"What? And louse him up?"

"Just do it, Major. Please, remember, Im in control of this aircraft except for airborne contingencies."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"Just do it. Now."

Neilsen got on the Patrick frequency and, with deeply felt reluctance, spoke. "My subflight officer would like to speak with Captain Mancini. Is he there?"

"Hi, Major," said the female voice over the loudspeaker. "Im sorry, Sal left for home about ten minutes ago, but since were not logged or anything, I gotta tell you, Cathy, he really appreciates what you did."

"This is Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne, naval intelligence," Tyrell broke in, the microphone at his lips. "Did Captain Mancini overhear our communications?"

"Sure, hes select-whos the navy spook, Cathy?"

"Just answer his questions, Alice," said Neilsen, staring at Tyrell.

"When did Captain Mancini arrive at your commcenter?"

"Oh, I dont know, about three or four hours ago, roughly two hours after the AWAC II was airborne."

"Wasnt his appearance awkward for him? He was scheduled to be on board, but he wasnt."

"Hey, Commander, were all human, not robots. They couldnt reach him in time, and we all know that plane is covered pilot-wise."

"I still want to know why he was in your select comm-center under these circ.u.mstances. It seems to me hed be better off to remain unreachable."

"How do I know ... sir? Captain Sals a very concerned person. I guess he felt guilty, or something. He took notes on everything you guys said."

"Put out an order for his arrest," said Hawthorne.

"What?"

"You heard me. Immediate arrest and total isolation until you hear from a man named Stevens at naval intelligence. h.e.l.l instruct you what to do."

"I dont believe this!"

"Believe it, or youre not only out of a job, Alice, you may be in a penitentiary." Hawthorne replaced the microphone.

"What the h.e.l.l have you done?" cried Catherine Neilsen.

"You know exactly what I did. A man on constant security alert, reachable by whatever number he gives to his base, including a government-provided vehicle telephone, doesnt get any message but suddenly turns up at his bases comm-center?... How did he know to be there? He supposedly hadnt received any call, and even if he did, its the last place hed want to be seen."

"I dont want to believe what youre thinking."

"Then give me a logical answer."

"I cant."

"Then let me give you one, and let me quote verbatim from a man youve talked to whos on top of this operation.... Theyre everywhere, they know everything we do. Does that make a little bit of sense to you?"

"Sal wouldnt do that!"

"He left ten minutes ago for his home. Call back your base and tell them to patch you through to his car."

The pilot did as she was ordered, switching the radio connection to the flight desks loudspeakers. They heard the steady ringing on Captain Mancinis car telephone. There was no answer. "Oh, G.o.d!"

"How far is his house from Patrick?"

"About forty minutes," said Neilsen softly. "He has to live away from the base. I told you, he has serious problems with his wife."

"Have you ever been there? To his house?"

"No."

"Have you ever met his wife?"

"No. All of us know when to b.u.t.t out."

"Then how do you know hes even married?"

"Its on his record! Also, were very close here; he talks."

"Thats a joke, lady. How often do you cross the Caribbean?"

"Two or three times a week. Its routine."

"Who coordinates your routings?"

"My flight officer, naturally.... Sal."

"My order to Patrick stands. Take us into St. Martin, Major."

Captain Salvatore Mancini, out of uniform and dressed in casual clothes, a white guayabera, dark trousers, and leather sandals, walked into Wellingtons on Miami Beachs Collins Avenue. He approached the crowded, raucous bar and exchanged glances with the bartender, who proceeded to nod his head twice, so subtly that none of the customers noticed.

The captain continued toward a wide corridor that held the rest rooms with a pay telephone at the far end. He inserted a coin and dialed collect to a number in Washington, D.C., giving his name as "Wellington" to the operator.

"Scorpio Nine," said Mancini into the phone when the line was picked up. "You have a message?"

"Youre finished, get out of there," replied the voice on the other end.

"Youve got to be kidding!"

"Your a.s.sociates are sorrier than you are, believe me," said the voice. "Youre to hire a rental car under your third drivers license and go to the West Palm airport, where theres a reservation for you under that name to the Bahamas on Sunburst Jetlines. Its the four P.M. flight to Freeport. Youll be met there and flown to wherever they say."

"Who the h.e.l.ls going to be the watchman for the old mans island? Who keeps us away from there?"

"Not you. I myself picked up the order on our secure line from Patrick, Scorpio Nine. The order has gone out for your arrest. They found you."

"Who ... who?"

"A man named Hawthorne. He was part of this outfit five years ago."

"Hes a dead man!"

"Youre not alone in that projection."

7.

Nicolo Montavi of Portici leaned against the wall by a window overlooking the hotels courtyard cafe on the island of St. Barts. Muted voices floated up, mingled with the soft sounds of clinking gla.s.ses and quiet laughter. It was late afternoon, the natives and the tourists about to enter the evening hours where pleasures could be had and profits made. It was not so different from the sh.o.r.eline cafes in Naples, not so grand perhaps, but grander than those in Portici.... Portici? Would he ever see his home again?

Certainly not in any normal way, he understood that. He had been condemned by the waterfront, un traditore ai compagni, a traitor to all the work crews on the piers. He would be dead now were it not for the strange, rich signora who had saved him from being thrown off a dock with a rope around his neck. And the weeks when she hid him, running from town to town, city to city, constantly aware that he was being pursued, afraid to go outside, even at night, especially at night, when the hunters roamed the streets-crate hooks, knives, and guns their weapons of vengeance. Vengeance for a crime he did not commit!

"Even I cannot save you," his older brother had said during one of their furtive telephone calls. "If I see you, Ill have to kill you myself, or Ill be killed, along with our mother and our sisters. Our house is always watched, men waiting for you to return. If our father-may he sleep with Christ-had not been so strong and well liked, we might all be dead by now."

"But I didnt kill the capogruppo!"

"Then who did, my foolish brother? You were the last to see him; you threatened to tear his heart out."

"It was only an expression. He stole from me!"

"He stole from everyone, mainly from the holds of the cargo ships, and his death cost all of us millions of lire, for he needed our cooperation, our silence."

"What am I to do?"

"Your signora spoke with Mama. She told her you would be safer out of the country, that she would look after you like a son."

"Not like any son we know-"

"Go with her! In two or three years maybe things will change, who knows?"

Nothing would change, thought Nicolo, turning partially away from the window, his head angled down as if he were still observing the scene below. From the corner of his eye he saw his bella signora sitting across the large room in front of a dressing table. Her hands and fingers were moving quickly, doing odd things with her hair. He watched her, even more bewildered as she wrapped a wide, stuffed corset around her waist, pulled an outsized undergarment down over it, and stood up, studying herself in the mirror. So absorbed was she that she was oblivious of him, not realizing that he was staring at her. She turned in circles, her eyes constantly angled toward her image in the gla.s.s. Suddenly, Nicolo was astonished; she was a different woman. Her long, dark hair was no longer attractive; it was knotted at the nape of her neck, straight back and stern. And her face, it was almost pale, or gray, but nothing like it had been-it was actually ugly, with dark shadows under her eyes, the flesh somehow lined and weary, an aging mask of her former self.... Her body was disgusting, a plump pig with no b.r.e.a.s.t.s or any indication of the exciting woman it had replaced.

Instinctively, Nicolo turned back to the window, somehow-he did not know how-realizing that he should not have seen what he saw. Confirmation of his judgment came moments later. Signora Cabrini moved quickly, noisily, across the room and announced: "My darling, Im going to take a shower if this G.o.dforsaken place can send the water up three flights."

"Certainly, Cabi," said Nicolo, his eyes on the courtyard cafe below.

"And when Im finished, we must have a long talk, for youre about to experience the adventure of your life."

"Certo, signora."

"Thats one of the things were going to talk about, my beautiful boy. From now on, you speak only Italian."

"My father would rise out of his grave, Cabi. He taught all of his children to speak English. He said it was the way to progress oneself. He would whip us at the supper table if we spoke Italian."

"Your father was a relic of the war, Nico, when he sold vino and women to the American soldiers. These are entirely different circ.u.mstances. Ill be out in a few minutes."

"When youre finished, may we go down to the restaurant? Im very hungry."

"Youre always hungry, Nico, but Im afraid we cant. We have a lot to discuss. However, Ive made arrangements with the hotel. Youll have everything you choose from the menu downstairs. You like room service, dont you, my darling?"

"Certo," repeated Nicolo, now turning around as Bajaratt abruptly did the same; she had not wanted him to see her performing in front of the faraway mirror.

"Va bene," said the Baj, heading into the bathroom. "Solo italiano. Grazie!"

She treated him like a fool! thought Nicolo angrily. This wealthy b.i.t.c.h who claimed to find so many delights with his body-as he did with hers, he had to admit-had not treated him so well, so generously, and for so long without a purpose. It had to be, for a handsome dock boy could make thousands of lire bedding an amorous tourist, first carrying her luggage for a tip that was nothing compared to what she paid him later. Benissimo! But this was not the way of Signora Cabrini; she had done too much, constantly talking to him about his honest desires to get an education and leave the piers of Portici, going so far as to deposit funds for him in the Banco di Napoli so he could later better his life-if he accompanied her on a trip. What choice did he have? Left to be hunted by the killers from the waterfront? She kept telling him how perfect he was ... for what?

They had gone to the police in Rome, special police, men who saw them only at night and in darkened rooms, where he had been fingerprinted for doc.u.ments he signed, but which she kept. Then there were two emba.s.sies, again at night, only one or two officials present, and more doc.u.ments, more papers, and photographs. For what?... She was about to tell him, he knew it, he felt it. "... Youre about to experience the adventure of your life." What else could it be? And whatever it was, again he had no choice but to accept. For now. There was a saying on the docks that never left him, as eager as he was to leave the docks. "Kiss the boot of the tourist until you can steal it." For a woman who killed as casually as he had seen her kill, he would do no less. She called him her toy, and he would be her toy. Until he could steal, perhaps.

Nicolo took another look at the bustling courtyard below, feeling as he had felt during their last weeks in Italy-a prisoner. Throughout those suffocating days he could not leave the confines of wherever they were, whether it was a hotel room, or on board a boat owned by an acquaintance of Cabrinis, or even in a motor home that the signora would rent so they could move swiftly from place to place. It was all necessary, she had explained, because they had to be in the Neapolitan area, for one day a freighter would sail into port and she had to be there at the first dawn to receive a package sent to her. And, indeed, on a Tuesday evening, while poring over the shipping news in the areas papers, the freighter in question was listed as arriving shortly past midnight. Long before the sun came up, the signora was gone from their hotel room; when she returned later that morning, without a package, she had announced: "We fly to Ma.r.s.eilles this afternoon, my beautiful young lover. Our journey begins."

"To where, Cabi?" She had suggested the shortened name in respect to Nicolos deep religious feelings, although, in truth, Cabrini was simply the name of a wealthy estate outside Portofino.

"Trust me, Nico," she had replied. "Think of the funds Ive deposited for your future, and trust me."

"You carry no package."

"Ah, but I do." The signora had opened her large purse and removed a thick white envelope. "This is our itinerary-our transportation is confirmed, my darling."

"That had to come to you on a ship?"

"Oh, yes, Nico, some things must be delivered by hand.... Now, no more questions, we must pack-as little as possible, only what we can carry."

The dock boy moved away from the window, thinking that the conversation he recalled had occurred less than a week ago, and what a week it had been! From near death in storms at sea to real death on a strange, unbelievable island owned by the strangest old man he had ever encountered. Even this morning, when the seaplane was late due to bad weather, it angered the ancient, sick padrone, who kept screaming that they had to leave. And here, on this other, civilized island, where Cabi went from shop to shop, buying so many articles they filled two bags, along with a cheap suit for him that did not fit.

"Later, well throw it away," she had said.

Nicolo walked aimlessly over to the signoras dressing table, bewildered by the a.s.sortment of creams and powders and small bottles that reminded him of his three sisters in Portici. They were the trucco their papa yelled about so often, even when he was dying and the girls were paraded in to say good-bye to him on his deathbed.

"What are you doing, Nico?" Bajaratt walked out of the bathroom, draped in towels, her sudden appearance startling the dock boy.

"Nothing, Cabi, just thinking of my sisters-all these things on your table."

"Surely you know that women are vain."

"You dont need any of those-"

"Youre a love," interrupted the Baj, waving him aside and sitting down. "Theres a bottle of pa.s.sable wine in one of the bags on the table in front of the couch. Open it and pour us some, less for you, for you have a long night of study before you."

"Oh?"