The Matarese Circle (29 page)

It happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that Scofield nearly fired his gun in instinctive defense. The figure of a large Corsican was suddenly beside him, above him, the crunch of a racing foot not eighteen inches from his head. He rolled to his left, out of the running man’s path.

He inhaled deeply, trying to throw off the shock and the fear, then rose cautiously and followed as best he could the trail of the racing Corsican. The man was heading directly north along the hill, below the ridge, as Bray had intended doing, relying on beams of light and sound—or the sudden absence of both—to find Taleniekov. The Corsican was familiar with the terrain. Scofield quickened his pace, passing the center beam of light still far below, and by passing it knowing that Taleniekov had fixed on the third man. The flashlight—barely seen—on the extreme north side of the hill.

Bray hurried faster; instinct told him to keep the Corsican in his sight. But the man was nowhere to be seen. All was silent, too silent. Scofield dropped to the ground and joined that silence, peering about in the darkness, his finger around the trigger of his automatic. It would happen any second. But how?
Where?

About a hundred and fifty yards ahead, diagonally down to the right the third beam of light appeared to go off and on in a series of short, irregular flashes. No.… It was not being turned off and on rapidly; the light was being
blocked. Trees.
Whoever held the flashlight was walking into a cluster of trees growing on the side of the hill.

Suddenly, the beam of light shot upward, dancing briefly in the higher regions of the thinning trunks, then plummeted down, the glow stationary, dulled by the foliage on the ground. That was it! The trap had been sprung, but Taleniekov did not know a Corsican was waiting for a sign of that trap.

Bray got to his feet and ran as fast as he could, his boots making harsh contact with the profusion of rocks on the hillside. He had only seconds, there was so much ground to cover, and too much darkness; he could not tell where the trees began. If there was only an outline to fire at, the sound of a voice.…
Voice.
He was about to shout, to warn the Russian, when he heard a voice. The words were in that strange Italian spoken by the southern Corsicans; the sound floated up in the night breezes.

Thirty feet below him! He saw the man standing between two trees, his body outlined in the spill of the muted, immobile beam of light that glowed up from the ground; the Corsican held a shotgun in his hands. Scofield pivoted to his right and sprang toward the armed man, his automatic leveled.

“The
Matarese!
” The name was screamed by Taleniekov, as was the enigmatic phrase that followed. “
Per nostro circolo!
”

Bray fired into the back of the Corsican, the three rapid spits overwhelmed by an explosion from the shotgun. The man fell forward. Scofield dug his feet into the body, crouching, expecting an attack. What he saw next had prevented it: the Corsican trapped by Taleniekov had been blown apart by his would-be rescuer.

“
Taleniekov?
”

“You! Is it
you,
Scofield?”

“Put that light out!” cried Bray. The Russian lunged for the flashlight on the ground, snapping it off. “There’s a man on the hill; he’s not moving. He’s waiting to be called.”

“If he comes, we must kill him. If we don’t, he’ll go for help. He’ll bring others back with him.”

“I’m not sure his friends can spare the time,” replied Scofield, watching the beam of light in the darkness. “You’ve got them pretty well tied up.… There he goes! He’s running down the hill.”

“Come!” said the Russian, getting up, approaching Bray. “I know a dozen places to hide. I’ve got a great deal to tell you.”

“You must have.”

“I do. It’s here!”

“What is?”

“I’m not sure … the answer, perhaps. Part of it anyway. You’ve seen for yourself. They’re hunting me; they’d kill me on sight. I’ve intruded—”

“
Fermate!
” The sudden command was shouted from beyond Scofield on the hill. Bray spun on the ground; the Russian raised his gun. “
Basta!
” The second command was accompanied by the snarling of an animal, a dog straining on a leash. “I have a two-barrelled rifle in my hands, signori,” continued the voice … the unmistakable voice of a woman, speaking now in English. “As the one fired moments ago, it is a Lupo, and I know how to use it better than the man at your feet. But I do not wish to. Hold your guns to your sides, signori. Do not drop them; you may need them.”

“Who are you?” asked Scofield, squinting his eyes at the woman above. From what he could barely see in the night light, she was dressed in trousers and a field jacket. The dog snarled again.

“I look for the scholar.”

“The
what?
”

“I am he,” said Taleniekov. “From the
organizzazione accademica.
This man is my associate.”

“What the hell are you …?”

“
Basta,
” said the Russian quietly. “Why do you look for me, yet do not kill me?”

“Word goes everywhere. You ask questions about the
padrone
of
padrones.
”

“I do. Guillaume de Matarese. No one wants to give me answers.”

“One does,” replied the girl. “An old woman in the mountains. She wants to speak with the scholar. She has things to tell him.”

“But you know what’s happened here,” said Taleniekov probing. “Men are hunting me; they would kill me. You’re willing to risk your own life to bring me—bring us—to her?”

“Yes. It is a long journey, and a hard one. Five or six hours up into the mountains.”

“Please answer me. Why are you taking this risk?”

“She is my grandmother. Everyone in the hills despises her; she cannot live down here. But I love her.”

“Who is she?”

“She is called the whore of Villa Matarese.”

They traveled swiftly through the hills to the base of the mountains and up into winding trails cut out of the mountain forests. The dog had sniffed both men when the woman had first come up to them; it was set free and preceded them along the overgrown paths, sure in its knowledge of the way.

Scofield thought it was the same dog he had come across so suddenly, so frighteningly, in the fields. He said as much to the woman.

“Probably, signore. We were there for many hours. I was looking for you and I let him roam, but he was always near in case I needed him.”

“Would he have attacked me?”

“Only if you raised your hand to him. Or to me.”

It was past midnight when they reached a flat stretch of grassland that fronted what appeared to be a series of imposing, wooded hills. The low-flying clouds had thinned out; moonlight washed over the field, highlighting the peaks in the distance, lending grandeur to this section of the mountain range. Bray could see that Talaniekov’s shirt beneath the open jacket was as drenched with sweat as his own; and the night was cool.

“We can rest for a while now,” said the woman, pointing to a dark area several hundred feet ahead, in the direction the dog had raced. “Over there is a cave of stone in the hill. It is not very deep, but it is shelter.”

“Your dog knows it,” added the KGB man.

“He expects me to build a fire,” laughed the girl. “When it is raining, he takes sticks in his mouth and brings them inside to me. He is fond of the fire.”

The cave was dug out of dark rock, no more than ten feet deep, but at least six in height. They entered.

“Shall I light a fire?” Taleniekov asked.

“If you wish. Uccello will like you for it. I am too tired.”

“ ‘Uccello’?” asked Scofield. “ ‘Bird’?”

“He flies over the ground, signore.”

“You speak English very well,” said Bray, as the Russian piled sticks together within a circle of stones obviously used for previous fires. “Where did you learn?”

“I went to the convent school in Vescovato. Those of us who wished to enter the government programs studied French and English.”

Taleniekov struck a match beneath the kindling; the fire caught instantly, the flames crackling the wood, throwing warmth and light through the cave. “You’re very good at that sort of thing,” said Scofield to the KGB man

“Thank you. It’s a minor talent.”

“It wasn’t minor a few hours ago.” Bray turned back to the woman, who had removed her cap and was shaking free her long dark hair. For an instant he stopped breathing and stared at her. Was it the hair? Or the wide clear brown eyes that were the color of a deer’s eyes, or the high cheekbones or the chiseled nose above the generous lips that seemed so ready to laugh? Was it any of these things, or was he simply tired and grateful for the sight of an attractive, capable woman? He did not know; he knew only that this Corsican girl of the hills reminded him or Karine, his wife whose death was ordered by the man three feet away from him in that Corsican cave. He suppressed his thoughts and breathed again. “And did you,” he asked, “enter the government programs?”

“As far as they would take me.”

“Where was that?”

“To the
scuola media
in Bonifacio. The rest I managed with the help of others. Monies supplied by the
fondos.
”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am a graduate of the University of Bologna, signore. I am a
Comunista.
I say it proudly.”

“Bravo …,” said Taleniekov softly.

“One day we shall set things right throughout all Italy,” continued the girl, her eyes bright. “We shall end the chaos, the Christian stupidity.”

“I’m sure you will,” agreed the Russian.

“But never as Moscow’s puppets; that we will never be. We are
independente.
We do not listen to vicious bears who would devour us and create a worldwide fascist state. Never!”

“Bravo,” said Bray.

The conversation trailed off, the young woman reluctant to answer further questions about herself. She told them her name was Antonia, but beyond that said little. When Taleniekov asked why she, a political activist from Bologna, had returned to this isolated region of Corsica, she replied only that it was to be with her grandmother for a while.

“Tell us about her,” said Scofield.

“She will tell you what she wants you to know,” said the girl, getting up. “I have told you what she instructed me to say.”

“ ‘The whore of Villa Matarese,’ ” repeated Bray.

“Yes. They are not words I would choose. Or ever use. Come, we have another two hours to walk.”

They reached a flat crown of a mountain and looked down a gentle slope to a valley below. It was no more than a hundred and fifty yards from mountain crest to valley floor, perhaps a mile of acreage covering the basin. The moon had grown progressively brighter; they could see a small farmhouse in the center of the pasture, a barn at the end of a short roadway. They could hear the sound of rushing water; a stream flowed out of the mountain near where they stood, tumbling down the slope between a row of rocks, passing within fifty feet of the small house.

“It’s very beautiful,” said Taleniekov.

“It is the only world she has known for over half a century,” replied Antonia.

“Were you brought up here?” asked Scofield. “Was this your home?”

“No,” said the girl, without elaborating. “Come, we will see her. She has been waiting.”

“At this hour of the night?” Taleniekov was surprised.

“There is no day or night for my grandmother. She said to bring you to her as soon as we arrived. We have arrived.”

There
was
no day or night for the old woman sitting in the chair by the wood-burning stove, not in the accepted sense of sunlight and darkness. She was blind, her eyes two vacant orbs of pastel blue, staring at sounds and at the images of remembered memories. Her features were sharp and angular beneath the covering of wrinkled flesh; the face had once been that of an extraordinarily beautiful woman.

Her voice was soft, with a hollow whispering quality that forced the listener to watch her thin white lips. If there was no essential brilliance about her, neither was there hesitancy nor indecision. She spoke rapidly, a simple mind secure in its own knowledge. She had things to say and death was in her house, a reality that seemed to quicken her thoughts and perceptions. She spoke in Italian, but it was an idiom from an earlier era.

She began by asking both Taleniekov and Scofield to answer—each in his own words—why he was so interested in Guillaume de Matarese. Vasili replied first, repeating his story of an academic foundation in Milan, his department concentrating on Corsican history. He kept it simple thus allowing Scofield to elaborate in any way he wished It was standard procedure when two or more intelligence officers were detained and questioned together. Neither had to be primed for the exercise; the fluid lie was second nature to them both.

Bray listened to the Russian and corroborated the basic information, adding details on dates and finances he believed pertinent to Guillaume de Matarese. When he finished, he felt not only confident about his response, but superior to the KGB man; he had done his “schoolwork” better than Taleniekov.

Yet the old woman just sat there, nodding her head in silence, brushing away a lock of white hair that had fallen to the side of her gaunt face. Finally, she spoke.

“You’re both lying. The second gentleman is less convincing. He tries to impress me with facts any child in the hills of Porto Vecchio might learn.”

“Perhaps in Porto Vecchio,” protested Scofield gently, “but not necessarily in Milan.”

“Yes. I see what you mean. But then neither of you is from Milan.

“Quite true,” interrupted Vasili. “We merely work in
Milan. I myself was born in Poland … northern Poland. I’m sure you detect my imperfect speech.”

“I detect nothing of the sort. Only your lies. However, don’t be concerned, it doesn’t matter.”

Taleniekov and Scofield looked at each other, then over at Antonia, who sat curled up in exhaustion on a pillow in front of the window.

“What doesn’t matter?” Bray asked. “We
are
concerned. We want you to speak freely.”