The Matarese Circle (64 page)

The traffic congealed again at Harvard Square, the downpour causing havoc in the streets. People were crowded in storefronts, students in panchos and jeans racing from curb to curb, jumping over the flooded gutters, crouching under the awning of the huge newspaper stand …

The newspaper stand. N
EWSPAPERS
F
ROM
A
LL
O
VER
T
HE
W
ORLD
was the legend printed across the white sign above the canopy. Bray peered out the window, through the rain and the collection of bodies. One name, one man, dominated the observable headlines.

Waverly! David Waverly! England’s Foreign Secretary!

“Let me off here,” he said to the driver, reaching for the travel bag and briefcase at his feet.

He pushed his way through the crowd, grabbed two
domestic papers off the row of twenty-odd different editions, left a dollar, and ran across the street at the first break in traffic. A half a block down Massachusetts Avenue was a German-style restaurant he vaguely remembered from his student days. The entrance was jammed; Scofield excused his way to the door, using his travel bag for interference, and went inside.

There was a line waiting for tables; he went to the bar, and ordered Scotch. The drink arrived; he unfolded the first newspaper. It was the Boston
Globe;
he started reading, his eyes racing over the words, picking out the salient points of the article. He finished and picked up the Los Angeles
Times
, the story identical to the
Globe
’s, a wire service report, and almost surely, the official version put out by Whitehall, which was what Bray wanted to know.

The massacre of David Waverly, his wife, children, and servants in Belgravia Square was held to be the work of terrorists, most likely a splinter group of fanatic Palestinians. It was pointed out, however, that no group had as yet come forth to claim responsibility, and the P.L.O. vehemently denied participation. Messages of shock and condolence were being sent by political leaders across the world; parliaments and presidiums, congresses and royal courts, all interrupted their businesses at hand to express their fury and grief.

Bray reread both articles and the related stories in each paper looking for Roger Symonds’ name. It was not to be found; it would not come for days, if ever. The speculations were too wild, the possibilities too improbable. A senior officer of British Intelligence somehow connected to the slaughter of Britain’s Foreign Secretary. The Foreign Office would put a clamp on Symonds’ death for any number of reasons. It was no time to.…

Scofield’s thoughts were interrupted. In the dim light of the bar he had missed the insert; it was a late bulletin in the
Globe.

The medical examiner in London might have trouble finding a reason for the “method of killing,” but Scofield did not. If England’s Foreign Secretary had a jagged blue circle affixed to his chest in the form of a birthmark, it was gone.

And there was a message in the use of the Lupo. The Matarese wanted Beowulf Agate to understand clearly how far and how wide the Corsican fever had spread, into what rarefied circles of power it had reached.

He finished his drink, left his money on the bar with the two newspapers, and looked around for a telephone. The name that had come into focus, the man he wanted to see, was Dr. Theodore Goldman, a dean of the Harvard School of Business and a thorn in the side of the Justice Department. For he was an outspoken critic of the Anti-Trust Division, incessantly claiming that Justice prosecuted the minnows and let the sharks roam free. He was a middle-aged
enfant terrible
who enjoyed taking on the giants, for he was a giant himself, cloaking his genius behind a facade of good-humored innocence that fooled no one.

If anyone could shed light on the conglomerate called Trans-Communications, it was Goldman.

Bray did not know the man, but he had met Goldman’s son a year ago in the Hague—under circumstances that were potentially disastrous for a young pilot in the Air Force. Aaron Goldman had gotten drunk with the wrong people near the Groote Kerk, men known to be involved in a KGB infiltration of NATO. The son of a prominent American Jew was prime material for the Soviets.

An unknown intelligence officer had gotten the pilot
away from the scene, slapped him into sobriety and told him to go back to his base. And after countless cups of coffee, Aaron Goldman had expressed his thanks.

“If you’ve got a kid who wants to go to Harvard, let me know, whoever you are. I’ll talk to my dad, I swear it. What the hell’s your name anyway?”

“Never mind,” Scofield had said. “Just get out of here, and don’t buy typing paper at the Coop. It’s cheaper down the block.”

“What the …”

“Get out of here.”

Bray saw the pay phone on the wall; he grabbed his luggage and walked over to it.

He picked up a small wet piece of newspaper on the rain-soaked sidewalk and walked to the MPTA subway station in Harvard Square. He went downstairs and checked his soft leather suitcase in a locker. If it was stolen that would tell him something, and there was nothing in it he could not replace. He slid the wet scrap of paper carefully under the far right corner of the hag. Later, if the fragile scrap was curled or the surface broken, that would tell him something else: the bag had been searched and he was in the Matarese sights.

Ten minutes later he rang the bell of Theodore Goldman’s house on Brattle Street. It was opened by a slender, middle-aged woman, her face pleasant, her eyes curious.

“Mrs. Goldman?”

“Yes?”

“I telephoned your husband a few minutes ago—”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she interrupted. “Well, for heaven’s sake, get out of the rain! It’s coming down like the forty-day flood. Come in, come in. I’m Anne Goldman.”

She took his coat and hat; he held his attaché case.

“I apologize for disturbing you.”

“Don’t be foolish. Aaron told us all about that night in … The Hague. You know, I’ve never been able to
figure out where that place
is.
Why would a city be called
the
anything?”

“It’s confusing.”

“I gather our son was very confused
that
night; which is a mother’s way of saying he was plastered.” She gestured toward a squared-off, double doorway so common to old New England houses. “Theo’s on the telephone and trying to mix his stinger at the same time; it’s making him frantic. He hates the telephone and loves his evening drink.”

Theodore Goldman was not much taller than his wife, but there was an expansiveness about him that made him appear much larger than he was. His intellect could not be concealed, so he took refuge in humor, putting guests—and, no doubt, associates—at ease.

They sat in three leather armchairs that faced the fire, the Goldmans with their stingers, Bray drinking Scotch. The rain outside was heavy, drumming on the windows. The recapping of their son’s escapade in The Hague was over quickly, Scofield dismissing it as a minor night out on the town.

“With major consequences, I suspect,” said Goldman, “if an unknown intelligence officer hadn’t been in the vicinity.”

“Your son’s a good pilot.”

“He’d better be; he’s not much of a drinker.” Goldman sat back in his chair. “But now, since we’ve met this unknown gentleman who’s been kind enough to give us his name, what can we do for him?”

“To begin with, please don’t tell anyone I came to see you.”

“That sounds ominous, Mr. Vickery. I’m not sure I approve of Washington’s tactics in these areas.”

“I’m no longer attached to the government; the request is personal. Frankly, the government doesn’t approve of me any longer, because in my former capacity, I think I uncovered information Washington—especially the Department of Justice—doesn’t want exposed. I believe it should be; that’s as plain as I can put it.”

Goldman rose to the occasion. “That’s plain enough.”

“In all honesty, I used my brief meeting with your son as an excuse to talk to you. It’s not admirable, but it’s the truth.”

“I admire the truth. Why did you want to see me?”

Scofield put his glass down. “There’s a company here in Boston, at least the corporate headquarters are here. It’s a conglomerate called Trans-Communications.”

“It certainly is.” Goldman chuckled. “The Alabaster Bride of Boston. The Queen of Congress Street.”

“I don’t understand,” said Bray.

“The Trans-Comm Tower,” explained Anne Goldman. “It’s a white stone building thirty or forty stories high, with rows of tinted blue glass on every floor.”

“The ivory tower with a thousand eyes staring down at you,” added Goldman, still amused. “Depending on the angle of the sun, some seem to be open, some closed, while others appear to be winking.”

“Winking? Closed?”

“
Eyes,
” pressed Anne, blinking her own. “The horizontal lines of tinted glass are huge windows, rows and rows of large bluish circles.”

Scofield caught his breath.
Per nostro circolo.
“It sounds strange,” he said without emphasis.

“Actually, it’s quite imposing,” replied Goldman. “A bit
outre
for my taste, but I gather that’s the point. There’s a kind of outraged purity about it, a white shaft set down in the middle of the dark concrete jungle of a financial district.”

“That’s interesting.” Bray could not help himself; he found an obscure analogy in Goldman’s words. The white shaft became a beam of light; the jungle was chaos.

“So much for the Alabaster Bride,” said the lawyer-professor. “What did you want to know about Trans-Comm?”

“Everything you can tell me,” answered Scofield.

Goldman was mildly startled. “Everything?… I’m not sure I know that much. It’s your classic multinational conglomerate, I can tell you that. Extraordinarily diversified, brilliantly managed.”

“I read the other day that a lot of financial people were stunned by the extent of its holdings in Verachten.”

“Yes,” agreed Goldman, nodding his head in that exaggerated way a man does when he hears a foolish point being repeated. “A lot of people
were
stunned, but I wasn’t. Of course, Trans-Comm owns a great deal of Verachten. I daresay I could name four or five other countries where its holdings would stun these same people.
The philosophy of a conglomerate is to buy as far and as wide as possible and diversify its markets. It both uses and refutes the Malthusian laws of economics. It creates aggressive competition within its own ranks, but does its best to remove all outside competitors.
That’s
what multinationals are all about, and Trans-Comm’s one of the most successful anywhere in the world.”

Bray watched the lawyer as he spoke. Goldman was a born teacher—infectious in delivery, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “I understand what you’re saying, but you lost me with one statement. You said you could name four or five other countries where Trans-Comm has heavy investments. How can you do that?”

“Not just me,” objected Goldman. “Anybody can. All he has to do is read and use a little imagination. The laws, Mr. Vickery. The laws of the host country.”

“The laws?”

“They’re the only things that can’t be avoided, the only protection buyers and sellers have. In the international financial community they take the place of armies. Every conglomerate must adhere to the laws of the country in which its divisions operate. Now, these same laws often insure confidentiality; they’re the frameworks within which the multinationals have to function—corrupting and altering them when they can, of course. And since they do, they must seek intermediaries to represent them.
Legally.
A Boston attorney practicing before the Massachusetts bar would be of little value in Hong Kong. Or Essen.”

“What are you driving at?” Bray asked.

“You study the
law firms.
” Goldman leaned forward again. “You match the firms and their locations with the general level of their clients and the services for which they’re most recognized. When you find one that’s known for negotiating stock purchases and exchanges, you look around to see what companies in the area might be ripe for invading.” The legal academician was enjoying himself. “It’s really quite simple,” he continued, “and a hell of an amusing game to play. I’ve scared the be-jesus out of more than one corporate flunkie in those summer seminars by telling him where I thought his company’s money men were heading. I’ve got a little index file—three by five cards—where I jot down my goodies.”

Scofield spoke; he had to know. “What about Trans-Comm? Did you ever do a file card on it?”

“Oh, sure. That’s what I meant about the other countries.”

“What are they?”

Goldman stood up in front of the fire, frowning in recollection. “Let’s start with the Verachten Works. Trans-Comm’s overseas reports included sizeable payments to the Gehmeinhoff-Salenger firm in Essen. Gehmeinhoff’s a direct legal liaison to Verachten. And they’re not interested in nickel-and-dime transactions; Trans-Comm had to be going after a big chunk of the complex. Although I admit; even I didn’t think it was as much as the rumors indicate. Probably isn’t.”

“What about the others?”

“Let’s see.… Japan. Kyoto. T-C uses the firm of Aikawa-Onmura-and-something. My guess would be Yakashubi Electronics.”