"No!" shouted Hawthorne. "The signal was wrong!"

"Oh, its never wrong," said the gardener dreamily. "Never, never wrong." He pulled the lever. Within seconds the vicious howling, screaming sounds of attack dogs were heard racing past the cabin to the main house. "There they go," said the half-witted man, smiling. "Theyre my good boys."

"How did you get that signal?" demanded Tyrell. "How?"

"Its on the padrones chair. We practice a lot, but, you see, the padrone will now and then set it off when he has wine and his hand touches the b.u.t.ton. I heard it a few minutes ago, but it stopped very quickly, so I believed the great padrone made a mistake and his guard corrected it. But not now, not a second time. He means it, and I must go and be with my friends. Its very important."

"One of his oars is out of the water," said Poole.

"Maybe both, Lieutenant, but we have to get back there.... Flares."

"What?"

"Next to scent, dogs will go after light-explosions of light. Take out a couple of flares, stick one of them under your wet suit, and rub it back and forth through your armpit. Rub it thoroughly, and trust that your not having a bath in two or three days will do it!"

"This is most embarra.s.sin," said Poole, following orders.

"Do it!"

"Im doing it!"

"Light the other one and throw it out the door to the left as far as you can. Then the second unlit one."

"Here they go." Within seconds the dogs raced by the cabin after the arcing flare in search of the sudden light. The barking was maniacal as the dogs huddled around the sizzling tube, picking up the human scent from the unlit one and snapping at one another in frustration.

"Listen to me, sir," said Hawthorne, turning to the mentally enfeebled guardian of the dogs. "This is all a game-the padrone likes games, doesnt he?"

"Oh, yes, yes, he does! Sometimes he plays all night in his parlor."

"Well, this is just another game, and were all having fun. You can go back to your television."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you very much." The man sat down, laughing at the cartoons on the screen.

"Thanks, Tye. I dont relish choppin old guys like that-"

With an impatient shake of his head Tyrell signaled the lieutenant to follow him as he raced back to the mansion, shutting the doors and confronting the withered old man in the wheelchair beside his unconscious guard. "All right, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" shouted Tyrell. "I want to know what you know."

"I know nothing," rasped the elderly Italian. The malevolent grin returned. "You kill me, you have nothing."

"That could be a wrong a.s.sessment, padrone-it is padrone, isnt it? Thats what the poor half-wit in the cabin called you. What did you do, have a lobotomy done on him?"

"G.o.d made him the perfect servant, not I."

"I have an idea that in your vocabulary, you and G.o.d are pretty closely related."

"Blasphemy, Commander-"

"Commander?"

"Its what your colleague and the woman over the radio called you, is it not?"

Hawthorne stared at the satanic cripple; why did he think he should know him? "Lieutenant, check out the room with all that electronic equipment you know so much about. Its over there by-"

"I know exactly where it is," interrupted Poole. "I cant wait to program a few memory banks. That stuff is top of the charts!" The air force officer moved rapidly toward the padrones study.

"Perhaps I should tell you," said Hawthorne, standing in front of the old man. "My colleague is our governments secret weapon. There isnt a computer made he cant break into. Hes the one who found you, found this place. From a beam in the Mediterranean bounced off a j.a.panese satellite."

"h.e.l.l find nothing-nothing!"

"Then why do I detect a pinch of doubt in your voice?... Oh, I think I know. Youre not sure, and that scares the h.e.l.l out of you."

"This is a meaningless conversation."

"Not really," said Tyrell, taking out his gun from the Velcroed holster. "I just want you to know where you stand. What Im going to say now is very meaningful. How do we get the dogs back into the kennels?"

"I have no idea-" Hawthorne squeezed the trigger of his weapon, the spit electric, the bullet grazing the padrones right earlobe, the blood coursing down his neck. "You kill me, you have nothing!" shouted the old man.

"But if I dont kill you, I still have nothing, isnt that right?" Tyrell fired again, this time creasing the padrones left cheek. The blood splashed over his face and across his throat. "Youve got one more chance," Hawthorne said. "I had a lot of practice in Europe.... Dogs that can be released on command from a kennel can be returned to a kennel by a second command. Do it, or my next bullet goes right into your left eye. Il sinistro, isnt that the term?"

Without speaking, the invalid awkwardly, strenuously, moved his strapped right arm, manipulating his trembling fingers over the side of the wheelchair, where there was a panel of five b.u.t.tons in a semicircle. He pressed the fifth. Instantly, there was an animal chorus of wild howls and harsh barking, the sounds receding until there was silence. "Theyre back in the kennels," said the padrone, his eyes hard, contempt in his voice. "The gate closes automatically."

"What are the other b.u.t.tons for?"

"Theyre of no concern to you now. The first three are for my personal maid and my two attendants; the maid is no longer with us, and you killed my head attendant. The last two are for the dogs."

"Youre lying. One of those signals reached that quasi-vegetable in the cabin. He released the dogs."

"He receives the signal wherever he is, and if there are guests or new personnel on the island, he must be with the dogs, for he can control them. Frequently, men with lesser intellect speak to the animals far better than we of higher intelligence. I believe its a matter of more mutual trust."

"Were not guests here, so whos new?"

"My two attendants, including the one you murdered. Theyve been here less than a week, and the dogs are not yet accustomed to them."

Hawthorne leaned over and unstrapped the old mans arms, then crossed to a low marble table where there was a gold receptacle for facial tissues. He picked it up and carried it back to the padrone. "Dry your cuts."

"Does the sight of the blood you drew disturb you?"

"Not one bit. When I think what youre into-when I think of Miami and Saba and St. Martin and that psychopathic b.i.t.c.h-the sight of your corpse would be a distinct pleasure."

"You do not know that I am involved in anything but prolonging the life of this wretched body," said the old Italian as he blotted his right ear, then held a wad of tissue against his left cheek. "I am an invalid living out my final years in the isolated luxury I so richly deserve. I have done nothing remotely illegal, I have merely entertained a few cherished friends who reach me by satellite telephone or fly in to visit me."

"Lets start with your name."

"I have no name, I am only the padrone."

"Yes, I heard that in the cabin-and once before on Saba, where two mafiosi bribed the crews on the waterfront and tried to kill me."

"Mafiosi? What do I know of such things as the Mafia?"

"One of those two hit men, the one who survived, had a lot to say when he was faced with the prospect of swimming among sharks with a bleeding shoulder. I have an idea that when we circulate your fingerprints, including a set to Interpol, well learn who you are, and I doubt that itll be a sweet old grandfather who likes to play slot machines."

"Really?" The padrone put down the tissues, smiling his ugly, arrogant smile at Hawthorne as he turned over both hands, exposing the palms. Tyrell was both repelled and stunned. The ends of each finger were pure white; the flesh had long ago been burnt off, replaced by a smooth, flat subst.i.tute, the fused shavings of human or animal skin perhaps. "My hands were scorched by a burning German tank in the Second World War. Ive always been grateful to the American army doctors who took pity on a young partisan who fought with their troops."

"Oh, thats beautiful," said Tye. "I suppose you were also decorated."

"Unfortunately, none of us could permit that. The more fanatical of the fascisti were known to take reprisals. All our records were destroyed to protect us and our families. You should have done the same in Vietnam."

"Really beautiful."

"So you see ... nothing."

Neither Hawthorne nor the old man was aware of Pooles lean, black-suited figure standing in the archway. He had approached quietly and was watching, listening. "Youre almost right," said the lieutenant. "There was almost nothin, but not all the way to zero. Your systems terrific, Ill say that, but any systems only as good as the person using it."

"What are you saying?" asked Tyrell.

"This equipment can do everything but make moonshine, and its been used by someone who knows how to erase the memories on the first and second recalls and did just that. Theres zilch on every disk except for three printouts near the end of the last one. Whoever used it then must have been someone else, because the delete-memory wasnt touched."

"Would you mind speaking English, not computerese?"

"I pulled up three telephone numbers, area codes and all, then checked the destinations. One was to Switzerland, and Ill bet my hush puppies its to a bank; the second was to Paris; and the third to Palm Beach, Florida."

11.

The white limousine drew up to the canopied entrance of The Breakers hotel in Palm Beach and was immediately surrounded by the gold-braided doorman, the a.s.sistant doorman, and three red-uniformed bellhops. It was a scene reminiscent of a modernized Belle epoque, masters and servants knowing their places, content with their privileges and enthusiastic in their servitudes. The first to emerge was a full-figured, middle-aged grande dame dressed in the finery of the Via Condotti, Romes avenue of high fashion. Her wide-brimmed hat above the flowered silk dress cast shadows across a tanned face that bespoke generations of aristocracy. The features were sharp and harmonious, the skin smooth, what lines there were more imagined than seen. Amaya Bajaratt was no longer a wild, unkempt terrorist on a raft or a boat at sea, or a uniformed fighter from the Baaka Valley, or a frumpish ex-pilot for the Israeli Air Force. She was now the Countess Cabrini, reputed to be one of the wealthiest women in Europe, with an industrialist brother in Ravello who was even richer. She threw her head back gracefully and smiled as the tall, extremely handsome young man stepped out of the limousine, resplendent in a crested navy blue blazer, gray flannels, and patent leather Imperiale loafers.

The morning-coated manager of the elegant hotel rushed out with two a.s.sistants, one of them obviously an Italian, more obviously a translator. Greetings were exchanged in both languages until the guardian aunt of the barone-cadetto held up her hand and announced: "The young barone has many things to do in this great country of yours, and he would prefer that you address him in English so he might absorb the language. He will not at first understand much of what you say, but he insists-and, naturally, Im at his side to translate for him."

"Madame," said the manager quietly, standing beside Bajaratt as the considerable luggage was gathered by the bellhops. "Theres no reason for you to put up with the inconvenience should you not care to, but there are reporters from several local newspapers as well as their photographers in one of our larger conference rooms. Theyd like to meet the young baron, naturally. How they were alerted to his presence, I have no idea, but I can a.s.sure you it was not through this hotel. Our reputation for confidentiality is unparalleled."

"Oh, someone was naughty!" exclaimed the contessa Cabrini, breaking into a resigned smile. "Dont worry, Signor Amministratore, it happens whenever he goes to Rome or London. Not Paris, however, for France abounds with false n.o.bility, and the socialist press no longer cares."

"You may avoid these, of course. Its why I had our security place them in the conference room."

"No, thats all right. Ill speak to the barone-cadetto; well give the journalists a few minutes. After all, hes here to make friends, not antagonize your newspapers."

"Ill go ahead then and tell them, and also make it clear it cant be a long session. Jet lags a universal fatigue."

"No, signore, I shouldnt say that. He arrived yesterday and actually bought clothes not five minutes away from here. We wouldnt care to give false information so easily contradicted."

"But the reservation was for today, madame."

"Come now, we were both his age once, werent we, signore?"

"I never looked like he does, I can a.s.sure you of that."

"Very few young men do, but neither his looks nor his t.i.tle alter his perfectly normal youthful appet.i.tes, do you see what I mean?"

"Its not difficult, madame. A close personal friend for the evening."

"Even I do not know her name."

"I understand. My a.s.sistant will see you inside and Ill take care of everything."

"You are a wonderful man, Signor Amministratore."

"Grazie, Countess."

The manager nodded and walked up the carpeted steps as Bajaratt turned and approached Nicolo, who was talking to the a.s.sistant manager and the interpreter. "What are you three conspiring about, Dante?" asked the contessa in Italian.

"Ma niente," replied Nicolo, smiling at the interpreter. "My new friend and I were discussing the beautiful surroundings and the fine weather," he continued in Italian. "I told him my studies and my fathers business have taken up all my time, so I have not learned to play the golf."

"Va bene."

"He says he will find me an instructor."

"You have too much work to do for such things," said the Baj, taking Nicolo by the arm and leading him to the carpeted steps as the young man nodded pleasantly to the two men behind him. "Nico, do not be so familiar," whispered Amaya. "Its not becoming for a man of your station. Be cordial, but keep in mind that he is beneath you."

"Beneath me?" asked the a.s.sumed barone-cadetto as the doors of the lobby were held open for them. "Sometimes you talk in circles, signora. You want me to be somebody else, which I have learned by memory, yet you also want me to be myself."

"Thats exactly what I want," said Bajaratt in a harsh whisper, still in Italian. "The one thing I do not want is for you to think for yourself. I think for you, is that understood?"

"Of course, Cabi. Im sorry."

"Thats better. Well have a grand time tonight, Nico, for my body aches for you, youre so beautiful, as I knew you would be!" As the dock boy started to put his arm affectionately around her shoulder, she suddenly moved away. "Stop. The a.s.sistant manager is rushing up to take us to the reporters and the photographers."

"The what?"

"I told you last night. You are going to meet the press. Its nothing grand, merely the society pages."

"Oh, yes, and I understand very little English. I turn to you with the questions, is that right?"

"All the questions."

"This way, please," said the managers first a.s.sistant, "its just a short walk to the Regal Room."

The press conference lasted exactly twenty-three minutes. The small crowd of journalists and photographers had their ingrained hostility toward enormously wealthy European n.o.bility rapidly diffused by the tall, shy, ingratiating barone-cadetto. The questions came with staccato regularity, initially negative, and repelled by the Contessa Cabrini, an aunt of the barone-cadetto di Ravello, who, as was agreed to in the ground rules, would be referred to only as the "interpreter." Then an Italian-speaking reporter from The Miami Herald asked in the young barons language: "Why do you think youre accorded all this attention? Do you think you deserve it? What have you really done outside of being born?"

"I really dont believe I deserve anything until I can prove what I can do, which will take a long time.... On the other hand, signore, would you care to accompany me on a dive into the Mediterranean waters to the depth of a hundred or so meters on behalf of oceanographic science? Or perhaps you might join me on the search-and-rescue teams in the Maritime Alps, where we have scaled down the rocks several thousand feet to bring the presumed dead back to life.... My life, signore, may be one of privilege, but it has not been without its modest contributions."

The Contessa Cabrini instantly translated for the audience of journalists as flashbulbs snapped, streaks of light illuminating the handsome face of the unpretentious young baron as his "interpreter" stepped away, out of the photographs.