The Scorpio Illusion: A Novel

  “Won’t our sonar pick it up?” asked Poole.

  “If we’re submersed, it probably will,” answered Tye. “But if we surface, it won’t, and we could land up on a pile of coral below the beams.”

  “Then we stay submerged,” said Catherine.

  “Then we reach the inner reef for which there’s no definition and we’re sailing blind,” replied Hawthorne. “And this is only the first island. Shit!”

  “May I make a suggestion?” asked Neilsen.

  “Be my guest.”

  “In combat flight training, when we hit massive cloud cover we go as low as possible, just above the carpeting clouds, where our instruments are at sighting maximum. Why don’t we reverse the procedure? We go as high in the water as possible, utilizing the wide-angle periscope, and at minimum speed we’d merely bounce off the reefs or rocks if we made contact.”

  “Stripped of the fancy lingo,” said Poole, “it’s really very simple. Like computers, you go gradual. Half into ’em and half out of ’em; part eyes-on-the-objective, ten fingers on the buttons.”

  “What buttons?”

  “Can you get me a simple laptop and a dozen sensor disks I can instant glue to this sub’s exterior?”

  “Of course not, there’s no time.”

  “Then strike the buttons. Cathy’s theory still holds.”

  “I hope to hell it does.”

  9

  The run-down motel in West Palm Beach was merely a temporary stopover for the barone-cadetto di Ravello, who was registered as a construction worker, in the company of his middle-aged aunt, a domestic from Lake Worth, who was sponsoring her nephew in these “greata United States, you know watta I mean? A fine boy who works hard!”

  However, by nine-thirty in the morning, both “aunt” and “nephew” were on Palm Beach’s Worth Avenue, selecting and paying in cash for the finest clothes in the most exclusive shops on that very exclusive strip. And the rumors began to fly: He’s an Italian baron, from Ravello they say, but shhh! Nobody must know! He’s called a barone-cadetto, that’s a first son in training for the title, and his aunt is a contessa, a real countess. I tell you, they’re buying up the street, everything the finest! All his luggage was lost on Alitalia, can you believe that? Naturally, everyone on Worth Avenue believed it as their cash registers rang and the owners called their favorite newspaper columnists in Palm Beach and Miami, willing to break their silence as long as their establishments were prominently mentioned.

  At nine o’clock in the evening the motel room filled with boxes of clothing and Louis Vuitton luggage, Bajaratt removed the slightly padded dress from her body, exhaled audibly, and fell into the double bed. “I’m exhausted!” she cried.

  “I’m not!” Nicolo was exuberant. “I’ve never been treated like this. It is magnifico!”

  “Save it, Nico. Tomorrow we move into a grand hotel across the bridge; everything’s been arranged. Now, leave me alone, no impetuous adolescent advances, if you please. I must think, then sleep.”

  “You think, signora. I’m going to have a glass of wine.”

  “Don’t overdo it. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

  “Naturalmente,” agreed the dock boy. “Then I shall study some more. Il batone-cadetto di Ravello must be prepared, no?”

  “Yes.”

  Ten minutes later the Baj was asleep, and across the room, under the spill of a floor lamp beside the sofa, Nicolo raised his glass above the pages of his new identity. “To you, Saint Cabrini,” he said silently, mouthing the words. “And to me, the baron-to-be.”

  It was eleven-fifteen, the night sky clear, the Caribbean moon bright, its rays bouncing off the dark waters. The seaplane had rendezvoused with the hovercraft from Virgin Gorda at 10:05. In the time since, the three Americans had exchanged their clothes for the black wet suits provided by the British, along with small, silenced pistols holstered to their belts and Velcroed waterproof pouches for flares, night vision binoculars and their hand-held radios. Also, as it was essential to the scouting mission, they had instructed Major Neilsen in the operation of the miniature submarine; she would assume the controls once her companions left the craft to search the islands. This instruction was left to a recalcitrant young British commando who felt strongly that he should be part of the scouting patrol and not—definitely not—an American female pilot. His opposition weakened after the major took him aside at the stern of the ship and held a very private conversation. Although a certain reluctance remained, he became a formidable teacher; within the hour he was proud of his student.

  “I hate to think what you promised him,” said Tyrell as the pilot climbed up on deck after completing her final maneuvering exercises over a square mile of ocean.

  “Is this pig time?”

  “Come on, I’m trying to lighten the moment; we’re going to have a long night.”

  “I told him the truth—about Charlie. That I really felt I owed it to him. I guess I was convincing.”

  “Of that I’m sure.”

  “I also made it clear that if I couldn’t hack it, I’d bow out. I wouldn’t risk two other lives.… That Brit really wants to go with you, and he could have loused me up, but he didn’t. He knows where I’m at and he put me through the paces.”

  “I believe you, Major,” said Hawthorne sincerely. “We’re weighing anchor for the first island in a few minutes. Anything you want to tell the pilot from Gorda who’s going to take over the seaplane you flew here? About the plane itself, I mean.”

  “He’s quarantined below. He’s not supposed to see us or we him. I was going to leave him a short note.”

  “That’s what I meant. Write it now.”

  “Actually, it’s so short, the skipper can tell him. It’s the left rudder; there’s a drag on it, so he’s got to compensate. He’d find out in a couple of minutes anyway.”

  “I’ll relay it. If you’ve got any plumbing to take care of, do it now. You may not get another chance until morning.”

  “Everything’s taken care of, thank you, but I don’t thank the people who designed these damned suits. To say the least, they’re male chauvinists.”

  “No problems from where I stand,” said Tyrell, glancing briefly at the black-encased figure in front of him in the moonlight.

  “That’s the problem. You stand.”

  “We’re on!” Jackson Poole approached the two of them on the aft deck. “The captain says they’re hauling up the sub and we’re supposed to practice positioning ourselves in case of any storage adjustments.”

  “So soon?” asked Neilsen.

  “It’s not so soon, Cathy. The man says that the way this thing travels, we’ll reach our jump point in twenty minutes or less.”

  “Sir!” Major Neilsen’s instructor rushed forward out of the shadows, standing rigid, and rendering Hawthorne a British flat-handed salute.

  “Yes, we just got the word, Sergeant. The sub’s being hoisted; we’re ready.”

  “Not that, sir,” barked the soldier. “May I ask how long it’s been since you’ve operated this equipment, sir?”

  “Oh, hell, five or six years.”

  “British manufactured?”

  “Predominantly ours, but I’ve used yours. There’s very little difference.”

  “Not adequate, sir.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I cannot permit you to get behind the controls of our equipment.”

  “You what?”

  “The lady here has demonstrated excellent capability with regard to its operation, quite remarkable, actually.”

  “Well, I had some experience in Pensacola, Sergeant,” said Neilsen demurely.

  “Extremely well absorbed, ma’am.”

  “You mean she’s driving when we first leash off?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Cut the sir crap. I know those islands, she doesn’t!”

  “Then you’re not aware of the technological developments. There is a television screen that clearly shows the driv
er whatever is seen by the periscope in the second personnel seat. If you’re not aware of that, you may not be aware of other advances. No, I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot permit you the first position.”

  “This is crazy …!”

  “No, sir. This machine cost the British government a minimum of four hundred thousand pounds, and I cannot permit first position to someone who hasn’t skippered one in years. Now, if you’ll step to the bow, the pilot is waiting to come up here and be transferred to the plane.”

  “Inform him that there’s a drag on the left rudder,” said Catherine. “Everything else is normal.”

  “Very well, ma’am. I’ll summon you as soon as we pull the aircraft alongside and the pilot is cast off.” The sergeant stood erect, nodded at no one specifically, avoiding Hawthorne’s stare, and walked away.

  “I’ve been sandbagged!” said Tyrell angrily as they walked forward on the deck.

  “You’ll see, Tye,” said Catherine when they reached the bow of the strangely contoured patrol boat. “It’ll be better this way. I wouldn’t have tried to do it if I thought otherwise, and I meant what I said: If I couldn’t do it, I’d have bowed out.”

  “Why is it better this way?” asked Hawthorne.

  “Because you can concentrate on what you’re looking for and not worry about driving.”

  Tyrell looked at her, seeing in the moonlight the guarded plea in her large gray-green eyes, a little girl’s eyes in the attractive face of a very accomplished woman. “You may be right, Major, I won’t deny that. I just wish you’d done it another way.”

  “I couldn’t because I didn’t know whether I could.”

  Hawthorne smiled, his anger receding. “Do you always have an answer for everything?”

  “Does the bayou get wet?” said the tall, slender Poole, who had been leaning over the gunwale, pretending not to hear the conversation.

  “Don’t say it,” ordered Tyrell, holding up his hands in front of Neilsen’s face. “Don’t say ‘Be quiet, my darling’!”

  “Oh, that,” said Catherine, laughing. “Someday we’ll tell you how it happened, and you may just start calling him that yourself.” Suddenly Neilsen’s eyes grew distant and sad. “It was Sal’s and Charlie’s idea, they came up with it.”

  “With what?”

  “Forget it,” replied Cathy, blinking, her eyes bright again. “If you haven’t got a patent on the phrase.”

  “Sir!” announced the sergeant-commando as he emerged from the shadows of the starboard rail. “We’ve secured the submarine for immersible procedures.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The first island was volcanic garbage, nothing more and nothing less. They had penetrated the inner reef, surfaced, and saw nothing but jagged rock and rotted foliage barely kept alive by the intermittent rains absorbed by the sun-dried ground of earth and sand.

  “Forget it,” Tyrell ordered his skipper in the forward seat. “Head out for number two, it’s less than a mile from here, due east-southeast, as I remember.”

  “You remember correctly,” Catherine said from behind the controls. “I’ve got the chart and I’ve programmed our reentry out. Close hatches and prepare to submerge.”

  The second island, less than a mile northeast, was, if possible, a lesser candidate for Poole’s electronic alarms. It was a barren rock formation devoid of greenery or sand-filled beaches, a volcanic aberration that held no worth for human or animal habitation. The three-man minisub headed for the third island, four miles directly north of the second. There was erratic greenery, but it had been whipped by the recent storms, untended by man. What palm trees there were had been battered, bent, many broken to the ground, an isolated land mass left to the elements. They were about to proceed to the east to the next island when Hawthorne, studying the television screen in front of Neilsen, spoke.

  “Hold it, Cathy,” he said quietly. “Reverse engines and then turn ninety degrees from your position.”

  “Why?”

  “Something’s wrong. The topside radar’s beaming back. Submerge.”

  “Why?”

  “Do as I say.”

  “Sure, but I’d like to know why.”

  “So would I,” said Poole from the rear compartment.

  “Be quiet.” Hawthorne stared alternately at the television screen and the radar grid in front of him. “Keep the periscope above water.”

  “It’s there,” said Neilsen.

  “That’s it,” said Tyrell. “Your machines were right, Basin Street. We’ve got it.”

  “What have we got?” asked Neilsen.

  “A wall. A goddamned man-made wall that bounces back the radar. Steel-encased is my guess; it’s concealed but it repulses the beams.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Circle the island, then come back here if we don’t find any surprises.”

  They slowly rounded the small island, barely breaking the surface, the undetectable radar beams scanning every foot of the coastline. For visual sighting, Poole squeezed up into Tyrell’s open hatch, a pair of night-vision binoculars at his eyes.

  “Oh, boy,” said the lieutenant, angling his head down to be heard. “They’ve got detectors all over the place, every twenty or thirty feet, I figure, and definitely in series sequence.”

  “Describe what you see,” said Hawthorne.

  “They look like small glass reflectors, some on the palms, others on poles deep in the ground. Those on the tree trunks have single black or green wires going up through the leaves, the ones on the poles—lucite or plastic sticks—don’t seem to have any wires, not that I can tell.”

  “They’re threaded,” explained Hawthorne, “buried four to six feet under; you couldn’t see them unless you were ten inches in front of them in broad daylight, and maybe not even then.”

  “How come?”

  “They’re clear blank veins, the contact colors at each end to connect the series. You were right about that part, the series.”

  “Christmas tree lights?”

  “Yes, but with backups. You can’t short one and knock out the series. The wires lead to batteries, above or below, that override the shorts and maintain contact.”

  “Well, listen to the tech man! What are they?”

  “Trip beams, and your computer mumbo jumbo is part of the mechanism. The beams can measure density—mass, if you like—so as to prevent small animals and birds from setting off the alarms.”

  “You impress me, Tye.”

  “They’ve been around since you were playing video games.”

  “How do we get through ’em?”

  “We crawl on our stomachs. It’s no big deal, Lieutenant. In the old days—five or six years ago—the boys from the KGB and we pure fellows on our side would drink up a storm in Amsterdam, telling one another how stupid we all were.”

  “You did that?”

  “We all did that, Jackson. Don’t ponder it. But don’t push it either.”

  “You know, Commander, you really do puzzle me.”

  “Like somebody once wrote, it’s all a puzzlement, young man.… Hold it, Major!” Catherine Neilsen looked up from the controls. “There’s the cove, the same one where we got the repelled beams before. From the wall.”

  “Should I head in?”

  “Hell, no. Proceed straight west, about a quarter of a mile, no more than that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then your ‘darling’ and I are going to jump ship.… Get down from there, Poole. Check your weapon and zip-lock your equipment.”

  “I’m on your side, Commander. You sound real purposeful,” replied Poole.

  The telephone rang, its harsh bell starding Bajaratt out of her sleep, causing her instinctively to plunge her hand beneath the pillow for her automatic. Then, sitting up, blinking, her breath suspended, she imposed a control over her reactions that in no way diminished her astonishment. No one knew where she was—they were! From the airport, only fifteen minutes away, she had taken three different taxis to
get to the motel, the first two in her disguise as a middle-aged former Israeli Air Force pilot, the third as an unmade-up harridan who spoke only broken English. Such motels as the one they were in did not require references, much less authentic names. The ringing started again; she instantly picked up the phone to cut it off, glancing at Nicolo beside her. He was fast asleep, his breathing steady, his breath reeking of stale wine.

  “Yes?” she said quietly into the telephone, looking at the red numbers of the screwed-down clock radio on the bedside table. It was 1:35 A.M.

  “Sorry to wake you,” said the pleasant male voice on the line, “but our orders are to assist you, and I have information you may want to think about.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Names aren’t part of our instructions. Suffice it to say that our group holds a sick old man in the Caribbean in great esteem.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Because I knew who and what to look for, and there weren’t that many places where you could be.… We met briefly at Fort Lauderdale customs, but that’s not important, my information could be. Come on, lady, don’t give me a hard time. I’m taking a risk some people would say I’m out of my mind to take.”

  “I apologize. Frankly, you surprised me—”

  “No, I didn’t,” the pleasant voice interrupted. “I shocked you.”

  “Very well, I’ll accept that. What is your information?”

  “You did a hell of a job this afternoon; the Palm Beach barracudas are in a social feeding frenzy, as I’m sure you expected.”

  “It was merely an introduction.”

  “It was a lot more than that. You’ve got a small press conference tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. This isn’t the New York—Washington orbit by a long shot, but we’ve got some decent newspeople down here, especially where the Beach society is concerned. It wasn’t difficult to figure where you’d be staying, so a few of them descended on The Breakers. We just felt you ought to know. You can refuse, of course, but we didn’t think you’d want to be … surprised.”