The Matarese Circle (35 page)

“How are you, Silvio?” said the “defector.”

“Well, my dear good friend!” Montefiori knew better than to reach for a handshake. “Everything’s arranged. I take a great risk, pay my crew ten times their wages, but nothing is too much for a friend I admire so. You and the
provocateur
need only to go to the end of Pier Seven in Bastia at one o’clock this morning. My best trawler will get you to Livorno by daybreak.”

“Is that its usual run?”

“Naturally not. The usual port is Piombino. I pay for the extra fuel gladly, with no thought of my loss.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“And why not? You have always been fair with me.”

“And why not? You’ve always delivered.” Scofield reached into his pocket and took out a roll of bills. “But I’m afraid there’ll be some changes. To begin with, I need
two boats; one is to sail out of Bastia to the south, the other north, both staying within a thousand yards of the coastline. Each will be met by a speedboat which will be scuttled. I’ll be in one, the Russian in the other; I’ll give you the signals. Once on board, he and I will both head for open water, where the two courses will be charted, the destinations known only to the captains and ourselves.”

“So many complications, my friend! They are not necessary, you have my word!”

“And I’ll treasure it, Silvio, but while it’s locked in my heart, do as I say.”

“Naturally!” said Montefiori, swallowing. “But you must realize how this will add to my costs.”

“Then they should be covered, shouldn’t they?”

“It gladdens me you understand.”

“Oh, I do, Silvio.” The American peeled off a number of very large bills. “For starters, I want you to know that your activities on behalf of Washington will never be revealed by me; that in itself is a considerable payment, if you place any value on your life. And I want you to have this. It’s five thousand dollars.” Scofield held out the money.

“My dearest fellow, you said
ten
thousand! It was on your
word
that I predicated my very expensive arrangements!” Perspiration oozed from Montefiori’s pores. Not only was his relationship with the Department of State in untenable jeopardy, but this pig of a traitor was about to rob him blind!

“I haven’t finished, Silvio. You’re much too anxious. I know I said ten thousand and you’ll have it. That leaves five thousand due you, without figuring in your additional expenses. Is that right?”

“Quite right,” said the Corsican. “The expenses are murderous.”

“So much is these days,” agreed Bray. “Let’s say … fifteen percent above the original price, is that satisfactory?”

“With others I might argue, but never with you.”

“Then we’ll settle for an additional fifteen hundred, okay? That leaves a total of six thousand, five hundred coming to you.”

“That is a troublesome phrase. It implies a future delivery
and my expenses are current. They cannot be put off.”

“Come on, old friend. Certainly someone of your reputation can be trusted for a few days.”

“A few days, Brandon? Again, so vague. A ‘few days’ and you could be in Singapore. Or Moscow. Can you be more specific?”

“Sure. The money will be in one of your trawlers, I haven’t decided which yet. It’ll be under the forward bulk-head, to the right of the center strut, and hidden in a hollow piece of stained wood attached to the ribbing. You’ll find it easily.”

“Mother of God, so will others!”

“Why? No one will be looking unless you make an announcement.”

“It’s far too risky! There’s not a crewman on board who would hesitate to kill his mother in front of his priest for such an amount! Really, my dear friend, come to your senses!”

“Don’t worry, Silvio. Meet your boats in the harbor. If you don’t find the wood, look for a man with his hand blown off; he’ll have the money.”

“It will be
trapped?
” asked Montefiori incredulously, the sweat drenching his shirt collar.

“A set screw on the side; you’ve done it before. Just remove it and the charge is deactivated.”

“I’ll hire my brother …” Silvio was depressed; the American was not a nice person. It was as if Scofield had been reading his thoughts. Since the money was on board, it would be counterproductive to have either boat sunk; the State Department might not pay in full. And by the time both were back in Bastia, the despicable Scofield could be sailing down the Volga. Or the Nile. “You won’t reconsider my dear good friend?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. And I won’t tell anybody how much Washington thinks of you, either. Don’t fret, Silvio, the money will be there. You see, we may be in touch again. Very soon.”

“Do not hurry, Brandon. And please, say nothing further. I do not care to know anything. Such burdens! What are the signals for tonight?”

“Simple. Two flashes of light, repeated several times, or until the trawlers stop.”

“Two flashes, repeated.… Distressed speedboats seeking help. I cannot be responsible for accidents at sea.
Ciao,
my old
friend.
” Montefiori blotted his neck with his handkerchief, turned in the dim light of the warehouse, and started across the concrete floor.

“Silvio?”

Montefiori stopped. “Yes?”

“Change your shirt.”

They had watched her closely for nearly two days now, both men silently acknowledging that a judgment had to be made. She would either be their conduit or she would have to die. There was no middle ground, no security prison or isolated compound to which she could be sent. She would be their conduit or an act of sheer, cold necessity would take place.

They needed someone to relay messages between them. They could not communicate directly; it was too dangerous. There had to be a third party, stationed in one spot, under cover, familiar with whatever basic codes they mounted—above all, secretive and accurate. Was Antonia capable of being that person? And if she was, would she accept the risks that went with the job? So they studied her as if thrown into a crash-analysis of an impending exchange between enemies on neutral ground.

She was quick and had surface courage, qualities they had seen in the hills. She was also alert, conscious of danger. Yet she remained an enigma; her core eluded them. She was defensive, guarded, quiet for long periods, her eyes darting in all directions at once as though she expected a whip to crack across her back, or a hand to grab her throat from the shadows behind. But there were no whips, no shadows in the sunlight.

Antonia was a strange woman and it occurred to both professionals that she was hiding something. Whatever it was—if it was—she was not about to reveal it. The moments of rest provided nothing; she kept to herself—intensely to herself—and refused to be drawn out.

But she did what they had asked her to do. She got them to Bastia without incident, even to the point of knowing where to flag down a broken-down bus that carried laborers from the outskirts into the port city. Taleniekov
sat with Antonia in the front while Scofield remained at the rear, watching the other passengers.

They emerged on the crowded streets, Bray still behind them, still watching, still alert for a break in the pattern of surrounding indifference. A face suddenly rigid, a pair of eyes zeroing in on the erect, middle-aged man walking with the dark-haired woman thirty paces ahead. There was only indifference.

He had told the girl to head for a bar on the waterfront, a rundown hole where no one dared intrude on a fellow drinker. Even most Corsos avoided the place; it served the dregs of the piers.

Once inside, they separated again, Taleniekov joining Bray at a table in the corner, Antonia ten feet away at another table, the chair next to her angled against the edge, reserved. It did nothing to inhibit the drunken advances of the customers. These, too, were part of her testing; it was important to know how she handled herself.

“What do you think?” asked Taleniekov.

“I’m not sure,” said Scofield. “She’s elusive. I can’t find her.”

“Perhaps you’re looking too hard. She’s been through an emotional upheaval; you can’t expect her to act with even the semblance of normalcy. I think she can do the job. We’d know soon enough if she can’t; we can protect ourselves with prearranged cipher. And quite frankly, who else do we turn to? Is there a man at any station anywhere you could trust? Or I could trust? Even what you call drones outside the stations; who would not be curious? Who could resist the pressures of Washington or Moscow?”

“It’s the emotional upheaval that bothers me,” Bray said. “I think it happened long before we found her. She said she was down in Porto Vecchio to get away for a while. Get away from what?”

“There could be a dozen explanations. Unemployment is rampant throughout Italy. She could be without work. Or an unfaithful lover, an affair gone sour. Such things are not relevant to what we would be asking her to do.”

“Those aren’t the things I saw. Besides, why should we trust her, and even if we took the chance, why would she accept?”

“She was there when that old woman was killed,” said the Russian. “It may be enough.”

Scofield nodded. “It’s a start, but only if she’s convinced there’s a specific connection between what we’re doing and what she saw.”

“We made that clear. She heard the old woman’s words; she repeated them.”

“While she was still confused, still in shock. She’s got to be convinced.”

“Then convince her.”

“Me?”

“She trusts you more than she does her ‘Socialist comrade,’ that’s obvious.”

Scofield lifted his glass. “Were you going to kill her?”

“No. That decision would have had to come from you. It still does. I was uncomfortable seeing your hand so close to your belt.”

“So was I.” Bray put down the glass and glanced over at the girl. Berlin was never far away—Taleniekov understood that—but Scofield’s mind and his eyes were not playing tricks with his memories now; he was not in a cave on the side of a hill watching a woman toss her hair free in the light of a fire. There was no similarity between his wife and Antonia any longer. He could kill her if he had to. “She’ll go with me, then,” he said to the Russian. “I’ll know in forty-eight hours. Our first communication will be direct; the next two through her in prearranged code so we can check the accuracy.… If we want her and she says she’ll do it.”

“And if we do not, or she does not?”

“That’ll be my decision, won’t it.” Bray made a statement; he did not ask a question. Then he took out the leaf of lettuce from his jacket pocket and opened it. The yellowed scrap of paper was intact, the names blurred but legible. Without looking down, Taleniekov repeated them.

“Count Alberto Scozzi, Rome. Sir John Waverly, London. Prince Andrei Voroshin, St. Petersburg—the name Russia is added, and, of course, the city is now Leningrad. Señor Manuel Ortiz Ortega, Madrid; he’s crossed out Josua—which is presumed to be Joshua—Appleton, State of Massachusetts, America. The Spaniard was killed by the
padrone
at Villa Matarese, so he was never part of the council. The remaining four have long since died, but
two of their descendants are very prominent, very available. David Waverly and Joshua Appleton the fourth. Britain’s Foreign Secretary and the senator from Massachusetts. I say we go for immediate confrontation.”

“I don’t,” said Bray, looking down at the paper and the childlike writing of the letters. “Because we do know who they are, and we don’t know anything about the others. Who are their descendants? Where are they? If there’re more surprises, let’s try to find them first. The Matarese isn’t restricted to two men, and these two in particular may have nothing to do with it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everything I know about both of them would seem to deny anything like the Matarese. Waverly had what they call in England a ‘good war’; a young commando, highly decorated. Then a hell of a record in the Foreign Office. He’s always been a tactical compromiser, not an inciter; it doesn’t fit.… Appleton’s a Boston Brahmin who bolted the class lines and became a liberal reformer for three terms in the Senate. Protector of the working man as well as the intellectual community. He’s a shining knight on a solid, political horse that most of America thinks will take him to the White House next year.”

“What better residence for a
consigliere
of the Matarese?”

“It’s too jarring, too pat. I think he’s genuine.”

“The art of conviction—in both instances, perhaps. But you’re right: they won’t vanish. So we start in Leningrad and Rome, trace what we can.”

“ ‘You and
yours
will do what I can no longer do.…’ Those were the words Matarese used seventy years ago. I wonder if it’s that simple.”

“Meaning the ‘yours’ could be selected, not born?” asked Taleniekov. “Not direct descendants?”

“Yes.”

“It’s possible, but these were all once-powerful families. The Waverlys and the Appletons still are. There are certain traditions in such families, the blood is always uppermost. Start with the families. They were to inherit the earth; those were his words, too. The old woman said it was his vengeance.”

Scofield nodded. “I know. She also said they were only the survivors, that they were controlled by another … that we should look for someone else.”

“ ‘With a voice crueler than the wind,’ ” added the Russian. “ ‘It is he,’ she said.”

“The shepherd boy,” said Bray, staring at the scrap of yellow paper. “After all these years, who is he? What is he?”

“Start with the families,” repeated Taleniekov. “If he’s to be found, it is through them.”

“Can you get back into Russia? To Leningrad?”

“Easily. Through Helsinki. It will be a strange return for me. I spent three years at the university in Leningrad. It’s where they found me.”

“I don’t think anyone’ll throw you a welcome-home party.” Scofield folded the scrap of yellow paper into the leaf of lettuce and put it in his pocket. He took out a small notebook. “When you’re in Helsinki, stay at the Tavastian Hotel until you hear from me. I’ll tell you whom to see there. Give me a name.”

“Rydukov, Pietri,” replied the KGB man without hesitating.

“Who’s that?”