“It seems to me that too many churches permit the fanatics, then look back in astonishment, amazed at what was done in ‘their names.’ It’s not restricted to Rome. Trappings often obscure purposes, don’t they? That goes for governments, too. I want questions answered!”
Brevourt blinked several times at Fontine’s outburst and replied rapidly, mechanically. “I’m prepared to offer them where I can. I’ve been instructed to withhold nothing.”
“First, Stone. The order of execution has been explained; I have no comment. I want to know the rest. All of it.”
“Precisely what you’ve been told. I didn’t trust you. I was convinced when you first arrived in London that you’d made up your mind to reveal nothing about the train from Salonika. I expected you to make your own arrangements, on your own terms. We couldn’t let that happen.”
“Stone reported my movements then?”
“Every one. You made eleven trips across the Channel, and one to Lisbon. With Stone’s help we had you covered each time. In the event of capture, we were prepared to negotiate an exchange with the enemy.”
“Suppose I’d been killed?”
“In the beginning it was a risk we calculated, overshadowed by the fact that you might have bolted, made contact with regard to ‘Salonika.’ And in June of forty-two, after Oxfordshire, Teague agreed not to send you across any longer.”
“What happened at Oxfordshire? The priest—if he was a priest—who led those planes in was Greek. From the Order of Xenope. Your first constituency, I believe.”
Brevourt pursed his lips and breathed deeply. Admissions were being made that both pained and embarrassed him. “Stone, again. The Germans had tried for two years to locate the compound at Oxfordshire. He leaked the precise bearings to Berlin, and at the same time made his own arrangements with the Greeks. He convinced them there was a way to break you. It was worth trying; a broken man talks. He didn’t give a damn himself about ‘Salonika,’ but the raid served his primary aim. He put a fanatic priest in the compound and coordinated the strike.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“To kill your wife. If she’d been killed, even severely wounded, he assumed you’d turn on all things British, get out of M.I.-Six. He was right. You nearly did, you know. He hated you; blamed you for ruining a brilliant career. As I understand it, he tried to keep you in London that night.”
Victor remembered the horrible night. Stone, the methodical psychopath, had counted the minutes, projected the speed of a car. Fontine reached for his cigarettes on the bedside table. “The last question. And don’t lie to me. What was on the train from Salonika?”
Brevourt walked away from the bed. He crossed to the hospital window and was silent for a moment.
“Parchments, writings from the past which, if made public, could bring chaos to the religious world. Specifically, they would tear the Christian world apart. Accusations and denials would be hurled back and forth, governments might have to choose sides. Above everything, the documents in enemy hands would have been an ideological weapon beyond anything imaginable.”
“Documents can do this?” asked Fontine.
“These documents can,” replied Brevourt, turning away from the window. “Have you ever heard of the Filioque Clause?”
Victor inhaled. His mind went back over the years to the impartial lessons of his childhood. “It’s part of the Creed of Nicaea.”
“More properly, the Nicene Creed of the year 381; there were many councils, subtle alterations of the creed. The Filioque was a later addition that once and for all established the Christ figure as one substance with God. It’s rejected by the Eastern church as misleading. For the Eastern church, especially the sects that followed the scholar-priest Arius, Christ as the son of God was the teacher; his divinity was not equal to God’s. No such equality could exist for them in those times. When the Filioque was first proposed, the Patriarchate of Constantine recognized it for what it was: a doctrinal division that favored Rome. A theological symbol that was the excuse to divide and conquer new territories. And quite right they were. The Holy Roman Empire became a global force—as the globe was known. Its influence spread throughout the world on that single premise, this specialized divinity of Christ: Conquer in the name of Christ.” Brevourt stopped, as if searching for words. He walked slowly back toward the foot of the bed.
“Then the documents in that vault,” said Victor, “refute the Filioque? If so, they challenge the foundation of the Roman church and all the Christian divisions that followed.”
“Yes, they do that,” replied Brevourt quietly. “Collectively they’re called the denials … the Filioque denials. They include agreements between crowns and caesars from as far away as Spain, in the sixth century, where the Filioque originated, for what many believe were purely political reasons. Others trace what they term the ‘theological corruption.’… But if that was all they did, the world could live with them. Son of God, teacher, one substance. These are theological differences, subjects for biblical scholars to debate. They do more, I’m afraid. In the Patriarchate’s fervor to deny the Filioque, it sent out priests to search the holy lands, meet with the Aramaic scholars, unearth everything that ever existed relative to Jesus. They unearthed more than they were looking for. There were rumors of scrolls written during the years just preceding and after the mark of the first century. They traced them, discovered several, and brought them back to Constantine. It is said that one Aramaic scroll raises profound and very specific doubts as to the man known as Jesus. He may never have existed at all.”
The ocean liner headed toward the open waters of the Channel. Fontine stood at the railing and watched the sky-fine of Southampton. Jane was at his side, one hand gently around his waist, the other crossed in front of her, over his hand on the railing. The crutches with the large metal clasps that held his forearms were to his left, the shiny half circles of stainless steel glistening in the sunlight. He had designed them himself. If it was going to be necessary, as the doctors said, for him to use crutches for a year or more he could damn well improve on.the existing product.
Their two sons, Andrew and Adrian, were with their nurse from Dunblane—one of those who had elected to sail to America with the Fontines.
Italy, Campo di Fiori, the train for Salonika were in the past. The cataclysmic parchments that had been taken from the archives of Xenope were somewhere in the vast range of the Italian Alps. Buried for a millennium; perhaps never to be found.
It was better that way. The world had passed through an era of devastation and doubt. Reason demanded that a calm be restored, at least for a while, if only on the surface. It was no time for the vault from Salonika.
The future began with the rays of the afternoon sun on the waters of the English Channel. Victor leaned toward his wife and put his face next to hers. Neither spoke; she held his hand in silence.
There was a commotion on the deck. Thirty yards aft the twins has gotten into a quarrel. Andrew was angry with his brother Adrian. Childish blows were exchanged. Fontine smiled.
Children.
PART
ONE
BOOK TWO
18
JUNE 1973
Men.
They were men, thought Victor Fontine as he watched his sons thread separately through the guests in the bright sunlight. And twins, second. It was an important distinction, he felt, although it wasn’t necessary to dwell on it. It seemed years since anyone had referred to them as the twins. Except Jane and himself, of course. Brothers, yes; but not twins. It was strange how that word had fallen into disuse.
Perhaps the party would revive it for a while. Jane would like that. They were always the twins to Jane. Her Geminis.
The afternoon party at the North Shore house on Long Island was for Andrew and Adrian; it was their birthday. The lawns and gardens behind the house, above the boathouse and the water, had been turned into an enormous outdoor fête champêtre, as Jane called it. “A ruddy, grownup picnic! No o
ne has them anymore. We will.”
A small orchestra played at the south edge of the terrace, its music serving as an undercurrent to a hundred conversations. Long tables heaped with food were organized on the large expanse of manicured lawn; two bars did brisk business at either end of the rectangular buffet. Fête champêtre. Victor had never heard the term before. In thirty-four years of marriage, he had never heard it.
How the years had flown! It was as though three decades had been compressed into a time capsule and shot through the skies at incredible speed, only to land and be opened and scanned by participants who had merely grown older.
Andrew and Adrian were near each other now. Andy chatted with the Kempsons by the canapé table. Adrian was at the bar, talking to several young people whose clothes were the only vague evidence of their gender. It was right, somehow, that Andrew should be with the Kempsons. Paul Kempson was president of Centaur Electronics; he was well thought of by the Pentagon. As, of course, was Andrew. Adrian, no doubt, had been cornered by several university students who wanted to question the singularly outspoken attorney who was Victor’s son.
Victor noted with a certain satisfaction that both twins were taller than those around them. It was to be expected; neither he nor Jane were short. And they looked somewhat alike, but not identical. Andrew’s hair was very light, nearly blond; Adrian’s was dark, auburn. Their features were sharp, a combination of his and Jane’s, but each with his own identity. The only physical thing they shared in common was their eyes: they were Jane’s. Light blue and penetrating.
At times, in very bright sunlight or in dim shadows, they could be mistaken for each other. But only at such times, under such conditions. And they did not seek them. Each was very much his own man.
The light-haired Andrew was in the army, a dedicated professional. Victor’s influence had secured a congressional appointment to West Point, where Andrew had excelled. He’d made two tours of duty in Vietnam, although he despised the way the war was fought. “Win or get out” was his credo, but none listened, and he wasn’t sure it made any difference. There was no way to win for losing. Saigon corruption was like no other corruption on the face of the earth.
Yet Andrew was not a spoiler within the ranks, either. Victor understood that. His son was a believer. Deep, concerned, unwavering: The military was America’s strength. When all the words were said and done, there remained only the power at hand. To be used wisely, but to be used.
For the dark-haired Adrian, however, there was no limit to be placed on the use of words, and no excuse for armed confrontation. Adrian, the lawyer, was as dedicated in his fashion as his brother, although his demeanor might seem to deny it. Adrian slouched; he gave the appearance of nonchalance where none existed. Legal adversaries had learned never to be lulled by his humor or his seeming lack of concern. Adrian was concerned. He was a shark in the courtroom. At least he had been for the prosecutor’s office in Boston. He. was in Washington now.
Adrian had gone from prep school to Princeton to Harvard Law, with a year taken off to wander and grow a beard and play a guitar and sleep with available girls from San Francisco to Bleecker Street. It had been a year when Victor and Jane had held their collective breath, though not always their tempers.
But the life of the open road, the provincial confines of a half-dozen communes palled on Adrian. He could no more accept the aimlessness of unprovoked experience than Victor had nearly thirty years ago at the end of the European war.
Fontine’s thoughts were interrupted. The Kempsons were heading over to his chair, excusing their way through the crowd. They would not expect him to get up—no one ever did—but it annoyed Victor that he could not. Without help.
“Damn fine boy,” said Paul Kempson. “He’s got his head on straight, that Andrew does. I told him if he ever wants to chuck the uniform, Centaur has a place for him.”
“I told him he should wear his uniform,” added Kempson’s wife brightly. “He’s such a handsome man.”
“I’m sure he thinks it would be disconcerting,” said Fontine, not at all sure. “No one wants to be reminded of the war at a birthday party.”
“How long’s he home for, Victor?” asked Kempson.
“Home? Here? Only for a few days. He’s stationed in Virginia now. At the Pentagon.”
“Your other boy’s in Washington, too, isn’t he? Seems I read something about him in the papers.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did.” Fontine smiled.
“Oh, then they’re together. That’s nice,” said Alice Kempson.
The orchestra finished one number and began another. The younger couples flocked to the terrace; the party was accelerating. The Kempsons floated away with nods and smiles. Briefly, Victor thought about Alice Kempson’s remark.
… they’re together. That’s nice. But Andrew and Adrian were not together. They worked within twenty minutes of each other but lived separate lives. At times, Fontine thought, too separate. They did not laugh together as they once did as children. As men, something had happened between them. Fontine wondered what it was.
Jane acknowledged for roughly the hundredth time that the party was a success, wasn’t it. A statement. Thank heavens the weather held. The caterers had sworn they could erect the tents in less than an hour, if it was necessary, but by noon the sun was bright, the promise of a beautiful day confirmed.
Not, however, a beautiful evening. Far in the distance, over the water near Connecticut, the sky was gray. Weather reports predicted scattered-nocrurnal-thunder-showers-with-increasingly-steady-precipitation, whatever all that meant. Why didn’t they simply say it would rain later on?
Two o’clock to six o’clock. Good hours for a Sunday fête champêtre. She had laughed at Victor’s ignorance of the term. It was so pretentiously Victorian; the fun was in using it. It looked ridiculous on the invitations. Jane smiled, then stifled a laugh. She really should control her foolishness, she supposed. She was much too old for that sort of thing.
Across the lawn between the crowds, Adrian was smiling at her. Had he read her thoughts? Adrian, her dark-haired Gemini, had inherited her slightly mad English humor.
He was thirty-one years old. They were thirty-one years old. Where had those years gone? It seemed like only months ago they’d all arrived in New York on the ship. Followed by months of activity that had Victor flying all over the States and back to Europe, furiously building.
And Victor had done it. Fontine, Ltd. became one of the most sought-after consulting firms in America, Victor’s expertise primarily aimed at European reconstruction. The name Fontine on a corporation’s presentation was an industrial plus. Knowledge of a given marketplace was assured.
Victor had involved himself totally, not merely for the sake of pride, or instinctive productivity, but for something else. Jane knew it, and at the same time knew she could do nothing to help him. It took his mind off the pain. Her husband was rarely without pain; the operations prolonged his life, but did little to lessen the pain.
She looked at Victor across the lawn, sitting in his hard wooden chair with the straight back, the shiny metal cane at his side. He had been so proud when the two crutches were replaced by the single cane that made it possible for him to walk without being so obvious a cripple.
“Hi, Mrs. Fontine,” said the young man with the very long hair. “It’s one terrific party! Thanks for letting me bring my friends. They really wanted to meet Adrian.”
The speaker was Michael Reilly. The Reillys were their nearest neighbors on the shore, about a half a mile down the beach. Michael was in law school at Columbia. “That’s very flattering!”
“Hey, he’s great! He wrapped up that Tesco antitrust in Boston when even the federal courts thought it was too loose. Everyone knew it was a Centaur company, but it took Adrian to nail it.”
“Don’t discuss it with Mr. Kempson.”
“Don’t worry. I saw him at the club and he told me to get a haircut. What the hell, so did my father.”
“You won, I see.”
Michael grinned. “He’s mad as a bull but he can’t say anything. I’m on the honors list. We made a deal.”
“Good for you. Make him live up to it.”
The Reilly boy laughed and leaned over, kissing her cheek. “You’re outta sight!” He grinned again and left, beckoned by a girl at the edge of the patio.
Young people liked her, thought Jane. It was a comforting realization these days when the young found so little to like, or to approve. They liked her in spite of the fact that she refused to make concessions to youth. Or to age. Her hair was streaked—God, more than streaked—with gray; her face was lined—as it should be lined—and there were no discussions of a skin nip here, or a tuck there, as so many of her friends had done. She thanked her stars she’d kept her figure. All things considered, not bad for sixty … plus, damn it.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fontine?” It was the maid; she’d come out of the turmoil that was the kitchen.
“Yes, Grace? Problems?”
“No, ma’am. There’s a gentleman at the door. He asked for you or Mr. Fontine.”
“Tell him to come out.”
“He said he’d rather not. He’s a foreign gentleman. A priest. I thought with so many people, Mr. Fontine—”
“Yes, you were right,” interrupted Jane, understanding the maid’s concerns. Victor did not relish walking among his guests as he was forced to walk. “I’ll go see him.”
The priest stood in the hallway, his black suit ill-fitting and old, his face thin and tired. He appeared awed, frightened.
Jane spoke coldly. She could not help herself. “I’m Mrs. Fontine.”
“Yes, you are the signora,” replied the priest awkwardly, a large, stained envelope in his hand. “I have seen the pictures. I did not mean to intrude. So many automobiles.”