The Matarese Circle (30 page)

“I will,” said the blind woman. “For your lies are not those of self-seeking men. Dangerous men, perhaps, but not men moved by profit. You do not look for the
padrone
for your own personal gain.”

Scofield could not help himself; he leaned forward. “How do you know?”

The old woman’s vacant yet powerful pale blue eyes held his; it was hard to accept the fact that she could not see. “It is in your voices,” she said. “You are afraid.”

“Have we reason to be?” asked Taleniekov.

“That would depend on what you believe, wouldn’t it?”

“We believe a terrible thing has happened,” said Bray. “But we know very little. That’s as honestly as I can put it.”

“What
do
you know, signori?”

Again Scofield and Taleniekov exchanged glances; the Russian nodded first. Bray realized that Antonia was watching them closely. He spoke as obviously to her as to the old woman. “Before we answer you, I think it would be better if your granddaughter left us alone.”

“No!” said the girl so harshly that Uccello snapped up his head.

“Listen to me,” continued Scofield. “It’s one thing to bring us here, two strangers your grandmother wanted to meet. It’s something else again to be involved with us. My … associate … and I have experience in these matters. It’s for your own good.”

“Leave us, Antonia.” The blind woman turned in the chair. “I have nothing to fear from these men and you must be tired. Take Uccello with you; rest in the barn.”

“All right,” said the girl, getting up, “but Uccello will remain here.” Suddenly, from beneath the pillow, she took out the Lupo and leveled it in front of her. “You both
have guns. Throw them on the floor. I don’t think you would leave here without them.”

“That’s ridiculous!” cried Bray, as the dog got to its feet growling.

“Do as the lady says,” snapped Taleniekov, shoving his Graz-Burya across the floor.

Scofield took out his Browning, checked the safety, and threw the weapon on the rug in front of Antonia. She bent down and picked up both automatics, the Lupo held firmly in her hand. “When you’ve finished, open the door and call out to me. I will summon Uccello. If he does not come, you won’t see your guns again. Except looking down the barrels.” She let herself out quickly; the dog emitted a growl and returned to the floor.

“My granddaughter is high-spirited,” said the old woman, settling back in her chair. “The blood of Guillaume, though several times removed, is still apparent.”

“She’s
his
granddaughter?” asked Taleniekov.

“His great-grandchild, born to my daughter’s child quite late in
her
life. But that first daughter was the result of the
padrone
bedding his young whore.”

“ ‘The whore of Villa Matarese’ ” said Bray. “You told her to tell us that was what you were called.”

The old woman smiled, brushing aside a lock of white hair. For an instant she was in that other world, and vanity had not deserted her. “Many years ago. We will go back to those days, but before we do, your answers, please. What
do
you know? What brings you here?”

“My associate will speak first,” said Taleniekov. “He is more learned in these matters than I am, although I came to him with what I believed to be startling new information.”

“Your name, please,” interrupted the blind woman. “Your true name and where you come from.”

The Russian glanced at the American; in the look between them was the understanding that no purpose would be served by further lies. On the contrary, that purpose might be thwarted by them. This simple but strangely eloquent old woman had listened to the voices of liars for the better part of a century—in darkness; she was not to be fooled.

“My name is Vasili Vasilovich Taleniekov. Formerly external affairs strategist, KGB, Soviet Intelligence.”

“And you?” The woman shifted her blind eyes to Scofield.

“Brandon Scofield. Retired intelligence officer, Euro-Mediterranean sectors, Consular Operations, United States Department of State.”

“I see.” The old courtesan brought her thin hands and delicate fingers up to her face, a gesture of quiet reflection. “I am not a learned woman, and live an isolated life, but I am not without news of the outside world. I often listen to my radio for hours at a time. The broadcasts from Rome come in quite clearly, as do those from Genoa, and frequently Nice. I pretend no knowledge, for I have none, but your coming to Corsica together would appear strange.”

“It is, madame,” said Taleniekov.

“Very,” agreed Scofield.

“It signifies the gravity of the situation.”

“Then let your associate begin, signore.”

Bray sat forward in the chair, his arms on his knees, his eyes on the blind eyes in front of him. “At some point between the years 1909 and 1913, Guillaume de Matarese summoned a group of men to his estate in Porto Vecchio. Who they were and where they came from has never been established. But they gave themselves a name—”

“The date was April 4, 1911,” interrupted the old woman. “They did not give themselves a name, the
padrone
chose it. They were to be known as the Council of the Matarese.… Go on, please.”

“You were
there?
”

“Please continue.”

The moment was unsettling; they were talking about an event that had been the object of speculation for decades, with no records of dates or identities, no witnesses. Now—delivered in a brief few seconds—they were told the correct year, the exact month, the precise day.

“Signore?…”

“Sorry. During the next thirty years or so, this Matarese and his ‘council’ were the subject of controversy.…” Scofield told the story rapidly, without embellishment, keeping his words in the simplest Italian he knew so there’d be no misunderstanding. He admitted that the majority of experts who had studied the Matarese legend had concluded it was more myth than reality.

“What do
you
believe, signore? That is what I asked you at the start.”

“I’m not sure what I believe, but I know a very great man disappeared four days ago. I think he was killed because he spoke to other powerful men about the Matarese.”

“I see.” The old woman nodded. “Four days ago. Yet I thought you said thirty years … from that first meeting in 1911. What happened then, signore? There are many years to be accounted for.”

“According to what we know—or what we think we know—after Matarese died the council continued to operate out of Corsica for a number of years, then moved away, negotiating contracts in Berlin, London, Paris, New York and God knows where else. Its activities began to fade at the start of the Second World War. After the war it disappeared; nothing was heard from it again.”

A trace of a smile was on the old woman’s lips. “So from nowhere it comes back, is that what you are saying?”

“Yes. My associate can tell you why we believe it.” Bray looked at Taleniekov.

“Within recent weeks,” said the Russian, “two men of peace from both our countries were brutally assassinated, each government led to believe the other was responsible. Confrontation was avoided by a swift exchange between our leaders, but they were dangerous moments. A dear friend sent for me; he was dying and there were things he wanted me to know. He had very little time and his mind wandered, but what he told me compelled me to seek out others for help, for guidance.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That the Council of the Matarese was very much with us. That, in fact, it never disappeared but instead went underground, where it continued to grow silently and spread its influence. That it was responsible for hundreds of acts of terrorism and scores of assassinations during recent years for which the world condemned others. Among them the two men I just mentioned. But the Matarese no longer killed for money; instead, it killed for its own purposes.”

“Which were?” asked the old woman in that strange, echoing voice.

“He did not know. He knew only that the Matarese
was a spreading disease that had to be stamped out, but he could not tell me how, or whom to go to. No one who ever had dealings with the council will speak of it.”

“He offered you nothing, then?”

“The last thing he said to me before I left him was that the answer might be in Corsica. Naturally, I was not convinced of that until subsequent events left no alternative. For either me or my associate, agent Scofield.”

“I understand your associate’s reason: a great man disappeared four days ago because he spoke of the Matarese. What was yours, signore?”

“I, too, spoke of the Matarese. To those men from whom I sought guidance, and I was a man of credentials in my country. The order was put out for my execution.”

The old woman was silent and, again, there was that slight smile on her wrinkled lips. “The
padrone
returns,” she whispered.

“I think you must explain that,” said Taleniekov. “We’ve been frank with you.”

“Did your dear friend die?” she asked instead.

“The next day. He was given a soldier’s funeral and he was entitled to it. He lived a life of violence without fear. Yet at the end, the Matarese frightened him profoundly.”

“The
padrone
frightened him,” said the old woman.

“My friend did not know Guillaume de Matarese.”

“He knew his disciples. It was enough; they were him. He was their Christ, and as Christ, he died for them.”

“The
padrone
was their god?” asked Bray.

“And their prophet, signore. They believed him.”

“Believed what?”

“That they would inherit the earth. That was his vengeance.”

The old woman’s vacant eyes stared at the wall as she spoke in her half-whisper.

He found me in the convent at Bonifacio and negotiated a favorable price with the Mother Superior. “Render unto Caesar,” he said, and she complied for she agreed that I was not given to God. I was frivolous and did not take to my lessons and looked at myself in dark windows for they showed me my face and my body. I was to be given to man, and the
padrone
was the man of all men.

I was ten and seven years of age and a world beyond my imagination was revealed to me. Carriages with silver wheels and golden horses with flowing manes took me above the great cliffs and into the villages and the fine shops where I could purchase whatever struck me. There was nothing I could not have, and I wanted everything, for I came from a poor shepherd’s family—a God-fearing father and mother who praised Christ when I was taken into the convent and never seen again.

And always at my side was the
padrone.
He was the lion and I was his cherished cub. He would take me around the countryside, to all the great houses and introduce me as his
protetta,
laughing when he used the word. Everyone understood and joined in the laughter. His wife had died, you see, and he had passed his seventieth year. He wanted people to know—his two sons above all, I think—that he had the body and the strength of youth, that he could lie with a young woman and satisfy her as few men could.

Tutors were hired to teach me the graces of his court: music and proper speech, even history and mathematics, as well as the French language which was the fashion of the time for ladies of bearing. It was a wondrous life. We sailed often across the sea, on to Rome, then we would train north to Switzerland and across into France and to Paris. The
padrone
made these trips every five or six months. His business holdings were in those places, you see. His two sons were his directors, reporting to him everything they did.

For three years I was the happiest girl in the world for the world was given me by the
padrone.
And then that world fell apart. In a single week it came crashing down and Guillaume de Matarese went mad.

Men traveled from Zürich and Paris, from as far away as the great exchange in London, to tell him. It was a time of great banking investments and speculation. They said
that during the four months that had passed, his sons had done terrible things, made unwise decisions, and most terrible of all had entered into dishonest agreements, commiting vast sums of money to dishonorable men who operated outside the laws of banking and the courts. The governments of France and England had seized the companies and stopped all trade, all access to funds. Except for the accounts he held in Genoa and Rome, Guillaume de Matarese had nothing.

He summoned his two sons by wireless, ordering them home to Porto Vecchio to give him an accounting of what they had done. The news that came back to him, however, was like a thunderbolt striking him down in a great storm; he was never the same again.

Word was sent through the authorities In Paris and London that both the sons were dead, one by his own hand, the other killed—if was said—by a man he had ruined. There was nothing left for the
padrone;
his world had crumbled around him. He locked himself in his library for days on end, never coming out, taking trays of food behind the closed door, speaking to no one. He did not lie with me for he had no interest in matters of the flesh. He was destroying himself, dying by his own hand as surely as if he had taken a knife to his stomach.

Then one day a man came from Paris and insisted on breaking into the
padrone’s privacy. He was a journalist who had studied the fall of the Matarese companies, and he brought with him an incredible story. If the padrone
was driving himself into madness before he heard it, afterward he was beyond hope.

The destruction of his world was deliberately brought about by bankers working with their governments. His two sons had been tricked into signing illegal documents, and blackmailed—held up to ruin—over matters of the flesh. Finally, they had been murdered, the false stories of their deaths acceptable, for the “official” evidence of their terrible crimes was complete.

It was beyond reason. Why had these things been done to the great padrone? His companies stolen from him and destroyed; his sons killed. Who would want such things to be done?