness and disorder are searchlights for those desirous of a kill. Quite simply, protection is in disarray; it can’t be otherwise, for nothing and everything is expected. Disarray.”
“You were always one of the wiser men—”
“Wait!” The man in the glass telephone booth suddenly focused his eyes to his left.
“Jesus Christ!” cried James of MI-6 inside the van, binoculars held to his face. “He’s staring at us!”
“Get out of wherever you are!” roared the voice thirty feet away over the speakers. “The windows, they’re opaque, black! Get out, they’re tracing you!” The man in the dark business suit dropped the telephone, raced out of the booth, dodged the heavy traffic on Brompton Road, and disappeared into the crowds entering Harrods.
“Goddamn it!” shouted the agent named James. “We’ve lost him!”
“D.C., D.C.” repeated the curbside technician. “London calling, come in, please, we’ve got an upset at our end.”
“We know all about it, London,” said the American voice over the speakers. “We hear what you hear, remember?”
“And?”
“We’ve got a lock, it just came in. It’s a hotel at Dulles Airport!”
“Excellent, old chap. You’re moving in, then?”
“Not so excellent and not so easy, but we’re moving.”
“Please explain that!” cried the MI-6 officer, leaning over the panel.
“To begin with,” replied the American, “the hotel’s got two hundred and seventy-five rooms, which means two hundred and seventy-five telephones that don’t have to go through a switchboard to dial London or anywhere else in the world.”
“You can’t be serious!” roared James. “Scan the fucking board!”
“Be realistic, London, it’s a hotel, not Langley. However, don’t blow your gaskets, Dulles security is on its way and will be there as soon as they can.”
“ ‘As soon as they can’? Why aren’t they there already?”
“Because Dulles covers some ten thousand acres, and we happen to be in a recession, and a lot of services have been pretty severely cut, like security police in public areas.”
“I don’t believe this! This is the zenith of emergencies!”
The manager of the hotel at Dulles Airport shot up from his desk, telephone in hand. He had been berating a linen-supply service when the conversation was abruptly terminated by an operator, stating that there was an emergency and he should stay on the line for the police. A firm, cold voice followed, the man identifying himself as chief of airport security. His demands were short and curt. The hotel’s computers and all elevators were to be shut down immediately, the guests told there was a massive electric failure, or whatever was deemed appropriate, but all departures were to be delayed as long as possible, bellhop service suspended. Frantically, the manager reached his secretary and carried out the orders.
Two blocks away, its siren parting the traffic, the first of three patrol cars raced toward the hotel. “What the hell are we looking for?” asked the driver. “I can’t hear a damned thing!”
“A woman between thirty and forty traveling with a big foreign kid who can’t speak English,” replied the police officer’s partner, his head bent down to hear the dispatcher’s voice over the speaker and through the clamor of the sirens and surrounding horns.
“That’s it?”
“It’s all we’ve got.”
“If they’re running, they’ll separate, for Christ’s sake!”
“So we look for the kid, then an anxious female.… Hold it!” The partner shouted into his microphone. “Repeat that, please. I want to make sure I got it right.… Ten-four.” The police officer hung up his microphone. “Here’s one for
you,” he said to the driver. “The subjects are armed and considered extremely dangerous, like in instantly fatal. We’re going into the front, our buddies covering the grounds, like in fire escapes and windows.”
“So?”
“The boys are carrying shotguns, and if we or they can isolate either one, we don’t bother with Miranda. We just blow ’em away.”
The white telephone rang in the office of the temporary director of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was the secure line from the Little Girl Blood unit; the head of the electronic operation was icily professional. He insisted on being put through to the new DCI immediately, which, according to the private secretary, was impossible. The man was on an international conference call with the heads of security of three foreign governments, a conference set up by the President himself to show how cooperative the new chief of U.S. Intelligence would be with the country’s allies. It was no time to break into such a call.
“Give your information to me and I’ll rush it in to him.”
“Make sure you do, it’s urgent plus-plus.”
“Please, I’ve been here for eighteen years, young man.”
“Okay, hear this. The word is tonight, the Little Girl strikes early tonight. Alert the White House!”
“So we’re both covered, send an in-house fax up here—immediately.”
“On its way, as we speak. Secure, no copy at this end except in computer.”
The copy of the Little Girl Blood unit’s information erupted from the secretary’s machine.
Scorpio Seventeen lit a match and burned the paper over an empty wastebasket.
Bajaratt slammed the two suitcases shut, shoving whatever clothes remained under the bed. She then raced into the bathroom, soaking a towel and rubbing it rapidly, harshly, over her face, removing all makeup, and picked out a tube of light Cover Girl Base from the toilet articles on the shelf. As quickly as she had removed the makeup, she spread the pale cream over her cheeks, forehead, and eyelids, raced back into the room, and grabbed her veiled hat off the bureau; she placed it on her head, pulled the lace veil over her face, retrieved her shoulder bag from the desk, and picked up the suitcases. She crossed to the door and went out into the corridor, looking up and down the hallway. She saw the obvious near an exit sign.
Ice. Beverages.
She dragged the suitcase from the doorway, pulled the door shut, retrieved the luggage, and ran to the small, neon-lit enclave that housed the ice and the vending machines. She threw the two suitcases into a corner; both would be stolen within the hour, she thought as she stood erect, adjusted her dress and her veil, and walked to the exit staircase.
Four stories below, the lobby was chaotic. The lines were growing longer at the cashiers’ counters, and the exiting luggage was piling up at the doors and the pavement outside. The Baj understood instantly: Orders had been given. Obfuscate, procrastinate, claim confusion, even a computer shutdown—delay!
Cries were raised about airline departures, countered by others claiming that they should have used express checkouts; a number swore, bolting to the doors, their keys thrown to the floor, yelling phrases like “Sue me!” and “Talk to my lawyer, you incompetent morons!” and “I’ll be damned if I miss my plane!” and “Fix your goddamned elevators!”
All was perfect, thought Bajaratt as she stooped over and limped outside to the taxi stand, a frail, delicate, elderly lady needing assistance. Suddenly a police car, its siren screaming, its lights flashing, swung into the curb, cutting off the first cab; two patrolmen leapt out, glanced into the head taxi, and raced across the crowded pavement toward the entrance, jostling the bodies in their path. Angry roars filled the area; abused and frustrated travelers were at the end of their patience. Then two other police cars arrived, their combined sirens and revolving lights abruptly quieting the mob, replacing the cries of protest with hushed observations of disaster.
The police from the additional patrol cars raced in all directions, across the east and west lawns, each man carrying a shotgun. Perfect, considered Bajaratt as she limped toward the end of the taxi line.
“Please take me to the nearest telephone booth,” said the Baj, dropping a twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the driver’s bulletproof partition. “After I make a call, I’ll tell you where to drive me.”
“I’m with you, lady,” replied the long-haired cabbie, snatching the twenty dollars from the slot.
Less than two minutes later the taxi pulled to the curb in front of a dozen plastic-encased public phones. Bajaratt climbed out and ran to the nearest unoccupied one. From memory, her extraordinary memory, she thought in satisfaction, she dialed the Carillon hotel and asked for the concierge. “This is Madame Balzini,” she said. “Has my nephew arrived?”
“Not yet, madame,” said the unctuous voice on the line. “But a package was delivered for you less than an hour ago.”
“Yes, I’m aware of it. When my nephew arrives, tell him to stay there. I’ll join him.”
Bajaratt hung up the phone and returned to the taxi, her mind racing. How had London found the telephone schedules? Who had failed or—worse, the worst—who had been discovered and broken?
No! She could not dwell on unanswerable speculations. Only today, only tonight! The signal would be sent across the world like a monstrous, shattering bolt of lightning! Nothing else mattered, only to get through the day.
It had been 2:48 in the morning when Hawthorne left General Michael Meyers’s condominium complex in Arlington, Virginia. As he started out the exit drive, he pulled the recorder from his inside jacket pocket, relieved to see that the tiny red light was still on; he rewound the tape for several seconds, pressed the replay button, and heard their voices. His foot automatically bore down heavily on the accelerator; it was at once a gesture of exhilaration as well as of genuine desire to reach the Shenandoah Lodge as quickly as possible. Everything had worked; he had nearly two hours’ worth of taped conversation between himself and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—between himself and the last elite Scorpio.
Meyers had studied him when he first arrived, his gaze a mixture of grudging respect and fury, as a powerful man might observe the corpse of an adversary who could prove more dangerous dead than alive. Tyrell knew the type only too well; they were in abundance in Amsterdam, forever jockeying for the strategic kill, none without immense egos. And Hawthorne had appealed to Maximum Mike’s ego, relentlessly playing to it, until, finally, Meyers’s gargantuan sense of self could not be denied. The obsequious admirer asking him questions was a worshiping idiot; he could say whatever he liked with impunity, the reverent interrogator his first line of defense, should a defense ever be needed.
The general needed that defense more than he realized, thought Tyrell, turning into the highway. Hawthorne knew that the moment the general’s aide opened the door to admit him. On first glance, the heavy subordinate was not unlike the military aide Tyrell had seen from the dark foyer of the Ingersols’ house, but he was not the same man. He was someone else. A killer had been excused.
Hawthorne drove into the Shenandoah Lodge’s parking lot at 3:30. Two minutes later he walked into the room where Poole sat wide awake at the desk, the miniaturized electronic equipment in front of him.
“Any word on Cathy?” asked Tyrell.
“Not since we spoke a few hours ago, and I’ve called a half dozen times.”
“You said she moved a leg. That meant something, didn’t it?”
“That’s what they said at first, now they’re not saying anythin’ except to tell me not to call again, that they’ll call me. So to stop from thinkin’, I’ve been messing around with Langley.”
“What do you mean, messing around?”
“Someone picked up your transponder, and it’s drivin’ the grid-kids crazy. They keep calling me, asking if we’re in touch, and I say sure, every now and then, and they want to know why you stopped at Wilmington, Delaware, and then drove to New Jersey?”
“What did you tell them?
”
“That the air force obviously has far more accurate equipment than they do, that I thought you were on your way to Georgia.”
“Don’t mess anymore; and if they call again, tell them the truth—I’m here and we have work to do. Which we do.”
“The tape?” Poole’s eyes widened.
“Get us both some paper so we can take notes.” Hawthorne had rewound the tape in the car; he placed the recorder on the bureau. “Here we go,” he added as the lieutenant brought them both a legal pad from the supplies on the coffee table, and Tyrell walked to the bed, cautiously lowering himself against the pillows.
“How’s your head?” Poole broke in, stopping the recorder and taking it to the desk.
“Palisser’s maid threw a box of gauze and a roll of tape over it. Now turn that damn thing back on, and I’ll keep my hat where it is.” The two men listened in silence to the taped conversation; it lasted an hour and twenty-three minutes. Each took notes, and when it was over, each had specific sections he wished to re-hear.
“You’re very good at what you do, Commander,” said Poole admiringly. “For a couple of minutes I thought you were real partial to Attila the Hun.”
“Some of it’s coming back, Lieutenant. Not enough, but some.… Come on, let’s keep going.”
“Okay, we’ll take the segments in sequence from the beginning. I’ll skip from one to another, ’cause I sketched out the areas of discovery and know where they are.”
“What the hell are you now, a lawyer?”
“Oh, the pity. My daddy wanted me to be, just like him, but—”
“Spare me,” Tyrell interrupted. “Just turn it on.”
(HAWTHORNE) Was there anyone at the Ingersols’ tonight who you didn’t expect to see, sir, someone who perhaps surprised you?
(MEYERS) That’s difficult to answer, Mr. Hawthorne. For starters, it was damn crowded and the lights weren’t that bright—those candles on the buffet tables were the only source actually, but then, I restrict eating between meals, so I wasn’t there. A soldier may travel on his belly, but not if it’s too full, right?
The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel Page 54
