but in his madnessand with the resources he had left-he put in motion a long-range plan to get revenge. He called together other men who'd been destroyed the same way he had; they became the Council of the Matarese. For years their specialty was assassination; years later they were presumed to have died. Now they've come back, more deadly than they ever were." Scofield paused; he had told her enough. "That's as plainly as I can explain it and I hope you under- stand. You want the men who killed your grandmother to pay for it. I'd like to think that one day they will, but I've also got to tell you that they don't much matter." Antonia was silent for a few moments, her intelligent brown eyes riveted on Bray. "You're quite clear, Signor Scofield. If they don't matter, then I don't matter, either. Is that what you're saying?" "I guess I am." "And my Socialist comrade," she added, glancing at Taleniekov, "would as soon remove my insignificant presence as not." "I look at an objective," answered Vasili, "and I do my best to analyze the problems inherent in reaching it." "Yes, of course. Then do I turn around and walk into the woods, expecting the gunshot that will end my life?" "That's your decision," said Taleniekov.
"I have a choice then? You would take my word that I'll say nothing?" "No," replied the KGB man. "I would not." Bray studied Taleniekov's face, his right hand inches from the Browning automatic in his belt. The Russian was leading up to something, testing the girl as he did so.
"Then what is the choice?" continued Antonia. "To let one orthe other of your governments put me away, until you have found the men you seek?" "I'm afraid that's not possible," said Taleniekov. "We're acting outside our governments; we do not have their approvals. To put it frankly, they seek us as intensely as we seek the men we spoke of." The girl reacted to the Russian's startling information as though struck.
"You're hunted by your own peopler, she asked.
Taleniekov nodded.
"I see. I understand clearly now. You will not accept my word and you cannot imprison me. Therefore I am a threat to you-far more than I imagined. So I have no choice, do P" "You may have," replied the KGB man. "My associate mentioned it." "What was that?" "Trust us.,Help us get to Bastia and trust us. Something may come of it." Taleniekov turned to Scofield and spoke one word. "Conduit." "We'll see," said Bray, removing his hand from his belt. They were thinking along the same lines.
The State Department contact in Murato was not happy; he did not want the complication he was faced with. As an owner of fishing boats in Bastia he wrote reports on Soviet naval maneuvers for the Americans. Washington paid him well and Washington had cabled alerts to stations everywhere that Brandon Alan Scofield, former specialist in Consular Operations, was to be considered a defector. Under such a classification the rules were clear: Take into custody, if possible, but if custody was out of the question, employ all feasible measures for dispatch.
Silvio Monteflori wondered briefly if such a course of action was worth a try. But he was a practical man and in spite of the temptation he rejected the idea. Scofield had -the proverbial knife to Monteflori's mouth, yet there was some honey on the blade. If Silvio refused the American's request, his activities would be exposed to the SM. ets. Yet if Silvio acceded to Scofield's wishes, the defector promised him ten thousand dollars. And ten thousand dollars-even with the poor rate of exchange-was probably more than any bonus he might receive for Scofield's death.
Also, he would be alive to spend the money.
Chapter Fifteen
Monteflori reached the warehouse, opened the door and walked through the dark, deserted cavern until he stood next to the rear wall, as instructed.
He could not see the American-there was too little light-but he knew Sco- field was there. It was a matter of waiting while birds circled and signals were somehow relayed.
He took a thin, crooked cigar from his handkerchief pocket, fumbled through his trousers for a box of matches, extracted one, and struck it. As he held the flame to the tip of the cigar, he was annoyed to see that his hand trembled.
"You're sweating, Monteflori." The voice came from the shadows on the left.
"The match shows up the sweat all over your face. The last time I saw you,