Someone was and he had been spotted. Someone moments ago had been close to the door, listening, trying to confirm a sighting. The sudden break in conversation had served to wam whomever it was, but he was there, somewhere in the shadows of the squared-off hallway or on the staircase.

  Godamn it. thought Bray angrily as he walked silently around the landing, had he forgotten that alerts had been sent to every station in the world by now? He was a fugitive and he had been careless. Where had he been picked up? In the Via Condotti? Crossing the Piazza?

  He heard a rush of air, and even as he heard it, his instinct told him he was too late to react. He stiffened his body as he spun to his right, lunging downward to lessen the impact of the blow.

  A door behind him had suddenly been yanked open and a figure that was only a blur above his back rushed out, an arm held high, but only for an instant. It came crashing down, the sickening bolt of pain spreading from the base of his skull throughout his chest, surging downward into his kneecaps where it settled, bringing on the wind of collapse and darkness.

  He blinked his eyes, tears of pain filling them, disorientIng him, but somehow providing a measure of relief. How many minutes had he been lying on the hallway floor? He could not tell, yet he sensed it was not long.

  He rose slowly and looked at his watch. He had been out for roughly fifteen minutes; had he not twisted the instant before impact, the elapsed time would have been closer to an hour.

  Why was he there? Alone? Where was his captor? It did not make sensel He had been taken, then left by himself. What was his capture for?

  He heard a muted cry, quickly cut off, and turned toward the source, bewildered. Then bewilderment left him. He was not the target; he never had been. It was she. Antonia. She was the one who had been spotted, not he.

  Scofield got to his feet, braced himself against the rail. ing and peered down at the floor around him. His Browning was gone, naturally, and he had no other weapon. But he had something else. Consciousness. His assailant would not expect that-the man had known precisely where to hammer the butt of his gun; in his mind his victim would be unconscious far longer than the few minutes involved. Drawing that man out was not a significant problem.

  Bray walked noiselessly to the door of the single room and put his ear to the wood. The moans were more pronounced now. Sharp cries of pain, abruptly stilled. A strong hand clasped over a mouth, fingers pressed into flesh, choking off all but throated protests. And there were words, spoken harshly in Italian.

  “Whorel Pigl It was to be Marseillesl Nine hundred thousand lirel Two or three weeks at mostl We sent our people; you were not there. He was not there. No courier of drugs had ever heard of youl Liar! Whore! Where were you? What have you doneP Traitor!” A scream was suddenly formed, more suddenly cut off, the guttural cry that followed searing in its torment. What in the name of God was happening?

  Scofield slammed his hand against the door, shouting as though only half-conscious, incoherent, his words slurred and barely comprehensible.

  “Stop itt Stop it! What is this? I can’t… can’t…. Waitl I’ll run downstairsl There are police in the square. I’ll bring the policel” He pounded his feet on the stone floor as if running, his shouts trailing off until there was silence. He pressed his back into the wall and waited, listening to the commotion within. He heard slaps -and gasps of pain.

  There was a sudden, loud thud. A body-her body was slammed into the door, and then the door was pulled open, Antonia propelled through it with such force she sprawled forward falling to her knees. What Bray saw of her caused him to suppress all reaction. There was no emotion, only movement… and the inevitable: he would inflict punishment. I The man rushed through the door, weapon first. Scofield shot out his right hand, catching the gun, pivoting as he did so, his left foot arching up viciously into the attacker’s groin. The man grimaced in shock and sudden agony; the gun fell to the floor, metal clattering against stone. Bray grabbed the man’s throat, smashing his head into the wall, and twisting him by the neck into the open doorframe. He held the Italian upright, and hammered his fist into the man’s lower rib cage; he could hear the bone crack. He plunged his knee into the small of the man’s back and with both hands acting as a battering ram, sent him plummeting through the door into the room. The Ita-Hn collapsed over the obstructing sofa and fell senseless to the floor beyond it. Scofield turned and ran to Antgnia.

  Reaction was allowed now; he felt sick. Her face was bruised; spidery veins of red had spread from the swellings caused by repeated blows to the head. The comer of her left eye was so battered the skin had broken; a twopronged rivulet of blood flowed down her cheek. The loose-fitting sweater had been removed by force, the white blouse torn to shreds, nothing left but ragged patches of fabric. Beneath, her brassiere had been pulled from its hasps, yanked off her breasts, hanging from a single shoulder strap.

  It was the flesh of this exposed part of her body that made him swallow in revulsion. There were cigarette bums, ugly little circles of charred skin, progressing from her pelvic area across the flat of her stomach over the swell of her right breast toward the small red nipple.

  The man who had done this to her was no interrogator seeking information; that role was secondary. He was a sadist, indulging his sickness as brutally and as rapidly as possible. And Bray had not finished with that man.

  Antonia moaned, shaking her head back and forth, pleading not to be hurt again. He picked her up and carried her back into the room, kicking the door shut, edging his way around the sofa, past the unconscious man on the floor, to the bed. He placed her gently down, sat beside her and drew her to him.

  “It’s all right. It’s over, he can’t touch you anymore.” He felt her tears against his face, and then was aware that she had put her arms around him. She was suddenly holding him fiercely, her body trembling, the cries from her throat more than pleas for release from immediate pain. She was begging to be set free from a torment that bad been deep within her for a very long time. But it was not the time now to probe; the extent of her wounds had to be examined and treated.

  There was a doctor on the Viale Regina, and a man on the floor that had to be dealt with. Getting Antonia to the doctor might be difficult unless he could calm her down; disposing of the sadist on the floor would be simple. It might even accomplish something.

  He would call the police from a booth somewhere in the city and direct them to the pensione. They would find a man and his weapon and a crude sign over his un conscious body.

  Brigatisti.

  The doctor closed the door of the examining room and spoke in English.

  He had been schooled in London and recruited by British intelligence.

  Scofield had found him during an operation, involving Cons Op and MI-Six.

  The man was safe. He thought all clandestine services were slightly mad, but since the British had paid for his last two years in medical school, he accepted his part of the bargain. He was simply on-call to treat unbalanced people in a very foolish business. Bray liked him.

  “She’s sedated and my wife is with her. She’ll come out of it in a few minutes and you can go.” “How is she?” “In pain, but it won’t last. I’ve treated the burns witb an ointment that acts as a local anesthetic. I’ve given her a jar.” The doctor lit a cigarette; he had not finished. “An ice pack or two should be applied to the facial contusions; the swellings will go down overnight. The cuts are minor, no stitches required.” “Then she’s all right,” said Scofield, relieved.

  “No, she’s not, Bray.” The doctor exhaled smoke. “Oh, medically she’s sound and with a little makeup and dark glasses she’ll no doubt be up and about by noon tomorrow. But she is not all right.” “What do you mean?” “How well do you know her?” “Barely. I found her several days ago, it doesn’t matter where-” “I’m not interested,” interrupted the doctor. “I never am. I just want you to know that tonight was not the first time this has happened to her.

  There is evidence of previous beatings, some quite severe.” “Good Lord….” Scofield thought immediately of the cries of anguish he had heard less than an hour ago. “What kind of evidence?” “Scars from multiple lacerations and bums. All small and precisely placed to cause maximum pain.” “Recent?” “Within the last year or so, I’d say. Some of the tissue is still soft, relatively new.” “Any ideas?” “Yes. During severe trauma, people speak of things.” The doctor stopped, inhaling on his cigarette. “I don’t have to tell you that; you count on it.” “Go on,” said Bray.

  “I think she was systematically, psychologically broken. She kept repeating catchwords. Allegiances to this and that; loyalty beyond death and torture of self and comrades. That sort of garbage.” “The Brigatisti were busy little pricks,” Bray said.

  ‘V~Fhaff’ “Forget it.” “Forgotten. She has a mass of confusion in that lovely head of hers.” “Not as much as you think. She got away.” “Intact and functioning?” asked the doctor.

  “Mostly.” “Then she’s remarkable.” “More to the point, she’s exactly what I need,” said Scofield.

  “Is that, too, a required response?” The medical man’s ire was apparent.

  “You people never cease to disappoint me. That woman’s scars aren’t only on her skin, Bray. She’s been brutalized.” “She’s alive. I’d like to be there when she comes out of sedation. May IT’ “So you can catch her while her mind is only hall alive, extract your own responses?” The doctor paused again. “I’m sorry, it’s not my business.” “I’d like her to be your business if she needs help. If you don’t mind.” The doctor studied him. “My services are limited to medicine, you know that.” “I understand. She has no one else, she’s not from Rome. Can she come to you… if any of those scars get tom away?” The Italian nodded. “Tell her to come and see me if she needs medical attention. Or a friend.” “Thank you very much. And thanks for something else. You’ve fit several pieces into a puzzle I couldn1 figure out. I’ll go in now, if it’s all right.” “Go ahead. Send my wife out here.”

  Scofield touched Antonia’s cheek. She lay still on the bed, but at the touch rolled her head to the side, her lips parted, a moan of protest escaping her throat. Things were clearer now, the puzzle that was Antonia Gravet coming more into focus. For it was the focus that had been lack-ing; he had not been able to see through the opaque glass wall she had erected between herself and the outside world. The commanding woman in the hills who displayed courage without essential strength; yet who could face a man she believed wanted her dead and tell. him to fire away. And the childlike woman on the trawler drenched by the sea, given to sudden moments of infectious laughter. The laughter had confused him; it did not confuse him now. It was her way of grasping for small periods of relief and normality. The boat was her temporary sanctuary; she would not be hurt while at sea, and so she had made the most of it. An abused child-or a prisoner-allowed an hour of fresh air and sunshine. Take the moments and find joy in them. If only to forget. For those brief moments.

  A scarred mind worked that way. Scofield had seen too many scarred minds not to recognize the syndrome once he understood the scars. The doctor had used the phrase “a mass of confusion in her lovely head.” What could anyone expect? Antonia Gravet had spent her own eternity in a maze of pain. That she had survived above a vegetable was not only remarkable it was the sign of a professional.

  Strange, thought Bray, but that conclusion was the highest compliment he could pay. In a way, it made him sick.

  She opened her eyes, blinking in fear, her lips trembling. Then she seemed to recognize him; the fear receded and the trembling stopped. He touched her cheek again and her eyes reflected the comfort she felt at the touch.

  “Grazie,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  He bent over her. “I know most of it,” he said quietly. “Fhe doctor told me what they did to you. Now tell me the rest. What happened in Marseilles?” Tears welled up in her eyes and the trembling began again. “No! No, you must not ask mel” “Please. I have to know. They can’t touch you; they’ll never touch you again.” “You saw what they do! Oh, God, the pain…

  “It’s over.” He brushed away the tears with his fingers. “Listen to me. I understand now. I said stupid things to you because I didn’t know. Of course you wanted to get away, stay away, isolate yourself-resign from the human race, for Christ’s sake-1 understand that. But don’t you see? You can’t. Help us stop them, help me stop them. They’ve put you through so much… make them pay for it, Antonia. Godamn it, get angry. I look at you and I’m angry as helll” He was not sure what it was; perhaps the fact that he cared, for he did, and he did not try to conceal that care. It was in his eyes, in his words; he knew it. Whatever it was, the tears stopped, her brown eyes glistened, as they had glistened on the trawler. Anger and purpose were surfacing. She told the rest of her story.

  “I was to be the drug whore,” she said. “The woman who traveled with the courier, keeping her eyes open and her body available at all times. I was to steep with men-or women, it made no difference-performing whatever services they wished.” Antonia winced, the memories sickening to her. “The drug whore is valuable to the courier. She can do things he cannot do, being bribe and decoy and unsuspected watchdog. I was… trained. I let them think I had no resistance left. My courier was chosen, a foul-mouthed animal who could not wait to have me, for I had been the favorite of the strongest; it gave him status. I was sick to my stomach at what was before me, but I counted the hours, knowing that each one brought me closer to what I had dreamed of for months. My filthy courier and I were taken to La Spezia where we were smuggled aboard a freighter, our destination Marseilles and the contact who would set up the drug runs.

  “Me courier could not wait, and I was ready for him. We were put into a storage room below deck. The ship was not scheduled to sail for over an hour, so I said to the pig that perhaps we should wait and not risk being intruded upon. But he would not and I knew he would not; if he had I would have provoked him. For each minute was precious to me. I knew I could not go out to sea; once at sea what remained of my life was over.

  I had made a promise to myself. I would leap into water at night and drown in peace rather than face Marseilles where the horror would begin again. But I did not have to….” Antonia stopped, the pain of the memory choking her, Bray took her hand and held it in his. “Go on,” he said. She had to say it. It was the final moment she had to somehow face and exorcize; he felt it as surely as if it were his own.

  “The pig pulled off my coat and tore the blouse from my chest. It did not matter that I was willing to remove them, he had to show his bull strength; he had to rape, for he was taking-not being given. He ripped the skirt off my waist until I stood naked before him. Like a maniac, he removed his own clothes and placed himself under the light, I suppose so that I might stand in awe of his naked. ness.

  “He grabbed me by the hair and forced me to my knees… to his waist.

  and I was sick beyond sickness. But I knew the time was coming, and so I shut my eyes and played my part and thought about the beautiful hills in Porto Vecchio, where my grandmother lived… where I would live for the rest of my life.

  “It happened. The courier threw himself upon me.

  “I moved us both closer to the coil of rope, sbouting the things my rapist wanted to hear, as I inched my hand toward the middle of the coil.

  My moment had come. I had carried a knife—a plain dinner knife I had sharpened on stone-and had shoved it into the coil of rope. I touched the handle and thought again about the beautiful hills in Porto Vecchio.

  “And as that scum lay naked on top of me, I raised the knife behind him and plunged it into his back. He screamed and tried to raise himself, but the wound was too deep. I pulled it out and brought it down again, and again, and again… and, oh mother of Christ, again and again! I could not stop killingl” She had said it, and now she cried uncontrollably. Scofield held her, stroking her hair, saying nothing for there was nothing he could say that would ease the pain. Finally, the terrible control she forced upon herself returned.

  “It had to be done. You understand that, don’t you?” Bray said.

  She nodded, “Yes.” “He didn’t deserve to live, that’s clear to you, isn’t it?” “Yes.,, “That’s the first step, Antonia. You’ve got to accept it. We’re not in a court of law where lawyers can argue philosophies. For us, it’s cut and dried. It’s a war and you kill because if you don’t, someone will kill you.” She breathed deeply, her eyes roaming over his face, her hand still in his.

  “You are an odd man. You say the right words, but I have the feeling you don’t like saying them.” I don’t. I do not like what I am. I did not choose my life, it fell down upon me. I am in a tunnel deep in the earth and I cannot get out. The right words are a comfort. And most of the time I need them for my sanity.

  Bray squeezed her hand. “What happened after?

  “After I killed the courier?” “After you killed the animal who raped you-who would have killed you.” “Grazle ancora,” said Antonia. “I dressed in his clothes, rolled up the trousers, pushing my hair into the cap, and filling out the large jacket with what was left of my dress. I made my way up to the deck. The sky was dark, but there was light on the pier. Dock workers who were walking up and down the gangplank carried boxes like an army of ants. It was simple. I got in line and walked off the ship.” “Very good,” said Scofield, meaning it.

  “It was not difficult. Except when I first put my foot on the ground.” “Why? What happened?” “I wanted to scream. I wanted to sbout and laugh and run off the pier yelling to everyone that I was free. Freel The rest was very easy. The courier had been given money; it was in his trouser’s pocket. It was more than enough to get me to Genoa, where I bought clothes and a ticket on the plane to Corsica. I was in Bastia by noon the next day.” “And from there to Porto Vecchio?” “Yes. Free!” “Not exactly. God knows the prison was different, but you were still a prisoner. Those hills were your cell.” Antonia looked away. “I would have been happy there for the rest of my life. Since I was a child I loved the valley and the mountains.” “Keep the memories,” said Bray. “Dont try to go back.” She turned her head toward him. “You said one day I could! Those men must pay for what they didl You, yourself, agreed to thatl” “I said I hoped they would. Maybe they will, but let others do the work, not you. Someone would blow your head off if you stepped foot in those hills.” Scofield released her hand and brushed away the strands of dark hair that had fallen over her cheek when she turned so abruptly to him.