Chapter Twenty-five

Twenty-five miles from the ancient limits of Cardiff, set in a remote glen in a Welsh forest, stands the Convent of the Virgin, the home of the Carmelite sisters. The walls rise in alabaster purity, like a new bride standing in holy expectation in a lush but serpentless Eden.

The field accountant and the young wife drove up to the entrance. Canfield got out of the car and walked to a small arched doorway set in the wall in which was centered a viewer. There was a black iron knocker on the side of the door that he used, then waited for several minutes until a nun answered.

‘May I help you?’

The field accountant drew out his identification card and held it up for the nun to see. ‘My name is Canfield, sister. I’m here for Madame Elizabeth Scarlatti. Her daughter-in-law is with me.’

‘If you’ll wait, please. May I?’ She indicated that she wished to take his identification card with her. He handed it to her through the small opening.

‘Of course.’

The viewer was closed and bolted. Canfield wandered back to the car and spoke to Janet. ‘They’re very cautious.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘She’s taking my card in to make sure the photograph’s me and not someone else.’

‘Lovely here, isn’t it? So quiet.’

‘It is now. I make no promises when we finally see the old girl.’

‘Your callous, unfeeling disregard for my well-being, to say nothing of my comforts, is beyond anything I can describe! Do you have any idea what these idiots sleep on? I’ll tell you! Army cots!’

‘I’m sorry—’ Canfield tried not to laugh.

‘And do you know the slops they eat? I’ll tell you! Food I’d prohibit in my stables!’

‘I’m told they grow their own vegetables,’ the field accountant countered gently.

‘They pluck up the fertilizer and leave the plants!’

At that moment the bells of the Angelus pealed out.

‘That goes on night and day! I asked that damned fool, Mother MacCree, or whoever she is, why so early in the morning—and do you know what she said?’

‘What, Mother?’ asked Janet.

‘“That is the way of Christ,” that’s what she said. “Not a good Episcopal Christ!” I told her… It’s been intolerable! Why were you so late? Mr. Derek said you’d be here four days ago.’

‘I had to wait for a courier from Washington. Let’s go. I’ll tell you about it.’

Elizabeth sat in the back seat of the Bentley reading the Zurich list.

‘Know any of those people?’ asked Canfield.

‘Not personally. Most all of them by reputation, however.’

‘For instance?’

‘The Americans, Louis Gibson and Avery Landor are two self-styled Texas Bunyans. They think they built the oil territories. Landor’s a pig, I’m told. Harold Leacock, one of the Englishmen, is a power on the British Stock Exchange. Very bright. Myrdal from Sweden is also in the European market. Stockholm—’ Elizabeth looked up and acknowledged Canfield’s glance in the rearview mirror.

‘Anybody else?’

‘Yes. Thyssen in Germany. Fritz Thyssen. Steel companies. Everyone knows Kindorf—Ruhr Valley coal, and von Schnitzler. He’s I. G. Farben now… One of the Frenchmen, D’Almeida, has control of railroads, I think. I don’t know Daudet but I recognize the name.’

‘He owns tankers. Steamships.’

‘Oh, yes. And Masterson. Sydney Masterson. English. Far East imports, I think. I don’t know Innes-Bowen, but again I’ve heard the name.’

‘You didn’t mention Rawlins, Thomas Rawlins.’

‘I didn’t think I had to. Godwin and Rawlins. Boothroyd’s father-in-law.’

‘You don’t know the fourth American, Howard Thornton? He’s from San Francisco.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Janet says your son knew a Thornton from San Francisco.’

‘I’m not at all surprised.’

On the road from Pontypridd, on the outskirts of the Rhondda Valley, Canfield became aware of an automobile, which regularly appeared in his side mirror. It was far behind them, hardly more than a speck in the glass, but it was never out of sight except around curves. And whenever Canfield rounded one of the many turns, the automobile appeared subsequently much sooner than its previous distance would indicate. On long stretches it stayed far in the distance and whenever possible allowed other cars to come between them.

‘What is it, Mr. Canfield?’ Elizabeth was watching the field accountant, who kept shifting his eyes to the mirror outside his window.

‘Nothing.’

‘Is someone following us?’

‘Probably not. There aren’t that many good roads leading to the English border.’

Twenty minutes later Canfield saw that the automobile was drawing nearer. Five minutes after that he began to understand. There were no cars between the two vehicles now. Only a stretch of road—a very long curve—bordered on one side by the rocky slope of a small incline and on the other by a sheer drop of fifty feet into the waters of a Welsh lake.

Beyond the end of the curve, Canfield saw that the ground leveled off into a pasture or overgrown field. He accelerated the Bentley. He wanted to reach that level area.

The car behind shot forward closing the gap between them. It swung to the right on the side of the road by the rocky slope. Canfield knew that once the car came parallel it could easily force him off the road, over the edge, plunging the Bentley down the steep incline into the water. The field accountant held the pedal down and veered the car toward the center trying to cut off the pursuer.

‘What is it? What are you doing?’ Janet held on to the top of the dashboard.

‘Brace yourselves! Both of you!’

Canfield held the Bentley in the center, crossing to the right each time the car behind him tried to squeeze between him and the solid ground. The level field was nearer now. Only another hundred yards.

There were two sharp, heavy crunches as the Bentley lurched spastically under the second car’s impact. Janet Scarlett screamed. Her mother-in-law kept silent, clutching the girl’s shoulders from behind, helping to brace her.

The level pasture was now on the left and Canfield suddenly swerved the car toward it, going off the road, holding to the dirt border beyond the pavement.

The pursuing car plunged forward at tremendous speed. Canfield riveted his eyes on the rapidly receding black-and-white license plate. He shouted, ‘E, B… I or L! Seven. Seven or nine! One, one, three!’ He repeated the numbers again softly, quickly. He slowed the Bentley down and came to a stop.

Janet’s back was arched against the seat. She held Elizabeth’s arms with both her hands. The old woman sat forward, her cheek pressed against her daughter-in-law’s head.

Elizabeth spoke.

The letters you called out were E, B, I or L, the numbers, seven or nine, one, one, three.’

‘I couldn’t tell the make of the car.’

Elizabeth spoke again as she took her arms from Janet’s shoulders.

‘It was a Mercedes-Benz.’