The two chairs were placed on opposite sides of the bed. It was proper this way. It could divide his attention between his sons; they were different people, their reactions would be different. Jane preferred to stand. He had asked a terrible thing of her: to tell his sons the story of Salonika. Everything, leaving out nothing. They had to be made to understand that powerful men, institutions, even governments could be moved by the vault from Constantine. As they had been moved three decades before.
He could not tell the story himself. He was dying; his mind was clear enough to know that. He had to have the simple energy to answer their questions; he had to have the strength to give his charge to his sons. For theirs was now the responsibility of the Fontini-Cristis.
They walked into the room with their mother. So tall, so alike, yet so different. One in uniform, the other in a nondescript tweed jacket and flannel trousers. Blond-haired Andrew was angry. It was in his face, the continuous tensing of his jaw muscles, the firm set of his mouth, the neutral, clouded gaze of his eyes.
Adrian, on the other hand, seemed unsure of himself. His blue eyes were questioning, his mouth slack, the lips parted. He drew his hand through his dark hair as he stared down, his expression equal parts of compassion and astonishment.
Victor indicated the chairs. The brothers looked at each other briefly; it was impossible to define the communication. Whatever had happened to alienate them had to be erased. Their responsibility demanded it. They sat down, the Xeroxed pages of his recollections of July 14, 1920, in their hands. He had instructed Jane to give them each a copy; they were to read them through before seeing him. No moments were to be lost on explanations that could be covered beforehand. He hadn’t the strength.
“We won’t waste words on sentiment. You’ve heard your mother; you’ve read what I’ve written. You’ll have questions.”
Andrew spoke. “Assuming this vault can be found—and we’ll get to that—what then?”
“I’ll prepare a list of names. Five or six men, no more; they are not easily arrived at. You’ll bring the vault to them.”
“What’ll they do?” pressed Andrew.
“That will depend on what the vault contains, specifically. Release it, destroy it, rebury it.”
Adrian interrupted quietly. The lawyer was suddenly disturbed. “Is there a choice? I don’t think so. It doesn’t belong to us; it should be public knowledge.”
“With public chaos? The consequences have to be weighed.”
“Does anyone else have the key?” asked the soldier. “The location of this trip on July 14, 1920?”
“No. It would be meaningless. There are only a few left who knew of the train, knew what was really on it. Old men from the Patriarchate; one remains in Campo di Fiori and cannot have much time.”
“And we’re to say nothing to anyone,” continued the major. “No one but ourselves is to know.”
“No one. There are those who would trade off half the arsenals in this world for the information.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Then you wouldn’t be thinking. I’m sure your mother explained. Besides the Filioque denials, including the Aramaic scroll, in that vault there is a parchment on which is written a confession that could alter religious history. If you think governments, whole nations, are disinterested bystanders, you are grossly mistaken.”
Andrew fell silent. Adrian looked at him and then at Victor.
“How long do you figure it’ll take? To find this … this vault?” he asked.
“I’d estimate a month. You’ll need equipment, Alpine guides, a week of instruction—no more, I should think.”
Adrian raised the Xeroxed pages several inches. “Can you estimate how large an area there is to cover?”
“It’s difficult to day; much will depend on what you find, what has changed. But if my memory serves, no more than five to eight square miles.”
“Five to eight! That’s out of the question,” said Andrew emphatically, but without raising his voice. “I’m sorry, but it’s crazy. It could take years. You’re talking about the Alps. One hole in the ground, a box no larger than a coffin, anywhere in a dozen mountains.”
“The most logical recesses are limited; they are reduced to one of perhaps three or four passes, high above, I suspect, where we were never allowed to climb.”
“I’ve mapped terrain in half a hundred field situations,” said the soldier slowly, so courteously his words bordered on condescension. “You’re minimizing an unbelievably difficult problem.”
“I don’t think so. I meant what I just said to Adrian. Much will depend on what you find. Your grandfather was nothing if not meticulous. He considered all aspects of a situation, and most eventualities.” Victor stopped and shifted his position on the pillows. “Savarone was an old man; there was a war going on and no one knew it better than he did. He would leave nothing that was recognizable to anyone in Camp di Fiori, but I can’t believe he would not leave something within the area itself. A sign, a message—something. He was like that.”
“Where would we look?” asked Adrian, his eyes straying for an instant to his brother in the leather chair opposite him. The major was staring at the pages in his hand.
“I’ve written down the possibilities,” said Victor. “There was a family of guides in the village of Champoluc. The Goldonis. They were used by my father, his father before him. And there was an inn north of the village. Run for generations by a family named Capomonti. We never traveled to the Champoluc without staying there. These were the people closest to Savarone. If he spoke with anyone, it would be to them.”
“That’s over fifty years ago,” protested Adrian softly.
“Families in the mountains are closely knit. Two generations isn’t a particularly wide gap. If Savarone left word it would be passed on from father to eldest child. Remember that: child. Son or daughter.” He smiled weakly at them. “What else occurs to you? Questions may trigger further memories.”
The questions began but they triggered nothing. Victor had traced and retraced all he could. Whatever else remained was beyond memory.
Until Jane caught something. And as he listened to her words, Victor smiled. His blue-eyed, English Jane was remarkable for details.
“You wrote that the tracks of the railroad wound through the mountains south of Zermatt and descended into Champoluc, past flagging stops. Clearings between stations for the convenience of climbers and skiers.”
“Yes. Before the war. Nowadays, vehicles are more flexible in the snow.”
“It seems logical that a train carrying a vault, described to you as heavy and awkward, would find it necessary to stop at one of those clearings. For it to be transferred to another vehicle.”
“Agreed. What’s your point?”
“Well, there are, or were, only so many stops between Zermatt and Champoluc. How many would you say?”
“Quite a few. At least nine or ten.”
“That’s not much help. I’m sorry.”
“North of Champoluc, the first clearing was called Eagle’s Peak, I believe. Then Crow’s Lookout, and Condor’s—” Victor stopped. Birds. The names of birds. A memory had been triggered, but it was not a memory that reached back three decades. It was barely days ago. In Campo di Fiori. “The painting,” he said softly.
“What painting?” asked Adrian.
“Beneath the Madonna. In my father’s study. A hunting scene, with birds.”
“And each clearing on the tracks,” said Andrew swiftly, sitting forward in the chair, “is—or was—described in part with the name of a bird. What were the birds in the painting?”
“I don’t remember. The light was dim and I was trying to find a few moments to think. I didn’t concentrate on that painting.”
“Was it your father’s?” asked Adrian.
“I’m not sure.”
“Can you call?” said the major, his question less a request than an order.
“No. Campo di Fiori is a tomb without lines of communication. Only a postal box in Milan, and that under the name of Baricours, Père et Fils.”
“Mother told us an old priest lives there. How does he exist?” The soldier was not satisfied.
“I never thought to ask,” replied the father. “There was a man, a driver who picked me up in Milan. I assumed he was the monk’s contact with the outside. The old priest and I talked most of the night, but my concerns were limited. He was still my enemy. He understood that.”
Andrew looked over at his brother. “We stop at Campo di Fiori,” said the soldier curtly.
Adrian nodded and turned back to Victor. “There’s no way I can convince you to turn this over to the others? To responsible scholars?”
“No,” answered Victor simply. “The scholars will come later. Before then, nothing. Bear in mind what you’re dealing with. The contents of that vault are as staggering to the civilized world as anything in history. The confession on that parchment is a devastating weapon, make no mistake about it. No committee can be asked to assume the responsibility at this stage. The dangers are too great.”
“I see,” said Adrian, sitting back in his chair, looking at the pages. “You mention the name Annaxas, but you’re not clear about it. You say the ‘father of Annaxas was the engineer on the train,’ killed by the priest of Xenope? Who is Annaxas?”
“In the event those papers fell into hands other than yours, I wanted no connections made. Annaxas is Theodore Dakakos.”
There was a snap. The soldier was holding a wooden pencil in his hand. He had broken it in half. Father and brother looked at him. Andrew said one word.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve heard the name,” continued Adrian. “I’m not sure where.”
“He’s Greek. A very successful shipper. The priest on that train was his father’s brother, his uncle. Brother killed brother. It was ordered by Xenope, the location of the vault buried with them.”
“Dakakos knows this?” asked the soldier quietly.
“Yes. Where he precisely fits in, I don’t know. I know only that he’s looking for answers. And for the vault.”
“Can you trust him?” asked the lawyer.
“No. I trust no one where Salonika is concerned.” Victor inhaled deeply. It was difficult to talk now; his breath was shorter, his strength going.
“Are you all right?” Jane crossed quickly in front of Adrian to her husband. She leaned over and placed her hand on his cheek.
“Yes,” he answered, smiling up at her. And then he looked at Andrew and Adrian, holding each with his eyes.
“I don’t ask what I ask of you lightly. You have your own lives, your interests are your own. You have money.” Victor raised a hand quickly. “I hasten to add that this, too, was your right. I was given no less, nor should you be. In this respect we are a privileged family. But this privilege extracts responsibilities from those who enjoy it. There must inevitably come periods when you’re asked to suspend your own pursuits for an unexpected urgency. I submit to you that such an urgency now exists.
“You’ve separated. Opponents, I suspect, philosophically and politically. There’s nothing wrong with that, but these differences are insignificant compared to what faces you now. You’re brothers, the grandsons of Savarone Fontini-Cristi, and you must now do what his son can’t do. There’s no appeal from privilege. Don’t look for it.”
He was finished. It was all he could say; each breath was painful.
“All these years, you never said—” Adrian’s eyes were questioning once again; there was awe and sadness in them. “My God, how you must have felt.”
“I had two choices,” replied Victor, barely audible. “To be productive or die a neuter. It was not a difficult choice.”
“You should have killed them,” said the soldier quietly.
They stood outside in the drive in front of the North Shore house. Andrew leaned against the hood of his rented Lincoln Continental, his arms folded across his pressed uniform, the afternoon sun bouncing off the brass buttons and the insignia.
“He’s going,” he said.
“I know,” answered Adrian. “He knows it, too.”
“And here we are.”
“Here we are,” agreed the lawyer.
“What he wants is easier for me than it is for you.” Andrew looked up at the windows of the front bedroom on the second floor.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m practical. You’re not. We’ll do better working together than apart.”
“I’m surprised you concede I might help. It must hurt your vanity.”
“There’s no ego in field decisions. It’s the objective that counts.” Andrew spoke casually. “We can cut the time in half if we divide the possibilities. His recollections are disjointed, he wanders all over the place. His terrain-recall is confused; I’ve had some experience in that.” Andrew straightened up, away from the car. “I think we’ll have to go back, Adrian. Seven years ago. Before San Francisco. Can you do that?”
Adrian stared at his brother. “You’re the only one who can answer that. And please don’t lie; you were never any good at lying. Not with me.”
“Nor you with me.”
Their eyes locked; neither wavered.
“A man was killed Wednesday night. In Washington.”
“I was in Saigon. You know that. Who was he?”
“A Black lawyer from Justice. A man named—”
“Nevins,” completed Andrew, interrupting his brother.
“My God! You knew!”
“About him, yes. About his being killed, no. Why would I?”
“Eye Corps! He took a deposition on Eye Corps! It was with him! It was taken from his car!”
“Are you out of your goddamned mind?” The soldier spoke slowly, without urgency. “You may not like us, but we’re not stupid. A target like that man, even remotely linked to us, would bring on the I.G. investigators by the hundreds. There are better ways. Killing’s an instrument; you don’t use it against yourself.”
Adrian continued to look at his brother, searching his eyes. Finally, he spoke. Softly, barely above a whisper. “I think that’s the most cold-blooded thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What is?”
“ ‘Killing’s an instrument.’ You mean it, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. It’s the truth. Have I answered your question?”
“Yes,” said Adrian quietly. “We’ll go back … before San Francisco. For a while; you have to know that. Only until this is over.”
“Good.… You’ve got things to straighten up before we leave, and so do I. Let’s say a week from tomorrow.”
“All right. A week from tomorrow.”
“I’m catching the six o’clock plane to Washington. Want to come along?”
“No, I’m meeting someone in town. I’ll use one of the cars here.”
“It’s funny,” said Andrew, shaking his head slowly, as if what he was about to say wasn’t funny at all. “I’ve never asked for your telephone number, or where you lived.”
“It’s the District Towers. On Nebraska.”
“The District Towers. All right. A week from tomorrow. I’ll make the plane reservations. Straight through to Milan. Is your passport current?”
“I think so. It’s at the hotel. I’ll check.”
“Good. I’ll call you. A week from tomorrow.” Andrew reached for the door handle. “Incidentally, what happened to that subpoena?”
“You know what happened. It wasn’t served.”
The soldier smiled as he climbed into the car. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
They sat at a corner table in the St. Moritz sidewalk café on Central Park South. They were partial to such places; they would select pedestrians and invent instant biographies.
They invented none now. Instead, Adrian decided that his father’s instructions to tell no one about the train from Salonika would not include Barbara. His decision was based on his belief that were their roles reversed, she would tell him. He wasn’t going to leave the country for five to ten weeks without saying why. She deserved better than that.
“So there it is. Religious documents that go back fifteen hundred years, an Aramaic scroll that made the British government go half out of its collective mind in the middle of the war, and a confession written on a parchment two thousand years ago that contains God only knows what. That vault’s caused more violence than I want to think about. If what my father says is true, those documents, that scroll—the parchment, most of all—could alter a large part of history.”
Barbara leaned back in the chair, her brown eyes leveled at him. She watched him without replying for several moments. “That seems highly unlikely. Documents are unearthed every day. History doesn’t change,” she said simply.
“Have you ever heard of something called the Filioque Clause?”
“Certainly. It was incorporated in the Nicene Creed. It was the first issue that separated the Western and Eastern church. The debate went on for hundreds of years, and led to the Photian schism in … the ninth century. I think. Which in turn brought about the schism of 1054. The issue ultimately became papal infallibility.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
Barbara laughed. “It’s my field. Remember? At least the behavioral aspects.”
“You said the ninth century. My father said fifteen hundred years—” “Early Christian history is confusing, date-happy. From the first to the seventh centuries there were so many councils, so much seesawing back and forth, so much debate over this doctrine and that law, it’s nearly impossible to sort out. Do these documents concern the Filioque? Are they supposed to be the denials?”
Adrian’s glass was suspended on the way to his lips. “Yes. That’s what my father said; he used the term. The Filioque denials.”
“They don’t exist.”
“What?”
“They were destroyed—ceremonially, I believe—in Istanbul, in the Mosque of Saint Sophia early in the Second World War. There’s documentation … witnesses, if I remember correctly. Even charred fragments confirmed by spectrochemical analyses.”
Adrian stared at her. Something was terribly wrong. It was all too simple. Too negatively simple. “Where did you get that information?”
“Where? You mean specifically where?”
“Yes.”
Barbara leaned forward, moving her glass absently in thought. Her forehead was creased. “It’s not my area, but I can find out, of course. It goes back several years. I do remember that it was quite a shock to a lot of people.”
“Do me a favor,” he said rapidly. “When you get back, find out everything you can about that fire. It doesn’t make sense! My father would know about it.”
“I don’t know why. It’s awfully academic stuff.”
“It still doesn’t make sense—”
“Speaking of Boston,” she interrupted. “My answering service had two calls from someone trying to locate you. A man named Dakakos.”
“Dakakos?”
“Yes. A Theodore Dakakos. He said it was urgent.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d give you the message. I wrote down the number. I didn’t want to give it to you. You don’t need hysterical phone calls from Washington. You’ve had a horrid few days.”
“He’s not from Washington.”
“The phone calls were.”
Adrian looked up from the table, past the miniature hedges in the boxes bordering the café. He saw what he was looking for: a telephone booth.
“I’ll be right back.”
He walked to the phone and called the District Towers in Washington.
“Front desk, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Fontine. We’ve had several calls from a Mr. Dakakos. There’s an aide to Mr. Dakakos in the lobby now waiting for you.”
Adrian thought quickly. His father’s words came back to him; he had asked his father if he could trust Dakakos. Where Salonika is concerned, I trust no one.…
“Listen to me. Tell the man in the lobby you just heard from me. I won’t be back for several days. I don’t want to see this Dakakos.”
“Of course, Mr. Fontine.”
Adrian hung up. His passport was in Washington. In the room. He’d go by way of the garage. But not tonight; that was too soon. He’d wait until tomorrow. He’d stay in New York tonight.… His father. His father should be told about Dakakos. He called the North Shore house.
Jane’s voice was strained. “The doctor’s with him now. Thank God he allowed them to give him something. I don’t think he could have stood it much longer. He’s had spasms—”
“I’ll phone you tonight.”
Adrian walked out of the booth and threaded his way between the strollers back into the café, to the table.
“What is it?” Barbara was alarmed.
“Get in touch with your service in Boston. Tell them to call Dakakos and say we missed each other. I had to fly to—hell, Chicago. On business. That was the message for you at the hotel here.”
“You really don’t want to see him, do you?”
“I’ve got to avoid him. I want to throw him off the track. He’s probably tried to reach my brother.”
The path in Rock Creek Park. It was Martin Greene’s idea, his selection. Greene had sounded strange on the telephone, somehow defiant. As though he didn’t care about anything anymore.
Whatever was gnawing at Greene would vanish in the time it took to tell him the story. My God, would it! In one afternoon, Eye Corps had taken a giant step! Beyond anything they could have imagined. If the things his father said about that vault—the lengths powerful men, entire governments went to possess it—if it was all only half true, Eye Corps was in the catbird seat! Unreachable!
His father said he was going to prepare a list. Well, his father didn’t have to; there was a list. The seven men of Eye Corps would control that vault. And he would control the seven men of Eye Corps.
Christ, it was incredible! But events did not lie; his father did not lie. Whoever possessed those documents, that parchment from a forgotten Roman prison, had the leverage to make extraordinary demands. Everywhere! An omission of recorded history, kept from the world out of unbelievable fear. Its revelation could not be tolerated. Well, fear, too, was an instrument. As great a one as death. Often greater.
Bear in mind that the contents of that vault are as staggering to the civilized world as anything in history.…
The decisions of extraordinary men—in peace and in war—supported his father’s judgment. And now other extraordinary men, led by one extraordinary man, would find that vault and help shape the last quarter of the twentieth century. One had to begin to think like that, think in large blocks, concepts beyond ordinary men. His training, his heritage: All was coming into focus, and he was ready for the weight of enormous responsibility. He was primed for it; it was his with a vault buried in the Italian Alps.
Adrian would have to be immobilized. Not seriously; his brother was weak, indecisive, no contender at all. It would be enough to slow him down. He would visit his brother’s rooms and do just that.
Andrew started down the Rock Creek path. There were very few strollers; the park was not a place for walking at night. Where was Greene? He should have been there; his apartment was a lot closer than the airport. And Greene had told him to hurry.
Andrew walked out on the grass and lighted a cigarette. There was no point standing under the spill of the park lamps. He’d see Greene when he came down the path.
“Fontine!”
The soldier turned around, startled. Twenty yards away at the side of a tree trunk stood Martin Greene. He was in civilian clothes; there was a large briefcase in his left hand.
“Marty? What the hell—”
“Get over here,” ordered the captain tersely.
Andrew walked rapidly into the cluster of trees. “What’s going on?”
“It’s gone, Fontine. The whole goddamned thing. I’ve been calling you since yesterday morning.”
“I was in New York. What are you talking about?”
“Five men are in a maximum security jail in Saigon. Want to take a guess who?”
“What? The subpoena wasn’t served! You confirmed it, I confirmed it!”
“Nobody needed a subpoena. The I.G. crawled out of the rocks. They hit us on all points. My guess is that I’ve got about twelve hours before they figure I’m the one in procurement. You, you’re marked.”
“Wait a minute. Just wait a minute! This is crazy! The subpoena was canceled!”
“I’m the only one who benefits from that. You never mentioned my name in Saigon, did you?”
“Of course not. Just that we’ve got a man here.”
“That’s all they’ll need; they’ll put it together.”
“How?”
“A dozen different ways. Locking in and comparing my checkout times with yours is the first that comes to mind. Something happened over there; something blew everything apart.” Greene’s eyes strayed.
Andrew breathed steadily, staring down at the captain. “No, it didn’t,” he said softly. “It happened over here. Last Wednesday night.”
Greene’s head snapped up. “What about Wednesday night?”
“That Black lawyer. Nevins. You had him killed, you stupid son of a bitch. My brother accused me! Accused us! He believed me because I believed it myself! It was too stupid!” The soldier’s voice was a strained whisper. It was all he could do to keep from lashing out at the man staring up at him.
Greene replied calmly, with assurance. “You’re getting the right total but the wrong numbers. I had it done, that’s true, and I’ve got that bastard’s briefcase, including the deposition against us. But the contract was so remote the people who did it don’t know I exist. To bring you up to date, they were caught this morning. In West Virginia. They’ve got laundered money that can be traced to a company up for fraud. And we’re not it.… No, Fontine, it wasn’t me. Whatever it was, happened over there. I think you blew it.”
Andrew shook his head. “Impossible. I handled—”
“Please. No burdens. I don’t want to know, because I don’t give a damn anymore. I’ve got a suitcase at Dulles and a one-way ticket to Tel Aviv. But I’m going to do you one last favor. When everything hit, I called a few friends at I.G., they owed me. That deposition from Barstow we worried so much about wasn’t even in the prize money.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember the routine congressional inquiry? The Greek you never heard of—?”
“Dakakos?”
“That’s right. Theodore Dakakos. Over at I.G. they call it the Dakakos probe. It was him. Nobody knows how, but that Greek was the one who got everything there was to get on Eye Corps. He funneled it piece by piece into the I.G. files.”
Theodore Dakakos, thought Andrew. Theodore Annaxas Dakakos, son of a Greek trainman slain thirty years ago in the Milan freight yards by a priest who was his brother. Extraordinary men went to extraordinary lengths to control the vault of Constantine. A calm swept over the soldier.
“Thanks for telling me,” he said. Greene held up the briefcase. “By the way, I made a trip to Baltimore.”
“The Baltimore records are among the best,” said Fontine.
“Where I’m going, we may need some quick firepower in the Negev. These could get it.”
“Very possibly.”
Greene hesitated, and then asked quietly, “You want to come along? We can hide you. You could do worse.”
“I can do better.”
“Stop kidding yourself, Fontine! Use some of your well-advertised money and get out of here as fast as you can. Buy sanctuary. You’re finished.”
“You’re wrong. I’ve just begun.”