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"You did, kindly and gently, yet in your work you're neither kind nor gentle.. .. Yes, Cam, I've read all about you. You're essentially a black-operations officer, no quarter given, none taken. You've killed twelve terrorist leaders on record, and probably a dozen or so unrecorded. You infiltrated them and you assassinated them."
"It was my job, Leslie. If I hadn't, they would have killed hundreds more-perhaps thousands with their insurrections."
"I believe you, my dear, I'm only trying to say that there's another side of Officer Pryce that he's shown to me. Am I allowed that?"
"Certainly, but let's limit the circulation, okay?"
"Oh, I will, I will. Do you know why? Never mind, I'll answer that.... I don't know what will happen next week or next month, or God knows, next year, but at the moment I don't want to lose you, Cameron Pryce. I lost one decent man, I can't lose another." They fell into the bed, each holding the other fiercely.
A string quartet played under the roof of a sculpted gazebo on the far right of the croquet course. By the time John and Joan Brooks arrived, the now well-publicized brother-and-sister philanthropists of American culture, most of the guests were already there in their casual finery. A large green blackboard had been set up on a stanchion behind the goal wicket; a pairing of players had begun in bracketed colored chalk.
Several buffet tables with the finest linen and silver were scattered about the immense manicured lawn by the lake.
The huge, imposing yacht was moored at the end of the long dock, a sturdy gangplank with chrome railings leading to the lower deck; a canopied veranda capable of holding sixty-odd people overlooking the northern waters of Lake Como was an awesome sight.
The mansion itself had only been hinted at under the magnification of Togazzi's telescope. It was a contemporary "castle" of flagstone and teakwood, rising four stories high with flagged open-air turrets.
The only thing missing was a moat. The Villa d'Este concierge was accurate when he extolled the Paravacini estate as the most glorious on the lake.
"We paid roughly a month's salary for each of these outfits," said Montrose as they walked along a brick path that rounded the great house and led to the lakeside carnival, "but I have an idea that we look like the poorest people here."
"You're crazy," protested Pryce.
"I think we both look terrific, especially you."
"That's another thing. Stop gazing at me like that. We're supposed to be brother and sister, but not incestuous."
"Sorry, it comes kind of naturally."
"Don't look over, just laugh and tilt your head to the right. There's a man staring at us. He's in blue slacks and a bright yellow shirt."
"I caught a glimpse of him. Never saw him before."
"He's coming over-John."
"Gotcha-Joan."
"You must be the Brookses!" said the dark-haired, extremely handsome man enthusiastically, his English laced with a deep Italian accent.
"I can see the family resemblance."
"We hear that frequently," said Leslie, extending her hand.
"And who are you?"
"Your obedient host, Carlo Paravacini, grateful that you accepted my invitation," replied the don, kissing Montrose's hand.
"Or as my American friends call me, Charlie," he continued, shaking hands with Cameron.
"Then I'll be presumptuous," said Pryce, "and say it's a pleasure to meet you, Charlie."
"I like that, I like it.... A libation, perhaps, a fine Chablis, or a rare Scotch?"
"Someone's been tattling on us," interrupted Leslie, laughing.
"Those are our favorite drinks."
"But always in moderation, I've learned that, too. And I like that, I like it."
"Then it's the moment to tell you that Villa d'Este's concierge sends you his regards," added Cameron.
"I accept them gratefully," said the attractive host, "but for God's sake, don't tell him that I stole his first sous-chef to cater this little afternoon party. That scoundrel steals all of his superior's recipes, and after all, it's his day off."
"Our lips are sealed, Carlo-Charlie," said Montrose charmingly as Pryce glanced at his lover, not entirely pleasantly.
Paravacini, taking Leslie's elbow, led them through the strolling crowds toward a bar table and ordered drinks. While he did so a relatively tall, elegant figure, dressed in tan trousers and a black short-sleeved shirt, topped with a clerical collar and graying hair, approached them. Carlo turned at the sight of the priest and introduced him.
"His Eminence is my uncle, Cardinal Rudolfo Paravacini, but here in Como we call him Papa Rudy. Isn't that right, holy Cardinal?"
"I grew up here, why not?" replied the exalted priest of the Catholic Church.
"I ran in these fields chasing goats and rabbits like everyone else. I was chosen, I did not seek. My nephew's generosity allows me moments of luxury that my commitments do not."
"Nice to meet you," said Cameron, shaking hands.
"A pleasure," said Leslie, doing the same.
"Thank God for American Protestants," replied the cardinal.
"My Italian, French, and Spanish flocks kiss my ring and think I can guarantee them a place in heaven when I cannot guarantee it for myself.. ..
Welcome to Lacus Larius."
"I hear you're a ... heck ... of a croquet player, Cardinal," said Pryce.
"I'm one hell of a player. Care to go against me?"
"I'd rather be on your side. My sister's a better player than I am."
"Set it up, Carlo," ordered the priest.
"My partner will be Signer Brooks
"As you wish," said Don Carlo Paravacini, looking strangely at the cardinal.
The time passed on the croquet course, the yelps of a successfully entered wicket accompanied by the desolate groans of those who missed. And during the succeeding games, servants rushed out with iced tea and lemonade to refresh the players, alcohol absent by design.
After three hours, the winners were awarded sterling silver croquet mallets, instantly monogrammed, and everyone began to repair to the yacht's canopied veranda.
"I'm really sorry," said Pryce to his partner, Cardinal Paravacini.
"I
loused us up."
"Although the Lord for giveth I find it hard to do so, John Brooks," said the priest, smiling.
"You were a disaster. However, your sister, Miss Joan, teamed with my nephew, Carlo, won the whole damned thing! They make a lovely couple, don't they? So handsome together, so intelligent. Things could go further, not so?"
"Well, my sister's not Catholic-" "There's always conversion," interrupted the prince of the Church.
"We annulled his first marriage, and his second wife died not long ago."
"I don't know what to say," said a totally confused Cameron Pryce, staring at Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, who was laughing and walking off the croquet course gripping Carlo Paravacini's arm.
Half an hour later, still in the presence of the cardinal, Cam had met dozens of other guests who flocked around both men as the curious might at the arrival of two celebrities. In a sense, both were; the priest had celebrated influence inside the Vatican, and the fine-looking American's vast wealth was enough to gain him instant celebrity status.
Finally, feigning social exhaustion, Cardinal Paravacini insisted they sit down at a relatively isolated table on the captain's-wheel perch, easily seen but not easy to reach. Pryce's eyes roamed over the crowd looking for Leslie.
She was not there. She had disappeared.
Excuse me, Cardinal, but my sister's not here. I can't see her anywhere."
"No doubt, my nephew is showing her around the estate," said the priest.
"It's really quite beautiful, and his art collection is among the finest in Italy."
"Art collection? Where is it?"
"In the main house, of course." At the mention of the mansion, Cardinal Paravacini apparently saw the sudden alarm in Pryce's eyes.
"Oh, I can assure you, Mr. Broo
ks, you've nothing to be concerned about. Carlo is the most honorable of men, he would never take advantage of a guest. In truth, he doesn't have to, the ladies have always seemed to line up for his affections."
"You don't understand," Cameron interrupted, "my sister and I have an agreement between us whenever we're out together, especially where there are a great many people. Each lets the other know when he's leaving, for whatever reason."
"That sounds positively suffocating, Mr. Brooks," observed the priest.
