His mind wandered, an indulgence he tried to reject but could not. Sleep would not come; thoughts did.
Chapter Twelve
He was under a tree on the banks of a stream in Corsica, -a journey that had begun on a bridge at night in Amsterdam. And now he could never go back unless he and Taleniekov found what they were looking for in the hills of Porto Vecchio.
It would not be so difficult to disappear. He had arranged many such disappearances in the past with less money and less expertise than he had now. There were so many places-Melanesia, the Fijis, New Zealand, across to Tasmania, the vast expanses of Australia, Malaysia, or any of a dozen Sunda islands-he had sent men to such places, stayed cautiously in touch with a few over the years. Lives had been rebuilt, past histories beyond the reach of present associates, new friends, new occupations, even families.
He could do the same, thought Bray. Maybe he would; he had the papers and the money. He could pay his way to Polynesia or the Cook Islands, buy a boat for charters, probably make a decent living. It could be a good life, an anonymous existence, an end.
Then he saw the face of Robert Winthrop, the electric eyes searching his, and heard the anxiety in the old man's voice as he spoke of the Matarese.
He heard something else, too. Less distant, immediate, above in the sky.
Birds were swooping down in frantic circles, their screeches echoing harshly, angrily over the fields and throughout the woods. Intruders had disturbed their fiefdom. He could hear men running, bear their shouts.
Had he been spotted? He rose quickly to his knees, taking his Browning from his jacket pocket, and peered through a spray of pine needles.
Below, a hundred yards to the left, two men had hacked their way with machetes down the overgrown bank to the edge of the stream. They stood for a moment, pistols in their belts, glancing swiftly in every direction, as if unsure of their next moves. Slowly Bray let out his breath; they were not after him; he had not been seen. Instead, the two men had been hunting-an animal that had attacked their goats, perhaps, or a wild dog. Not him. Not a stranger wandering in the hills.
Then he heard the words and knew he was only partially right. The shout did not come from either Corsican holding a machete; it came from over the bank of the stream, from the field beyond.
"Ecco 14-nel campol" It was no animal being pursued, but a man. A man was running from other men, and to judge from the fury of his pursuers, that man was running for his life.
Taleniekov? Was it Taleniekov? And if it was, why? Had the Russian learned something so quickly? Something that the Corsicans in Porto Vecchio would kill for?
Scofield watched as the two men below took the guns from their belts and ran up the bank out of sight into the bordering field. He crawled back to the trunk of the tree and tried to gather his thoughts. Instinct convinced him that 11 uomo was Taleniekov. If so, there were several options. He could head for the road and walk up into the hills, an Italian crewman with a fishing boat in for repairs and time on his hands;he could stay where he was until nightfall, then thread his way under cover of darkness, hoping to get near enough to hear men's conversations; or he could leave now and follow the hunt.
The last was the least attractive-but likely to be the most productive.
He chose it.
It was 5:35 when Bray first saw him, running along the crest of a hill, shots fired at his weaving, racing figure in the glare of the setting sun. Taleniekov, as expected, was doing the unexpected. He was not b- ying to escape; rather, he was using the chase to sow confusion and through that confusion learn something. The tactic was sound; the best way to uncover vital information was to make the enemy protect it.
But what had he so far learned that would justify the risk? How long would he -or could he-keep up the pace and the concentration to elude his enemy?... The answers were as clear as the questions: isolate, trap, and break. Within the territory.
Scofield studied the terrain as best he could from his prone position in the field. The early evening breezes made his task easier; the grass bent with each gentle sweep