The Scorpio Illusion Part 32

"CIA," said Stevens. "Those good, bad old days. Pouches filled with bribe money dropped to the tribes in the hills of Laos and Cambodia. The Montagnards took the worst beating; they were paid the most so the pilots stole the most from them.... How could anyone in Washington put a leash around somebody like that? Youd think itd be the other way around."

"They unloaded their subsidiary aircraft on him, getting a young kid fly-boy to sign highly questionable papers of transfer when he was probably drunk. That way hes stigmatized as a mercenary and a thief, a soldier of fortune in it for the big money with no affiliation with our pure U.S. personnel."

"Then they pull the rug out and build a corruption case against him, reversing the scam. Hes got his dirty hand in the Washington cookie jar while our brave boys are dying."

"Its one h.e.l.l of a rotten scenario."

"It is and its cla.s.sic, and he wouldnt have to be drunk, just greedy. He thinks hes been given merchandise worth a few million, especially if hes young, but doesnt realize hes on the hook for life while the spy junkies are off it.... I know just who to reach to find out whats buried on one Alfred Simon, pilot, A.I.D., Vientiane."

"Can you make sure no one will know youre looking?"

"All the way to the max," affirmed the head of naval intelligence. "Our source was an overseas case officer who moved up into the rarefied ranks of the a.n.a.lysts, but who also had her hand in a cookie jar, the Agencys, and we caught her dead to rights. Naturally, nothing was ever said, but you might say shes one of our stringers."

"Get back to me at the hotel," said Hawthorne. "If Im delayed or not there, give everything youve got to Major Neilsen. Shes now certified four-zero, unless you idiots have changed the cla.s.sification."

"The way she sounds, is she certified for anything else?"

"Get off my back, Captain. Without her wed be dead."

"Sorry, just trying to bring a touch of levity into a very trying situation."

"Youre solid lead, Henry. Go to work, call me, and then go home to your wife and 'trip the light fantastic. " Hawthorne slammed down the phone, aware that beads of sweat had formed at his hairline. What next? He had to keep moving! He had to stay in motion-he could not think of things that he ... dared not think about. Yet he had to! He could lie to others, but not to himself, not any longer. Saba, a reclusive uncle, a confidante in Paris, benevolent causes-protestations of love. All lies.

Dominique! Dominique Montaigne was Bajaratt!

He would hunt her down or be killed in the attempt. Nothing on earth could stop him now. Betrayal!

At Central Headquarters, San Juan, Homicide Division, the murdered air controllers wife, one Rose Cornwall, had put on a superb performance for the Puerto Rico police. She was stoic and courageous despite the tragic loss that was obviously tearing her apart.... No, no, she could not help. Her loving husband hadnt an enemy in the world, for he was the kindest, most gentle man the good Lord ever gave life to, ask their parish priest. Debts, no; they lived well but always within their budget. Habits such as gambling in the casinos? Infrequently, and only at the slot machines, usually the twenty-five-cent variety where they limited themselves to twenty dollars apiece. Drugs? Never; he could barely take an aspirin, and he had cut down his cigarettes to just one after meals. Why had they come to Puerto Rico from Chicago five years ago? It was a far more comfortable life-style; the climate, the beaches, the Rain Forest-he loved to wander for hours in the Rain Forest-and without the terrible pressures of Chicagos OHare Airport.

"May I go home now? Id like to be alone for a while until I call our priest. Hes a wonderful man and will make the arrangements."

Rose Cornwall was escorted to her condominium in Isla Verde, but she did not telephone her priest. Instead, she called a number in Mayagez.

"Listen, you son of a b.i.t.c.h, I covered for you s.h.i.t-heads and now I want mine," the widow Cornwall said.

The telephone rang in the El San Juan suite as Catherine Neilsen sat at the desk, reading the newspaper account of the airport murder. She reached over quickly and picked up the bellowing, shrill instrument.

"Yes?"

"Its Stevens, Major."

"Call number five, if I can count."

"You can, and I presume hes there. I talked to him an hour and a half ago."

"Yes, he told me. Hes in the shower, both of them are in showers, and let me tell you, they should stay in them for a long time. This place smells like a sickening flower spray."

"A what ...?"

"A wh.o.r.ehouse, Captain. Which is where they were, so I suppose it makes sense."

"What?"

"You do repeat yourself, dont you, sir?"

"Get him out of there! Hes the one who put a priority-red on this data."

"I hope I dont shock him. Hold on, please." Neilsen walked into Hawthornes bedroom, then to the bathroom door. Listening, she hesitated, then opened it, only to find a naked Tyrell drying himself with a huge towel. "Sorry to intrude, Commander. D.C. on the phone."

"Did you ever hear of knocking?"

"Not when a showers on."

"Oh.... I forgot."

Wrapped in the towel, Hawthorne walked rapidly past the major to the bedroom phone. "What have you got, Henry?"

"On 'Neptune, almost nothing-"

"What do you mean almost?"

"The southern hemisphere computers came up with a single entry. Apparently, years ago, there was a Neptune in Argentina, part of the generals coup down there, but it was only a rumored nickname for some foreigner close to the big boys. No other information except for a Mr. Mars, same cla.s.sification."

"Ingersol?"

"Whistle-clean, Tye, but you got Puerto Rico right. He flies down four or five times a year to service clients, all checked out, all legitimate."

"Only hes the client," said Hawthorne.

"How do you mean?"

"Never mind. A weird cipher. What about the controller, Cornwall?"

"A little more interesting. He was head of his section at OHare Airport, a bright guy making decent money but no threat to the country-club set by a long shot. However, a little digging turned up his wifes owning a piece of an old Chicago steak house. Its no Delmonicos, but its one of the most popular in that section of the city, and she-read 'they-sold her piece for a lot less than its worth when they moved to Puerto Rico. It was a decent annual dividend."

"Which raises a question," interrupted Tyrell. "Where did they get the money to buy that kind of annuity?"

"Theres another question that might be the answer to that," said Stevens. "How does an air controller in San Juan, where the pay doesnt compare to OHare, buy a six-hundred-thousand-dollar condominium on the beach in Isla Verde? Her restaurant share could barely cover a third of it."

"Isla Verde ...?"

"The beachfront there is the better part of town."

"I know, its where were staying. Anything else on our mobile Cornwalls?"

"Opinion time, nothing in concrete."

"Translation, please?"

"They put air controllers through a battery of tests to see if they can handle the job. Cornwall pa.s.sed among the elite-cold as ice, quick and methodical-but it seems he preferred night duty, in fact, insisted upon it, which is pretty unusual."

"He did the same down here, thats how my source fingered him. What was the opinion in Chicago?"

"That his marriage was on the rocks, maybe beyond repair."

"It obviously wasnt, since they came down here together and bought a condo for six hundred thousand."

"I said it was opinion time, not fact."

"Unless its based on information that had him chasing women."

"The tests dont go that far. They need controllers. It just appeared that he didnt care to stay home nights."

"Ill follow up," said Hawthorne. "What about the subterranean, our pilot, Alfred Simon?"

"Hes either lying to you or hes the sickest joker Ive ever heard of."

"What?"

"Hes pure Clorox with a couple of medals waiting for him if he ever surfaces. Theres no mention of his taking over any Lao aircraft, illegitimately or otherwise. He was a very young air force second lieutenant who volunteered for hazardous operations out of Vientiane, and if he ever stole anything, no one ever reported it. If he walked into the Pentagon tomorrow, theyd hold a ceremony, hand him a few cl.u.s.ters for his air medals, and give him some hundred and eighty thousand-plus dollars in hazardous pay and pension accruals that hes never picked up."

"Jesus Christ. Ill tell you straight, Henry, he doesnt know anything about this!"

"How do you know?"

"Because Im d.a.m.n sure where hed send the money."

"Youre beyond me."

"I hope so. The b.u.mmer is that hes traded a lie thats strangled him for years for a reality that could kill him today."

"Still beyond me-"

"Hes been blackmailed into working for the wrong people. Bajaratts crowd."

"What are you going to do?" asked Stevens.

"Im not, you are. Im sending Second Lieutenant Alfred Simon to the naval base here, and youre going to fly him up to Washington and put him under a blanket until its safe for him to come out and become a quiet hero with a few extra dollars."

"Why now?"

"Because if we delay, it could be too late, and we need him."

"To identify Neptune?"

"Among others we may not know about yet."

"One Simon, first-cla.s.s military to D.C.," said the head of naval intelligence. "Whats next?"

"Air Controller Cornwalls wife. Whats her first name?"

"Rose."

"Somehow I think her petals have withered." Hawthorne hung up the phone and looked over at Cathy, leaning against the door frame. "I want you and Jackson to go back to Old San Juan and get Simon over to the naval base. Quickly."

"I hope he doesnt misinterpret and try to recruit me."

"Youre not the type." Tyrell lifted a telephone directory out of the bedside table shelf and leafed through the Cs.

"Im not sure whether thats a compliment or an insult."

"Wh.o.r.es dont wear guns, the bulge spoils the curves, so make d.a.m.n sure yours is in evidence."

"I dont have a gun."

"Take mine, its on the bureau.... Here it is, Cornwall, the only one in Verde."

"What do you know?" said the major, taking the Walther P.K. automatic from the top of the bureau. "Its so small, it can fit into my purse."

"Youve got a purse?" Hawthorne glanced up as he scribbled the Cornwall address on the hotel memo pad.

"Well, normally I suppose I should wear a knapsack strapped to my back, but Ive been carrying this lovely pearl-beaded handbag for the past twenty-four hours. It goes with the dress-Jackson approved."

"Hate the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.... Will you two get going?"

"Hes just out of the shower, I can tell. Hes still singing country, but its too loud to be underwater."

"Then go dress the kid and get out of here. I really dont want another corpse on my hands, this one named Simon."

"Aye, aye, Commander."

Tyrell drove Alfred Simons white Cadillac convertible into the parking lot of the Cornwalls condominium complex. As Stevens had projected, it was the high-rent district of Isla Verde, not only on the beach, but with each apartment possessing its own wide, screened-in balcony overlooking the ocean and a huge, terraced pool below on either side.

Hawthorne got out of the car, walked up the path to the entrance, and gestured to the man on duty. As in all such buildings in the area, there was a uniformed doorman seated at a desk in a walled-off cubicle behind a sheet of thick gla.s.s; he pressed a b.u.t.ton in front of him and spoke. "Espanol or Ingles, senor?"

"English," replied Tyrell. "I must see Mrs. Rose Cornwall, its most urgent."

"Are you with the police, senor?"

"The police?" Hawthorne froze, but with the presence of mind to say casually but firmly, "Of course I am. United States Consulate, called by the police."

"Go right in, senor." The heavy doors buzzer released the lock and Tyrell went inside, turning instantly to the security guard beyond the open counter of the cubicle. "The Cornwalls apartment number, please."

"Nine-oh-one, senor. Everyone is up there."

Everyone? What the bell ...? Hawthorne crossed rapidly to the bank of elevators and repeatedly stabbed the b.u.t.ton until a door opened. The floors pa.s.sed slowly, interminably, until he finally reached the ninth. He rushed out into the corridor, stopping abruptly at the sight of the crowd and the reflections in the hallway of repeated flashbulbs from inside the door twenty feet to his right. He strolled toward the gathering, noting that the majority of men and women were in police uniforms. Suddenly, a short, heavyset man in a gray suit and blue tie came out of the apartment, parting the bodies in front of him, flipping the pages of his notebook. He glanced up at Tyrell, then abruptly looked again, his dark eyes steady, disturbed. It was the police detective who had been at the airport barely eight hours before.