"You stay here," said Togazzi in Italian, nodding at the guard who manned the barricaded gatehouse of the forest retreat.
"Stay in touch with us, and in the unlikely event intruders show up, you know what to do."
"Si, my don. The outer land mines first."
"Land mines?" Scofield leaned forward in his white-wicker chair.
"The hills above Portofino?"
"You remembered," confirmed Togazzi.
"No one came near our base camps. We'd set off the mines on the perimeters and any who were searching for us would be paralyzed with fear, afraid to walk."
"They'd retrace their steps and get out of the area while we'd find another camp," said Brandon, chuckling.
"No casualties, no international incidents, the explosions blamed on undetected mines left over from the partisan wars."
"I've added a touch," explained Don Silvio modestly.
"There are now inner mines much closer to the path, and a few under it, also set off from the gatehouse."
"Va bene," said Scofield, laughing.
"You two," continued Togazzi in Italian, addressing the remaining guards, "will accompany us, dropping us off about a hundred meters above the estate. Then proceed to the parking area and take up your positions."
"Si'."
The first car pulled off the road a quarter of a mile away from the Paravacini property. The two guards had changed clothes. Instead of the drab, ordinary suits they had worn in Milan, they were now dressed in what could best be described as rural farmhands' Sunday-church clothing, ill-fitting, old, but clean. Each carried a basket of flowers, the sort grown locally, with care, on small plots of earth, affordable tributes to a great landowner. They walked in the heat of the dusty road down toward the Paravacini mansion, sweat forming on their brows, perspiration stains on their shirts. The road became asphalt, the final two hundred yards to the estate. The gatehouse with its thick glass windows was deserted, the usual barrier raised, signs again that no one of importance was in residence.
They trudged, as if with difficulty, into the circular drive and up the steps of the imposing front entrance. They rang the bell-loud chimes could be heard from the cavernous inside. A male servant opened the door; his shirt was unbuttoned and he had a stubble of a beard. At the sight of the rumpled, crude-looking visitors, he spoke harshly in Italian.
"What do you want? There's nobody home!"
"Piacere, signore, we are poor men from the hills of Bellagio," said the guard on the right.
"We have come to pay our respects to the memory of the great Don Carlo, who was always most generous to our families at holidays."
"He's been dead for several weeks. You're a little late."
"We did not dare when there were so many dignitaries coming and going," said the guard on the left.
"May we bring these baskets in, signore? They are quite heavy."
"Leave them out there! There are already too many plants inside to water."
"Open your heart, signore," added the guard on the right, looking beyond the arrogant servant.
"No!"
"Then don't open it." The same guard suddenly leaped forward, grabbing the man by his shoulders, yanking him down and crashing a hard right knee into his face. The man fell to the floor, bleeding and unconscious. Together, Togazzi's men dragged the body into a side room, closed the door, and began their swift but thorough search. They found a maid in the library; she was in uniform, reclining in an armchair, leafing through the pictures of an encyclopedia.
"Scusi, signori!" She spoke quickly, jumping up from the chair.
"We were told," she continued in Italian, "that as long as we did our chores, we could relax and enjoy ourselves."
"Who told you that?"
"His Eminence, the cardinal, signore."
"Who else is here?"
"Cardinal Paravacini, Signer Rossi, and-" "Signor Rossi?" interrupted the guard who had assaulted the servant at the door.
"Is he a priest?"
"Good Lord, no, signore! He brings a different woman here several times a week. He is a goat. In deference to the cardinal, he sends them home very early, before it's light."
"Who else?" asked the second Togazzi man.
"You implied there was someone else."
"Yes, Bruno Davino. He's in charge of the estate's security."
"Where is he?"
"He spends much of his time on the roof, sir. There is a section with a cover to protect one from the sun. He says he can see the lake and all the roads from there. He calls it his lookout."
"Let's go up," said the first guard.
"Che cosa?" came the shouted words from the doorway. The guards turned to see a large, heavyset man, his expression conveying his anger.
"I saw you two sorry worms coming down the road, but I didn't see you leave! Why are you still here?"
"A spiacente, signore," replied the second guard, his palms upturned, his arms outstretched, as he slowly walked toward the huge man, pleading.
"We brought tributes to the memory of the great Don Carlo-" He crossed between his colleague and the Matarese intruder. It was a tactic they had used before, blocking the sight line of two figures. The first guard reached into his pocket and swiftly took out a pistol with an attached silencer. The instant his associate continued walking, revealing the man in the doorframe, he fired twice with deadly accuracy, instantly killing the head of security.
The woman started to scream; the second Togazzi man raced over, lunging, one hand on her mouth, the other pounding her chest with such force that the air was immediately expunged from her lungs, cutting off all sound. Removing a thin rope and a heavy plastic tape from his pockets, he tied her to an upright chair and gagged her.
"She's not going anywhere."
"We're clear," said the first guard, "the whole place is clean. Let's go to our next positions."
The second automobile stopped as Scofield and Togazzi got out, walking into the bordering woods as fast as their elderly legs could manage. The car continued down the road, the engine off, and coasted onto the lawn at the left side of the enormous house, unseen by anyone on the yacht.
The third and fourth guards stepped out on the grass, silently closed the doors, and crept along the exterior wall of the mansion until they reached the wide expanse of the exposed south lawn. Anybody walking across it would be immediately seen by a person or persons on the deck of the yacht. That could not be permitted, for the targets were on the yacht and all means of egress were to be blocked. Which was why the don's guards in the first automobile were on the right side of the huge house, concealed ten feet from the brick path. It was a human pincer attack, all flanks covered.
The reason for this particular strategy was twofold. The first and most vital consideration was the number of defending personnel. There was no way to ascertain how many. The second was the obvious possibility that if the Togazzi unit was spotted, Cardinal Paravacini would instantly destroy the material from Barcelona, undoubtedly by fire. So the key components were preventing the escape of all those in the compound, and equally important, the element of surprise.
To ensure the latter, Scofield and the don removed their clothes in the woods near the shoreline of the lake. Underneath them they wore bathing trunks and they carried small waterproof pouches that held their weapons. In consideration of their ages, each had a snorkeling tube attached to his suit, better to travel farther underwater without surfacing for air. Their objective was the starboard side of the yacht, where there was a chrome ladder for swimmers wishing to climb back to the lower deck. Replaying roles they had played years ago in Italy, Sicily, and the Black Sea, the two former deep-cover operatives slipped into the waters of Lake Como.
Irritated by the awkward breathing but otherwise not much worse for wear, Brandon and Togazzi reached the ladder. The don began to cough softly so Scofield pushed his head underwater. Togazzi reemerged, his eyes furious, but as Bray emphatically put his right finger across his lips, the don under
stood. This was no time for noise, especially human noise. Scofield opened his waterproof pouch and removed his weapon;
Togazzi did the same. Both nodded to each other as Brandon began climbing up the chrome ladder. Halfway to the hull's midpoint, the elderly don could no longer contain his coughing, the result of water seeping into his snorkeling tube.
The excited voices from the deck above erupted in Italian.
"What was that?"
"Someone's on the ladder! I'll see-" "Don't waste a moment. Here, take this and run! Go to the house and yell for Bruno."
Scofield pulled himself up the ladder, crawling over the railing, his gun leveled at Cardinal Paravacini.
"I wouldn't move if I were you, priest. I might decide your Church would be better off without you."
Bray stopped and shouted, "Stop him, he's heading for the path! Take the package!"
Togazzi came into view, maneuvering his old, gaunt frame over the railing with difficulty, swearing in Italian at the ravages of time.
Converting to English, he lamented, "What happens to our bodies?
They were so much kinder to us before."
"Don Silvia!" exclaimed the cardinal.
"You are with this American Pig?"
"Oh, yes, Your Eminence," replied Togazzi, "very much so. We go back many years, when you were profaning our Church by rising in the Vaticano."
In the distance, on the lawns beyond the port side of the yacht, men raced between the statues, hunters in pursuit of the priest or the false priest who carried the package from Barcelona. Suddenly there were gunshots, with bullets ricocheting off the marble statuary. Scofield ran to the opposite side of the deck.
"For Christ's sake, don't kill him!" he roared. There was a scream and the gunfire stopped. A voice from the far lawn shouted back in Italian.
"Too late, signore. He had a weapon and was firing at us, severely wounding Paolo in the leg. He was exposed; we shot him."
"Bring the package here and take Paolo to a doctor! Hurry!" Brandon returned to the silent cardinal, now covered by Togazzi's gun.
"I'd like nothing better than to turn you over to the Pope myself.
Unfortunately, there are more pressing matters."
"I shall do the honors, old friend," said Don Silvio.
"I could use a blessing or two."
A guard raced up the gangplank, the package from Barcelona in his hand. He brought it to Scofield, briefly explaining that he was rushing back to take his wounded colleague to a "private doctor" known personally to his don. Brandon tore apart the thick, padded manila envelope and removed a portion of the pages inside. He sat in a deck chair, reading, aware that Cardinal Paravacini was staring at him.
After several minutes of slowly turning the pages, Scofield put the material on his lap and looked over at the cardinal.
"Quite some change, isn't it, priest?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Paravacini.
"I
never read whatever's there, for it does not belong to me. If you'll notice, the envelope is addressed to a Del Monte and that is not my name. Mail, like the confessional, is confidential."
"Really? Then why was it opened?"
"A courtesy of my late young employee whom you murdered. I shall pray for his soul, even for the souls of those who killed him, as Jesus prayed for the Roman crucifiers."
"That's beautiful. But why did your young employee bring this to you?"
"You'd have to ask him; unfortunately you cannot. I assume it was mistakenly routed to my postal box in Bellagio, which I use when away from Rome."
"Del Monte doesn't remotely resemble Paravacini."
"In haste, mistakes are made, especially when a young man zealously tries to serve his far-older superior."
"He was a priest then?"
"No, he was not. He was a promising youngster who unfortunately strayed from his faith as well as the law-" "Your Eminence," Togazzi interrupted curtly, "you're wasting your breath, and your lies only add to your sins. I took photographs, from Milan and your first courier to the third driving to Bellagio, where there was no stop at a postal box. Before we veered away I photographed your employee. He was wearing a clerical collar and turning off on the Paravacini road."
"You shock me, Don Silvio. These are things I know nothing about, and the only answers are with a dead man, murdered by this mad American."
"Don't waste your time, either, old friend," said Togazzi, addressing Brandon.
"We have ways of dealing with such monumental ipocriti.
What was the change you mentioned a few minutes ago?"
"It's not good news," answered Scofield, picking up the papers in his lap.
"They've moved up the schedule-he, Matareisen, has moved it up. . Here, listen to this.
"I will announce a new date soon, possibly from another location. I cannot reach our man in London and that concerns me. Was he trapped by Mi-Five? If so, did he break? His wife claims to know nothing, but then she never did. It's all very unsettling. In the following pages you will find the coded shortwave transmissions for the sectors as they are triggered. They are only wide areas, your memory must recall the specifics. Use your computer access for deciphering. If I do decide to relocate, it will be one of many possibilities, all sufficiently equipped, and a place where no one will find me. Stay at your post. The moment has come. The world will change." That's the end of it, no signature, of course, but it's Matareisen. The exquisite irony is that Guiderone, his own man, if not his superior, killed their mole in London, the man he can't find. The only aspect more exquisite is the job I did on Leonard Fredericks, separating the two fuckers.... I know you won't be offended by my language, priest, you've symbolically done the same to your Church."
"I'm not only offended," said the handsome, well-spoken cardinal, his voice icelike, "I'm outraged. I'm not only a prince of that holy Church, I've dedicated my life to her. To associate me with some wild global economic conspiracy is sheer nonsense and the Holy Father will certainly understand. This is just another anti-Catholic diatribe, we suffer from them constantly."
"Oh, boy, Cardinal-baby, you just really blew it. Who said anything about global economics?"
Paravacini's head snapped around toward Bray, his eyes wide. He was trapped and he knew it.
"I have nothing more to say."
"Then I'll just have to mess up your face until you do." Scofield put the papers and the envelope on the deck, got up from the chair, and menacingly approached the prince of the Church.
"No need to bruise your frail hands, old friend," broke in Togazzi, walking away from the railing, "I gave the camera to one of my men.
For the record, I'm sure he'll take a picture of the body on the lawn, and together with the other photographs, the sequence will be clear.
He'll bring the camera to me and you'll hold the Barcelona envelope in front of our errant cardinal. The evidence will be irrefutable."
"Certainly convincing," agreed Brandon.
"Also, I have friends of friends in the curia. This traitor to his faith will be the disgrace of the Church, a pariah in his own world."
Suddenly, without warning, Cardinal Paravacini leaped up from his chair, wrestling the gun from old Togazzi's hand. Before Scofield could react, the priest turned the weapon on himself, the barrel at his temple. He fired, shattering his skull into a thousand fragments.
"Morte prima di disonore, " said Don Silvio, looking down at the befouled corpse.
"It's an Italian expression, you know, from the sixteenth century."
"
"Death before dishonor,"
" said Brandon quietly.
"The tattoo trade has made it banal, but this is what it's all about. He had power, wealth, and enormous influence in and out of the Church. Stripped of all that, there was nothing."
"Rispetto," offered Togazzi.
"He had respect and without respect he lost his manhood. Above all, an Italian male, especially a priest, must keep his m
anhood."
"So much for the Italian branch of the Matarese. We'd better fly this material to the computer wizards in Amsterdam. Maybe they'll come up with something. It's all we've got." The shipboard telephone rang, startling both men. Five rings echoed throughout the yacht before Brandon found it. "Buon giorno," he said, prepared to hand over the phone to Togazzi if the Italian was spoken too rapidly. Instead, the words were in precise if accented English, the voice that of a woman.
"You have shed the blood of a Paravacini, a man of great honor. You will pay."
Inside the mansion, standing by a library window, the housemaid hung up the phone while putting down binoculars on a nearby table. Tears fell down her cheeks; her lover was gone and with him a way of life she would never know again.
You three have to get back to London," said Frank Shields over the phone to Pryce in Philadelphia.
"Right away."
"What about Wahlburg?"
"We're taking care of that. Our people have already been there, removed the body and all signs of the suicide. Nothing will reach the media, he's just disappeared."
"Nobody else lived there?"
"Just a butler or a manservant or whatever you call them who had a room down the hall from Wahlburg. He was a trained male nurse, and Wahlburg was somewhat of a hypochondriac. His wife died several years ago, and his two daughters are married and live in Los Angeles and San Antonio. We've got a clear field; the telephone answering machine is covered by an out-of-town message."
"What do you think will happen?"
"I think, and hope, that his three Matarese friends, Fowler, Whitehead, and Nichols, will go out of their minds when they can't reach him. And if you did your job in New York and Palm Beach, they'll assume the worst and start looking for sanctuary. That's when mistakes will be made."
"I did my job, Frank. Now what's this about London?"
"Hold on to your hats or sit down. Matareisen escaped from Mi Five "Impossible!" roared Pryce.
"All too possible," replied Shields.
"I won't go into the particulars,
but he got away and is presumed to be en route to somewhere in Europe."
"Good Christ!"
"There's more. Scofield and his friend Togazzi found the Matarese connection in Milan. It was the Cardinal Paravacini you spoke about in your debriefing."
The Matarese Countdown Page 51