The Matarese Circle (40 page)

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re alive and well and living in Rome. Come on, I’ll help you dress.”

She brought her ringers up to his hand. “If you had suggested that yesterday I am not sure what I’d have said.”

“What do you say now?”

“Help me.”

There was an expensive restaurant on the Via Frascati owned by the three Crispi brothers, the oldest of whom ran the establishment with the perceptions of an accomplished thief and the eyes of a hungry jackal, both masked by a cherubic face, and a sweeping ebullience. Most who inhabited the velvet lairs of Rome’s
dolce vita
adored Crispi, for he was always understanding and discreet, the discretion more valuable than the sympathy. Messages left with him were passed between men and their mistresses, wives and their lovers, the makers and the made. He was a rock in the sea of frivolity, and the frivolous children of all ages loved him.

Scofield used him. Five years ago when NATO’s problems had reached into Italy, Bray had put his clamp on Crispi. The restaurateur had been a willing drone.

Crispi was one of the men Bray had wanted to see before Antonia had told him about the Scozzi-Paravacinis; now it was imperative. If anyone in Rome could shed light on an aristocratic family like the Scozzi-Paravacinis, it was the effusive crown prince of foolishness that was Crispi. They would have lunch at the restaurant on the Via Frascati.

An early lunch for Rome, considered Scofield, putting down his coffee and looking at his watch. It was barely noon, the sun outside the window warming the sitting room of the hotel suite, the sounds of traffic floating up from the Via Veneto below. The doctor had called the Excelsior and made the arrangements shortly past midnight, explaining confidentially to the manager that a wealthy patient was in sudden need of quarters—confidentially. Bray and Antonia had been met at the delivery entrance and taken up the service elevator to a suite on the eighth floor.

He had ordered a bottle of brandy and poured three successive drinks for Antonia. The cumulative effects of the alcohol, the medication, the pain, and the tension had
brought about the state he knew was best: sleep. He had carried her into the bedroom, undressed her, and put her to bed, covering her, touching her face, resisting the ache that would have placed him beside her.

On his way back to the couch in the sitting room he had remembered the clothes from the Via Condotti; he had stuffed them in his duffle bag before leaving the
pensione.
The white hat was the worse for the packing, but the silk dress was less wrinkled than he had thought it would be. He had hung them up before sleeping himself.

He had gotten up at ten and gone down to the shops in the lobby to buy a flesh-colored makeup base that would cover Antonia’s bruises, and a pair of Gucci sunglasses that looked remarkably like the eyes of a grasshopper. He had left them along with the clothes on the chair next to the bed.

She had found them an hour ago, the dress the first thing she had seen when she had opened her eyes.

“You are my personal
fanciulla!
” she had called out to him. “I am a princess in a fairy tale and my handmaidens wait upon me! What will my Socialist comrades think?”

“That you know something they don’t know,” Bray had replied. “They’d hang Marx in effigy to change places with you. Have some coffee and then get dressed. We’re having lunch with a disciple of the Medicis. You’ll love his politics.”

She was dressing now, humming fragments of an unfamiliar tune that sounded like a Corsican sea chanty. She had found part of her mind again and a semblance of freedom; he hoped she could keep both. There were no guarantees. The hunt would accelerate at the restaurant in the Via Frascati and she was part of it now.

The humming stopped, replaced by the sound of high-heeled shoes crossing a marble floor. She stood in the door and the ache returned to Scofield’s chest. The sight of her moved him and he felt oddly helpless. Stranger still, for a moment he wanted only to hear her speak, listen to her voice, as if hearing it would somehow confirm her immediate presence. Yet she did not speak. She stood there, lovely and vulnerable, a grown-up child seeking approval, resentful that she felt the need to seek it. The silk dress was tinged with deep red, complimenting her skin,
bronzed by the Corsican sun; the large wide hat framed half her face in white, the other half bordered by her long dark-brown hair. The strains of France and Italy had merged in Antonia Gravet; the results were striking.

“You look fine,” said Bray, getting up from the chair.

“Does the makeup cover the marks on my face?”

“I forgot about them so I guess it does.” In the ache he
had
forgotten. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not sure. I think the brandy did as much damage as the Brigatisti.”

“There’s a remedy. A few glasses of wine.”

“I think not, thank you.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll get your coat; it’s in the closet.” He started across the room, then stopped, seeing her wince. “You’re not all right, are you? It hurts.”

“No, please, really, I’m fine. The salve your doctor friend gave me is very good, very soothing. He’s a nice man.”

“I want you to go back and see him anytime you need help,” he said. “Whenever anything bothers you.”

“You sound as though you won’t be with me,” she replied. “I thought we settled that. I accepted your offer of employment, remember?”

Bray smiled. “It’d be hard to forget, but we haven’t defined the job. We’ll be together for a while in Rome, then depending on what we find, I’ll be moving on. Your job will be to stay here and relay messages between Taleniekov and me.”

“I am to be a
telegraph
service?” asked Antonia. “What kind of job is that?”

“A vital one. I’ll explain as we go along. Come on, I’ll get your coat.” He saw her close her eyes again. Pain had jolted her. “Antonia, listen to me. When you hurt, don’t try to hide it, that doesn’t help anybody. How bad is it?”

“Not so bad. It will pass, I know. I’ve been through this before.”

“Do you want to go back to the doctor?”

“No. But thank you for your concern.”

The ache was still there, but Scofield resisted it. “My only concern is that a person can’t function well when he’s hurt. Mistakes are made when he’s in pain. You won’t be allowed any mistakes.”

“I may have that glass of wine after all.”

“Please do,” he said.

They stood in the foyer of the restaurant, Bray aware of the glances Antonia attracted. Beyond the delicate lattice work that was the entrance to the dining room, the oldest Crispi was all teeth and obsequiousness. When he saw Bray he was obviously startled; for a split second his eyes became clouded, serious, then he recovered and approached them.

“
Benvenuto, amico mio!
” he cried.

“It’s been over a year,” said Scofield, returning the firm grip. “I’m here on business for only a day or so, and wanted my friend to try your
fettucini.
”

These were the words that meant Bray wished to speak privately with Crispi at the table when the opportunity arose.

“It is the best in Rome, signorina!” Crispi snapped his fingers for an inferior brother to show the couple to their table. “I shall hear you say it yourself momentarily. But first, have some wine, in case the sauce is not perfect!” He winked broadly, giving Scofield’s hand an additional clasp to signify he understood. Crispi never came to Bray’s table unless summoned.

A waiter brought them a chilled bottle of Pouilly Fumé”, compliments of the
fratelli,
but it was not until the
fettucini
had come and gone that Crispi came to the table. He sat in the third chair; introductions and the small talk that accompanied them were brief.

“Antonia’s working with me,” Scofield explained, “but she’s never to be mentioned. To anyone, do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“And neither am I. If anyone from the embassy—or anywhere else—asks about me, you haven’t seen me. Is that clear?”

“Clear, but unusual.”

“In fact, no one’s to know I’m here. Or
was
here.”

“Even your own people?”

“Especially my own people. My orders supersede embassy interests. That’s as plainly as I can put it.”

Crispi arched his brows, nodding slowly. “Defectors?”

“That’ll do.”

Crispi’s eyes became serious. “Very well, I have not seen you, Brandon. Then why are you here? Will you be sending people to me?”

“Only Antonia. Whenever she needs help getting cables off to me … and to someone else.”

“Why should she need my help to send cables?”

“I want them rerouted, different points of origin. Can you do it?”

“If the idiot
Communisti
do not strike the telephone service again, it is no problem. I call a cousin in Firenze, he sends one; an exporter in Athens or Tunis or Tel Aviv, they do the same. Everybody does what Crispi wants and no one asks a single question. But you know that.”

“What about your own phones? Are they clean?”

Crispi laughed. “With what is known to be said on my telephone, there is not an official in Rome who could permit such impertinence.”

Scofield remembered Robert Winthrop in Washington. “Someone else said that to me not so long ago. He was wrong.”

“No doubt he was,” agreed Crispi, his eyes amused. “Forgive me, Brandon, but you people deal merely in matters of state. We on the Via Frascati deal in matters of the heart. Ours take precedence where confidentiality is concerned. They always have.”

Bray returned the Italian’s smile. “You know, you may be right.” He lifted the glass of wine to his lips. “Let me throw a name at you. Scozzi-Paravacini.” He drank.

Crispi nodded reflectively. “Blood seeks money, and money seeks blood. What else is there to say?”

“Say it plainly.”

“The Scozzis are one of the noblest families in Rome. The venerable contessa to this day is chauffeured in her restored Bugatti up the Veneto, her children pretenders to thrones long since abandoned. Unfortunately, all they had were their pretensions, not a thousand lire between them. The Paravacinis had money, a great deal of money, but not a drop of decent blood in their veins. It was a marriage made in the heavenly courts of mutual convenience.”

“Whose marriage?”

“The contessa’s daughter to Signor Bernardo Paravacini.
It was a long time ago, the dowry a number of millions and gainful employment for her son, the count. He assumed his father’s title.”

“What’s his name?”

“Guillamo. Count Guillamo Scozzi.”

“Where does he live?”

“Wherever his interests—financial and otherwise—take him. He has an estate near his sister’s in Tivoli, but I don’t think he’s there very often. Why do you ask? Is he connected with defectors? It’s hardly likely.”

“He may not be aware of it. It could be he’s being used by people who work for him.”

“Even more unlikely. Beneath his charming personality, there’s the mind of a Borgia. Take my word for it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know
him,
” said Crispi, smiling. “He and I are not so different.”

Bray leaned forward. “I want to meet him. Not as Scofield, of course. As someone else. Can you arrange it?”

“Perhaps. If he’s in Italy, and I think he is. I read somewhere that his wife is a patron of the Festa Villa d’Este, being held tomorrow night. It is a charity affair for the gardens. He would not miss it; as they say, everyone in Rome will be there.”

“Your Rome, I trust,” said Scofield. “Not mine.”

He watched her across the hotel room as she lifted the skirt out of the box and folded it on her lap as though checking for imperfections. He understood that the pleasure he derived from buying her things was out of place. Clothes were a necessity; it was as simple as that but his knowing it did not erase the warmth that spread through him watching her.

The prisoner was free, the decisions restored, and although she had commented about the exorbitant prices at the Excelsior, she had not refused to let him buy clothes for her at the shops. It had been a game. She would look over at Bray; if he nodded, she would frown, feigning disapproval—invariably glancing at the price tag—then slowly re-evaluate, ultimately acknowledging his taste.

His wife used to do that in West Berlin. In West Berlin it had been one of
their
games. His Karine was always worried about money. They were going to have children
one day, money was important, and the government was not a generous corporation. No Grade Twelve foreign service officer was about to open a Swiss bank account.

Of course, by then Scofield had. In Bern. And in Paris and London and, naturally, Berlin. He had not told her; his true professional life had never touched her. Until it touched her with finality. Had things been different, he might have given her one of those accounts. After he had transferred out of Consular Operations into a civilized branch of the State Department.

Godamn it!
He was
going
to! It had only been a matter of
weeks!

“You are so far away.”

“What?” Bray brought the glass to his lips; it was a reflex gesture for he had finished the drink. It occurred to him that he was drinking too much.

“You’re looking at me, but I don’t think you see me.”

“I certainly do. I miss the hat I liked the white hat.”

She smiled. “You don’t wear a hat inside. The waiter who brought us dinner would have thought me silly.”

“You wore it at Crispi’s place. That waiter didn’t.”

“A restaurant is different.”

“Both inside.” He got up and poured himself a drink.

“Thank you again for these.” Antonia glanced at the boxes and shopping bags beside the chair. “It is like Christmas Eve, I don’t know which to open next.” She laughed. “But there was never a Christmas in Corsica like this! Pa
pa
would scowl for a month at the sight of such things. Yes, I
do
thank you.”

“No need to.” Scofield remained by the table, adding more whisky to his glass. “They’re equipment. Like an office typewriter or an adding machine or file cabinets. They go with the job.”