5.

Darkness descended; the water was calm, the moon barely visible through the cloud cover as the small skiff bobbed up and down with the rhythm of the gentle ocean swells. The remaining killer sat nervously on the tiny seat at the bow, blinking his eyes and pulling up his hands under the glare of the powerful flashlight.

"Put your hands down," ordered Hawthorne.

"The light is blinding me. Take it away!"

"Actually, that could be a blessing, blindness, I mean, if you force me only to wound you before shoving you over the side."

"Che csa?"

"We all have to die. Sometimes I think its the quality of death, not the event that counts."

"What are you saying, signore ...?"

"Youre going to tell me what I want to know or youre shark meat. If youre blind, you wont see the great whites row of pointed teeth before it chops you in half. The big fish are luminous, you know, seen clearly in dark water. Look! Over there, the dorsal fin! He must be an eighteen-footer; this is the season, you realize that, dont you? Why do you think there are shark-fishing contests throughout the islands at this time of year?"

"I know nothing of such things!"

"Then you dont get the local papers, but then, why should you? They dont carry much news from Sicily."

"Somehow you dont strike me as a papal nuncio; they probably shoot better.... Come on, paisan, get in the real world-or get in the water with blood oozing out of your shoulder, as some is coming out of mine, and play games with our circling big fish whose jaws are larger than a third of its body."

The capos head spun from side to side, his blinking eyes wide, his hands again trying to shield the light as he studied the water on both sides of the small boat. "I cannot see!"

"Hes right behind you. Turn around and youll spot it."

"In the name of Christ, do not do this!"

"Why did you try to kill me?"

"Orders!"

"From whom?" The a.s.sa.s.sin did not answer. "Its your death, not mine," said Tyrell, c.o.c.king the AK-47. "Ill chop off your left shoulder; the blood will spread quicker that way, like bleeding chum. Of course, the great whites like to nibble-hors doeuvres before the main meal." Hawthorne squeezed the trigger, the explosions filling the night as he sprayed the water to the right of the Mafia capo.

"Stop!.... Stop in the holy name of Jesus!"

"Wow, you guys get religion quickly." Hawthorne fired again, the volley ear-shattering, several bullets grazing the left shoulder of the mafioso.

"Per piacere! Please, I beg you!"

"My dorsal-finned friend down there is hungry. Why should I deny him?"

"You ... you have heard of a valley ...?" the killer choked, searching for words, obviously, in panic, recalling other words he had heard before. "From far away, across the sea!"

"Ive heard of the Baaka Valley," said Tyrell in a monotone. "Its across the Mediterranean. So?"

"Thats where the orders come from, signore."

"Whos the relay? Who gave you those orders?"

"They come from Miami, what else can I tell you? I dont know the capi!"

"Why me?"

"I dont know, signore."

"Bajaratt!" roared Hawthorne, seeing what he wanted to see in the capos wide eyes. "It is Bajaratt, isnt it?"

"S, s, I have heard the name. Nothing more."

"From the Baaka?"

"Please, signore! I am merely a soldato, what do you want from me?"

"How did you find me? Did you follow a woman named Dominique Montaigne?"

"Non capisco, I do not know that name."

"Liar!" Again Tyrell fired the AK-47, but no longer penetrating the capos shoulder, experience dictating his strategy with a terrified underling.

"I swear!" screamed the capo subordinate. "Others, also, have been looking for you."

"Because they know Im looking for this Bajaratt."

"Whatever leads to you leads to you, signore."

"Apparently it does," said Tye, turning the boat around.

"I will not be killed ...?" The would-be a.s.sa.s.sin closed his eyes in prayer as Hawthorne swung the beam of the powerful flashlight away from his face. "I will not be fed to the sharks?"

"Can you swim?" asked Tye, ignoring the question.

"Naturalmente," answered the capo, "but not in these waters, especially as I am bleeding."

"How good a swimmer are you?"

"I am a Siciliano from Messina. As a boy I dove for coins thrown by the tourists from the ships."

"Thats good. Because Im going to leave you a half mile offsh.o.r.e. You can handle the rest."

"With the sharks?"

"There hasnt been a shark in these waters for over twenty years. The coral odors repel them."

The Sicilian killer was lying, Hawthorne knew it. Whoever was behind the attempt on his life had bought the whole marina and closed it down. The Baaka Valley couldnt do that, Mafia or no Mafia. There was someone else who knew the islands and which b.u.t.tons to press. Whoever that was was protecting the psychopath Bajaratt. Hawthorne, having stolen a pair of soiled coveralls, watched from the outside corner of the machine shop as the exhausted capo stumbled out of the mild surf onto the beach, so spent he lay p.r.o.ne on the sand, his body heaving, catching his breath. He had discarded his jacket and his shoes, but his bulging right trouser pocket indicated that he had put whatever possessions he felt necessary into it. Tyrell counted on him having them; a carrier pigeon without a capsule was a useless bird.

Two minutes pa.s.sed and the mafioso raised his head in the glare of the floodlights. He awkwardly, painfully, got to his feet, looking swiftly to his right and his left, obviously trying to orient himself. The capos head stopped swiveling, his eyes centered on the machine shop. That was the place where he and his dead colleague had initiated their operation; there was no other. The switch for the floodlights was there, the money pa.s.sed inside. And there was a telephone on a counter.... At this point, thought Hawthorne, remembering a dozen such entrapments in Amsterdam, Brussels, and Munich, the mark was a programmed robot. He had to follow his instincts to survive. He did.

Breathless, the mafioso ran down the beach to the steps to the shop. Gripping the rail, he climbed them, every now and then grabbing his shoulder and grimacing at his minor wound. Tyrell smiled; his own shoulder had been cleansed by the sea and only trickled. Band-Aids would take care of them both, but psychologically the capo was singing melodramatic opera.

The killer reached the machine shop, kicked open the door with unnecessary force, and burst inside. Seconds later the floodlights were extinguished and a lamp was turned on. Hawthorne crept to the open door and listened as the mafioso argued with a Caribbean operator over the telephone.

"S! Yes, yes, it is a Miami numero-number!" The capo repeated the digits and Hawthorne printed them indelibly in his memory-my G.o.d, the games! "Emergenza!" yelled the mafioso, having reached Miami. "Cerca il padrone via satellite! Presto!" Moments pa.s.sed before the panicked man, now holding his groin, spoke again, screamed again. "Padrone, esso incredible! Scozzi e morto! Un diavolo da inferno ...!"

Tyrell could not understand all the frenzied Italian shouted by the capo into the phone, but he had picked up enough. He had a number in Miami, and the existence of someone called padrone, who was reached by an access-satellite relay-someone here in the islands who was aiding and abetting the terrorist Bajaratt.

"Ho capito! Nuova York. Va bene!"

Those last words, too, were not difficult to understand, thought Hawthorne as the mafioso hung up the phone and started anxiously toward the door. The capo was being ordered to New York, where he could disappear until summoned. Tyrell picked up one of the discarded rust-encrusted anchors that lay on the machine shops platform, and as the killer walked through the door, he swung the heavy dual-p.r.o.nged object into the mafiosos lower legs, fracturing both knees.

The capo screamed, collapsing to the wooden-planked floor, unconscious.

"Ciao," said Hawthorne, bending over the body and plunging his hand into the right trouser pocket, pulling out everything inside. He studied the objects, disgusted with the owner. There was a thick black prayer book written in Italian, rosary beads, and a money clip with nine hundred French francs-approximately a hundred and eighty dollars. There was no billfold or wallet, no other papers-Omert.

Tyrell took the money, rose to his feet, and raced away. Somewhere, somehow, he had to find a plane and a pilot.

The frail figure in the wheelchair rolled himself out of his study into his marbled aviary, where Bajaratt waited.

"Baj, you must leave immediately," he said firmly. "Now. The plane will be here within the hour, and Miami is sending two men to attend me."

"Padrone, youre crazy! Ive made the contacts-your contacts-theyre flying here to see me during the next three days. Youve confirmed the Baaka deposits in St. Barts; there will be no paper trail."

"There is a far worse trail, my only daughter. Scozzi is dead, killed by your Hawthorne. Maggio is in hysterics on Saba, claiming your lover is a man from h.e.l.l!"

"He is only a man," said Bajaratt coldly. "Why didnt they kill him?"

"I wish I knew, but you must leave. Immediately!"

"Padrone, how can you possibly think that Hawthorne could ever connect you with me, or even more impossibly think that Dominique Montaigne has any connection with Bajaratt? My G.o.d, we made love this afternoon and he believes Im on my way back to Paris! He loves me, the fool!"

"Is he more clever than we believe?"

"Absolutely not! Hes a wounded animal, ripe for succoring, therefore a perfect tunnel."

"How about you, my only daughter? Four years ago, I remember well your filling these halls with songs of delight. How you obviously cared for that man."

"Dont be ridiculous! I was within an instant of killing him only hours ago, when I realized that the front desk knew I was in his room.... You approved of my decision, padrone, even praised my caution. What can I say?"

"You dont say, Baj. I say. Well fly you to St. Barts; you get your money in the morning and then youll be taken to Miami or wherever you choose to go."

"What about my contacts? They expect to find me here."

"Ill take care of them. Ill give you a telephone number. Until youre reached by a higher authority, theyll do your bidding.... You are still my only daughter, Annie."

"Padrone, the telephone! I know exactly what to do."

"I trust youll inform me first."

"We both have friends in Paris?"

"Naturalmente."

"Molto bene!"

Hawthorne desperately needed to find a plane and a pilot, but they were not the first priorities. There was another: an unmitigated rat named Captain Henry Stevens, United States Naval Intelligence. The specter of Amsterdam suddenly rose like a fiery bird from the black ashes of a shattered dream. St. Barts and the disappearance of Dominique felt too similar to the horrible events that had led to the death of his wife. Nothing made sense! If Stevens was even remotely involved, Tye had to know! After giving a hundred French francs and spelling out his name and resumed rank to the sole uninterested radio operator in the control tower, which was neither a tower nor had much control over anything except for the strip lights, he had the use of Saba airfields telephone. He had committed the Miami number to memory; Washingtons was reflex.

"Department of the Navy," said the voice fifteen hundred miles north.

"Division One, Intelligence, please. Security code four-zero."

"An emergency, sir?"

"Youve got it, sailor."

"I-One," said a second voice moments later. "Did I understand that this is a four-zero?"

"You did."

"Of what nature?"

"That can be relayed by me only to Captain Stevens. Track him down. Now."

"Theyre working overtime upstairs. Whos this?"

"Amsterdam will get you through. Hed want you to hurry."

"Well see." The aloof intelligence officer obviously saw within seconds, as Stevenss voice came forcefully on the line.

"Hawthorne?"

"I thought youd catch the connection, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Whats that mean?"

"You know d.a.m.ned well what it means! Your robots found me, and because your little egos couldnt handle MI-6 recruiting me, you took her to find out what you could, because you knew I wouldnt tell you a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing! Im going to put your a.s.s in a military court-martial, Henry."

"Whoa, back up. I dont have a clue as to where youre coming from or who the her is! I spent two lousy hours with the DCI yesterday, getting this a.s.s reamed out because you wouldnt even talk to me, and now youre sounding off about our 'finding you-wherever the h.e.l.l you are-and kidnapping a woman we never heard of. Get off it!"

"Youre a f.u.c.king liar! You lied in Amsterdam."

"I had my evidence, you saw it."