ago. I wonder if it's that simple." "Meaning the 'yours' could be selected, not bomr, asked Taleniekov. 'Not direct descendants?"
"It's possible, but these were all once-powerful families. The Waverlys and the Appletons still are. There are cer. tain traditions in such families, the blood is always uppermost. Start with the families. They were to inherit the earth; those were his words, too. The old woman said it was his vengeance." Scofield nodded. "I know. She also said they were only the survivors, that they were controlled by another... that we should look for someone else." "'With a voice crueler than the wind,'" added the Russian. "'It is he,' she said." "The shepherd boy," said Bray, staring at the scrap of yellow paper.
"After all these years, who is he? What is he?" "Start witk the families," repeated Taleniekov. "If he's to be found, it is through them." "Can you get back into Russia? To Leningrad?" "Easily. Through Helsinki. It will be a strange return for me. I spentthree years at the university in Leningrad. Ifs where they found me." "I don't think anyone'll throw you a welcome-home party." Scofield folded the scrap of yellow paper into the leaf of lettuce and put it in his pocket. He took out a small notebook. "When you're in Helsinki, stay at the Tavastian Hotel until you hear from me. 1711 tell you who to see there. Give me a name." "Rydukov, Pietri~" replied the KGB man without hesitating.
"Who's that?" "A third-chair violinist for the Sevastopol Symphony. IT have his papers somewhat altered." "I hope no one asks you to play." "Severe arthritis has caused indisposition." "Urs work out our codes," said Bray, glancing at Antonia, who was smoking a cigarette and talking to a young Bastian sailor standing next to her.
She was handling herself well; she laughed politely but coolly, putting a gentle distance between herself and the importunate young man. In truth, there was more than a hint of elegance in her behavior, out of place in the waterfront cafe, but welcome to the eyes. His eyes, reflected Scofield, without thinking further.
"What do you think will happen," asked Taleniekov, watching Bray.
"I'll know in fortymeight hours," Scofield said.
The trawler approached the Italian coastline. The winter seas had been turbulent, the crosscurrents angry and the boat slow; it had taken them nearly seventeen hours to make the trip from Bastia. It would be dark soon, and a small lifeboat would be lowered over the side to take Scofield and Antonia ashore.
Besides getting them to Italy where the hunt for the family of Count Alberto Scozzi would begin, the tediously slow journey served another purpose for Bray. He had the time and the seclusion to learn more about Antonia Gravet-for that unexpectedly was her last name, her father having been a French artillery sergeant stationed in Corsica during the Second World War.
"So you see," she had told him, the curve of a smile on her lips, "my French lessons were very inexpensive. It was only necessary to anger papa, who was never comfortable with my mother's Italian." Except for those moments when her mind wandered back to Porto Vecchio, a change had come over her. She began to laugh, her brown eyes reflecting the laughter, bright, infectious, at times nearly manic, as if the act of laughing itself were a release she needed. It was almost impossible for Scofield to realize that the girl sitting next to him, dressed in khald trousers and a torn field jacket was the same woman who had been so sullen and unresponsive. Or who had shouted orders in the hills and handled the Lupo so efficiently. They had several minutes left before going into the lifeboat, so he asked her about the Lupo.
"I went through a phase; we all do, I think. A time when drastic social change seems possible only through violence. Those maniacs from the Brigate Rosse knew how to play us." "The Brigades? You were with the Red Brigades? Good Lordl" She nodded. "I spent several weeks at a Brigatisti camp in Medicina, learning how to fire weapons, and scale walls and hide contraband-none of which I did particularly well, incidentally-until one morning when a young student, a boy, really, was killed in what the leaders called a 'training accident.' A training accident, such a military sound, but they were not soldiers. Only brutes and bullies, let loose with knives and guns. He died in my arms, the blood flowing from his wound... his eyes so frightened