was made in trutIL The Matarese would make good use of one Vasil! Taleniekov.
Was it the way? The only way?
"Your answerl" Odile stood motionless, her hand outstretched.
"Before I give it, tell me. When was Scofield killed? How?" "He was shot two weeks ago in a place called Rock Creek Park." A fie. A calculated lie! She had been lied to! Did they have an ally deep within the Matarese? If so, he had to reach that man. Vasili spun the automatic in his hand, offering it to Odile. "There's nowhere else to turn. I'm with you. Give your order." She turned from him and shouted. "You men! Put up your guns! Hold your fire!" A single flashlight beam shot out and Taleniekov saw what she did not see-and knew instantly what she did not know. 'Me light was held by one man to free the other three; and although he was in the spill, the beam was not directed at him. It was directed at her. He dove to his left into the grass. A fusilade of bullets erupted from the rifles across the field.
Another order had been given. Odile Verachten screamed. She was blown off her feet, her body caved forward, then arched backward in midair under the force of the shells.
Other gunshots followed, digging up the earth to the right of Taleniekov as he lurched, scrambling through the grass away from the target ground.
The shouts grew louder as the men attacked, converging on the site on which only seconds ago a living member of the Matarese council had stood-issuing an order that was not hers to give.
Vasili reached the relative safety of the woods. He rose and started running into the darkness, knowing that soon he would stop, and turn, and kill a man on his way back to the limousine. In other darkness.
But now he kept running.
The aging musician sat in the last row of the plane, a shabby violin case between his knees. Absently, he thanked the stewardess for the cup of hot tea; his thoughts consumed him.
He would be in Paris in an hour, meet with the Corsican girl, and set up direct communications with Scofield. It was imperative they work in concert now; things were happening too rapidly. He had to join Beowulf Agate in England.
Two of the names on the guest list of Guillaume de Matarese seventy years ago were accounted for.
Scozzi. Dead.
Voroshin-Verachten. Dead.
Sacrificed.
The direct descendants were expendable, which meant they were not the true inheritors of the Corsican padrone. They had been merely messengers, bearing gifts for others far more powerful, far more capable of spreading the Corsican fever.
This world needs killers?
To save it from killers! Odile Verachten had said.
Enigma.
David Waverly, Foreign Secretary, Great Britain.
Joshua Appleton, IV, Senator, United States Congress.
Were they, too, expendable messengers? Or were they something else? Did each carry the mark of the jagged blue circle on his chest? Had Scozzi?
And if either did, or Scozzi had, was that unnatural blemish the mark of mystical distinction Odde Verachten had thought it was, or was it, too, something else? A symbol of expendability, perhaps. For it occurred to Vasili that wherever that mark appeared, death was a partner.
Scofield was searching in England now. The same Beowulf Agate that someone within the Matarese had reported killed in Rock Creek Park. Who was that someone, and why had the false report gone out? It was as though that person-or persons-wanted Scofield spared, beyond reach of the Matarese killers. But why?
You talk of the shepherd. He knowsl Can you doubt It?
The shepherd. A shepherd boy.
Enigma.
Taleniekov put the tea down on the tray in front of him, his elbow jarred by his seat companion. The businessman from Essen had fallen asleep, his arm protruding over the divider. Vasili was about to remove it when his eyes fell on the folded newspaper spread out on the German's lap.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The photograph stared up at him and he stopped breathing, sharp bolts of pain returning to his chest.
The smiling, gentle face was that of Heinrich Kassel. The bold print above the photograph screamed the information.
Advokat Mord
Taleniekov reached over and picked up the paper, the pain accelerating as he read.
Heinrich Kassel, one of Essen's most prominent attorneys, was found murdered in his car outside his residence last evening. The authorities have called the killing bizarre and brutal. Kassel was found garroted, with multiple head injuries and lacerations of the face and body. An odd aspect of the killing was the tearing of the victim's upper clothing, exposing