The monitor flashed its signal, and Bristow pointed. Menlo whirled around to face the small screen. Angrily, he typed, “Why delay?”
“Translation required. Now completed.”
Menlo said under his breath, “Then execute, damn you.” He hit the button hard.
The printed words were displayed on the monitor in steady rhythm, line by line by line. We’ve hurt its feelings, Bristow thought as rapid information came flooding out, and much of it unnecessary Luigi Aliotto, born in 1932 Milan, educated Padua (dates and degrees), resides in Rome (address and telephone number). Newspapers and journals to which he contributes (all named along with places of publication; all major articles by Aliotto dated). Unmarried. Politics, indefinite. Religion, unknown. Travels widely: France, Switzerland, Russia, Britain, China, Japan, Hungary, Germany, recently Czechoslovakia. Popular in varied circles.
The long list ended.
“Varied?” queried Bristow. “Not various?”
Menlo typed the questions.
The reply came back: “Translation accurate. Varied.”
“That puts you in your place, Peter,” Menlo said and switched off the computer.
Bristow laughed. “The first time a machine ever read my mind.” Then he turned thoughtful. “Interesting... Does Aliotto play both sides against the middle?”
“That’s how he gets his material. Politics, indefinite. Religion, unknown. He hurts no one’s feelings, arouses no animosity. A smart fellow. Relax, Peter, relax! What more do you need to know?”
“Did Vasek talk with him in Prague? Were they seen together?” If so, Aliotto could have come under suspicion, too.
“We haven’t been able to make contact with our agent there. Not since yesterday.” Menlo paused, lost himself for a moment in that additional worry. “If he can answer your questions, I’ll let you know. Through Levinson. And keep me informed.”
Through Levinson, no doubt. Bristow said, “Do I pick up travel orders on my way out?”
“Everything ready and waiting. Get a move on, Peter. There won’t be food served on that flight.”
Bristow nodded thanks for the hint. He’d brown-bag it if necessary or stay hungry all the way to Rome. He said goodbye and left.
Menlo rubbed his forehead, ran his hands through his thinning grey hair, wondered if their agent in Prague was still in place and functioning. He could see a long evening ahead of him, and it wouldn’t be at home in a reclining armchair with Bach for company.
11
On Friday morning, Karen along with other slightly disoriented passengers stepped off the plane at Leonardo da Vinci Airport. An eastbound journey from New York was always a trial. The extra six hours for Rome’s time zone made it seem as if breakfast was just ahead, but she felt as if she had been wakened—as indeed she had been—in the middle of the night. Bless Hubert Schleeman for insisting that his travel agent order a car and driver to meet her. A taxi, her own suggestion, would only have added to the hassle of arrival at any giant terminal. Porters were scarce on this sun-filled morning already threatening a midday broil. She found a cart, once she had hauled her bag and suitcase, typewriter and briefcase away from customs (more clothes than she had taken to Prague, blast her idiocy as she had packed; but in Rome she’d be surrounded by pretty dresses), and began pushing its load towards the main entrance.
A string of hotel touts, a sprinkling of drivers holding high their expected clients’ names boldly inscribed on pieces of cardboard, clusters of anxious relatives, a press of waiting friends—all formed a guard of honour to welcome the stream of arrivals. The noise level was as high as the confusion.
A polite voice, a hand on her arm, stopped her slow progress. He was young, neatly dressed in collar and tie like the other chauffeurs, with a wide smile but no card displayed. “Miss Cornell—il signore has his car waiting. This way, please.” He elbowed a path free through the tight knots of people. “Please,” he repeated, urging her on.
“Il signore who? Mr. Aliotto?”
“Yes. Mr. Aliotto. We must hurry. The car is parked where it should not be. It waits near the front door.”
She hesitated, looking around for her name on a card, and saw it (misspelled Cornel) waving high in the air. That would be the driver from Brent Travel Agency, hoping she would identify him wherever she was. She must tell him that she no longer needed his services. “One moment.” She halted, pulling her arm free.
“But the car—”
“I know. It’s waiting.” I may be tired, I may want to be rescued from this mob scene, but I’m not yet completely stupefied. “Mr. Aliotto is in the car?” And why doesn’t he have the grace to welcome me here himself? It wasn’t Aliotto’s way to be so ungallant. She looked at the shock of black hair (no cap on that head), at the heavy black eyebrows now slightly frowning, at the black moustache above a white smile that seemed to be permanently held at the same wide stretch. “Is he?”
The young man’s hesitation ended. “No. He is not well—a bad cold. He will be better tomorrow. He sent me to take you to the hotel.”
And how did you pick me out of this scene so easily? she wondered. A photograph? Not from my luggage labels. He hasn’t even noticed them, hasn’t even offered to take charge of the cart. He leads and I push, I suppose. “Give Mr. Aliotto my regards. Tell him that I already have a car.” She raised an arm, waved wildly. “Cornell! Over here!” It was almost a shout.
Brent’s driver heard her. He might have slightly misspelled the name, but the pronunciation was the same. What if she were called Cholmondeley? she wondered. No need to ask this middle-aged man what he was doing here or why: the name Brent Travel Agency was over his breast pocket. “Miss Cornell for the Imperial? The car is near. Permit me.” He placed his card on top of her suitcase, took hold of the cart, and they were on their way. The young man was nowhere in sight. Not until they reached the street. As she walked towards the limousines’ parking area, she saw that mop of thick black hair about to duck into a grey Fiat drawing up beside him. Odd, she decided: she might have acted out of pique, but that whole incident was definitely odd. And unsettling. Disturbing, in fact.
The drive up the curve of Via Veneto’s hill was enough to chase doubt away. Karen eyed the little shops, the cafés that lined the avenue’s sweep, and thought with amusement as the limousine reached the Imperial that she was, this time at least, in a central hotel. Now, the street was quiet. Almost. Once noon arrived, the sidewalks would be crowded, the traffic boundless, and people would start filling all those outdoor tables in all those upper-avenue cafés.
She followed her luggage into the grand hotel with expectations restored, hope renewed, and plans for the next few hours already complete. First, a shower and breakfast in her room. Next, a call to Aliotto to find out when they would meet. Then three hours of beautiful sleep. By one o’clock, she would be sitting at a table in front of Doney’s watching the constant parade of chic girls and handsome young men. And by four, she’d be calling Washington, reaching Schleeman at the start of his morning in the office.
The disappointments began. Her room was on a lower floor, and its two windows faced a courtyard, their long curtains completely drawn to block out the nonview. It was spacious enough, adequately furnished, but definitely what the French called, with their apt turn of phrase, “the mother-in-law’s room.” It was certainly silent apart from the air conditioner—its corridor seemed set off from the central part of the hotel. She investigated a possible fire exit near by, a comforting presence, but it turned out to be the service staircase. However, the telephone-shower in a giant bathtub worked once she learned to control it; the croissants and coffee were excellent.
She was still annoyed by the drawn curtains when she put in her call to Aliotto. And more annoyed when there was no answer. She checked the number that Schleeman had given her with the telephone directory. No mistake. She decided to try later. And later. And later. In disgust, she went to bed for those three hours of sleep. She managed two in a kind of
drifting wakefulness. At last she gave up and dressed—but left her suitcase unpacked and her bag relocked for early removal from this room—and called Aliotto for the fifth time. A woman answered in a brisk young voice, changing from Italian to English when she heard Karen’s name. Her accent was heavy, but not—to Karen’s ear—that of an Italian: her natural language must be less liquid in vowels and thicker in consonants. Her message was brief. Mr. Aliotto was not well; he would telephone Miss Cornell on Sunday evening.
And what happens to my briefing on the two terrorists? Karen thought in dismay as the woman replaced her receiver and she was left with a dead telephone in her hand. Annoyance gave way to anxiety. She did not know Aliotto well, yet enough to sense this was not his style. He would have telephoned her himself or sent her a brief résumé of the names, ages, crimes, prison sentences of the terrorists, perhaps directed her to the official who was in charge of their appearance on Monday. Aliotto was a professional, not a fly-by-night reporter. As of now, she knew nothing, not even the name of anyone to contact for information on some of the background for Monday’s meeting. Her anxiety turned to anger. She picked up her shoulder bag, didn’t even glance in the long mirror to check her appearance, and took the long walk to an elevator for the front lobby.
There was a lull in its usual restrained bustle—a contradiction in terms but a definite goal for any luxurious hotel that was also popular. At this hour, with guests at luncheon or out on the town, there seemed to be more bellboys standing around than inhabitants. No customers at the porter’s impressive desk. Karen checked there first, in case a note from Aliotto was waiting and as yet undelivered. Nothing. But there was a giant basket of flowers. “Just arrived,” the porter said. “We shall have them sent to your room.”
“Not immediately. May I see the card?” But there was no card tucked away among the mass of chrysanthemums.
The porter said, “It must have fallen out when the messenger was bringing it here.” He shook his head in disapproval.
“Of course.”
“It would be much better to have the flowers sent to your room directly. The maid will add water—most necessary.”
Karen didn’t argue with politeness. The basket will just have to be moved along with my luggage, she decided as she smiled her thanks and left for Reservations.
The junior clerk was perturbed by her request. “Madam does not like the accommodation she has been given?” He turned for help to a senior clerk. The senior clerk was equally perturbed, low-voiced, and incredulous.
The assistant manager, summoned from his office, was puzzled. “I remember distinctly that madam requested privacy and quiet.”
“I didn’t make the reservation,” Karen said with equal politeness. “I believe Mr. Aliotto did that on Monday or early Tuesday.”
“Let us see.” The assistant manager, handsome and immaculate, signalled to the junior clerk, who searched in the filing cabinet and produced a card. “Yes,” said the assistant manager, “Mr. Aliotto did make a personal visit last Tuesday and—” He hesitated, frowning. “The room he requested was changed yesterday evening to your present accommodation—at your wish for privacy.”
“Was changed? By whom?” Karen was wide-eyed. “It couldn’t have been Mr. Aliotto. He knows I like sunshine in a room. At present, I have none.” Nor daylight.
The senior clerk ventured an interruption. Mr. Aliotto hadn’t made the call changing the room; it had been his secretary who had telephoned.
The woman who had made excuses for Aliotto? “An unfortunate misunderstanding. I’m sure she meant well.”
“He,” corrected the junior clerk, and, in embarrassment at his temerity, averted his admiring gaze from la signora with eyes as blue as the heavenly skies and a complexion of carnations.
“He?” A girl as Aliotto’s secretary could be a euphemism for mistress. But a man? Not Aliotto’s life-style. Most definitely not. She reached into her handbag and produced Hubert Schleeman’s business card, handsomely embossed with his name and that of the Washington Spectator—complete with telephone, Telex, cable directions—noted in a lower corner. “I believe Mr. Schleeman, who is my publisher, stays here when he visits Rome each year.”
The effect was immediate. “Yes, indeed. One of our most valued guests.” And Hubert’s brief sentence on the back of the card—Please extend to Miss Cornell your usual courtesy—along with his signature was scarcely to be ignored. “A change of rooms will be difficult, of course. Be assured, Miss Cornell, we shall do our best. You may not find so much privacy in your new location but—”
“Some more sunshine?” Karen retrieved the card and replaced that little ace in her bag. “I’ll return by—” she consulted the desk clock: one forty-five; she was running late—“by four o’clock, when Mr. Schleeman will be expecting a telephone call from me. I’ll tell him how helpful you have been.” She gave a warm smile to everyone as she accepted the polite bows and made her way to the street, a neat figure in her mid-blue linen suit (a Chanel copy, right down to its black braid and gold buttons) and her high-heeled black sandals. Luigi Aliotto, she was saying silently, I am no longer upset by you—I am worried.
“Sunshine?” the senior clerk queried as he watched the swing of Miss Cornell’s hips. His own preference was a room completely darkened by closed shutters.
“Perhaps she comes from California,” the junior clerk suggested hopefully. It was one of his far-off dreams.
“New York,” the assistant manager corrected, “and start juggling the rooms on the fourth floor.” His door closed. End of the Cornell episode.
In Via Veneto, Karen was greeted by a blaze of light, a dazzle of brilliant colours on the broad sidewalk, a screech of gears and brakes from the clutter of cabs and cars. But no blare of motor horns, she thought thankfully. Her walk up the street was slowed to a saunter by the pace around her, but it was only a brief distance to Doney’s. There, by two o’clock, she might find one outside table where someone was not lingering over his coffee under the shade of a small tree. But no one at Doney’s was in any haste. So she strolled on.
Even if she did find a less fashionable table at another café, she wouldn’t be sitting there, as she had hoped, to watch the Romans. The foreigners, not just from Europe but from the whole wide world, had followed Julius Caesar’s example: they came, they saw, they conquered. Or at least, if they hadn’t conquered—judging by the aloof tolerance of the surviving Romans—they were most certainly an army of occupation. Their variety wasn’t so marked by differences in dress except for those few who were determinedly ethnic in their costumes. It was their voices, speaking in twenty or more strange tongues, that made them noticeable. The city was becoming universal rather than eternal, she thought as she reached a side street and prepared to cross it to continue her way. So far, no luck in tables. Soon she would come to the end of Via Veneto where it met the Roman wall that had once guarded the ancient city. Beyond that were the vast grounds of the Villa Borghese: an abundance of umbrella pines and magnificent gardens, but no café for a mile or two within that enormous park.
She hesitated at the kerb, changing her mind about crossing the side street, turned and collided with a venerable priest who had been right at her heels. She had seen several priests around, and some nuns, too, all of them black-skirted and serious, ignoring the prostitutes of both sexes dressed either in brief low-necked dresses or in skin-hugging pants who strolled with the crowd. A priest was no surprise, but this one, white-haired, shoulders bent with age, caught her hand as if to steady himself.
Her astonishment changed to shock as he slipped a card into her palm, closing her fingers over it. “Careful, Miss Cornell,” he was whispering in English, his lips scarcely moving, his arms already dropped to his sides, his eyes meeting hers in that brief moment. “Now c’è di che,” he said aloud and limped across the street, his head bowed in contemplation, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Don’t mention it,” he had said, as if she had just excused her
self. Or a double meaning? she wondered, retracing her steps down Via Veneto. The small card was still hidden in her hand as if the sudden shock had glued it to her palm. It can’t be, she kept saying, but it is. It is. I know those eyes: pale grey, intense. I know that voice—the deep-throated way Cornell was pronounced even in a whisper. It’s Josef Vasek. It can’t be—that priest is thinner, older. But it is.
At Doney’s, an elegant middle-aged blonde was gathering her purse and French poodle. Her escort, young and handsome, six feet of masculinity and as expensively clothed as his mistress, was on his feet to help her rise. The waiter was bowing and thanking la Contessa as he pulled back her chair. The minute it was freed from the Givenchy dress, Karen slipped onto it with a smile of thanks in general, of relief in particular, forestalling a most respectable German and his wife from taking possession.
She ordered an omelette, white wine, and coffee. Only then—once the waiter had left and the German couple had departed—did she risk slipping the small card into her handbag as she took out cigarettes and lighter. She had not dared to glance at it; reading would have to come later. She relaxed a little, lit a cigarette, ignored the admiring glance of a man at a neighbouring table, and seemed absorbed by the passing scene. She counted two more priests walking leisurely, three hurrying nuns, and—a study in contrasts—another prostitute. Also a Hollywood director, three TV stars from America, a French couturier, a rock-and-roll millionaire. Also a host of other people she couldn’t identify, all out to eye and be eyed—the favourite pastime on this section of Via Veneto. She thought of Josef Vasek, Mr. Farrago himself, and almost smiled. Prague had been nothing like this.
She finished lunch and reached into her bag, rummaging in its depths for her wallet. For a second, she tilted the hidden card so that she could read its message: Capuchin Church, 4 P.M. She dropped it back in place, found the wallet, and began calculating the tip she would leave. Dammit, I’m scared, she thought as her hands fumbled with the outsize Italian notes. She reasserted her will power and paid her bill, even calmly applied some lipstick as she waited for change to be made. Her watch said quarter past three. The Capuchin Church was somewhere down Via Veneto, below the American Embassy—not a far walk, but she’d take it at a saunter in the prevailing style. No one seemed to hurry in this city. As for her telephone call to Schleeman—postponed for an hour or so. If only she could somehow manage a discreet message to be passed on to Peter Bristow.
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