The Matarese Circle (34 page)

They were not in time. Three gunshots followed one upon the other.

Antonia screamed; Bray lunged, holding her, cradling her. “
Please,
please!” he whispered. He saw the Russian pull a knife from somewhere inside his coat. “
No!
It’s all right!”

Taleniekov palmed the knife and knelt down, his eyes
on the farmhouse below. “They’re running outside. You were right; they’re heading for the south slope.”

“
Kill them!
” The girl’s words were muffled by Scofield’s hand.

“To what purpose now?” said the KGB man. “She did what she wished to do, what she felt she had to do.”

The dog would not follow them; commands from Antonia had no effect. It raced down into the farmhouse and would not come out: its whimpering carried up to the ridge

“Goodbye, Uccello,” said the girl sobbing. “I will come back for you. Before
God.
I will come back!”

They walked out of the mountains, circling northwest beyond the hills of Porto Vecchio, then south to Sainte Lucie, following the stream until they reached the massive pine under which Bray had buried his attaché case and duffle bag. They traveled cautiously, using the woods as much as possible, separating and walking in sequence across open stretches so no one would see them together.

Scofield pulled the shovel from beneath a pile of branches, dug up his belongings, and they started out again, retracing the stream north toward Sainte Lucie. Conversation was kept to a minimum: they wasted no time putting distance between themselves and the hills.

The long silences and brief separations served a practical purpose, thought Bray, watching the girl as she pressed forward, bewildered, following their commands without thinking, tears intermittently appearing in her eyes. The constant movement occupied her mind: she had to come to some sort of acceptance of her “grandmother” ’s death. No words from relative strangers could help her; she needed the loneliness of her own thoughts. Scofield suspected that in spite of her handling of the Lupo. Antonia was not a child of violence. She was no child to begin with; in the daylight he could see that she would not see thirty again, but beyond that, she came from a world of radical academics, not revolution. He doubted she would know what to do at the barricades.

“We must stop
running!
” she cried suddenly. “You may do what you like, but I am returning to Porto Vecchio. I’ll see them
hanged!
”

“There’s a great deal you don’t know,” said Taleniekov.

“She was killed! That is all
I
have to know!”

“It’s not that simple,” said Bray. “The truth is she killed herself.”

“
They
killed her!”

“She forced them to.” Scofield took her hand, gripping it firmly. “Try to understand me. We can’t let you go back; your grandmother knew that. What happened during the past forty-eight hours has got to fade away just as fast as possible. There’ll be a certain amount of panic up in those hills; they’ll send men trying to find us, but in several weeks when nothing happens, they’ll cool off. They’ll live with their own fears but they’ll be quiet. It’s the only thing they can do. Your grandmother understood that. She counted on it.”

“But
why?
”

“Because we have other things to do,” said the Russian. “She understood that, too. It’s why she sent you back to find us.”

“What are these things?” asked Antonia, then answered for herself. “She said you had names. She spoke of a shepherd boy.”

“But you must speak of neither,” ordered Taleniekov. “Not if you wish her death to mean anything. We cannot let you interfere.”

Scofield caught the sound in the KGB man’s voice and for an instant found himself reaching for his gun. In that split second the memory of Berlin ten years ago was prodded to the surface. Taleniekov had already made a decision: if the Russian had the slightest doubt, he would kill this girl.

“She won’t interfere,” said Bray without knowing why he gave such a guarantee, but delivering it firmly. “Let’s go. We’ll make one stop; I’ll see a man in Murato. Then if we can reach Bastia, I can get us out.”

“To
where,
signore? You cannot order me—”

“Be quiet,” said Bray. “Don’t press your luck.”

“No, don’t,” added the KGB man, glancing at Scofield. “We must talk. As before, we should travel separately, divide our work, set up schedules and points of contact. We have much to discuss.”

“By my guess, there are ninety miles between here and Bastia. There’ll be plenty of time to talk.” Scofield reached down for his attaché case; the girl snapped her hand out
of his, angrily moving away. The Russian leaned over for the duffle bag.

“I suggest we talk alone,” he said to Bray. “She’s not an asset, Beowulf.”

“You disappoint me.” Scofield took the duffle bag from the KGB man. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you to convert a liability into an asset?”

Antonia had lived in Vescovato, on the Golo River, twenty-odd miles south of Bastia. Her immediate contribution was to get them there without being seen. It was important that she make decisions, if only to take her mind off the fact that she was following orders she disagreed with. She did so rapidly, choosing primitive back roads and mountain trails she had known as a child growing up in the province.

“The nuns brought us here for a picnic,” she said, looking down at a dammed-up stream. “We built fires and ate sausage, and took turns going into the woods to smoke cigarettes.”

They went on. “This hill has a fine wind in the morning,” she said. “My father made marvelous kites and we would fly them here on Sundays. After Mass, of course.”

“We?” asked Bray. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“One of each. They’re older than I am and still live in Vescovato. They have families and I do not see them often; there’s not much to talk about between us.”

“They didn’t go to the upper schools then?” said Taleniekov.

“They thought such pursuits were foolish. They’re good people but prefer a simple life. If we need help, they will offer it.”

“It would be better not to seek it,” said the Russian. “Or them.”

“They are my family, signore. Why should I avoid them?”

“Because it may be necessary.”

“That’s no answer. You kept me from Porto Vecchio and the justice that should be done; you can’t give me orders any longer.”

The KGB man looked at Scofield, his intent in his eyes. Bray expected the Russian to draw his weapon. He wondered briefly what his own reaction would be; he could
not tell. But the moment passed, and Scofield understood something he had not fully understood before. Vasili Taleniekov did not wish to kill, but the professional in him was in strong conflict with the man. The Russian was pleading with him. He wanted to know how to convert a liability into an asset. Scofield wished he knew.

“Take it easy,” said Bray. “Nobody wants to tell you what to do except where your own safety’s concerned. We said that before and it’s ten times more valid now.”

“I think it is something else. You wish me to stay silent.
Silent
over the killing of a blind, old woman!”

“Your safety depends on it, we told you that. She understood.”

“She’s dead!”

“But you want to
live,
” insisted Scofield calmly. “If the hill people find you, you won’t. And if it’s known that you’ve talked to others, they’ll be in danger, too. Can’t you see that?”

“Then what am I to
do?
”

“Just what we’re doing. Disappear. Get out of Corsica.” The girl started to object; Bray cut her off. “And
trust
us. You
must
trust us. Your grandmother did. She died so we could live and find some people who are involved in terrible things that go beyond Corsica.”

“You’re not talking to a child. What do you mean, ‘terrible things’?”

Bray glanced at Taleniekov, accepting his disapproval, but by nodding, overriding it. “There are men—we don’t know how many—whose lives are committed to killing other men, who spread mistrust and suspicion by choosing victims and financing murder. There’s no pattern except violence,
political
violence, pitting faction against faction, government against government … people against people.” Scofield paused, seeing the concentration in Antonia’s face. “You said you were a political activist, a Communist. Fine. Good. So’s my associate here; he was trained in Moscow. I’m an American, trained in Washington. We’re enemies; we’ve fought each other a long time. The details aren’t important, but the fact that we’re working together now is. The men we’re trying to find are much more dangerous than any differences between us, between our governments. Because these men can escalate those differences
into something nobody wants; they can blow up the globe.”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Antonia pensively. Then she frowned. “But how could
she
know of such things?”

“She was there when it all began,” answered Bray “Nearly seventy years ago at Villa Matarese.”

The words emerged slowly as Antonia whispered. “ ‘The whore of Villa Matarese’.… The
padrone,
Guillaume?”

“He was as powerful as any man in England or France an obstacle to the cartels and the combines. He stood in their way and won too often, so they destroyed him. They used their governments to bring about his collapse; they killed his sons. He went crazy … but in his madness—and with the resources he had left—he put in motion a long-range plan to get revenge. He called together other men who’d been destroyed the same way he had; they became the Council of the Matarese. For years their specialty was assassination; years later they were presumed to have died. Now they’ve come back, more deadly than they ever were.” Scofield paused; he had told her enough “That’s as plainly as I can explain it and I hope you under stand. You want the men who killed your grandmother to pay for it. I’d like to think that one day they will, but I’ve also got to tell you that they don’t much matter.”

Antonia was silent for a few moments, her intelligent brown eyes riveted on Bray. “You’re quite clear, Signon Scofield. If they don’t matter, then I don’t matter, either Is that what you’re saying?”

“I guess I am.”

“And my Socialist comrade,” she added, glancing at Taleniekov, “would as soon remove my insignificant presence as not.”

“I look at an objective,” answered Vasili, “and I do my best to analyze the problems inherent in reaching it.”

“Yes, of course. Then do I turn around and walk into the woods, expecting the gunshot that will end my life?”

“That’s your decision,” said Taleniekov.

“I have a choice then? You would take my word that I’ll say nothing?”

“No,” replied the KGB man. “I would not.”

Bray studied Taleniekov’s face, his right hand inches
from the Browning automatic in his belt The Russian was leading up to something, testing the girl as he did so.

“Then what is the choice?” continued Antonia. “To let one or the other of your governments put me away, until you have found the men you seek?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Taleniekov. “We’re acting outside our governments; we do not have their approvals. To put it frankly, they seek us as intensely as we seek the men we spoke of.”

The girl reacted to the Russian’s startling information as though struck. “You’re hunted by your own people?” she asked.

Taleniekov nodded.

“I see. I understand clearly now. You will not accept my word and you cannot imprison me. Therefore I am a threat to you—far more than I imagined. So I have
no
choice, do I?”

“You may have,” replied the KGB man. “My associate mentioned it.”

“What was that?”

“Trust us. Help us get to Bastia and trust us. Something may come of it.” Taleniekov turned to Scofield and spoke one word. “Conduit.”

“We’ll see,” said Bray, removing his hand from his belt. They were thinking along the same lines.

The State Department contact in Murato was not happy; he did not want the complication he was faced with. As an owner of fishing boats in Bastia he wrote reports on Soviet naval maneuvers for the Americans. Washington paid him well and Washington had cabled
alerts
to stations everywhere that Brandon Alan Scofield, former specialist in Consular Operations, was to be considered a defector. Under such a classification the rules were clear: Take into custody, if possible, but if custody was out of the question, employ all feasible measures for dispatch.

Silvio Montefiori wondered briefly if such a course of action was worth a try. But he was a practical man and in spite of the temptation he rejected the idea. Scofield had the proverbial knife to Montefiori’s mouth, yet there was some honey on the blade. If Silvio refused the American’s request, his activities would be exposed to the
Soviets.
Yet if Silvio acceded to Scofield’s wishes, the defector
promised him ten thousand dollars. And ten thousand dollars—even with the poor rate of exchange—was probably more than any bonus he might receive for Scofield’s death.

Also, he would be alive to spend the money.

Montefiori reached the warehouse, opened the door and walked through the dark, deserted cavern until he stood next to the rear wall, as instructed. He could not see the American—there was too little light—but he knew Scofield was there. It was a matter of waiting while birds circled and signals were somehow relayed.

He took a thin, crooked cigar from his handkerchief pocket, fumbled through his trousers for a box of matches extracted one, and struck it. As he held the flame to the tip of the cigar, he was annoyed to see that his hand trembled.

“You’re sweating, Montefiori.” The voice came from the shadows on the left. “The match shows up the sweat all over your face. The last time I saw you, you were sweating. I was in charge of the pouch then, and asked you certain questions.”

“Brandon!” exclaimed Silvio, his greeting effusive. “My dear good friend! How fine it is to see you again … if I could see you.”

The tall American walked out of the shadows into the dim light. Montefiori expected to see a gun in his hand, but, of course, it was not there. Scofield never did the expected.