"Miami doesnt count, and you know it, but except for that wedding-which I dont much remember-Ive never seen you in a dress, surely not one like that. What do you say, Tye? Does she pa.s.s muster-plus, or what?"

"You look lovely, Catherine," Hawthorne said simply.

"Thank you, Tyrell. Im not used to all this flattery. I think Im blushing, would you believe that?"

"I would like to," replied Tye softly, suddenly seeing on his inner screen the face of the sleeping Cathy next to him-or was it Dominique?-but no matter, both images touched him ... the last with a stabbing pang of loss. Why had she left him again? "We should hear soon from Cooke and Ardisonne in Puerto Rico," said Hawthorne abruptly, breaking the interlude of admiration and turning to a window. "I want this Grimshaw, I want to break him myself and make him tell me how they found Marty and Mickey."

"And Charlie," added Poole. "Dont forget Charlie-"

"Who the h.e.l.l are these people who can do what they do?" cried Tyrell, hammering his fist on the nearest piece of furniture.

"You said they came from the Middle East," offered Cathy.

"Thats true, but its too broad. You dont know the Baaka Valley. I do. There are a dozen factions fighting one another for supremacy, each claiming to be the terrible sword of Allah. This group is different; they may be fanatics, but they go way beyond Allah or Jesus or Mohammed or Moses. Their sources are too diverse, the infrastructure too widespread-good Lord, leaks in Washington and Paris that we know about, Mafia connections, an island fortress, j.a.panese satellites, Swiss accounts, drops in Miami and Palm Beach, and who knows what else! Those contacts arent the result of fanatical appeals to the believers of selected G.o.ds and prophets. No, they may be zealots, but theyre also mercenaries, capitalists of terrorism engaged in a worldwide business."

"They must have one h.e.l.l of a big client list," said Poole. "Where do they get them?"

"Its a two-way street, Jackson. They sell and they buy."

"Buy what?"

"For lack of a better word, destabilization. The means to it and the execution of it."

"I guess the next question is why," said Neilsen, frowning. "I can understand the fanaticism, but why would people not even remotely interested in their causes-the Mafia, for example-cooperate, much less pay for it?"

"Because such people are interested and it hasnt a d.a.m.n thing to do with religious or philosophical convictions. It has to do with power. And money. Wherever theres destabilization, theres a power vacuum, and millions, h.e.l.l, billions, can be made. In the panic, governments can be infiltrated, men put where others want them to be for future use, whole countries brought under the control of vested interests who arent discovered until theyve milked their territories dry, by which time they disappear, or their political asylums are guaranteed."

"Things can really happen that way?"

"Lady, Ive seen it. From Greece to Uganda, Haiti to Argentina, Chile to Panama, and most of the former Eastern bloc-their ruling bureaucrats were as Communist as the Rockefellers."

"Well, Ill be dipped in mules.h.i.t!" exclaimed Lieutenant Poole. "I just never thought in those terms. Im ashamed of myself, cause I see what you mean."

"Dont whip yourself. It was my business, Jackson. Projection is the bottom line where intelligence is concerned."

"What do we do now, Tye?" said Cathy.

"We wait to hear from Cooke and Ardisonne. If its what I think, well fly to Puerto Rico under military security."

There was a knock on the villas door, an unnecessary knock, as the voice that followed belonged to the chickee bartender. "Its me. Ive gotta talk to you, Tye-Boy."

"For G.o.ds sake, Roge, the doors not locked!"

"Maybe I don want to come in," said Roger, slouching inside and closing the door, a newspaper in his hand. He crossed to Hawthorne and held out the paper for him. "Its the early edition of The San Juan Star; it was flown in a half hour ago and the front desk is cacklin like chickens. The small story, mon, is on page three, I folded it for you."

Two Dead Men Washed Up on Morro Castle Rocks SAN JUAN, Sat.u.r.day-The bodies of two middle-aged men were discovered early this morning pinned between the rocks on this area of the coast, west of the water shacks. The two were identified by means of their pa.s.sports as Geoffrey Alan Cooke, a British citizen, and Jacques Rene Ardisonne of France. The cause of death was established as drowning prior to being smashed into the rocks. The authorities will be making further inquiries in the U.K. and France.

Tyrell Hawthorne threw the newspaper on the floor, spun around, and raced to the window, smashing his fist through the gla.s.s, leaving his hand covered with blood.

The Manhattan penthouse, high above Fifth Avenue, overlooked the lights of Central Park and was properly aglow with subdued crystal chandeliers and gla.s.s-enclosed floral candles on damask-draped tables. Among the guests were the movers and shakers of the city: politicians, real estate tyc.o.o.ns, bankers and prominent newspaper columnists, plus several instantly recognizable stars of films and television, as well as a smattering of established authors, all of whom had been published in Italy. They had been summoned by their host, a flamboyant entrepreneur whose questionable manipulations in the bond market had gone unnoticed while a great many of his a.s.sociates had gone to jail. His Agincourt, however, was on the horizon, his outstanding debts soon to be called in, and his favors to the movers and the shakers reluctantly acknowledged, so all were there. The object of their attention was a young man whose recommendations to his immensely wealthy father, the baron of Ravello, could considerably lessen the hosts difficulties.

The evening progressed with oily smoothness, the barone-cadetto and his aunt, the contessa, receiving the guests as though they were a czars favored son and sister in old St. Petersburg. To the Bajs annoyance, one of the young television actresses spoke Italian and engaged "Dante Paolo" in prolonged conversation once the introductions were over and everyone mingled with c.o.c.ktails. It was hardly jealousy that disturbed Bajaratt, it was the specter of danger. A sophisticated, multilingual young woman might easily spot flaws in Nicolos "n.o.ble" upbringing. The danger, however, blew away like an overinflated sausage casing when Nico turned to the Baj, the dark-haired actress at his side.

"Cara Zia, my new friend speaks a fine Italian," he cried in that language.

"I gathered that," said Bajaratt, also in Italian and without much enthusiasm. "Were you educated in Rome, my child, or perhaps Switzerland?"

"Gosh, no, Countess. After high school, the only teachers I had were some method weirdos in acting cla.s.s until I got the TV series."

"Youve seen her, my dear aunt, Ive seen her! In our country its called Vendetta delle Selle, everybody watches it! She plays the sweet girl who cares for her younger brother and sister after the bandits killed their parents."

"The translations not too hot, Dante. Revenge of the Saddles doesnt really say it. But look, who cares? They watch."

"Then your fluency in our language ...?"

"My father owns an Italian deli in Brooklyn. Where they live, not too many people over forty speak English."

"Her father hangs whole provolones and cheeses from Portofino and the best prichute from the south. Oh, I would love to go to this Brooklyn!"

"Im afraid theres no time, Dante. Im flying back to the coast tomorrow morning," the actress said.

"My dear child," the Baj said quickly in Italian, her coolness receding rapidly as she smiled at the actress, a new warmth in the tone of her voice, an idea forming. "Is it so necessary that you return to ... to-"

"The coast, we call it," completed the young woman. "Thats California. I have to be back on the set in four days, and I need at least a couple to run on the beach and work off my familys cooking. The Saddles big sister has to look the part."

"If you stayed just one more day, it would still leave you two for your beach, not so?"

"Sure, but why?"

"My nephew is very taken with you-"

"Wait a minute, lady!" the actress burst out in English, obviously offended.

"No, please," broke in Bajaratt, also in English. "You misunderstand me. Rispetto, rispetto totale. Always in public and I would be with you-a proper chaperone. Its just that all these business conferences with people so much older, I thought perhaps a day off, sightseeing with someone nearer his own age who speaks his language, would be a welcome relief. He must get tired of his old aunt."

"If youre 'old, Countess," said the young woman, relieved and reverting to Italian, "then Im still in the first grade."

"Then youll stay?"

"Oh, well ... why not?" the young actress said, gazing at Nicolos handsome face and breaking into a smile.

"Since we should start early in the morning," said Bajaratt, "may we get you a room at our hotel after dinner?"

"You dont know Papa. When Im in New York I sleep at home, Countess. My uncle Ruggio owns his own taxicab and hes waiting for me."

"We can see you home to this Brooklyn," insisted Nicolo excitedly. "We have a limousine!"

"Then I can show you Papas store! The cheese, the salamis, the prosciutto."

"Please, car a Zia?"

"Uncle Ruggio can follow us, that way Papa cant get angry."

"Your father protects you, doesnt he?" said Bajaratt.

"Tell me about it! Since Ive been in L.A., one unmarried female relative after another shares my apartment. One leaves and twenty minutes later another shows up!"

"A good Italian father who instructs his family in the proper traditions."

"Angelo Capelli, father of Angel Capell-thats what my agent shortened it to; he thought Angelina Capelli belonged in a New Jersey diner. Hes the toughest papa in Brooklyn. But if I tell him that Im bringing home a real baron to meet Mama and him ..."

"Zia Cabrini," said Nicolo, in his words an edge of authority. "Weve met everybody, cant we leave? I can smell the cheeses, taste the prichute!"

"Ill see what I can do, my nephew-but may I have a word with you privately?... Its nothing at all, young lady, just a few words about a man he will meet before we leave. Business, of course."

"Oh, sure. Theres a critic from the Times who gave me a terrific review for a small part I played in the Village; it led to the series. I sent him a letter, but Ive never thanked him personally. See you in a few minutes." The young actress, carrying a champagne gla.s.s filled with ginger ale, walked toward an obese, gray-bearded man with the eyes of a leopard and the lips of an orangutan.

"What is it, signora? Have I done something wrong?"

"Not at all, my darling, you are having fun with someone your own age and thats fine. But remember, you do not speak English! Do not even betray an inkling in your eyes that you understand English!"

"Cabi, we speak only Italian together.... Youre not angry that I find her attractive, are you?"

"Youd be a fool not to, Nicolo. Middle-cla.s.s morality is irrelevant to you or to me, but something tells me you should not treat her as you might a woman from the docks of Portici anxious for your body."

"Never! She may be famous but she is a pure Italian girl whom I respect in the family traditions as I do my sisters. She is not part of the world you brought me into."

"Are you dissatisfied with that world, Nico?"

"How could I be? Ive never lived like this-never dreamed I would."

"Good. Go to your bellissima ragazza, Ill join you soon." The Baj turned and glided gracefully toward their host, who was in a deep, even contentious, discussion with two bankers. Suddenly a hand touched her elbow, gently yet firmly. She snapped her head around only to stare at the attractive face of an aging, white-haired man who might have stepped out of an English magazine advertis.e.m.e.nt extolling the virtues of a Rolls-Royce. "Have we met, sir?" asked Bajaratt.

"We have now, Countess," replied the man, lifting her left hand, his lips touching the flesh. "I was a late arrival, but I see that all goes well with you."

"It is a charming evening, of course."

"Oh, this is the crowd for it, take my word. Charm lathering over the room like barrels of shaving cream. Power and wealth combine to turn maggots into b.u.t.terflies-monarch b.u.t.terflies."

"Are you a writer ... a novelist, perhaps? Ive met several here tonight."

"Good heavens, no, I can barely get through a letter without a secretary. Piquant observations are merely part of my stock-in-trade."

"And what do you trade, signore?"

"A certain aristocratic legacy, one might say, purveyed primarily among the diplomatic corps-the corps of many countries-generally at the behest of the State Department."

"How intriguing."

"Its that, of course," agreed the stranger, smiling. "However, since Im neither an alcoholic nor politically ambitious, and have a rather splendid estate that I truly enjoy displaying, the State Department finds my environs an attractive neutral ground for visiting dignitaries. You cant ride horses with a man or a woman, then play tennis, or swim in a pool with a cascading waterfall, have an attractive meal, and subsequently behave like a boor in negotiations.... Naturally, there are other inducements, both male and female."

"Why are you telling me all this, signore?" asked Bajaratt, studying the self-proclaimed aristocrat.

"Because everything I own, everything I learned, came to me years ago in Havana, my dear," the man replied, his eyes locked with those of the Baj. "Does that tell you anything, Countess?"

"Why should it?" said Amaya, her expression totally neutral, her breathing, however, suspended.

"Then Ill be quick, for we have only moments before some sycophant interrupts us. You have several numbers, but you dont have the telephone codes over here, and now you must. I left a waxed envelope for you at your hotel; if there are cracks in the wax, call me immediately at the Plaza and everything will be changed. The name is Van Nostrand, Suite Nine B."

"And if the seal is intact?"

"Then from tomorrow on, use those three numbers to reach me. Ill be at one of them night and day. You now have a friend you need."

"A 'friend I need? You talk in circles, really, you do."

"Stop it, Baj," whispered the Rolls-Royce advertis.e.m.e.nt, again smiling. "The padrone is dead!"

Bajaratt gasped. "What are you saying?"

"Hes gone.... For G.o.ds sake, look pleasant."

"The disease won, then. He lost."

"It was not the disease. He blew up the entire compound, himself in it. He had no alternative."

"But why?"

"They found him; it was always a possibility. Among his last instructions were to befriend you and offer you whatever a.s.sistance I could should anything happen to him-naturally or unnaturally. Within limits, Im your obedient servant ... Contessa."

"But what happened? You tell me nothing!"

"Not now. Later."

"My true father-"

"No longer. Hes gone. You turn to me now, and through me to my considerable resources." Van Nostrand arched his head as if responding with laughter at a remark made by the countess.

"Who are you?"

"I told you, a friend whom you need."

"You are the padrones contact here in America?"

"His and others, but mainly his. In every other sense, I was solely his.... Havana, I did mention Havana."

"What did he tell you-about me?"

"He adored you and admired you enormously. You were a great comfort to him, and he therefore demanded that I help you in any way that I can."