The Scorpio Illusion Part 20

"Hey, Dante!" yelled a female correspondent. "Why dont you give up the n.o.bility bit and get yourself a television series? Youre a hunk, kid!"

"Non capisco, signora."

"I agree with the girls," an elderly male reporter in the front row broke in above the laughter. "Youre a good-looking young fella, but I dont think youre here to bowl over our young ladies."

Upon the instant, unnecessary translation, the young baron replied, "Please, Mr. Journalist, if I understand you, I should very much like to meet American girls, whom I would treat with great respect. On the television they are so alive and attractive-so Italian, if youll forgive me."

"Are you running for political office?" asked another reporter. "If you are, youve got the womens vote."

"I only run in the mornings, signore. Ten or twelve miles. It is very good for the body."

"Whats your agenda here, baron?" continued the reporter in the front row. "I checked with your family in Ravello, your father, in fact, and he made it clear that you were to bring back a number of recommendations based on your observations of American investments, their viability, their projections. Is that correct, sir?"

The translation was complex and quiet, several points repeated several times, instructions as to his reply contained therein. "My father has schooled me well, signore, and we will speak each day on the telephone. I am his eyes and his ears, and he trusts me."

"Will you be traveling a lot?"

"I believe a great many entrepreneurs will be coming to him," interrupted the contessa without translating. "Firms are only as good as the executives who run them. The barone-cadetto is trained in economics, for his responsibilities are great. He will look for conviction and integrity and match them against the figures."

"Outside of profit-and-loss statements," said an intense female reporter, her short, dark hair framing an angry face, "has any thought been given to the socioeconomic conditions prevalent in those areas targeted for investment, or is it just business as usual-go where the profits are?"

"I suggest that is-how do you say it?-a prejudiced question," replied the contessa.

"A loaded question," a male voice at the rear corrected her.

"But I should be happy to answer it," the contessa continued. "Perhaps the lady might place a telephone call to any journalist of her choosing in or around Ravello, even Rome. She will learn for herself the high esteem accorded the family in the provincia. In good times and not so good they have been most generous in the areas of medicine, shelter, and employment. They treat their wealth as a gift that requires responsibility as well as authority. They have a social conscience and it will not change over here."

"The kid cant answer for himself?" pressed the querulous reporter.

"This kid, as you call him, is far too modest to extol his familys virtues in public. As you may notice, he cannot understand everything you say, but the look in his eyes will tell you that he is much offended, particularly since he cannot comprehend the reason for your hostility."

"Mi scusi," said the reporter from The Miami Herald in fluent Italian. "I also spoke with your father, the baron in Ravello-on background, naturally-and I apologize for my colleague," he added, aiming a nasty grin at the woman. "Shes a pain in the a.s.s."

"Grazie."

"Prego."

"If we may revert to English," said a heavyset journalist in the front on the right. "I certainly dont subscribe to our colleagues innuendos, but the young barons spokeswoman has raised a point. As you know, there are deep pockets of unemployment in this country. Would the familys social conscience conceivably extend to those areas?"

"If the proper situation were presented, Im sure theyd be among the first, sir. The barone di Ravello is an astute international businessman who recognizes the value of loyalty as clearly as he does the satisfaction of charity."

"Youre going to get a h.e.l.l of a lot of phone calls," said the heavyset reporter. "Its not hard news by a long shot, but it could be."

"Im afraid that will be all, ladies and gentlemen. Its been a trying morning and we have the rest of the day to go through." Smiling and nodding graciously to the reporters, Bajaratt led her handsome charge from the room, delighted with the flattering comments about him. There would, indeed, be many phone calls, just as she had planned.

The Palm Beach social network operated with frightening efficiency. By four oclock that afternoon they had received sixteen firm invitations and eleven inquiries as to when various hostesses might plan luncheons or dinner parties in honor of Dante Paolo, barone-cadetto di Ravello.

With equal efficiency Bajaratt went through her notebooks and selected five of the most prestigious invitations to accept, houses where the elite of politics and industry were most likely to attend the functions. She then called the rejects and with profound apologies demurred, hoping with all her heart that they would meet at so-and-sos and so-and-sos, who had reached the young baron first. Cats stalk, considered the Baj, striking out with their claws only when a piece of the mouse is withheld from them. They would all be wherever she and Nicolo went.

Muerte a toda autoridad!

It was only the beginning, but the journey would be swift. It was time to check London, Paris, and Jerusalem. Death to the merchants of death at Ashkelon.

"Ashkelon," said the quiet male voice in London.

"Its Bajaratt. Are you progressing?"

"Within a week well have Downing Street covered. Men in police uniforms, refuse details in lovely garbage-spotted white overalls. Vengeance for Ashkelon!"

"It may take me more than a week, you understand that."

"No matter," said London. "Well be all the more entrenched, all the more familiar. We cannot fail!"

"Forever Ashkelon."

"Ashkelon," said the female voice in Paris.

"Bajaratt. How are things?"

"Sometimes I think too simple. The man comes and goes flanked by such nonchalant guards we would have them executed in the Baaka. The French are so arrogant, so careless of danger, its ludicrous. Weve checked out the rooftops-theyre not even covered!"

"Beware the nonchalant French dandies, they can turn and strike like cobras. Remember the Resistance."

"Thats merde, as they say. If they know about us, theyre not taking us seriously. Dont they understand that were willing to die? Vengeance for Ashkelon!"

"Forever Ashkelon."

"Ashkelon," whispered the guttural voice in Jerusalem.

"You know who I am."

"Of course. I led the prayers for you and your husband under the orange trees. He will be avenged, our cause avenged, believe me."

"Id rather hear about your progress."

"Oh, youre so cold, Baj, so cold."

"My husband never thought so. Your progress?"

"s.h.i.t, were more Jew-like than the odious Jews! Our black hats and our black braids and our stupid white shawls all move rhythmically as we peck our heads at that f.u.c.king wall. We can blow that b.a.s.t.a.r.d away when he walks out of the Knesset. A few of us may even escape to fight again. We only wait for the news, for your signal."

"It will take a while."

"Take all the time you like, Baj. During the evenings we put on I.D.F. uniforms and climb upon hungry sabra women, each of us praying to Allah that an Arab will grow in their bellies."

"Stick to business, my friend."

"We stick it to the Jew wh.o.r.es!"

"Not at the expense of your mission!"

"Never. Vengeance for Ashkelon!"

"Forever Ashkelon."

Amaya Bajaratt left the bank of public phones in the hotel lobby, having replaced in her purse the various credit cards supplied her by Bahrain. She took the elevator upstairs and walked down the elegant corridor to their suite. Inside, the dimly lit sitting room was empty, lonely. She crossed to the open door of the darkened bedroom. Young Nicolo was, as usual, naked and supine on the large bed; he was fast asleep, his magnificent body inviting. As she studied him, she could not help but think of her husband, her so-brief husband. Both men had long, slender, muscular bodies, one far younger than the other, of course, but the similarity was there. She was drawn to such bodies, as she had been drawn to the naked Hawthorne barely two days earlier. Suddenly, she heard and felt her own breathing; she touched the swelling nipples of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and was aware of the aching urgency of her groin. It made up for so much she could never have. Years before, a doctor in Madrid had performed a simple operation that would forever preclude conception-this was all she had.

She walked to the foot of the bed and undressed, now as naked as the body in front of her, below her.

"Nico," she said gently. "Wake up, Nicolo."

"What ...?" stuttered the young man, blinking open his eyes.

"I am here for you ... my darling." You must, she thought. Its all I have left!

"Whats the number in Paris?" asked Hawthorne, standing over the padrone but addressing Poole in the doorway.

"That I checked out," answered the lieutenant. "Its around ten oclock in the morning there, so I figured I wasnt going to put anybody into shock."

"And?"

"It doesnt make sense, Tye. Its a travel agency on the Champs-elysees."

"What happened when you called?"

"Sure as possums.h.i.t it was a private number. The lady said something in French, and when I said in English that I hoped I had the right number, she asked me in English if I was calling a French-sounding travel agency, and I said I sure as h.e.l.l was and it was urgent.... Thats when she asked me what my color was, and naturally I said white, and she said 'and, and I didnt know what to say, so she hung up."

"You didnt have the code, Jackson; theres no way you could have."

"I guess I didnt."

"Ill put Stevens on it, unless I can convince our padrone here to be more cooperative."

"I know nothing of such things!" shouted the invalid.

"No, you probably dont," agreed Tyrell. "Those last calls, the undeleted calls, werent made by you, but by someone who didnt know how to erase them. Shades of Rosemary Woods, padrone."

"Nothing. I know nothing!"

"What about Palm Beach, Lieutenant?"

"Just as crazy, Commander. Its the number of a very ritzy restaurant on Worth Avenue. They said I had to make a reservation two weeks in advance unless I was on their preferred list."

"Thats not crazy at all, Jackson, its part of the mosaic, part of the pay dirt. The preferred list is just that, preferred by way of a name you couldnt invent and followed by words you couldnt know. Ill turn that over to Stevens with the Paris conduit." Tyrell looked down at the old man; the bleeding in his left cheek had ebbed, blotted by a wad of tissue that hung from his flesh. "Youre going on a trip, paisan," said Hawthorne.

"I cannot leave this house."

"Oh, youre leaving, scungilli-"

"Then put a bullet in my head now, you might as well."

"Its tempting, but I dont think so. I want you to meet some former a.s.sociates of mine, from another life, you might say-"

"Everything is here to keep me alive! You want a dead man on your hands?"

"Not really, although its a moot point in your case," replied Tyrell. "So Id suggest you point out the specific equipment you need for a short flight, just the basic stuff. Youll be in a mainland hospital in a few hours, and guess what? Ill bet youll have a private room."

"I cannot be moved!"

"Would you care to place a bet?" asked Hawthorne, reaching into his pouch as static erupted from the radio.

Neilsens words were spoken in a monotone, control imposed over anxiety. "We have a problem."

"What happened?" barked Poole. "Are you in trouble?"

"Whats wrong?" asked Tyrell.

"The pilot of the seaplane radioed the Brit patrol boat-his left rudder snapped, then flew off! He went down roughly a hundred and twenty kilometers north of the hovers fix. Theyre going after him, a.s.suming the poor guy survives."

"Cathy, answer me as honestly as you can," said Hawthorne. "From what you know about that aircraft, could it have been sabotage?"

"What do you thinks been busting my head for the last couple of minutes? I hadnt even considered it and I should have! Good G.o.d, our AWAC was blown up-Charlie!"

"All right, calm down. Stay the course. How could it have been sabotage?"

"The cables, d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l!" Rapidly, Cathy explained that every movable part of the plane was operated by dual steel cables. That both sets of cables could shard at once was inconceivable.

"Sabotage," Tyrell concluded quietly.

"Both were shortened together so theyd snap at the same time," said Neilsen, more controlled now. "And I never even considered the possibility. s.h.i.t!"

"Will you please stop whipping yourself, Major? I didnt consider it either. Someone in St. Martin slipped by the Deuxieme, and if he or she could do that, we were stationary ducks."

"The mechs!" yelled the pilot over the radio. "Bring in every G.o.dd.a.m.ned mechanic on that island and burn his feet. Its one of them!"

"Believe me, Cathy, whoever it was is gone. Thats the way it is."

"I cant stand it! The Brit flying that plane may be dead!"

"Thats the way it is," repeated Hawthorne. "Maybe now youll understand why a lot of people in Washington, London, Paris, and Jerusalem are afraid to leave their desks, their phones. Were not dealing with a single psychopathic terrorist, were dealing with an obsessed zealot whos running a network of raging fanatics perfectly willing to die to make their kills."

"Christ, what do we do?"

"Right now you beach the sub in the cove and come up to the house. Well raise the shutters so you can see it clearly."

"I should stay in touch with the hovercraft-"