"Plenty. We've only been airborne for twenty-two minutes, signore."
"Enough to fly me to Marseilles?"
"Easily, signore."
"Alter our flight plan and do so."
"Immediately, Signer Paravacini."
Paravacini. A name from the forgotten annals of the Matarese, but for the few who knew, the name struck, if not terror, certainly grave concern. The firm of Scozzi-Paravacini, created through marriage between the two families, had been absorbed by other interests over the years, but Guiderone's use of the name served him well in certain parts of the world. Legends die slowly, especially those born and expanded in fear.
Although Count Scozzi had been among the first of the Barone Guillaume de Matarese's recruits in the early twentieth century, he became a figurehead. With the family's fortune waning, a marriage was arranged between a Scozzi daughter and a son of the rich but brutal Paravacinis.
As the years passed, the once inseparable Scozzis and Paravacinis, who owned estates only several miles from each other on the renowned Lake Como, Italy's internazionale lago a celebre, grew so estranged neither acknowledged the other. In time, the estrangement became ugly.
Several invaluable executives, known to favor the Scozzis, were murdered, the killers believed to be in the hire of the Paravacinis, although there was no proof. Then an heir of the Scozzi family was found dead, supposedly drowned, his body washed up on the banks of the Como. The police of Bellagio, in fear of the reputedly violent Paravacinis, neglected to report that there was a tiny puncture, as if inflicted by an ice pick, through the chest cavity of the corpse, penetrating the heart. The authorities had good reason to be circumspect, for the Paravacinis had borne male children who grew up to be priests, important priests, Vaticano emissaries! One treaded cautiously under the circumstances.
The Scozzis, through their awocatos, their attorneys, sold their interests to another great Italian consortium, the Tremontes, a family rooted in immense wealth as well as Judeo-Christian ethics. And who would know both better? For the Tremontes began their climb to international fame with the union of a brilliant Italian Jew and an equally astute Roman Catholic. Both church and synagogue frowned, but the largesse that followed to both religions muted their criticism.
Here, now, however, Julian Guiderone considered, the legend of the Paravacinis was still operative in the Mediterranean, especially in Italy.
One did not play loose with a Paravacini, for one could be dead within hours if he did. Perception. That was the key.
As for the Tremontes and their holier-than-thou philosophy, the death of their polo-playing advocate in America might reduce their antipathy to the Matarese. They knew that others could follow, it was the prophecy of the Paravacinis. They had to heed it, for all death ultimately becomes intensely personal.
What bothered Guiderone to the point of paranoia was the emergence of a stench he could not tolerate. The pig of the world, Beowulf Agate! He was operating again, as he did a quarter of a 'A5<' century ago! He was the mind behind the search, a convoluted brain that looked for the impossible. He had to be stopped, killed, as he was supposed to have been at the Chesapeake compound. Julian would issue the order in Marseilles. Kill Brandon Alan Scofield. No matter the cost!
The Air Force F-16 flew from Wichita directly to the Cherokee field seven miles north of Peregrine View. A CIA vehicle was waiting for a disheveled Scofield, taking him swiftly to the former resort as the early-morning sun washed over the Great Smoky Mountains. Bray was only mildly surprised when, after greeting Antonia, he heard a familiar voice calling from the kitchen.
"I hope you got some sleep on the plane," yelled Frank Shields, "God knows I didn't! That damned turbo pilot had a talent for steering into every stretch of rotten weather from Andrews to here." The CIA analyst appeared at the kitchen door carrying a mug of coffee.
"I
suppose you want a cup of this," he added.
"I'll get it, Frank," interrupted Toni.
"You just bawl him out, he deserves it." She walked past Shields into the kitchen.
"I'll make some eggs for him. He's a mess and I'm an idiot."
"I should, you know," said the analyst, coming into the living room and staring at Scofield's sweat-stained combat fatigues.
"Yell at you, I mean. What the hell are you dressed as, an extra in a Rambo movie?"
"It served its purpose, Squinty. If I'd worn a suit, I'd be hanging out in a Kansas jail."
"I'll take your word for it, just don't explain. I'd like a little deniability.... I assume you've already depleted the ten thousand I authorized."
"I've only just begun to spend the rest of it. When you see what I've brought home to Mother Goose, my friend from the old Stasi will require his hundred thousand."
"Everything's subject to interpretation, Brandon, including reconnoitered materials."
"Such fancy language-" "However, first things first," broke in Shields in utter seriousness.
"What about the Montrose boy? I've stated my reservations and you told me you might have some ideas. What are they?"
"Pretty simple," replied Scofield.
"You said the kid was with a naval officer, a pilot, isn't that right?"
"Yes, Leslie's son literally picked him out of a crowd in Manama.
He's a fighter pilot on the Ticonderoga, a squadron leader, name of Luther Considine, with a hell of a reputation. The brass think he's a real comer, War College candidate, and all that goes with it."
"The boy picked a bright guy."
"Obviously."
"So deal through him," Scofield said.
"What?"
"The kid apparently trusts him, so talk to this Considine. Be honest with him, it's all you've got left. You have to tell Leslie her son's out of danger and in safe hands, it would be unthinkable not to."
"I agree, but there's a problem. James junior can't be found. He's disappeared-" "He's what?"
"That's the latest word. They can't be sure; they don't think he got off the carrier, but they can't find him."
"Ever been on an aircraft carrier, Squint Eyes?"
"Christ, you're annoying! No, actually, I haven't."
"Visualize most of Georgetown and float it on water, that'll give you an idea. Junior could be anywhere, it could take days, maybe weeks, to find him, if he's mobile, as he obviously is."
"That's ridiculous! He has to eat, sleep, go to the bathroom eventually somebody will see him."
"Not if he's got help, say a naval officer who's befriended him."
"Are you saying-" "It's worth a try, Frank. I learned years ago that pilots are a breed apart, probably something to do with being encased in a flying warhead miles above the earth, all alone. And Junior's father was a highly decorated fighter pilot .. . posthumously. You have nothing to lose, Squinty. Contact this Considine. Give him a shot."
Nothing is perfect in the world of high technology, mainly due to the fact that once a technology is perfected, a new counter product is invented, just as perfect. However, MSTS-Military Satellite Transmission Scrambler-is as close to clandestine perfection as can be expected. Until, perhaps, next week. The key is in the sending and receiving instruments: They have alternating calibrations that both separate and combine the voice patterns on their instantaneous journeys through the airwaves of space. There was a minuscule margin of risk, but it had to be weighed against a mother's sanity and the degree of protection of the parties involved.
Lieutenant Senior Grade Considine was ordered to the carrier's communications complex and put in contact with Peregrine View, where the proper electronic equipment had been hastily flown down from the Pentagon. It was installed on Clingmans Dome, the highest peak in the Great Smokies. Shortly thereafter, Luther Considine sat in front of a console, earphones in place, on the aircraft carrier U.S.S.
Ticonderoga in Bahrain.
"Lieutenant Considine," said the disembodied voice eight thousand miles away from the Persian Gulf, "my name is Frank Shields, deputy d
irector of the Central Intelligence Agency. Can you hear me?"
"I read you, Mr. Director."
"I'll be as brief as possible.. .. Your young friend refuses to speak directly with any government official and I can't blame him.
He's been lied to enough in the name of the government."
"Then he's been telling me the truth!" interrupted the pilot, not disguising his relief.
"I knew it."
"He's been telling you the truth," agreed Shields, "but for reasons of personal safety, I don't believe we can put him in touch with the person he insists on talking to. Perhaps in a few days when we can work out the most secure arrangements, but not at the moment."
"I don't think he'll accept that. I don't think I would, if I were he."
"Then you know where he is?"
"For the record, no. Next question, please?"
"It's not a question, Lieutenant, it's a request. Ask him to tell you something, anything, that only the person he wants to reach would know. Will you do that?"
"When and if I find him, I'll convey your message, Mr. Director."
"We'll be waiting, Lieutenant. Your senior communications officer has the codes to reach me. They're only numbers; no one else has been privy to our conversation."
"Good-bye, sir. I hope I can help." Considine removed the earphones as a technician switched off the transmission.
"Listen to me, Jamie," said the pilot, sitting across from the wary youngster, both on crates in a storage room belowdecks.
"The man sounded straight-actually he sounded like he was embalmed, but he made sense. He's an intelligence guru and has to study all aspects of a complicated diagram."