The Matarese Circle (43 page)

Scozzi did so. “
Veni! Presto!
”

Bray heard racing feet on the dark path; in seconds a broad-shouldered, stocky man in evening clothes came running out of the shadows.

“Sorveglia quest’uomo!”

The guard did not hesitate. He pulled out a short-barrelled revolver, leveling it at Bray. Scozzi spoke, as if superimposing a control on himself, explaining the unnecessary.

“These are troubled times, Signore Pastore. All of us travel with these Praetorians you just mentioned. Terrorists are everywhere.”

The moment was irresistible. It was the instant to insert the final, verbal blade. “That’s something you people should know about. Terrorists, I mean. Like the Brigades. Do the orders come from the shepherd boy?”

It was as though Scozzi had been struck by an unseen hammer. His upper body convulsed, fending off the blow, feeling its impact, trying to recover but not sure it was possible. In the dim light, Scofield could see perspiration forming at the Italian’s hairline, matting the perfectly groomed gray temples. His eyes were the eyes of a terrified animal.

“
Rimanere,
” he whispered to the guard, then rushed away up the dark path.

Scofield turned to the man, looking afraid and speaking in Italian. “I don’t know what this is all about any more than you do! I offered your boss a lot of money from someone and he goes crazy. Christ, I’m just a salesman!” The guard said nothing, but Bray’s obvious fear relieved
him. “Do you mind if I have a cigarette? Guns scare the hell out of me.”

“Go ahead,” said the broad-shouldered man.

It was the last thing he would say for several hours. Scofield reached into his pocket with his left hand, his right at his side—in shadow, under the guard’s elbow. As he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, he shot his right hand up, clasping his fingers around the barrel of the guard’s revolver, twisting hand and weapon violently in a counterclockwise motion. Dropping the cigarettes, he gripped the man’s throat with his left hand, choking off all sound, propelling the guard off the path, over the bordering rocks into the dense foliage beyond. As the man fell, Bray ripped the gun away from the twisted wrist, and brought the handle down sharply on the man’s skull. The guard went limp; Scofield pulled him farther into the weeds.

No second could be wasted. Guillamo Scozzi had raced away seeking council; it was the only explanation. Somewhere alone, on a terrace or in a room, the
consigliere
was bringing his shocking information to another. Or others.

Bray ran up the path, keeping in the shadows as much as possible, slowing down to a rapid walk as he emerged on the plateau of terraces that fronted the final incline of steps into the villa itself. Somewhere just above,
somewhere
was the panicked Scozzi. To whom was he running? Who could make the decision this powerful, frightened man was incapable of making?

Scofield took the steps rapidly, the guard’s revolver in his trouser pocket, his Browning strapped to his chest beneath his tuxedo. He walked through the French doors into a crowded room; it was the “courtyard” devoted anachronistically to the crashing sounds of the disco beat. Revolving, mirrored globes of colored lights hung from the ceiling, spinning crazily, as dancers weaved together, their faces set in rigid expressions, lost in the beat and grass and alcohol.

This was the nearest room to the most direct set of steps from the closest terrace to the path from Ippolito’s Fountain. In Scozzi’s state of mind it
had
to be the one he entered first; there were two entrances. Which had he taken?

There was a break in the movement on the dance floor, and Bray had his answer. There was a heavy door in the wall behind a long buffet table. Two men were rushing toward it; they had been summoned; an alarm had been raised.

Scofield made his way to the door, excusing himself around the rim of frenzied bodies, and slowly pushed it open, his hand on the Browning under his jacket. Beyond was a narrow winding staircase of thick reddish stone; he could hear footsteps above.

There were other sounds as well. Men were shouting, two voices raised in counterpoint, one stronger, calmer; the other on the verge of hysteria. The latter voice was Count Guillamo Scozzi’s.

Bray started up the steps, pressing his back against the wall, the Browning held at his side. Around the first curve was a door, but the voices did not come from within it; they were farther up, beyond a second door, diagonally above on a third landing. Scozzi was screaming now. Scofield was close enough to hear the words clearly.

“He spoke of the
Brigades,
and—oh my
God
—of the
shepherd!
Of the
Corsicans!
He
knows!
Mother of Christ, he
knows!
”

“
Silence!
He probes, he does not know. We were told he might do so; the old man called for him, and
he
had certain facts. More than we presumed, and that is troublesome, I grant you.”

“
Troublesome?
It’s
chaos!
A word, a hint, a breath, and I could be
ruined!
Everywhere!”

“You?” said the stronger voice contemptuously. “You are nothing, Guillamo! You are only what we tell you you are. Remember that.… You walked away, of course. You gave him no inkling that there was a shred of credibility to what he said.”

There was a pause. “I called my guard, told the American to remain where he was. He is under the gun, still by the fountain.”

“You
what?
You left him with a
guard?
An
American?
Are you
mad?
That is impossible. He is no such thing!”

“He’s American, of course he is! His English is American—
completely
American. He uses the name Pastor, I told you that!”

Another pause, this one ominous, the tension electric.
“You were always the weakest link, Guillamo; we know that. But now you’ve caved in too far. You’ve left an open question where there can be
none!
That man is Vasili Taleniekov! He changes languages as a chameleon alters its colors, and he will kill a guard with no more effort than stepping on a maggot. We cannot afford you, Guillamo. There can be no link at all. None whatsoever.”

Silence … brief, cut short by a gunshot and a guttural explosion of breath. Guillamo Scozzi was dead.

“Leave him!” commanded the unknown
consigliere
of the Matarese. “He’ll be found in the morning, his car at the bottom of the gorge of Hadrian. Go find this ‘Pastor,’ this elusive Taleniekov! He won’t be taken alive, don’t try. Find him. Kill him.… And the girl in white. She, also. Kill them both.”

Scofield lunged down the narrow staircase, around the curve. The last words he heard from beyond the door above, however, were so strange, so arresting, he nearly stopped, tempted to fire at the emerging killers and go back up to face the unknown man, who spoke them.

“… 
Scozzi!
Mother of Christ! Reach Turin. Tell them to cable the eagles, the cat. The burials must be absolute.…”

There was no time to think, he had to reach Antonia; he had to get them out of Villa d’Este. He pulled back the door and rushed out into the pounding madness. Suddenly, he was aware of the row of chairs lined up against the wall, most were empty, some draped with discarded capes and furs and stoles.

If he could eliminate one pursuer the advantage would be several fold. One man sending out an alarm would be far less effective than two. And there was something else. A trapped man convinced he was about to lose his life would more than likely reveal an identity to save it. He turned into the wall, his hands on the rim of a chair, a
cavaliere
with too much wine in him.

The heavy door burst open and the first of the two killers raced out, his companion close behind. The first man headed for the French doors and the steps to the terrace below; the second started around the edge of the dance floor toward the far archway.

Scofield leaped forward, twisting his body in a series of contortions as though he were a lone dancer gone wild
with the percussive sounds of the rock music; he was not the only picture of drunkenness; there were more than a few on the crowded dance floor. He reached the second man and threw his arm over a shoulder, clamping his hand on the holster beneath the jacket, immobilizing the weapon inside it by gripping the handle through the cloth, forcing the barrel into the man’s chest. The Italian struggled; it was useless and in seconds he knew it. Bray surged his right hand along the edge of the man’s waist and dug his fingers into the base of the rib cage, yanking back with such force that the man screamed.

The scream went unnoticed for there were screams everywhere, and deafening music and revolving lights that blinded one moment, leaving residues of white the next. Scofield pulled the man back to the row of chairs against the wall and spun him around, forcing him down into the one at the end nearest the heavy door. He plunged his fingers into the Italian’s throat, his left hand now under the jacket, his fingers inching toward the trigger, the barrel still jammed into the man’s flesh. He put his lips next to the killer’s ear.

“The man upstairs! Who
is he?
Tell me, or your own gun will blow your lungs out! The shot won’t even be heard in here! Who
is
he?”

“
No!
” The man tried to arch out of the chair; Bray sunk his knee cap into the rising groin, his fingers choking the windpipe. He pressed both; pain without release or relief.

“I warn you and it’s final!
Who is he?
”

Saliva poured out of the man’s mouth, his eyes two circles of red webs, his chest heaving in surrender. He abandoned his cause, and he expelled the name in a strained whisper.

“
Paravacini.
”

Bray viced a last clamp on the killer’s windpipe; the air to the lungs and the head was suspended for slightly more than two seconds; the man fell limp. Scofield angled him down over the adjacent chair; one more drunken
bello Romano.

He turned and threaded his way through the narrow path between the row of chairs and the jagged line of fever-pitched dancers. The first man had gone outside; Bray could roam freely for a minute or two, but no longer.
He pressed his way through the crowd in the entranceway and walked into a less-frenzied gathering in the next room.

He saw her in the corner, the dark-haired Paolo standing next to her, two other
cavalieri
in front, all vying for her attention. Paolo, however, seemed less insistent; he knew future possessions when he saw them, where his count was concerned. The first thought that came to Bray’s mind was that Toni’s dress had to be covered.

 … 
the girl in white. She, also, kill them both.
…

He walked rapidly up to the foursome, knowing precisely what he would do. A diversion was needed, the more hysterical the better. He touched Paolo’s arm, his eyes on Antonia, his look telling her to stay quiet.

“You
are
Paolo, aren’t you?” he asked the dark-haired man in Italian.

“Yes, sir.”

“Count Guillamo wants to see you right away. It’s some kind of emergency, I think.”

“Of course! Where is he, sir?”

“Go through the arch over there and turn right, past a row of chairs, to a door. There’s a staircase.…” The young Italian rushed away; Bray excused Toni and himself from the remaining two men. He held her arm and propelled her toward the arch that led into the disco.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“We’re leaving,” he answered. “Inside here, there are some coats and things on the chairs. Grab the darkest and the largest one you can find. Quickly, we haven’t much time.”

She found a long black cape, as Bray stood between her and the contortionists on the dance floor. She bunched it under her arm and they elbowed their way to the French doors and the steps outside.

“Here, put it on,” ordered Scofield, draping it over her shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said, starting down the steps. “We’ll cut through the terraces to the right and back inside through the hall to the parking.…”

Screams erupted from inside. Men shouted, women shrieked, and within seconds figures in various stages of drunkenness surged out of doors, colliding with each other. There was sudden chaos inside and the panicked words were clear.

E stato ucciso!

Terroristi!

Fuggiamo!

The body of Count Guillamo Scozzi had been found.

Bray and Antonia raced down to the first level of terrace, and began running by a wall filled with ornate planter boxes. At the end of the enclosure there was a narrow opening into the next. Scofield held her hand and pulled her through.

“
Alto!
You stay!”

The shout came from above; the first man who had rushed out of the door only minutes before, stood on the stone steps, a weapon in his hand. Bray slammed his shoulder into Antonia, sending her crashing into the wall. He dove to his right on the concrete, rolled to his left, and yanked the Browning from his holster. The man’s shots exploded the ancient stone above Scofield; Bray aimed from his back, his shoulders off the pavement, his right hand steadied by his left. He fired twice; the killer fell forward, tumbling down the steps.

The gunshots accelerated the chaos; screams of terror filled the elegant terraces of the Villa d’Este. Bray reached Antonia; she was crouching by the wall.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m alive.”

“Come on!”

They found a break in the wall where a trough carried a rushing stream of water to a pool below. They stepped through and ran down the side of the manmade rivulet to the first path, an alleyway, bordered on both sides by what appeared to be hundreds of stone statues spewing arcs of water in unison. The floodlights filtered through the trees; the scene was eerily peaceful, juxtaposed to but not affected by the stampeding chaos from the terraces above.

“Straight through!” said Scofield. “At the end there’s a waterfall and another staircase. It’ll get us back up there.”