Savarone crossed the yard, aware that people were watching him. That was good; that was the way it had been two years ago when Il Duce’s secret police were tracking his every move, trying to unearth the whereabouts of an antifascist cell. The factory whistles blew; the day shift was released and within minutes the yard and the corridors would be crowded. The incoming workers—due at their stations at six fifteen—were flooding through the west gate.
He climbed the steps to the employees’ entrance and entered the crowded, noisy corridor, removing his coat and hat in the confusion. Tesca stood by the wall, halfway toward the doors that led to the workers’ lockers. He was tall and slender, very much like Savarone, and he took Savarone’s coat and hat and helped Fontini-Cristi into his own worn, three-quarter-length raincoat with a newspaper in the pocket. Then he handed Savarone a large cloth visor cap. The exchange was completed without words in the jostling crowds. Tesca accepted Savarone’s assistance in putting on the camel’s hair coat; the employer saw that the employee had taken the trouble—as he had done two years ago—to change into pressed trousers, shined shoes, and a white whirt and tie.
The partigiano entered the flow of human traffic to the exit doors. Savarone followed ten yards behind, then stood immobile on the crowded platform outside the constantly opening doors, pretending to read the newspaper.
He saw what he wanted to see. The camel’s hair coat and the green Tyrolean hat stood out among the worn leather jackets and frayed workers’ clothing. Two men beyond the throngs signaled each other and began the chase, making their way through the crowd as best they could in an effort to catch up. Savarone squeezed himself into the stream of workers and arrived at the gate in time to see the door of the Fontini-Cristi limousine close and the huge automobile roll into the traffic of the Via di Sempione. The two pursuers were at the curb; a gray Fiat pulled up and they climbed in.
The Fiat took up the chase. Savarone turned north and walked swiftly to the corner bus stop.
The house on the riverfront was a relic that once, perhaps a decade ago, had been painted white. From the outside it looked dilapidated, but inside the rooms were small, neat, and organized; they were places of work, an antifascist headquarters.
Savarone entered the room with the windows overlooking the murky waters of the Olona River, made black by the darkness of night. Three men rose from straight-backed chairs around a table and greeted him with feeling and respect. Two were known to him; the third, he presumed, was from Rome.
“The hammer code was sent this morning,” said Savarone. “What does it mean?”
“You received the wire?” asked the man from Rome incredulously. “All telegrams to Fontini-Cristi in Milan were intercepted. It’s why I’m here. All communications to your factories were stopped.”
“I received mine at Campo di Fiori. Through the telegraph office in Varese, I imagine, not Milan.” Savarone felt a minor relief in knowing his son had not disobeyed. “Have you the information?”
“Not all, padrone,” replied the man. “But enough to know it’s extremely serious. And imminent. The military is suddenly very concerned with the northern movement. The generals want it crippled; they intend to see your family exposed.”
“As what?”
“As enemies of the new Italy.”
“On what grounds?”
“For holding meetings of a treasonable nature at Campo di Fiori. Spreading antistate lies; of attempting to undermine Rome’s objectives and corrupt the industrial arm of the country.”
“Words.”
“Nevertheless, an example is to be made. They demand it, they say.”
“Nonsense. Rome wouldn’t dare move against us on such tenuous grounds.”
“That is the problem, signore,” said the man hesitantly. “It’s not Rome. It’s Berlin.”
“What?”
“The Germans are everywhere, giving orders to everyone. The word is that Berlin wants the Fontini-Cristis stripped of influence.”
“They look to the future, don’t they,” stated one of the other two men, an older partigiano who had walked to the window.
“How do they propose to accomplish this?” asked Savarone.
“By smashing a meeting at Campo di Fiori. Forcing those there to bear witness to the treasons of the Fontini-Cristis. That would be less difficult than you think, I believe.”
“Agreed. It’s the reason we’ve been careful.… When will this happen? Do you have any idea?”
“I left Rome at noon. I can only assume the code word ‘hammer’ was used correctly.”
“There’s a meeting tonight.”
“Then ‘hammer’ was called for. Cancel it, padrone. Obviously, word got out.”
“I’ll need your help. I’ll give you names … our telephones are unsafe.” Fontini-Cristi began writing in a notebook on the table with a pencil supplied by the third partigiano.
“When’s the meeting scheduled?”
“Ten thirty. There’s enough time,” replied Savarone.
“I hope so. Berlin is thorough.”
Fontini-Cristi stopped writing and looked over at the man. “That’s a strange thing to say. The Germans may bark orders in the Campidoglio; they’re not in Milan.”
The three partisans exchanged glances. Savarone knew there was further news he had not received. The man from Rome finally spoke.
“As I said, our information is not complete. But we know certain things. The degree of Berlin’s interest, for example. The German high command wants Italy to openly declare itself. Mussolini wavers; for many reasons, not the least of which is the opposition of such powerful men as yourself—” The man stopped; he was unsure. Not, apparently, of his information, but how to say it.
“What are you driving at?”
“They say that Berlin’s interest in the Fontini-Cristis is Gestapo inspired. It’s the Nazis who demand the example; who intend to crush Mussolini’s opposition.”
“I gathered that. So?”
“They have little confidence in Rome, none in the provinces. The raiding party will be led by Germans.”
“A German raiding party out of Milan?”
The man nodded.
Savarone put down the pencil and stared at the man from Rome. But his thoughts were not on the man; they were on a Greek freight from Salonika he had met high in the mountains of Champoluc. On the cargo that train carried. A vault from the Patriarchate of Constantine, now buried in the frozen earth of the upper regions.
It seemed incredible, but the incredible was commonplace in these times of madness. Had Berlin found out about the train from Salonika? Did the Germans know about the vault? Mother of Christ, it had to be kept from them! And all—all—like them!
“You’re sure of your information?”
“We are.”
Rome could be managed, thought Savarone. Italy needed the Fontini-Cristi Industries. But if the German intrusion was linked to the vault from Constantine, Berlin would not consider Rome’s needs in the slightest. The possession of the vault was everything.
And, therefore, the protection of it essential beyond all life. Above all things its secret could not fall into the wrong hands. Not now. Perhaps not ever, but certainly not now.
The key was Vittorio. It was always Vittorio, the most capable of them all. For whatever else he was, Vittorio was a Fontini-Cristi. He would honor the family’s commitment; he was a match for Berlin. The time had come to tell him about the train from Salonika. Detail the family’s arrangements with the monastic Order of Xenope. The timing was right, the strategy complete.
A date marked in stone, etched for a millennium, was only a hint, a clue in case of a sudden failing of the heart, death from abrupt natural or unnatural causes. It was not enough.
Vittorio had to be told, charged with a responsibility beyond anything in his imagination. The documents from Constantine made everything else pale into insignificance.
Savarone looked up at the three men. “The meeting will be canceled toni
ght. The raiding party will find only a large family gathering. A holiday dinner party. All my children and their children. However, for it to be complete, my oldest son must be at Campo di Fiori. I’ve tried calling him all afternoon. Now you must find him. Use your telephones. Call everyone in Milan if you have to, but find him! If it gets late, tell him to use the stable road. It wouldn’t do for him to enter with the raiding party.”
2
DECEMBER 29, 1939
LAKE COMO, ITALY
The white, twelve-cylinder Hispano-Suiza, its off-white leather top rolled halfway back, uncovering the front, red leather seat, took the long curve at high speed. Below on the left were the winter-blue waters of Lake Como, to the right the mountains of Lombardy.
“Vittorio!” shrieked the girl beside the driver, holding her wind-shocked blonde hair with one hand, her collar of Russian pony with the other. “I’ll be undone, my lamb!”
The driver smiled, his squinting gray eyes steady on the onrushing road in the sunlight, his hands expertly, almost delicately, feeling the play in the ivory steering wheel. “The Suiza is a far better car than the Alfa-Romeo. The British Rolls is no comparison.”
“You don’t have to prove it to me, darling. My God, I refuse to look at the speedometer! And I’ll be an absolute mess!”
“Good. If your husband’s in Bellagio, he won’t recognize you. I’ll introduce you as a terribly sweet cousin from Verona.”
The girl laughed. “If my husband’s in Bellagio, he’ll have a terribly sweet cousin to introduce to us.”
They both laughed. The curve came to an end, the road straightened, and the girl slid over next to the driver. She slipped her hand under the arm of his tan suede jacket, enlarged by the heavy wool of the white turtleneck sweater beneath; briefly she placed her face against his shoulder.
“It was sweet of you to call. I really had to get away.”
“I knew that. It was in your eyes last night. You were bored to death.”
“Well, God, weren’t you? Such a dreary dinner party! Talk, talk, talk! War this, war that. Rome yes, Rome no, Benito always. I’m positively sick of it! Gstaad closed! St. Moritz filled with Jews throwing money at everyone! Monte Carlo an absolute fiasco! The casinos are closing, you know. Everybody says so. It’s all such a bore!”
The driver let his right hand drop from the steering wheel and reached for the fold of the girl’s overcoat. He separated the fur and caressed her inner thigh as expertly as he fingered the ivory steering wheel. She moaned pleasantly and craned her neck, putting her lips to his ear, her tongue darting.
“You continue that, we’ll end up in the water. I suspect it’s damned cold.”
“You started it, my lovely Vittorio.”
“I’ll stop it,” he said smiling, returning his hand to the wheel. “I won’t be able to buy another car like this for a long time. Today everything is the tank. Far less profit in the tank.”
“Please! No war talk.”
“You’ll get none from me,” said Fontini-Cristi, laughing again. “Unless you want to negotiate a purchase for Rome. I’ll sell you anything from conveyor belts to motorcycles to uniforms, if you like.”
“You don’t make uniforms.”
“We own a company that does.”
“I forgot. Fontini-Cristi owns everything north of Parma and west of Padua. At least, that’s what my husband says. Quite enviously, of course.”
“Your husband, the sleepy count, is a dreadful businessman.”
“He doesn’t mean to be.”
Vittorio Fontini-Cristi smiled as he braked the long white automobile for a descending curve in the road toward the lakeshore. Halfway down, on the promontory that was Bellagio, stood the elegant Villa Lario, named for the ancient poet of Como. It was a resort lodge known for its extraordinary beauty, as well as its marked exclusivity.
When the elite moved north, they played at Villa Lario. Money and family were their methods of entry. The commessi were diffident, soft-spoken, aware of their clientele’s every proclivity, and most alert as to the scheduling of reservations. It was uncommon for a husband or a wife, a lover or a mistress, to receive a quiet, cautioning phone call suggesting another date for arrival. Or rapid departure.
The Hispano-Suiza swerved into the parking lot of blue brick; two uniformed attendants raced from the heated booth to both sides of the automobile, opening the doors and bowing.
The attendant at Vittorio’s side spoke. “Welcome to Villa Lario, signore.”
It was never nice-to-see-you-again-signore.
Never.
“Thank you. We have no luggage. We’re here only for the day. See to the oil and petrol. Is the mechanic around?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have him check the alignment. There’s too much play.”
“Of course, signore.”
Fontini-Cristi got out of the car. He was a tall man, over six feet in height. His straight, dark-brown hair fell over his forehead; his features were sharp—as aquiline as his father’s—and his eyes, still squinting in the bright sunlight, were at once passive and alert. He walked in front of the white hood, absently feeling the radiator cap, and smiled at his companion, the Contessa d’Avenzo. Together they crossed to the stone steps leading up to the entrance of Villa Lario.
“Where did you tell the servants you were off to?” asked Fontini-Cristi.
“Treviglio. You are a horse trainer who wants to sell me an Arabian.”
“Remind me to buy you one.”
“And you? What did you say at your office?”
“Nothing, really. Only my brothers might ask for me; everyone else waits patiently.”
“But not your brothers.” The Contessa d’Avenzo smiled. “I like that. The important Vittorio is hounded in business by his brothers.”
“Hardly! My sweet younger brothers have between them three wives and eleven children. Their problems are continuously and forever domestic. I think sometimes I’m a referee. Which is fine; they keep occupied and away from business.”
They stood on the terrace outside the glass doors that led to the lobby of Villa Lario and looked down at the enormous lake and across to the mountains beyond.
“It’s beautiful,” said the contessa. “You’ve arranged for a room?”
“A suite. The penthouse. The view’s magnificent.”
“I’ve heard of it. I’ve never been up there.”
“Few people have.”
“I imagine you lease it by the month.”
“That’s not really necessary,” said Fontini-Cristi, turning toward the huge glass doors. “You see, as it happens I own Villa Lario.”
The Contessa d’Avenzo laughed. She preceded Vittorio into the lobby. “You are an impossible, amoral man. You get richer from your own kind. My God, you could blackmail half of Italy!”
“Only our Italy, my dear.”
“That’s enough!”
“Hardly. But I’ve never had to, if it relieves your mind. I’m merely a guest. Wait here, please.”
Vittorio walked over to the front desk. The tuxedoed clerk behind the marble counter greeted him. “How good of you to come to see us, Signore Fontini-Cristi.”
“Are things going well?”
“Extremely so. Would you care to—?”
“No, I should not,” interrupted Vittorio. “I assume my rooms are ready.”
“Of course, signore. As you requested, an early supper is being prepared. Caviar Iranian, cold pressed duck, Veuve Cliquot twenty-eight.”
“And?”
“There are flowers, naturally. The masseur is prepared to cancel his other appointments.”
“And …?”
“There are no complications for the Contessa d’Avenzo,” answered the clerk quickly, rapidly. “None of her circle is here.”
“Thank you.” Fontini-Cristi turned, only to be stopped by the sound of the clerk’s voice.
“Signore?”
“Yes?”
“I realize you do no
t care to be disturbed except in emergencies, but your office called.”
“Did my office say it was an emergency?”
“They said your father was trying to locate you.”
“That’s not an emergency. It’s a whim.”
“I think you may be that Arabian, after all, lamb,” mused the contessa out loud, lying beside Vittorio in the feather bed. The eiderdown quilt was pulled down to her naked waist. “You’re marvelous. And so patient.”
“But not patient enough, I think,” replied Fontini-Cristi. He sat up against the pillow, looking down at the girl; he was smoking a cigarette.
“Not patient enough,” agreed the Contessa d’Avenzo, turning her face and smiling up at him. “Why don’t you put out the cigarette?”
“In a little while. Be assured of it. Some wine?” He gestured at the silver ice bucket within arm’s reach. It stood on a tripod; an open bottle draped with a linen towel was pushed into the melting crushed ice.
The contessa stared at him, her breath coming shorter. “You pour the wine. I’ll drink my own.”
In swift, gentle movements, the girl turned and reached under the soft quilt with both hands to Vittorio’s groin. She raised the cover and placed her face underneath, over Vittorio. The quilt fell back, covering her head as her throaty moans grew louder and her body writhed.
The waiters cleared away the dishes and rolled out the table, a commesso lighted a fire in the fireplace and poured brandy.
“It’s been a lovely day,” said the Contessa d’Avenzo. “May we do it often?”
“I think we should set up a schedule. By your calendar, of course.”
“Of course.” The girl laughed throatily. “You’re a very practical man.”
“Why not? It’s easier.”
The telephone rang. Vittorio looked over at it, annoyed. He rose from the chair in front of the fireplace and crossed angrily to the bedside table. He picked up the instrument and spoke harshly. “Yes?”
The voice at the other end was vaguely familiar. “This is Tesca. Alfredo Tesca.”
The Gemini Contenders: A Novel Page 4