"Not as of eight minutes ago, Scorpio Two. The flying intruder is no longer."
"What?"
"It was just eliminated at its temporary resting place; therell be nothing in the air for at least three hours or so."
"The news hasnt reached us."
"Stay by your phone, amico, it will soon."
"You may have longer than you think," said the man in Washington, D.C. "The nearest thing to that aircraft is at Andrews."
"Thats good news," the padrone said. "Now, Scorpio Two, I have a request, a necessity which Id rather not discuss in depth."
"Ive never asked you to discuss anything, padrone. Thanks to my "inheritance, my children are getting fine educations. They certainly wouldnt be where they are on my government salary."
"And your wife, amico?"
"Every day is Christmas for that b.i.t.c.h, and every Sunday she offers prayers at Ma.s.s for a nonexistent horse-breeding uncle in Ireland."
"Molto bene. Your life is in order, then."
"In ways the government should have paid for long ago. Ive been the brains here for twenty-one years, but they dont think I dress right or walk right or look right, so the announcements are made to the press by idiots who use my findings, and my name is never even mentioned!"
"Calma, amico. As they say, you have the last laugh, the silent one, is it not so?"
"I sure do, and Im grateful."
"Then you must accommodate me now; it should not be a difficult task."
"Name it."
"In your official capacity you can order immigration and customs personnel to pa.s.s private aircraft flying into the country without examining those on board, am I correct?"
"Certainly. National security. I need the name of the company that owns the plane, its identification, the international airport of entry, and the number of pa.s.sengers."
"The name is Sunburst Jetlines, Florida. The number, NC twenty-one BFN; the port of entry, Fort Lauderdale. Theres a pilot, his copilot, and a single male pa.s.senger."
"Anyone I ought to know?"
"Why not? We have no intention of withholding his name or bringing him into your country illegally-quite the contrary; within days his presence will be known in all the wealthy circles and h.e.l.l be much sought after. However, he wants those few days to move about freely and see old friends."
"Who the h.e.l.l is he, the Pope?"
"No, but there are hostesses from Palm Beach to Park Avenue who will treat him as though he were."
"Which means I probably never heard of him."
"You probably havent and I a.s.sure you its no disgrace. Naturally, all his proper papers will be furnished your officials in Fort Lauderdale, who undoubtedly never heard of him either. We only prefer that he remain on board until he reaches the private field in West Palm Beach, where his limousine will meet him."
"Since it doesnt matter, whats his name?"
"Dante Paolo, son of the baron of Ravello, the Ravello both his surname and the province which his family settled several centuries ago." The padrone lowered his voice. "Confidentially, hes being trained to a.s.sume extraordinary responsibilities. Hes the son of one of Italys wealthiest n.o.ble families. The barony of Ravello, to be precise."
"Top-grade Fortune 500, is that it?"
"Enviably so. Their vineyards produce the finest Greco di Tufo, and their industrial investments rival those of Giovanni Agnelli. Dante Paolo will be studying potential acquisitions in your country and report back to his father. All very legitimate, I might add, and if we can do a great Italian family an incidental favor, perhaps at a later time we may be remembered kindly. Is it not the way of our world?"
"You dont even need me for this one. The Department of Commerce would break their a.s.ses to accommodate your megabucks traveler."
"Of course, but to remove such grand n.o.bilt from seeking such accommodations eliminates a degree of inconvenience, doesnt it?... And they know who did it for them, no? So you do it for me, capisci?"
"Its done. Cleared on arrival, no jerking chains. Whats the ETA and the equipment?"
"Seven oclock tomorrow morning, and the plane is a Lear 25."
"Check, Ive got it.... Hold it, my red phones blowing off the hook. Stay there, Caribe." A minute and forty-six seconds later, the padrones contact came back on the line. "You were right, we just got the word! Patricks AWAC II was blown up in St. Martin with a crewman on board! Were on full alert. Do you want to discuss the situation?"
"Theres nothing to discuss, Scorpio Two. There is no situation, the crisis is over. As of this call, I am shut down, incommunicado. I have disappeared."
Eighteen hundred miles northwest of the fortress island, a heavyset man with thinning red hair above a puffed, freckled face sat in his office at the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. The cigar in his mouth had lobbed ashes on his blue polyester tie; he blew them off, the spittle forming circles on the water-resistant fabric. He replaced the ultrasecure telephone in the steel drawer on the lower base of his desk. To the casual-even the attentive eye-it was no drawer at all, merely part of the desk next to the rug. He relit his cigar; life was good, really good. So who gave a s.h.i.t.
8.
The body was covered by a hospital sheet and driven away in an ambulance under the airports floodlights. Hawthorne had made the formal identification from what was left of the remains, insisting that Major Neilsen and Lieutenant Poole stay away while he did so. In the near distance, the smoldering hulk of the surveillance aircraft had been reduced to an ugly skeleton, twisted black struts protruding above the charred, smoking ruins of the disembodied fuselage, the metal sheets of its walls peeled back like the dismembered chest cavity of a huge, burning, upturned insect.
Jackson Poole wept openly, collapsing to the ground and vomiting in whatever shadows he could find. Tyrell knelt beside him; there was nothing else to do but put his arm around the lieutenants shoulders and hold him; words from a stranger about a dead friend held no meaning, only unwarranted intrusion. Tye looked over at Catherine Neilsen, Major, air-force-to-the-core, and saw that she was standing rigid, her features strained, holding back her tears. He slowly released Poole, got to his feet, and approached her.
"You know, its okay to cry," he said gently, standing in front of her but offering no contact, his arms at his sides. "Theres nothing in the officers manual that says its prohibited. You lost someone close to you."
"I know-both," said the major, swallowing, tears appearing in her eyes, obviously reluctantly, as she began to tremble. "I feel so helpless, so inadequate," she added.
"Why?"
"Im not sure. Im trained not to be."
"No, youre trained not to appear that way in the presence of your subordinates during moments of indecision, which everyone has. Theres a difference."
"I... Ive never been in combat."
"You are now, Major. Maybe not ever again, but now youve seen it."
"Seen it? Oh, my G.o.d, Ive never even seen anyone killed ... much less anyone I cared deeply for."
"Its not a requirement for flight training."
"I should be stronger, feel stronger."
"Then youd be a fraud as well as a G.o.dd.a.m.ned fool, and both make lousy officers. This isnt a dumb movie, Cathy, its real. No one trusts a military superior who has no emotions in the face of personal loss. Do you know why?"
"I dont know anything right now-"
"Let me tell you: h.e.l.l get you killed."
"I got Charlie killed."
"No, you didnt, I was there. He insisted on staying in that aircraft."
"I should have ordered him not to."
"You did, Major, I heard you. You went by the book, but he refused to obey your order."
"What?" said Neilsen, her eyes barely focused as she stared at Hawthorne. "Youre trying to comfort me somehow, arent you?"
"Only in the most reasonable way, Major. If my purpose was to lessen your grief, Id probably hold you and let you cry your eyes out, but I wont do that. Number one, youd despise me for it later; and number two, youve got to face the American consul general and several of his staff. Theyve been held at the gate, but theyre now screaming diplomatic privilege and will be allowed out here in about five minutes."
"You did that?"
"So cry now, lady, let it out for Charlie now, then go back to your rule book. Its okay, Ive been where you are and no one ever demoted me for it."
"Oh, G.o.d, Charlie!" sobbed Neilsen, her head falling into Hawthornes chest. He held her, his arms soft, encompa.s.sing.
The minutes pa.s.sed; her tears subsided and Tye tilted her chin up with an un.o.btrusive hand. "Thats all the time youve got, thats another thing I learned. Dry your eyes as best you can, but in no way think you have to deny what you feel.... You can use the sleeve of my coveralls."
"What ... what are you talking about?"
"The consul and his men are driving out. Im going over to see Poole; hes on his feet now. Ill be right back." Hawthorne started away, stopped by Neilsens hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" he asked, turning.
"I dont know," she replied, shaking her head as the flag-bearing official car of the American consulate raced across the field toward them. "Thank you, I guess.... Its government time," she added. "Ill deal with them. Its up to Washington now."
"Then shape up, Major ... and youre very welcome." Tyrell reached Jackson Poole, who held on to the rail of a fire engines hose track, a handkerchief at his lips, his head sunken, his face conveying a terrible. sadness. "How are you doing, Lieutenant?"
Poole suddenly lurched from the rail and grabbed Hawthorne by the front of his coveralls. "What the h.e.l.l is this all about, G.o.dd.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l," he shouted. "You killed Charlie, you f.u.c.ker!"
"No, Poole, I didnt kill Charlie," said Tye, making no attempt to interfere with the lieutenants hands. "Others did, but I didnt."
"You called my buddy a large pain in the a.s.s!"
"That had nothing to do with his death or with the plane having been blown up, and you know that."
"Yeah, I guess I do," said Poole quietly, releasing the bunched cloth of Hawthornes coveralls. "Its just that before you came along it was Cathy, Sal, Charlie, and me, and we had a good thing goin. Now weve got no Charlie, and Sals disappeared, and Big Ladys a pile of Beirut garbage."
"Big Lady?"
"Our AWAC. We named it for Cathy.... Why the h.e.l.l did you come into our lives?"
"It wasnt my option, Jackson. Actually, you came into mine. I didnt even know you existed."
"Yeah, well, everythings just so screwed up, I cant figure anymore, and let me tell ya, I figure things out better than most anybody I know!"
"With computers and laser beams and access codes and squeaks the rest of us dont understand," said Hawthorne sharply, harshly. "But let me tell you something, Lieutenant. Theres another world out there, and you havent got a clue about it. Its called the human quotient, and it hasnt a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing to do with your machines and your electronic wizardry. Its what people like me have had to deal with on a day-to-day basis for years-not blips on a printout but men and women who may be our friends or may want to kill us. Try factoring those equations into your steel whirligigs!"
"Christ, youre really p.i.s.sed off."
"Youre G.o.dd.a.m.ned right I am. I heard what I just said to you a couple of days ago from one of the best undercover men I ever knew, and I told him he was crazy. Oh, boy, do I take it back!"
"Maybe we both should cool it," said the subdued lieutenant as the consulate vehicle sped back across the field. "Cathy just got finished with the government boys and looks a tad unhappy."
Neilsen approached, frowning, uncertainty mixed with bewilderment and sadness. "Theyre heading back to their scramblers and some specific instructions," she said. Then she looked hard at the former officer of naval intelligence. "What have you really gotten us into, Hawthorne?"
"I wish I could give you an answer, Major. All I know is that its a h.e.l.l of a lot more than I bargained for. Tonight proved it. Charlie proved it."
"Oh, G.o.d, Charlie ...!"
"Stop it, Cathy," said Jackson Poole suddenly, firmly. "Weve got work to do, and by the Lord Jesus I want to do it. For Charlie!"
It was not an easy decision, but it was reluctantly made by the furious command at the air force base in Cocoa, Florida, beaten into submission by the combined powers of the Department of the Navy, the Central Intelligence Agency, and finally, irrevocably, the subterranean strategy rooms at the White House. The sabotage of the AWAC II was to be kept under wraps, a cover story put out to the effect that a faulty fuel line caused the explosion of a Patrick training aircraft that had landed in the French territory for emergency repairs. Fortunately, there were no casualties. Relatives of the unmarried Master Sergeant Charles OBrian were brought to Washington and briefed separately by the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, whose orders to the team of investigators were to "run silent but run deep."
"Little Girl Blood," as the search was labeled in the most secret circles, was red line, the ultimate concern of the combined services. Every international flight from all points of the compa.s.s was scrutinized, pa.s.sengers detained, some for hours as each targeted traveler or travelers, together or apart, were placed in isolation, their papers put under computer scans, checked, and rechecked for flaws of origin. The number of detainees reached hundreds, then more than a thousand. The New York Times called it "excessive hara.s.sment without foundation," while the International Herald Tribune reported it as "American paranoia, not a single weapon or illegal substance found." Yet no answers, much less explanations, came from London, Paris, or Washington. The name Bajaratt was never to be mentioned, the scenario never revealed.... Look for a woman traveling with a young man, a teenager, nationality unknown.
And while they searched, the Lear 25 flew into Fort Lauderdale, the pilot a man who had flown the route several hundred times, the copilot a heavyset woman, formerly of the Israeli Air Command, her dark hair swept up under her visored cap; in the rear seat was a tall young man. Among the customs personnel recruited for the occasion was a pleasant official who greeted them in Italian and swiftly processed their immigration papers. Amaya Bajaratt and Nicolo Montavi of Portici had landed on American soil.
"I swear to G.o.d I dont know how come you can reach so high," said Jackson Poole as he entered the hotel room on St. Martin where Hawthorne and Catherine Neilsen were studying the lieutenants printouts, "but it sure as h.e.l.l doesnt exceed your grasp."
"In a Minnesota farm girls vocabulary, does that mean were cleared?" asked Cathy.
"h.e.l.l, Major, this Yankee charter pirate just adopted us, with or without our consent."
"I also run a slave ship," said Tyrell softly, returning to the computerized charts, employing a hastily supplied magnified micro-ruler under the glare of a table lamp.
"Clarification, please, Lieutenant?"
"He owns us, Cath."
"I can a.s.sure you not totally," Major Neilsen said.
"Well, we kinda volunteered too. The orders are not to use any pilot here because someone here blew up Big Lady and everything stays in a blackout. Since youre checked out in seagoing props, you elected yourself, Cath. And since Im a lot younger than he is, probably stronger too, Patrick kinda threw up its hands and said "whatever he needs. "
"Is there anything else youd like to add?" said Hawthorne, bending over the table. "Like how you take me for walks and make sure I get my Geritol?"
"Hey, come on," Catherine Neilsen broke in. "You made it clear that you wanted to use us, but you couldnt ask us, much less order us, to help. We told you we wanted to. For Charlie."