Not his Rome, thought Bray, feeling the velvet lapels of his tuxedo.

  Their Rome.

  The huge rooms of the villa itself had been transformed into palace courtyards, complete with banquet tables

  and gilded chairs lining the walls-resting spots for the courtiers and courtesans at play. Russian sable and mink, chinchilla and golden fox draped shoulders dressed by Givenchy and Pucci; webs of diamonds and strings of pearls fell from elongated throats, and all too often from too many chins.

  Slender cavalierl, dashing in their scarlet cummerbunds and graying temples, coexisted with squat, bald men who held cigars and more power than their appearances might signify. Music was provided by no fewer than four orchestras ranging in size from six to twenty instruments, playing everything from the stately strains of Monteverdi to the frenzied beat of the disco. Villa d’Este belonged to the belli Romani.

  Of all the beautiful people, one of the most striking was Antonia-Toni. (It was Toni now by dual decree arrived at in the comfort of the bed.) No jewels adorned her neck or wrists; somehow they would have detracted from the smooth, bronzed skin set off by the simple gown of white and gold. The facial swellings had receded, as the doctor had said they would. She wore no sunglasses now, her wide brown eyes reflecting the light. She was as lovely as any part of her surroundings, lovelier than most of her would-be equals for her beauty was understated, and grew with each second of observation in the beholder’s eyes.

  For convenience, Toni was introduced quite simply as the rather mysterious Mr. Pastor’s friend from Lake Como. Certain parts of the lake were known to be retreats for the expensive children of the Mediterranean. Crispi had done his job well; he had provided just enough information to intrigue a number of guests. Those who might wish to learn the most about the quiet Mr. Pastor were told the least while others too imbued with themselves to care about Pastor were told more, so they could relate what they had learned as gossip, which was their major industry.

  Those men whose concerns were more directly—even exclusively-financial, were prone to take his elbow and inquire softly about the projected status of the dollar or the stability of investments in London, San Francisco and Buenos Aires. With such inquisitors, Scofield inclined his head briefly at some suggestions and shook it with a single motion at others. Eyebrows were raised-unobtru- sively. Information had been imparted, although Bray had no idea what it was.

  After one such encounter with a particularly insistent questioner he took Toni’s arm and they walked through a massive archway into the next crowded “courtyard.” Accepting two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray, Bray handed one to Toni and looked around over the crystal rim as he drank.

  Without having seen him before Scofield knew he had just found Count Guillarno, Scozzi. The Italian was in a comer chatting with two long-legged young women, his eyes roaming from their attentive stares, glancing about the room with feigned casualness. He was a tall, slender man, a cavaliere complete with tails and graying hair that spread in streaks from his temples throughout his perfectly groomed head. In his lapel were tiny colorful ribbons, around his waist a thin gold sash, bordered in dark red and knotted off-center. If any missed the significance of the ribbons, they could not overlook the mark of distinction inherent in the sash; Scozzi wore his escutcheons prominently. In his late fifties the count was the embodiment of the bello Romano; no Siciliano had ever crept into the bed of his ancestors and per Dio the world had better know it.

  “How will you find him?” asked Antonia, sipping the wine.

  “I think I just have.” “Him? Over there?” she asked. Bray nodded. “You’re right. I’ve seen his picture in the newspapers. He’s a favorite subject of the paparrazzi. Are you going to introduce yourself?” “I don’t think I’ll have to. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s looking for me.” Scofield gestured toward a buffet table. “Let’s walk over to the end table, by the pastries. He’ll see us.” “But how would be know you?” “Crispi. Our benevolent intermediary may not have bothered to describe me, but he sure as hell wouldn’t overlook describing you. Not with someone like Scozzi.” “But I had those huge sunglasses on.” “You’re very funny,” said Bray.

  It took less than a minute before they heard a mellifluous voice behind them at the buffet table. “Signore Pastor, I believe.” They turned. “I beg your pardon? Have we metT’ Scofield asked.

  “We were about to, I think,” said the count, extending his hand. “Scozzi.

  Guillamo Scozzi. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The title was emphasized by its absence.

  “Oh, of course. Count Scozzi. I told that delightful fellow Crispi I’d look you up. We arrived here less than an hour ago and it’s been a little hectic. I would have recognized you, naturally, but I’m surprised you knew me.” Scozzi laughed, displaying teeth so white and so perfectly formed they could not possibly have come with the original machine. “Crispi is, indeed, delightful, but I’m afraid a bit of a rascal. He was rapturous over la bella signorina.” The count inclined his head to Antonia. “I see her, I find you. As always, Crispi’s taste is impeccable.” “Excuse me.” Scofield touched Toni’s forearm. “Count Scozzi, my friend, Antonia… from Lake Como.” The first name and the lake said it all; the count took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “An adorable creature. Rome must see more of you.” “You’re too kind, Excellency,” said Antonia, as if born to attend the Festa Villa d’Este.

  “Truthfully, Mister Pastor,” continued Scozzi. “I’ve been told that many of my more brothersome friends have been annoying you with questions. I apologize for them.” “No need to. I’m afraid Crispi’s descriptions included more mundane matters.” Bray smiled with disarming humility. “When people learn what I do, they ask questions. I’m used to it.” “You’re very understanding.” “It’s not hard to be. I just wish I were as knowledgeable as so many think I am. Usually I simply try to implement decisions made before I got there.” “But in those decisions,” said the count, “there is knowledge, is there not?” “I hope so. Otherwise an awful lot of money’s being thrown away.” “Blown away with the desert winds, as it were,” clari-84 THE MATARESE CIRCLE fled Scozzi. “Why do I think we actually have met before. Mister Pastor?” The sudden question had been considered by Scofield; it was always a possibility and he was prepared for it. “If we had I think I’d remember, but it might have been the American Embassy. Those parties were never as grand as this, but just as crowded.” “Then you are a fixture on Embassy Row?” “Hardly a fixture, but sometimes a last-minute guest.” Bray smiled self-deprecatingly. “It seems there are times when my countrymen are as interested in asking me questions as your friends here in Tivoli.” Scozzi chuckled. “Information is often the road to heroic national stature, Mister Pastor. You are a reluctant hero.” “Not really. I have to make a living, that’s all.” “I would not care to negotiate with you,” said Scozzi. “I detect the mind of an experienced bargainer.” “That’s too bad,” replied Scofield, altering the tone of his voice just enough to signal the Italian’s inner antenna. “I thought we might talk for a bit.” “Oh?” The count glanced at Antonia. “But we bore the bella signorina.” “Not at all,” said Toni. “I’ve learned more about my friend during the last several minutes than for the past week. But I am famished–’ “Say no more,” interrupted Scozzi, as if her hunger were a matter of corporate survival. He raised his hand. In seconds a young, dark-haired man dressed in tafls appeared beside him. “My aide will see to your needs, signorina. His name is Paolo and, incidentally, he is a charming dancer. I believe my wife taught him.” Paolo bowed, avoiding the count’s eyes, and offered his arm to Antonia. She accepted it, stepping forward, her face turned to Scozzi and Bray.

  “Ciao,” she said, her eyes wishing Scofield good hunting.

  “You are to be envied, Mister Pastor,” remarked Count Guillarno Scozzi, watching the receding figure in white. “She is adorable. You bought her in ComoT’ Bray glanced at the Italian. Scozzi meant exactly what he said. “To be honest with you, I’m not even sure she’s ever been there,” he answered, knowing the double lie was mandatory; the count could make inquiries too easily.

  “Actually, a friend in Ar-Riy.%d gave me a number to call at the lake. She joined me in Nice. From where I’ve never asked.” “Would you consider, however, asking her about her calendar?-‘TeU her for me the sooner the better. She may reach me through the Paravacini offices in Torino.” “Turin?” “Yes, our plants in the north. Agnelli’s Fiat gets far more attention, but I can assure you, Scozzi-Paravacini runs Turin-as well as a great deal of Europe.” “I never realized that.” “You didn’t? I thought it was perhaps the basis for your wishing to…talk for a bit,’ I believe you said.” Scofield drank the last of his champagne, speaking as he took the glass from his lips. “Do you think we might go outside for a minute or two? I have a confidential message for you from a client on-let’s say, the Arabian Gulf. It’s why I’m here tonight.” Scozzi’s eyes clouded. “A message for me? Naturally, as most of Rome and Torino, I’ve met casually with a number of gentlemen from the area, but none I can recall by name. But, of course, we’ll take a stroll. You intrigue me.” The count started forward, but Bray stopped him with a gesture.

  “I’d rather we weren’t seen going out together. Tell me where you’ll be and I’ll show up in twenty minutes.” “How extraordinary. Very well.” The Italian paused. “Ippolito’s Fountain.

  Do you know itr “I’ll find it.” “It’s quite a distance. There shouldn’t be anyone around.” ‘Mat’s fine. Twenty minutes.” Scofield nodded. Both turned and walked away in opposite directions through the crowd.

  There were no floodlights at the fountain or sounds of disturbance as a man crawled around the rocks and walked silently through the foliage. Bray was taking no chances that Scozzi had stationed aides in the vicinity. If he had, Scofield would have sent a message to the Italian, naming a second, immediate rendezvous.

  They were alone—or would be in a matter of minutes. The count was strolling down the path toward the fountain. Bray doubled back through a weed-filled garden, emerging on the path fifty feet behind Scozzi. He cleared his throat the moment Scozzi reached the waist-high wall of the fountain’s pool. The count turned; there was just enough light from the terraces above for each to see the other.

  Scofield was bothered by the darkness. Scozzi could have chosen any number of places more convenient, less filled with shadows. Bray did not like shadows.

  “Was it necessary to come down this far?” he asked. “I wanted to see you alone, but I hadn’t figured on walking halfway back to Rome.” “Nor had 1, Mr. Pastor, until you made the statement that you did not care to have us seen leaving together. It brought to my mind the obvious.

  It is, perhaps, not to my advantage to be seen talking in private with you. You are a broker for the sheiks.” “Why should that bother you?” “Why did you wish to leave separately?” Scozzi had a quick mind, bearing out Crispi’s allusion to a Borgia mentality. “A matter of being too obvious, I’d say. But if someone wandered down here and saw us, that would also be too obvious. There’s a middle ground, a casual encounter in the gardens, for example.” “You have the encounter and no one will see us,” said the count. “nere is only one entrance to the fountain of Ippolito; it is forty meters behind us. I have an aide standing there. Guillamo Scozzi has been known to stroll with a companion of his choice down-if you will-a primrose path. At such times he does not care to be disturbed.” “Does my doing what I do call for those precautions?” The count raised his hand. “Remember, Mr. Pastor. Scozzi-Paravacini deals throughout all Europe and both Americas. We look constantly for new markets, but we do not look for Arab capital. It is highly suspect; barriers are being erected everywhere to prevent its excessive infusion.

  We would not come to be so scrutinized. Jewish interests in Paris and New York alone could cost us dearly.” “What I have to say to you has nothing to do with Scozzi-Paravacini,” said Scofield. “It concerns the Scozzi part, not the Paravacini.” “You allude to a sensitive area, Mr. Pastor. Please be specific.” “You are the son of Count Alberto Scozzi, aren’t you?” “It is well known.

  As are my contributions to the growth of Paravacini Industries. The significance of the corporate conversion to the name of Scozzi-Paravacini is, I trust, not lost on you.” “It isn’t, but even if it were, it doesn’t matter. rm only a go-between, supposedly the first of several contacts, each further removed from the next. As far as I’m concerned, I ran into you casually at a charity affair in Tivoli. We never had this talk.” “Your message must, indeed, be dramatic. Who sends it?” It was Bray’s turn to raise his hand. “Please. As we understand the rules, identities are never specific at the first conference. Only a geographical area and a political equation that involves hypothetical antagonists.” Scozzi’s eyes narrowed; the lids fell in concentratiom “Go on,” he said.

  “You’re a count, so IT bend the rules a bit. Let’s say there’s a prince living in a sizeable country, a sheikdom, really, on the Gulf. His uncle, the king, is from another era; he’s old and senile but his word is law, just as it was when he led a Bedouin tribe in the desert. He’s squan-dering millions with bad investments, depleting the sheikdom’s resources, taking too much out of the ground too quickly. This hypothetical prince would like him removed. For everyone’s good. He appeals to the council through the son of Alberto Scozzi, named for the Corsican padrone, Guillaume…. That’s the message. Now I’d Re to speak for myself.” “Who are you?” asked the Italian, his eyes now wide. “Who sent you?” “Let me finish,” said Bray quickly. He had to get past the initial jolt, jump to a second plateau. “As an observer of this… hypothetical equation, I can tell you it’s reached a crisis. There isn’t a day to lose. The prince needs an answer and, frankly, if I bring it to him, I’ll be a much richer man for it You, of course, can name the council’s price.

  And I can tell you that… fifty million, American, is not out of the question.” “Fifty million.” It worked; the second plateau was reached. Even for a man like Guillamo Scozzi, the amount was staggering. His arrogant lips were parted in amazement. It was the moment to complicate, to stun again.

  -Fhe sum is conditional, of course. It’s a maximum figure that presumes an immediate answer, eliminating subsequent contacts, and delivery of the package within seven days. It won’t be easy. The old man is guarded day and night by sabathi-they’re a collection of mad dogs who….” Scofield paused. “But then, I don’t have to tell you about anything related to Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah, do I? From what I gather, the Corsican drew on him pretty extensively. At any rate, the prince suggests a programmed suicide-” “Enough!” whispered Scozzi. “Who are you, Pastor? Is the name to mean something to me? Pastor? Priest? Are you a high priest sent to test me?” The Italian’s voice rose stridently. “You talk of things buried in the past. How dare you?” “I’m talking about fifty million American dollars. And don’t tell me-or my client-about things buried. His father was buried with his throat slit from chin to collar bone by a maniac sent by the council. Check your records, if you keep them; you’ll find it. My client wants his own back again and he’s willing to pay roughly fifty times what his father’s brother paid.” Bray stopped for a moment and shook his head in disapproval and sudden frustration. “This is crazyl I told him for less than half the amount I could buy him a legitimate revolution, sanctioned by the United Nations. But he wants it this way. With you. And I think I know why. He said something to me; I don’t know if it’s part of his message but I’ll deliver it anyway. He said, ‘The way of the Matarese is the only way. They’ll see my faith.’ He wants to join you.” Guillamo Scozzi recoiled; his legs were pressed against the wall of the fountain, his arms rigidly at his side. “VVhat right have you to say these things to me? You’re insane, a madmanI I don7t know what you’re talking about.” “Really? Then we’ve got the wrong man. We’ll find the right one; I’ll find him. We were given the words; we know the response.” “What words?” “Per nostro….” Scofield let his voice trail off, his eyes riveted on Scozzi’s Ups in the dim light.

  Involuntarily, the lips parted. The Italian was about to utter the third word, complete the phrase that had lived for seventy years in the remote hills of the Porto Vecchio.

  No word came. Instead, Scozzi whispered again, shock replaced by a concern so deeply felt he could barely be heard. “My God. You cannot… you must not. Where have you conw from? What have you been told?” “Just,enough to know I’ve found the right man. One of them, at any rate. Do we deal?” “Do not presume, Mr. Pastorl Or whatever your name is.” There was fury now in the Italian’s voice.

  “Pastor’R do. All right, I’ve got my answer. You pass. I’ll tell my client.” Bray turned.

  “Alto!” “PerchV Che cosa?” Scofield spoke over his shoulder without moving.

  “Your Italian is very quick, very fluent.” “So are several other languages. It helps when you travel a lot. I travel a lot. What do you want?” “You will stay here until I say you may leave.” “ReallyT’ said Scofield, turning to face Scozzi again. “What’s the point?

  I’ve got my answer.” “You’ll do as I tell you. I have only to raise my voice and an aide will be beside you, blocking any departure you may consider.” Bray tried to understand. This powerful consigliere could deny everything-he had, after all, said nothing -and have a strange American followed. Or he could call for help; or he might simply walk away himself and send armed men to find him. He could do any of these things-he was part of the Matarese; the admission was in his eyes-but he chose to do none of them.