The Gemini Contenders (6 page)

“But not your brothers.” The Contessa d’Avenzo smiled. “I like that. The important Vittorio is hounded in business by his brothers.”

“Hardly! My sweet younger brothers have between them three wives and eleven children. Their problems are continuously and forever domestic. I think sometimes I’m a referee. Which is fine; they keep occupied and
away
from business.”

They stood on the terrace outside the glass doors that led
to the lobby of Villa Lario and looked down at the enormous lake and across to the mountains beyond.

“It’s beautiful,” said the contessa. “You’ve arranged for a room?”

“A suite. The penthouse. The view’s magnificent.”

“I’ve heard of it. I’ve never been up there.”

“Few people have.”

“I imagine you lease it by the month.”

“That’s not really necessary,” said Fontini-Cristi, turning toward the huge glass doors. “You see, as it happens I own Villa Lario.”

The Contessa d’Avenzo laughed. She preceded Vittorio into the lobby. “You are an
impossible, a
moral man. You get richer from your own kind. My God, you could blackmail half of Italy!”

“Only
our
Italy, my dear.”

“That’s enough!”

“Hardly. But I’ve never had to, if it relieves your mind. I’m merely a guest. Wait here, please.”

Vittorio walked over to the front desk. The tuxedoed clerk behind the marble counter greeted him. “How good of you to come to see us, Signore Fontini-Cristi.”

“Are things going well?”

“Extremely so. Would you care to—?”

“No, I should not,” interrupted Vittorio. “I assume my rooms are ready.”

“Of course,
signore
. As you requested, an early supper is being prepared. Caviar Iranian, cold pressed duck, Veuve Cliquot twenty-eight.”

“And?”

“There are flowers, naturally. The masseur is prepared to cancel his other appointments.”

“And …?”

“There are no complications for the Contessa d’Avenzo,” answered the clerk quickly, rapidly. “None of her circle is here.”

“Thank you.” Fontini-Cristi turned, only to be stopped by the sound of the clerk’s voice.

“Signore?”

“Yes?”

“I realize you do not care to be disturbed except in emergencies, but your office called.”

“Did my office say it was an emergency?”

“They said your father was trying to locate you.”

“That’s not an emergency. It’s a whim.”

“I think you may be that Arabian, after all, lamb,” mused the contessa out loud, lying beside Vittorio in the feather bed. The eiderdown quilt was pulled down to her naked waist. “You’re marvelous. And so patient.”

“But not patient enough, I think,” replied Fontini-Cristi. He sat up against the pillow, looking down at the girl; he was smoking a cigarette.

“Not patient enough,” agreed the Contessa d’Avenzo, turning her face and smiling up at him. “Why don’t you put out the cigarette?”

“In a little while. Be assured of it. Some wine?” He gestured at the silver ice bucket within arm’s reach. It stood on a tripod; an open bottle draped with a linen towel was pushed into the melting crushed ice.

The contessa stared at him, her breath coming shorter. “You pour the wine. I’ll drink my own.”

In swift, gentle movements, the girl turned and reached under the soft quilt with both hands to Vittorio’s groin. She raised the cover and placed her face underneath, over Vittorio. The quilt fell back, covering her head as her throaty moans grew louder and her body writhed.

The waiters cleared away the dishes and rolled out the table, a
commesso
lighted a fire in the fireplace and poured brandy.

“It’s been a lovely day,” said the Contessa d’Avenzo. “May we do it often?”

“I think we should set up a schedule. By your calendar, of course.”

“Of course.” The girl laughed throatily. “You’re a very practical man.”

“Why not? It’s easier.”

The telephone rang. Vittorio looked over at it, annoyed. He rose from the chair in front of the fireplace and crossed angrily to the bedside table. He picked up the instrument and spoke harshly. “Yes?”

The voice at the other end was vaguely familiar. “This is Tesca. Alfredo Tesca.”

“Who?”

“One of the foremen in the Milan factories.”

“You’re
what?
How
dare
you call here! How did you get this number?”

Tesca was silent for a moment. “I threatened the life of your secretary, young
padrone
. And I would have killed her had she not given it to me. You may fire me tomorrow. I am your foreman, but I am a
partigiano
first.”

“You
are
fired.
Now
. As of this moment!”

“So be it,
signore.”

“I want no part—.”

“Basta!”
shouted Tesca. “There’s no time! Everyone’s looking for you. The
padrone
’s in danger. Your whole
family
’s in danger! Go to Campo di Fiori! At once! Your father says to use the stable road!”

The telephone went dead.

Savarone walked through the great hall into the enormous dining room of Campo di Fiori. Everything was as it should be. The room was filled with sons and daughters, husbands and wives, and a thoroughly boisterous crowd of grandchildren. The servants had placed silver trays of antipasto on the tops of marble tables. A tall pine that reached the high beamed ceiling was a magnificent Christmas tree, its myriad lights and glittering ornament filling the room with reflections of color that bounced off the tapestries and the ornate furniture.

Outside in the circular drive in front of the marble steps of the entrance were four automobiles illuminated by the floodlights that beamed down from the eaves. They could easily be mistaken for anyone’s automobiles, which was what Savarone intended. For when the raiding party arrived, all it would find was an innocent, festive family gathering. A holiday dinner. Nothing else.

Except an imperiously aggravated patriarch of one of Italy’s most powerful clans. The
padrone
of the Fontini-Cristis, who would demand to know who was responsible for such a barbarous intrusion.

Only Vittorio was missing; and his presence was vital. Questions might be raised that could lead to other questions. The unwilling Vittorio, who scoffed at their work, could become an unjustified target of suspicion. What was a holiday family dinner without the eldest son, the primary heir? Further, if Vittorio appeared
during
the intrusion, arrogantly reluctant—as his custom—to give an account of
himself to anyone, there could be trouble. His son refused to acknowledge the extent, but Rome
was
under Berlin’s thumb.

Savarone beckoned his next eldest, the serious Antonio, who stood with his wife as she admonished one of their children.

“Yes, father?”

“Go to the stables. See Barzini. Tell him that if Vittorio arrives during the fascists’ visit, he’s to say he was detained at one of the plants.”

“I can call him on the stable phone.”

“No. Barzini’s getting on. He pretends it’s not so, but he’s growing deaf. Make sure he understands.”

The second son nodded dutifully. “Yes, of course, father. Anything you say.”

What in God’s name had his father
done?
What
could
he do that would give Rome the confidence, the
excuse
, to move openly against the house of Fontini-Cristi?

Your whole family is in danger
.

Preposterous!

Mussolini courted the northern industrialists; he needed them. He knew that most were old men, set in their ways, and knew he could achieve more with honey than vinegar. What did it matter if a few Savarones played their silly games? Their time was past.

But then there was only one Savarone. Separate and apart from all other men. He had become, perhaps, that terrible thing, a symbol. With his silly, goddamned
partigiani
. Ragtail lunatics who raced around the fields and the woods of Campo di Fiori pretending they were some kind of primitive tribesmen hunting tigers and killer lions.

Jesus!
Children!

Well, it would all come to a stop.
Padrone
or no
padrone
, if his father had gone too far and embarrassed them, there would be a confrontation. He had made it clear to Savarone two years ago that when he assumed the reins of Fontini-Cristi, it meant that all the leather was in his hands.

Suddenly Vittorio remembered. Two weeks ago, Savarone had gone to Zürich for a few days. At least, he
said
he was going to Zürich. It wasn’t really clear; he, Vittorio, had not been listening closely. But during those few days, it was
unexpectedly necessary to get his father’s signature on several contracts. So necessary that he had telephoned every hotel in Zürich, trying to locate Savarone. He was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him, and his father was not easily overlooked.

And when he returned to Campo di Fiori, he would not say where he had been. He was maddeningly enigmatic, telling his son that he would explain everything in a few days. An incident would take place in Monfalcone and when it occurred, Vittorio would be told. Vittorio
had
to be told.

What in hell was his father talking about?
What
incident at Monfalcone? Why would
anything
taking place at Monfalcone concern them?

Preposterous!

But Zürich wasn’t preposterous at all. Banks were in Zürich. Had Savarone manipulated money in Zürich? Had he transferred extraordinary sums out of Italy into Switzerland? There was specific laws against that these days. Mussolini needed every
lira
he could keep. And God knew the family had sufficient reserves in Berne and Geneva; there was no lack of Fonti-Cristi capital in Switzerland.

Whatever Savarone had done, it would be his last gesture. If his father was so politically involved, let him go somewhere else and proselytize. America, perhaps.

Vittorio shook his head slowly in defeat, as he steered the Hispano-Suiza onto the road out of Varese. What was he thinking of? Savarone was—Savarone. The head of the house of Fontini-Cristi. No matter the son’s talents or expertise, the son was not the
padrone
.

Use the stable road
.

What was the point of that? The stable road started at the north end of the property, three miles from the east gates. Nevertheless, he would use it; his father must have had a reason for giving the order. No doubt as implausible as the foolish games he indulged in, but a surface filial obedience was called for; the son was going to be very firm with the father.

What had happened in Zürich?

He passed the main gates on the road out of Varese and proceeded to the intersecting west road three miles beyond. He turned left and drove nearly two miles to the north gate, turning left again into Campo di Fiori. The stables
were three-quarters of a mile from the entrance; the road was dirt. It was easier on the horses, for this was the road used by riders heading for the fields and trails north and west of the forest at the center of Campo di Fiori. The forest behind the great house that was bisected by the wide stream that flowed from the northern mountains.

In the headlights he saw the figure of old Guido Barzini waving his arms, signaling him to stop. The gnarled Barzini was something: a fixture at Campo di Fiori who had spent his life in the service of the house.

“Quickly, Signore Vittorio.” said Barzini through the open window. “Leave your car here. There’s no more time.”

“Time for what?”

“The
padrone
spoke to me not five minutes ago. He said if you drove in now, you were to call him on the stable telephone before you went to the house. It’s nearly half past the hour.”

Vittorio looked at the dashboard clock. It was twenty-eight minutes past ten. “What’s going on?”

“Hurry,
signore
!
Please!
The
fascisti!”

“What
fascisti
?”

“The
padrone
. He’ll tell you.”

Fontini-Cristi got out of the car and followed Barzini down the stone path into the entrance of the stables. It was a tack room; bits and braces and halters and leather were hung neatly on the walls, surrounding countless plaques and ribbons, proof of the superiority of the Fontini-Cristi colors. Also on the wall was the telephone that connected the stables to the great house.

“What’s going on, father? Have you any idea who called me in Bellagio?”

“Basta!”
roared Savarone over the telephone. “They’ll be here any moment. A German raiding party.”

“Germans?”

“Yes. Rome expects to find a
partigiano
meeting taking place. They won’t, of course. They’ll intrude on a family dinner.
Remember!
A family dinner party was on your calendar. You were detained in Milan.”

“What have Germans got to do with Rome?”

“I’ll explain later. Just remember—”

Suddenly, over the telephone, Vittorio heard the sounds of screeching tires and powerful motors. A column of automobiles
was speeding toward the great house from the east gates.

“Father!”
yelled Vittorio. “Has this anything to do with your trip to Zürich?”

There was silence over the phone. Finally Savarone spoke. “It may have. You must stay where you are—”

“What happened? What happened in Zürich?”

“Not Zürich. Champoluc.”

“what?”

“Later! I have to get back to the others. Stay where you are! Out of sight! We’ll talk when they leave.”

Vittorio heard the click. He turned to Barzini. The old stable master was riffling through a low chest of drawers filled with odd bits and braces; he found what he was looking for: a pistol and a pair of binoculars. He pulled them out and handed both to Vittorio.

“Come!” he said, his old eyes angry. “We’ll watch. The
padrone
will teach them a lesson.”

They ran down the dirt road toward the house and the gardens above and behind it. When the dirt became pavement they cut to their left and climbed the embankment ovérlooking the circular drive. They were in darkness; the whole area below bathed in floodlights.