The Matarese Countdown (66 page)

“You won’t have one if you lose him, my friend,” said Don Silvio Togazzi.

“
Dio di Dio
, he’s passed it to another beggar!”

“Stay with him,” ordered the don.

“He’s running down the street to an old church,
signore
. A young priest has come out on the steps! He’s giving the envelope to him. It is the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.”

“Conceal your motorbike and stay there. If the priest leaves, follow him at a distance,
capisce?
”

“With all my heart and soul, Don Silvio.”

“
Grazie
. You will be rewarded.”

“
Prego
, my don.… He
is
leaving! He’s walking up the pavement; he has stopped at an automobile, a very old automobile with much damage on it.”

“The safest car in that environment,” noted Togazzi. “What make of automobile is it?”

“I cannot tell. There are so many dents and scratches. It is small, the grill half torn off, perhaps a Fiat.”

“The license plate?”

“It is too bent, and again the scratches.… The priest climbed in and is starting the engine.”

“Stay with him as long as you can. The men are in the other car; we’ll be in this one. Let us know every turn he makes.… Brandon, come inside.”

It came as an astonishing surprise, insofar as the Paravacini estate was virtually closed, maintained by a skeleton staff and with its dynastic flag at half-mast, signifying that no one of importance was in residence. The savage and macabre death of Carlo Paravacini had both shocked and electrified the lake community. There were those who prayed for his soul, and those who condemned it to hell, few in between. Yet the small, shabby automobile quickly took the highway to Bellagio and veered off on the road thirty miles north that led to the Paravacini property. Someone was in residence, someone powerful enough to receive the material from Barcelona, a member of the Matarese hierarchy.

“Get back to the house as fast as you can!” ordered Togazzi, turning to Scofield. “There are telescopes on my balcony, perhaps we’ll learn something.”

They did. The telescope focused on the Paravacini compound revealed the imposing yacht at the dock, behind it deserted lawns with none of the myriad fountains operating. The estate appeared eerily deserted, as if the elegant grounds cried out for people in their finery, not cold, white statues. Suddenly, two people were there, two men rounding the brick path from the front of the mansion. One was elderly, far older than the younger man, both in dark trousers and loose-fitting sport shirts. “Who are they?” asked Bray, stepping back from the telescope to permit Don Silvio to look. “Do you know them?”

“One I know very well and he’s the answer to the question, who’s running the Matarese in Italy? The other I don’t recognize, but I can suggest a probability; we only saw the back of his head from a distance.”

“Who?”

“The driver of the small, shabby car we followed out here.”

“The priest?”

“Both are. The older man is Cardinal Rudolfo Paravacini, a prelate with considerable influence in the Vatican.”

“He’s the head of the Italian
Matarese?
”

“He’s the uncle of the late, unlamented Carlo Paravacini, he of the birds.”

“But the
Vatican?
”

“I’d suggest that the blood between families is stronger than the blood of Christ. Certainly in this instance.”

“Pryce mentioned him, Leslie, too. But there wasn’t anything really concrete.”

“There is now, Brandon. Here, look. They’ve walked up onto the yacht, to the aft veranda. Tell me what you see.”

“Okay.” Scofield returned to the telescope. “Good God, the old guy’s opening the stuff from Barcelona. You’re
right!
”

“The question is,” said Togazzi, “what do we do next?”

“The place doesn’t look like it’s exactly fortified. Why not move now, before he can relay whatever’s in the package, or before he destroys it, which is a distinct possibility.”

“I agree.”

The guards were called out on the balcony, each taking a turn peering through the telescope. A strategy was rapidly devised and refined, Scofield and Togazzi going back years, recalling the days when together they penetrated hostile areas. Two of the guards left, their instructions understood, the remaining three staying with the don and Brandon.

“You stay here,” said Togazzi in Italian, nodding at the guard who manned the barricaded gatehouse of the forest retreat. “Stay in touch with us, and in the unlikely event intruders show up, you know what to do.”

“
Sì
, my don. The outer land mines first.”

“Land mines?” Scofield leaned forward in his white-wicker chair. “The hills above Portofino?”

“You remembered,” confirmed Togazzi. “No one came
near our base camps. We’d set off the mines on the perimeters and any who were searching for us would be paralyzed with fear, afraid to walk.”

“They’d retrace their steps and get out of the area while we’d find another camp,” said Brandon, chuckling. “No casualties, no international incidents, the explosions blamed on undetected mines left over from the partisan wars.”

“I’ve added a touch,” explained Don Silvio modestly. “There are now inner mines much closer to the path, and a few under it, also set off from the gatehouse.”

“
Va bene
,” said Scofield, laughing.

“You two,” continued Togazzi in Italian, addressing the remaining guards, “will accompany us, dropping us off about a hundred meters above the estate. Then proceed to the parking area and take up your positions.”

“
Sì.
”

The first car pulled off the road a quarter of a mile away from the Paravacini property. The two guards had changed clothes. Instead of the drab, ordinary suits they had worn in Milan, they were now dressed in what could best be described as rural farmhands’ Sunday-church clothing, ill-fitting, old, but clean. Each carried a basket of flowers, the sort grown locally, with care, on small plots of earth, affordable tributes to a great landowner. They walked in the heat of the dusty road down toward the Paravacini mansion, sweat forming on their brows, perspiration stains on their shirts. The road became asphalt, the final two hundred yards to the estate. The gatehouse with its thick glass windows was deserted, the usual barrier raised, signs again that no one of importance was in residence.

They trudged, as if with difficulty, into the circular drive and up the steps of the imposing front entrance. They rang the bell—loud chimes could be heard from the cavernous inside. A male servant opened the door; his shirt was unbuttoned and he had a stubble of a beard. At the sight of the rumpled, crude-looking visitors, he spoke harshly in Italian.

“What do you want? There’s nobody home!”

“
Piacere, signore
, we are poor men from the hills of Bellagio,” said the guard on the right. “We have come to pay our respects to the memory of the great Don Carlo, who was always most generous to our families at holidays.”

“He’s been dead for several weeks. You’re a little late.”

“We did not dare when there were so many dignitaries coming and going,” said the guard on the left. “May we bring these baskets in,
signore?
They are quite heavy.”

“Leave them out there! There are already too many plants inside to water.”

“Open your heart,
signore
,” added the guard on the right, looking beyond the arrogant servant.

“No!”

“Then don’t open it.” The same guard suddenly leaped forward, grabbing the man by his shoulders, yanking him down and crashing a hard right knee into his face. The man fell to the floor, bleeding and unconscious. Together, Togazzi’s men dragged the body into a side room, closed the door, and began their swift but thorough search. They found a maid in the library; she was in uniform, reclining in an armchair, leafing through the pictures of an encyclopedia.

“
Scusi, signori!
” She spoke quickly, jumping up from the chair. “We were told,” she continued in Italian, “that as long as we did our chores, we could relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“Who told you that?”

“His Eminence, the cardinal,
signore.
”

“Who else is here?”

“Cardinal Paravacini, Signor Rossi, and—”

“Signor Rossi?” interrupted the guard who had assaulted the servant at the door. “Is he a priest?”

“Good Lord,
no, signore!
He brings a different woman here several times a week. He is a
goat
. In deference to the cardinal, he sends them home very early, before it’s light.”

“Who else?” asked the second Togazzi man. “You implied there was someone else.”

“Yes, Bruno Davino. He’s in charge of the estate’s security.”

“Where is he?”

“He spends much of his time on the roof, sir. There is a section with a cover to protect one from the sun. He says he can see the lake and all the roads from there. He calls it his lookout.”

“Let’s go up,” said the first guard.

“
Che cosa?
” came the shouted words from the doorway. The guards turned to see a large, heavyset man, his expression conveying his anger. “I saw you two sorry worms coming down the road, but I didn’t see you leave! Why are you still here?”

“
A spiacente, signore
,” replied the second guard, his palms upturned, his arms outstretched, as he slowly walked toward the huge man, pleading. “We brought tributes to the memory of the great Don Carlo—” He crossed between his colleague and the Matarese intruder. It was a tactic they had used before, blocking the sight line of two figures. The first guard reached into his pocket and swiftly took out a pistol with an attached silencer. The instant his associate continued walking, revealing the man in the doorframe, he fired twice with deadly accuracy, instantly killing the head of security.

The woman started to scream; the second Togazzi man raced over, lunging, one hand on her mouth, the other pounding her chest with such force that the air was immediately expunged from her lungs, cutting off all sound. Removing a thin rope and a heavy plastic tape from his pockets, he tied her to an upright chair and gagged her. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“We’re clear,” said the first guard, “the whole place is clean. Let’s go to our next positions.”

The second automobile stopped as Scofield and Togazzi got out, walking into the bordering woods as fast as their elderly legs could manage. The car continued down the road, the engine off, and coasted onto the lawn at the left side of the enormous house, unseen by anyone on the yacht. The third and fourth guards stepped out on the grass, silently closed
the doors, and crept along the exterior wall of the mansion until they reached the wide expanse of the exposed south lawn. Anybody walking across it would be immediately seen by a person or persons on the deck of the yacht. That could not be permitted, for the targets were
on
the yacht and all means of egress were to be blocked. Which was why the don’s guards in the first automobile were on the right side of the huge house, concealed ten feet from the brick path. It was a human pincer attack, all flanks covered.

The reason for this particular strategy was twofold. The first and most vital consideration was the number of defending personnel. There was no way to ascertain how many. The second was the obvious possibility that if the Togazzi unit was spotted, Cardinal Paravacini would instantly destroy the material from Barcelona, undoubtedly by fire. So the key components were preventing the escape of all those in the compound, and equally important, the element of surprise.

To ensure the latter, Scofield and the don removed their clothes in the woods near the shoreline of the lake. Underneath them they wore bathing trunks and they carried small waterproof pouches that held their weapons. In consideration of their ages, each had a snorkeling tube attached to his suit, better to travel farther underwater without surfacing for air. Their objective was the starboard side of the yacht, where there was a chrome ladder for swimmers wishing to climb back to the lower deck. Replaying roles they had played years ago in Italy, Sicily, and the Black Sea, the two former deep-cover operatives slipped into the waters of Lake Como.

Irritated by the awkward breathing but otherwise not much worse for wear, Brandon and Togazzi reached the ladder. The don began to cough softly so Scofield pushed his head underwater. Togazzi reemerged, his eyes furious, but as Bray emphatically put his right finger across his lips, the don understood. This was no time for noise, especially human noise. Scofield opened his waterproof pouch and removed his weapon; Togazzi did the same. Both nodded to each other as Brandon began climbing up the chrome ladder.
Halfway to the hull’s midpoint, the elderly don could no longer contain his coughing, the result of water seeping into his snorkeling tube.

The excited voices from the deck above erupted in Italian. “What was
that?
”

“Someone’s on the ladder! I’ll see—”

“Don’t waste a moment. Here, take this and run! Go to the house and yell for Bruno.”

Scofield pulled himself up the ladder, crawling over the railing, his gun leveled at Cardinal Paravacini. “I wouldn’t move if I were you, priest. I might decide your Church would be better off without you.” Bray stopped and shouted, “Stop him, he’s heading for the path! Take the
package!
”

Togazzi came into view, maneuvering his old, gaunt frame over the railing with difficulty, swearing in Italian at the ravages of time. Converting to English, he lamented, “What happens to our bodies? They were so much kinder to us before.”

“Don
Silvio!
” exclaimed the cardinal. “You are with this American
pig?
”

“Oh, yes, Your Eminence,” replied Togazzi, “very much so. We go back many years, when you were profaning our Church by rising in the Vaticano.”

In the distance, on the lawns beyond the port side of the yacht, men raced between the statues, hunters in pursuit of the priest or the false priest who carried the package from Barcelona. Suddenly there were gunshots, with bullets ricocheting off the marble statuary. Scofield ran to the opposite side of the deck. “For Christ’s sake, don’t
kill
him!” he roared. There was a scream and the gunfire stopped. A voice from the far lawn shouted back in Italian.