The Scorpio Illusion Part 13

"You may call it part of the education you seek that will permit you to leave the docks of Portici."

"Oh?"

"Bring us our wine, darling." The wine poured, the gla.s.ses in their hands, Bajaratt gave her young charge the white envelope she had received from the freighter in Naples; she told him to sit on the couch and open it. "You read very well, dont you, Nico?"

"You know I do," he replied. "Ive nearly completed my scuola media."

"Then start reading these pages, and as you read, Ill begin to explain to you."

"Signora?" Nicolos eyes were riveted on the first page. "What is this?"

"Your adventure, sweet Apollo. Im going to turn you into a young barone."

"Che pazza! I wouldnt know how to behave like a baron."

"Just be yourself, as shy and courteous as you are. Americans love modest n.o.bility. They think its so democratic, so appealing."

"Cabi, these people-"

"Your lineage, my dearest. They are a n.o.ble family from the hills of Ravello who a year or so ago came upon difficult times. They were barely able to pay their bills, their lands and their grand estate were draining them-poor vineyards, overindulgence, wastrel children, all the normal afflictions of the rich. But suddenly, wondrously, they are wealthy again. Isnt that astonis.h.i.+ng?"

"Its very good for them, but what has it to do with me-"

"Read on, Nico," Bajaratt interrupted. "They have millions now; once more they have great respect, and all Italy wors.h.i.+ps them. The vicissitudes of the rich run in cycles-long-ago investments rise to the skies, vineyards suddenly become cla.s.sico, foreign real estate turns to gold-do you follow me, Nico?"

"Im reading as fast as I can, listening as hard as-"

"Look at me, Nicolo," the Baj broke in firmly. "There was a son. He died of drugs eighteen months ago in the infamous Wdenschwill ghetto. His body was cremated on the orders of the family, no ceremony, no announcements; they were too ashamed."

"What are you saying to me, Signora Cabrini?" asked the dock boy quietly.

"Your age is within a year of his, your appearance quite similar until he was wasted by narcotics.... You are now he, Nicolo, its as simple as that."

"Youre not making sense, Cabi," said the boy from Portici, frightened and barely audible.

"You dont know how many days I looked for you along the waterfronts, my child-man. Someone who had the modest but imposing presence of everyones image of n.o.bility, especially the Americans. Everything you must learn is written on those pages: your life, your parents, your schooling, your hobbies and accomplishments, even the names of certain family friends and former estate employees, all beyond reach, incidentally.... Oh, dont look so terrified. Just familiarize yourself, you wont have to be specific, as I am your aunt as well as your interpreter and Ill never leave your side. Remember, however, you speak only italiano."

"Please ... per piacere, signora!" stammered Nicolo. "Im confused."

"Then, as Ive said before, think of the money in your bank account and do as youre told. Im going to introduce you to many important Americans. Very rich, very powerful. They will like you very much."

"Because I am this someone I am not?"

"Because your family in Ravello is investing heavily in American enterprise. You will promise to make contributions to many causes-museums, symphonies, charities-even to certain political men who wish to accommodate your family."

"I will?"

"Yes, but only and always through me. Can you imagine, you may one day be invited to the White House to meet the President of the United States?"

"Il presidente?" cried the adolescent, his eyes wide, his joyous grin genuine. "Its all so fantastico, I am in a dream, no?"

"A dream well thought out, my excitable child. Tomorrow I will buy you a wardrobe fit for one of the wealthiest young men on earth. Tomorrow we start our journey into this dream of yours, this dream of mine."

"What is the dream, signora? What does it mean?"

"Why not tell you, you wont understand anyway? When certain people hunt for certain other people, they look for the secretive, for the hidden, for the obscure. Not for whats in front of their eyes."

"Youre right, Cabi, I dont understand."

"Thats just fine," said Bajaratt.

But Nicolo understood only too well as he hungrily returned to the pages in front of him. On the docks it was called estorsione, the selling back of a kissed, stolen boot for many times its value because its mere presence could bring about the destruction of the owner. His time would come, thought the dock boy from Portici, but until it did, he would enter into the signoras game with enthusiasm, always remembering that she killed too easily.

It was 6:45 in the evening when the stranger walked into the lobby of the Virgin Gorda Yacht Club. He was a short, stout, balding man dressed in sharply creased white trousers and a navy blue blazer with the gold and black crest of the San Diego Yachting a.s.sociation on his breast pocket. It was an impressive emblem, so closely connected as it was to the Americas Cup and all the racing glory that went with it.

He signed his name on the register. Ralph W. Grimshaw, attorney and yachtsman. Coronado, California.

"We, of course, have a courtesy exchange with San Diego," said the tuxedoed clerk behind the counter, nervously checking his files. "Im rather new on the job, so it may take me a while to figure the discount."

"Its not important, young man," said Grimshaw, smiling. "The discount isnt vital, and if your club, like ours, has troubles in these difficult times, why not forget the courtesy? Id be happy to pay full price-as a matter of fact, I insist upon it."

"Thats very kind of you, sir."

"Youre British, arent you, fella?"

"Yes, sir, sent over by the Savoy Group ... for training, you understand."

"I sure do. You couldnt get any better training than in a place like this. I own a couple of hotels in southern Cal, and let me tell you, you send your best young people to the toughest spots to learn how rough it can be."

"You really think so, sir? I rather thought otherwise."

"Then you dont know how hotel management works. Its the way we determine who our most promising up-and-comers are-put em into the worst situations and see how they perform."

"I hadnt even considered that-"

"Dont tell your bosses I let you in on the secret, cause I know the Savoy Group and they know me. Just keep your whistle clean and spot the heavy hitters when they come into town, thats another secret, the most important one."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. How long will your stay be, Mr. Grimshaw?"

"Short, very short, a day, perhaps two. Im checking out a boat we may purchase for our club, then its off to London."

"Yes, sir. The boy will take your luggage to the room, sir," said the clerk, glancing around the fairly crowded lobby for a bellhop.

"Thats okay, son, Ive only got an overnighter; the rest of my stuff is back in P.R. for the London flight. Just give me the key, Ill find it. Actually, Im kind of in a hurry."

"A hurry, sir?"

"Yes, Im to meet our appraiser down at the marina and Im an hour late. Man named Hawthorne. Know him?"

"Captain Tyrell Hawthorne?" asked the young Englishman, slightly surprised.

"Yes, thats the one."

"Im afraid hes not here, sir."

"What?"

"His charter left early this afternoon, I believe."

"He cant do that!"

"The circ.u.mstances would appear to be odd, sir," said the clerk, leaning forward, obviously impressed by the "heavy hitter" familiar with the Savoy Group. "Weve received several calls for Captain Hawthorne, all of which were transferred to our head of dock maintenance, a man named Martin Caine, whos taking his messages."

"Thats odd, all right. We paid the guy! Except the name Caine was somewhere in the basket."

"Not only that, sir," continued the clerk, warming up to his new a.s.sociation with the wealthy attorney-yachtsman who had such enviable connections in London. "Captain Hawthornes a.s.sociate-Mr. Cooke, Mr. Geoffrey Cooke-left a large envelope in our safe for the captain."

"Cooke?... Of course, hes our money man. That envelopes meant for me, young fella. Its got the breakdown of the replacement cost specifications."

"The what, Mr. Grimshaw?"

"You dont buy a yacht for two million dollars if the cost of replacing worn-out equipment tallies up to another five hundred thousand or more."

"Two million ...?"

"Its only a medium-size boat, son. If youll get me the envelope, Ill unwind for the evening, then catch the first flight to Puerto Rico and be off to London.... Incidentally, let me have your name. One of our Anglo merger litigants is on the Savoy Groups board-Bas-comb. Surely you know him."

"Im afraid I dont, sir."

"Well, hes going to know who you are. The envelope, please."

"Well, Mr. Grimshaw, our instructions are to give it only to Captain Hawthorne."

"Yes, of course, but hes not here and I am, and Ive fully identified both the captain and Mr. Cooke as our-well, basically our employees-havent I?"

"Yes, you have, sir, no question about it."

"Good. Youll go far with my London friends. Now, let me have your card, young fella."

"Actually, I dont have a card-it hasnt been printed yet."

"Then spell out your name on one of those registration slips, thatll catch old Bas...o...b.. attention." The clerk did so with alacrity. The stranger named Grimshaw took it and smiled. "Someday, son, when Im staying at the Savoy and youre the manager, you might send me a dozen of those great oysters."

"With great pleasure, sir!"

"The envelope, please."

"Of course, Mr. Grimshaw!"

The man named Grimshaw sat in his room, the telephone in his gloved hand. "I have everything theyve got," he said into the phone to Miami, "the whole enchilada, including three photographs of the Baj, presumably unseen since they were sealed in an official Brit envelope. Ill burn them and then Ive got to get out of here. Ive no idea when this Hawthorne or the Sixer named Cooke will show up, but I cant be here.... Yes, I understand the seven-thirty curfew on planes; whats your suggestion?... A seaplane dead south on Sebastians Point?... No, Ill find it. Ill be there. Nine oclock. If Im late, dont panic, Ill get there.... Theres something I have to take care of first, a matter of communications. Hawthornes message center has to go."

Tyrell stood with Major Catherine Neilsen and Lieutenant Jackson Poole in the holding room of the St. Martins airport, waiting for word from Master Sergeant Charles OBrian, chief of security for the AWAC II.

Suddenly, the sergeant stormed through the double doors, his head turned, his eyes on the field outside, and announced, "Im staying on board, Major! No one in that detail speaks English, and I dont like anybody who cant understand me."

"Charlie, theyre our allies," said Neilsen. "Patrick cleared them, and were going to be here for the rest of the day and probably overnight. Let the bird go, n.o.bodys going to touch it."

"Cant do that, Cathy-Major."

"d.a.m.n it, Charlie, loosen up."

"Cant do that either. I dont like it here."

Sundown. Then darkness, and Hawthorne studied the computerized printouts expunged from Lieutenant Pooles airborne printer, the junior officer at his side in the hotel room. "Its got to be one of these four islands, then," said Tyrell, holding the lamp over the printouts.

"If we could have gotten low enough, like Cathy wanted to do, wed have verified which one."

"But if we had, theyd have known we were doing just that, correct?"

"So what?... My major was right, youre pigheaded."

"She really doesnt like me, does she?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l, its not you. Shes what we call in Loosiana a real feminyne firster, bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s and all."

"But you seem to get along with her."

" Cause shes the best there is, why not?"

"Then you dont object to the feminyne-first routine."

"The h.e.l.l I dont, I sure do! Shes my boss, but Id be a d.a.m.n liar if I didnt say I couldnt get a letch for her-I mean look at her, man, thats a woman. But like I say, shes my superior. Shes air force to the core. Dont mess."

"She thinks the world of you, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, sure, like an idiot kid brother who happens to know how to tune in a VCR."

"You really do like her, dont you, Jackson?"

"Let me tell you something, Id kill for that lady, but Im not in her cla.s.s. Im a techno-nerd, and I know it. Maybe sometime-"

The rapping on the hotel door was frantic. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, open up!" screamed Major Catherine Neilsen.

Hawthorne reached the door first and unlatched the lock as the major burst inside. "They blew up our aircraft! Charlies dead!"

The padrone hung up the phone, the features of his gaunt, withered face rigid, resigned. Once again a coward had come through for him, for the luxuries he provided. A coward in the French Deuxieme who was afraid to face life without the "inheritance" that the unknown force in the Caribbean could eliminate in the morning. The man was a weakling, forever succ.u.mbing to his elegant and elegantly carnal appet.i.tes, yet forever pretending to be above the corruption that both sustained him and potentially destroyed him. One always looked for an influential coward, puffed him up, and let his inflated carca.s.s hang out to dry, his perpetual sweat keeping him functional. Now it was outrage piled upon outrage, from Miami to St. Martin, with an important theft on British Gorda they would soon learn about. The Bajs hunters would be in panic, searching in all the wrong disparate places, peering into shadows when they should look toward the light. There would be no fancy American planes flying over the area for at least three hours or more, after which all transmission receivers would be shut down, all beams deflected back into nothing.

The infirm old man picked up the phone, leaned forward in his wheelchair, and carefully pressed a series of numbers on his electronic console. The ringing on the other end of the line stopped, interrupted by a flat, metallic voice. "At the signal, enter your access code." The long beep ceased and the padrone touched five additional digits; the ringing continued until another voice spoke. "h.e.l.lo, Caribe, youre taking a chance with this transmission, I hope you know that."