The Matarese Circle (36 page)

“A third-chair violinist for the Sevastopol Symphony. I’ll have his papers somewhat altered.”

“I hope no one asks you to play.”

“Severe arthritis has caused indisposition.”

“Let’s work out our codes,” said Bray, glancing at Antonia, who was smoking a cigarette and talking to a young Bastian sailor standing next to her. She was handling herself well; she laughed politely but coolly, putting a gentle distance between herself and the importunate young man. In truth, there was more than a hint of elegance in her behavior, out of place in the waterfront cafe, but welcome to the eyes. His eyes, reflected Scofield, without thinking further.

“What do you think will happen,” asked Taleniekov, watching Bray.

“I’ll know in forty-eight hours,” Scofield said.

The trawler approached the Italian coastline. The winter seas had been turbulent, the crosscurrents angry and
the boat slow; it had taken them nearly seventeen hours to make the trip from Bastia. It would be dark soon, and a small lifeboat would be lowered over the side to take Scofield and Antonia ashore.

Besides getting them to Italy where the hunt for the family of Count Alberto Scozzi would begin, the tediously slow journey served another purpose for Bray. He had the time and the seclusion to learn more about Antonia Gravet—for that unexpectedly was her last name, her father having been a French artillery sergeant stationed in Corsica during the Second World War.

“So you see,” she had told him, the curve of a smile on her lips, “my French lessons were very inexpensive. It was only necessary to anger pa
pa,
who was never comfortable with my mother’s Italian.”

Except for those moments when her mind wandered back to Porto Vecchio, a change had come over her. She began to laugh, her brown eyes reflecting the laughter, bright, infectious, at times nearly manic, as if the act of laughing itself were a release she needed. It was almost impossible for Scofield to realize that the girl sitting next to him, dressed in khaki trousers and a torn field jacket was the same woman who had been so sullen and unresponsive. Or who had shouted orders in the hills and handled the Lupo so efficiently. They had several minutes left before going into the lifeboat, so he asked her about the Lupo.

“I went through a phase; we all do, I think. A time when drastic social change seems possible only through violence. Those maniacs from the Brigate Rosse knew how to play us.”

“The Brigades? You were with the
Red Brigades?
Good
Lord!
”

She nodded. “I spent several weeks at a Brigatisti camp in Medicina, learning how to fire weapons, and scale walls and hide contraband—none of which I did particularly well, incidentally—until one morning when a young student, a boy, really, was killed in what the leaders called a ‘training accident.’ A
training accident,
such a
military
sound, but they were not soldiers. Only brutes and bullies, let loose with knives and guns. He died in my arms, the blood flowing from his wound … his eyes so frightened and bewildered. I hardly knew him but when he died, I
couldn’t stand it. Guns and knives and clubs were not the way; that night I left and returned to Bologna.

“So what you saw in Porto Vecchio was an act. It was dark, and you did not see the fear in my eyes.”

He had been right. She was not for the barricades; there would be no merry month of May for her.

“You know.” he said slowly, “we’re going to be together for a while.”

There was no fear in her eyes now. “We have not settled that question, have we?”

“What question?”

“Where I’m going. You and the Russian said I was to trust you, do as you were doing, leave Corsica and say nothing. Well, signore, we’ve left Corsica and I’ve trusted you. I didn’t run away.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Antonia paused briefly. “Fear, and you know it. You’re not normal men. You speak courteously, but move too quickly for courteous men. The two don’t go together. I think underneath you are what the crazy people in the Brigate Rosse would like to be. You frighten me.”

“That stopped you?”

“The Russian wanted to kill me. He watched me closely; he would have shot me the instant he thought I was running.”

“Actually, he didn’t want to kill you and he wouldn’t have. He was just sending a message.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, you were perfectly safe.”

“Am I safe now? Will you take my word that I will say nothing and let me go?”

“Where to?”

“Bologna. I can always get work there.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing very impressive. I’m hired as a researcher at the university. I look up boring statistics for the
professori
who write their boring books and articles.”

“A researcher?” Bray smiled to himself. “You must be very accurate.”

“What is it to be accurate? Facts are facts. Will you let me go back to Bologna?”

“Your work isn’t steady then?”

“It is work I
like,
” replied Antonia. “I work when I wish to, leaving me time for other things.”

“You’re actually a self-employed free-lancer with your own business,” said Scofield, enjoying himself. “That’s the essence of capitalism, isn’t it?”

“And you’re maddening! You ask questions but you don’t answer mine!”

“Sorry. Occupational characteristic. What was your question?”

“Will you let me go? Will you accept my word; will you trust me? Or must I wait for that moment when you cannot be watching and run?”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” replied Bray courteously. “Look, you’re an honest person. I don’t meet many. A minute ago you said you didn’t run away before because you were afraid to, not because you trusted us. That’s being honest. You brought us up to Bastia. Be honest with me now. Knowing what you know—seeing what you saw in Porto Vecchio—how good is your word?”

At midships, the lifeboat was being hoisted over the railing by four crewmen: Antonia watched it as she spoke “You’re being unfair. You know what I saw, and you know what you told me. When I think about it, I want to cry out and.…” She did not finish: instead she turned back to him, her voice weary. “How good is my word? I don’t know. So what’s left for me? Will it be you and not the Russian who fires the bullet?”

“I may offer you a job.”

“I don’t want work from you.”

“We’ll see,” said Bray.

“
Venite subito, signori. La lancia va partire.
”

The lifeboat was in the water. Scofield reached for the duffle bag at his side and got to his feet. He held out his hand for Antonia. “Come on. I’ve had easier people to deal with.”

The statement was true. He could kill this woman if he had to. Still, he would try not to have to.

Where was the new life for Beowulf Agate now?

God, he hated this one.

Bray hired a taxi in Fiumicino, the driver at first reluctant to accept a fare to Rome, changing his mind instantly
at the sight of the money in Scofield’s hand. They stopped for a quick meal and still reached the inner city before eight o’clock. The streets were crowded, the shops doing a brisk evening’s business.

“Pull up in that parking space,” said Bray to the driver. They were in front of a clothing store. “Wait here,” he added, including Antonia in the command. “I’ll guess your size.” He opened the door.

“What are you doing?” asked the girl.

“A transition,” replied Scofield in English. “You can’t walk into a decent shop dressed like that.”

Five minutes later he returned carrying a box containing denim slacks, a white blouse, and a woolen sweater. “Put these on,” he said.

“You’re mad!”

“Modesty becomes you, but we’re in a hurry. The stores’ll close in an hour. I’ve got things to wear; you don’t.” He turned to the driver, whose eyes were riveted on the rear-view mirror. “You understand English better than I thought,” he said in Italian. “Drive around. I’ll tell you where to go.” He opened his duffle bag, and pulled out a tweed jacket.

Antonia changed in the back seat of the taxi, glancing frequently at Scofield. As she slipped the khakis off and the denims on, her long legs caught the light of the streets. Bray looked out the window, conscious of being affected by what he saw in the corner of his eye. He had not had a woman in a long time; he would not have this one. It was entirely possible that he might have to kill her.

She pulled the sweater over her blouse; the loose-fitting wool did not conceal the swell of her breasts and Scofield made it a point to focus his eyes on hers. “That’s better. Phase one complete.”

“You’re very generous, but these would not have been my choices.”

“You can throw them away in an hour. If anyone asks you, you’re off a charter boat in Ladispoli.” He addressed the driver again. “Go to the Via Condotti. I’ll pay you there; we won’t need you any longer.”

The shop on the Via Condotti was expensive, catering to the idle and the rich, and it was obvious that Antonia Gravet had never been in one like it. Obvious to Bray; he
doubted it was so to anyone else. For she had innate taste—born, not cultivated. She might have been bursting at the sight of the wealth of garments displayed, but she was the essence of control. It was the elegance Bray had seen in the filthy waterfront cafe in Bastia.

“Do you like it?” she asked, coming out of a fitting room in a subdued, dark silk dress, a wide-brimmed white hat, and a pair of high-heeled white shoes.

“Very nice,” said Scofield, meaning it, and her, and everything he saw.

“I feel like a traitor to all the things I’ve believed for so long,” she added, whispering. “These prices could feed ten families for a month! Let’s go somewhere else.”

“We don’t have time. Take them and get some kind of coat and anything else you need.”

“You
are
mad.”

“I’m in a hurry.”

From a booth on the Via Sistina, he called a
pensione
in the Piazza Navona where he stayed frequently when in Rome. The landlord and his wife knew nothing at all about Scofield—they were not curious about any of their transient tenants—except that Bray tipped generously whenever they accommodated him. The owner was happy to do so tonight.

The Piazza Navona was crowded; it was always crowded, thus making it an ideal location for a man in his profession. The Bernini fountains were magnets for citizens and tourists alike, the profusion of outdoor cafes places of assignation, planned and spontaneous; Scofield’s had always been planned. A table in a crowded square was a good vantage point for spotting surveillance. It was not necessary to be concerned about such things now.

Now it was only necessary to get some sleep, let the mind clear itself. Tomorrow a decision would have to be made. The life or the death of the woman at his side whom he guided through the Piazza to an old stone building and the door of the
pensione.

The ceiling of their room was high, the windows enormous, opening onto the square three stories below. Bray pushed the overstuffed sofa against the door and pointed to the bed across the room.

“Neither of us slept very much on that damned boat. Get some rest.”

Antonia opened one of the boxes from the shop in the Via Condotti and took out the dark silk dress. “Why did you buy me these expensive clothes?”

“Tomorrow we’re going to a couple of places where you’ll need them.”

“Why are we going to these places? They must surely be extravagant.”

“Not really. There are some people I have to see, and I want you with me.”

“I wanted to thank you. I’ve never had such beautiful clothes.”

“You’re welcome.” Bray went over to the bed and removed the spread; he returned to the sofa. “Why did you leave Bologna and go to Corsica?”

“More questions?” she said quietly.

“I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“I told you. I wanted to get away for a while. Is that not a good enough reason?”

“It’s not much of an explanation.”

“It’s the one I prefer to give.” She studied the dress in her hands.

Scofield slapped the spread over the sofa. “Why Corsica?”

“You saw that valley. It is remote, peaceful. A good place to think.”

“It’s certainly remote; that makes it a good place to hide out. Were you hiding from someone—or something?”

“Why do you say things like that?”

“I have to know. Were you hiding?”

“Not from anything you would understand.”

“Try me.”

“
Stop
it!” Antonia held the dress out for him. “Take your clothes. Take anything you want from me, I can’t stop you! But leave me
alone.
”

Bray approached her. For the first time, he saw fear in her eyes. “I think you’d better tell me. All that talk about Bologna … it was a lie. You wouldn’t go back there even if you could. Why?”

She stared at him for a moment, her brown eyes glistening. When she began, she turned away, and walked to the window overlooking the Piazza Navona. “You might as well know, it doesn’t matter any longer.… You’re wrong. I can go back; they expect me back. And if I do not return, one day they will come looking for me.”

“Who?”

“The leaders of the Red Brigades. I told you on the boat how I had run away from the camp in Medicina. That was over a year ago and for over a year I have lived a lie far greater than the one I told you. They found me, and I was put on trial in the Red Court—they call it the Red Court of Revolutionary Justice. Sentences of death are not mere phrases, they are very real executions, as the world knows now.

“I had not been indoctrinated, yet I knew the location of the camp and had witnessed the death of the boy. Most damaging, I had run away. I couldn’t be trusted. Of course, I didn’t matter compared to the objectives of the revolution; they said I had proved myself less than insignificant. A traitor.

“I saw what was coming, so I pleaded for my life. I claimed that I had been the student’s lover, and that my reaction—although perhaps not admirable—was understandable. I stressed that I had said nothing to
anyone,
let alone the police. I was as committed as any in that court to the revolution—more so than most, for I came from a truly poor family.