The Scorpio Illusion Part 67

"Forgive me, but obviously you werent. Someone came in and killed Henry while he was on the phone with me."

"I didnt know it was you, but I discussed that with both the navy and the police; the regular kitchen phone was off the hook. But in one area youre right-obviously. We have the usual deliveries and repairmen; you cant stop them all, wed be stigmatized, and probably couldnt order a pizza. Hank generally called the patrols when we expected guests, but over the months he frequently forgot; it was so unnatural here, not like Amsterdam. He called it paranoid."

"In other words, a guy in overalls with a toolbox, or a man in a business suit carrying a briefcase, or a military in uniform might not be challenged," said Tyrell, not asking a question.

"Probably not," agreed the widow, "but to antic.i.p.ate you, both the navy and the police have this information, the patrol on duty at the time was interrogated at length. The two S.P.s said that except for a newspaper boy, no one came near the house."

"And they were parked outside the whole time?"

"Not actually, not like the security outside now, but Id have to say its not terribly relevant. As I mentioned, they cruised. Hank insisted on that for both practical purposes and neighborly relations."

"Cruised ...?"

"Around the block, a distance that takes less than a minute and ten seconds to drive."

"And Hanks 'practical purpose was just that," said Hawthorne, nodding. "A stationary patrol, marked or not, is a target."

"Unmarked," Phyllis interrupted. "And our neighbors would certainly not appreciate a series of unfamiliar cars parked in front of the house for long periods of time. Its not the turf for it, although it might spice up the street. If I werent so old, they might think I was running my own cat house."

"Youre not old, Phyll, youre a very beautiful woman."

"Ah, the charmer returns. I missed that when you left the emba.s.sy."

"So anybody who had access to the security routine here could be Henrys killer. A minute and ten seconds is an hour and ten minutes in tactical, nonchronological time."

"You mean someone in the navy?"

"Or high enough in the military to have access."

"Please be clearer," said Phyllis sternly.

"I cant, not now."

"He was my husband!"

"Then Ill tell you what your husband would have told you, and Ill be as honest as I can. There are things I cant log you into yet."

"Thats pure s.h.i.+t, Tyrell! I have a right to know! Twenty-seven years worth of privilege, sir!"

"Come on, Phyll." Hawthorne grabbed Phylliss hands, holding them in his grip. "Im doing exactly what Henry would do if he were me right now. Contrary to what I often told him, he was a terrific a.n.a.lyst-maybe not the best in the field, that wasnt his bag-but in the foreseeables department there werent many in his league. I respected him for that ... even more for having you as his wife."

"Oh, stop it, you snake-oil salesman," said Phyllis Stevens, smiling briefly, sadly, as she squeezed his hands and withdrew hers. "Get on with your questions."

"It really comes down to three. When and how often and to whom did he mention my name?"

"When you were shot at that beach resort in Maryland-he went out of his mind, thinking he was responsible again-"

"Again?"

"Later, I beg you, Tye," said the widow softly.

"Ingrid?"

"Its complicated. Later, please."

"All right." Hawthorne swallowed, his face flushed with the rush of blood to his head. "Go on."

"He said your name, maybe three or four times, demanding that you be given the finest treatment available, and that hed hang whoever gave you less."

"To whom, Phyll?"

"h.e.l.l, I dont know. Someone who was tight with whatever youre doing. Hank told him he wanted a full report circulated-no room for error."

"Which means the entire Little Girl Blood circle got it, including the heavyweight."

"What are you talking about?"

"Forget it-"

"I wish youd stop saying that. In Amsterdam, whenever people who cared about you and saw you come back with an arm in a sling or a swollen face and asked you what happened, all you ever said was 'forget it. "

"Im sorry, really I am." Tyrell frowned, slowly shaking his head.

"Is there anything else, old friend?" asked the widow.

"I cant think of anything. Ive got a pattern. As Henry always said, 'Theres got to be a pattern, thats what you look for, when I usually looked for the small pieces."

"But when you found them, thats when Hank put together the patterns. He never stopped giving you credit for that, if not to your face."

"Never to my face.... Okay, at least weve got another clamp in the trap for a pathological general, unless theres anything, anything, no matter how seemingly inconsequential that you havent told me, Phyll."

"I suppose there are the calls from London-"

"London?"

"They started about seven or eight oclock this morning, my sister took them, I refused."

"Why?"

"Because, old friend, Ive had it! Henry gave his life for this rotten, rotten business, and I dont want calls from London, or Paris, or stations in Istanbul, or Kurdistan, or Mediterranean fleet intelligence. For G.o.ds sake, the man is dead! Leave him-and me-in peace!"

"Phyll, those people dont know hes dead!"

"So what? I told my sister to tell them to call the Navy Department. Let those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds make up the lies, I cant do it any longer."

"Wheres the phone?"

"Henry never allowed one in the living room. Its on the sun porch-theyre on the sun porch-three of them in different colors."

Hawthorne got to his feet and raced through the open French doors to the gla.s.s-enclosed sun porch. On a table in the left corner were three phones: beige, red, and dark blue, all partially concealed by a louvered panel that had been spread halfway open. He picked up the red telephone, pressed the O b.u.t.ton, and spoke to an operator. "This is Commander Hawthorne, acting attache for Captain Henry Stevens. Connect me to the senior officer on the N.I. watch."

"Right away, sir."

"Captain Ogilvie, red line," said the voice at naval intelligence headquarters. "Your names Hawthorne? Im entering it."

"The same, Captain, and I have to ask you a question."

"On this line Ill answer whatever I can."

"Have there been any messages from London to Captain Stevenss office?"

"None that Im aware of, Commander."

"I dont want an 'aware of, Captain, I need-repeat need-a confirmation one way or another."

"Hold on." There was silence for roughly ten seconds, then Ogilvie returned. "Nothing from London, Commander. No messages at all."

"Thank you, Captain." Tyrell hung up the phone and walked back into the living room. "There was nothing from London for Henry at his office," said Hawthorne.

"Thats crazy," said Phyllis, her head snapped up at Tyrell. "They must have called a half-dozen times."

"I wonder if its back channel," said Hawthorne. "Do you know which phone the calls came in on?"

"No. I told you, my sister answered. All she said to me was that each time it sounded like the same very official, very agitated Englishman. And each time she told him to call the Department of the Navy."

"But he never did," said Hawthorne. "He kept calling here. Why?... What else did your sister say?"

"Not much, I wasnt really listening."

"Where is she?"

"Down at the supermarket, getting some things. Sh.e.l.l be back any minute; actually, when you arrived I thought it was she." There was a short burst of a horn from outside. "There she is. The chief will go and help with the packages."

The introductions were brief and rapid, the urgency apparent to the sister. The chief petty officer carried her grocery bags as she was escorted into the living room by Tyrell.

"Mrs. Talbot," he began.

"Joans fine; Phylls told me a lot about you. Good Lord, whats happened?"

"Thats what we have to find out from you.... The calls from London, who were they from?"

"They were simply dreadful, I never felt so uncomfortable in my life!" cried Joan Talbot, the words rus.h.i.+ng out. "That horrible man kept asking for Henry, saying it was urgent, and how could he reach him immediately. And I had to say we were trying to locate him, and had his office checked with the Navy Department, and he kept telling me the navy said he was unavailable-unavailable, my G.o.d, the mans dead and the navy wont admit it and I cant say it! Its all sickening."

"There are good reasons, Joan, very good reasons-"

"For putting my sister through this h.e.l.l? Why do you think she doesnt want to, and I wont let her, answer the phone? Either I do or the 'admiral in the hallway does. Let me tell you. All this time people have been calling for Henry, and she had to say, 'Oh, hes in the shower, or 'Oh, hes playing golf, or 'Oh, hes in a meeting somewhere... as if she expected him to walk through the door and ask whats for dinner! What kind of ghouls are you people?"

"Joannie, stop it," said Henry Stevenss wife. "Tye is simply doing his job, a distasteful job he has to do. Now, answer his question. Who were the calls from?"

"It was like mumbo-jumbo talk, made worse by that b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 'veddy Eenglish accent, d.a.m.n near sinister, in fact."

"Who was he, Joan?"

"He didnt give a name, just M something or other, and Special something."

"MI-6?" asked Hawthorne. "Special Branch?"

"Yes, that sounds right."

"Christ, why?" whispered Tyrell, as if to himself, his mouth stretched, his eyes wandering, seeing nothing but clouds of confusion. "Its got to be deep back channel."

"More mumbo jumbo?" said the sister from Connecticut.

"It may be," admitted Hawthorne. "Only you can tell me. Which phone did the calls come in on?"

"The blue one, always the blue one."

"Thats it, the 'blue boy. Direct, dedicated lines constantly swept for intercepts."

"Im beginning to understand," added Phyllis. "Whenever Hank wanted to talk to someone in his position in Europe or the Middle East, he always used that phone."

"Makes sense. Its a global network designed for the head honchos of allied intelligence and their counterparts in the military. You cant get any more internationally secure than with a blue boy, except you have to have a number to call, and I dont have one. Ill reach Palisser, h.e.l.l get it for me."

"You mean the number in London?" asked Joan Talbot. "If you do, its on a pad next to the phone."

"He gave it to you?"

"Only after he repeated twice that it would be ... 'altered in the morning, madam, each word p.r.o.nounced as though he were giving a satanic benediction."

"It may not have to be." Hawthorne walked rapidly back into the sun porch, found the pad, and started dialing the fourteen numbers for London. As he did so, he felt a sharp pain in his chest, sharp but hollow, a warning he had experienced too often to count, a warning that had nothing to do with his physical health, instead a state of mind born of instinct. In questioning Phyllis he had hoped to find a gap, a word, a sc.r.a.p that led to a linkage between himself and the killing of Henry Stevens. He knew he had found it with Henrys having demanded a full circulated report on his condition after Chesapeake Beach, a report demanded as a threat to ensure his proper care, but one that inevitably reached every member of the Little Girl Blood circle, including a Scorpio named Meyers, Maximum Mike Meyers, scourge of civilian thought, who could easily access the routine of a military patrol car guarding Stevenss house. That information was the linkage he had been looking for, but the deep back-channel calls from MI-6, London, outflanking naval intelligence to Stevenss home blue line, was a totally unexpected occurrence, a tactic that engendered panic, thus accounting for the sharp pain in Tyrells chest. Axiom: Beware the outrageously unexpected when it comes from user-friendly territory. Something was off-the-charts, as Poole might say.

"Yes?" fairly shouted the voice from London.

"This is Stevens," lied Hawthorne, hoping the rapidly spoken words would be accepted in the event the man from London knew Henry Stevens.

"For G.o.ds sake, Captain, what are you people doing over there? I cant get through to your DO, and Ive been trying to reach you for d.a.m.n near ten hours!"

"Its been a difficult day-"

"I should hope to kiss a pig, it has! Since weve never met, my name is Howell, John Howell-theres a Sir in front of it in case youre checking a computer, but its very droppable, I a.s.sure you."

"MI-6, Special Branch?"

"Well, Im hardly the queens equerry, old man. I a.s.sume youre taking all maximum precautions, G.o.d knows we are, and so is Paris. We havent heard from Jerusalem, but those chaps are usually way ahead of us. Theyve probably got their blighter in a tunnel beneath Mount Sinai."

"So were in sync, John, and since Ive been confined to a crisis meeting most of the day and may be out of the loop, bring me up to speed, will you?"

"Youve got to be joking!" yelled Howell. "You are the running control of Commander Hawthorne over there, arent you?"