"By the time they come back, next time, you'll be dead," said Don Carlo as his guard began spraying Pryce and Montrose with an aerosol can.
"Why?" asked Cameron.
"Because you're dead meat, I believe is the phrase. The smell on you guarantees it. Dogs can be immobilized with darts and bullets, but my birds devour corpses until there's nothing left."
"It's time for a McAuliffe, Colonel!" yelled Pryce as the maniacal birds flew back through the window, screeching and screaming their horrific caws. As the deadly flock flew in, Montrose, yelling "Nuts, crashed herself into Carlo Paravacini, rubbing her dress around his own clothes as Cameron sent a deadly chi sai chop into the startled guard, grabbed the aerosol can and sprayed it over him, then aimed it at Paravacini.
"Leslie, let's go!" shouted Pryce.
"I want his weapon!" yelled Montrose as the birds circled around her.
"He probably doesn't have one, you idiot! Come on!"
"Yes, he does, you moron! It's a small twenty-two. Get these goddamned birds off me!"
Pryce fired two shots with the guard's automatic. The vicious birds flew in circles, collisions everywhere, as he grabbed Leslie's hand.
They raced out the door and down the marble hallway.
"Are you all right?" asked Cam as they ran to the grass parking area.
"I've got pecks all over my neck-" "We'll call Togazzi and get you to a doctor."
They reached their rental car. It would not start.
"They must have pulled out the plugs," said Leslie, exhausted.
"There's a Rolls," said Pryce.
"Do you mind going first class? I know how to hot-wire a Rolls. Come on!"
"This soon-to-be-middle-aged mother," cried Montrose, chasing after Cam to the elegant brown-and-tan automobile, "is not going to question a maniac who says he can hot-wire a car while I'm running for my life from a bunch of flesh-eating birds! My God!"
They opened the doors and jumped in, Pryce behind the wheel.
"I
love the rich!" he exclaimed.
"They leave their keys in their fancy automobiles. What's a Rolls or two? We're out of here!" The powerful engine roared as Cameron shifted into gear and sped over the lawn and out to the lake road, tires screeching and grass flying.
"Where to?" asked Leslie.
"I don't think the hotel is a very good idea."
"It couldn't be worse. We'll head for Togazzi's, if I can find it."
"There's a phone," said Montrose, pointing it out below the dashboard.
"Only if I really get us lost. Those things are sieves."
After several wrong turns in the narrow streets of Bellagio, Pryce found the steep hill that led to the long mountain road paralleling the lake far below. Twice they missed the hidden entrance to Silvio Togazzi's equally concealed house. Finally, the orderly pavane at the guardhouse over with, the exhausted, still-in-shock Cameron and Leslie sat with the don on his screened-in balcony overlooking the lake. Stiff drinks were brought to the couple; they were gratefully received.
"It was all so horrible!"" said Montrose, shuddering.
"Those dreadful, screaming birds, augh!"
"Many have believed that Carlo Paravacini's obsession with his creatures would one day be his death," said the old man.
"And so it was this day."
"What?" interrupted Pryce.
"You haven't heard then?" asked Togazzi.
"You didn't turn on that lovely automobile's radio?"
"Hell, no, I didn't want to touch anything more than I had to."
"All Bellagio knows, tomorrow all Italy."
"Knows what?" insisted Leslie.
"I shall relay it as delicately as possible," continued Don Silvio.
"The door to Carlo's aviary had been left open and soon the guests began to notice many different birds soaring in the sky. At first it amused them until strips and pieces of human flesh began falling over the lawns and the yacht. Apparently, there was pandemonium and servants rushed into the mansion. What they found caused many to vomit, others to faint, and all to wail and shriek in horror."
"The bodies," said Cameron, making a quiet statement.
"What was left of them," agreed Togazzi.
"The shredded clothing was the principal means of immediate identification. As with the seagulls over beached fish, the eyes were the first to go."
"I think I'm going to be sick," mumbled Montrose, turning away.
"What do we do now?" asked Pryce.
"You stay here, of course."
"What clothes we have, and a great deal of money, are at the hotel."
"I will take care of the Villa d'Este, the concierge is in my employ."
"He is?"
"As well as the ambitious sous-chef, a thoroughly dislikable fellow but invaluable to me in so many ways."
"Such as?"
"Powders in a wine, if I care to have my people interrogate an individual-or poison to a Paravacini slave who has killed once too often. Remember, I am a Scozzi."
"You're really something-" "I' was a brother of the best. He's called Beowulf Agate, and I learned so very much from him."
"So I hear," said Cameron.
"But back to my first question. What do we do next?"
"I have a scrambler code to Scofield, and I should be hearing from him shortly, unless he's had too much to drink. Even so, the lovely Antonia will shake him up."
"If he's drunk?" yelled Pryce.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Beowulf Agate is far more perceptive, drunk or sober, than any intelligence officer who hasn't touched liquor in twenty years."
"I don't believe this!"
Togazzi's telephone rang. He picked it up from his white wicker table.
"You old scoundrel!" he cried.
"We were just talking about you."
"What in blazes has that kid been doing?" yelled the voice from New York.
"Forgive me, Brandon, but I'm going to put you on speakerphone, so you may address us all." Togazzi pressed a button on his white telephone.
"Pryce, are you there?" shouted Scofield over the amplified instrument.
"I'm here, Bray. What do you know?"
"State-the State Department, in case you've forgotten-tries to keep its rotten ears to our activities."
"I remember all too well. So what?"
"Their man in Rome called Washington, and State called Shields, asking if we had a black operation going in northern Italy. Naturally, Squinty denied any involvement. Is that true?"
"No, it isn't. We were at ground zero."
"Oh, shit! How come?"
"Because we were about to be killed."
"That's a good answer. How's Leslie?"
"Still shaking, Brandon," said Montrose.
"Did you know that our associate, Officer Pryce, can hot-wire a Rolls-Royce?"
"That thief could probably wire a tank."
"What do we do now?" Cameron broke in.
"Get out of Italy, and fast! .. . Silvio, can you arrange it with Rome?"
"Of course, Brandon. And what is my reward?"
"If and when this is over, Toni and I will grab a plane and buy you the biggest dinner on the Via Veneto."
"I probably own most of the restaurants, you bastardo."
"I'm glad neither of us has changed, you son of a bitch!" "Grazie!" roared Togazzi, laughing.
"Prego!" shouted Beowulf Agate, doing the same.
"Where do you wish to go?" asked the don of the Bellagio hills, hanging up the phone.
"Back to the States," replied Pryce.
"We might have enough now to strike."
"Please, Cam, an hour or so with my son? He's so young and he's been through so much," pleaded Leslie.
"I'll check with London," said Pryce, gripping her hand.
"And I have to warn Geoffrey!"
Luther Considine banked the renovated Bristol Freighter to the left in his final approach to the private field near Lake Maggiore, tw
enty-eight miles from Bellagio. Waiting on the ground at the far end of the designated airstrip were Pryce and Montrose; they were in Togazzi's shabby-looking limousine. It was four o'clock in the morning, the night sky made darker by the cloud cover, the landing lights on the single strip the only illumination. As the plane landed and taxied to within thirty yards of the car, Leslie and Cameron got out of the backseat, nodded to the driver-guard, and ran to the aircraft. Pryce carried their two suitcases, retrieved by one of Don Silvio's staff from the Villa d'Este. Luther flipped a switch and the side loading door snapped up.
Cameron threw in the luggage and helped Leslie inside, jumping in after her.
"Lieutenant," shouted Montrose over the roar of the engines, "you'll never know how happy I am to see you!"
"Good to see you, too, Colonel," replied Considine, closing the door and reversing the aircraft to taxi back for takeoff.
"How's the spook business, Cam?"
"A little hairy-or I guess I should say feathery."
"What does that mean?"
"Let's call it a lot of birdshit."
"Must have been a ton of it, the way the Brits want you back. I've flown routes, and I've flown routes, but these F-plans were constructed by high-wire tightropers who don't care for nets."
"To avoid tracking?" asked Pryce.
"Has to be, but not the ordinary national-security variety. Not any nation I've flown over."
"These people aren't normal, Luther," interjected Montrose, "not normal at all."
"They must have pretty swell equipment, then."
"They can have anything they want," said Cameron.
"They buy it or bribe it."
"You know what the rad-station in Chamonix said? The head track boy said, "What do we need the Stealths for when we got Black Beauty up there?" Nice, huh?"
"Black Beauty?"
"Hell, Cam, I can get sunburned but it doesn't exactly show.. ..
Hang on, folks, we're going upstairs with Grandmother!"
Once airborne and leveled, Leslie spoke.
"Luther," she said, "you mentioned how much the Brits want us back, and I assume that's London."
"That's right."
"I thought we were cleared for a stop in France!" Montrose added angrily.
"Indeed we are, Colonel. Normally, it'd take me about an hour to get there, but with our flight plan, it'll be nearer two. It'll be light out, dawn's on its way. Incidentally, there's coffee in what passes for a galley back there."
"By the way, Luther," said Pryce, "how's this new assignment treating you?"
"Man, it's so cool, it's ice cream! Except for the cat who's trying to take over my squadron on the carrier, it's a hoot. I live in nice hotels, have breakfast in bed by picking up a phone, go to conferences with the spook planners, and get to fly some of the new R.A.F jets."
"No negatives?"
"Yeah, one, and it's heavy. I've got a shadow on me twenty-four hours a day. I go out, he goes out; I have dinner, he's at a nearby table; I stop at a pub, he's right down the bar."
"It's all for your own protection, Lieutenant."
"That's another thing. That Sir Geoffrey dude keeps telling me he's sure the Navy will 'look favorably' on a promotion for me. I told him to lay off any intervention; he doesn't know that our admirals aren't usually wild about their admirals."
"Geof could do it for you, Luther."
"Then I'll take it back and apologize. I've been going with a doctor in Pensacola off and on for a couple of years. We could merge, I figure, but she's a full commander, and I'd like to be a little closer in rank."
"Then listen to Sir Geoffrey. Washington owes him, and with any luck, will owe him big."
"Heard and acknowledged."
"Incidentally, where are we going in France?" asked Leslie.
"I'm flying you there, Colonel, but I'm not permitted to tell you where 'there' is. Hope you understand."
"I do."
As dawn broke over the eastern horizon, both Pryce and Montrose were astonished at the plane's low altitude over water and land.
"Jesus," cried Cameron, "I could jump out and go for a swim!"
"I wouldn't advise it," said the pilot, "especially since we're about to skim over Mont Blanc. Lots of deep snow and ice down there."
Considine landed the Bristol at the alternate airport at Le Mayet-deMontagne reserved for private aircraft, the ultimate destination still unknown to his passengers. The morning sun swept over the fertile Loire Valley, the early colors magnified by the moisture of the enveloping dew.
"There's your car over there!" announced Luther, taxiing toward a nondescript gray sedan parked off the runway.
"I'll refuel here, and subject to orders from London, I may be airborne for a while, but I'll be back in ninety minutes and that's our airborne time. It's absolute, no later."
"A car, yes," said Leslie, "but how long will it take for us to reach the children?"
"Perhaps ten or twelve minutes."
"That doesn't leave much time, for God's sake!"
"It's what's permitted, Colonel. You're military, you know the regs."
"Yes, I do, Lieutenant. Reluctantly, I do."
The side windows of the automobile were so darkly tinted that neither Pryce nor Montrose could see outside. Also, the driver's front window had sheets of dark film on both extremes of his windshield; the only thing they could see clearly was the road.
"What the hell is this?" yelled Leslie.
"We have no idea where we're going."
"It's designed to protect the kids," said Cameron.
"What you can't see, you can't tell."
"For God's sake, it's my son! Who would I tell?"
"Maybe that's where we're a little more experienced than you. Under chemicals you could describe what you saw on the way to him."
"Assuming I'd be captured?"
"We always have to assume that, Colonel. You know it, and you know the procedures."
"Again, reluctantly. My two cyanide tablets are in my uniform, with the luggage."
"I don't think anything like that is part of our current scenario," said Pryce.
"Our security is total."
The road ahead came to a gatehouse, the civilian guards all recruited from the Deuxieme Bureau, the most secret of France's covert operations. The French driver, also Deuxieme, spoke briefly and the car was admitted beyond a now-seen stone wall. They entered a large compound; at its center was a long one-story farmhouse, surrounded by pastures with cattle and a fenced-in corral holding a half dozen horses.
Suddenly, it was apparent that there was mass confusion throughout the complex. All around there were French Army vehicles as well as local police cars, men racing in various directions, the constant wail of ear-shattering sirens.
"What the hell's going on?" yelled Cameron.
"I don't know, monsieur!" cried the driver.
"The gate only told me to drive slowly, that there was a crisis!"
Military vehicles raced out of the gate, along with the local police and scores of men on foot, running in different directions, spreading out everywhere.
"What happened?" shouted Pryce, jumping out of the Deuxieme car, grabbing the first man he could intercept.
"The young Englishman!" answered the patrol.
"He's escaped!"
"What?" yelled Leslie Montrose.
"I'm Colonel Montrose, where is my son?"
"Inside, madame, as bewildered as all of us!"
Cameron and Leslie raced into the farmhouse and found young Angela Brewster, her arms around James Montrose Jr." who was crying uncontrollably on a couch.
"It's not your fault, Jamie! You didn't do it, you didn't do it!" she kept repeating.
"Yes, I did!" cried Montrose junior between his tears.
"Stop it, Jamie!" roared his mother, rushing to the couch and grabbing her son's shoulders, releasing Angela's hands.
"What happened?"
"Oh, Christ, Mom!" answered Jamie, reaching for his
mother, holding her as if she were a lifeline and an abyss yawned below.
"I told him!"
"What did you tell him, Jamie?" asked Pryce gently, kneeling in front of the mother and son by the couch.
"What exactly did you tell him?"
"He kept asking me over and over again how I got out of Bahrain, how I got over the wall and into the city-and how I found Luther."
"The circumstances here are very different," said Cam, his palm on Jamie's trembling shoulder.
"He must have told you how he could do the same."
"He never told me anything! He just did it. Over the wall and out!"
"But he had no resources," interrupted Leslie, "no money."
"Oh, Roger has money," interjected Angela Brewster.
"As you probably know, our mail is flown to us twice weekly so we can reply to those we think we should. The replies are sent back to London for mailing. Roger requested a thousand-pound bank draft; he got it two days ago. He laughed when he opened the envelope."
"So simple?" asked Colonel Montrose.
"His signature was enough, Leslie. I think Mum had a controlling interest in the bank."
"The rich are different," said Pryce.
"But why, Angela, why would he want to leave this place?"
"You'd have to know my brother, sir, really know him. He's a terrific guy, I mean terrific. But in some ways he's like our father. When something's wrong, really wrong, he can go into a rage. I think he wants to find Gerald Henshaw and send him to hell. He feels he has to kill Gerry for murdering our mother."
"Get Geof Waters on the phone!" ordered Leslie.
"Right away," said Cameron, rising and running to the nearest telephone.
Sir Geoffrey Waters leaped out of his chair, stretching the cord and pulling the telephone half across his desk.
"We're getting bits and pieces of information from Rome and Milan, but the picture isn't clear yet. It was you who killed him?"
"No, it wasn't us, it was him, Paravacini! His own birds ate him alive. We were caught and damn near lost the whole ball of wax until we got the hell out of there. Listen, Geof, Leslie and I will fill you in when we reach London in a couple of hours, but right now we've got two large problems, and one of them is you."
"The threat against me? I got your warning but-" "You have to take this seriously. Paravacini said you were going to be killed within the next twenty-four hours. Those were his exact words, 'twenty-four hours." Watch your flanks, Geof, he wasn't kidding, he meant it!"
The Matarese Countdown Page 39