The Matarese Circle (58 page)

“Bray, how
are
you?” said Symonds, hand held out. “For God’s sake, don’t answer that, we’ll get to it. Let me
tell you, those are
not
easy cars to drive. I feel as though I’ve just limped through the worst rugger match in Liverpool. I shall be far more generous with cabbies in the future.” Roger looked around, nodding to his men, then spotting the opening in the fence which led into the playground. “Let’s take a stroll. If you’re a good lad, I may even give you a push or two in one of the swings.”

The Englishman listened in silence, leaning against the iron leg of the swing, as Bray sat on the seat and told his story of the massive shifting of funds. When Scofield had finished, Symonds pushed himself away from the pole, walked behind Bray and shoved him between the shoulder blades.

“There’s the push I promised you, although you don’t deserve it. You haven’t been a good lad.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not telling me what you should and your tactics are disturbing.”

“I see. You don’t understand why I’m asking you not to use my name with Waverly?”

“Oh, no, that’s perfectly all right. He has to deal with Washington every day. Granting an
unofficial
meeting with a retired American intelligence officer is not something he’d care to have on the Foreign Office’s record. I mean we don’t actually defect to one another, you know. I’ll take that responsibility, if it’s to be taken.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“The people after you. Not Grosvenor, of course, but the others. You haven’t been candid; you said they were good, but you didn’t tell me
how
good. Or the depth of their resources.”

“What do you mean?”

“We pulled your dossier and selected three names known to you, calling each, telling each that the man on the line was an intermediary from you, instructing each to go to a specific location. All three messages were intercepted; those called were followed.”

“Why does that surprise you? I told you as much.”

“What surprises me is that one of those names was known only to us. Not MI-Five, not Secret Service, not even the Admiralty. Only us.”

“Who was it?”

“Grimes.”

“Never heard of him,” said Bray.

“You only met him once. In Prague. Under the name of Brazuk.”

“KGB” said Scofield, astonished. “He defected in ’72. I gave him to you. He wouldn’t have anything to do with us and there was no point in wasting him.”

“But only you knew that. You said nothing to your people and, frankly, we at Six took credit for the purchase.”

“You’ve got a leak, then.”

“Quite impossible,” replied Symonds. “At least regarding the present circumstances as you’ve described them to me.”

“Why?”

“You say you ran across this global financial juggling act only a short while ago. Let’s be generous and say several months, would you agree?”

“Yes.”

“And since then, those who want to silence you have been active against you, also correct?” Bray nodded. The MI-Six man leaned forward, his hand on the chain above Scofield’s head. “From the day I took office two and a half years ago, Beowulf Agate’s file has been in my private vault. It is removed only on dual signatures, one of which must be mine. It has not been removed, and it’s the only file in England that contains any connection between you and the Grimes-Brazuk defection.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“There’s only one other place where that information might be found.”

“Spell it out.”

“Moscow.” Symonds drew out the word softly.

Bray shook his head. “That assumes Moscow knows Grimes’ identity.”

“Entirely possible. Like a few you’ve purchased, Brazuk was a bust. We don’t really want him, but we can’t give him back. He’s a chronic alcoholic, has been for years. His job at KGB was ornamental, a debt paid to a once-brave soldier. We suspect he blew his cover quite a while ago. Nobody cared, until you came along. Who are these people after you?”

“It seems I didn’t do you any favors when I handed over Brazuk,” said Scofield, avoiding the MI-Six man’s eyes.

“You didn’t know that and neither did we. Who are these people, Bray?”

“Men who have contacts in Moscow. Obviously. Just as we do.”

“Then I must ask you a question,” continued Symonds. “One that would have been inconceivable several hours ago. Is it true what Washington thinks? Are you working with the Serpent?”

Scofield looked at the Englishman. “Yes.”

Calmly Symonds released the chain and rose to his full height. “I think I could kill you for that,” he said. “For God’s sake,
why?
”

“If it’s a question of either your killing me or my telling you, I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“There’s a middle ground. I take you in and turn you over to Grosvenor Square.”

“Don’t do it, Roger. And don’t ask me to tell you anything now. Later, yes. Not now.”

“Why should I agree?”

“Because you know me, I can’t think of any other reason.”

Symonds turned away. Neither spoke for several moments. Finally, the Englishman turned again, facing Bray. “Such a simple phrase. ‘You know me.’ Do I?”

“I wouldn’t have reached you if I didn’t think you did. I don’t ask strangers to risk their lives for me. I meant what I said before. Don’t go home. You’re marked … just as I’m marked. If you covered yourself, you’ll be all right. If they find out you met with me, you’re dead.”

“I am at this moment logged in at an emergency meeting at the Admiralty. Phone calls were placed to my office and my flat demanding my presence.”

“Good. I expected as much.”

“
Godamn you
, Scofield! It was always your gift. You pull a man in until he can’t stand it! Yes, I
do
know you, and I’ll do as you ask—for a little while. But not because of your melodramatics; they don’t impress me. Something else does, however. I said I could kill you for working with Taleniekov. I think I could, but I suspect you kill yourself a little every time you look at him. That’s reason enough for me.”

Bray walked down the steps of the rooming house into the morning sunlight and the crowds of shoppers in Knightsbridge. It was an area of London compatible with staying out of sight; from nine
A.M.
on, the streets were jammed with traffic. He stopped at a newsstand, shifted his attaché case to his left hand, picked up
The Times,
and went into a small restaurant where he slipped into a chair, satisfied that it provided a clear view of the entrance, more satisfied still that the pay telephone on the wall was only feet away. It was quarter to ten; he was to call Roger Symonds at precisely 10:15 on the sterile number that could not be tapped.

He ordered breakfast from a laconic, Cockney waitress and unfolded the newspaper. He found what he was looking for in a single column on the upper left section of the front page.

Scofield’s eyes quickly scanned the biographical hyperbole that was an obituary editor’s way of describing a spoiled, headstrong bitch who undoubtedly slept around with the frequency if not the delicacy of a Soho whore.

There was a follow-up story directly beneath. Bray began reading and knew instantly, instinctively that another fragment of the elusive truth was being revealed.

The words sprang up from the page at Scofield.
The Boston headquarters.…

Were
two
fragments of their elusive truth being revealed? Joshua Appleton, IV, was the Senator from Massachusetts, the Appleton family the most powerful political entity in the state. They were the Episcopal Kennedys, far more restrained in self-evocation, but every bit as influential on the national scene. Which was intrinsic to the international financial scene.

Would a retrospective of the Appletons include connections—covert or otherwise—with Trans-Communications? It was something that would have to be learned.

The telephone on the wall behind him rang; he checked his watch. It was eight minutes past ten; another seven and he would call Symonds at MI-Six headquarters. He glanced at the phone, annoyed to see the Cockney waitress wincing into the mouthpiece, a groan or an expletive forming at her lips. He hoped her conversation would not last long.

“Mister
Hagate?
Is there a Mister B.
Hagate
’ere?” The question was shouted angrily.

Bray froze.
B. Hagate ’ere?

Agate, B.

Beowulf Agate.

Was Symonds playing some insane game of one-upmanship? Had the Englishman decided to prove the superior quality of British Intelligence’s tracking techniques? Was the damn fool so egotistical he could not leave well enough alone?

God,
what a fool!

Scofield rose as unobtrusively as possible, holding his attaché case. He went to the phone and spoke.

“What is it?”

“Good morning, Beowulf Agate,” said a male voice with vowels so full and consonants so sharp they could have been formed at Oxford. “We trust you’ve rested since your arduous journey from Rome.”

“Who’s this?”

“My name’s irrelevant; you don’t know me. We merely wanted you to understand. We found you; we’ll always be able to find you. But it’s all so tedious. We feel that it would be far better for everyone concerned if we sat down and thrashed out the differences between us. You may discover they’re not so great after all.”

“I don’t feel comfortable with people who’ve tried to kill me.”

“I must correct you.
Some
have tried to kill you. Others have tried to save you.”

“For what? A session of chemical therapy? To find out what I’ve learned, what I’ve done?”

“What you’ve learned is meaningless, and you can’t
do
anything. If your own people take you, you know what you can expect. There’ll be no trial, no public hearing;
you’re far too dangerous to too many people. You’ve collaborated with the enemy, killed a young man your superiors believe was a fellow intelligence officer in Rock Creek Park, and fled the country. You’re a traitor; you’ll be executed at the first opportune moment. Can you doubt it after the events on Nebraska Avenue?
We
can execute you the instant you walk out of that restaurant Or before you leave.”

Bray looked around, studying the faces at the tables, looking for the inevitable pair of eyes, a glance behind a folded newspaper, or above the rim of a coffee cup. There were several candidates; he could not be sure. And without question, there were unseen killers in the crowds outside. He was trapped; his watch read eleven minutes past ten. Another four and he could dial Symonds on the sterile line. But he was dealing with professionals. If he hung up and dialed was there a man now at one of these tables—innocuously raising a fork to his mouth or sipping from a cup—who would pull out a weapon powerful enough to blow him into the wall? Or were those inside merely hired guns, unwilling to make the sacrifice the Matarese demanded of its élite? He had to buy time and take the risk, watching the tables every second as he did so, preparing himself for that instant when escape came with sudden movement and the conceivable—unfortunate—sacrifice of innocent people.

“You want to meet, I want a guarantee I’ll get out of here.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Your saying it isn’t enough. Identify one of your employees in here.”

“Let’s put it this way, Beowulf. We can hold you there, call the American Embassy, and before you could blink, they’d have you cornered. Even should you get past them, we’d be waiting on the outer circle, as it were.”

His watch read twelve past ten.
Three minutes.

“Then obviously you’re not that anxious to meet with me.” Scofield listened, his concentration total. He was almost certain the man on the line was a messenger; someone above wanted Beowulf Agate taken, not killed.

“I said we felt it would be better for everyone concerned—”

“Give me a face!” interrupted Bray. The voice
was a
messenger. “Otherwise call the godamned embassy. I’ll take my chances. Now.
”