it. "My only concern is that a person can't function well when he's hurt. Mistakes are made when he's in pain. You won't be allowed any mistakes." "I may have that glass of wine after all." "Please do," he said.
They stood in the foyer of the restaurant, Bray aware of the glances Antonia attracted. Beyond the delicate lattice work that was the entrance to the dining room, the oldest Crispi was all teeth and obsequiousness.
When he saw Bray he was obviously startled; for a split second his eyes be- came clouded, serious, then he recovered and approached them.
"Benvenuto, amico mio!" he cried.
"It's been over a year," said Scofield, returning the firm grip. "I'm here on business for only a day or so, and wanted my friend to try your fettucini." These were the words that meant Bray wished to speak privately with Crispi at the table when the opportunity arose.
"It is the best in Rome, signorinal" Crispi snapped his fingers for an inferior brother to show the couple to their table. "I shall hear you say it yourself momentarily. But lirst, have some wine, in case the sauce is not perfect!" He winked broadly, giving Scofield's hand an additional clasp to signify he understood. Crispi never came to Bray's table unless summoned.
A waiter brought them a chilled bottle of Pouilly Fum6, compliments of the fratelli, but it was not until the fettucini had come and gone that Crispi came to the table. He sat in the third chair; introductions and the small talk that accompanied them were brief.
"Antonia's working with me," Scofield explained, "but she's never to be mentioned. To anyone, do you understand?" "Of course." "And neither am 1. If anyone from the embassy-or anywhere else-asks about me, you haven't seen me. Is that clear?" "Clear, but unusual.,' "In fact, no one's to know I'm here. Or was here." "Even your own people?" "Especially my own people. My orders supersede embassy interests. That's as plainly as I can put it." Crispi arched his brows, nodding slowly. "Defectors?" "That'll do." Crispi's eyes became serious. "Very well, I have not seen you, Brandon.
Then why are you here? Will you be sending people to me?" "Only Antonia. Whenever she needs help getting cables off to me... and to someone else." "Why should she need my help to send cables?" "I want them rerouted, different points of origin. Can you do it?" "If the idiot Communisti do not strike the telephone service again, it is no problem. I call a cousin in Firenze, he sends one; an exporter in Athens or Tunis or Tel Aviv, they do the 'Same. Everybody does what Crispi wants and no one asks a single question. But you know that." "What about your own phones? Are they clean?" Crispi laughed. "With what is known to be said on my telephone, there is not an official in Rome who could permit such impertinence." Scofield remembered Robert Winthrop in Washington. "Someone else said that to me not so long ago. He was wrong.,, "No doubt he was," agreed Crispi, his eyes amused. "Forgive me, Brandon, but you people deal merely in matters of state. We on the Via Frascati deal in matters of the heart. Ours take precedence where confidentiality is con- cerned. They always have." Bray returned the Italian's smile. "You know, you may be right." He lifted the glass of wine to his lips. "Let me throw a name at you.
Scozzi-Paravacini." He drank.
Crispi nodded reflectively. "Blood seeks money, and money seeks blood. What else is there to say?" "Say it plainly." "The Scozzis are one of the noblest families in Rome. The venerable contessa to this day is chauffeured in her restored Bugatti up the Veneto, her children pretenders to thrones long since abandoned. Unfortunately, all they had were their pretensions, not a thousand lire between them. The Paravacinis had money, a great deal of money, but not a drop of decent blood in their veins. It was a marriage made in the heavenly courts of mutual convenience." "Whose marriage?" "The contessa's daughter to Signor Bernardo Paravacini. It was a long time ago, the dowry a number of millions and gainful employment for her son, the count. He assumed his father's title." "What's his name?" "Guillamo. Count Guillamo Scozzi." "Where does he live?" "Wherever his interests-financial and otherwise-take him. He has an estate near his sister's in Tivoli, but I don't think he's there very often. Why do you ask? Is he connected with defectors? It's hardly likely."