The Scorpio Illusion Read Online Free PDF

London cover so he can get to our asset in Dudendorf away from his usual environs. The Baaka found him and wants to cut off the trail, which it did.”
    “Over a six-figure transfer?” asked the chief of naval intelligence. “That’s a lot of trouble over a minor amount, isn’t it?”
    “Because the amount doesn’t mean doodly,” said the heavyset aide with the puffed face. “It’s who’s on the receiving end, and the whereabouts of whoever that person is; that’s what they’re covering. Also, once the transfer is established as clean, the money could escalate a hundred times over.”
    “
Bajaratt
,” said the secretary of state. “So she’s begun her journey.… All right, this is the way we’re going to operate, and maximum security is the key. With the exception of the Agency’s radio traffic people, we at this table, and
only
we, will exchange information as our departments pick it up. Put all your personal office faxes into confidential modes, all telephone calls between ourselves on secure lines. Nothing goes out beyond this circle unless approved by me or the DCI. Even the rumors of such an operation could backfire and create a confusion we don’t need.” There was a hum; it came from the red telephone in front of the secretary of state. He picked it up. “Yes?… It’s for you,” he said, looking at the Agency’s director. Gillette rose from his chair and went to the head of the table; he took the phone and identified himself.
    “I understand,” he said after listening for nearly a minute. He replaced the telephone and stared at his heavyset aide with the thinning red hair. “You’ve got your confirmation, O’Ryan. Our man in Zurich was found in the Spitzplatz, shot twice through the head.”
    “They’re making sure that bitch’s ass is covered,” said the CIA analyst named O’Ryan.

2
    T he tall, unshaven man in white sailing shorts and black tank shirt, his skin burned to a deep bronze by the tropic sun, raced across the walkway and up the pier containing slips for the powerboats. He reached the end of the wooden planks and shouted at the two men on an incoming skiff.
    “What the hell do you mean, I’ve got a leak in the auxiliary? I used it in dead air and it was perfectly fine!”
    “Look, mate,” replied a British mechanic, his voice weary as Tyrell Hawthorne grabbed the rope thrown at him. “I don’t give a shit if it’s a newborn babe of a motor. You ain’t got an ounce of oil in your crankcase; it’s all soiling our lovely little refuge here. Now, if you want to take that mother out, and you hit some more deaders, go right ahead and blow the engine. But I’m sure as hell gonna make my report. I ain’t gonna be responsible for your stupidity.”
    “All right, all right,” said Hawthorne, grabbing the man’s hand as he climbed up the ladder to the dock. “What do you figure?”
    “Rotted gaskets and two ruined cylinders, Tye.” The mechanic turned and secured the second line around a pylon so his companion could climb up on the dock. “How many times have I told you, laddie, you’re too good with the clouds and the windies. You’ve got to use your metals more; they dry out in this fuckin’ sun! Now, haven’t I told you that a couple of dozen times?”
    “Yes, Marty, you have. I can’t deny it.”
    “You couldn’t! And with the prices you charge, yousure ain’t worried about fuel costs, that even I can figure.”
    “It’s not the money,” protested the skipper. “Except for prolonged dead spots, the charters like to sail, you know that. When can you have it fixed—a couple of hours?”
    “Over your life, Tye-Boy. Try tomorrow noon—if I get the proper bore grinders flown in from Saint T. in the morning.”
    “Damn it! I’ve got some good repeats on board, and they expect to hit Tortola tonight.”
    “Get ’em a few rum-punchies, Gordie style, and get ’em rooms at the club. They’ll never know the difference.”
    “I don’t have a