Loch Torridon was west of the northwest highlands on the edge of the water, the source of the loch in the sea leading to the Hebrides. Inland there were scores of deep ravines, with streams rolling down from the upper regions, water that was icy and clear and formed pockets of marsh. The compound was between the coast and the hills. It was rough country. Isolated, invulnerable, patrolled by guards armed with weapons and dogs. Six miles northeast was a small village with a single main street that wound between a few shops and became a dirt road on the outskirts.
The hills themselves were steep, the abrupt inclines profuse with tall trees and thick foliage. It was in the hills that the continentals were put through the rigors of physical training. But the training was slow and laborious. The recruits were not soldiers but businessmen, teachers, and professionals, incapable of sustaining harsh physical exertion.
The common denominator was a hatred of the Germans. Twenty-two had their roots in Germany and Austria; in addition, there were eight Poles, nine Dutch, seven Belgians, four Italians, and three Greeks. Fifty-three once-respectable citizens who had made their own calculations months earlier.
They understood that one day they would be sent back to their homelands. But as Teague had noted, it was a formless sort of objective. And this undefined, seemingly low-level, participation was unacceptable to the continentals; undercurrents of discontent were heard in the four barracks in the middle of the camp. As the news of German victories came with alarming rapidity over the radio, the frustrations grew.
For God’s sake! When? Where? How? We are wasted!
The camp commander greeted Victor Fontine with not a little wariness. He was a blunt officer of the Regulars and a graduate of MI6’s various schools of covert operations.
“I won’t pretend to understand much,” he said at first meeting. “My instructions are muddy, which is what they’re supposed to be, I imagine. You’ll spend three weeks, more or less—until Brigadier Teague gives us the order—training with our group as one of the men. You’ll do everything they do, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Yes, of course.”
With these words Victor entered the world of Loch Torridon. A strange, convoluted world that had little in common with anything he had experienced in his life before. And he understood, although he was not sure why, that the lessons of Loch Torridon would merge with the teachings of Savarone and shape the remaining years of his life.
He was issued regulation combat fatigues and equipment, including a rifle and a pistol (without ammunition), a carbine bayonet that doubled as a knife, a field pack with mess utensils, and a blanket roll. He moved into the barracks, where he was greeted casually, with as few words as possible and no curiosity. He learned quickly that there was not much camaraderie in Loch Torridon. These men lived in and with their immediate pasts; they did not seek friendship.
The daylight hours were long and exhausting; the nights spent memorizing codes and maps and the deep sleep necessary to ease aching bodies. In some ways Victor began to think of Loch Torridon as an extension of other, remembered games. He might have been back at the university, in competition with his classmates on the field, on the courts, on the mats, or up on the slopes racing downhill against a stopwatch. Except that the classmates at Loch Torridon were different; most were older than he was and none had known even vaguely what it was like to have been a Fontini-Cristi. He gathered that much from brief conversations; it was easy to keep to himself, and therefore to compete against himself. It was the cruelest competition.
“Hello? My name is Mikhailovic.” The man grinning and speaking to Victor sank to the ground, breathing heavily. He released the straps of his field pack and let the bulky canvas slip from his shoulders. It was midpoint in a ten-minute break between a forced march and a tactical maneuver exercise.
“Mine’s Fontine,” replied Victor. The man was one of the two new recruits who had arrived in Loch Torridon less than a week ago. He was in his mid-twenties, the youngest trainee in the compound.
“You’re Italian, aren’t you? In Barracks Three?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Serbo-Croat, Barracks One.”
“Your English is very good.”
“My father is an exporter—was, I should say. The money’s in the English-speaking countries.” Mikhailovic pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his fatigues pocket and offered it to Fontine.
“No, thanks. I just finished one.”
“I ache all over,” said the Slav, grinning, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t know how the old men do it.”
“We’ve been here longer.”
“I don’t mean you. I mean the others.”
“Thank you.” Victor wondered why Mikhailovic complained. He was a stocky, powerfully built man, with a bull neck and large shoulders. Too, something about him was odd: there was no perspiration whatsoever on Mikhailovic’s forehead, while Fontine’s own was matted with sweat.
“You got out of Italy before Mussolini made you a lackey to the German, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“Machek’s taking the same road. He’ll run all of Yugoslavia soon, mark my word.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not many people do. My father did.” Mikhailovic drew on his cigarette, his eyes across the field. He added quietly, “They executed him.”
Fontine looked compassionately at the younger man. “I’m sorry. It’s painful, I know.”
“Do you?” The Slav turned; there was bewilderment in his eyes.
“Yes. We’ll talk later. We must concentrate on the maneuver. The object is to reach the top of the next hill through the woods without being tagged.” Victor stood and held out his hand. “My first name’s Vittor—Victor. What’s yours?”
The Serbo-Croat accepted the handshake firmly. “Petride. It’s Greek. My grandmother was Greek.”
“Welcome to Loch Torridon, Petride Mikhailovic.”
As the days went by, Victor and Petride worked well together. So well, in fact, the compound sergeants paired them off against superior numbers in the infiltration exercises. Petride was allowed to move into Victor’s barracks.
For Victor, it was like having one of his younger brothers suddenly return to life; curious, often bewildered, but strong and obedient. In some ways Petride filled a void, lessened the pain of his memories. If there was a liability in the relationship it was merely one of excess on the Serbo-Croat’s part. Petride was an excessive talker, forever questioning, always volunteering information about his personal life, expecting Victor to reciprocate.
Beyond a point, Fontine could not. He simply was not so inclined. He had shared the anguish of Campo di Fiori with Jane; there would be no one else. Occasionally he found it necessary to reprimand Petride Mikhailovic.
“You’re my friend. Not my priest.”
“Did you have a priest?”
“Actually, no. It was a figure of speech.”
“Your family was religious. It must have been.”
“Why?”
“Your real name. ‘Fontini-Cristi.’ It means fountains of Christ, doesn’t it?”
“In a language several centuries old. We’re not religious in the accepted sense; not for a long time.”
“I’m very, very religious.”
“It’s your right.”
The fifth week came and went and still there was no word from Teague. Fontine wondered if he’d been forgotten; whether MI6 had developed second thoughts over the concept of “mismanagement at all costs.” Regardless, life at Loch Torridon had taken his mind off his self-destructive memories; he actually felt quite strong and capable again.
The compound’s lieutenants had devised what they called a “long-pursuit” exercise for the day. The four barracks operated separately, each taking forty-five degrees of the compass within a ten-mile radius of Loch Torridon. Two men from each barracks were given a fifteen-minute head start before the remaining recruits took chase; the object being for the hunted to elude the hunters for as long as possible.
It was natural for the sergeants to choose the best two from each barracks to begin the exercise. Victor and Petride were the first eluders in Barracks Three.
They raced down the rocky slope toward the Loch Torridon woods.
“Quickly now!” ordered Fontine as they entered the thick foliage of the forest. “We’ll go left. The mud; step into the mud! Break as many branches as you can.”
They ran no more than fifty yards, snapping limbs, stamping their feet into the moist corridor of soft earth that angled through the woods. Victor issued his second command.
“Stop! This is far enough. Now, carefully. We’ll make footprints up onto the dry ground.… That’s enough. All right, step backward, directly on the prints. Across the mud.… Good. Now, we’ll head back.”
“Head back?” asked the bewildered Petride. “Head back where?”
“To the edge of the woods. Where we entered. We’ve still got eight minutes. That’s enough time.”
“For what?” The Serbo-Croat looked at his older friend as if Fontine was amusingly mad.
“To climb a tree. Out of sight.”
Victor selected a tall Scotch pine in the center of a cluster of lower trees and started up, shinnying to the first level of branches. Petride followed, his boyish face elated. Both men reached the three-quarter height of the pine, bracing themselves on opposite sides of the trunk. They were obscured by the surrounding branches; the ground beneath, however, was visible to them.
“We’ve nearly two minutes to spare,” whispered Victor, looking at his watch. “Kick any loose limbs away. Rest your weight solidly.”
Two minutes and thirty second later, their pursuers passed far below them. Fontine leaned forward toward the young Serbo-Croat.
“We’ll give them thirty seconds and then climb down. We’ll head for the other side of the hill. A section of it fronts a ravine. It’s a good hiding place.”
“A stone’s throw from the starting line!” Petride grinned. “How did you think of it?”
“You never had brothers to play games with. Race-and-hide was a favorite.”
Mikhailovic’s smile disappeared. “I have many brothers,” he said enigmatically, and looked away.
There was no time to pursue Petride’s statement. Nor did Victor care to. During the past eight days or so, the young Serbo-Croat had behaved quite strangely. Morose one minute, antic the next; and incessantly asking questions that were beyond the bounds of a six-week friendship. Fontine looked at his watch. “I’ll start down first. If there’s no one in sight, I’ll yank the branches. That’s your signal to follow.”
On the ground, Victor and Petride crouched and ran east at the edge of the woods, the base of the starting hill. Three hundred yards, around the circle of the hill was a slope of jagged rock that overlooked a deep ravine. It was carved out of the hill by a crack of a glacier eons ago, a natural sanctuary. They made their way literally across the gorge. Breathing hard, Fontine lowered himself into a sitting position, his back against the stone cliff. He opened the pocket of his field jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Petride sat in front of him, his legs over the side of the ledge. Their isolated perch was no more than seven feet across, perhaps five in depth. Again, Victor looked at his watch. There was no need to whisper now.
“In half an hour, we’ll climb over the crest and surprise the lieutenants. Cigarette?”
“No, thank you,” replied Mikhailovic harshly, his back to Fontine.
The note of anger could not be overlooked. “What’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”
Petride turned. His eyes bore into Victor. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“I won’t try to follow that. You either hurt yourself or you didn’t. I’m not interested in manners of speech.” Fontine decided that if this was to be one of Mikhailovic’s periods of depression, they could do without conversation. He was beginning to think that beneath his wide-eyed innocence, Petride Mikhailovic was a disturbed young man.
“You choose what interests you, don’t you, Victor? You turn the world off at will. With a switch in your head, all is void. Nothing.” The Serbo-Croat stared at Fontine as he spoke.
“Be quiet. Look at the scenery, smoke a cigarette, leave me alone. You’re becoming a bore.”
Mikhailovic slowly pulled his legs over the ledge, his eyes still riveted on Victor. “You must not dismiss me. You cannot. I’ve shared my secrets with you. Openly, willingly. Now you must do the same.”
Fontine watched the Serbo-Croat, suddenly apprehensive. “I think you mistake our relationship. Or, perhaps, I’ve mistaken your preferences.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Merely clarification—”
“My time has run out!” Petride raised his voice; his words formed a cry as his eyes remained wide, unblinking. “You’re not blind! You’re not deaf! Yet you pretend these things!”
“Get out of here,” ordered Victor quietly. “Go back to the starting line. To the sergeants. The exercise is over.”
“My name,” Mikhailovic whispered, one leg pulled up beneath his powerful, crouching body. “From the beginning you refused to acknowledge it! Petride!”
“It is your name. I acknowledge it.”
“You’ve never heard it before? Is that what you’re saying?”
“If I have, it made no impression.”
“That’s a lie! It’s the name of a priest. And you knew that priest!” Again the words floated upward, a cry shouted in desperation.
“I’ve known a number of priests. None with that name—”
“A priest on a train! A man devoted to the glory of God! Who walked in the grace of His holy work! You cannot, must not deny him!”
“Mother of Christ!” Fontine spoke inaudibly; the shock was overpowering. “Salonika. The freight from Salonika.”
“Yes! That most holy train; documents that are the blood, the soul of the one incorruptible, immaculate church! You’ve taken them from us!”
“You’re a priest of Xenope,” said Victor, incredulous at the realization. “My God, you’re a monk from Xenope!”
“With all my heart! With all my mind and soul and body!”
“How did you get here? How did you penetrate Loch Torridon?”
Mikhailovic pulled his other leg up; he was fully crouched now, a mad animal prepared to spring. “It’s irrelevant. I must know where that vault was taken, where it was hidden. You’ll tell me, Vittorio Fontini-Cristi! You’ve no choice!”
“I’ll tell you what I told the British. I know nothing! The English saved my life; why would I lie?”
“Because you gave your word. To another.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“No! He was killed before he could say the words! If you know anything, you know that!”
The priest of Xenope’s eyes became suddenly fixed. His stare was clouded, his lids wide, almost thyroid. He reached under his field jacket and withdrew a small, snub-nosed automatic. With his thumb he snapped up the safety. “You’re insignificant. We’re both insignificant,” he whispered. “We’re nothing.”
Victor held his breath. He pulled his knees up; the split second approached when he would have the one opportunity to save his life, when he would lash his feet out at the maniacal priest. One boot at the weapon, the other at Mikhailovic’s weighted leg, sending him over the precipice. It was all there was left—if he could do it.
Abruptly, the vocal intrusion startling, the priest spoke, his tone chantlike, transfixed. “You’re telling me the truth,” he said, closing his eyes. “You have told me the truth,” he repeated hypnotically.
“Yes.” Fontine took a deep, deep breath. As he exhaled, he knew he would plunge both legs out; the moment had come.
Petride stood up, his powerful chest expanding beneath the soldier’s clothes. But the weapon was no longer aimed at Victor. Instead, both Mikhailovic’s arms were extended in an attitude of crucifixion. The priest raised his head to the skies and shouted.
“I believe in one God, the Father Almighty! I will look into the eyes of the Lord and I shall not waver!”
The priest of Xenope bent his right arm and put the barrel of the automatic to his temple.
He fired.
“You got your first kill,” said Teague casually, sitting in a chair in front of Fontine’s desk in the small, enclosed cubicle.
“It doesn’t matter how it happens, or who pulls the bloody trigger. The result’s the same.”
“For the wrong reason! That train, that damned, unholy train! When will it stop? When will it go away?”
“He was your enemy. That’s all I’m saying.”
“If he was, you should have known it, spotted it! You’re a fool, Alec.”
Teague shifted his legs in irritation. “That’s rather harsh language for a captain to employ with a brigadier.”
“Then I’d be delighted to purchase your command and set it right,” said Victor, returning to the papers in manila folders on his desk.
“One doesn’t do that in the military.”
“It’s the only reason for your continuity. You wouldn’t last a week as one of my executives.”
“I don’t believe this.” Teague spoke in astonishment. “I’m sitting here being cashiered by a ragtail guinea.”
Fontine laughed. “Don’t exaggerate. I’m only doing what you asked me to do.” He gestured at the manila folders on the desk. “Refine Loch Torridon. In that process, I’ve tried to learn how this priest of Xenope, this Mikhailovic, got in.”
“Have you?”
“I think so. It’s a basic weakness with every one of these dossiers. There are no clear financial appraisals; there are endless words, histories, judgments—but very few figures. It should be corrected wherever possible before we make our final personnel decisions.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Money. Men are proud of it; it’s the symbol of their productivity. It can be traced, confirmed in a dozen different ways. Records abound. Where possible, I want financial statements on every recruit in Loch Torridon. There was none on Petride Mikhailovic.”
“Financial—”
“A financial statement,” completed Fontine, “is a most penetrating look into a man’s character. These are businessmen and professionals, by and large. They’ll be anxious to oblige. Those that are not we’ll question at length.”
Teague uncrossed his legs, his voice respectful. “We’ll get at it, there are forms for that sort of thing.”
“If not,” said Victor glancing up, “any bank or brokerage house can supply them. The more complex, the better.”
“Yes, of course. And beyond this, how are things going?”
Fontine shrugged, waving his hand again over the pile of the folders on the desk. “Slowly. I’ve read all the dossiers several times, making notes, cataloging by professions and related professions. I’ve detailed geographical patterns, linguistic compatibilities. But where it’s all led me, I’m not sure. It’ll take time.”
“And a lot of work,” interrupted Teague. “Remember, I told you that.”
“Yes. You also said it would be worthwhile. I hope you’re right.”
Teague leaned forward. “I have one of the finest men in the service to work with you. He’ll be your communications man for the whole show. He’s a crackerjack; knows more codes and ciphers than any ten of our best cryptographers. He’s damned decisive, a shark at quick decisions. Which is what you’ll want, of course.”
“Not for a long time.”
“Before you know it.”
“When do I meet him? What’s his name?”
“Geoffrey Stone. I brought him up with me.”
“He’s in Loch Torridon?”
“Yes. No doubt checking the cryp’s quarters. I want him in at the beginning.”
Victor was not sure why but Teague’s information disturbed him. He wanted to work alone, without distraction. “All right. I imagine we’ll see him at the dinner mess.”
Teague smiled again and looked at his watch.
“Well, I’m not sure you’ll want to dine at the Torridon mess.”
“One never dines at the mess, Alec. He eats.”
“Yes, well, the cuisine notwithstanding. I’ve a bit of news for you. A friend of yours is in the sector.”
“Sector? Is Loch Torridon a sector?”
“For air warning-relays.”
“Good Lord! Jane is here?”
“I found out the night before last. She’s on tour for the Air Ministry. Of course, she had no idea you were in this area, until I reached her yesterday. She was in Moray Firth, on the coast.”
“You’re a terrible manipulator!” Fontine laughed. “And so obvious. Where the devil is she?”
“I swear to you,” said Teague with convincing innocence, “I knew nothing. Ask her yourself. There’s an inn on the outskirts of town. She’ll be there at five thirty.”
My God, I’ve missed her! I’ve really missed her. It was rather extraordinary; he had not realized how deeply he felt. Her face with its sharp yet delicate features, her dark, soft hair that fell so beautifully around her shoulders; her eyes, so intensely blue; all were etched in his mind. “I assume you’ll give me a pass to leave the compound.”
Teague nodded. “And arrange a vehicle for you. But you’ve a while before you should drive off. Let’s spend it on specifics. I realize you’ve only begun, but you must have reached a conclusion or two.”
“I have. There are fifty-three men here. I doubt twenty-five will survive Loch Torridon, as I believe it should be run—”
They talked for nearly an hour. The more Fontine expanded his views, the more completely, he realized, did Teague accept them. Good, thought Victor. He was going to make many requests, including a continuing hunt for Loch Torridon talent. But now his thoughts turned to Jane.
“I’ll walk you to your barracks,” Teague said, sensing his impatience. “We might drop in at the officers’ club for a minute—I promise no longer. Captain Stone will be there by now; you should meet him.”
But it was not necessary to stop off at the officers’ bar to find Captain Geoffrey Stone. As they walked down the steps of the field complex, Victor saw the figure of a tall man in an army overcoat. He stood about thirty feet away in the compound, his back to them, talking to a sergeant major. There was something familiar about the officer’s build, a kind of unmilitary slouch in the shoulders. Most striking was the man’s right hand. It was encased in a black glove obviously several sizes too large to be normal. It was a medical glove; the hand was bandaged beneath the black leather.
The man turned; Fontine halted in his tracks, his breath suspended.
Captain Geoffrey Stone was the agent named Apple, who was shot on the pier in Celle Ligure.
They held each other. Neither spoke, for words were extraneous. It had been ten weeks since they’d been together. Ten weeks since the splendid, exciting moments of lovemaking.
At the inn, the old woman who sat in a rocking chair behind the front desk had greeted him.
“Flying Officer Holcroft arrived a half hour ago. ‘A trust you’re the captain, though the clothes dinna’ say it. She said you’re t’ go up, if you’re a mind to. She’s a direct lass. Dinna’ care for sly words, that one. Top of the stairs, turn left, room four.”
He had knocked softly at the door, the pounding in his chest ridiculously adolescent. He wondered if she was possessed by the same tension.
She stood inside, her hand on the doorknob, her inquisitive blue eyes bluer and more searching than he could remember ever having seen them. The tension was there, yet there was confidence, too.
He stepped in and took her hand. He shut the door; they closed the distance between them and slowly reached for each other. When their lips touched, all the questions were put to rest, the answers obvious in silence.
“I was frightened, do you know that?” whispered Jane, holding his face in her hands, kissing his lips tenderly, repeatedly.
“Yes. Because I was frightened, too.”
“I wasn’t sure what I was going to say.”
“Neither was I. So here we are talking about our uncertainties. It’s healthy, I suppose.”
“It’s probably childish,” she said, tracing his forehead and his cheek with her fingers.
“I think not. To want … to need … with such feeling is a thing apart. One is afraid it may not be returned.” He took her hand from his face and kissed it, then kissed her lips and then her soft dark hair that fell, framing the soft smooth skin of her lovely face. He reached around her and pulled her to him, holding her close, and whispered “I do need you. I’ve missed you.”
“You’re a love to say it, my darling, but you don’t have to. I don’t require it, I won’t ask for it.”
Victor pulled away gently and cupped her face, staring into her eyes, so close to his. “Isn’t it the same with you?”
“Very much the same.” She leaned into him, her lips against his cheeks. “I think of you far too often. And I’m a very busy girl.”
He knew she wanted him as fully and completely as he wanted her. The tension each had felt was transferred to their bodies, release to be found only in the act of love. Yet the swelling, aching urgency in them did not demand swiftness. Instead, they held each other in the warm excitement of the bed, explored each other in tenderness and growing insistence. And they talked softly in whispers as their excitement grew.
Oh, God, he loved her so.
They lay naked under the covers, spent. She rose on her elbow and reached across him, touching his shoulder, tracing the skin with her fingers down to his thighs. Her dark hair fell over his chest; behind it, below her delicate face and penetrating blue eyes, her breasts were suspended over his flesh. He moved his right hand and reached for her, a signal that the act of love would begin again. And it suddenly occurred to Vittorio Fontini-Cristi, as they lay naked together, that he never wanted to lose this woman.
“How long can you stay in Loch Torridon?” he asked, pulling her face down to his.
“You’re a horrid manipulating spoiler of not-so-young girls,” she whispered, laughing softly in his ear. “I am currently in a state of erotic anxiety, with the memory of thunderbolts and erogenous pleasure still rippling up my most private—and you ask me how long I can stay! Forever and ever, of course. Until I return to London in three days.”
“Three days! It’s better than two days. Or twenty-four hours.”
“For what? To reduce us both to babbling idiots?”
“We’ll be married.”
Jane raised her head and looked at him. She looked at him for a long time before she spoke, her eyes locked with his. “You’ve been through a great deal of sorrow. And terrible confusion.”
“You don’t want to marry me?”
“More than my life, my darling. God, more than all the world.…”
“But you don’t say yes.”
“I’m yours. You don’t have to marry me.”
“I want to marry you. Is it wrong?”
“It’s the rightest thing I can imagine. But you have to be sure.”
“Are you sure?”
She lowered her cheek on his. “Yes. It’s you. You must be sure.”
With his hand he swept her soft dark hair away from her face and answered her with his eyes.
Ambassador Anthony Brevourt sat behind the enormous desk in his Victorian study. It was nearly midnight, the household retired, the city of London dark. Everywhere men and women were on rooftops and on the river and in the parks talking quietly into wireless sets, watching the skies. Waiting for the siege they knew would come, but had not yet begun.
It was a matter of weeks; Brevourt knew it, the records projected it. But he could not keep his attention on the horrors that would reshape history as inevitably as the events moved forward. He was consumed by another catastrophe. Less immediately dramatic, but in many ways no less profound. It was contained in the file folder in front of him. He stared at the handwritten code name he had created for himself. And a few—very few—others.
SALONIKA
So simple in the reading, yet so complex in meaning.
How in God’s name could it have happened? What were they thinking of? How could the movements of a single freight crossing half a dozen national borders be untraceable? The key had to be with the subject.
From below, in a locked drawer of his desk, a telephone rang. Brevourt unlocked the drawer and pulled it open. He lifted the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Loch Torridon,” was the flat reply.
“Yes, Loch Torridon? I’m alone.”
“The subject was married yesterday. To the candidate.”
Brevourt momentarily stopped breathing. Then inhaled deeply. The voice on the other end of the line spoke again. “Are you there, London? Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Torridon. I heard you. It’s more than we might have hoped for, isn’t it? Is Teague pleased?”
“Not actually. I think he would have preferred a convenient relationship. Not the marriage. I don’t think he was prepared for that.”
“Probably not. The candidate might be considered an obstruction. Teague will have to adjust. Salonika has far greater priority.”
“Don’t you ever tell M.I.-Six that, London.”
“At this juncture,” said Brevourt coldly, “I trust all files relative to Salonika have been removed from M.I.-Six. That was our understanding, Loch Torridon.”
“It is correct. Nothing remains.”
“Good. I’ll be traveling with Churchill to Paris. You may reach me through the official Foreign Office channel, Code Maginot. Stay in contact; Churchill wants to be kept informed.”