The Matarese Circle (41 page)

“I see.” She replaced the skirt and the blouse into the box. “But you don’t,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Niente.
Does the whisky help you relax?”

“You could say that. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you. I’m more relaxed than I have been in a long time. It would be wasted.”

“To each according to his needs. Or wants,” said Scofield lowering himself into a chair. “You can go to bed, if you like. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“Does my company bother you?”

“No, of course not.”

“But you prefer to be alone.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

She used to say that. In West Berlin, when there were problems and I would sit by myself trying to think as others might think. She would be talking and I would not hear her. She used to get angry—not angry, hurt—and say “You’d rather be alone, wouldn’t you?” And I would, but I could not explain. Perhaps if I had explained.… Perhaps an explanation would have served as a warning.

“If something’s troubling you, why not talk about it?”

Oh, God, her words. In West Berlin.

“Stop trying to be
somebody else!
” He heard the statement shouted in his own voice. It was the whisky, the goddamn
whisky!
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he added quickly, putting the glass down. “I’m tired and I’ve had too much to drink. I didn’t mean it.”

“Of course you did,” said Antonia, getting up. “I think I understand now. But you should understand also. I am not somebody else. I have had to pretend to be someone who was not me and that is the surest way to know who you are. I am myself, and you helped me—find that person again.” She turned and walked rapidly into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

“Toni, I’m
sorry
.…” Bray stood up, furious with himself. In an outburst, he had revealed far more than he cared to. He hated the loss of control.

There was a knock on the door, the hallway door; Scofield spun around. Instinctively he felt the holster strapped to his chest under his jacket. He went to the side of the door and spoke.

“Si? Chi è?”

“Un messaggio, Signor Pastorine. Da vostro amico, Crispi. Di Via Frascati.”

Bray put his hand inside his jacket, checked the chain on the door, and opened it. In the hallway stood the waiter from Crispi’s who had served their table. He held up an envelope and handed it to Scofield through the open space. Crispi had taken no risks; his own man was the messenger.

“
Grazie. Un momento,
” said Bray, reaching into his pocket for a lire note.

“
Prego,
” replied the waiter, accepting the tip.

Scofield closed the door, and tore open the envelope. Two gold-embossed tickets were attached to a note. He removed them and read Crispi’s message, the handwriting as florid as the language.

Bray smiled. Crispi was right; no one who performed middleman services for the sheiks ever discussed those services. Profiles were kept excessively low because the stakes were excessively high. He would talk of other things with Count Guillamo Scozzi.

He heard the latch turn on the bedroom door. There was a moment of hesitation before Antonia opened it. When she did, Bray realized why. She stood in the door-frame in a black slip he had bought her downstairs. She had removed her brassiere, her breasts swelling against the sheer silk, her long legs outlined below in opaque darkness. She was barefoot, the bronzed skin of her calves and ankles in perfect concert with her arms and face. Her lovely face, striking yet gentle, with the dark eyes that held his without wavering, without judgment.

“You must have loved her very much,” she said.

“I did. It was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough, apparently. You called me Toni. Was that her name?”

“No.”

“I’m glad. I would not wish to be mistaken for someone else.”

“You made that clear. It won’t happen again.”

Antonia was silent, remaining motionless in the doorway, her eyes still without judgment. When she spoke, it was a question. “Why do you refuse yourself?”

“I’m not an animal in the hold of a freighter.”

“We both know that. I’ve seen you look at me, then look away as though it were not permitted. You’re tense, but you seek no release.”

“If I want that kind of … release … I know where to find it.”

“I offer it to you.”

“The offer will be taken under consideration.”

“
Stop it!
” cried Antonia, stepping forward. “You want a whore? Then think of me as a courier’s
whore!
”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then don’t look at me the way you do! A part of you with me, another far away. What do you
want?
”

Please don’t do this. Leave me where I was, deep in the earth, comfort in the darkness. Don’t touch me, for if you do, you die. Can’t you understand that? Men will call you across a barrier and they will kill you. Leave me with whores, professionals—as I am a professional. We know the rules. You don’t.

She stood in front of him; he had not seen her come to him, she was simply there. He looked down at her, her face tilted up to his, her eyes close, her tears near, her lips parted.

Her whole body was trembling; she was gripped by fear. The scars had been torn away; he had ripped them because she had seen the ache in his eyes.

She
could not erase
his
pain. What made her think he could erase hers?

And then, as if she were reading his thoughts, she whispered again.

“If you loved her so much, love me a little. It may help.”

She reached up to him, her hands cupping his face, her lips inches from his, the trembling no less for the nearness. He put his arms around her; their lips touched and the ache was released. He was drawn into a wind; he felt his own tears well up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks, mingling with hers. He let his hands fall down her back, caressing her, pulling her to him, holding her,
holding
her. Please,
closer,
the moisture of her mouth arousing
him, replacing the ache of pain with the ache of wanting her beside him. He swept his hand around to her breast; she pulled her own hand down and pressed it over his, pushing herself against him, revolving her body to the rhythm that infused them both.

She pulled her mouth away. “Take me to bed. In the name of God,
take me.
And love me. Please love me a little.”

“I tried to warn you,” he said. “I tried to warn us both.”

He was coming out of the earth and there was sunlight above. Yet in the distance there was the darkness still. And fear; he felt it sharply. But for the moment, he chose to remain in the sunlight—if only for a while. With her.

The magnificence of the Villa d’Este was not lost in the chill of the evening. The floodlights had been turned on and the banks of fountains illuminated—thousands of cascading streams caught in the light as they arced in serrated ranks down the steep inclines. In the centers of the vast pools, the geysers surged up into the night, umbrella sprays sprinkling in the floodlights like diadems. And at each formation of rock constructed into a water-fall, screens of rushing silver fell in front of ancient statuary; saints and centaurs were drenched in splendor.

The gardens were officially closed to the public; only Rome’s most beautiful people were invited to the Festa Villa d’Este. The purpose was ostensibly to raise funds for its maintenance, augmenting the dwindling government subsidies, but Scofield had the distinct impression that there was a secondary, no less desirable motive: to provide an evening where Villa d’Este could be enjoyed by its true inheritors, unencumbered by the tourist world. Crispi was right. Everyone in Rome was there.

Not his Rome, thought Bray, feeling the velvet lapels of his tuxedo. Their Rome.

The huge rooms of the villa itself had been transformed into palace courtyards, complete with banquet tables
and gilded chairs lining the walls—resting spots for the courtiers and courtesans at play. Russian sable and mink, chinchilla and golden fox draped shoulders dressed by Givenchy and Pucci; webs of diamonds and strings of pearls fell from elongated throats, and all too often from too many chins. Slender
cavalieri,
dashing in their scarlet cummerbunds and graying temples, coexisted with squat, bald men who held cigars and more power than their appearances might signify. Music was provided by no fewer than four orchestras ranging in size from six to twenty instruments, playing everything from the stately strains of Monteverdi to the frenzied beat of the disco. Villa d’Este belonged to the
belli Romani.

Of all the beautiful people, one of the most striking was Antonia—Toni. (It was Toni now by dual decree arrived at in the comfort of the bed.) No jewels adorned her neck or wrists; somehow they would have detracted from the smooth, bronzed skin set off by the simple gown of white and gold. The facial swellings had receded, as the doctor had said they would. She wore no sunglasses now, her wide brown eyes reflecting the light. She was as lovely as any part of her surroundings, lovelier than most of her would-be equals for her beauty was understated, and grew with each second of observation in the beholder’s eyes.

For convenience, Toni was introduced quite simply as the rather mysterious Mr. Pastor’s friend from Lake Como. Certain parts of the lake were known to be retreats for the expensive children of the Mediterranean. Crispi had done his job well; he had provided just enough information to intrigue a number of guests. Those who might wish to learn the most about the quiet Mr. Pastor were told the least while others too imbued with themselves to care about Pastor were told more, so they could relate what they had learned as gossip, which was their major industry.

Those men whose concerns were more directly—even exclusively—financial, were prone to take his elbow and inquire softly about the projected status of the dollar or the stability of investments in London, San Francisco and Buenos Aires. With such inquisitors, Scofield inclined his head briefly at some suggestions and shook it with a single motion at others. Eyebrows were raised—unobtrusively.
Information had been imparted, although Bray had no idea what it was.

After one such encounter with a particularly insistent questioner he took Toni’s arm and they walked through a massive archway into the next crowded “courtyard.” Accepting two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray, Bray handed one to Toni and looked around over the crystal rim as he drank.

Without having seen him before Scofield knew he had just found Count Guillamo Scozzi. The Italian was in a corner chatting with two long-legged young women, his eyes roaming from their attentive stares, glancing about the room with feigned casualness. He was a tall, slender man, a
cavaliere
complete with tails and graying hair that spread in streaks from his temples throughout his perfectly groomed head. In his lapel were tiny colorful ribbons, around his waist a thin gold sash, bordered in dark red and knotted off-center. If any missed the significance of the ribbons, they could not overlook the mark of distinction inherent in the sash; Scozzi wore his escutcheons prominently. In his late fifties the count was the embodiment of the
bello Romano;
no
Siciliano
had ever crept into the bed of his ancestors and
per Dio
the world had better know it.

“How will you find him?” asked Antonia, sipping the wine.

“I think I just have.”

“Him? Over there?” she asked. Bray nodded. “You’re right. I’ve seen his picture in the newspapers. He’s a favorite subject of the
paparrazzi.
Are you going to introduce yourself?”

“I don’t think I’ll have to. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s looking for me.” Scofield gestured toward a buffet table. “Let’s walk over to the end table, by the pastries. He’ll see us.”

“But how would he know you?”

“Crispi. Our benevolent intermediary may not have bothered to describe me, but he sure as hell wouldn’t overlook describing you. Not with someone like Scozzi.”

“But I had those huge sunglasses on.”

“You’re very funny,” said Bray.

It took less than a minute before they heard a mellifluous
voice behind them at the buffet table. “Signore Pastor, I believe.”

They turned. “I beg your pardon? Have we met?” Scofield asked.

“We were about to, I think,” said the count, extending his hand. “Scozzi. Guillamo Scozzi. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The title was emphasized by its absence.

“Oh, of
course.
Count Scozzi. I told that delightful fellow Crispi I’d look you up. We arrived here less than an hour ago and it’s been a little hectic. I would have recognized you, naturally, but I’m surprised you knew me.”

Scozzi laughed, displaying teeth so white and so perfectly formed they could not possibly have come with the original machine. “Crispi is, indeed, delightful, but I’m afraid a bit of a rascal. He was rapturous over
la bella signorina.
” The count inclined his head to Antonia. “I see her, I find you. As always, Crispi’s taste is impeccable.”

“Excuse me.” Scofield touched Toni’s forearm. “Count Scozzi, my friend, Antonia … from Lake Como.” The first name and the lake said it all; the count took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“An adorable creature. Rome must see more of you.”

“You’re too kind, Excellency,” said Antonia, as if born to attend the Festa Villa d’Este.