The Matarese Countdown (49 page)

“I was all-state in high school, mainly—as I often said—because I hated the idea of being tackled.”

“You were prime meat, my darling—”

“Would you say that again, please?”

“Yes, I will.… My darling, my totally unexpected darling.”

They kissed, long and with growing excitement, until Leslie moved back and looked into Cam’s eyes. “I haven’t told you why you broke down my barriers.”

“Is it important?”

“It is to me, my dearest. I’m not a one-night stand and I trust you know it as well as I do. I’m not a whore.”

“Goddamn it, I could never think of you like that!”

“Lighten up, Officer Pryce. Some of my best friends have been unfairly categorized that way. You have no idea what marriage is like in the military. Months and months of separations, your own natural longing, the attractive men who hit on you in the officers’ clubs, including your husband’s superiors.”

“That
stinks
,” said Cameron.

“It certainly does,” agreed the lieutenant colonel, “but it happens.”

“Did it happen to you?”

“No. Fortunately I had Jamie, the reputation of a general’s daughter, and Bracket’s crazy assignments. Without them, I don’t know.”

“I do,” said Pryce, holding her in his arms, and then kissing her again, longer than before, their initial intensity undeniable, needed by both.

The hotel telephone rang and Leslie pulled back. “You’d better answer it,” she suggested.

“We’re not here,” replied Cameron softly, still holding her.

“Please … I haven’t heard from Jamie—”

“Sure,” said Pryce, releasing her, “but you won’t, you know. Waters told you that.”

“I could hear about him, couldn’t I?”

“Yes, of course.” Cam crossed to a table and picked up the phone, cutting off a third ring. “Hello?”

“We’re on scrambler here, but limited on your side,” said Geoffrey Waters from London. “Speak in kind, please.”

“I understand.”

“Are you making any progress?”

“I was until you called.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, forget it. Yes, we are. Some native jewelry and one particularly exquisite tapestry will make wonderful additions to our collection.”

“Excellent. A solid connection, then?”

“We believe so, we’ll know later tonight. Incidentally, my sister wants money.”

“Charge anything you need.”

“The natives won’t accept credit cards.”

“I see. Beyond what I’ve sent?”

“Sent where?”

“The Villa d’Este cashier’s office.”

“They left a message earlier but I haven’t called back.”

“I wired ten thousand pounds,” said Waters.

“What’s that in American dollars?”

“I’m not sure, around seventeen or eighteen thousand.”

“I guess that’s close enough. She mentioned twenty.”

“Good heavens, what for?”

“Maybe the tapestry.”

“I see. I’ll send another ten.”

“Anything on your side that might add to our collection?”

“Very definitely. A major purchase right here in London. A painting I’m convinced is an early, unsigned Goya during the days of betrayal, as he called them. I’d wire you a photograph but it wouldn’t do the work justice. You’ll see it when you return here on your way to the States.”

“That’s wonderful news. We’ll keep in touch.”

“Do call if the connection works out.”

“Naturally.” Pryce hung up the phone and turned to Leslie. “We can pick up a lot of cash downstairs and Geof will send more.”

“I loved that ‘my sister wants money.’ ”

“Better you’re greedy than me. It’s more logical for a rich woman.”

“Sexist.”

“Quite true.” Cameron approached her. “Now where were we?”

“I want you to come down with me to the shops, help me pick out some attractive casual clothes. But first tell me what the ‘wonderful news’ was.”

“The way I interpreted it, they got a photograph of a mole in London, a Goya betrayal, he called it.”

“A
what?
”

“Goya’s obsession with the Spanish executions.”

“I
know
who the painter was, what are you talking about?”

“I think they found the Matarese spy in London. And he’s very high up.”

“That
is
progress. Now, let’s do some of our own.”

“I’d rather do some of our very own—isn’t that okay?”

“Not now, my dear. I want to as much as you do, but we’ve only got three hours to get to the Paravacini place.”

“What’s an hour or so?”

“To begin with, it’s at least forty-five minutes around the lake, and we’ve both got to be properly dressed.”

“Why do I have to go down to the shops with you?”

“Because men know what they find attractive in a woman. I’ve been in uniforms so long, I haven’t kept up. You’ll know when you see it.”

“What about me?”

“I’ll know when I dress you.”

“Sexist!”

“To a degree, I’ll accept that.… And since we’ve cooled off a bit, I’ll tell you why you broke down my barriers. Do you want to hear?”

“I’m not sure. But yes, I guess I do.”

“You’re a uniquely decent man, Cameron Pryce. You felt the vibes between us, as I did, but you kept your distance—you respected me when others might not have. I like that.”

“I didn’t think there was any other way. Sure, the vibes were there, but you had your own problems—your husband, your son, the terrible things you’ve gone through. How could a stranger get past all that?”

“You did, kindly and gently, yet in your work you’re
neither kind nor gentle.… Yes, Cam, I’ve read all about you. You’re essentially a black-operations officer, no quarter given, none taken. You’ve killed twelve terrorist leaders on record, and probably a dozen or so unrecorded. You infiltrated them and you assassinated them.”

“It was my job, Leslie. If I hadn’t, they would have killed hundreds more—perhaps thousands with their insurrections.”

“I believe you, my dear, I’m only trying to say that there’s another side of Officer Pryce that he’s shown to me. Am I allowed that?”

“Certainly, but let’s limit the circulation, okay?”

“Oh, I will, I
will
. Do you know why? Never mind, I’ll answer that.… I don’t know what will happen next week or next month, or God knows, next year, but at the moment I don’t want to lose you, Cameron Pryce. I lost one decent man, I can’t lose another.”

They fell into the bed, each holding the other fiercely.

A string quartet played under the roof of a sculpted gazebo on the far right of the croquet course. By the time John and Joan Brooks arrived, the now well-publicized brother-and-sister philanthropists of American culture, most of the guests were already there in their casual finery. A large green blackboard had been set up on a stanchion behind the goal wicket; a pairing of players had begun in bracketed colored chalk. Several buffet tables with the finest linen and silver were scattered about the immense manicured lawn by the lake.

The huge, imposing yacht was moored at the end of the long dock, a sturdy gangplank with chrome railings leading to the lower deck; a canopied veranda capable of holding sixty-odd people overlooking the northern waters of Lake Como was an awesome sight.

The mansion itself had only been hinted at under the magnification of Togazzi’s telescope. It was a contemporary “castle” of flagstone and teakwood, rising four stories high with flagged open-air turrets. The only thing missing was a
moat. The Villa d’Este concierge was accurate when he extolled the Paravacini estate as the most glorious on the lake.

“We paid roughly a month’s salary for each of these outfits,” said Montrose as they walked along a brick path that rounded the great house and led to the lakeside carnival, “but I have an idea that we look like the poorest people here.”

“You’re crazy,” protested Pryce. “I think we both look terrific, especially you.”

“That’s another thing. Stop gazing at me like that. We’re supposed to be brother and sister, but not incestuous.”

“Sorry, it comes kind of naturally.”

“Don’t look over, just laugh and tilt your head to the right. There’s a man staring at us. He’s in blue slacks and a bright yellow shirt.”

“I caught a glimpse of him. Never saw him before.”

“He’s coming over—
John.
”

“Gotcha—
Joan.
”

“You must be the Brookses!” said the dark-haired, extremely handsome man enthusiastically, his English laced with a deep Italian accent. “I can see the family resemblance.”

“We hear that frequently,” said Leslie, extending her hand. “And who are you?”

“Your obedient host, Carlo Paravacini, grateful that you accepted my invitation,” replied the don, kissing Montrose’s hand. “Or as my American friends call me, Charlie,” he continued, shaking hands with Cameron.

“Then I’ll be presumptuous,” said Pryce, “and say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Charlie.”

“I like that, I like it.… A libation, perhaps, a fine Chablis, or a rare Scotch?”

“Someone’s been tattling on us,” interrupted Leslie, laughing. “Those are our favorite drinks.”

“But always in moderation, I’ve learned that, too. And I like that, I like it.”

“Then it’s the moment to tell you that Villa d’Este’s concierge sends you his regards,” added Cameron.

“I accept them gratefully,” said the attractive host, “but for God’s sake, don’t tell him that I stole his first sous-chef to cater this little afternoon party. That scoundrel steals all of his superior’s recipes, and after all, it’s his day off.”

“Our lips are sealed, Carlo—
Charlie
,” said Montrose charmingly as Pryce glanced at his lover, not entirely pleasantly.

Paravacini, taking Leslie’s elbow, led them through the strolling crowds toward a bar table and ordered drinks. While he did so a relatively tall, elegant figure, dressed in tan trousers and a black short-sleeved shirt, topped with a clerical collar and graying hair, approached them. Carlo turned at the sight of the priest and introduced him.

“His Eminence is my uncle, Cardinal Rudolfo Paravacini, but here in Como we call him Papa Rudy. Isn’t that right, holy Cardinal?”

“I grew up here, why not?” replied the exalted priest of the Catholic Church. “I ran in these fields chasing goats and rabbits like everyone else. I was chosen, I did not seek. My nephew’s generosity allows me moments of luxury that my commitments do not.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Cameron, shaking hands.

“A pleasure,” said Leslie, doing the same.

“Thank God for American Protestants,” replied the cardinal. “My Italian, French, and Spanish flocks kiss my ring and think I can guarantee them a place in heaven when I cannot guarantee it for myself.… Welcome to Lacus Larius.”

“I hear you’re a … heck … of a croquet player, Cardinal,” said Pryce.

“I’m one
hell
of a player. Care to go against me?”

“I’d rather be on your side. My sister’s a better player than I am.”

“Set it up, Carlo,” ordered the priest. “My partner will be Signor—
Brooks.
”

“As you wish,” said Don Carlo Paravacini, looking strangely at the cardinal.

The time passed on the croquet course, the yelps of a successfully entered wicket accompanied by the desolate
groans of those who missed. And during the succeeding games, servants rushed out with iced tea and lemonade to refresh the players, alcohol absent by design. After three hours, the winners were awarded sterling silver croquet mallets, instantly monogrammed, and everyone began to repair to the yacht’s canopied veranda.

“I’m really sorry,” said Pryce to his partner, Cardinal Paravacini. “I loused us up.”

“Although the Lord forgiveth, I find it hard to do so, John Brooks,” said the priest, smiling. “You were a disaster. However, your sister, Miss Joan, teamed with my nephew, Carlo, won the whole damned
thing!
They make a lovely couple, don’t they? So handsome together, so intelligent. Things could go further, not so?”

“Well, my sister’s not Catholic—”

“There’s always conversion,” interrupted the prince of the Church. “We annulled his first marriage, and his second wife died not long ago.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said a totally confused Cameron Pryce, staring at Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, who was laughing and walking off the croquet course gripping Carlo Paravacini’s arm.

Half an hour later, still in the presence of the cardinal, Cam had met dozens of other guests who flocked around both men as the curious might at the arrival of two celebrities. In a sense, both were; the priest had celebrated influence inside the Vatican, and the fine-looking American’s vast wealth was enough to gain him instant celebrity status. Finally, feigning social exhaustion, Cardinal Paravacini insisted they sit down at a relatively isolated table on the captain’s-wheel perch, easily seen but not easy to reach. Pryce’s eyes roamed over the crowd looking for Leslie.

She was not there. She had disappeared.

E
xcuse me, Cardinal, but my sister’s not here. I can’t see her anywhere.”

“No doubt, my nephew is showing her around the estate,” said the priest. “It’s really quite beautiful, and his art collection is among the finest in Italy.”

“Art collection? Where is it?”

“In the main house, of course.” At the mention of the mansion, Cardinal Paravacini apparently saw the sudden alarm in Pryce’s eyes. “Oh, I can assure you, Mr. Brooks, you’ve nothing to be concerned about. Carlo is the most honorable of men, he would never take advantage of a guest. In truth, he doesn’t have to, the ladies have always seemed to line up for his affections.”

“You don’t understand,” Cameron interrupted, “my sister and I have an agreement between us whenever we’re out together, especially where there are a great many people. Each lets the other know when he’s leaving, for whatever reason.”

“That sounds positively suffocating, Mr. Brooks,” observed the priest.

“Not really, it’s just common sense,” replied Pryce, thinking quickly and doing his best not to show it. “When
we’re out separately, which is most of the time, we each have an armed escort.”

“Now you sound insulting, sir.”