"How the h.e.l.l-"
"I know, I know," Neptune interrupted. "Its confidential information but far less difficult to obtain. Beyond this, you have a substantial mortgage, and the parochial schools have raised their tuitions.... I dont envy your position, Mr. ORyan."
"Neither the f.u.c.k do I! You think I should quit and write my own book?"
"You cant legally. You signed a doc.u.ment stating you wouldnt-at least not without being vetted by the CIA. If you wrote three hundred pages, youd probably end up with fifty when they got through with it.... However, theres another solution, one that would eliminate your financial difficulties and allow your life-style to expand considerably."
"Whats that?"
"Our organization is very small, very well financed, and has only the countrys interests at its core. You must believe that, for its true, and I will personally vouch for it. I also have an envelope that contains a check made out to you from the Irish Bank of Dublin in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars from the estate of your great-uncle, Sean Cafferty ORyan, of County Kilkenny, who died two months ago, leaving a rather strange but court-certified will. You are the only surviving relative he acknowledged."
"I dont remember any uncle by that name."
"I shouldnt bother myself with introspection if I were you, Mr. ORyan. The check is here and its certified. He was a successful breeder of Thoroughbreds, thats all you have to remember."
"Is it now?"
"Heres the check, sir." Neptune had reached into the attache case and pulled out an envelope. "May we discuss our organization and its benevolent intentions regarding this nation?"
"Why the h.e.l.l not?" answered Patrick Timothy ORyan, accepting the envelope.
All that was fifteen years earlier, and Christ almighty, had the following years gone whacko! Every month the Irish Bank of Dublin sent him a record of deposit in his name at the Banque Credit Suisse in Geneva. The ORyans were rich by their lights, and the legend of a horse-breeding great-uncle became a truth, if only due to repet.i.tion. The brats went on to fancy boarding schools and the older ones to fancier universities, while his wife went gaga in the department stores and ultimately with Realtors. They moved to a larger house in Woodbridge and bought a substantial summer cottage on Chesapeake Beach.
Life was good, really good, and it bothered Patrick less and less when others took credit for his work because it was the work he basically enjoyed. This tolerance generally disappeared when some fatuous clown postured thoughtfully in a congressional hearing or on a Sunday morning television show and delivered one of Patricks painstaking conclusions.
And the Providers? He simply gave them all the intelligence information they wanted, from the routine to the top secret to the maximum cla.s.sified. Always, of course, through Scorpio One or the padrone. Holy Mary, some of the stuff was so hot, the Oval Office hadnt a clue, forget the Senate and the House; those people were either too politically harebrained or too dumb or just plain irresponsible.... In any event, the Providers were none of those. Whoever they were, they undoubtedly had motives below the level of sainthood, but ORyan had long since determined that the Providers driving force was primarily economic. They sure as h.e.l.l werent Communists, and surer than that they had every reason to protect and defend the country they found so financially rewarding. Probably more effective than leaving it in the hands of politicians who were sworn companions of the polls and whose spines could be bent by a generous contributors fart. So if the Providers made a buck and a half with advance information, it was probably a good thing in the long run; theyd make d.a.m.n sure the goose who produced so many golden eggs remained a healthy bird.... There was a last consideration, and the a.n.a.lyst from Queens, New York, would never forget it.
One afternoon in Langley, twelve years ago, three years after he became the silent Scorpio Two, he was emerging from a procedural conference with a group of other a.n.a.lysts, when a tall, well-dressed-elegantly dressed-man walked down the corridor directly toward the door of the DCIs office. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it was Neptune! Without thinking, the younger ORyan approached him.
"Hey, remember me ...?"
"I beg your pardon," replied the man coldly, quietly, his eyes two orbs of ice. "I have an appointment with the director, and if you ever approach me in public again, your family will be penniless and youll be dead."
It was not a greeting one forgot.
But now, right now, today, tonight, thought ORyan, looking out at the water from the deck of their house on Chesapeake Beach, something had gone terribly wrong with the Providers. The late, unlamented Davey Ingersol had been right; the whole Bajaratt business was madness. Some group, or network, had inserted itself into the decision process-had the power to insert itself. Or was it simply one deranged, dying old man on a blown-up island in the Caribbean whose orders still had to be obeyed? The answer did not really matter; a solution had to be found that maintained the status quo without damaging the Scorpios. It was why six hours ago he understood that he had to become Scorpio One, with all the rights and privileges thereof. The realization carra with Ingersols words: "She demanded that I be killed, that David Ingersol be killed!"
So be it. The Scorpios could not be damaged. Sometime, somewhere, a call would come to him and he would have a unique explanation: the truth. Now, right now, he had to bring into play all his reputed a.n.a.lytical prowess; he had to think and outthink not only Bajaratt and those behind her, but also the United States government. The Scorpios could not be damaged.
There was laughter on the beach; the brats and their friends and his wife were around a pit fire in the sand. It was a late evening clambake on the sh.o.r.es of the Chesapeake. Oh, Christ almighty, it was a good life!... No, the Scorpios could not be damaged, nothing could change.
A telephone erupted softly; it was a muted ring that everyone in the household understood could be answered only by the father. The whole family referred to it as the "spook-tune," the kids frequently making fun of the single gray phone in their fathers small den. ORyan good-naturedly took the ribbing, knowing it reenforced the a.s.sumption that Langley was calling him, sometimes inventing melodramatic nonsense that had the younger children wide-eyed until the older boys would puncture the story. "They want Dad to deliver a pizza, right, Double-O?"
It was all fun, macabre but fun; it was also necessary. The gray telephone had nothing to do with the Agency. Patrick Timothy pushed himself out of the deck chair and walked across the short living room to his den. He picked up the secure phone, pressed the digits required, and spoke.
"Whos this?" he asked quietly.
"Who are you?" The female voice on the line was accented. "You are not the same man."
"Temporary backup, nothing unusual."
"I dont like changes."
ORyan thought quickly. "Hed rather keep his gallbladder too, so what? Even we get sick, you know, and if you think Im going to give you his name and the hospital hes at, forget it, lady. You have your results; Ingersols dead."
"Yes, yes, I acknowledge that and I commend your efficiency."
"We try to oblige.... The padrone told me we were to accommodate you in any way we could, and I think weve done so."
"There is one other man who must be taken out," Bajaratt said.
ORyans voice went cold. "Were not in the killing business. Its far too dangerous."
"This must be," Amaya Bajaratt whispered intensely. "I demand it!"
"The padrones gone, so perhaps there are limits to your demands."
"Never! I will send out teams from the Baaka to find you through our routes in Athens, Palermo, and Paris! Do not joke with me, signore!"
The a.n.a.lyst was cautious; he was all too aware of the terrorist mentality, the proclivity for rash and violent behavior. "Okay, okay, cool down. What do you want?"
"Do you know of a man named Hawthorne, a former naval officer?"
"We know all about him. He was pulled in by MI-6, London, because of the Caribbean connection. The last we heard he was in Puerto Rico, sizzling his a.s.s in San Juan."
"Hes here, I saw him!"
"Where?"
"At a place called the Shenandoah Lodge in Virginia-"
"I know it," ORyan interrupted. "He followed you?"
"Kill him. Send the animales!"
"You got it, lady," said ORyan, his impulse to promise the fanatic anything. "Hes dead."
"Now, as to the package-"
"What package?"
"The hospitalized Scorpione Uno said his predecessor left a package for me. Ill send the boy for it. Where?"
ORyan pulled the phone away from his ear, thinking rapidly. What the h.e.l.l had Ingersol done? What package?... Still, "the boy" could be had. Whatever his purpose, or wherever he fitted into Bajaratts agenda, he could be eliminated. "Tell him to drive south to Route 4 until it meets 260, then head for a place called Chesapeake Beach; there are signs along the way. When he gets here, have him call me from a diner down the road with a telephone outside. Ill meet him ten minutes later on the rocks of a jetty on the first public beach."
"Very well, Im writing this down.... I trust you have not opened the package."
"No way, its not my business."
"Bene."
"I think so too. And dont concern yourself about this Hawthorne. Hes finito."
"Your Italian improves, signore."
Nicolo Montavi stood in the rain on the rocks of the jetty, watching the taillights of the taxi that had brought him to this deserted spot recede. The taxi was literally commanded by the hotels stern doorman to take the young man where he wished to go or not to bother coming back for fares. The nearly two-hour trip had angered the driver; he left quickly. Nico trusted that Cabrinis a.s.sociate would find him a way back. The darkness was now complete, and the stevedore from the docks of Portici watched as the figure came into view in the wet, gray-black night. The nearer the man came, the more uneasy Nicolo felt, for there was no package in his hands; instead, they were in the pockets of his raincoat, and a person meeting another person at night in a heavy rain did not walk so slowly-it was not natural. The figure climbed up the irregular rocks of the man-made seawall; he slipped, both hands yanked out of his pockets to break his fall. In his right hand was a gun!
Nicolo spun around and plunged over the rocks into the dark waters as gunshots filled the night and the rain, a bullet grazing his left arm, another exploding above his head. He swam underwater for as long as he could, silently in panic thanking the docks of Portici for giving him the skill to do so. He surfaced less than thirty meters from the beach, spinning again until he could concentrate on the barrier of rocks. His would-be murderer now held a flashlight, its beam crisscrossing the water as he walked out to the end of the jetty, apparently satisfied that the killing had taken place. Nico stayed in the water, slowly making his way back to the wall of stone. He took off his shirt, raising his hands in the darkness and wringing out the cloth as best he could; it would float for a minute or two before sinking. Perhaps it would be enough, if he could place it correctly; he sidestroked along the jetty as the figure headed back toward the beach. Only moments now; then it was the moment! He lobbed the shirt ahead of him as the flashlight beam waved back and forth over the water.
The gunfire was thunderous, the punctured cloth erupting under the impact of the bullets before it sank. And then Nicolo heard what he wanted to hear: the repeated clicks of an empty magazine. He lunged up, his hands sc.r.a.ped and bleeding from the jagged rocks, then dived forward, gripping the ankles of the stunned figure with the empty automatic. The heavyset man roared in defiance, but his bulk was no match for the lean, strong swimmer from Portici. The young Italian leapt up, crashing his fists into the mans stomach, then his face, finally clutching his throat and hurling him down over the rocks. The body lay still, the head shattered, the eyes wide. Slowly in the night rain, the dead man slipped into the water.
Nicolo felt the panic spreading through him, paralyzing him, causing the sweat to break out on his face and his neck despite the cold rain and his drenched clothing-what was left of it. What had he done-yet what else could he do? He had killed a man, but only because that man had tried to kill him! Still, he was in a strange country, a foreigner in a foreign land, where they executed men for killing other men because people who were not there decided that those who killed should die, believing their judgments replaced the eyes of G.o.d.
What should he do now? Not only were his trousers soaking wet but his bare chest was sc.r.a.ped and bleeding, the wound in his shoulder open, although not deep. He had been cut worse by the ancient stones and anchors while diving for the ocean scientists; it was not an explanation he could offer the polizia in America. They would say it was not pertinente; he had killed an American; perhaps he was a capo-subalterno in the hated Sicilian Mafia. Mother of Christ, he had never been to Sicily!
He had to get hold of himself, Nicolo understood that. He had to think, not waste time imagining useless possibilities. He had to reach Cabrini-Cabrini the b.i.t.c.h! Had she sent him out to die for a "package" that was not there?... No, he was too important to the grand contessa; the barone-cadetto was too important. Something had gone wrong for his signora salvatora puttana; a man she thought she could trust wanted only to destroy her-by killing one Nicolo Montavi, dock boy from Portici.
He rushed along the slippery jetty in the downpour, deciding that he could make better and safer time in the shallow water. He jumped down and raced to the beach, then up across the sand to the parking area; there was only one other automobile, without doubt his would-be killers. He wondered if he could yank the ignition wires, cross them, and start the engine as he had done so many times before with others.
He could not. The car was an expensive macchina da corsa, a sports car for the rich, who protected their investment. One never touched them in Napoli or Portici; even if one could open the hood, an alarm was heard for three hundred meters, the battery neutralized, the steering wheel incapable of being turned.
The roadside restaurant with the enclosed gla.s.s booth that had a telephone! He had coins in his pocket, several thrown at him by the angry taxi driver, until he apologized when Nico gave him a twenty-dollar mancia, telling the man he knew how important tips were. He started down the road in the rain, staying on the side and constantly turning his head, dashing into the bordering woods whenever he saw headlights or taillights.
Thirty-five minutes later he reached the restaurant, its glaring red neon sign spelling out ROOSTERS NEST. He crouched in the shadows at the edge of the building as automobiles and trucks came and went, only a few stopping in front of the telephone booth. The outside phone was a familiar sight in the Italian cafes; a convenience that more often than not led callers inside for food and wine.... Suddenly, a furious woman inside the booth screamed so loudly she could be heard through the downpour. She then smashed the receiver with such force against the folding gla.s.s door that it shattered, then she walked unsteadily outside and vomited in the nearby bushes of the front parking lot. Several newcomers dashed around her in the rain, and Nicolo knew the time was right; the light was still on in the booth, the broken gla.s.s menacingly reflected in its wash. He raced across the pavement, the coins in his hand.
"Informazioni-information, if you please? The number for the Carillon hotel in Washington?" The operator gave it to him as he scratched it with the rim of another coin on the ledge. Without warning a large truck stopped in front of the booth, the driver a heavyset man with a full, unkempt beard, his fleshed eyes squinting. He shouted, seeing Nicolos bleeding upper torso.
"Who the f.u.c.k are you, Speedo?"
Instinct propelling him, the large, muscular dock boy crashed open the shattered door and yelled. "I have been shot, signor! I am Italian and there are mafiosi surrounding this place. Will you help me?"
"In your f.u.c.kin dreams, Eyetal!" The truck burst forward and Nicolo completed his call.
"You what?" said Bajaratt harshly.
"Do not show anger with me, signora!" replied a furious Nicolo over the telephone from Chesapeake Beach. "That terrible man came to kill me, not to give me a package."
"I cannot believe it!"
"You did not hear the gunfire or nearly have your left arm shot off, which mine was, and is swollen and still bleeding a little."
"Il traditore! b.a.s.t.a.r.do!... Something has happened, Nico, something very wrong, very horrible. The man was not only to guard your safety with his life, but to deliver a package for me."
"There was no package. You cannot do this to me, and do not tell me it is part of our contract! I will not die for you, not for all the money in Napoli!"
"Never, my boy-man, never! You are my young love, have I not proven it to you?"
"Ive seen you kill two people, a maid and a driver-"
"I explained both to you. Would you rather they killed us?"
"We run from one place to another-"
"As we did in Napoli, in Portici ... to save your life."
"There is too much I cannot understand, Signora Cabrini! Perhaps tonight is the last!"
"You must not think that way, never think that way! There is too much at stake!... Stay where you are and I will come to you-where are you?"
"At a restaurant called Roosters Nest in this Cheez-a-peake Beach."
"Stay where you are, Ill be there as soon as I can. Remember Napoli, Nicolo; think of your future. Stay there!"
The Baj slammed down the phone, furious, shaken, uncertain where to turn. The Scorpios would die, all die, but to whom could she give the order? The padrone was gone, Van Nostrand incommunicado somewhere in Europe, a man claiming to be Scorpio Two had been killed by Nicolo on an obscure American beach, and the unknown Scorpio One was unreachable in a hospital under a name she did not know. The primitive dock boy was right; it was all insane. Yet where could she turn? The Baakas network extended everywhere, all over the globe, but she had relied on the padrones connections in America. The Scorpios. Oh, G.o.d, had the Scorpion leadership turned against her, her one extraordinary a.s.set now a terrible liability?
It could not happen! The final statement of her life of pain, the only reason she had left to survive the agony of the Pyrenees-Muerte a toda autoridad! She could not be stopped by men in dark suits and grand estates and large limousines that carried them from one place of power to another like the killer pharaohs of Egypt in their chariots. It could not be! What did they know of earthbound brutality, of the horror of being forced to watch as their mothers and fathers were beheaded in front of their eyes by the authorities?... It was like that in so many places; whole Basque villages in flames because they wanted something of their own; her beloved husbands people slaughtered, their homes bulldozed out of the ground because they wanted their own, stolen from them by a people armed by the giants of the world because they carried the guilt of not stopping the killers of Jews, which her husbands people had nothing to do with! Where was the justice, where the humanity?... No, the "authorities" everywhere had to be taught a lesson. They had to be hurt, had to learn that they were as vulnerable as those they destroyed with their false agendas.
Bajaratt picked up the phone and dialed the numbers given her by Nils Van Nostrand. There was no answer. She remembered the padrones words.
All my connections have devices, like pacemakers, that tell them they must answer the calls immediately, no matter their situations. And if their situations deny them access for an excessive length of time, another descending number is programmed. Wait twenty minutes, then try again.
But what if there still is no answer, my only father?
Dont trust anyone. Electronic codes can be broken in these days of extraordinary technology. Be conservative, my child, a.s.sume the worst and leave wherever you are.
What then?
The Baj is on her own, my only daughter. Use others.
Bajaratt waited twenty minutes and called once more. Nothing. As instructed by the padrone, she a.s.sumed the worst. Scorpio Two had tried to kill Nicolo and had been killed in the attempt.
Why?
It was 4:36 A.M. when the shrill ring of the telephone a.s.saulted Hawthornes ears in the room he shared with Poole at the Shenandoah Lodge.
"You got it, Tye?" asked the far more alert lieutenant in the other bed.
"Im getting it, Jackson." Tyrell fumbled the phone off the hook and pulled it to his ear at the side of the pillow. "Yes?" he asked.
"Is this Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne?"
"Was, yes. Who are you?"
"Lieutenant Allen, John Allen, naval intelligence, temporarily standing in for Captain Stevens, who has relieved himself from duty to get some much needed rest, sir."
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Ive been briefed on a restricted need-to-know basis, Commander, but I wanted to get a quick a.n.a.lysis from your point of view on a recent development that conceivably might influence my disturbing Captain Stevens-"