to the old woman. "Before we answer you, I think it would be better if your granddaughter left us alone." "Not" said the girl so harshly that Uccello snapped up his head.
"Listen to me," continued Scofield. "It's one thing to bring us here, two strangers your grandmother wanted to meet. It's something else again to be involved with us. My... associate... and I have experience in these matters. It's for your own good." "Leave us, Antonia." The blind woman turned in the chair. "I have nothing to fear from these men and you must be tired. Take Uccello with you; rest in the barn." "All right," said the girL getting up, "but Uccello will remain here." Suddenly, from beneath the pillow, she took out the Lupo and leveled it in front of her. "You both bave guns. Throw them on the floor. I don!t think you would leave here without them." "That's ridiculousl" cried Bray, as the dog got to its feet growling.
"Do as the lady says," snapped Taleniekov, shoving his Graz-Burya across the floor.
Scofield took out his Browning, checked the safety, and threw the weapon on the rug in front of Antonia. She bent down and picked up both automatics, the Lupo held firmly in her hand. "When you've finished, open the door and call out to me. I will summon Uccello. If he does not come, you won't see your guns again. Except looking down the barrels." She let herself out quickly; the dog emitted a growl and returned to the floor.
"My granddaughter is high-spirited," said the old woman, settling back in her chair. "The blood of Guillaume, though several times removed, is still apparent." "She's his granddaughter?" asked Taleniekov.
Chapter Thirteen
"His great-grandchild, born to my daughter's child quite late in her life. But that first daughter was the result of the padrone bedding his young whore." "'The whore of Villa Matarese"' said Bray. "You told her to tell us that was what you were called." The old woman smiled, brushing aside a lock of white hair. For an instant she was in that other world, and vanity had not deserted her. "Many years ago. We will go back to those days, but before we do, your answers, please. What do you know? What brings you here?" "My associate will speak first," said Taleniekov. "He is more learned in these matters than I am, although I came to him with what I believed to be startling new information." "Your name, please," interrupted the blind woman. "Your true name and where you come from." The Russian glanced at the American; in the look between them was the understanding that no purpose would be served by further lies. On the contrary, that purpose might be thwarted by them. This simple but strangely eloquent old woman had listened to the voices of Hars for the better part of a century-in darkness; she was not to be fooled.
"My name is Vasili Vasilovich Taleniekov. Formerly external affairs strategist, KGB, Soviet Intelligence." "And you?" The woman shifted her blind eyes to Scofield.
"Brandon Scofield. Retired intelligence officer, EuroMediterranean sectors, Consular Operations, United States Department of State." "I see." The old courtesan brought her thin hands and delicate fingers up to her face, a gesture of quiet reflection. "I am not a learned woman, and live an isolated life, but I am not without news of the outside world. I often listen to my radio for hours at a time. The broadcasts from Rome come in quite clearly, as do those from Genoa, and frequently Nice. I pretend no knowledge, for I have none, but your coming to Corsica together would appear strange." "It is, madame," said Taleniekov.
"Very," agreed Scofield.
"It signifies the gravity of the situation." "Then let your associate begin, signore." Bray sat forward in the chair, his arms on his knees, his eyes on the blind eyes in front of him. "At some point between the years 1909 and 1913, Guillaume de Matarese summoned a group of men to his estate in Porto Vecchio. Who they were and where they came from has never been established.
But they gave themselves a name,---P "The date was April 4, 1911," interrupted the old woman. "They did not give themselves a name, the padrone chose it. They were to be known as the Council of the Matarese.... Go on, please." "You were there?" "Please continue." The moment was unsettling; they were talking about an event that had been the object of speculation for decades, with no records of dates