"Maybe you should shut off your engine and listen up, Simon," said Hawthorne, approaching the gaudy velveteen couch in the shadowed corner of the room.

"Yo, grunt!" roared the man as he spun around, shock but no fear in his cold eyes at the sight of the weapons.

"All you girls!" Poole yelled, addressing not only the women in the living room but also those who came running down the stairs. "I figure you should get outta here. We got personal things to talk about, and they dont concern you.... You, too, lady, if you can get away from that b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Gracias, senor! Muchas gracias!"

"Tell your friends to find other jobs!" shouted the young air force officer as the prost.i.tutes raced out the door into the street. "They can get dead this way!"

The room was deserted except for the half-drunken pilot who pulled part of the shiny dark-red cover over his naked waist. "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" he asked. "What do you want from me?"

"For starters, I want to know where you come from," said Tyrell. "Youre not normal, Simon."

"Its none of your f.u.c.king business, baby."

"This gun at your head says it is, baby."

"You think thats a threat? Squeeze it, babe, do me a favor."

"Definitely not normal. 'Yo, grunt.... Youre military, arent you?"

"Once, a hundred years ago."

"I was military too. Who blew you out of the sky?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because Im tracking some very bad people. Tell me or youre dead, babe."

"Okay, okay, who gives a s.h.i.t? I was a drop pilot out of Vientiane flying under Royal Lao Air-"

"A CIA subsidiary," broke in Hawthorne.

"You got it, pal. The Panmunjom talks started and the Senate began asking questions, so the spy boys had to dump the whole f.u.c.king mess on somebodys lap. They sold all six planes to me for a hundred thousand, which they advanced me, then buried. To me, an underage sharecrop pilot who got into service by signing my old ladys name because my old man was long gone-for Christs sake, I was only eighteen! I lost all but one aircraft to mech failure and cannibalizing, but they were still there and all registered to me under highly questionable circ.u.mstances."

"You had one plane left, equipment worth at least two million. What did you do, sell it so you could set up this little operation to supplement your airborne income?"

"h.e.l.l, I stole enough to buy this place years ago," replied Alfred Simon, sneering.

"What happened to the jet? It was a major a.s.set."

"Was, and is. I flew it in hops over the down-under routes cleared with bribes. Its here but I never use it. I keep it greased and operational and hidden. I wont fly it until Im ready to buy my own farm, diving straight into that f.u.c.king Pentagon, and blow those sons of b.i.t.c.hes to h.e.l.l whove kept me on the string for thirty-four years! Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds claim I stole ten million dollars worth of aircraft from the U.S. government-read that as forty years in Leavenworth!... h.e.l.l, I havent got a quarter of that long to live."

"But that string around your neck was sufficiently tight to have you pick up those two men at Sebastians Point in Gorda."

"h.e.l.l, yes, but I wasnt the one who shoved em out of the plane during the final approach! I had nothing to do with that!"

"Who did?" roared Poole, slapping away Hawthornes gun, and pressing his own into the pilots forehead. "Youre with those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who killed Charlie, man, and youre dead if you dont tell me!"

"Hey, come on!" cried the pilot, his body writhing under the deep-red cover. "The spook showed me his identification and said Id never be called on the operation if I mentioned his name!"

"What was it?"

"Hawthorne. Somebody named Tyrone Hawthorne, or something like that."

15.

The manicured lawns of his estate glistened with morning dew as Nils Van Nostrand sat at his desk and stared out the window of his study, deep in thought. Time was short and he needed the entire day to make his arrangements, for his disappearance had to be complete, his new ident.i.ty initiated, all lines to his past obliterated-his ultimate "death" incontestable. Yet what remained of his natural life had to be civilized; he could accept anonymity, even welcome it, but he could not accept living without grace and comfort, and he would not.

So many years ago, too many to count, he and his partner for life, il vizioso elegante-Mars and Neptune!-had purchased a walled, secluded lakefront estate in Geneva for their elder years. The deed was recorded in the name of an Argentine colonel, a bis.e.xual bachelor who was only too pleased to serve the younger, all-powerful padrone and his confidant. Since that time, an obscure rental agency in Lausanne had secured an annual stipend that by itself could pay for the firms existence with but a few additional clients. There were, however, several absolutes that, if broken, would result in a dissolution of the contract. Number one: Never to attempt to explore the ownership of the estate; two: No lease could be for less than two years nor longer than five; three: All payments were to be made to a numbered account in Bern, subtracting an additional twenty percent over and above the firms commission for service and silence. The fourth year was up for the current residents, the unexpired six months of the fifth compensated for by returning the half years rent along with an additional sixty days notice of vacancy. Van Nostrand would put those two months to splendid use; they were his timetable for oblivion. The odyssey would begin with the death of the padrones killer, one former Lieutenant Commander Tyrell Hawthorne. Tonight.

The day, however, was the prelude to his journey. People he had helped throughout his years in Washington now had to accede to his courteous, if strange, requests. It was vital none know that the others were also lending him a.s.sistance. Nevertheless, as the capital was a font of misinformation, rumor, diversion, and self-protection, it was necessary that there be a common thread in his appeals, so that if, like the disintegrating web of a spider, one strand after another broke from the weight of truth, there would be a common core all could retreat to. Van Nostrand could even hear the words.

You too? My G.o.d, after all he did for the country, at his own expense, its little enough we could do! Dont you agree?

Of course everyone would agree, for self-protection was the quintessential law of survival in Washington. Inquiries would die quickly with the presumption of his death.

The common thread? Obscure, incomplete, but heart-breaking, especially from a selfless, patriotic man who seemed to have everything-immense wealth, influence, respect, and withal, uncommon modesty. A child, perhaps; a child had universal appeal. What kind of child ...? A girl, obviously; look how people everywhere s...o...b..red over that little actress, Angel whatever her name was. Circ.u.mstances? Again obvious. The blood of his blood, lost to him for years due to a tragic situation. The event? Marriage? Death?... Death; it was the chord of finality. Van Nostrand was ready; the words would come, they always did. Mars used to say to his Neptune: "Your thoughts are so serpentine. You think beyond the thoughts of others. I like that, I need that."

The aristocrat picked up the red telephone and dialed the direct, private secure number of the secretary of state. "Yes?" said the voice in Washington.

"Bruce, its Nils. I really hate to bother you, especially on this phone, but Im not sure where else to turn."

"Anytime, my friend. Youve certainly earned a minor convenience in light of your major contributions. What is it?"

"Have you got a minute or two?"

"Certainly. To tell you the truth, I just finished an irritating meeting with the Philippine amba.s.sador, and Ive got my shoes off. What can I do for you?"

"Its extremely personal, Bruce, and, of course, confidential."

"This line is secure, you know that," interrupted the secretary of state gently.

"Yes, I know that. Its why I used it."

"Go ahead, my friend."

"Good Lord, I need a friend right now."

"Im here."

"Ive never discussed this publicly, and rarely in private, but years ago, when I was living in Europe, my marriage was falling apart-we were both at fault; she was an intemperate German and I was an unresponsive husband who disliked confrontations. She opted for more exciting fields and I fell in love with a married woman, deeply in love, as she did with me. The circ.u.mstances prohibited her getting a divorce-her husband was a politician running on a vociferously Catholic ticket and wouldnt permit it-but we had a child together, a girl. She was, naturally, pa.s.sed off as his, but he knew the truth, and forbade his wife ever to see me again, and I was never to see the child."

"How dreadful! Couldnt she have revolted, forced the issue?"

"He told her that if she did, he would have both mother and child killed before he was ruined politically. An accident, of course."

"The son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"Oh, yes, that he was; that he is."

"Is? Do you want me to arrange State emergency transport to get"-here the secretary paused-"mother and daughter brought over here under diplomatic immunity? Just say the word, Nils. Ill coordinate with Central Intelligence and its done."

"Im afraid its too late, Bruce. My daughter is twenty-four years of age and dying."

"Oh, my G.o.d ...!"

"What I want, what I beg of you, is to fly me with diplomatic clearance to Brussels, no immigration procedures, no computerized pa.s.sport entry-that man has eyes and ears everywhere, Im an obsession with him. I must get to Europe without anyone knowing Im there. I must see my child before shes gone from us, and once she is, live somewhere with my love in our last years, to make up for the time weve lost."

"Oh, Christ, Nils, what youre going through, what youve been through!"

"Can you do this for me, Bruce?"

"Of course. An airport away from Washington-less chance of your being recognized. Military escort here and in Brussels; first on board, last to get off, and with a curtained seat in front of the bulkhead. When do you want to leave?"

"This evening, if you can arrange it. Naturally, I insist on paying for everything."

"After all youve done for us? Never mind payment. Ill call you back within the hour."

How easily the words came, thought Van Nostrand as he hung up the phone. The essence of pure evil, Mars always said, was to dress the archangel of Satan in the pure white robes of goodness and mercy. Of course, Neptune had taught him that.

The next call was to the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, whose organization frequently used one of Van Nostrands guest cottages as a safe house for defectors and stressed-out field agents under medical debriefing.

"... Jesus, Nils, thats a terrible thing! Give me the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds name. Ive got dark a.s.sets all over Europe wholl remove him. And I dont say that lightly-I avoid last extremities as if they were my own-but that sc.u.m doesnt deserve to live another day! My G.o.d, your own daughter!"

"No, my good friend, I dont believe in violence."

"Neither do I, but the most violent thing on earth was done against you and the mother of your child. Years of living under the threat of both being killed? An infant and her mother?"

"Theres another way, and I ask you only to listen to me."

"What is it?"

"I can get them out and into a safe situation, but it will take a great deal of money, which I certainly have. However, if I use the normal transfer procedures, they will be picked up by the European banking community and h.e.l.l know Im over there."

"Youre really going?"

"How many years have I got left to spend with my lost love, my dearest love?"

"Im not sure I understand."

"h.e.l.l find out and h.e.l.l kill her. Hes sworn to do it."

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Give me his name!"

"My religious beliefs do not permit me to do that."

"So what the h.e.l.l does? What have you got left?"

"Complete secrecy. My moneys all here, and, naturally, I intend to pay every dollar of tax I owe my country, but I need the rest to be transferred confidentially, legitimately, to any bank of your choosing in Switzerland. Frankly, Ive sold my estate for twenty million dollars. The papers are all signed, but nothing will be processed or made public until a month after Im gone."

"So little? You should get at least twice that. Im a businessman, remember?"

"The problem is I dont have the time to negotiate. My child is dying and my love is withering in despair and absolute terror. Can you help me?"

"Send me a power of attorney for our records-buried records-and call me when you get to Europe. Ill have everything for you."

"Dont forget the taxes-"

"After all youve done for us? Well discuss that later. Stay well and find what happiness you can, Nils. G.o.d knows you deserve it."

How easily the words came. Van Nostrand leafed once again through his personal telephone directory, which he always kept in a locked steel drawer of his desk when not in use; he would take it with him when he disappeared. He found the name and private number of his next appeal, the chief of Special Forces, Clandestine Operations, United States Army. The man was a quasi-psychotic who took as much pride in confusing his superiors as he did in obtaining his objectives, which he did with such alarming consistency that even the adversarial Central Intelligence Agency granted him grudging respect. His people had infiltrated not only the KGB, MI-6, and the Deuxieme, but the holy, impenetrable Mossad. He had done so with highly selected, multilingual personnel who carried extraordinarily well-produced false papers that pa.s.sed electronic scans ... and with a great deal of input from the widely traveled, immensely informed Van Nostrand. They were friends, and the lieutenant general had enjoyed many a pleasant weekend at the Fairfax estate with well-endowed and most willing young women, while his wife thought he was in Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur.

"Ive never heard anything so rotten, Nils! Who does that f.u.c.ker think he is? Ill fly over myself and take him out! Christ almighty, your daughter dying, and her mother under a death threat for twenty-some years! Hes history, buddy!"

"Its not the way, General, believe me when I tell you that. Once our beloved child is gone, there is only disappearance. Killing him would make him a martyr in the eyes of his devoted followers-fanatics, really. They would immediately suspect his wife, for its rumored that she both loathes and fears him. She would instantly have that 'accident hes planned for her all these many years."

"Has it occurred to you that if he thinks shes run away with you, and he will, h.e.l.l hunt you both down?"

"I sincerely doubt it, my friend. Our child will die, the public damage to him removed. A wife may quietly leave a powerful political figure and its not actually news. However, such a man living for over twenty years with a child he thought was his but wasnt, that is news. If he was cuckolded once with concrete results, how many other times were there? Thats the damage. Embarra.s.sment."

"Okay, so termination is out. What can I do?"

"I need a rather unique pa.s.sport by late this afternoon, a false pa.s.sport of non-American origin."

"No kidding?" said the lieutenant general, his voice pleasantly warming to the subject. "How come?"

"Partially because of what you suggested. He could trace us through computerized international traffic, although I dont think he will, but basically I intend to purchase property. Since Im not unknown, I dont care to have my name picked up by the press. That would be an invitation."

"Gotcha! What did you have in mind?"

"Well, as I spent several years in Argentina, building my international markets, and I speak fluent Spanish, I thought it should be Argentine."

"No sweat. As with twenty-eight other countries, weve duplicated their plates and Ive got the best graphics anywhere. Have you figured out a name, a date of birth?"

"Yes, I have. I knew a man who disappeared, as so many did in those days. Colonel Alejandro Schrieber-Cortez."

"Spell it, Nils."

Van Nostrand did, providing also a date and place of birth from memory-such memories. "What else do you need?"