The Scorpio Illusion Part 31

"How tall?"

"With heels, about my size, and Im five nine-"

"Face ... complexion?"

"She was tan, like from the sun-"

"What was she wearing?"

"I dont know-"

"Think!"

"White, it was white-a dress or a pantsuit-kinda businesslike."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h, youre lying!" shouted Tyrell, forcing the mans back over the bar.

"Why the h.e.l.l would I do that?"

"Hes not lyin, Tye," said Poole. "He hasnt got the strength or the stomach for it; hes washed out."

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Hawthorne dropped his hands and turned away from both men, half whispering, half pleading. "Oh, my G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d!" He walked slowly toward the thick window that overlooked the filthy cobblestone street, his eyes glazed, a throated cry coming from deep inside him. "... Saba, Paris ... Barts-all lies. Amsterdam, Amsterdam!"

"Amsterdam?" the pilot asked innocently as he lurched from the bar and carefully moved away, his bare feet avoiding the broken gla.s.s.

"Shut up," said Jackson quietly, staring at the trembling figure of Tyrell Hawthorne by the window. "The mans hurtin, sky pig."

"Whats it got to do with me? What did I do?"

"Told him something he didnt want to hear, I guess."

"I just told him the truth."

Suddenly, furiously, Hawthorne whipped around, his eyes now glaring, focused, and filled with horror. "A phone!" he bellowed. "Wheres your other telephone?"

"Three flights up, but the doors locked. The keys somewhere over-" It was as far as the pilot got. Tyrell was taking the steps three at a time, his pounding feet echoing throughout the old wh.o.r.ehouse. "Your commanders a maniac," said the owner. "What did he mean when he said I used his name before? That crazy spook on the plane was as clear as a compa.s.s fix. 'My names Hawthorne. He must have repeated it three or four times."

"He was lying. Thats Hawthorne."

"Holy-"

"Nothins holy about this whole d.a.m.n thing," Poole said quietly.

Hawthorne repeatedly crashed his shoulder against the door of the pilots private quarters on the third floor; the lock sprang on the fifth attempt. He rushed inside, momentarily bewildered by the neatness of the open, connecting rooms. He had expected a slovenly mess; instead, the suite might have been designed for an article in Town and Country, the furniture masculine, a mixture of expensive leather and dark wood, the walls paneled in light oak, the paintings costly reproductions of the Impressionists-diffused light, bright colors, gentle figures and gentler gardens. A man was denying himself in these rooms.

Where was the telephone? Tyrell raced through an arch into the bedroom; all around, on the bureau, the desk, the bedside tables, were framed photographs of two children, the same children pictured at varying ages. There was the phone-on the table at the right side of the bed. He ran to it, taking a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket-a number in Paris. Again he was momentarily stopped by the sight of another photograph. It was a picture of two young adults, a boy and a girl, both attractive and who looked remarkably alike. Good Lord, theyre twins! thought Hawthorne. They were dressed in collegiate attire, a pleated plaid skirt and white blouse for the girl; a dark blazer and a striped tie for the boy. They were standing, smiling, beside a sign that read: University of Wisconsin

Admissions Office

Then Tyrell saw the writing at the bottom of the photograph. The lettering was small but precise, the date a few years earlier.

Theyre still inseparable, Al, and in spite of the quarrels, they look after each other. Youd be proud, as they are of their father who died serving his country. Herb sends his best, as do I, and we thank you for your help.

A very, very complicated man, the pilot.

No time!

Hawthorne picked up the phone, waited for the dial tone, then pressed the numbers for Paris, reading them carefully from the sc.r.a.p of paper.

"La maison de Couvier," said the female voice three thousand miles away.

"Pauline?"

"Ah, monsieur, it is you, nest-ce pas? Saba?"

"Thats one of the things I have to ask her about. Why wasnt she there?"

"Oh, I asked her, monsieur, and madame said she never mentioned this Saba to you-you must have a.s.sumed it. Her uncle moved to a nearby island more than a year ago. His previous neighbors became too curious, too intrusive, and she saw no reason to-how do you say it?-take the time to explain, as she was flying immediately back to Paris and knew where to reach you when she returned."

"Thats a very convenient explanation, Pauline."

"Monsieur, you are not filled with the jealousy-no, it cannot be, for there is no reason! You are always in her heart, I alone know that."

"I want to talk to her. Now!"

"She is not here, you know that."

"Whats the hotel?"

"No hotel. Madame and monsieur are on a Monegasque yacht in the Mediterranean."

"Yachts have telephones. Whats the oceangoing number?"

"I do not know, believe me. Maintenant, the madame is telephoning me in an hour or so, as we are to prepare a dinner party next week for the Swiss from Zurich. They dine quite differently-so German, you understand."

"Ive got to talk to her!"

"Then you will, monsieur. Leave a number for me and I shall have her call you. Or call me back and I shall have a number for you. It is no problem."

"Ill do that." A yacht in the Mediterranean, its telephone number not left in Paris in case of emergencies? Who was the woman who had gotten on Simons plane in St. Barts? To what lengths would those who knew about Amsterdam go to drive him out of his mind? Someone dressed like Dominique inserted into the crazy mosaic!... Or was he lying to himself? Had he lied to himself in Amsterdam? If so, the lying had to stop.

Tyrell hung up the phone, his trembling hand still on it, determined yet reluctant to call Henry Stevens in Was.h.i.+ngton. The fact that NVN, whoever he was, had gone around the chief of naval intelligence to reach the widower from NATO carried a message, but Hawthorne could not know what it was until three oclock in the afternoon. He could wait until Stevens called him at the hotel in Isla Verde, which the captain surely would, or perhaps had-oh, Jesus, Cathy! He had forgotten about her; worse, Poole had also. Tyrell dialed immediately.

"Where have you two been?" cried Nielsen. "Ive been worried sick. Ive come very close to calling the consulate, the naval base-even your friend Stevens in D.C."

"You didnt call him, did you?"

"I didnt have to. Hes called here three times since four oclock this morning."

"You talked to him?"

"Were in the same suite of rooms, remember? He and I are practically on a first-name basis."

"You didnt say anything about the message I got last night-"

"Come on, Tye," protested Cathy. "I used to keep our heifers secrets too, and they only slept around a lot. Of course I didnt."

"What did he say-what did you say?"

"He wanted to know where you were, naturally, and naturally I told him I didnt know; and then he wanted to know when youd be back, and I gave him the same answer. Thats when he blew up and asked me if I knew anything. I told him Id learned something about 'contingency funds... he didnt think it was funny."

"Nothings funny any longer."

"What happened?" asked the major quietly.

"We found the pilot and he led us to someone else."

"Thats progress."

"Not much. The man was dead before we got there."

"Oh, my G.o.d! Are you all right? When are you coming back?"

"As soon as we can."

Hawthorne depressed the lever, cutting off the line; he waited several seconds, collecting his thoughts, one overriding everything else, consuming him. A tall woman in white with an attractive face tanned by the sun-taken from St. Barts and flown to the padrones island fortress.... Coincidence was nonexistent in the world he had left and was now propelled back into; manipulated insertion, one person for another with split-second timing, too inconceivable!... Oh, Christ, he was falling apart! Stop it! Bring yourself back, block out the pain! There was another insertion all too real, a note from an unknown NVN who would call him at three oclock in the afternoon. Concentrate!... Dominique ...? Concentrate!

He lifted the phone and dialed Was.h.i.+ngton. Moments later Henry Stevens was on the line. "That A.F. major said she didnt know when you left, where you were, or when youd be back. What the h.e.l.ls going on?"

"Youll get a full report later, Henry. Right now Im going to feed you four names, and I need whatever backgrounds you can dig up on them."

"How soon?"

"Try an hour."

"Youre nuts."

"They could be close to Bajaratt-"

"Youve got it. Who are they?"

"First is someone who calls himself Neptune, Mr. Neptune. Basic description is tall, distinguished, gray hair, say in his sixties."

"Thats half the male population in Georgetown. The next?"

"A Was.h.i.+ngton lawyer named Ingersol-"

"As in Ingersol and White?" Stevens interrupted.

"Probably. Do you know him?"

"I know of him, most people do. David Ingersol, son of a highly respected former Supreme Court justice, Burning Tree and Chevy Chase golfer, friend to the powers that be and something of a power himself. Christ, youre not suggesting that Ingersol is part of-"

"Im not suggesting anything, Henry," broke in Hawthorne.

"The h.e.l.l youre not! And let me tell you, Tye, youre as far off base as you can get. I happen to know that Ingersol has done more than a few favors for Central Intelligence during his Euro-business trips."

"That makes me off base?"

"Hes very well thought of over at Langley. The Agency isnt my favorite organization around here, they step on too many toes, as you d.a.m.n well know, but their background checks beat anything in town, I can vouch for it. I cant believe theyd use someone like Ingersol without putting his head under a microscope."

"Then they missed the lower parts."

"What?"

"Look, as my source said, he may be just a weird cipher, but he was seen on the premises of someone who is involved-peripherally, blind on blind-but he was there."

"Okay, Ive got a new relations.h.i.+p with the DCI. Ill go right to him. Who else?"

"An air controller at San Juan named Cornwall. Hes dead."

"Dead?"

"Shot in the head shortly before we reached him at one oclock this morning."

"How did you uncover him?"

"Thats the fourth name, and with this one youve got to go subterranean."

"Hes that close?"

"No, hes an X-outside. Hes the source I just mentioned and deals only with blinds, but someone in your town has him on a leash. Whoevers on the other end of that leash could be a breakthrough."

"Youre telling me that this Bajaratt has accomplices in the upper-level bureaucracy? Not just isolated bribes but honest-to-Christ accessories in the D.C. establishment?"

"Believe it."

"Whats the name?"

"Simon, Alfred Simon. He was an underage drop pilot out of Vientiane, A.I.D., flying Royal Lao."