"Stay down!" commanded the Baj, clasping the chauffeurs shoulder and pushing him beneath the top of the booth. The five intruders took a large table across the entrance aisle against the wall, their angry debate now muted, but, as Amaya Bajaratt saw, her once and former lover would not be moved. She had seen it too often: The intelligence officer from Amsterdam knew when his instincts were right-right on the mark. The dead man was another key to Little Girl Blood. Well done, Tye-Boy, she mused to herself as she and her driver stayed below the banquette in the aisle. I rarely, if ever, made love to an inferior. Oh, you, so like my husband, Tyrell, a gentle animal who wanted only the best, and I gave it to him as I gave it to you, my darling. Why, in all thats so insane in this world, could you not have been on my side? Im right, you know, my darling. There is no G.o.d! For if there were, children would not starve to death with pain and swollen bellies-what has that G.o.d have against them? I hate your G.o.d, Tyrell! If it ever was your G.o.d; I never knew that, really; you never said so, one way or another. And now I must kill you, Tye-Boy. I dont want to; I couldnt in St. Barts, although I should have-I think the padrone understood. I think he sensed how much I really loved you, and was wise enough not to probe, for he loved another he could not kill, yet knew he should. If the truth were told, my darling Tye-Boy, the Scorpios have collapsed because my only father could not do what he should have done years ago. Neptune should have been cut down. He was far too emotional where love was concerned.
That is not me, Commander!
"Now," said Bajaratt to the chauffeur beside her. "Get up slowly, walk to the door, go outside, and run to the car. Dont be alarmed-an injured young man is in the back. He is my nephew, a good boy who was attacked by men who robbed him. Bring the car to the front steps. Touch the horn twice when you are there."
"Madam, Ive never been asked to behave this way!"
"You are now, and you will be a thousand dollars richer for it. Go!"
The limousine driver, in his anxiety walking to the entrance far more rapidly than instructed, pushed the door open with such force that the occupants of several tables glanced up at the sharp noise, among them, Tyrell Hawthorne in the corner seat. The Baj could not see his face, the questioning frown on that face, but another could. "What is it, Tye?" asked Catherine Neilsen.
"Whats an angry chauffeur doing in here?"
"You heard that fisherman on the dock. He said rich people lived out here, up and down the "Peake, I think he called it. Why shouldnt they have chauffeurs?"
"Maybe."
Neither could Bajaratt hear that brief exchange of conversation; she had ears only for the signal that would tell her the limousine was out front. It came, two short bursts of a horn.
"A chauffeur?" said Hawthorne more to himself than anyone else. "Van Nostrands!" he exclaimed out loud. "Let me out of here," he cried, shoving Poole, and in turn Cathy, along the soiled green plastic banquette.
Simultaneously, Bajaratt rose from the booth and started for the door, her chin locked into her neck. There were now two figures rushing toward the diners entrance, each intent on racing outside.
"Sorry!" said Tyrell curtly as he dashed past the woman, grazing her, shoving his right shoulder against the bra.s.s-plated latch cover, propelling the heavy door out into the rain, once more a downpour. "You!" he roared at the unseen driver of the limousine as he ran down the steps toward the huge automobile. He stopped, spinning around in the rain, the lightning bolts of his mind crashing down, then up at the diners entrance and the woman he had just shoved aside. The Shenandoah Lodge, the old woman-the eyes! Dominique! Bajaratt!
The gunshots echoed in the rain; bullets pierced the limousines metal and ricocheted off the pavement as Hawthorne raced to his left, suddenly feeling an ice-cold sensation in his upper thigh. He had been hit! He dived, rolling under the cover of a parked pickup truck as another woman burst through the diners door, screaming for him. Bajaratt fired the remaining sh.e.l.ls in her direction while pulling the door open and jumping into the automobile. Catherine Neilsen plummeted down the steps as the limousine bolted forward into the darkness of the highway.
It was five oclock in the morning and Henry Stevens recognized an affliction that went with his job. He was at that point beyond exhaustion where sleep would not come, not after his initial rest had been shattered by a startling interruption. The mind would not stop, could not stop, the questions geometrically building until his head was filled with so many possibles and probables that they crowded out all thoughts of immobility. To stay in bed meant only turning constantly, eyes open and glazed, concerned that his wife in the twin bed next to his would hear his movements and, as usual, wake up and try to calm him down. She was good at that; she had always been good at that. He could not admit it, but deep in his silent reflections he knew that he would not be where he was without Phyllis. She was irritatingly rational, always calm, the strong helmsman who kept their own ship on a steady course, never dictatorial, but making d.a.m.n sure her husband rode out a heavy sea without capsizing.
It was funny in a way, he mused as he sat on the couch in their gla.s.sed-in sun porch, that he should think in nautical terms. The only time he had been on the water was during his final year at Annapolis, when all the graduating midshipmen had to endure ten h.e.l.lish days on some huge sailing ship, pretending to be seamen from the G.o.dd.a.m.n nineteenth century. He could barely remember those ten days for, in truth, hed spent most of the time throwing up in the toilet-the head, the head.
Seamanship notwithstanding, the navy came to recognize his other talents, organizational talents, bureaucratic talents. He was one h.e.l.l of a desk sailor, spotting mediocrities and incompetents, dismissing them out of hand without suffering their feeble explanations. If there was a job to be done, get it done; if there was a problem he or she could not solve, come to him, do not wallow in the shallows of indecision. He had been right-most of the time.
And once-just once-he had been wrong. Fatally. In Amsterdam he had told Phyllis about Hawthornes wife, Ingrid, and she had said simply, quietly: Youre wrong, Hank, youre wrong on this one. I know Tyrell and I know Ingrid, and youre missing something.
And when Ingrid Hawthornes dead body was pulled out of the Amsterdam ca.n.a.l, his wife had come to his office from the emba.s.sy.
Did you have anything to do with this, Hank?
Good G.o.d, no, Phyll! It was the Soviets, the markings were all there!
I hope so, Henry, because youre about to lose the finest intelligence officer the navy has ever had.
Phyllis never called him Henry unless she was furious with him.
G.o.dd.a.m.n it! How could he have known? Logged out of the system! What kind of c.r.a.p was that?
"Hank?"
Stevens snapped his head around to the door of the sun porch. "Oh, sorry, Phyll, I was just sitting here thinking, thats all."
"You havent slept since that phone call. Do you want to talk about it-can you talk about it, or am I out of the loop?"
"It concerns your old friend Hawthorne."
"Is he back in the system? If so, thats a real stunner, Hank. Hes not very fond of you."
"He always liked you."
"Why not? I programmed his travels, not his life."
"Are you saying I did?"
"I dont really know. You told me you didnt."
"I didnt."
"Then the chapter is closed, isnt it?"
"Its closed."
"Whats Tyrell doing for you, or cant you tell me?" There was no resentment in Phyllis Stevenss remark, for it was understood that wives and husbands of high-level intelligence personnel were vulnerable; what they did not know could not be extracted from them. "Youve been working around the clock several times over, so I a.s.sume its a red alert."
"I can give you a couple of brush strokes, the leaks probably go beyond them anyway.... Theres a terrorist out of the Baaka Valley, a woman whos sworn to a.s.sa.s.sinate the President."
"Thats cartoon time, Hank!" interrupted the wife, suddenly stopping, her head tilted in thought. "Or maybe it isnt. In fairness to my gender, there are an awful lot of things we can do and places we can go that men cant."
"She already has, leaving a number of very strange deaths and "fatal accidents in her wake."
"I wont ask you to amplify that."
"I wouldnt."
"And Tyrell? Where does he fit in?"
"For a while the woman operated from the Caribbean, from the islands-"
"And Hawthorne has his charter business down there."
"Exactly."
"But how did you ever get him back? I wouldnt have thought it possible."
"We didnt, MI-6 did. Were just paying his plus per diems; he got his contract from London."
"Good old Tye. Third cla.s.s never appealed to him unless it was necessary for his cover."
"You really liked him, didnt you?"
"You would have, too, if youd ever given him a chance, Hank," said Phyllis, sitting down in a rattan armchair opposite her husband. "Tye was smart-covert smart, street smart-but not in your cla.s.s, not a MENSA candidate with an IQ of a hundred and ninety, or whatever, but he had the instincts and the strength to follow them, even when upstairs thought he was wrong. He was a risktaker."
"You sound like you were in love with him." "All the youngsters were, hardly me. Like him, yes; fascinated by what he did, of course, but "love in any sense of the word, no. He was like a talented, off-the-wall nephew, not even close enough to be a brother, but someone you watched with interest because he broke the rules and every now and then brought in the borscht. You yourself said that."
"Yes, I did. And he did get results. But he upset a lot of networks which took considerable work to put back together. I never told him about those a.s.sets who temporarily fled from us because they said there was a maniac loose in our underground. They were frightened; he was trying to make deals with our enemies-no more killings, thats what they told us he was saying to them. But we werent doing the killings, others were!"
"And then Ingrid was killed."
"She was killed. By the Soviets, not by us."
Phyllis Stevens crossed and recrossed her legs under her silk nightgown, studying her husband of twenty-seven years. "Hank," she said softly, "somethings eating the h.e.l.l out of you, and I know by now when not to intrude, but youve got to tell somebody. Youre living with something you cant handle, but I have to tell you, dear, no one in the navy could have done what you did in Amsterdam. You held the whole organization intact, from the emba.s.sy to The Hague to NATO. You were the brains behind all our accomplishments in a time when one superior intellect was required to guide clandestine operations. You did that, Hank, rotten temper included, but you did it, dear. I dont think anybody else could have, Tye Hawthorne, least of all."
"Thanks for that, Phyll," Henry said. Suddenly, he sat forward on the couch, bringing both hands to his pallid face, his fingers spread, covering the tears that began to fall from his eyes. "But we were wrong in Amsterdam, I was wrong. I killed Tyes wife!"
Phyllis leapt out of the chair and sprang to the couch beside her husband, cradling him in her arms. "Come on, Hank, the Soviets killed her, not you. You said it yourself, and I saw the reports. The markings were there!"
"I led them to her.... And now hes here, and because Ive been wrong and wrong and wrong again, he may be killed too."
"Stop it!" shouted Henry Stevenss wife. "Thats enough, Hank. Youre exhausted, but youre better than this, stronger than this. If thats whats eating your insides away, bring Tyrell in; you can do it easily."
"h.e.l.l fight me; you dont know how he feels. Friends of his were killed, too many friends."
"Send a unit and force him in." And then a telephone rang, its bell deep-toned, unnatural. Phyllis rose from the couch and crossed to a small alcove on the sun porch, where, behind a short, louvered panel, three phones stood side by side; they were beige, red, and dark blue. "The Stevenss residence," she said, picking up the red phone, its light pulsating.
"Captain Stevens, please."
"May I ask whos calling? The captains been up for nearly seventy-two hours and really needs his sleep."
"Okay, I guess it doesnt matter at this hour," said the youthful voice on the line. "Im Lieutenant Allen, N.I., and the captain should know that Commander-former Commander-Hawthorne was shot outside a diner in Chesapeake Beach, Maryland. As near as we can determine, the wounds may not be life-threatening, but until the ambulance and the paramedics get here, we cant be sure. However, the woman air force officer-"
"Henry!"
25.
Hawthorne and a tear-stained Poole sat opposite each other in the corridor outside the hospital operating room, Tyrell in a chair, crutches by his side, the lieutenant on a bench, leaning forward, his head in his hands. Neither spoke; there was nothing to say. Hawthornes thigh wound had required extraction of the bullet and seven st.i.tches, which he barely lay still for on the table, demanding to be brought to the waiting area where, inside, Major Catherine Neilsen was fighting for her life.
"If she dies," said Poole, breaking the silence, his voice strained, barely audible, "Im gettin out of this G.o.dd.a.m.ned outfit, and if I have to, Ill spend the rest of my life trackin down the f.u.c.kers who killed her."
"I understand, Jackson," said Tyrell, looking over at the distraught lieutenant.
"Maybe you dont, Commander. One of em may be you."
"I can even understand that, as misdirected as I believe it to be."
" "Misdirected? You son of a b.i.t.c.h." Poole removed his hands and raised his head, glaring at Tye. "In my vocabulary, which is a h.e.l.l of a lot superior to yours, thats as exculpatory as you can get. Youre not blameless, Mr. Hawthorne. You didnt even tell Cath and me what this whole thing was about until I forced you to on that lousy island after Charlie was killed."
"Would it have made any difference-after Charlie was killed?"
"How do I know?" exclaimed the lieutenant. "How do I know anything? I just figure you werent straight with us."
"I was as straight as I could be without unnecessarily jeopardizing your lives with information you shouldnt have."
"Thats spook bulls.h.i.t!"
"It certainly is, but then, I was once a spook, and I saw men and women killed because they knew things-even fragments of things-that sealed their death warrants. Ive been away a long time, but those people still haunt me."
The door to the operating room opened, and a white-jacketed doctor emerged, his loose-fitting hospital outfit splotched with blood. "Ive been up here a long time," he said wearily. "Which one of you is Poole?"
"Thats me," replied Jackson from the bench, his breath suspended.
"She told me to tell you to cool it-thats what she said."
"How is she?"
"Ill get to that." The surgeon turned to Tyrell. "Youre Hawthorne, then, the other patient?"
"Yes."
"She wants to see you-"
"What the hogd.a.m.ned h.e.l.l are you talkin about?" Poole leapt to his feet. "If shes gonna see anyone, its me!"
"I gave her a choice, Mr. Poole. I didnt even want to do that, but shes a very stubborn lady. One visitor, two minutes maximum, and less is medically advisable."
"How is she, Doctor?" said Tye, repeating Jacksons question but with an authority that required an answer.
"I a.s.sume youre replacing her immediate family?"
"a.s.sume whatever you like," Hawthorne continued quietly. "We were brought here together and youre certainly aware of the governments concern."
"I certainly am. Two admissions off the books, no police reports, any and all inquiries turned aside by our having no knowledge of the events suggested ... and the patients involved were shot. Highly irregular, but I cant question the authority. I never spoke to anyone with such credentials in the intelligence community."
"Then answer my question, please."
"The next twenty-four hours or so will tell."
"Tell what?" Poole exploded. "Whether sh.e.l.l die or not?"
"Frankly, I cant promise you she wont die, but I think weve eliminated the probability. What I also cant promise is that sh.e.l.l be a whole person, with full mobility."