do.
He needed a place to live: a house, furniture, pots and pans and books, a chair to sit in, a bed to sleep in. Choices. He had not thought about such things ever before. He thought about them now and felt the excitement growing inside him.
He went to the bureau, uncapped the Scotch and poured himself a drink.
“Příteli,”
he said softly, for no particular reason, as he looked at his face in the mirror. Suddenly he stared at his eyes and, in terror, slammed the glass down with such force that it shattered; blood spread slowly over his hand. His eyes would not let him go! And he understood. Had his own eyes seen the truth that night on the Costa Brava?
“Stop it!”
he screamed, whether silently or out loud, he could not tell.
“It’s over!”
Dr. Harry Lewis sat at his desk in his book-lined study, the cablegram in his hand. He listened for the sound of his wife’s voice. It came.
“See you later, dear,” she called from the hallway beyond. The front door opened and closed. She was out of the house.
Lewis picked up his telephone and dialed the area code 202. Washington, D.C. The seven digits that followed had been committed to memory, never written down. Nor would they be recorded on a bill, having bypassed the computers electronically.
“Yes?” asked the male voice on the other end of the line.
“Birchtree,” said Harry.
“Go ahead, Birchtree. You’re being taped.”
“He’s accepted. The cable came from Athens.”
“Is there any change in dates?”
“No. He’ll be here a month before the trimester starts.”
“Did he say where he was going from Athens?”
“No.”
“We’ll watch the airports. Thank you, Birchtree.”
The Rome Havelock had come to visit was not the Rome in which he cared to stay. Strikes were everywhere, the chaoscompounded by volatile Italian tempers that erupted on every street corner, every picket line, in the parks and around the fountains. Mail had been strewn in gutters, adding to the uncollected garbage; taxis were scarce—practically nonexistent—and most of the restaurants had been closed because of the lack of deliveries. The
poliziotti
, having taken sufficient abuse, were on a work stoppage, snarling further the normal insanity of Rome’s traffic, and since the telephones were part of the government’s postal service, they functioned on a level below normal, which made them damn near impossible. The city was full of a kind of hysteria, which was aggravated by yet another stern papal decree—from a foreigner, a
polacco
!—that was at odds with every progressive step since Vatican II.
Giovanni Ventitreesimo! Dove sei?
It was his second night, and Michael had left his
pensions
on the Via Due Macelli over two hours before, walking nearly the mile to the Via Flaminia Vecchia in hopes of finding a favorite restaurant open. It was not, and no amount of patience brought forth a taxi to bring him back to the Spanish Steps.
Reaching the north end of the Via Veneto, he was heading toward the side street that would eliminate the crowds in the gaudy carnival that was the Veneto when he saw it—a poster in the lighted window of a travel agency proclaiming the glories of Venice.
Why not? Why the hell not? The floating passivity of not planning included sudden changes in plans. He looked at his watch; it was barely eight-thirty, probably too late to get out to the airport and chance a reservation on a plane, but if he remembered correctly—and he did—the trains kept running Until midnight out of Rome. Why not a train? The lazy, circuitous trip from Brindisi by rail, passing through countrysides that had not changed in centuries, had been startlingly beautiful. He could pack his single suitcase in minutes, walk to the train station in twenty. Surely the money he was willing to pay would get him accommodations; if not, he could always return to the Via Due Macelli. He had paid for a week in advance.
Forty-five minutes later Havelock passed through the huge
He needed a place to live: a house, furniture, pots and pans and books, a chair to sit in, a bed to sleep in. Choices. He had not thought about such things ever before. He thought about them now and felt the excitement growing inside him.
He went to the bureau, uncapped the Scotch and poured himself a drink.
“Příteli,”
he said softly, for no particular reason, as he looked at his face in the mirror. Suddenly he stared at his eyes and, in terror, slammed the glass down with such force that it shattered; blood spread slowly over his hand. His eyes would not let him go! And he understood. Had his own eyes seen the truth that night on the Costa Brava?
“Stop it!”
he screamed, whether silently or out loud, he could not tell.
“It’s over!”
Dr. Harry Lewis sat at his desk in his book-lined study, the cablegram in his hand. He listened for the sound of his wife’s voice. It came.
“See you later, dear,” she called from the hallway beyond. The front door opened and closed. She was out of the house.
Lewis picked up his telephone and dialed the area code 202. Washington, D.C. The seven digits that followed had been committed to memory, never written down. Nor would they be recorded on a bill, having bypassed the computers electronically.
“Yes?” asked the male voice on the other end of the line.
“Birchtree,” said Harry.
“Go ahead, Birchtree. You’re being taped.”
“He’s accepted. The cable came from Athens.”
“Is there any change in dates?”
“No. He’ll be here a month before the trimester starts.”
“Did he say where he was going from Athens?”
“No.”
“We’ll watch the airports. Thank you, Birchtree.”
The Rome Havelock had come to visit was not the Rome in which he cared to stay. Strikes were everywhere, the chaoscompounded by volatile Italian tempers that erupted on every street corner, every picket line, in the parks and around the fountains. Mail had been strewn in gutters, adding to the uncollected garbage; taxis were scarce—practically nonexistent—and most of the restaurants had been closed because of the lack of deliveries. The
poliziotti
, having taken sufficient abuse, were on a work stoppage, snarling further the normal insanity of Rome’s traffic, and since the telephones were part of the government’s postal service, they functioned on a level below normal, which made them damn near impossible. The city was full of a kind of hysteria, which was aggravated by yet another stern papal decree—from a foreigner, a
polacco
!—that was at odds with every progressive step since Vatican II.
Giovanni Ventitreesimo! Dove sei?
It was his second night, and Michael had left his
pensions
on the Via Due Macelli over two hours before, walking nearly the mile to the Via Flaminia Vecchia in hopes of finding a favorite restaurant open. It was not, and no amount of patience brought forth a taxi to bring him back to the Spanish Steps.
Reaching the north end of the Via Veneto, he was heading toward the side street that would eliminate the crowds in the gaudy carnival that was the Veneto when he saw it—a poster in the lighted window of a travel agency proclaiming the glories of Venice.
Why not? Why the hell not? The floating passivity of not planning included sudden changes in plans. He looked at his watch; it was barely eight-thirty, probably too late to get out to the airport and chance a reservation on a plane, but if he remembered correctly—and he did—the trains kept running Until midnight out of Rome. Why not a train? The lazy, circuitous trip from Brindisi by rail, passing through countrysides that had not changed in centuries, had been startlingly beautiful. He could pack his single suitcase in minutes, walk to the train station in twenty. Surely the money he was willing to pay would get him accommodations; if not, he could always return to the Via Due Macelli. He had paid for a week in advance.
Forty-five minutes later Havelock passed through the huge
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