Andrew Fontine headed the fist of those identified.
Eye Corps. Nice fellows, thought Adrian. Just what the country needed; storm troopers out to save the nation.
Seven years ago in San Francisco his brother had not given him any warning before the action started, and the sirens came screaming into Haight-Ashbury. Adrian would be more considerate. He was going to give Andrew five days. There’d be no sirens, no riots … no eight-year sentences in the stockades. But the celebrated Major Andrew Fontine would be out of the army.
And although the work in Washington was nowhere near completed, Adrian would go back to Boston for a while. Back to Barbara.
He was tired. And sick with what faced him in an hour or so. The pain was real. Whatever else, Andrew was his brother.
The final guests had left. The orchestra was packing its instruments, and the caterers were cleaning up the lawn. The sky was growing darker, as much because of the threatening clouds over the water as by the approach of nightfall.
Adrian walked across the lawn to the flagstone steps and down to the boathouse. Andrew was waiting for him; he had told the soldier to be there.
“Happy birthday, counselor,” said Andrew as Adrian came through the boathouse door. The soldier leaned against the wall beyond the boat slip, his arms folded, smoking a cigarette.
“Same to you,” answered Adrian, stopping at the edge of the slip. “You staying tonight?”
“Are you?” asked Andrew.
“I thought I might. The old man looks pretty bad.”
“Then I won’t,” said the soldier politely.
Adrian paused; he knew he was expected to speak. He wasn’t quite sure how to begin, so instead he looked around the boathouse. “We had some good laughs down here.”
“Did you want to reminisce? Is that why you asked me to come down here?”
“No.… I wish it were that simple.”
The soldier flipped the cigarette into the water. “I hear you left Boston. You’re in Washington.”
“Yes. For a while. I keep thinking we’ll run into each other.”
“I doubt it,” said the major, smiling. “We don’t travel in the same circles. You working for a D.C. firm?”
“No. I guess you might say I’m a consultant.”
“That’s the best job in Washington.” Andrew’s voice was laced with quiet contempt. “Who are you counseling?”
“Some people who are very upset—”
“Oh, a consumer group; isn’t that nice.” It was an insulting statement. “Good for you!”
Adrian stared at his brother; the soldier returned the look. “Don’t dismiss me, Andy. You’re in no position to do that. You’re in trouble. I’m not here to help you, I can’t do that. I’m here to warn you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked the major softly.
“A deposition was taken from an officer in Saigon by one of our people. We have a complete statement about the activities of a group of eight men who call themselves Eye Corps.”
Andrew bolted upright against the wall, his face pinched, his fingers stretched, curved, immobile. He seemed to freeze; he spoke barely above a whisper, spacing his words out. “Who is ‘we’?”
“You’ll know the origin soon enough. It’s on the subpoena.”
“Sub-poena?”
“Yes. The Justice Department, a specialist division.… I won’t tell you the individual attorneys, but I will tell you that your name heads the Eye Corps list. We know there are eight of you; seven have been identified, the eighth is at the Pentagon. In procurement. We’ll find him.”
Andrew held his position against the wall; everything about him remained immobile, except the muscles of his jaw, which moved slowly, steadily. Once again his voice was low, measured. “What have you done? What have you bastards done?”
“Stopped you,” answered Adrian simply.
“What do you know? What have you been told?”
“The truth. We’ve no reason to doubt it.”
“You need proof for a subpoena!”
“You need probable cause. We have that.”
“One deposition! Nothing!”
“Others’ll follow. What difference does it make? You’re finished.”
Andrew’s voice calmed. He spoke matter-of-factly. “Officers complain. Up and down the zones, officers complain every day—”
“Not this way. There’s no fine line between complaints and blackmail. It’s very defined, very distinct. You crossed over it.”
“Who have we blackmailed?” asked Andrew swiftly. “No one!”
“Records were kept, evidence suppressed; the intent was clear. That’s in the deposition.”
“There are no records!”
“Oh, come on, they’re somewhere,” said Adrian wearily, “But I repeat, who gives a goddamn? You’re finished.”
The soldier moved. He breathed deeply and stood erect against the wall. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You say you’re a consultant to men who are upset. We both know what that means; we’re the Fontines. Who needs resources when they have us?”
“I don’t see it that way,” broke in Adrian.
“It’s true!” shouted the soldier. And then he lowered his voice. “You don’t have to spell out what you’re doing, the Boston newspapers did that. You nail the big fellows, the vested interests, you call them. You’re good. Well, what the hell do you think I’m doing? We’re nailing them, too! You stop Eye Corps, you’re destroying the finest young senior officers in the field, men who want to rip out the garbage! Don’t do that, Adree! Join us! I mean that.”
“Join—” Adrian repeated the word in disbelief. Then he added quietly. “You’re out of your mind. What makes you think that’s remotely possible?”
Andrew took a step away from the wall; his eyes were steady on his brother. “Because we want the same thing.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Think, for God’s sake! ‘Vested interests.’ You use that a lot, ‘vested interests.’ I read your summation in the Tesco case; you repeated it continuously.”
“It applied. One company owning many, setting a single policy when there should have been competition. What’s your point?”
“You use the term negatively because that’s the way you find it. Okay, I’ll buy that. But I submit there’s another way to look at it. There can be good vested interests. Like us. Our interests isn’t ourselves; we don’t need anything. Our interests is the country and our resources are considerable. We’re in positions to do something. I’m doing it. For Christ’s sake, don’t stop me!”
Adrian turned away from his brother and walked aimlessly along the moist planks of the boathouse toward the huge opening that led to the open water. The waves slapped against the pilings. “You’re very glib, Andy. You were always very glib and sure and truly confident. But it’s not going to work.” He turned again and faced the soldier diagonally across the slip. “You say we don’t need anything. I think we do; we both need—want—something. And what you want frightens me because I’ve got an idea what your concept of finest is. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me. The thought of your ‘finest senior officers’ controlling the country’s hardware is enough to send me running to the library to reread the Constitution.”
“That’s arrogant horseshit! You don’t know them!”
“I know the way they operate, the way you operate. If it’ll make you feel better, you made some sense in San Francisco. I didn’t like it, but I recognized it.” Adrian walked back along the slip. “You’re not making sense now, which is why I’m warning you. Save what you can of your neck, I owe you that much. Get out as gracefully as you can.”
“You can’t force me,” said Andrew scathingly. “My record’s one of the best. Who the hell are you? One lousy statement from a disgruntled officer in a combat zone. Bullshit!”
“I’ll spell it out!” Adrian stopped by the boathouse doorway, raisi
ng his voice. “In five, days—next Friday, to be precise—a blanket subpoena will be served on the adjutant general of the Courts of Military Justice. He’ll have the weekend to negotiate his arrangements. Arrangements can be negotiated, but there’s one irrevocable condition. You’re out. All of you.”
The soldier started forward, then stopped, his foot on the edge of the slip, as if he were about to spring across, lunging at his enemy. He held himself in check; waves of nausea and fury seemed to pass over him and through him. “I could … kill you,” he whispered. “You’re everything I despise.”
“I guess I am,” said Adrian, closing his eyes briefly, rubbing them in weariness. “You’d better get to the airport,” he continued, now looking at his brother. “You’ve got a lot to do. I suggest you start with this so-called evidence you’ve been sitting on. We understand you’ve been collecting it for damn near three years. Get it to the proper authorities.”
In angry silence the soldier lurched in rapid strides around the slip, past Adrian, and out to the boathouse steps. He began climbing, taking the flatstone stairs two at a time.
Adrian moved swiftly to the door and called out, halting his brother on the border of the lawn.
“Andy!”
The soldier stood motionless. But he did not turn around, or speak. So the lawyer continued.
“I admire your strength, I always have. Just as I admire father’s. You’re part of him, but you’re not all of him. You missed something, so let’s understand each other. You’re everything I consider dangerous. I guess that means you’re everything I despise.”
“We understand each other,” said Andrew, repeating the words in a monotone. He started up across the lawn toward the house.
19
The orchestra and the caterers left. Andrew was driven to LaGuardia Airport. There was a nine o’clock plane to Washington.
Adrian remained on the beach by himself for nearly thirty minutes after his brother left. Finally he wandered up to the house to talk to his parents. He told them he had intended to stay the night but now thought he should leave. He had to get back to Washington.
“You should have gone with your brother,” said Jane at the front door.
“Yes, I should have,” said Adrian softly. “I didn’t think.” He said his good-byes.
When he left, Jane walked out to the terrace, carrying the letter brought by the priest. She held it out for her husband, unable to conceal her fear. “A man brought this. About three hours ago. He was a priest. He said he was from Rome.”
Victor looked up at his wife. There was no comment in his eyes, and by the lack of it, there was. “Why did you wait?”
“Because it was your sons’ birthday.”
“They’re strangers to each other,” said Fontine, taking the envelope. “They’re both our children, but they’re very far apart.”
“It won’t last. It’s the war.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Victor, opening the envelope and taking out the letter. It ran several pages, the handwriting small but precise. “Do we know a man named Aldobrini?”
“Who?”
“Guido Aldobrini. That’s the signature.” Fontine held up the last page.
“I don’t think so,” answered Jane, sitting down in the nearest chair, her eyes on the threatening sky. “Can you see in this light? It’s getting darker.”
“It is sufficient.” Victor put the pages in sequence and began to read.
Signor Fontini-Cristi:
You do not know me although we met many years ago. That meeting cost me the better part of my life. I have spent over a quarter of a century in the Transvaal in holy penance for an act of shame. I did not touch you myself, but I observed and did not raise my voice for mercy, which was an indecent and unholy thing.
Yes, Signore, I was one of the priests with the Cardinal Donatti that dawn at Campo di Fiori. For what we believed was the preservation of Christ’s Mother Church on earth, the Cardinal convinced us that there were no laws of God or man or mercy standing between our actions and the preservation of God’s Church. All our scholastic training and vows of obedience—not only to our superiors, but to the highest authority of conscience—were twisted by the power of Donatti’s influence. I have spent twenty-five years trying to understand, but that is another story not pertinent here. One would have had to know the Cardinal to understand.
I am retired from my cloth. The illnesses of the African forests have taken their toll, and thanks be to Christ I do not fear death. For I have given of myself as fully as I knew how. I am cleansed and await the judgment of God.
Before I face our merciful Lord, however, there is information I must impart to you, for to withhold it now would be no less a sin than that for which I have paid holy penance.
The work of Donatti continues. A man, one of the three defrocked priests who were imprisoned by the civil court for their assault on you, has been released. As you perhaps know, one took his own life, the other died of natural causes while in prison. This third man survives and for motives beyond my comprehension, has rededicated himself to the pursuit of the Salonika documents. I say beyond my comprehension, for Cardinal Donatti was discredited in the highest circles of the Vatican. The Grecian documents cannot affect the Holy Mother Church. Divine revelation cannot be contravened by the hand of mortal man.
This defrocked priest goes by the name of Enrici Gaetamo, and he is taken to wearing the collar denied him by apostolic decree. It is my understanding that his years spent in the criminal institution have done nothing to enlighten his soul or show him the ways of a merciful Christ. On the contrary, I am told he is Donatti incarnate. A man to be feared.
He currently, painstakingly, researches every detail he can unearth relative to the train from Salonika thirty-three years ago. His travels have carried him from the yards of Edhessa, through the Balkans, over the rail routes beyond Monfalcone into the northern Alpine regions. He seeks out all he can find who knew the son of Fontini-Cristi. He is a man possessed. He subscribes to the code of Donatti. There is no law of God or man that will interfere with his “journey for Christ,” as he phrases it. Nor will he reveal to anyone the objective of his journey. But I know, and now you do. And soon I shall depart this life.
Gaetamo resides in a small hunting lodge in the hills of Varese. I’m sure the proximity to Campo di Fiori does not escape you.
This is all I can tell you; it is all I know. That he will attempt to reach you, I am certain. That you be warned and remain safe in God’s hands, is my prayer.
In sorrow and personal anguish for my past, I remain,
Guido Aldobrini
There was the sound of thunder over the water; Fontine wished the symbolism were not so crudely simple. The clouds were above them now; the sun was gone and the rains began. He was grateful for the diversion. He looked at Jane. She was staring at him; somehow he had communicated to her his profound uneasiness.
“Go in,” he said softly. “I’ll follow in a minute or two.”
“The letter—?”
“Of course,” he answered her unspoken question as he replaced the pages in the envelope and handed it to her. “Read it.”
“You’ll be drenched. The rain will get stronger.”
“It’s refreshing; you know I like the rain.” He smiled up at her. “Then perhaps you’ll help me change the brace while we talk.”
She stood above him for a moment, and he could feel her eyes on him. But as always, she would leave him alone when he wished it.
He was chilled by his thoughts, not the rain. The letter from Aldobrini was not the first time Salonika had reappeared. He had said nothing to Jane for there was nothing concrete, only a series of obscurely disturbing—seemingly minor—occurrences.
Three months ago he had gone to Harkness for yet another week of corrective surgery. Several days after the operation he’d had a visitor whose appearance startled him; a monsignor from the Archdiocese of New York. His name was Land, he said. He had returned
to the United States after many years in Rome, and wanted to meet Victor because of information he had come across in the Vatican archives.
The priest was solicitous; what struck Fontine was that the cleric knew a great deal about his physical condition, far more than a casual visitor would know.
It was a very odd half hour. The priest was a student of history, he said. He had come across archive documents that raised profoundly disturbing questions between the house of Fontini-Cristi and the Vatican. Historical questions that led to the break between the padroni of the north and the Holy See. When Victor was well again, perhaps they could discuss the past. The historical past. He had ended his good-byes with a direct reference to the assault at Campo di Fiori. The pain and anguish inflicted by one maniacal prelate could not be laid at the soul of the church, he said.
About five weeks later there’d been a second incident. Victor had been in his Washington office, preparing to testify before a congressional committee looking into the tax concessions enjoyed by American shippers sailing under the Paraguayan flag, when his intercom buzzed.
“Mr. Fontine, Mr. Theodore Dakakos is here. He says he wants to pay his respects.”
Dakakos was one of the young Greek shipping giants, an impertinent rival of Onassis and Niarchos, and far better liked. Fontine told his secretary to send him in.
Dakakos was a large man with a blunt, open expression on his face that might become an American football player more than a shipping tycoon. He was around forty years of age; his English was precise, the language of a student.
He had flown to Washington to observe the hearings, perhaps to learn something, he said smiling. Victor laughed; the Greek’s reputation for integrity was matched only by the legend of his acute business sense. Fontine told him so.
“I was most fortunate. At a very young age I was given the advantages of an education by a sympathetic but remote religious brotherhood.”