In The House Of Secret Enemies

was noon. I was tired from the Atlantic crossing, and hungry. Most of all I was worried, but there didn't seem to be much sense in rushing at this point.

I stopped in a ristorante to exercise my Italian and ordered some pasta and wine. Once my raven-haired waitress got over the fact that she had an Italian-speaking dwarf in her establishment, I received excellent attention. The food and wine were superb. I finished, then asked directions to San Marino. She took me over to a window and pointed east.

Mount Titano was barely visible. I could make out San Marino's three castles sitting on the highest points of the mountain, silhouetted against the sky. It looked like something out of a Disney movie.

I turned away from the window and caught the waitress staring at me. She giggled nervously and dropped her eyes.

'I take it you don't get that many dwarfs around here,' I said in Italian.

'I didn't mean to stare.'

I introduced myself. Her name was Gabriela. I asked if I could use her phone, and she steered me into a back room. I got hold of an operator who informed me that the lines to San Marino were still out. I hung up and went back into the dining room, where Gabriela was waiting with a glass of cognac. I drank it in the name of international relations and thanked her. It tasted terrible.

'San Marinese,' Gabriela said. 'I thought you might like to taste it. They sell it by the gallon up there.'

I disguised a belch with a noncommital grunt.

'Did you reach your party?'

'The phones up there are out of order.'

Gabriela absently stroked her hair. 'That's odd. Come to think of it, nobody's been down off the mountain in two or three days.'

'Who usually comes down?'

'Many San Marinese work in Rimini. They often stop in here for lunch or dinner. I have regulars, but I haven't seen them for three days. I guess there may be something to the rumors.'

'What rumors?'

'It is said they have sickness. They are keeping themselves isolated until they find out what it is and how to cure it.'

'What kind of a police force do they have up there?'

'Oh, they're all very nice.'

'That's great for public relations. How effective are they?'

She gave me a puzzled look. I rephrased the question. 'How good are they at catching crooks?'

Gabriela laughed. 'There is no crime in San Marino. Perhaps an occasional drunk or a traffic accident, but never anything serious. The San Marinese are very pleasant people. Very friendly. It will be a shame if you can't get in.'

Gabriela went back to the window and pointed up the highway. 'The road branches off about two kilometers to the south. The right fork will take you to Mount Titano.'

I paid my bill, left Gabriela a few hundred lire, and returned to my car.

There were two guards at the border. One of them stepped out into the middle of the road as I approached. He couldn't have been more than twenty, but the scattergun he held made him seem older. The other one stayed back, watching me through cold, mud-colored eyes. He was tall, swarthy, and looked decidedly unfriendly. I doubted that he'd ever directed traffic.

The boyish one came around to my side of the car and cleared his throat.

'I'm sorry, sir,' he said in passable English. 'The border is closed.'

'I didn't think that ever happened in San Marino.'

'There is sickness on the mountain.' He dropped his eyes as he said it. 'Very bad. We have closed ourselves off to protect others.'

'I understand it's only catching if you're a telephone.'

He gave me a sharp look, filled with warning.

'I've had all my shots. I'd like to take my chances.'

'I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps in a few days.'

I backed my car around and drove back down the hill. I parked it at a service station at the foot of the mountain and gave the attendant some money to watch it for a few days. From what I'd seen, San Marino wasn't exactly impregnable; it was time to test its new border fortifications. I found a convenient vineyard and ducked off the road into it.

I took the vineyard route three-quarters of the way up the mountain, past the guards, then turned left and walked until I hit the main highway. That was all it took to get into San Marino. Staying there might prove more difficult, but I'd worry about that when the time came.

I found myself on the outskirts of a town that I recognized from the Italian's description as the country's capital, also named San Marino. The central thoroughfare was a narrow, cobblestone street lined on both sides with souvenir shops. There were also a number of restaurants and hotels, not to mention the famous three castles, each about a half kilometer from where I was standing.

There was no sign of any circus.

I went up the street and stopped in front of one of the souvenir shops. Its windows were filled with the same things the windows of all the other shops were filled with, plastic junk with a medieval theme: plastic helmets, swords and shields, all undoubtedly made in Japan. There were three revolving stands displaying glassine envelopes filled with San Marinese stamps. All of the usual postcards were already stamped, and there was a large wooden mailbox conveniently nailed to the side of each shop.

Benches on each side of the entrance were loaded with glass jugs containing San Marinese cognac.

The San Marinese didn't miss a trick.

On the other hand, it didn't take much of an experienced eye to see that much of San Marino was authentically medieval. There was a church visible down a side street that had to be at least eight hundred years old, probably of great interest to historians. But the San Marinese had learned their lesson early and well; history doesn't make money, plastic souvenirs do.

A woman emerged from behind the tinted glass and stood on the stoop watching me as though I might be a souvenir that had somehow escaped from her shop. She had been beautiful once, before she'd put away too many San Marinese delicacies. Her green eyes were perfectly complemented by almond-colored skin and dark hair.

Finally she smiled and said, 'American?' It was as perfect as English can be when laced with a Brooklyn accent.

I extended my hand. 'My name is Robert Frederickson.'

'I'm Molly Marinello,' the woman said, taking my hand in a firm grip. Her eyes glittered with pleasure. 'Please wait here a moment, Mr. Frederickson. My husband will want to meet you.'

She went back into the shop, and reappeared a few moments later with her husband in tow. He was a big, handsome man with the ruddy complexion and granite presence of a man who has spent most of his life out-of- doors, working with his hands.

'I'm John Marinello,' he said, pumping my hand. 'Always glad to meet another American.'

'Brooklyn?'

'Yeah. Can't say enough about the United States.'

'Too much violence,' his wife said gently. 'Nobody's safe on the streets.'

John Marinello shook his head. I felt as if I'd stumbled into an argument that had been going on for years. It was a ritual, and they knew their lines by heart.

'I earned good money there. I was a construction worker. Stonemason. I'd still be there if it wasn't for Molly. Great place, the United States.'

'Too much violence,' Molly repeated. 'Nobody's safe on the streets. Much better here.'

Her husband started to shake his head again.

I cut in. 'I take it that things are pretty quiet here.'

John Marinello's eyes grew big in mock wonder. 'Quiet?! Let me tell you-'

'Peaceful,' Molly said quietly. 'Nobody fights here. People here live like human