It took twelve weeks to close the books and bring the men back to England. Loch Torridon was finished; twenty-two cabinets of accomplishments were all that remained. They were put under lock and seal and stored in the vaults of Military Intelligence.
Fontine returned to the isolated compound in Scotland. To Jane and the twins, Andrew and Adrian, named for the British saint and any of several acceptable Romans. But they were neither saintly nor imperial; they were two and a half years old, with all the energy that age implied.
Victor had been surrounded by the children of his brothers all his adult life, but these were his. In themselves they were different. They alone would carry on the Fontini-Cristis. Jane could have no more children; the doctors had agreed. The injuries at Oxfordshire were too extensive.
It was strange. After four years of furious activity and strain he was suddenly, abruptly, totally passive. The five months in ’42 when he remained in Dunblane could not be considered a period of tranquility. Jane’s recovery had been slow and dangerous; the fortifying of the compound had obsessed him. There’d been no letup of pressure then.
There was now. And the transition was unbearable. As unbearable as the wait for “Salonika” to begin. It was the inactivity that gnawed at him; he was not a man for idleness. In spite of Jane and the children, Dunblane became his prison. There were men outside, across the Channel, deep within Europe and the Mediterranean, who sought him as intensely as he sought them. There was nothing until that movement could begin.
Teague would not go back on his word, Victor understood that. But neither would he deviate from it. The end of the war would mark the commencement of the strategy that would lead to the men of Salonika. Not before. With each new victory, each new penetration within Germany, Fontine’s mind raced. The war was won; it was not over, but it was won. Lives all over the world had to be picked up, the pieces put back together and decisions made, for years of living had to be faced. For him, for Jane, everything depended on the forces that sought a vault that came out of Greece five years ago—at dawn on the ninth of December.
The inactivity was his own particular hell.
During the waiting he had reached one decision: he would not return to Campo di Fiori after the war. When he thought of his house and looked at his wife, he saw other wives slain in the white mists of light. When he saw his sons, he saw other sons, helpless, terrified, riddled by gunfire. The tortures of the mind were too vivid still. He could not go back to the killing ground, or to anything or anyone associated with it. They would build a new life somewhere else. The Fontini-Cristi Industries would be returned to him, the Court of Reparations in Rome had sent word to London.
And he had sent word back through MI6. The factories, the plants, all lands and properties—except Campo di Fiori—would go to the highest bidder. He would make separate arrangements for Campo di Fiori.
It was the night of March 10. The children were asleep across the hall; the last of the winter winds blew in gusts outside the windows of their bedroom. Victor and Jane lay under the covers, the coals in the fireplace throwing an orange glow on the ceiling. And they talked quietly, as they always talked in the final hours of the day.
“Barclay’s will handle everything,” said Victor. “It’s a simple auction, really. I’ve put a cellar on the total; however they want to divide the entire purchase is up to them.”
“Are there buyers?” asked Jane, lying on her elbow, looking at him.
Fontine laughed softly. “Packs of them. Mostly in Switzerland, mostly American. There are fortunes to be made in the reconstruction. Those who have manufacturing bases will have the advantage.”
“You sound like an economist.”
“I sincerely hope so. My father would be terribly disappointed if I didn’t.” He fell silent. Jane touched his forehead, brushing aside his hair.
“What’s the matter?”
“Just thinking. It’ll be over with soon. First the war, then ‘Salonika’; that will be finished, too. I trust Alec. He’ll bring it off if he has to blackmail all the diplomats in the Foreign Office. The fanatics will be forced to accept the fact that I don’t know a damn thing about their ungodly train.”
“I thought it was supposed to be awfully godly.” She smiled.
“Inconceivable.” He shook his head. “What kind of god would allow it?”
“Checkmate, my darling.”
Victor raised himself on the pillow. He looked over at the windows; a March snow was silently careening off the dark panes of glass, carried by the winds. He turned to his wife. “I can’t go back to Italy.”
“I know. You’ve told me. I understand.”
“But I don’t want to stay here. In England. Here I will always be Fontini-Cristi. Son of the massacred family of padrones. Equal parts reality, legend, and myth.”
“You are Fontini-Cristi.”
Victor looked down at Jane in the dim light of the fire. “No. For five years now I’ve been Fontine. I’ve gotten rather used to it. What do you think?”
“It doesn’t lose too much in the translation,” said Jane, smiling again. “Except, perhaps, a flavor of landed gentry.”
“That’s part of what I mean,” he replied quickly. “Andrew and Adrian shouldn’t be burdened with such nonsense. Times are not what they were; those days will never return.”
“Probably not. It’s a little sad to see them go, but it’s for the best, I suppose.” His wife suddenly blinked her eyes and looked questioningly up to him. “If not Italy, or England, then where?”
“America. Would you live in America?”
Jane stared at him, her eyes still searching. “Of course. I think that’s very exciting … Yes, it’s right. For all of us.”
“And the name? You don’t mind really, do you?”
She laughed, reaching up to touch his face. “It doesn’t matter. I married a man, not a name.”
“You matter,” he said, pulling her to him.
Harold Latham walked out of the old, brass-grilled elevator and looked at the arrows and the numbers on the wall. He had been transferred to the Burma theater three years ago; it had been that long since he’d been in the corridors of MI6-London.
He tugged at the jacket of his new suit. He was a civilian now; he had to keep reminding himself of that. Soon there would be thousands upon thousands of civilians—new civilians. Germany had collapsed. He’d wagered five pounds that the formal announcement of surrender would come before the first of May, There were three days to go, and he didn’t give a damn about the five quid. It was over; that was all that mattered.
He started walking down the hallway toward Stone’s office. Good old, poor old, angry Geoff Stone. The Apple to his Pear. Rotten fucking luck it was, old Apple’s hand shot to bits because of a high-handed guinea; and so early on, too.
Still, it bloody well might have saved his life. An awful lot of two-handed operatives never came back. In some ways Stone was damned fortunate. As he had been fortunate. He had a few pieces of metal in his back and stomach, but if he was careful they said he’d do fine. Practically normal, they said. Discharged him early, too.
Apple and Pear had survived. They’d made it! Goddamn, that called for a month of whiskies!
He had tried to call Stone but hadn’t been able to reach him. He telephoned for two days straight, both the flat and the office, but there was never an answer. There was no point in leaving messages; his own plans were so ragtail he wasn’t sure how long he could stay in London.
It was better this way. Just barge in and demand to know why old Apple had taken so long to win the war.
The door was locked. He knocked; there was no answer. Damn! The front desk had Stone checked in; that was to say he hadn’t checked out last night, or the night before, which was not unusual these days. Office couches were beds these days. All the Intelligence services were working around the clock, going through files, destroying records that could be embarrassing, and probably saving a few thousand lives in the process. When the dust of victory and defeat settled, informers were the least popular survivors.
He knocked louder. Nothing.
Yet there was light shining through the thin, lateral crack at the base of the door. Perhaps Stone had stepped out for a minute. To the W.C. or the cafeteria.
And then Latham’s eyes strayed to the round lock cylinder. There was something odd, something wrong. A speck of dull gray seemed to cling to the brass, a tiny scratch above it, to the right of the keyhole. Latham looked closer; he drew a match and struck it, almost afraid to do what he was about to do.
He held the flame directly below the speck of gray matter. It melted instantly and fell away; solder.
It was also an obscure but time-tested device that Apple favored. He had used it on numerous occasions when they worked together. Come to think of it, Latham couldn’t remember anyone else ever using it.
Melt the end of a small solder wire and shove the soft liquid into the lock with its key. It jammed the tumblers but did not prevent the key from going in.
It merely prevented any key from opening the lock. In quiet situations that called for a little time while a man raced out of a trap, it provided that time without raising any sudden alarms. A perfectly normal-looking lock malfunctioned; most locks were old. One did not break down a door; one called a locksmith.
Had Apple needed time? Was there a trap?
Something was wrong.
“Good Christ! Don’t touch anything! Get a doctor!” shouted Teague, lunging into the office beyond the unhinged door. “And keep this tight!”
“He’s dead,” said Latham quietly at the brigadier’s side.
“I know that,” answered Teague curtly. “I want to know how long he’s been dead.”
“Who is he?” asked Latham, looking down at the dead man. The body had been stripped; only the undershorts and shoes remained. There was a single, clean gunshot wound in the upper center of the naked chest; the rivulet of blood had dried.
“Colonel Aubrey Birch. Officer of the vaults.” Teague turned and spoke to the two guards holding the door. A third soldier had gone for the MI6 house surgeon on the second floor. “Put that door back. Admit no one. Say nothing. Come with me, Latham.”
They rode the elevator to the cellars. Latham saw that Teague was not only in a state of shock, he was frightened.
“What do you think happened, sir?”
“I gave him his separation papers two nights ago. He hated me for it.”
Latham was silent for a moment. Then he spoke without looking at Teague, his eyes straight ahead. “I’m a civilian, so I’ll say it. That was a rotten, goddamned thing to do. Stone was once the best man you had.”
“Your objection is noted,” said the brigadier. coldly. “You were the one they called Pear, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Teague glanced at the discharged Intelligence agent; the panel light indicated that the cellars had been reached. “Well, the apple soured, Mr. Pear. It became rancid. What concerns me now is how far the rot penetrated.”
The door opened. They walked out of the elevator and turned right toward a wall of steel that closed off the corridor. In the center of the wall was a thick steel door, its frame was barely discernible. There was a plate of bullet-proof glass in the upper section, a black button to the left, a thin rubber slot below, a metal sign above.
SECURITY AREA
No Admittance Without Proper Authorisation
Ring Bell—Place Authorisation In Vacuum Slot
Teague approached the glass, pushed the button and spoke firmly. “Code Hyacinth. No delays, please; make visual confirmation. This is Brigadier Teague. I’m accompanied by one Mr. Harold Latham, cleared by me.”
There was a whirring sound. The steel door receded, then was slid manually to the side. An officer on the other side saluted.
“Good afternoon, general. There’s been no Hyacinth report down here.”
Teague acknowledged the salute with a nod of his head. “I’m delivering it myself, major. Nothing is to be removed until further orders. What does the duty ledger read on Colonel Birch?”
The officer turned to a metal desk that was attached to the metal wall. “Here it is, sir,” he said, holding open a black leather notebook. “Colonel Birch signed out the night before last at nineteen hundred hours. He’s due back in the morning. Oh seven hundred, sir.”
“I see. Was anyone with him?”
The major looked again at the large notebook. “Yes, sir. Captain Stone, sir. His checkout time is the same.”
“Thank you. Mr. Latham and I will be in Vault Seven. May I have the keys, please? And the combination figures.”
“Of course.”
Inside the metal room were twenty-two file cabinets. Teague stopped at the fourth cabinet against the far wall opposite the door. He looked at the page of figures in his hand and began manipulating the combination lock in the upper right corner of the cabinet. As he did so, he held out the page of figures for Latham.
“Save time,” he said brusquely, his voice hoarse. “Locate the cabinet with the Brevourt file. B-r-e-v-o-u-r-t. Extract it.”
Latham took the paper, returned to the left wall and found the cabinet.
The lock sprung. Teague reached over and pulled out the second cabinet drawer. Rapidly his fingers separated the files.
Then he separated them again. Slowly, allowing for no oversight.
It wasn’t there. The file on Victor Fontine was gone.
Teague closed the cabinet drawer and stood erect. He looked over at Latham, who knelt by the bottom drawer of his cabinet, an open folder in his hand. He was staring at it, his expression one of stunned bewilderment.
“I asked you to find it, not to read it,” said the brigadier icily.
“There’s nothing to read,” replied Latham quietly, removing a single page of paper from the folder. “Except this.… What the hell have you bastards done?”
The paper was a photostat. It had a black border, with room at the bottom for two seals of approval. Both men knew exactly what it was.
An order for execution. An official license to kill.
“Who’s the target?” asked Teague in a monotone, remaining by the cabinet.
“Vittorio Fontini-Cristi.”
“Who approved of it?”
“Foreign Office seal, Brevourt’s signature.”
“Who else? There must be two!”
“The prime minister.”
“And Captain Stone is the assignee—”
Latham nodded, although Teague had not asked a question. “Yes.”
Teague breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them and spoke. “How well did you know Stone? His methods?”
“We worked together for eighteen months. We were like brothers.”
“Brothers? Then I remind you, Mr. Latham, that in spite of your separation from the service, the Official Secrets Act still binds you.”