The Scorpio Illusion Part 37

It was a chess game invented in h.e.l.l, the kings and the p.a.w.ns irrevocably at odds, unable to eliminate one another without a breakthrough that could destroy them both.... But it could not happen. She was so close-a few days, and Ashkelon would be avenged-her whole wretched life mean something! Muerte a toda autoridad! She could not be stopped, it was unthinkable!

Paris. She had to find out.

"What is happening?" asked Nicolo, whispering, still breathing hard, erratically, from the gunfire and their swift escape. "I think you had better tell me."

"Nothing that concerns us," replied the Baj, reaching for the limousines telephone.

Bajaratt dialed the overseas codes to Paris, then the number on the rue du Corniche. "Pauline?" she said emphatically. "I will speak to no other."

"It is I," confirmed the woman in Paris. "And you are-"

"The padrones only daughter."

"It is enough. What can I do for you?"

"Has Saba called again?"

"Certainement, madame. And quite excited. He asked about your not being on the island of Saba, and I believe I a.s.suaged him. He is satisfied."

"How satisfied?"

"He accepted the fact that your uncle left for another island and that you knew where to reach him when you returned to the Caribbean."

"Good. His Olympic Charters, Charlotte Amalie, right?"

"I would not know, madame."

"Then forget I told you. Ill leave him a message."

"Of course, madame. Adieu."

Bajaratt pressed the End b.u.t.ton, discontinuing the call, then dialed the 809 number in St. Thomas for Olympic Charters. What she heard was precisely what she expected to hear at this hour of the night.

"You have reached Olympic Charters, Charlotte Amalie. The office is closed and will open at 6 A.M. tomorrow. If this is an emergency, please press one, which will connect you to the Coast Guard patrol. Otherwise, you may leave a message."

"My darling, its Dominique! Im calling from a boring cruise off the coast of Portofino and, my darling, it is, as you Americans say, the pits! But the good news is that Ill be back in three weeks. Ive convinced my husband that I must return to my uncle-hes on Dog Island now. Im sorry I didnt mention it, but I did tell you he keeps moving, didnt I? Good heavens, Pauline scolded me so for not being clearer. It doesnt matter, well be together soon. I love you!"

The Baj replaced the phone, annoyed by Nicolos stare. "Why did you say those things, Cabi?" asked the young man. "Are we flying back to the Caribbean? Where are we going?... Tonight, the gunfire, our racing away like this! What is happening, signora? You must tell me!"

"I cannot tell you what I dont know, Nico. You heard the driver, he said there was a robbery in progress. The owner of that estate is wealthy beyond our imaginations, and these are bad times in America. There is crime everywhere. Thats why theres a gatehouse and guards and high fences. They must always be prepared for such terrible things. It has nothing to do with us, believe me."

"It is difficult for me to do that. If there are guards and so much protection, why are we running away?"

"The police, Nicolo! The police have been summoned, and we certainly dont want to be questioned by the police. We are visitors to this country; it would be embarra.s.sing, humiliating.... What would Angelina think?"

"Oh...." The dock boys unrelenting gaze briefly softened. "Why did we come here?"

"Because, through a friend, I was told wed have our own quarters, and servants ... and our host would provide me with a secretary, for I have dozens of letters to write."

"You have so many words, and you are so many people." The young Italian continued to stare in the flas.h.i.+ng shadows at the woman who had saved his life on the docks of Portici.

"Reflect on your lire in Napoli, my dear boy. I have to sort things out."

"Perhaps you should sort out where we will stay tonight."

"Ah, now you are thinking." The Baj pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton for the driver. "Are there acceptable accommodations around here that you might suggest, my friend?"

"Yes, madame, Ive called ahead and they are prepared for you. Guests of Mr. Van Nostrand, of course. Its the Shenandoah Lodge; youll find it quite acceptable."

"Thank you."

Tyrell crept along the edge of the gra.s.s in the shadows of the bordering pine trees. The stone gatehouse with the forbidding barriers across the dual-lane road was no more than a hundred feet away, the last thirty or forty, however, without the cover of the pines. It was open s.p.a.ce, a manicured lawn between the road and a ten-foot-high stockade fence with ominous-looking metal points atop each rounded shaft; it took no expertise to know that a powerful electric current flowed from tip to tip. Nor did it take years of experience to realize that the two barriers that fell across the wide entrance road were no mere wooden planks; their thickness indicated plates of laminated steel. Only a tank could crash through them, an automobile of whatever size would impact and be shattered as if it had crashed into a wall of iron. They were lowered now.

Hawthorne studied the gatehouse itself. The stone structure was square; the windows were of thick gla.s.s on the two sides that he could see, and a decorative turret reminiscent of a medieval castle completed the roof. The late Van Nostrand, a.k.a. Neptune, was a cautious man; the entrance to his extraordinary estate was break-proof, bulletproof, and heaven help the misguided penetrator who scaled the stockade fence. Hed be nuked until he was charred black flesh.

There was no one to be seen in either window, so Tye raced across the open s.p.a.ce, hugging the stone of the gatehouse once he reached it. Slowly, very slowly, he inched his head to the left side of the impenetrable thick gla.s.s. What he saw not only stunned him-it made no sense! Seated in a chair, his body slumped over a Formica desk perhaps ten feet from the entrance, was a uniformed guard, his head covered with blood. He had been shot not once but several times in the skull.

Hawthorne circled the building to the door; it was open. He rushed inside and tried to a.s.similate everything there was to see. It was a kaleidoscope of high technology: three tiers of television screens, all in continuous motion, covering every area of the compound, even to the extent of picking up sound. The chirps and caws of birds mingled with the flapping of windblown leaves and the rustle of the tall gra.s.s in the outer perimeters of the enormous estate.

Why had the guard been killed? Why? Where was the benefit? And where were his backups? A man like Neptune, much less his paranoid chief of security, would never a.s.sign a main gate to one individual alone; it was crazy, and neither Van Nostrand nor the coldly efficient Brian was crazy-warped, perhaps, but not stupid. Tye studied the equipment, wis.h.i.+ng that Poole were in the gatehouse with him; various markings on different machines indicated that audio as well as visual tapes were in operation. Answers might be found if the right b.u.t.tons were pressed, but conversely, everything could be erased if the wrong ones were activated.

The most mystifying fact was that the place was deserted. What did they know that caused them to run away? The gunfire? That did not make sense; the patrols were armed, as witnessed by the dead man in the chair, his holster still housing a .38 revolver. And Van Nostrand obviously hired and paid for complete loyalty; why hadnt his overpaid, loyal troops rushed to protect their benevolent employer? On cursory observation, it was doubtful they would find better jobs.

The gatehouse telephone rang, not simply startling Hawthorne, but shocking him into inaction.... Impose a freeze control on yourself, Lieutenant. Ice cold, and in neutral. If the unexpected happens, make f.u.c.king sure you convey the fact that its perfectly natural.

Words from an early trainer in deep-cover naval intelligence, words Tyrell himself had pa.s.sed on to so many others behind him ... in Amsterdam.

Tyrell picked up the phone and coughed several times before speaking. " Neahh?" he said, his voice indistinct, in the tone of a hostile greeting.

"Whats happening out there?" a woman shouted over the line. "I cant reach anybody, not Mr. Van or Brian or my husband in the car-n.o.body!... And where have you been for the last five minutes? I keep ringing-nothing!"

"Lookin around," replied Hawthorne gruffly.

"Those were gunshots, lots of em!"

"Huntin deer maybe," said Tyrell, recalling Pooles game of Watch-the-Possum with the two pilots.

"With a machine gun? At night?"

"Different strokes, different folks."

"Crazy people, everybodys crazy here!"

"Yeah-"

"Well, if you reach Mr. Van or any of the others, you tell em Im staying right here in the kitchen with all these heavy doors locked up tight. If they want dinner, they can call me!" With that declaration, the estates chef slammed down the phone.

The status quo was even more bewildering if only because the woman confirmed it-everyone had fled, perhaps killing the one man who would not join them, who might implicate the others. It was as though the specter of some Armageddon had spread through the compound in whispers. The time has come. Its tonight. Save ourselves! What else could it be?... Still, there were answers here, but the only true answer, the sole connection to Bajaratt, was in the dead cells of the dead Van Nostrands brain.

Hawthorne removed the blood-splattered .38 from the slain guards holster; he held it between his thumb and forefinger, carrying it into the small open bathroom, where he wiped it with paper towels and shoved it into his belt. He walked back out to the gatehouses equipment and once again studied it, concentrating on the panel above the counter nearest the entrance, presuming it would operate the road barriers. There were six outsize colored b.u.t.tons forming two triangles, side by side, each identical. The b.u.t.tons on the lower left were green; to their right, brown; and above, somewhat larger than those below, they were bright red. Beneath each was a yellow plaque with black lettering; in sequence, they read: OPEN, CLOSE, and under the red b.u.t.ton above, the letters larger, ALARM.

Tyrell chose the triangle on the left and pressed the green OPEN; the nearest barrier rose slowly. He pressed the brown; it returned to its lateral position. The left triangle was obviously for vehicles entering the estate, the right for those departing. To be certain, he repeated the procedure on the second triangle; the far barrier rose and fell. So much for high tech; there was no point in activating the alarm and every reason not to.

He had made up his mind, a.s.suming the risk was minimal, at least temporarily. He would rendezvous with Neilsen and Poole at the airstrip and announce his decision. They could either fly out with the pilots and follow up the Charlotte, North Carolina, connection-find out who specifically came out to escort Van Nostrand to his international departure gate-or they could stay with him and tear apart Van Nostrands study. The option was theirs, either alternative a positive step. The airport "clearance" could come from any number of people, its origin bureaucratically buried or falsely attributed, but a specific escort could be traced upward. On the other hand, Tyrell could use two additional pairs of eyes to scrutinize whatever they might find in Van Nostrands study, as well as in his living quarters. A man leaving his home under the stressful conditions self-imposed by this lord of the manor could easily become careless, forgetful.

Hawthorne pulled the dead guard off the blood-drenched desk, gripped him under the armpits, and dragged the corpse into the small bathroom. He had stopped to wash his hands in the tiny sink when he heard the sudden roar of a cars engine-loud, even furious, screeching to an abrupt stop.... Was he wrong? Were the police answering an emergency? Barely thinking, he raced out of the bathroom, grabbing the guards cap off the floor, and stood facing the thick window; he was instantly relieved. The blue Chevrolet was civilian, and it was not entering the compound, it was leaving. He looked at the counter, at the b.u.t.tons, instinctively knowing he would choose the one to the right, the exit triangle.

"Yes?" he said, flipping the toggle switch next to the built-in microphone.

"What the h.e.l.l dya mean, yes, you dumb ninny?" came the excited voice over the gatehouse speakers. "Let me out of here! And when that jacka.s.s husband of mine comes back in the limo, tell him I went to my sisters; he can reach me there.... Hey, wait a minute! Who are you?"

"Im new, maam," said Tyrell, pressing the green b.u.t.ton on the second triangle. "Have a pleasant night, maam."

"Loonies, youre all lunatics! Planes flyin in, guns goin off, what next?" The Chevrolet raced out into the darkness as Hawthorne lowered the far barrier. Glancing around, he wondered if there was anything he should do, anything he should take.... Yes, there probably was; on the Formica desk, wet with glistening blood, was a large ringed notebook. He opened it and turned the loose-leaf pages; they held the names, dates, and times of Van Nostrands guests going back to the first of the month, some eighteen days. In his haste, or anxiety, Neptune may have made his first mistake. Tyrell closed the notebook, put it under his arm-then suddenly, the obvious striking him, he slammed it back down on the desk and quickly flipped through the pages to that nights entry. The limousine that had sped away with two escaping pa.s.sengers from the farthest guesthouse. Only one name was listed, but it was enough to set Hawthornes brain on fire! For within it was part of a name the visitor had no idea her hunters were aware of, yet her maniacal ego demanded that it be there, a trail for official commissions and scholars of history to follow. She would not be denied that ultimate recognition.

Madame Lebajerne, Paris.

Lebajerne.

The Baj.

Dominique.

Bajaratt!

19.

Tyrell left the gatehouse door ajar and ran up the road toward the break in the enormous lawn where he would cut across to reach the airstrip. Once on the gra.s.s, however, he slowed down, bewildered but not at first sure why; then he understood. He instinctively expected to see a wash of amber light the nearer he came to the runway. It was not there; there was only darkness. He resumed running, faster than before, racing through a narrow s.p.a.ce in the tall hedgerow that bordered the edge of the field.

He had presumed that Neilsen and Poole would be waiting for him in plain sight on the strip with the two pilots. There was no one; something was wrong. He shoved the gatehouse log book under a bush, covering it with dirt, and looked up, studying the airfield.

Silence. Nothing. Only the yellowish-white outlines of the Gulfstream jet.

The something... movement! Where? It had come from the corner of his eye-to the right, obliquely across the tarmac, beyond it. He focused on the area, the shafts of moonlight now helping him, for the beams were reflected as if by mirrors. It was the control tower, inaccurately named, for it was not a tower but a one-story structure, mostly gla.s.s, with a dish antenna rising far above and anch.o.r.ed by wires to the roof. Someone had moved behind one of the large windows, caught in a refracted instant of a cloudless moon.

The darkened sky returned and Hawthorne lowered himself to the gra.s.s, scrambling back to the tall hedgerow, where he stood and began running from broken s.p.a.ce to broken s.p.a.ce, around the end of the strip. In less than a minute he was within a hundred yards of the ground-level "tower," gasping for breath, the sweat rolling down his face and neck, drenching his s.h.i.+rt. Had the two pilots overpowered Cathy and the armed, young air force lieutenant? Considering Pooles skills, it did not seem likely without gunfire, and there had been none.

Movement again! An opaque figure, or the shadow of a figure, had swiftly approached the huge gla.s.s window, then just as quickly receded from view.... They had seen him when he had run through the break in the hedgerow, and were watching for him now. Suddenly a recent memory came back to Hawthorne, the memory of three days ago-three nights ago-on an unnamed island north of the Anegada Pa.s.sage.... Fire. One of the most potent images for man or animal, confirmed by the racing, snarling attack dogs on the padrones fortress in the sea.

Remaining behind the hedgerow, Tyrell sc.r.a.ped the ground for dried twigs and fallen brush burned by the summer sun, then reached up, feeling within the thick foliage for brittle, breakable branches; the farther up he went, the more plentiful they were. In roughly four perspiring minutes, he had built a mound nearly a foot in height and two feet wide; it was a "starter" that could ignite wet charcoal. He reached into his trouser pocket for his ever-present book of matches-ever-present from his heavy smoking days; he tore one off, cupped his hands, and struck it. He lit the base, shoving the match-book into the pyre, then scrambled away on his hands and knees, circling deep to his right, behind the next section of the broken hedgerow, to the next after that. He was now parallel to the mostly gla.s.s structure, its metal door less than eighty feet away.

The burning bushes spread far more rapidly than Hawthorne thought possible, and he thanked whatever G.o.ds there were for the scorching Virginia sun. The moist night breezes from the hills had not yet arrived; the tops of the hedges were dry and the middle greenery permitted the flames to surge upward, quickly spreading in both directions. In moments the fires became an ominous succession of erupting flames, surging to the right and to the left like bright dual fuses. Then two-no, three figures-appeared at the large rear gla.s.s window; they were excited; heads nodded and shook; hands shot out and retracted, the shadowed bodies lurching one way and the other, indecisive, panicked. The metal door opened and the three figures were in the frame, one in front, two behind. Tyrell could not see their faces, but he knew that none was Neilsen or Poole. He withdrew the .38 from his belt and waited, asking himself three questions: Where were Cathy and Jackson? Who were these people, and what did they have to do with the disappearance of the two air force officers?

"Oh, my G.o.d, the fuel tanks!" shouted the man in front.

"Where are they?" The voice of the second man was familiar to Hawthorne-the copilot of the Gulfstream jet.

"Over there!" Tye could see the figure, gesturing wildly at some point on the airstrip. "It could blow the whole f.u.c.king place to the moon! They hold a hundred thousand gallons. High test, the highest!"

"Its all underground!" protested the pilot.

"Sure, pal, and what keeps it there are iron screw plates! Those tanks are only half full; the gas fumes are on top and they can blow with red hot metal. Lets get out of here!"

"We cant leave them!" cried the copilot. "Thats murder, mister, and we dont want anything to do with it."

"Do what you want, you a.s.sholes, Im leaving!" The man in front ran out on the gra.s.s, his racing silhouette pa.s.sing the flames of the hedgerow behind him. The two pilots disappeared from view, running inside the building as Hawthorne lurched forward, lowering himself and scrambling, until he was at the corner of the gla.s.s-squared structure. He peered around the edge of the building. The hedgerow fires were moving steadily, rising to the sky. Suddenly, Poole and Neilsen, their hands bound behind them, their mouths strapped with gray pipe tape, were shoved out the door, Cathy falling as Jackson plummeted on top of her, covering her with his own body as if he expected gunfire. The pilots of the Gulfstream jet came out next, apparently frightened, unsure of themselves.

"Come on, both of you!" the copilot demanded. "Get up, lets go!"

"Youre not going anywhere!" Tyrell was on his feet, the .38 swinging back and forth between the heads of the two pilots. "You lousy sc.u.m, help them up! Untie them, and remove those tapes!"

"Hey, man, we didnt do this cause we wanted to!" the copilot protested as he and his colleague quickly pulled Neilsen and Poole to their feet, untying them, and letting each remove the thick tape. "That lousy radioman had his gun on all of us."

"He told us to tie em up and gag em," broke in the pilot. "Then he figured that since we were working for Van Nostrand-he ran the practice turns this morning-we were okay."

"More than okay," the copilot interrupted, looking at the burning hedgerow. "He said we were cleared by 'Mr. Vans security, but he didnt know these guys and he wasnt taking chances.... Lets get the h.e.l.l out of here. You heard what he said, the fuel tanks!"

"Where are they?" asked Hawthorne.

"About four hundred feet west of this gla.s.s radio barn," answered Poole. "I saw the pumps while Cath and I were waiting for you."

"I dont care where they are!" the copilot shouted. "That b.a.s.t.a.r.d said they could blow us to the moon!"

"They could," said the lieutenant, "but its not likely. Those pumps have backup insulators, and the screw plates would have to be hit with a blowtorch to reach a combustible temperature."

"Could it happen?"

"Sure, Tye, one chance out of maybe a couple of hundred. h.e.l.l, the No Smoking signs in gas stations make sense."

Hawthorne turned to the frightened pilots. "The odds are way in your favor, fellas," he said. "Give me your wallets, your IDs. Also your pa.s.sports."

"What is this, a G.o.dd.a.m.ned bust?"

"It wont be if you do what I tell you to do. Come on, hand them over! Ill give them back."

"Who are you, some kind of federal?" The pilot reluctantly reached into his pockets and handed Tyrell his wallet and pa.s.sport. "I hope you realize that we were legitimately employed and carry no firearms or illegal substances. Search us and the aircraft if you want to. You wont find a thing."

"Sounds like youve been through this sort of routine before ... you, too, sky jock! That is the proper term, isnt it?"

"Im a licensed pilot who free-lances his services, mister," said the copilot, also handing Hawthorne the demanded items.