Echoes of Gold

Echoes of Gold

By Matthew Laxton

Chapter 1

Milan, Italy, February 1935

Antonio Medici was excited and more than a little apprehensive.  He stood for a minute behind a bush at the edge of the terrace and listened for sounds of movement.  Mist hung in the cool night air and created pretty patterns in the trees that lined the plaza of the Hotel Andrea.

After observing a couple of minutes of stillness, Antonio's heartbeat lessened to a mere thumping in his chest and he gathered himself to walk to the back door of the hotel.  Just as he stood up he caught sight of his enemy, the night porter, as the man emerged from the hotel's front door.  Antonio froze as he realised that the porter was heading directly towards him and would certainly see him as he passed by.  Suddenly the piercing, almost human shriek of a town fox shattered the still night, making both the men jump and distracting the porter for a second allowing Antonio to conceal himself a little better behind his bush.   The porter hesitated as if he sensed Antonio's movement before he shrugged and walked on past less than ten feet away from Antonio and continued across the front garden and out of sight around the entrance gateway.  Antonio watched the man depart, sucked in a deep breath and moved quickly around to the back door. 

Antonio let himself in with the key that the woman had provided and made his familiar way up to the storeroom on the second floor, moving as quietly and quickly as he could.  He knocked gently and heard the sound of someone moving inside the room.  The door swung open and his eyes settled on the face of the woman; his incredible woman.

Antonio fell into her arms and they barely closed the door before they were kissing as if there was no one else in the world.  Half-undressed, the two of them fell onto a simple cot.  The woman rolled on top and skilfully manoeuvred Antonio into her.  She smiled down at her lover and rode gently on him as he bucked his hips up to meet her.  Three minutes later it was all over and both were satiated.  Once again, anticipation and danger had proved to be powerful aphrodisiacs.

Antonio lay back on the single bed and stared at the wall.  His eyes settled on a stain.  What the stain lacked in strong colour it more than made up for in size.

Never mind the quality, feel the width, he said aloud, in English, reciting something a colleague of his had said more or less every single time the man laid eyes on a woman he had never encountered before.

I beg your pardon, said the woman; his incredible woman.  What was he doing in her bed?

Sorry, he murmured.  Just thinking of an old friend.

A wide friend? she laughed.

Yes, he laughed too.  Everything the woman said or did propelled him mystically closer to laughter.  He knew in the bottom of his heart that it could not last but he did not care. 

She rose from the bed and started to dress.

Are you going? he said.  And wished it were not so with all his being.

Just to the toilet, she said.

He nodded and went back to staring at the wall.  Then will we do it again? he asked.  Looking at her, staring at her.  He knew that he was acting in an intense fashion but such was his yearning for the woman it felt like he had no alternative.

If you want, she said and smiled.

His now flaccid penis twitched at the thought.

The woman left the room and Antonio Medici contemplated the stain again.  The stain began about five feet from floor level on one wall, traversed the ceiling and breached the opposite wall, finishing about six feet from the floor.  It spread to its maximum width of approximately four feet on the ceiling.  Antonio wondered what on earth could have made it.

A sudden cry from the street made him look out of the window; that fox again.  Antonio silently thanked the animal for providing the diversion earlier on and closed the shutters, noticing how the paint was peeling on the window frame.  He would have liked to take the woman somewhere nice but on his junior officer's salary, he could not afford it.  As it was he was sending more than half the money he earned back to his family in Milan.  The woman worked here at the Hotel Andrea and had managed to get a key made to allow the couple to meet.

The door opened and the woman entered.  She let her uniform slide from her body in an extremely sensual manner.  Antonio's manhood stiffened and he smiled broadly.

Hmm, how was it?  Never mind the width...? said the woman, sitting on the bed and gripping and squeezing him.

Antonio responded by grabbing her wrist and pulling her to him whence the couple play-wrestled briefly.  The woman giggled as she lurched sideways and ended up lying on her back, half on top of Antonio with his face pressed into the sheets.

'Relatively clean bed linen,' thought Antonio.  He rolled over, kissed her back and worked his way round to her breasts, his right hand seeking her most secret of places.  Her legs were tight together, as if banishing him but as he licked her right nipple, her thighs opened to him.  He teased her with expert fingers, her token resistance fell away and she rolled over on top of Antonio, hurrying to get him inside of her.  She rode him for a few minutes before they switched places, her legs akimbo as he pivoted himself to one side and stretched down and licked her nipple again.  The multiple sensations sent her over the edge and he at the same time let go his pent up energy deep inside of her.

They shared a room normally set aside for storage but that also contained a bed for staff working longer night shifts, located on the second floor of the Hotel Andrea, Milan.  Apart from the bed and a large number of wardrobes the only other furniture consisted of a single armchair.  The floor was of light blue marbled linoleum and the walls a matching blue painted directly onto plaster and the whole room smelt slightly of laundry soap.  The one window ran from the floor to above head height and opened onto a very small balcony.  As it was a chilly day in February, the long windows remained closed.

Antonio lit cigarettes for them both. 

I didn't smoke before I met you, said the woman.  And we have to smoke out of the window.  Otherwise the linen will smell.

I am being sent away, he said, opening the shutters again.

Being sent, or going?

Sent, he said.

There was a pause.

Sent, he repeated.

She climbed onto him and looked into his eyes.  Despite his recent exertions, his penis flexed under her weight.

Sent, he said once again, more deliberately.

She bent and kissed his chest and laid her head there.

Where and how long? she asked.

To Paraguay, for ever, he said.

The woman's eyes flicked wide open and she was glad that her face was averted from his gaze.

"To Paraguay?  For ever?" she said.

Yes, he said.  Well, for a while.  At least ten weeks.

What for?

To fight a war.

Italy is at war with Paraguay?

No, Bolivia is at war with Paraguay, he said.

The woman was fully aware of this fact but feigned surprise.  She nodded her head as if coming to understanding.  I have read of this war.  But what does that have to do with Italy?

I don't know exactly, but we are going to help.

"To help, she repeated.  To fight for Paraguay?"

Yes, to fight for Paraguay.  I leave next Thursday.

She surprised herself in that she felt genuine sadness at Antonio's news.  Perhaps it was as well that he was leaving.

But that means that this is the last time we will see each other, she said.  Without much effort she looked upset.

Antonio could not resist the woman when she was unhappy.  Don't be sad my dear, he said.  I will return soon.  What do you want me to buy you in the markets in Argentina?

I thought you said Paraguay?

Yes, but it is all arranged by the Argentineans.

She nodded solemnly as if this was obvious but her heart quickened at this information.

Diana Balleri made a little show of throwing off her sad mood and considered the question.    She cast a disparaging glance at her clothes where they lay on a chair.  You can buy me some nice knickers, she said.  And you're not allowed to tell the shop assistant that they are not for yourself.

*  *  *

Exactly twelve hours later Ernesto Furtado settled into a corner table at Café Niçoise and ordered a cappuccino.  He shivered in accord with the Milan winter conditions that were a little colder than those he had experienced growing up in his native Brazil and gathered his overcoat around himself.  He opened his newspaper and sipped the coffee.  He liked the way the coffee was made at the Niçoise but he suspected that the main reason he liked to go there was the light green décor which he found very restful.  A very pretty woman sat down at a table nearby and Furtado admired her legs.

See anything you like? said Diana Balleri.

Furtado blushed and returned his attention to his paper.  I do apologise, madame, he said.

Mademoiselle, said Diana, and smiled.

Furtado smiled back.  He sipped his coffee and concentrated on the woman.  She was perhaps thirty years of age, looked a little tired and very, very sure of herself.  Furtado had the feeling that she was pretending to be something that she was not.  As if there was a much simpler woman under the pretty and elegant exterior.  She wore a dark green dress with black coat, shoes and stockings.  The coat was long, extending to the woman's shapely ankles although she wore it open and inviting and her blond hair was long, around her shoulders.

He is going to Paraguay, said Diana, the pantomime over and her voice down to business.

Furtado thought for few seconds.  Any details? he asked.

He says the Argentineans are helping them and Italy are friends with Argentina.  He will leave next Thursday for at least ten weeks.

Can you find out more?

Not without arousing suspicion; 'Darling I must see you one last time' sort of thing you mean?

All right, best to leave it alone for a while.  I'll be in touch.

Have you got my money? said Diana.

Furtado said nothing but indicated his newspaper that he had put down on his table.

I would love to, sir.  I wonder if we could make it Friday, said Diana, as a waiter attended her.  Espresso, please.

Certainly, I will look forward to it, said Furtado, and their little charade struck a note in his heart.   He looked around the café and his eyes alighted on an older man who walked by carrying a bag of shopping.  The man braced himself against the wind as he walked and his gait was powerful despite his thinning grey hair and weak posture.  Furtado considered how strong the people of Europe would have to be to survive the coming war, for there was certain to be a war.  He turned and looked at Diana's beautiful features and thought of his own ten year old daughter at home in Brazil.  He thought of himself; his fiftieth birthday party in the previous month and getting too old for these games.

Furtado left the café with mixed feelings.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Guilherme Luiz Monteira da Costa, or Gulli as he was commonly known, walked up the steps to the entrance of the Secret Service building in Rio de Janeiro with a tangible sense of foreboding.  Despite working for the Brazilian Secret Service for six months and had met his boss, Ernesto Jose Luiz Furtado, the head of the Mediterranean Section, many times Gulli da Costa had never visited this building.  He showed his identification at a desk in the foyer and was directed to the office belonging to Furtado.  Furtado's secretary, a woman with a fearsome bosom and a reputation to match threw him an unexpected smile and waved him into Furtado's office.

Furtado was speaking on the phone and motioned towards a coffee pot that stood accompanied by a number of semi-clean cups on a tray on top of a pile of papers.  Every inch of space on top of several tables and bookcases and Furtado's desk were covered with other piles of papers, some more than a foot high.  Furtado was fifty-five years old, balding and sported an appearance that would be more at home in an academic institution than walking the halls of the secret service.  In addition to his native Portuguese he spoke Italian, Spanish, English and some Greek, had in his younger years fenced at a national level and was someone that Gulli respected and valued immensely.

Gulli spoke Italian and French himself and learning from his Italian mother from when he was a baby had given him natural fluency in the former.  Together with Furtado and ten other operatives they formed the Mediterranean section of the Brazilian Secret Service.  When he was in Brazil, which was rare, Gulli was based in his home town of Vitória.  All previous meetings with Furtado had taken place there.

Furtado finished his phone call, placating the speaker profusely.

Gulli, my dear chap, exclaimed Furtado and having poured himself a fresh cup of coffee sank back into his chair heavily.  Welcome to Rio de Janeiro.  How was Paris?

Good morning chief.  Paris was a mess as usual, said Gulli.

Christ, said Furtado.  Since the Bolivians attacked that ship, the 'Paraguay', everybody at the asylum seems to think that they are going to be walking down Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana next week.  That was 'jingle bells' at the ministry wetting his knickers.

Gulli smiled at Furtado's habit of creating outlandish and barely explainable nicknames for everybody that he met. Wasn't that in November?

Furtado considered this for a few seconds.  Ehm, yes, November.  Must have been.  My daughter had a school concert in the same week.  How was your flight?  Or flights I should say.

The usual.  Got stuck next to a gorgeous woman between Paris and New York.  But the Bolivians are taking their time, then, aren't they?

Indeed, said Furtado.  God, I'm so tired.  That's the last time I am travelling anywhere for a while.

It seems that Paraguay is going to get help from Italy, though, said Gulli.

Yes, so I heard.  What are they going to do?

Some aircraft and tanks.

Those bloody Argentinians, haven't they got anything better to do than stir up trouble? said Furtado.

Gulli merely shook his head and the two shared a short companionable silence.

I have an idea, said Furtado.

I was hoping that you might, said Gulli.

You are not going to like it, said Furtado.

Not like it a little bit or not like it very much?

Furtado considered this question as if it were a serious request for an assessment.  I think it is the worst plan I have ever heard, anybody agreeing to go along it is either a fool or is insane, he said.

I choose the fool option, said Gulli.  Maybe I'll keep my pension.

Furtado began drawing on a blackboard.  We need to find out what Argentina is planning, yes?  Gulli nodded and Furtado beamed.  We are going to kidnap General Belaieff and ask him, said Furtado.

Gulli responded by placing his face in his hands and shaking it gently.

Furtado sipped his coffee and waited.

Gulli looked up.  The Russian?  Do you think he would know anything useful?  And why in God's name would he tell us anything?  Especially if we kidnap him.

Furtado beamed even more.  "White Russian, he corrected.  We make him an offer he can't refuse."

Gulli merely looked at his boss and waited.  Furtado looked as if he was going to burst.

We offer him a job, said Furtado.

As what? said Gulli.

As a general, of course, said Furtado.

A general, said Gulli.  "We make the White Russian ex-general Belaieff, currently employed by the Bolivian military in the war on Paraguay, a general in the Brazilian army.  The first foreign national to be employed by the Brazilian army."

Well, I doubt he is the first, said Furtado, rifling through some nearby papers as if corroboration of this fact might be revealed therein.

You have got to be joking, said Gulli.  He is a military commander who is currently at war.  He will be surrounded by an army, not to mention his own staff all day, and probably has a personal security detail at night, Gulli faltered in this tirade as he saw the expression on Furtado's face.  You know something, he said, wagging his finger at his boss.

Furtado returned to his appearance of being pleased with himself.  He nodded.  Belaieff has a weakness for the Macá.

The Macá tribe? said Gulli.

Yes, said Furtado.  He will do most things to protect them.

And you think that he will take a job if we offer to protect the Macá?

Furtado nodded.  We need to isolate Belaieff from most of his people for an evening.  We take over a place, have a little talk and then we disappear.  Belaieff has fallen out of favour a little and has partly been replaced so will not be so closely guarded.  He still knows the political strategy, though.

I don't think that he will accept the offer of a job from me, Macá or not, said Gulli.

No, well, I thought of that.  That's why we are sending the frying pan.

Gulli racked his brains to determine to whom Furtado was referring.  Dario Gimenez? he said.

General Dario Gimenez, confirmed Furtado.

How on earth did you convince him to...? started Gulli before changing his mind as he saw Furtado's intense gaze.  Never mind, he said, shaking his head.  How are we going to isolate Belaieff? he said.

Furtado smiled.  So you don't think it’s such a bad idea? he said.

Pedro Juan Caballero, Paraguay

The rain had begun the previous afternoon and now at almost five in the morning seemed to be gaining in strength.  Heitor Padilha felt the handgun in its holster under his left arm and tried to remain alert.  One of the biggest problems on this kind of job was boredom.  Padilha had been staring at the same building for over two hours, the last half an hour outside here in the street, and he nodded when his commander