Scozzi's voice rose again, fear more pronounced than anger now.
"I say it is, and I say the hell with it," said Scofield, turning again. It was important that the Italian summon his unseen guard. Very important.
Scozzi did so. "Veni! Prestol" Bray heard racing feet on the dark path; in seconds it broad-shouldered, stocky man in evening clothes came running out of the shadows.
"Sorveglia quest'uomol" The guard did not hesitate. He pulled out a shortbarrelled revolver, leveling it at Bray. Scozzi spoke, as if superimposing a control on himself, explaining the unnecessary.
"These are troubled times, Signore Pastore. All of us travel with these Praetorians you just mentioned. Terrorists are everywhere." The moment was irresistible. It was the instant to insert the final, verbal blade. "That's something you people should know about. Terrorists, I mean.
Like the Brigades. Do the orders come from the shepherd boy?" It was as though Scozzi had been struck by an unseen hammer. His upper body convulsed, fending off the blow, feeling its impact, trying to recover but not sure it was possible. In the dim light, Scofield could see perspiration forming at the Italian's hairline, matting the perfqctly groomed gray temples. His eyes were the eyes of a terrified animal.
"Rimanere," he whispered to the guard, then rushed away up the dark path.
Scofield turned to the man, looking afraid and speaking in Italian. "I don't know what this is all about any more than you dol I offered your boss a lot of money from someone and he goes crazy. Christ, I'm just a salesman!" The guard said nothing, but Bray's obvious fear relieved him. "Do you mind if I have a cigarette? Guns scare the hell out of me." "Go ahead," said the broad-shouldered man.
It was the last thing he would say for several hours. Scofield reached into his pocket with his left hand, his right at his side-in shadow, under the guard's elbow. As he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, he shot his right hand up, clasping his fingers around the barrel of the guard's revolver, twisting hand and weapon violently in a counterclockwise motion. Dropping the cigarettes, he gripped the man's throat with his left hand, choking off all sound, propelling the guard off the path, over the bordering rocks into the dense foliage beyond. As the man fell, Bray ripped the gun away from the twisted wrist, and brought the handle down sharply on the man's skull.
The guard went limp; Scofield pulled him farther into the weeds.
No second could be wasted. Guillamo Scozzi had raced away seeking council; it was the only explanation. Somewhere alone, on a terrace or in a room, the consigliere was bringing his shocking information to another. Or others.
Bray ran up the path, keeping in the shadows as much as possible, slowing down to a rapid walk as he emerged on the plateau of terraces that fronted the final incline of steps into the villa itself. Somewhere just above, somewhere was the panicked Scozzi. To whom was he running? Who could make the decision this powerful, frightened man was incapable of making?
Scofield took the steps rapidly, the guard's revolver in his trouser pocket, his Browning strapped to his chest beneath his tuxedo. He walked through tae French doors into a crowded room; it was the "courtyard" devoted anachronistically to the crashing sounds of the disco beat.
Revolving, mirrored globes of colored lights hung from the ceiling, spinning crazily, as dancers weaved together, their faces set in rigid expressions, lost in the beat and grass and alcohol.
This was the nearest room to the most direct set of steps from the closest terrace to the path from Ippolito's Fountain. In Scozzi's state of mind it had to be the one he entered first; there were two entrances. Which had he taken?
There was a break in the movement on the dance floor, and Bray had his answer. There was a heavy door in the wall behind a long buffet table. Two men were rushing toward it; they had been summoned; an alarm had been raised.
Scofield made his way to the door, excusing himself around the rim of frenzied bodies, and slowly pushed it open, his hand on the Browning under his jacket. Beyond was a narrow winding staircase of thick reddish stone; he could hear footsteps above.
There were other sounds as well. Men were shouting, two voices raised in counterpoint, one stronger, calmer; the other on the verge of hysteria. The latter voice was Count Guillamo Scozzi's.