Sandbags.
London was a city of sandbags. Everywhere. In doorways, windows, storefronts; piled in mounds on street corners. The sandbag was the symbol. Across the Channel, Adolf Hitler vowed the destruction of all England; quietly the English believed his threat, and quietly, firmly, they steeled themselves in anticipation.
Vittorio had reached the Lakenheath military airfield late on the previous night, the first day of the new decade. He had been taken off an unmarked plane flown out of Majorca and whisked into operations, the purpose of which was to confirm his identity for the Naval Ministry. And now that he was safely in the country, the voices suddenly became calm and solicitous: Would he care to rest up after his grueling journey? Perhaps the Savoy? It was understood that the Fontini-Cristis stayed at the Savoy when in London. Would a conference tomorrow afternoon at fourteen hundred hours be convenient? At the Admiralty, Intelligence Sector Five. Alien operations.
Of course. For God’s sake, yes! Why have you English done what you’ve done? I must know, but I will be silent until you tell me.
The Savoy desk provided him with toilet articles and nightclothes, including a Savoy robe. He had drawn a very hot bath in the enormous hotel tub and immersed himself for such a length of time the skin on his fingertips wrinkled. He then proceeded to drink too many glasses of brandy and fell into bed.
He had left a wake-up call for ten but, of course, it was unnecessary. He was fully alert by eight thirty; showered and shaved by nine. He ordered an English breakfast from the floor steward and while waiting, telephoned Norcross, Limited, on Savile Row. He needed clothes immediately. He could not walk around London in a borrowed raincoat, a sweater, and the ill-fitting trousers provided by an agent named Pear on a submarine in the Mediterranean.
As he hung up the phone, it struck Vittorio that he had no money other than ten pounds courtesy of Lakenheath dispersals. He assumed his credit was good; he would have funds transferred from Switzerland. He had not had time to concentrate on the logistics of living; he had been too preoccupied with staying alive.
It occurred to Fontini-Cristi that he had many things to do. And if only to control the terrible memory—the infinite pain—of Campo di Fiori, he had to keep active. Force his mind to concentrate first on the simple things, everyday things. For when the great things came into focus he could go mad pondering them.
Please, dear God, the little things! Spare me the time to find my sanity.
He saw her first across the Savoy lobby while waiting for the day manager to arrange for immediate monies. She was sitting in an armchair, reading the Times, dressed in the stern uniform of a branch of the women’s service, what branch he had no idea. Beneath the officer’s visor cap her dark brunette hair fell in waves to her shoulders, outlining her face. It was a face he had seen before; it was a face one remembered. But it was a younger version of that face that stuck in his mind. The woman was, perhaps, in her middle thirties; the face he recalled had been no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. The cheekbones were high, the nose more Celtic than English—sharp, slightly upturned, and delicate above the full lips. He could not see the eyes clearly, but he knew what they looked like: a very intense blue, as blue as he had ever seen a woman’s eyes.
That’s what he remembered. Angry blue eyes staring up at him. Angry and filled with disdain. He had not encountered that reaction often in his life; it had irritated him.
Why did he remember? When was it?
“Signor Fontini-Cristi.” The Savoy manager walked briskly out of the cashier’s arch, an envelope in his hand. “As you requested, a thousand pounds.”
Vittorio took the envelope and shoved it in the raincoat pocket. “Thank you.”
“We’ve arranged for your limousine, sir. It should be here shortly. If you’d care to return to your suite, we’ll ring you the moment it arrives.”
“I’ll wait here. If you can put up with these clothes, I can.”
“Please, signore. It is always a great pleasure to welcome a member of the Fontini-Cristis. Will your father be joining you this trip? We trust he’s well.”
England marched to the sudden drums of war and the Savoy inquired about families.
“He’ll not be joining me.” Vittorio saw no point in further explanations. The news had not reached England, or if it had, the war dispatches made it insignificant. “By the way, do you know that lady over there? The one seated. In the uniform.”
The manager unobtrusively glanced across the sparsely crowded lobby. “Yes, sir. She’s Mrs. Spane. I should say was Mrs. Spane; they’re divorced. I believe she’s remarried now. Mr. Spane is. We don’t see her often.”
“Spane?”
“Yes, sir. I see she’s with Air Defense. They’re a no-nonsense group, they are.”
“Thank you,” said Vittorio, dismissing the manager courteously. “I shall wait for my car.”
“Yes, of course. If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant, don’t hesitate to call upon us.”
The manager nodded and walked away. Fontini-Cristi looked again at the woman. She glanced at her watch, and then returned to her reading.
He remembered the name Spane because of its spelling, and because of the spelling, he remembered the man. It had been eleven, no, twelve years ago; he had accompanied Savarone to London to observe his father in negotiations with British Haviland—the observation a part of his training. Spane had been introduced to him one night at Les Ambassadeurs, a youngish man two or three years older than he was. He found the Englishman mildly amusing but basically tiring. Spane was a Mayfair product quite content to enjoy the fruits of ancestral labors without contributing much of anything himself, other than his expertise at the races. His father had disapproved of Spane and said as much to his eldest son, which, quite naturally, goaded the son into a brief acquaintanceship.
But it had been brief, and Vittorio suddenly remembered why. That it had not first come to mind was merely further proof that he had blocked her existence from much of his memory: not the woman across the lobby, but his wife.
His wife had come to England with them twelve years ago, the padrone feeling that her presence would have a restraining influence on a headstrong, wandering son. But Savarone did not know his daughter-in-law that well; he did later, but not at the time. The heady atmosphere of Mayfair at the height of the season was a tonic to her.
His wife was attracted to Spane; one or the other seduced one or the other. He had not paid much attention; he had been occupied himself.
And somewhere along the way there’d been a disagreeable confrontation. Recriminations had been hurled, and the angry blue eyes had stared up at him.
Vittorio walked across the lobby toward the armchair. The Spane woman glanced up as he approached. There was a moment of hesitancy in her eyes, as if she were unsure. And then she was sure and there was no hesitance at all; the disdain he recalled so vividly replaced the hesitation. Their eyes locked for a second—no more—and she returned to the newspaper.
“Mrs. Spane?”
She looked up. “The name is Holcroft.”
“We’ve met.”
“We have. It’s Fontini—” She paused.
“Fontini-Cristi. Vittorio Fontini-Cristi.”
“Yes. A long time ago. You’ll forgive me, but I’ve a full day. I’m waiting for someone and I shan’t have the chance to get through the paper again.” She went back to her reading.
Vittorio smiled. “You dismiss me efficiently.”
“I find it quite easy to do so,” she replied without looking at him.
“Mrs. Holcroft, it was a long time ago. The English poet says that nothing so becomes change as the years.”
“The English poet also maintains that leopards do not change their spots. I’m really quite occupied. Good day.”
Vittorio started to nod his departure when he saw that her hands trembled ever so slightly. Mrs. Holcroft was somewhat less confident than her demeanor implied. He was not sure why he stayed; it was a time to be alone. The terrible memories of white light and death burned; he did not care to share them. On the other hand, he wanted to talk. To someone. About anything.
“Is an apology offered for childish behavior twelve years ago a decade too late?”
The lieutenant glanced up. “How is your wife?”
“She died in an automobile crash ten years ago.”
The look in her eyes was steady; the hostility lessened. She blinked in discomfort, mildly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
“It is my place to apologize. Twelve years ago you were seeking an explanation. Or comfort. And I had neither to give.”
The woman allowed herself the trace of a smile. Her blue eyes had an element—if only an element—of warmth in them. “You were a very arrogant young man. And I’m afraid I had very little grace under pressure. I came to have more, of course.”
“You were better than the games we played. I should have understood.”
“That’s a very disarming thing to say.… And I think we’ve said enough about the subject.”
“Will you and your husband have dinner with me tonight, Mrs. Holcroft?” He heard the words he had spoken, not sure he had said them. It was the impulse of the moment.
She stared at him briefly before answering. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Certainly. I left Italy in somewhat of a rush, courtesy of your government, as these clothes are the courtesy of your countrymen. I haven’t been to London in several years. I have very few acquaintances here.”
“Now that’s a provocative thing to say.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That you left Italy in a rush and you’re wearing someone else’s clothes. It raises questions.”
Vittorio hesitated, then spoke quietly. “I would appreciate your having the understanding I lacked ten years ago. I would prefer those questions not be raised. But I’d like to have dinner with you. And your husband, of course.”
She held his gaze, looking up at him curiously. Her lips curved into a gentle smile; she had made her decision. “My husband’s name was Spane. Holcroft’s my own. Jane Holcroft. And I’ll have dinner with you.”
The Savoy doorman interrupted. “Signor Fontini-Cristi, your car has arrived, sir.”
“Thank you,” he replied, his eyes on Jane Holcroft. “I’ll be right there.”
“Yes, sir.” The doorman nodded and walked away.
“May I pick you up this evening? Or send my car for you?”
“Petrol’s getting scarce. I’ll meet you here. Eight o’clock?”
“Eight o’clock. Arrivederci.”
“Until then.”
He walked down the long corridor at the Admiralty, escorted by a Commander Neyland who had met him at the entrance desk. Neyland was middle-aged, properly military, and quite impressed with himself. Or perhaps he was not at all impressed with Italians. In spite of Vittorio’s fluency in English, Neyland insisted on using the simplest terms, and raising his voice as though addressing a retarded child. Fontini-Cristi was convinced that Neyland had not listened to his replies; a man did not hear of pursuit, death, and escape, and respond with such banalities as “You don’t say.” … “Odd, isn’t it?” … “The Genoa gulf can be choppy in December, can’t it?”
As they walked, Vittorio balanced his negative reaction to the commander with his gratitude for old Norcross on Savile Row.
Where the commander floundered, Norcross performed. The old tailor had clothed him in a matter of hours.
The little things; concentrate on the everyday things.
Above all, maintain a control that bordered on ice during the conference with whatever, or whoever, comprised Intelligence Sector Five. There was so much to learn, to understand. So much that was beyond his comprehension. In the cold recital of the events that were the horror of Campo di Fiori, he could not let the agony cloud his perceptions; the recital, therefore, would be cold and understated.
“Through here, old man,” said Neyland, indicating a cathedral-arched doorway that was more reminiscent of some venerable men’s club than a military building. The commander opened the heavy door, gleaming with brass hardware, and Vittorio walked in.
There was nothing about the large room that belied the concept of a subdued but richly appointed club. Two huge windows overlooked a courtyard; everything was heavy and ornate: the drapes, the furniture, the lamps, and to some degree the three men who sat at the thick mahogany table in the center. Two were in uniform—the insignia and breast decorations duly proclaiming advanced ranks unknown to Fontini-Cristi. The man in civilian clothes had an archly diplomatic look about him, complete with a waxed moustache. Such men had come and gone in Campo di Fiori. They spoke in soft voices, their words ambiguous; they were seekers of elastic. The civilian was at the head of the table, the officers seated at the sides. There was one empty chair, obviously for him.
“Gentlemen,” said Commander Neyland, as if he were announcing a petitioner at the Court of St. James, “Signor Savarone Fontini-Cristi of Milan.”
Vittorio stared at the fatuous Englishman; the man had not heard a word he said.
The three men at the table rose as one. The civilian spoke. “May I introduce myself, sir. I am Anthony Brevourt. For a number of years I was the crown’s ambassador of the Greek court of George the Second in Athens. On my left, Vice Admiral Hackett, Royal Navy; on my right, Brigadier Teague, Military Intelligence.”
At first there were formal nods of acknowledgment, then Teague broke the formality by coming around his chair, his hand held out for Vittorio.
“I’m glad you’re here, Fontini-Cristi. I received the preliminary reports. You’ve had a hell of a time of it.”
“Thank you,” said Vittorio, shaking the general’s hand.
“Do sit down,” said Brevourt, indicating the expected chair to Vittorio and returning to his own. The two officers took their seats—Hackett rather formally, even pompously; Teague quite casually. The general withdrew a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to Fontini-Cristi.
“No, thank you,” said Vittorio. To smoke with these men would imply a casualness he neither felt nor wanted them to think he felt. A lesson from Savarone.
Brevourt quickly continued. “I think we’d better get on with-it. I’m sure you know the subject of our anxieties. The Greek consignment.”
Vittorio looked at the ambassador. And then at the two officers. They were staring at him, apparently in anticipation. “The Greek? I know nothing of a ‘Greek consignment.’ However, I know the gratitude I feel. There are no words to express it in either language. You saved my life; men were killed doing so. What more can I say?”
“I think,” said Brevourt slowly, “that we should like to hear you say something about an extraordinary delivery made to the family Fontini-Cristi by the Eastern Brotherhood of Xenope.”
“I beg your pardon?” Vittorio was stunned. The words had no meaning for him. Some extraordinary error had been made.
“I told you. I was the crown’s ambassador to Athens. During the tenure of my office, diplomatic liaisons were formed throughout the country, including, of course, the religious. For, in spite of the turmoil Greece is experiencing, the church hierarchy remains a powerful force.”
“I’m sure it does,” agreed Vittorio. “But I have no idea why it concerns me.”
Teague leaned forward, the smoke curling in front of his face, his eyes riveted on Fontini-Cristi. “Please. We’ve done our share, you know. As you’ve said—I think quite properly—we saved your life. We sent in our best men, paid thousands to the Corsos, took considerable gambles in dangerous waters with a submarine—of which we have precious few—and activated a barely developed aircraft escape route. All these just to get you out.” Teague paused, put down his cigarette and smiled ever so slightly. “All human life is sacred, perhaps, but there are limits to the expenditures one makes to prolong it.”
“Speaking for the navy,” said Hackett with controlled irritation, “we followed blindly, given only the barest facts, urged by the most commanding figures in the government. We jeopardized a vital area of operations; a decision that could cost a great many lives in the near future. Our expense was considerable. And the full tally’s not in yet.”
“These gentlemen—the government itself—acted on my most urgent entreaties,” said Ambassador Anthony Brevourt with measured precision. “I was convinced beyond any doubt that whatever the cost, it was imperative to get you out of Italy. Quite simply put, Signor Fontini-Cristi, it was not your life. It was the information you possess relative to the Patriarchate of Constantine. That is my conduit. Now, if you please, the location of the delivery. Where is the vault?”
Vittorio returned Brevourt’s stare until he could feel the sting in his eyes. No one spoke; the silence was strained. Things were being alluded to that moved the highest echelons of government and Fontini-Cristi knew he was the focus. But that was all he knew.
“I cannot tell you what I know nothing about.”
“The freight from Salonika.” Brevourt’s voice was cutting. The flat of his hand descended delicately on the table, the soft slap of flesh against the wood as startling as it was abrupt. “Two dead men in the railroad yards of Milan. One a priest. Somewhere beyond Banja Luka, north of Trieste, past Monfalcone, somewhere in Italy, or Switzerland you met that train. Now where?”
“I met no train, signore. I know nothing of Banja Luka, or Trieste. Monfalcone, yes, but it was only a phrase, and meaningless to me. An ‘incident’ would ‘take place at Monfalcone.’ That was all. My father did not elaborate. His position was that I would be given the information after the incident at Monfalcone. Not before.”
“What of the two dead men in Milan? In the railroad yards.” Brevourt would not let up; his intensity was electric.
“I read of the two men you speak of—shot in the Milan freight yards. It was a newspaper story. It did not seem terribly important to me.”
“They were Greeks.”
“I understand that.”
“You saw them. They made the delivery to you.”
“I saw no Greeks. No delivery was made to me.”
“Oh, my God!” Brevourt drew out the words in a pained whisper. It was obvious to all at the table that the diplomat was suddenly gripped in his own particular fear; he was not feigning for negotiable effect.
“Easy,” said Vice Admiral Hackett vacuously. The diplomat started to speak again, slowly, carefully, as though marshaling his thoughts.
“An agreement was made between the Elders of Xenope and the Italian Fontini-Cristis. It was a matter of incalculable priority. Sometime between December ninth and sixteenth—the dates the train left Salonika and arrived in Milan—it was met and a crate removed from the third freight car. Of such value was this cargo that the train’s itinerary was prepared in isolated stages. There was only a single master plan, itself a sequence of documents, held by one man, a priest of Xenope. These, too, were destroyed before the priest took his own life and that of the engineer. Only he knew where the transfer was to be made, where the crate was to be removed. He and those responsible for removing it. The Fontini-Cristis.” Brevourt paused, his deepset eyes riveted on Vittorio. “These are facts, sir; given to me by a courier from the Patriarchate. Coupled with the measures my government has taken, I presume they are sufficient to convince you to give us the information.”
Fontini-Cristi shifted his position in the chair and looked away from the quietly intense face of the ambassador. He was sure the three men thought he was dissembling; he would have to dissuade them of that. But first he had to think. So this was the reason. An unknown train from Salonika had caused the British government to take extraordinary measures to—what had Teague said?—prolong his life. Yet it was not his life that was important, as Brevourt had made clear. It was the information they assumed he possessed.
Which, of course, he did not.
December 9 through 16. His father had left for Zürich on the twelfth. But Savarone had not been in Zürich. And he would not tell his son where he had been.… Brevourt might well have cause for his anxieties. Still, there were other questions; the pattern was unclear. Vittorio turned back to the diplomat.
“Bear with me. You say Fontini-Cristis. You use the plural. A father and four sons. The father’s name was Savarone. Your Commander Neyland inaccurately introduced me by that name.”
“Yes.” Brevourt was barely audible, as if he were being forced to confront a conclusion he refused to accept. “I was aware of that.”
“So Savarone is the name you received from the Greeks. Is that correct?”
“He could not have done it alone.” Again Brevourt spoke hardly above a whisper. “You’re the eldest son; you run the companies. He would have advised you. He needed your help. There were over twenty separate documents to be prepared, we know that. He needed you!”
“It is what you apparently—perhaps desperately—wish to believe. And because you believed it, you took extraordinary measures to save my life, to get me out of Italy. You obviously know what happened at Campo di Fiori.”
Brigadier Teague spoke. “We picked it up first through the partisans. The Greeks weren’t far behind. The Greek embassy in Rome was keeping close tabs on the Fontini-Cristis; it wasn’t told why, apparently. The Athens conduit reached the ambassador and he, in turn, got in touch with us.”
“And now you are implying,” said Brevourt icily, “that it was all for nothing.”
“I’m not implying it. I’m stating it. During the period you spoke of, my father said he was traveling to Zürich. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but several days later I had an urgent reason to ask him to return to Milan. I tried contacting him; I called every hotel in Zürich; he was nowhere to be found. He never told me where he was, where he had been. That’s the truth, gentlemen.”
The two officers looked at the diplomat. Brevourt leaned slowly back in his chair—it was a gesture of futility and exhaustion; he stared at the table top. Finally, he spoke.
“You have your life, Signor Fontini-Cristi. For all our sakes, I hope the cost was not too great.”
“I can’t answer that, of course. Why was this agreement made with my father?”
“I can’t answer that,” replied Brevourt, his eyes still on the table. “Apparently someone, somewhere, believed he was resourceful enough, or powerful enough, to carry it off. Either or both of which have been borne out. Perhaps we’ll never know.…”
“What was on the train from Salonika? What was in the vault that caused you to do what you did?”
Anthony Brevourt raised his eyes and looked at Vittorio and lied. “I don’t know.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“I’m sure it must appear that way. I know only the … implications of its significance. There is no price on such things. It’s an abstract value.”
“And on that judgment you made these decisions, convinced your highest authorities to make them? Moved your government?”
“I did, sir. I would do it again. And that’s all I’ll say on the subject.” Brevourt rose from the table. “It’s pointless to go on. Others may be in touch with you. Good day, Signor Fontini-Cristi.”
The ambassador’s action startled the two officers, but they said nothing. Vittorio got out of his chair, nodded, and walked silently to the door. He turned and looked at Brevourt; the man’s eyes were noncommittal.
Outside, Fontini-Cristi was surprised to see Commander Neyland standing at attention between two enlisted men. Intelligence Sector Five, Alien Operations, was taking no chances. The door of the conference room was being guarded.
Neyland turned, astonishment in his face. He obviously expected the meeting to last far longer.
“You’ve been released, I see.”
“I didn’t think I was being held,” answered Vittorio.
“Figure of speech.”
“I never realized how unattractive it was. Are you to escort me past the desk?”
“Yes, I’ll sign you out.”
They approached the Admiralty’s huge entrance desk. Neyland checked his watch, gave Vittorio’s last name to the guard. Fontini-Cristi was asked to initial the departure time; he did so, and as he stood up from the desk he was greeted by the commander’s very formal salute. He nodded—formally—turned and walked across the marble floor to the huge double doors to the street.
He was on the fourth step when the words came to him. They shot through the swirling mists of white light and the shattering staccato of gunfire.
“Champoluc … Zürich is Champoluc … Zürich is the river!”
And then no more. Only the screams, and the white light, and the bodies suspended in death.
He stopped on the marble step, seeing nothing but the terrible visions of his mind.
“Zürich is the river! Champoluc.…”
Vittorio controlled himself. He stood motionless and breathed deeply, vaguely aware that people on the pavement and the steps were staring at him. He wondered if he should walk back through the doors of the Admiralty and down a long corridor to the cathedral arch that was the conference room of Intelligence Sector Five.
Calmly he made his decision. Others may contact you. Let the others come. He would not share with Brevourt, the seeker of elastic who lied to him.
“If I may, Sir Anthony,” said Vice Admiral Hackett, “I believe there was a great deal more ground we might have covered—”
“I agree,” interrupted Brigadier Teague, his irritation showing. “The admiral and I have our differences, but not in this, sir. We barely scratched the surface. We made an extraordinary investment and got nothing for it; there was more to be had.”
“It was useless,” said Brevourt wearily, walking slowly to the draped window overlooking the courtyard. “It was in his eyes. Fontini-Cristi told the truth. He was stunned by the information. He knows nothing.”
Hackett cleared his throat, a prelude to judgment. “He didn’t strike me as foaming at the mouth. He seemed to take it rather in stride, I’d say.”
The diplomat stared absently out the window as he replied quietly. “If he had foamed at the mouth, I would have kept him in that chair for a week. He behaved precisely the way such a man reacts to deeply disturbing news. The shock was too profound for theatrics.”
“Granting your premise,” said Teague coldly, “it does not eliminate mine. He may not realize what he knows. Secondary information often leads to a primary source. In our business it nearly always does. I must object, Sir Anthony.”
“Your objection is noted. You’re perfectly free to make further contact; I made that clear. But you’ll learn no more than we did this afternoon.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked the Intelligence man quickly, his irritation rapidly turning into anger.
Brevourt turned from the window, his expression pained, his eyes in reflection. “Because I knew Savarone Fontini-Cristi. Eight years ago in Athens. He was a neutral emissary, I think is the term, from Rome. The only man Athens would trust. The circumstances are not relevant here; the methods of Fontini-Cristi are. He was a man possessed with a sense of discretion. He could move economic mountains, negotiate the most difficult international agreements, because all parties knew his word was better than any written contract. In a strange way, it was why he was feared; beware the man of total integrity. Our only hope was if he had called in his son. If he had needed him.”
Teague absorbed the diplomat’s words, then leaned forward, his arms on the table. “What was on the train from Salonika? In that damned vault?”
Brevourt paused before answering. The two officers understood that whatever the ambassador was about to say, it was all he would say.
“Documents hidden from the world for fourteen centuries. They could tear the Christian world apart, setting church against church … nation against nation, perhaps; forcing millions to choose sides in a war as profound as Hitler’s.”
“And by so doing,” interrupted Teague in the form of a question, “dividing those who fight Germany.”
“Yes. Inevitably.”
“Then we’d better pray they’re not found,” concluded Teague.
“Pray strenuously, general. It’s strange. Over the centuries men have willingly given their lives to protect the sanctity of those documents. Now they’ve disappeared. And all who knew where are dead.”