They traveled swiftly through the hills to the base of the mountains and up into winding trails cut out of the mountain forests. The dog had sniffed both men when the woman had first come up to them; it was set free and preceded them along the overgrown paths, sure in its knowledge of the way.

  Scofield thought it was the same dog he had come across so suddenly, so frighteningly, in the fields. He said as much to the woman.

  “Probably, signore. We were there for many hours. I was looking for you and I let him roam, but he was always near in case I needed him.” “Would he have attacked me?” “Only if you raised your hand to him. Or to me.” It was past midnight when they reached a flat stretch of grassland that fronted what appeared to be a series of imposing, wooded hills. The low-flying clouds had thinned out; moonlight washed over the field, highlighting the peaks in the distance, lending grandeur to this section of the mountain range. Bray could see that Talaniekov’s shirt beneath the open jacket was as drenched with sweat as his own; and the night was cool.

  “We can rest for a while now,” said the woman, pointing to a dark area several hundred feet ahead, in the direction the dog had raced. “Over there is a cave of stone in, the hill. It is not very deep, but it is shelter.” “Your dog knows it,” added the KGB man.

  “He expects me to build a fire,” laughed the girl. “When it is raining, he takes sticks in his mouth and brings them inside to me. He is fond of the fire.”

  The cave was dug out of dark rock, no more than ten feet deep, but at least six in height. They entered.

  “Shall I light a fire?” Taleniekov asked.

  “If you wish. Uccello will like you for it. I am too tired.” “‘Uccello’?” asked Scofield. “‘Bird’?” “He flies over the ground, signore.” “You speak English very well,” said Bray, as the Russian piled sticks together within a circle of stones obviously used for previous fires.

  “Where did you learn?” “I went to the convent school in Vescovato. Those of us who wished to enter the government programs studied French and English.” Taleniekov struck a match beneath the kindling; the fire caught instantly, the flames crackling the wood, throwing warmth and light through the cave.

  “You’re very good at that sort of thing,” said Scofield to the KGB man.

  “T’hank you. It’s a minor talent.” “It wasn’t minor a few hours ago.” Bray turned back to the woman, who had removed her cap and was shaking free her long dark hair. For an instant he stopped breathing and stared at her. Was it the hair? Or the wide, clear brown eyes that were the color of a deer’s eyes, or the high cheekbones or the chiseled nose above the generous lips that seemed so ready to laugh?

  Was it any of these things, or was he simply tired and grateful for the sight of an attractive, capable woman? He did not know; he knew only that this Corsican girl of the hills reminded him of Karine, his wife whose death was ordered by the man three feet away from him in that Corsican cave. He suppressed his thoughts and breathed again. “And did you,” he asked, “enter the government programs?” “As far as they would take me.” “Where was that?” “To the scuola media in Bonifacio. The rest I managed with the help of others. Monies supplied by the tondos.” “I don’t understand.” “I am a graduate of the University of Bologna, signore. I am a Comunista.

  I say it proudly.” “Bravo… ” said Taleniekov softly.

  “One day we shall set things right throughout all Italy,” continued the girl, her eyes bright. “We shall end the chaos, the Christian stupidity.” “I’m sure you will,” agreed the Russian.

  “But never as Moscow’s puppets; that we will never be. We are independente.

  We do not listen to vicious bears who would devour us and create a worldwide fascist state. Neverl” “Bravo,” said Bray.

  Ile conversation trafled off, the young woman reluctant to answer further questions about herself. She told them her name was Antonia, but beyond that said little. When Taleniekov asked why she, a political activist from Bologna, had returned to this isolated region of Corsica, she replied only that it was to be with her grandmother for a while.

  “Tell us about her,” said Scofield.

  “She will tell you what she wants you to know,” said the girl, getting up.

  “I have told you what she instructed me to say.” “‘Ile whore of Villa Matarese,”’ repeated Bray.

  “Yes. They are not words I would choose. Or ever use. Come, we have another two hours to walk.”

  They reached a flat crown of a mountain and looked down a gentle slope to a valley below. It was no more than a hundred and fifty yards from mountain crest to valley floor, perhaps a mile of acreage covering the basin. The moon had grown progressively brighter; they could see a small farmhouse in the center of the pasture, a barn at the end of a short roadway. They could hear the sound of rushing water; a stream flowed out of the mountain near where they stood, tumbling down the slope between a row of rocks, passing within fifty feet of the small house.

  “It’s very beautiful,” said Taleniekov.

  “It is the only world she has known for over half a century,” replied Antonia.

  “Were you brought up here?” asked Scofield. “Was this your home?” “No,” said the girl, without elaborating. “Come, we win see her. She has been waiting.” “At this hour of the night?” Taleniekov was surprised.

  “There is no day or night for my grandmother. She said to bring you to her as soon as we arrived. We have arrived.”

  There was no day or night for the old woman sitting in the chair by the wood-burning stove, not in the accepted sense of sunlight and darkness. She was blind, her eyes two vacant orbs of pastel blue, staring at sounds and at the images of remembered memories. Her features were sharp and angular beneath the covering of wrinkled flesh; the face had once been that of an extraordinarily beautiful woman.

  Her voice was soft, with a bollow whispering quality that forced the listener to watch her thin white lips. If there was no essential brilliance about her, neither was there hesitancy nor indecision. She spoke rapidly, a simple mind secure in its own knowledge. She had things to say and death was in her house, a reality that seemed to quicken her thoughts and perceptions. She spoke in Italian, but it was an idiom from an earlier era.

  She began by asking both Taleniekov and Scofield to answer—each in his own words-why he was so interested in Guillaume de Ma~tarese. Vasili replied first, repeating his story of an academic foundation in Milan, his depart-ment concentrating on Corsican history. He kept it simple, thus allowing Scofield to elaborate in any way he wished. It was standard procedure when two or more intelligence officers were detained and questioned together.

  Neither had to be primed for the exercise; the fluid lie was second nature to them both.

  Bray listened to the Russian and corroborated the basic information, adding details on dates and finances he believed pertinent to Guillaume de Matarese. When he finished, he felt not only confident about his response, but superior to the KGB man; he had done his “schoolwork” better than Taleniekov.

  Yet the old woman just sat there, nodding her head in silence, brushing away a lock of white hair that had fallen to the side of her gaunt face.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “You’re both lying. The second gentleman is less convincing. He tries to impress me with facts any child in the hills of Porto Vecchio might learn.” “Perhaps in Porto Vecchio,” protested Scofield gently, “but not necessarily in Milan.” “Yes. I see what you mean. But then neither of you is from Milan.

  “Quite true,” interrupted Vasili. “We merely work in Milan. I myself was born in Poland… northern Poland. I’m sure you detect my imperfect speech.” “I detect nothing of the sort. Only your Res. However, don’t be concerned, it doesn’t matter.” Taleniekov and Scofield looked at each other, then over at Antonia, who sat curled up in exhaustion on a pillow in front of the window.

  “What doesn’t matterT’ Bray asked. “We are concerned. We want you to speak freely.” “I will,” said the blind woman. “For your lies are not those of seN-seeking men. Dangerous men, perhaps, but not men moved by profit. You do not look for the padrone for your own personal gain.” Scofield could not help himself; he leaned forward. “How do you knowT’ The old woman’s vacant yet powerful pale blue eyes held his; it was hard to accept the fact that she could not see. “It is in your voices,” she said. “You are afraid:’ “Have we reason to beT’ asked Taleniekov.

  “That would depend on what you believe, wouldn!t itT, “We believe a terrible thing has happened,” said Bray. “But we know very little. That’s as honestly as I can put it.

  “What do you know, signorir’ Again Scofield and Taleniekov exchanged glances; the Russian nodded first. Bray realized that Antonia was watching them closely. He spoke as obviously to her as to the old woman. “Before we answer you, I think it would be better if your granddaughter left us alone.” “Not” said the girl so harshly that Uccello snapped up his head.

  “Listen to me,” continued Scofield. “It’s one thing to bring us here, two strangers your grandmother wanted to meet. It’s something else again to be involved with us. My… associate… and I have experience in these matters. It’s for your own good.” “Leave us, Antonia.” The blind woman turned in the chair. “I have nothing to fear from these men and you must be tired. Take Uccello with you; rest in the barn.” “All right,” said the girL getting up, “but Uccello will remain here.” Suddenly, from beneath the pillow, she took out the Lupo and leveled it in front of her. “You both bave guns. Throw them on the floor. I don!t think you would leave here without them.” “That’s ridiculousl” cried Bray, as the dog got to its feet growling.

  “Do as the lady says,” snapped Taleniekov, shoving his Graz-Burya across the floor.

  Scofield took out his Browning, checked the safety, and threw the weapon on the rug in front of Antonia. She bent down and picked up both automatics, the Lupo held firmly in her hand. “When you’ve finished, open the door and call out to me. I will summon Uccello. If he does not come, you won’t see your guns again. Except looking down the barrels.” She let herself out quickly; the dog emitted a growl and returned to the floor.

  “My granddaughter is high-spirited,” said the old woman, settling back in her chair. “The blood of Guillaume, though several times removed, is still apparent.” “She’s his granddaughter?” asked Taleniekov.

  “His great-grandchild, born to my daughter’s child quite late in her life. But that first daughter was the result of the padrone bedding his young whore.” “‘The whore of Villa Matarese”’ said Bray. “You told her to tell us that was what you were called.” The old woman smiled, brushing aside a lock of white hair. For an instant she was in that other world, and vanity had not deserted her. “Many years ago. We will go back to those days, but before we do, your answers, please. What do you know? What brings you here?” “My associate will speak first,” said Taleniekov. “He is more learned in these matters than I am, although I came to him with what I believed to be startling new information.” “Your name, please,” interrupted the blind woman. “Your true name and where you come from.” The Russian glanced at the American; in the look between them was the understanding that no purpose would be served by further lies. On the contrary, that purpose might be thwarted by them. This simple but strangely eloquent old woman had listened to the voices of Hars for the better part of a century-in darkness; she was not to be fooled.

  “My name is Vasili Vasilovich Taleniekov. Formerly external affairs strategist, KGB, Soviet Intelligence.” “And you?” The woman shifted her blind eyes to Scofield.

  “Brandon Scofield. Retired intelligence officer, EuroMediterranean sectors, Consular Operations, United States Department of State.” “I see.” The old courtesan brought her thin hands and delicate fingers up to her face, a gesture of quiet reflection. “I am not a learned woman, and live an isolated life, but I am not without news of the outside world. I often listen to my radio for hours at a time. The broadcasts from Rome come in quite clearly, as do those from Genoa, and frequently Nice. I pretend no knowledge, for I have none, but your coming to Corsica together would appear strange.” “It is, madame,” said Taleniekov.

  “Very,” agreed Scofield.

  “It signifies the gravity of the situation.” “Then let your associate begin, signore.” Bray sat forward in the chair, his arms on his knees, his eyes on the blind eyes in front of him. “At some point between the years 1909 and 1913, Guillaume de Matarese summoned a group of men to his estate in Porto Vecchio. Who they were and where they came from has never been established.

  But they gave themselves a name,–P “The date was April 4, 1911,” interrupted the old woman. “They did not give themselves a name, the padrone chose it. They were to be known as the Council of the Matarese…. Go on, please.” “You were there?” “Please continue.” The moment was unsettling; they were talking about an event that had been the object of speculation for decades, with no records of dates or identities, no witnesses. Now-delivered in a brief few seconds-they were told the correct year, the exact month, the precise day.

  “Signore?…” “Sorry. During the next thirty years or so, this Matarese and his ‘council’ were the subject of controversy….” Scofield told the story rapidly, without embellishment, keeping his words in the simplest Italian he knew so there’d be no misunderstanding. He admitted that the majority of experts who had studied the Matarese legend had concluded it was more myth than reality.

  “What do you believe, signore? That is what I asked you at the start.” “I’m not sure what I believe, but I know a very great man disappeared four days ago. I think he was killed because he spoke to other powerful men about the Matarese.” “I see.” The old woman nodded. “Four days ago. Yet I thought you said thirty years… from that first meeting in 1911. What happened then, signore? There are many years to be accounted for.” “According to what we know—or what we think we know-after Matarese died the council continued to operate out of Corsica for a number of years, then moved away, negotiating contracts in Berlin, London, Paris, New York and God knows where else. Its activities began to fade at the start of the Second World War. After the war it disappeared; nothing was heard from it again.” A trace of a smile was on the old woman’s lips. “So from nowhere it comes back, is that what you are sayingr “Yes. My associate can tell you why we believe it.” Bray looked at Taleniekov.

  “Within recent weeks,” said the Russian, “two men of peace from both our countries were brutally assassinated, each government led to believe the other was responsible. Confrontation was avoided by a swift exchange between our leaders, but they were dangerous moments. A dear friend sent for me; he was dying and there were things he wanted me to know. He had very little time and his mind wandered, but what he told me compelled me to seek out others for help, for guidance.” “What did he tell youT’ “That the Council of the Matarese was very much with us. That, in fact, it never disappeared but instead went underground, where it continued to grow silently and spread its influence. That it was responsible for hundreds of acts of terrorism and scores of assassinations during recent years for which the world condemned others. Among them the two men I just mentioned.

  But the Matarese no longer killed for money; instead, it killed for its own purposes.

  “Which were?” asked the old woman in that strange, echoing voice.

  “He did not know. He knew only that the Matarese was a spreading disease that had to be stamped out, but he could not tell me how, or whom to go to. No one who ever had dealings with the council will speak of it.” “He offered you nothing, thenT’ “rhe last thing he said to me before I left him was that the answer might be in Corsica. Naturally, I was not convinced of that until subsequent events left no alternative. For either me or my associate, agent Scofield.” “I understand your associate’s reason: a great man disappeared four days ago because he spoke of the Matarese. What was yours, signore?” “I, too, spoke of the Matarese. To those men from whom I sought guidance, and I was a man of credentials in my country. The order was put out for my execution.” The old woman was silent and, again, there was that slight smile on her wrinkled lips. “The padrone returns,” she whispered.

  “I think you must explain that,” said Taleniekov. “We’ve been frank with you.” “Did your dear friend die?” she asked instead.

  “Ile next day. He was given a soldier’s funeral and he was entitled to it. He lived a life of violence without fear. Yet at the end, the Matarese frightened him profoundly.” “Me padrone frightened him,” said the old woman.

  “My friend did not know Guillaume de Matarese.” “He knew his disciples. It was enough; they were him. He was their Christ, and as Christ, he died for them.” “The padrone was their god?” asked Bray.

  “And their prophet, signore. They believed him.” “Believed what?” “That they would inherit the earth. That was his vengeance.,,

  The old woman’s vacant eyes stared at the wall as she spoke in her half-whisper.

  He found me in the convent at Bonifacto and negotiated a favorable price with the Mother Superior. “Render unto Caesar,” he said, and she complied for she agreed that I way not given to God. I was frivolous and did not take to my lessons and looked at myself in dark windows for they showed me my face and my body. I was to be given to man, and the padrone was the man of all men.