the Villa Matarese. It is a clear night, signore. They are quite beautiful in the moonlight. I could find someone to take you. Unless, of course, you are too exhausted from your journey." "Not at all. It was a quick flight." He had been taken further up into the hills, to the skeletal remains of a once-sprawling estate, the remnants of the great house itself covering nearly an acre of land. Jagged walls and broken chimneys were the only structures still intact. On the ground, the brick borders of an enormous circular drive could be discerned beneath the overgrowth. On both sides of the great house, stone paths sliced through the tall grass, dotted by broken trellises; remembrances of lushly cultivated gardens long since destroyed.
The entire ruins stood eerily on the hill in silhouette, heightened by the backwash of moonlight. Guillaume de Matarese had built a monument to himself and the power of the edifice had lost nothing in its destruction by time and the elements. Instead, the skeleton had a force of its own.
Vasili had heard the voices behind him, the young boy who'd escorted him nowhere to be seen. There had been two men and those opening words of dubious greeting had been the beginning of an interrogation that had lasted more than an hour. It would have been a simple matter
to subdue both Corsicans, but Taleniekov knew he could learn more through passive resistance; unschooled interrogators imparted more than they dragged forth when they dealt with trained subjects. He had stayed with his story of the organizzazione accademica; at the end, he had been given expected advice.
"Go back where you came from, signore. There is no knowledge here that would serve you, we know nothing. Disease swept through these mountains years ago; none are left who might help you." "There must be older people in the hills. Perhaps if I wandered about and made a few inquiries." "We are older people, signore, and we cannot answer your inquiries. Go back. We are ignorant men in these parts, shepherds. We are not comfortable when strangers intrude on our simple ways. Go back." "I shall take your advice under consideration----~' "Do not take such trouble, signore. Just leave us. Please." In the morning, Vasili had walked back up into the hills, to the Villa Matarese and beyond, stopping at numerous thatched farmhouses, asking his questions, noting the glaring dark Corsican eyes as the nonanswers had been delivered, aware that he was being followed.
He had been told nothing, of course, but in the progressively hardened reactions to his presence he had learned something of consequence. Men were not only following him, they had been preceding him, alerting fam- ilies in the hills that a stranger was coming. He was to be sent away, told nothing.
That night-last night, thought Taleniekov, as he watched the waving beam of the flashlight on the left slowly ascend the hill-the innkeeper had approached his table.
"I am afraid, signore, that I cannot permit you to stay here any longer.
I have rented the room." Vasili had glanced up, no hesitation now in his speech. "A pity. I need only an armchair or a cot, if you could spare one. I shall be leaving first thing in the morning. I've found what I came for." "And what is that, signoreT' "You'll know soon enough. Others will come after me, with the proper equipment and land records. There'll be a very thorough, very scholarly investigation. What happened here is fascinating. I speak academically, of course." "Of course.... Perhaps one more night." Six hours later a man had burst into his room and fired two shots from the thick barrels of a deadly sawed-off shotgun called the Lupo-the "wolf." Taleniekov had been waiting, he had watched from behind a partially open closet door as the wooden bed exploded, the firm stuffing beneath the covers blown into the dark wall.
The sound had been shattering, an explosion echoing throughout the small country inn, yet no one had come running to see what had happened.
Instead, the man with the Lupo had stood in the doorframe and had spoken quietly in Oltramontan, as if uttering an oath.
"Per nostro circolo," he had said; then he had raced away.
It had meant nothing, yet Vasili knew then that it meant everything.
Words delivered as an incantation after taking a life.... For our circle.
Taleniekov had gathered his things together and fled from the inn. He had made his way toward the single dirt road that led up from Porto