The Scorpio Illusion Part 4

"Cabrini? As in the beloved American saint?"

"Naturalmente. For through my actions I will become the second American saint, wont I?"

"Delusions call for a great deal of rum and a very large meal. Ill see to it."

"Youll let me go on, wont you, padrone?"

"Of course I will, my daughter, but only with my help. The killing of such men-the world will be gripped by fear and panic. It will be our ultimate statement before we die!"

3.

The Caribbean sun burned the earth and the rocks and the sand on the island of Virgin Gorda. It was eleven oclock in the morning, prelude to the scorching hour of noon, and Tyrell Hawthornes "charters" protected themselves under the thatched roof of the outdoor beach bar, doing whatever they could possibly do to alleviate their nausea. When told by their captain that due to a mechanical emergency they could not sail until midafternoon at the earliest, four sighs of relief accompanied three one-hundred-dollar bills pressed into his hand by a banker from Greenwich, Connecticut, who pleaded, "For Christs sake, make it tomorrow."

Tyrell returned to the villa, where Mickey stood guard over Cooke and Ardisonne while his colleague, Marty, attended to the docks. By now the two intruders had been stripped to their shorts, their clothes deposited at the hotel laundry. Hawthorne slammed the door and turned to the mechanic. "Mick, do me a favor. Go to the chickee and bring me two bottles of Montrachet Grand Cru-forget it, two bottles of white wine and I dont care if its Thunderbird."

"What year?" asked Ardisonne.

"Last week," replied Tyrell. Mickey left quickly and Hawthorne continued. "All right, you secret agents you, lets 'carry on, as the English say."

"Youre not funny," said Cooke.

"Oh, its great when you Euros come up with your fog-bound narrow streets and your trench coats lurking around waterfronts, but why dont you face it? High tech has replaced you, just as it replaced me. Amsterdam taught me that, unless they all lied on their own, which they couldnt have. They were programmed by the numbers, do and say what the machines tell you, thats all you know!"

"Not true, mon ami. Put simply, we are not equipped to deal with that technology. We are of the old school, and believe me when I tell you, it is coming back in ways you cannot imagine. The computers and their modems, the satellites and their high-alt.i.tude photographs, borders crossed by television and radio signals-all are magnifique, but they do not and cannot deal with the human condition. We did that ... you did that. We meet a man or a woman face-to-face, our eyes and our instincts tell us whether he or she is the enemy. Machines cannot do the same."

"Is that lecture by way of telling me our combined medieval practices can find this dragon lady, Bajaratt, quicker than faxing her photograph, description, and whatever else youve got to your secure sources on roughly fifty habitable islands? If so, I can only presume you should immediately be forced back into retirement."

"I believe what Jacques is suggesting," broke in Cooke, "is that our expertise, combined with available technology, can be more effective than one without the other."

"Well said, mon ami. This psychopathic female, this killer, is not without brains or resources."

"According to Washington, shes also not without a lot of hate rattling around in that brain of hers."

"Certainly no justification for what shes done, or G.o.d help us, what she intends to do," the man from MI-6 said emphatically.

"No, it isnt," agreed Hawthorne. "But I wonder who and what she might be now if thered been someone to help her years ago.... Christ almighty, the heads of your mother and father cut off in front of your eyes! I think if that had happened to my brother and me, wed both be every bit the killer she is."

"You lost a wife you loved very much, Tyrell," said Cooke. "You didnt become a killer."

"No, I didnt," replied Hawthorne. "But Id be a liar if I didnt tell you I thought about killing a number of people-not only thought about it, but in several cases planned it."

"But you didnt carry out those plans."

"Only because I had help ... believe me, only because there was someone to stop me." Tyrell glanced out the window at the sea, the constant movement briefly mesmerizing him. There had been someone, and, oh, G.o.d, how he missed her! In drunken moments he would tell her of his plans to take out this one and that one, even going so far as to open locked drawers on his boat and, in a stupor, show her his plans, diagrams of streets and buildings, his strategies for ending the lives that caused the death of his wife. Dominique would hold him as he swayed in an alcoholic daze, whispering into his ear that causing death would not bring back the dead, only create pain for many others who had no connection with Ingrid Johansen Hawthorne. In the mornings she would still be there beside him, dismissing his hung-over guilt with gentle laughter, yet reminding him how foolish and how dangerous were his fantasies; she wanted him alive. Christ, he loved her! And when she disappeared, the whiskey went with her. Perhaps it was another fantasy, but he often wondered: If he had stopped his heavy drinking before, might she have stayed?

"I apologize for intruding," said Ardisonne, both he and Cooke disturbed by Hawthornes sudden silence.

"You didnt intrude; its just private."

"So what is your answer, Commander? Weve told you everything, even apologized for our actions last night, which at the time seemed appropriate. When a bartender stares at you with great hostility and lowers his body below the counter at a deserted chickee at night, well, both Jacques and I know the islands."

"You have a point, but you used overkill. You said we had to talk right away; it was urgent. Yet you put me out for d.a.m.n near six hours. Some urgency, pal."

"Our measures were not designed for you or your friend the bartender," said Ardisonne. "To be frank, they were designed for other people."

"What other people?"

"Oh, come on, Tyrell, youre not naive. The Baaka Valley is not without connections everywhere, and only the most innocent believe our services do not have corrupted personnel in one department or another. Twenty thousand pounds can turn a bureaucrats head."

"You thought you might be intercepted?"

"We couldnt dismiss the possibility, old boy, therefore weve carried only whats in our heads, nothing in writing about Bajaratt, no photographs, no dossiers, no background material whatsoever. However, should anyone have been tipped off and tried to stop us, either in Paris, London, or Antigua, we could stop them."

"So youre back in your trench coats, prowling the dark alleys."

"Why dismiss secrecy and hidden weapons? They saved your life more than once during the cold war, is it not so?"

"Maybe once or twice, no more than that, and I tried like h.e.l.l not to become paranoid. Until Amsterdam it was pretty cut-and-dried. Who can you turn and how much will it cost?"

"Its a different world now, Commander, we no longer have the luxury of known enemies. Theres another breed, and theyre neither agents nor double agents, or moles on one side or the other to be unearthed-those times are gone. Someday we may look back on them and realize how simple they were, for our root mentalities were not that different. Its all changed now; were no longer dealing with people who think anything like the way we used to think. Were dealing with hate, not power or geopolitical influence, but pure, raw hatred. The whipped of the world are turning, their age-old frustrations exploding, blind vengeance paramount."

"Thats dramatic, Geoff, but I think youre blowing it out of proportion. Washington knows about the woman, and until shes taken out, the President wont be put in vulnerable situations. I a.s.sume itll be the same in London, Paris, and Jerusalem."

"Who is truly invulnerable, Tyrell?"

"No one, of course, but shed have to be a G.o.dd.a.m.ned illusionist to get by armies of guards and the most sophisticated security equipment in the world. From what Ive been told by Washington, the Oval Offices every move is controlled. No exteriors, no crowds, everything in-house and totally isolated. So, I repeat for the umpteenth time, what the h.e.l.l do you need me for?"

"Because she is an illusionniste!" said Ardisonne. "She has eluded the Deuxieme, MI-6, the Mossad, Interpol, and every special branch of intelligence and counterintelligence you can name. But, at last, we know she is in a specific area, a sector we can cross and crisscross with all the technological devices we can employ, along with the most vital component we have at our disposal. The human equation: a dragnet, the search led by experienced hunters who know the quarrys current territory, back alleys, waterfronts, and all."

Hawthorne studied both men in silence, his eyes roving from one to the other. "Suppose under certain conditions I agreed to help you," he said finally. "Where would we begin?"

"With the technology you hold in such exalted esteem," answered Cooke. "Every NATO intelligence station and all police authorities throughout the Caribbean are being wired composite descriptions of Bajaratt and the young man shes traveling with."

"Oh, thats bright!" said Tyrell, laughing sarcastically. "You send out a blanket alert all over the islands and expect responses? You shock me, gentlemen, I thought you knew all the back alleys and waterfronts."

"What is your point?" asked Ardisonne, not amused.

"My point is that youve got barely a thirty percent chance of hearing anything from anyone who spots them, official or otherwise. If somebody does, he wont come running back to you, h.e.l.l come on to the lady and a few thousand dollars will close his mouth. Youve been away too long, fellas, this isnt the land of Oz. Except for places like this, its poverty row from island to island."

"How would you have done it?" said Cooke.

"The way you should have," replied Hawthorne. "You say she has to have access to the offsh.o.r.e banks, thats your key; n.o.body down here provides large amounts of money to strangers except face-to-face. Concentrate on the islands with those facilities, which cuts you down to twenty or twenty-five. Between the two of you, youve covered most if not all of them during your tours here. Reach your blinds with a great deal of cash and have them make their own arrangements with the authorities. The back door down here is far more effective than the front entrance. Im surprised I have to tell you that."

"I cant fault your reasoning, chap, but Im afraid we dont have time. Paris estimates that sh.e.l.l be here for a minimum of a fortnight; London believes far less, say five to eight days maximum."

"Then youve thrown your jockey at the starting gate. Youve lost the race down here; sh.e.l.l stay out of your net."

"Not necessarily," said code name Richelieu.

"London was responsible for the strategy," Cooke explained. "And we didnt overlook the corruption to which you refer. Accompanying the alert is an addendum that can scarcely be ignored. The governments of England, France, and the U.S. have pledged a million American dollars apiece for information that leads to the capture of the two fugitives. Conversely, should it be learned that such information was withheld, punishment in the extreme will be administered."

Hawthorne whistled. "Wow," he said softly. "The hardball is made of concrete. Its open up for three million dollars or close out with a bullet in your head in one of those dark alleys."

"Precisely," agreed the veteran of MI-6.

"You stole it from the old NKVD-even the KGB was prettier."

"Hardly. It goes back to Beowulf. Very effective."

"Time, Tyrell!" said Ardisonne. "We must move quickly."

"When was the alert sent out? The descriptions?"

Cooke looked at his watch. "Approximately six hours ago, five A.M., Greenwich time."

"Wheres the base of operations?"

"Temporarily Tower Street, London."

"MI-6," said Hawthorne.

"You mentioned 'certain conditions, Tyrell," said Cooke. "May we a.s.sume that in the interests of global stability, youll join us?"

"You cant a.s.sume a thing. I have no affection for the a.s.sholes who run this planet. You want me in, youll pay, whether or not they get blown away, and youll pay up front."

"Thats hardly cricket, chap-"

"I dont play cricket. For my brother and me to really make a go of this business we need two more boats-used, but good, cla.s.s-A boats. Thats seven fifty apiece, a total of one million five. In my bank on Saint T. by tomorrow morning. Early."

"Isnt that rather excessive?"

"Excessive? When youre willing to pay three million dollars to some informer who may accidentally stumble on this Bajaratt and the kid? Come off it, Geoffrey. Pay up or Im off to Tortola at ten A.M. tomorrow."

"Youre a self-important son of a b.i.t.c.h, Hawthorne."

"Then drop out and Ill sail for Tortola."

"You know I cant do that. However, I wonder if youre worth the money."

"You wont know that until Im paid, will you?"

CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.

The gray-haired Raymond Gillette, director of the CIA, stared at the uniformed naval officer sitting in front of his desk, his gaze an admixture of reluctant respect and disgust. "MI-6, with some help from the Deuxieme, did what you couldnt do, Captain," he said quietly. "They recruited Hawthorne."

"We tried," said Captain Henry Stevens, chief of naval intelligence. There was no apology in his sharp reply as he braced his lean fifty-year-old body in the chair as if conveying a sense of physical superiority over the obese DCI. "Hawthorne was a dupe of the first rank and never accepted the fact. In plain words, he was a G.o.dd.a.m.ned fool and wouldnt believe us when we presented him with irrefutable proof."

"That his Swedish wife was an agent, or at least a paid informer, for the Soviets?"

"Precisely."

"Whose proof?"

"Ours. Meticulously doc.u.mented."

"By whom?"

"On-scene sources; they confirmed it to a man."

"In Amsterdam," said Gillette, no question in his statement.

"Yes."

"I read your file."

"Then you saw how indisputable the data was. The woman was under constant surveillance-Christ, married two months after their meeting to a ranking undercover officer of naval intelligence-and seen, photographed, going into the rear entrance of the Soviet emba.s.sy at night on eleven different occasions! What else do you need?"

"Cross-checking comes to mind. With us, perhaps."

"Covert operations computers do that."

"Not always, and if you dont know that, you should be demoted to seaman."

"I dont have to take that from you, civilian."

"Youd better take it from me-from someone who has a regard for your other accomplishments-or you might find yourself in a courtroom, both civilian and military. That is, if you survived twenty-four hours after Hawthorne learned the truth."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"Ive read our file on Hawthornes wife."

"So?"