“Who?”
“One of the foremen in the Milan factories.”
“You’re what? How dare you call here! How did you get this number?”
Tesca was silent for a moment. “I threatened the life of your secretary, young padrone. And I would have killed her had she not given it to me. You may fire me tomorrow. I am your foreman, but I am a partigiano first.”
“You are fired. Now. As of this moment!”
“So be it, signore.”
“I want no part—.”
“Basta!” shouted Tesca. “There’s no time! Everyone’s looking for you. The padrone’s in danger. Your whole family’s in danger! Go to Campo di Fiori! At once! Your father says to use the stable road!”
The telephone went dead.
Savarone walked through the great hall into the enormous dining room of Campo di Fiori. Everything was as it should be. The room was filled with sons and daughters, husbands and wives, and a thoroughly boisterous crowd of grandchildren. The servants had placed silver trays of antipasto on the tops of marble tables. A tall pine that reached the high beamed ceiling was a magnificent Christmas tree, its myriad lights and glittering ornament filling the room with reflections of color that bounced off the tapestries and the ornate furniture.
Outside in the circular drive in front of the marble steps of the entrance were four automobiles illuminated by the floodlights that beamed down from the eaves. They could easily be mistaken for anyone’s automobiles, which was what Savarone intended. For when the raiding party arrived, all it would find was an innocent, festive family gathering. A holiday dinner. Nothing else.
Except an imperiously aggravated patriarch of one of Italy’s most powerful clans. The padrone of the Fontini-Cristis, who would demand to know who was responsible for such a barbarous intrusion.
Only Vittorio was missing; and his presence was vital. Questions might be raised that could lead to other questions. The unwilling Vittorio, who scoffed at their work, could become an unjustified target of suspicion. What was a holiday family dinner without the eldest son, the primary heir? Further, if Vittorio appeared during the intrusion, arrogantly reluctant—as his custom—to give an account of himself to anyone, there could be trouble. His son refused to acknowledge the extent, but Rome was under Berlin’s thumb.
Savarone beckoned his next eldest, the serious Antonio, who stood with his wife as she admonished one of their children.
“Yes, father?”
“Go to the stables. See Barzini. Tell him that if Vittorio arrives during the fascists’ visit, he’s to say he was detained at one of the plants.”
“I can call him on the stable phone.”
“No. Barzini’s getting on. He pretends it’s not so, but he’s growing deaf. Make sure he understands.”
The second son nodded dutifully. “Yes, of course, father. Anything you say.”
What in God’s name had his father done? What could he do that would give Rome the confidence, the excuse, to move openly against the house of Fontini-Cristi?
Your whole family is in danger.
Preposterous!
Mussolini courted the northern industrialists; he needed them. He knew that most were old men, set in their ways, and knew he could achieve more with honey than vinegar. What did it matter if a few Savarones played their silly games? Their time was past.
But then there was only one Savarone. Separate and apart from all other men. He had become, perhaps, that terrible thing, a symbol. With his silly, goddamned partigiani. Ragtail lunatics who raced around the fields and the woods of Campo di Fiori pretending they were some kind of primitive tribesmen hunting tigers and killer lions.
Jesus! Children!
Well, it would all come to a stop. Padrone or no padrone, if his father had gone too far and embarrassed them, there would be a confrontation. He had made it clear to Savarone two years ago that when he assumed the reins of Fontini-Cristi, it meant that all the leather was in his hands.
Suddenly Vittorio remembered. Two weeks ago, Savarone had gone to Zürich for a few days. At least, he said he was going to Zürich. It wasn’t really clear; he, Vittorio, had not been listening closely. But during those few days, it was unexpectedly necessary to get his father’s signature on several contracts. So necessary that he had telephoned every hotel in Zürich, trying to locate Savarone. He was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him, and his father was not easily overlooked.
And when he returned to Campo di Fiori, he would not say where he had been. He was maddeningly enigmatic, telling his son that he would explain everything in a few days. An incident would take place in Monfalcone and when it occurred, Vittorio would be told. Vittorio had to be told.
What in hell was his father talking about? What incident at Monfalcone? Why would anything taking place at Monfalcone concern them?
Preposterous!
But Zürich wasn’t preposterous at all. Banks were in Zürich. Had Savarone manipulated money in Zürich? Had he transferred extraordinary sums out of Italy into Switzerland? There was specific laws against that these days. Mussolini needed every lira he could keep. And God knew the family had sufficient reserves in Berne and Geneva; there was no lack of Fonti-Cristi capital in Switzerland.
Whatever Savarone had done, it would be his last gesture. If his father was so politically involved, let him go somewhere else and proselytize. America, perhaps.
Vittorio shook his head slowly in defeat, as he steered the Hispano-Suiza onto the road out of Varese. What was he thinking of? Savarone was—Savarone. The head of the house of Fontini-Cristi. No matter the son’s talents or expertise, the son was not the padrone.
Use the stable road.
What was the point of that? The stable road started at the north end of the property, three miles from the east gates. Nevertheless, he would use it; his father must have had a reason for giving the order. No doubt as implausible as the foolish games he indulged in, but a surface filial obedience was called for; the son was going to be very firm with the father.
What had happened in Zürich?
He passed the main gates on the road out of Varese and proceeded to the intersecting west road three miles beyond. He turned left and drove nearly two miles to the north gate, turning left again into Campo di Fiori. The stables were three-quarters of a mile from the entrance; the road was dirt. It was easier on the horses, for this was the road used by riders heading for the fields and trails north and west of the forest at the center of Campo di Fiori. The forest behind the great house that was bisected by the wide stream that flowed from the northern mountains.
In the headlights he saw the figure of old Guido Barzini waving his arms, signaling him to stop. The gnarled Barzini was something: a fixture at Campo di Fiori who had spent his life in the service of the house.
“Quickly, Signore Vittorio.” said Barzini through the open window. “Leave your car here. There’s no more time.”
“Time for what?”
“The padrone spoke to me not five minutes ago. He said if you drove in now, you were to call him on the stable telephone before you went to the house. It’s nearly half past the hour.”
Vittorio looked at the dashboard clock. It was twenty-eight minutes past ten. “What’s going on?”
“Hurry, signore! Please! The fascisti!”
“What fascisti?”
“The padrone. He’ll tell you.”
Fontini-Cristi got out of the car and followed Barzini down the stone path into the entrance of the stables. It was a tack room; bits and braces and halters and leather were hung neatly on the walls, surrounding countless plaques and ribbons, proof of the superiority of the Fontini-Cristi colors. Also on the wall was the telephone that connected the stables to the great house.
“What’s going on, father? Have you any idea who called me in Bellagio?”
“Basta!” roared Savarone over the telephone. “They’ll be here any moment. A German raiding party.”
“Germans?”
“Yes. Rom
e expects to find a partigiano meeting taking place. They won’t, of course. They’ll intrude on a family dinner. Remember! A family dinner party was on your calendar. You were detained in Milan.”
“What have Germans got to do with Rome?”
“I’ll explain later. Just remember—”
Suddenly, over the telephone, Vittorio heard the sounds of screeching tires and powerful motors. A column of automobiles was speeding toward the great house from the east gates.
“Father!” yelled Vittorio. “Has this anything to do with your trip to Zürich?”
There was silence over the phone. Finally Savarone spoke. “It may have. You must stay where you are—”
“What happened? What happened in Zürich?”
“Not Zürich. Champoluc.”
“what?”
“Later! I have to get back to the others. Stay where you are! Out of sight! We’ll talk when they leave.”
Vittorio heard the click. He turned to Barzini. The old stable master was riffling through a low chest of drawers filled with odd bits and braces; he found what he was looking for: a pistol and a pair of binoculars. He pulled them out and handed both to Vittorio.
“Come!” he said, his old eyes angry. “We’ll watch. The padrone will teach them a lesson.”
They ran down the dirt road toward the house and the gardens above and behind it. When the dirt became pavement they cut to their left and climbed the embankment ovérlooking the circular drive. They were in darkness; the whole area below bathed in floodlights.
Three automobiles sped up the east-gate road; long, black, powerful vehicles, their headlights emerging out of the darkness, swallowed by the floodlamps that washed the area in white light. The cars entered the circular drive, careening to the left of the other automobiles, stopping suddenly, equidistant from each other in front of the stone steps that led to the thick oak doors of the entrance.
Men leaped out of the cars. Men dressed alike in black suits and black overcoats; men carrying weapons.
Carrying weapons!
Vittorio stared as the men—seven, eight, nine—raced up the steps to the door. A tall man in front assumed command; he held his hand up to those behind, ordering them to flank the doors, four on each side. He pulled the bell chain with his left hand, his right holding a pistol at his side.
Vittorio put the binoculars to his eyes. The man’s face was turned away toward the door, but the weapon in his hand came into focus. It was a German Luger. Vittorio swung the binoculars to those on both sides of the doors.
The weapons were all German. Four Lugers, four Bergmann MP38 submachine guns.
Vittorio’s stomach suddenly convulsed; his mind caught fire as he watched in disbelief. What had Rome permitted? It was incredible!
He focused the binoculars on the three automobiles. In each was a man; all were in shadows, only the backs of their heads seen through the rear windows. Vittorio concentrated on the nearest car, on the man inside that car.
The man shifted his position in the seat and looked back to his right; the light from the floodlamps caught his hair. It was close-cropped, grayish hair, but with a white streak shooting up from his forehead. There was something familiar about the man—the shape of the head, the streak of white in the hair—but Vittorio could not place him.
The door of the house opened; a maid stood in the frame, startled by the sight of the tall man with a gun. Vittorio stared in fury at the scene below. Rome would pay for the insult. The tall man pushed the maid aside and burst through the door, followed by the squad of eight men, their weapons held in front of them. The maid disappeared in the phalanx of bodies.
Rome would pay dearly!
There were shouts from inside. Vittorio could hear his father’s roar and the subsequent shouted objections of his brothers.
There was a loud crash, a combination of glass and wood. Vittorio reached for the pistol in his pocket. He felt a powerful hand grip his wrist.
It was Barzini. The old stable master held Vittorio’s hand, but he was looking over his shoulder, staring below.
“There are too many guns. You’ll solve nothing,” he said simply.
A third crash came from below, the sound nearer now. The left panel of the huge oak double door had been thrown open and figures emerged. The children, first, bewildered, some crying in fear. Then the women, his sisters and his brothers’ wives. Then his mother, her head defiant, the youngest child in her arms. His father and his brothers followed, prodded violently by the weapons in the hands of the black-suited men.
They were herded onto the pavement of the circular drive. His father’s voice roared above the others, demanding to know who was responsible for the outrage.
But the outrage had not begun.
When it did, the mind of Vittorio Fontini-Cristi snapped. Cracks of thunder deafened him, streaks of lightning blinded him. He lunged forward, every ounce of his strength trying to wrench his hand free of Barzini’s grip, twisting, turning, trying desperately to free his neck and his jaw from Barzini’s stranglehold.
For the black-suited men below had opened fire. Women threw themselves over the children, his brothers lurched at the weapons that shattered the night with fire and death. The screams of terror and pain and outrage swelled in the blinding light of the execution grounds. Smoke billowed; bodies froze in midair—suspended in blood-soaked garments. Children were cut in half, the bullets ripping out mouths and eyes. Pieces of flesh and skull and intestine shot through the swirling mists. A child’s body exploded in its mother’s arms. And still Vittorio Fontini-Cristi could not free himself, could not go to his own.
He felt dead weight pressing him downward, then a clawing, choking, pulling at his lower jaw that blocked all sound from his lips.
And then the words pierced through the cacophony of gunshot and human screams below. The voice was tremendous, its thunder chopped by the firepower of submachine guns, but not stopped.
It was his father. Calling to him over the chasms of death.
“Champoluc … Zürich is Champoluc.… Zürich is the river … Champoluuuc.…”
Vittorio gnashed his teeth down on the fingers inside his mouth, pulling his jaw out of its socket. He wrenched his hand free for an instant—the hand with the weapon—and tried to raise the pistol and fire below.
But suddenly he could not. The sea of heaviness was over him again, his wrist twisted beyond endurance; the pistol was shaken loose. The enormous hand that had gripped his jaw was pushing his face into the cold earth. He could feel the blood in his mouth, over his lops, mingled with dirt.
And the horrible scream from the abyss of death came once more.
“Champoluc!”
And then was stilled.
3
DECEMBER 30, 1939
“Champoluc … Zürich is Champoluc … Zürich is the river.…”
The words were screams and they were blurred in agony. His mind’s eye was filled with white light and explosions of smoke and deep red streaks of blood; his ears heard the screams of jolting shock, and terror, and the outrage of infinite pain and terrible murder.
It had happened. He had borne witness to the tableau of execution: strong men, trembling children, wives and mothers. His own.
Oh, my God!
Vittorio twisted his head and buried his face into the coarse cloth of the primitive bed, the tears flowing down his cheeks. It was cloth, not cold rough dirt; he had been moved. The last thing he remembered was his face being pressed with enormous strength into the hard ground of the embankment. Pressed down and held furiously immobile, his eyes blinded, his lips filled with warm blood and cold earth.
Only his ears bearing witness to the agony.
“Champoluc!”
Mother of God, it had happened!
The Fontini-Cristis were massacred in the white lights of Campo di Fiori. All the Fontini-Cristis but one. And that one would make Rome pay. The last Fontini-Cristi would cut the flesh, layer by layer, from Il Duce’s face; the eyes wo
uld be last, the blade would enter slowly.
“Vittorio. Vittorio.”
He heard his name and yet he did not hear it. It was a whisper, an urgent whisper, and whispers were dreams of agony.
“Vittorio.” The weight was on his arms again; the whisper came from above, in the darkness. The face of Guido Barzini was inches from his, the sad strong eyes of the stablemaster were reflected in a shaft of dim light.
“Barzini?” It was all he could manage to say.
“Forgive me. There was no choice, no other way. You would have been killed with the rest.”
“Yes, I know. Executed. But why? In the name of God, why?”
“The Germans. That’s all we know at the moment. The Germans wanted the Fontini-Cristis dead. They want you dead. The ports, the airfields, the roads, all of northern Italy is sealed off.”
“Rome allowed it.” Vittorio could still taste the blood in his mouth, still feel the pain in his jaw.
“Rome hides,” said Barzini softly. “Only a few speak.”
“What do they say?”
“What the Germans want them to say. That the Fontini-Cristis were traitors, killed by their own people. That the family was aiding the French, sending arms and monies across the borders.”
“Preposterous.”
“Rome is preposterous. And filled with cowards. The informer was found. He hangs naked from his feet in the Piazza del Duomo, his body riddled, his tongue nailed to his head. A partigiano placed a sign below; it says, ‘This pig betrayed Italy, his blood flows from the stigmata of the Fontini-Cristis.’ ”
Vittorio turned away. The images burned; the white smoke in the white light, the bodies suspended, abruptly immobile in death, a thousand sudden blots of thick red; the execution of children.
“Champoluc,” whispered Vittorio Fontini-Cristi.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My father. As he was dying, as the gunfire ravaged him, he shouted the name, Champoluc. Something happened in Champoluc.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Champoluc is in the Alps, deep in the mountains. ‘Zürich is Champoluc. Zürich is the river.’ He said that. He shouted it as he died. Yet there’s no river in the Champoluc.”