As they walked, Vittorio balanced his negative reaction to the commander with his gratitude for old Norcross on Savile Row.
Where the commander floundered, Norcross performed. The old tailor had clothed him in a matter of hours.
The little things; concentrate on the everyday things.
Above all, maintain a control that bordered on ice during the conference with whatever, or whoever, comprised Intelligence Sector Five. There was so much to learn, to understand. So much that was beyond his comprehension. In the cold recital of the events that were the horror of Campo di Fiori, he could not let the agony cloud his perceptions; the recital, therefore, would be cold and understated.
“Through here, old man,” said Neyland, indicating a cathedral-arched doorway that was more reminiscent of some venerable men’s club than a military building. The commander opened the heavy door, gleaming with brass hardware, and Vittorio walked in.
There was nothing about the large room that belied the concept of a subdued but richly appointed club. Two huge windows overlooked a courtyard; everything was heavy and ornate: the drapes, the furniture, the lamps, and to some degree the three men who sat at the thick mahogany table in the center. Two were in uniform—the insignia and breast decorations duly proclaiming advanced ranks unknown to Fontini-Cristi. The man in civilian clothes had an archly diplomatic look about him, complete with a waxed moustache. Such men had come and gone in Campo di Fiori. They spoke in soft voices, their words ambiguous; they were seekers of elastic. The civilian was at the head of the table, the officers seated at the sides. There was one empty chair, obviously for him.
“Gentlemen,” said Commander Neyland, as if he were announcing a petitioner at the Court of St. James, “Signor Savarone Fontini-Cristi of Milan.”
Vittorio stared at the fatuous Englishman; the man had not heard a word he said.
The three men at the table rose as one. The civilian spoke. “May I introduce myself, sir. I am Anthony Brevourt. For a number of years I was the crown’s ambassador of the Greek court of George the Second in Athens. On my left, Vice Admiral Hackett, Royal Navy; on my right, Brigadier Teague, Military Intelligence.”
At first there were formal nods of acknowledgment, then Teague broke the formality by coming around his chair, his hand held out for Vittorio.
“I’m glad you’re here, Fontini-Cristi. I received the preliminary reports. You’ve had a hell of a time of it.”
“Thank you,” said Vittorio, shaking the general’s hand.
“Do sit down,” said Brevourt, indicating the expected chair to Vittorio and returning to his own. The two officers took their seats—Hackett rather formally, even pompously; Teague quite casually. The general withdrew a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to Fontini-Cristi.
“No, thank you,” said Vittorio. To smoke with these men would imply a casualness he neither felt nor wanted them to think he felt. A lesson from Savarone.
Brevourt quickly continued. “I think we’d better get on with-it. I’m sure you know the subject of our anxieties. The Greek consignment.”
Vittorio looked at the ambassador. And then at the two officers. They were staring at him, apparently in anticipation. “The Greek? I know nothing of a ‘Greek consignment.’ However, I know the gratitude I feel. There are no words to express it in either language. You saved my life; men were killed doing so. What more can I say?”
“I think,” said Brevourt slowly, “that we should like to hear you say something about an extraordinary delivery made to the family Fontini-Cristi by the Eastern Brotherhood of Xenope.”
“I beg your pardon?” Vittorio was stunned. The words had no meaning for him. Some extraordinary error had been made.
“I told you. I was the crown’s ambassador to Athens. During the tenure of my office, diplomatic liaisons were formed throughout the country, including, of course, the religious. For, in spite of the turmoil Greece is experiencing, the church hierarchy remains a powerful force.”
“I’m sure it does,” agreed Vittorio. “But I have no idea why it concerns me.”
Teague leaned forward, the smoke curling in front of his face, his eyes riveted on Fontini-Cristi. “Please. We’ve done our share, you know. As you’ve said—I think quite properly—we saved your life. We sent in our best men, paid thousands to the Corsos, took considerable gambles in dangerous waters with a submarine—of which we have precious few—and activated a barely developed aircraft escape route. All these just to get you out.” Teague paused, put down his cigarette and smiled ever so slightly. “All human life is sacred, perhaps, but there are limits to the expenditures one makes to prolong it.”
“Speaking for the navy,” said Hackett with controlled irritation, “we followed blindly, given only the barest facts, urged by the most commanding figures in the government. We jeopardized a vital area of operations; a decision that could cost a great many lives in the near future. Our expense was considerable. And the full tally’s not in yet.”
“These gentlemen—the government itself—acted on my most urgent entreaties,” said Ambassador Anthony Brevourt with measured precision. “I was convinced beyond any doubt that whatever the cost, it was imperative to get you out of Italy. Quite simply put, Signor Fontini-Cristi, it was not your life. It was the information you possess relative to the Patriarchate of Constantine. That is my conduit. Now, if you please, the location of the delivery. Where is the vault?”
Vittorio returned Brevourt’s stare until he could feel the sting in his eyes. No one spoke; the silence was strained. Things were being alluded to that moved the highest echelons of government and Fontini-Cristi knew he was the focus. But that was all he knew.
“I cannot tell you what I know nothing about.”
“The freight from Salonika.” Brevourt’s voice was cutting. The flat of his hand descended delicately on the table, the soft slap of flesh against the wood as startling as it was abrupt. “Two dead men in the railroad yards of Milan. One a priest. Somewhere beyond Banja Luka, north of Trieste, past Monfalcone, somewhere in Italy, or Switzerland you met that train. Now where?”
“I met no train, signore. I know nothing of Banja Luka, or Trieste. Monfalcone, yes, but it was only a phrase, and meaningless to me. An ‘incident’ would ‘take place at Monfalcone.’ That was all. My father did not elaborate. His position was that I would be given the information after the incident at Monfalcone. Not before.”
“What of the two dead men in Milan? In the railroad yards.” Brevourt would not let up; his intensity was electric.
“I read of the two men you speak of—shot in the Milan freight yards. It was a newspaper story. It did not seem terribly important to me.”
“They were Greeks.”
“I understand that.”
“You saw them. They made the delivery to you.”
“I saw no Greeks. No delivery was made to me.”
“Oh, my God!” Brevourt drew out the words in a pained whisper. It was obvious to all at the table that the diplomat was suddenly gripped in his own particular fear; he was not feigning for negotiable effect.
“Easy,” said Vice Admiral Hackett vacuously. The diplomat started to speak again, slowly, carefully, as though marshaling his thoughts.
“An agreement was made between the Elders of Xenope and the Italian Fontini-Cristis. It was a matter of incalculable priority. Sometime between December ninth and sixteenth—the dates the train left Salonika and arrived in Milan—it was met and a crate removed from the third freight car. Of such value was this cargo that the train’s itinerary was prepared in isolated stages. There was only a single master plan, itself a sequence of documents, held by one man, a priest of Xenope. These, too, were destroyed before the priest took his own life and that of the engineer. Only he knew where the transfer was to be made, where the crate was to be removed. He and those responsible for removing it. The Fontini-Cristis.” Brevourt paused, his deepset eyes riveted on Vittorio. “These are facts, sir; given to me by a courier from th
e Patriarchate. Coupled with the measures my government has taken, I presume they are sufficient to convince you to give us the information.”
Fontini-Cristi shifted his position in the chair and looked away from the quietly intense face of the ambassador. He was sure the three men thought he was dissembling; he would have to dissuade them of that. But first he had to think. So this was the reason. An unknown train from Salonika had caused the British government to take extraordinary measures to—what had Teague said?—prolong his life. Yet it was not his life that was important, as Brevourt had made clear. It was the information they assumed he possessed.
Which, of course, he did not.
December 9 through 16. His father had left for Zürich on the twelfth. But Savarone had not been in Zürich. And he would not tell his son where he had been.… Brevourt might well have cause for his anxieties. Still, there were other questions; the pattern was unclear. Vittorio turned back to the diplomat.
“Bear with me. You say Fontini-Cristis. You use the plural. A father and four sons. The father’s name was Savarone. Your Commander Neyland inaccurately introduced me by that name.”
“Yes.” Brevourt was barely audible, as if he were being forced to confront a conclusion he refused to accept. “I was aware of that.”
“So Savarone is the name you received from the Greeks. Is that correct?”
“He could not have done it alone.” Again Brevourt spoke hardly above a whisper. “You’re the eldest son; you run the companies. He would have advised you. He needed your help. There were over twenty separate documents to be prepared, we know that. He needed you!”
“It is what you apparently—perhaps desperately—wish to believe. And because you believed it, you took extraordinary measures to save my life, to get me out of Italy. You obviously know what happened at Campo di Fiori.”
Brigadier Teague spoke. “We picked it up first through the partisans. The Greeks weren’t far behind. The Greek embassy in Rome was keeping close tabs on the Fontini-Cristis; it wasn’t told why, apparently. The Athens conduit reached the ambassador and he, in turn, got in touch with us.”
“And now you are implying,” said Brevourt icily, “that it was all for nothing.”
“I’m not implying it. I’m stating it. During the period you spoke of, my father said he was traveling to Zürich. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but several days later I had an urgent reason to ask him to return to Milan. I tried contacting him; I called every hotel in Zürich; he was nowhere to be found. He never told me where he was, where he had been. That’s the truth, gentlemen.”
The two officers looked at the diplomat. Brevourt leaned slowly back in his chair—it was a gesture of futility and exhaustion; he stared at the table top. Finally, he spoke.
“You have your life, Signor Fontini-Cristi. For all our sakes, I hope the cost was not too great.”
“I can’t answer that, of course. Why was this agreement made with my father?”
“I can’t answer that,” replied Brevourt, his eyes still on the table. “Apparently someone, somewhere, believed he was resourceful enough, or powerful enough, to carry it off. Either or both of which have been borne out. Perhaps we’ll never know.…”
“What was on the train from Salonika? What was in the vault that caused you to do what you did?”
Anthony Brevourt raised his eyes and looked at Vittorio and lied. “I don’t know.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“I’m sure it must appear that way. I know only the … implications of its significance. There is no price on such things. It’s an abstract value.”
“And on that judgment you made these decisions, convinced your highest authorities to make them? Moved your government?”
“I did, sir. I would do it again. And that’s all I’ll say on the subject.” Brevourt rose from the table. “It’s pointless to go on. Others may be in touch with you. Good day, Signor Fontini-Cristi.”
The ambassador’s action startled the two officers, but they said nothing. Vittorio got out of his chair, nodded, and walked silently to the door. He turned and looked at Brevourt; the man’s eyes were noncommittal.
Outside, Fontini-Cristi was surprised to see Commander Neyland standing at attention between two enlisted men. Intelligence Sector Five, Alien Operations, was taking no chances. The door of the conference room was being guarded.
Neyland turned, astonishment in his face. He obviously expected the meeting to last far longer.
“You’ve been released, I see.”
“I didn’t think I was being held,” answered Vittorio.
“Figure of speech.”
“I never realized how unattractive it was. Are you to escort me past the desk?”
“Yes, I’ll sign you out.”
They approached the Admiralty’s huge entrance desk. Neyland checked his watch, gave Vittorio’s last name to the guard. Fontini-Cristi was asked to initial the departure time; he did so, and as he stood up from the desk he was greeted by the commander’s very formal salute. He nodded—formally—turned and walked across the marble floor to the huge double doors to the street.
He was on the fourth step when the words came to him. They shot through the swirling mists of white light and the shattering staccato of gunfire.
“Champoluc … Zürich is Champoluc … Zürich is the river!”
And then no more. Only the screams, and the white light, and the bodies suspended in death.
He stopped on the marble step, seeing nothing but the terrible visions of his mind.
“Zürich is the river! Champoluc.…”
Vittorio controlled himself. He stood motionless and breathed deeply, vaguely aware that people on the pavement and the steps were staring at him. He wondered if he should walk back through the doors of the Admiralty and down a long corridor to the cathedral arch that was the conference room of Intelligence Sector Five.
Calmly he made his decision. Others may contact you. Let the others come. He would not share with Brevourt, the seeker of elastic who lied to him.
“If I may, Sir Anthony,” said Vice Admiral Hackett, “I believe there was a great deal more ground we might have covered—”
“I agree,” interrupted Brigadier Teague, his irritation showing. “The admiral and I have our differences, but not in this, sir. We barely scratched the surface. We made an extraordinary investment and got nothing for it; there was more to be had.”
“It was useless,” said Brevourt wearily, walking slowly to the draped window overlooking the courtyard. “It was in his eyes. Fontini-Cristi told the truth. He was stunned by the information. He knows nothing.”
Hackett cleared his throat, a prelude to judgment. “He didn’t strike me as foaming at the mouth. He seemed to take it rather in stride, I’d say.”
The diplomat stared absently out the window as he replied quietly. “If he had foamed at the mouth, I would have kept him in that chair for a week. He behaved precisely the way such a man reacts to deeply disturbing news. The shock was too profound for theatrics.”
“Granting your premise,” said Teague coldly, “it does not eliminate mine. He may not realize what he knows. Secondary information often leads to a primary source. In our business it nearly always does. I must object, Sir Anthony.”
“Your objection is noted. You’re perfectly free to make further contact; I made that clear. But you’ll learn no more than we did this afternoon.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked the Intelligence man quickly, his irritation rapidly turning into anger.
Brevourt turned from the window, his expression pained, his eyes in reflection. “Because I knew Savarone Fontini-Cristi. Eight years ago in Athens. He was a neutral emissary, I think is the term, from Rome. The only man Athens would trust. The circumstances are not relevant here; the methods of Fontini-Cristi are. He was a man possessed with a sense of discretion. He could move economic mountains, negotiate the most difficult international agreements, because all parti
es knew his word was better than any written contract. In a strange way, it was why he was feared; beware the man of total integrity. Our only hope was if he had called in his son. If he had needed him.”
Teague absorbed the diplomat’s words, then leaned forward, his arms on the table. “What was on the train from Salonika? In that damned vault?”
Brevourt paused before answering. The two officers understood that whatever the ambassador was about to say, it was all he would say.
“Documents hidden from the world for fourteen centuries. They could tear the Christian world apart, setting church against church … nation against nation, perhaps; forcing millions to choose sides in a war as profound as Hitler’s.”
“And by so doing,” interrupted Teague in the form of a question, “dividing those who fight Germany.”
“Yes. Inevitably.”
“Then we’d better pray they’re not found,” concluded Teague.
“Pray strenuously, general. It’s strange. Over the centuries men have willingly given their lives to protect the sanctity of those documents. Now they’ve disappeared. And all who knew where are dead.”
PART
THREE
7
JANUARY 1940 TO SEPTEMBER 1945
EUROPE
The telephone rang on the antique desk in the Savoy suite. Vittorio was at the casement window overlooking the Thames, watching the barges make their way slowly up and down the river in the afternoon rain. He checked his watch; it was exactly four thirty. The caller had to be MI6’s Alec Teague.
Fontini-Cristi had learned many things about Teague over the past three weeks; one was that the man was punctual to a fault. If he said he would telephone around four thirty, then he would do so at four thirty. Alec Teague ran his life by a clock; it made for abrupt conversations.