The Scorpio Illusion Part 29

"Eye and hair color and a pa.s.sport photo taken within the last five years."

"Ill have all that hand-delivered to you by noon.... You understand, General, I could go to Bruce at State, but this really isnt in his realm of expertise-"

"That a.s.shole couldnt mount this kind of thing any more than he could handle the best-looking hooker in town. And that civilian at the Agency would f.u.c.k it up with a brushed photograph!... You want to come in here and have my boys work up a new picture? Hair color, contacts in the eyes?"

"Forgive me, my friend, but you and I have discussed these procedures many times. You even gave me the names of several specialists off your books, remember?"

"Remember?" The general laughed. "At your place? Those visits are out of my memory bank."

"One is coming over within the hour. A man named Crowe."

"The Bird? Hes got magic in his lenses.... Tell him to bring his stuff directly to me and Ill take care of everything. Its the least I can do, old buddy."

The last call was to the secretary of defense, a highly intelligent, civilized man who was in the wrong job, a fact he was beginning to realize after five months in office. He had been a brilliant executive in the private sector, rising to the position of chief executive officer of the third largest corporation in America, but he was no match for the compet.i.tive, gluttonous generals and admirals of the Pentagon. In a world where profit-and-loss sheets were not only meaningless but nonexistent, and ma.s.sive purchase of product the difference between survival and Armageddon, he was out of his depth. In the acknowledged Darwinian environs of corporate ascendancy he was a master of calm reasoning, leaving the hatchets to rewarded subordinates; but in the brutal compet.i.tion between the services for military procurement he was at a loss because it had nothing to do with profits. The Pentagon had applauded his appointment.

"They want it all!" the secretary had said confidentially to his friend Van Nostrand, an unpaid public servant of like heritage, money, family, and brains. "And most of the time when I raise the subject of increasing budgetary constraints, they force-feed me a hundred scenarios, half of which I cant understand, spelling out a military doomsday if they dont get what they want."

"You must be far tougher with them, Mr. Secretary. Certainly, youve had to deal with reduced budgets before-"

"Of course I have," the secretary, Van Nostrands guest over brandy that evening, had said. "But implicit in those orders was always the possibility that one or another of my executives might lose his position if my demands werent carried out.... You cant fire these sons of b.i.t.c.hes! Besides, confrontations arent my style."

"So have your civilian aides do it."

"Thats whats so stupid! Men like me come and go, but the bureaucratic staffs, those government G-7s or 8s, or whatever they are, are here to stay. And where do they get their perks, their flights on military aircraft to Caribbean resorts beholden to army engineers or naval coastal surveys? Dont bother to answer, Ive learned that much."

"A conundrum, then?"

"An impossible situation, at least for someone like me-or even you, I suspect. Ill give it another three or four months, then invent some personal reason to resign."

"Health? One of the most celebrated halfbacks in Yales football history, a leading spokesman for the Presidents fitness program? No one will believe it, you jog incessantly in all those government-sponsored television commercials."

"The sixty-six-year-old athlete." The secretary laughed. "My wife loathes Was.h.i.+ngton. Sh.e.l.l be delighted to be the object of my profound concern, and Im not above bribing her doctor."

Fortunately for Van Nostrand, the secretary of defense had not yet announced his resignation. Therefore, quite naturally, the secretary was brought into the Little Girl Blood circle, and when Van Nostrand had called, stating that he believed there could be a connection between the current a.s.sa.s.sination conspiracy and an obscure former officer in naval intelligence named Hawthorne, the secretary had jumped into the breach at the financiers request. What Van Nostrand had told him was both simple and alarming, and necessitated going around normal channels, namely bypa.s.sing Captain Henry Stevens, who would interfere. This Hawthorne had to be found, an inflammatory letter sent to him.... The world of the terrorist Bajaratt was an international netherworld, a world someone like Van Nostrand had to be aware of; and if through his scores of intermediaries and informants he had heard something, learned something, for G.o.ds sake give him all the help one could!

"h.e.l.lo, Howard?"

"My G.o.d, Nils, I was so tempted to call you, but you specifically said I shouldnt. I dont think I could have held out much longer."

"My deepest apologies, my friend, but theres been a confluence of emergencies: the first, our geopolitical crisis; and the other so personally painful that I can barely speak of it.... Did Hawthorne receive my message?"

"They processed the film last night and flew up the negatives-we wont accept faxes-and its confirmed. Tyrell N. Hawthorne was handed your envelope at 9:12 P.M. in the courtyard cafe of the San Juan Hotel. We matched the photos under spectrographs and its him."

"Good. Then Ill hear from the former commander and h.e.l.l come to see me. I pray to G.o.d that our meeting will produce something of value for you."

"You wont tell me what it is?"

"I cant, Howard, for the specific details could be inaccurate and cast disrepute on an honorable man. I can tell you only that my information speculates on the possibility that this Hawthorne may be a member of the international Alpha market. Of course, it may be totally untrue."

"Alpha market? Whats that?"

"a.s.sa.s.sination, my friend. They kill for the highest bidder, but most, as veterans of deep cover, black operations, theyve eluded all traps. However, theres no concrete proof regarding Hawthorne."

"Jesus Christ! Do you mean he could be working with the Bajaratt woman instead of hunting her down?"

"Its a theory based on logical a.s.sumptions, and could be terribly wrong or tragically right, well know this evening. If all goes according to schedule, h.e.l.l be here between six and seven tonight. Soon thereafter, well learn the truth."

"How?"

"Ill confront him with what I know, and h.e.l.l have to respond."

"I cant permit it! Ill have your place surrounded!"

"Absolutely not. Because if he is who hes reputed to be, h.e.l.l send out scouts to survey the grounds; if your men are spotted, h.e.l.l never arrive."

"You could be killed!"

"Unlikely. My security personnel are everywhere, and theyre acutely thorough."

"Thats not good enough!"

"Its more than sufficient, my friend. However if it will ease your mind, send a single car to my entrance road after seven oclock. If Hawthorne is driven away by my limousine, youll know my information was wrong, and you must never mention that I brought it up. If its not wrong, my own people will be on top of the situation and will reach you instantly, for I wont have time to call you myself. My schedules extraordinarily tight. It will be a last act of patriotism by an old man who loves this land as no other.... Im leaving the country, Howard."

"I dont understand ...!"

"I mentioned to you a few moments ago about my facing two emergencies, and I know of no other way to say it. Two catastrophic events coming together at the same time, and although I am a deeply religious man, I have to ask where is my G.o.d?"

"What happened, Nils ...?"

"It began years ago when I was in Europe. My marriage was falling apart-" Van Nostrand replayed his litany of sorrow, love, illegitimacy, and subsequent horror to the same effect he had evoked in his previous appeals. "I must leave, Howard, never, perhaps, to return."

"Nils, Im so sorry! G.o.d, thats terrible!"

"Well find a life, my love and I. I am a fortunate man in many ways, and I ask nothing of anyone. My affairs are in order, my transportation arranged."

"What a loss for all of us."

"What a gain for me, my friend, the greatest prize in my long years of modest accomplishments. Good-bye, my dear Howard."

Van Nostrand replaced the phone, his mind instantly shutting out the saddened, self-pitying image of the boring secretary of defense, except for the lingering knowledge that Howard Davenport was the only person to whom he had mentioned Hawthornes name. He would think about that later. Now, however, Van Nostrand considered his piece du combat, the death of Tyrell Hawthorne. It would be brutal and quick, but surgically precise, producing the greatest pain. The first bullets would be fired into the most sensitive organs. Then a pistol-whipped face, finally a long-bladed knife in the left eye, locchio sinistro. He would watch it all, avenging the death of his lover, the padrone. And, at the last, from far away, he would hear the whispered accolades accorded him in the corridors of power.... "A true patriot." "A finer American there never was!" "What he must have gone through! With all his other problems." "He never would have permitted it had that sc.u.m Hawthorne not made extraordinary threats!" "Keep it quiet! We cant allow questions!"

Mars undoubtedly would have screamed: "ecco! Perche? We buy these kills from the families! Why do you do it this way?"

"La mente di un serpente," would undoubtedly have been Neptunes reply. "The cunning of a snake, padrone. I strike, then I must vanish into the underbrush, never to be seen again. But there must be those who know the snake was there, even if he was in the skin of a saint. Besides, your families talk too much, negotiate, ponder too long. The quickest way is to call in debts from men in high office, above suspicion, so that when my 'death occurs, they can mourn together, confirming the loss of a saint. Finito! Basta!"

After the death of Tyrell Hawthorne.

"His name was Hawthorne?" Tyrell asked in astonishment of the half-drunken pilot and owner of a wh.o.r.ehouse in Old San Juan. "What the h.e.l.l are you saying?"

"Im telling you what the spook told me," answered Alfred Simon. He was slowly sobering up at the sight of the two weapons leveled at his head. "Also, what I could read in the flight decks light. The name on the ID was Hawthorne."

"Whos your contact?"

"What contact ...?"

"Who hires you?"

"How the h.e.l.l do I know?"

"You have to get messages, your instructions!"

"One of my girls. Somebody comes in to check out the merchandise and leaves a note with the broad and pa.s.ses her a few extra dollars. I get the note an hour or so later. Its standard, and I dont even press for the extra bread, which, incidentally, because I treat my girls right, theyve told me about."

"I dont follow you."

"On a good night, which of these putas can remember who had her last, or next to last, or even next to last after that?"

"Hes really an 'X-rated outside, Commander," said Poole.

" 'Commander?" The pilot had sat forward on the couch. "You a big gun?"

"Big enough for you, babe.... Which of your girls gave you the instructions for Gorda?"

"The one I was porking-shes one h.e.l.l of a kid, only seventeen-"

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h!" roared Poole, smas.h.i.+ng his fist into the pimps face, sending the pilot back into the pillows, his mouth bleeding. "My sister was that age once, and I ripped the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to pieces who tried that s.h.i.+t on her!"

"Stop it, Lieutenant! Were interested in information, not reformation."

"I get G.o.dd.a.m.ned p.i.s.sed off at people like this sc.u.m."

"I understand that, but right now were looking for something else.... You asked if I was a commander, Simon, and the answer is yes, I am. Im also wired into D.C. intelligence, way high up. Does that answer your question?"

"Can you get them off my back?"

"Can you give me something to make me try?"

"Okay ... okay. Most of my dark-flannel missions are made at night, between seven oclock and eight, and always from the same runway. The same air controller gives me the green light for takeoff; it never varies, hes always the same one."

"Whats his name?"

"They dont give names, but hes bright, and hes got a high-pitched voice and he coughs a lot, but hes always the one a.s.signed to my equipment. For a long time I thought it was just coincidence, then I began to think it was weird-plus."

"I want to talk to the girl who gave you the message for Gorda."

"Man, are you kidding? You boys blew em away! They wont come back until the front door is fixed and everything looks normal."

"Where does she live?"

"Where does she live-where do they all live? Right here, with maids to clean their rooms, do their laundry, and fix them d.a.m.n good meals. Lets get something straight, big gun. I was an officer too, and I know how to keep my mechs in top form."

"You mean if your front door isnt replaced-"

"Theyll stay away. Wouldnt you?"

"Hey, Jackson-"

"Dont bother," the lieutenant said. "You got tools somewhere, wh.o.r.emaster?"

"Downstairs, in the cellar."

"Ill go look." Poole disappeared through the bas.e.m.e.nt door.

"How long are those air controllers on duty during the seven to eight oclock s.h.i.+ft?"

"They come on at six and leave at one, which means youve got an hour and twenty minutes to reach him-say an hour-minus, since youre at least fifteen to twenty-five minutes to the airport, if youve got a fast car."

"We dont have a car."

"Mines for rent. A thousand dollars an hour."

"Give me the keys," said Hawthorne, "or youve got a tunnel between your ears."

"Be my guest," the pilot replied, reaching to the side table and retrieving a ring of keys. "Its in the back lot, a white Caddy convertible."

"Lieutenant!" shouted Hawthorne, ripping out the only telephone in the room and backing toward the cellar door, his gun in his hand. "Were moving, lets go!"

"h.e.l.l, man. I found a couple of old doors down here that I could-"

"Stow it, and get up here. Were going to the airport and weve got to get there in less time than weve got."

"Im on your side, Commander." Poole raced up the steps. "What about him?" said the lieutenant, staring at Simon.

"Oh, Ill be here, yo-yo," the pilot replied. "Where the h.e.l.l am I going?"

The aircraft controller was nowhere in the tower, although the others easily identified him by the description of his high-pitched voice. His name was Cornwall, and his colleagues had been erratically, dangerously, covering for him for the past forty-five minutes. So perilous was his absence that a controller who was taking a stress-relief break was called in to replace him.

The missing man was found by a cook in the galley, a bleeding red spot in the center of his forehead. The airport police were summoned and the questioning began, interrogations that lasted nearly three hours. Tyrells replies were those of a professional, an admixture of ignorance, innocence, and concern for a friend of a friend he had never met.

Finally released, Hawthorne and Poole raced back to the wh.o.r.ehouse in Old San Juan.

"Now Ill fix the door," said the confused, angry lieutenant, heading down to the bas.e.m.e.nt as an exhausted Tyrell fell into a soft chair. The owner of the establishment had pa.s.sed out on the couch. In moments, Hawthorne was asleep.

Sunlight burst through the room as Tyrell and the pilot sat up, rubbing their eyes, trying to adjust to the reality of day. Across the room, on a green chaise longue, lay Poole, his soft, winsome snoring somehow reflecting the essentially gentle man that he was. Where the shattered front door had been was a perfectly acceptable subst.i.tute; it was all intact, including a slat in the upper panel.

"Who the h.e.l.l is he?" asked the severely hung-over Alfred Simon.

"My military charge daffaires," answered Hawthorne, getting unsteadily to his feet. "Dont make a move against me or h.e.l.l smash you to smithereens with one foot."