The Matarese Circle (70 page)

“I suppose anything for the next President of the United States,” said the dentist, taking the shortened X-ray sheets and reaching for his telephone. “Tell Appleton to lower my taxes.” He pressed the intercom button. “Bring in your pad, please.”

“Do you mind?” Bray took out his cigarettes.

“Are you nuts? Carcinoma loves company.” The nurse came through the door, steno pad and pencil in hand. “How do I start this?” asked the doctor, looking at Scofield.

“ ‘To Whom It May Concern’ is fine.”

“Okay.” The dentist glanced at his nurse. “We’re keeping the government honest.” He snapped on a scanning lamp and held both X-ray sheets against the glass. “ ‘To Whom It May Concern. Mister’.…” The doctor stopped, looking at Bray again. “What’s your first name?”

“B.A. will do.”

“ ‘Mister B. A. Vickery of Senator Appleton’s office in Washington, D.C., had requested and received from me two sets of X-rays dated November 11, 1943, for patients identified as Joshua Appleton and … Julian Guiderone.’ ” The dentist paused. “Anything else?”

“A description, doctor. That’s what HR Seven-Four-Eight-Five calls for.”

The dentist sighed, the cigarette protruding from his lips. “ ‘Said identical sets include’ … one, two, three, four across … ‘twelve negatives.’ ” The doctor stopped, squinting through his half glasses. “You know,” he interjected. “My uncle wasn’t only primitive, he was downright careless.”

“What do you mean?” asked Scofield, watching the dentist closely.

“The right and left bicuspids are missing in both of these. I was so rushed I didn’t notice before.”

“They’re the cards you gave me this morning.”

“I’m sure they are; there are the labels. I think I matched the upper and lower incisors. He held out the X-rays for Scofield and turned to the nurse. “Put what I said into English and type it up, will you? I’ll sign it outside.” He crushed out his cigarette and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Vickery. I’ve really got to get back in there.”

“Just one more thing, doctor. Would you mind initialing these sheets and dating them?” Bray separated the X-rays and placed them on the counter.

“Not at all,” said the dentist.

Scofield drove back to Salem. A great deal was still to be clarified, new decisions to be made as events shaped them, but he had his overall plan; he had a place to begin. It was almost time for Mr. B. A. Vickery to arrive at the Ritz Carlton, but not yet.

He had stopped earlier at the Shopping Plaza in Salem where he had found small red-bordered labels almost identical
to those used more than thirty-five years ago, and a store selling typewriters where he had typed in the names and the dates, rubbing them lightly to give the labels an appearance of age. And while walking to his car he had looked briefly around at the shops, again seeing what he had hoped to see.

It was conveniently two doors away from a liquor store, three from a supermarket. He would stop there now and have copies made of his bill-of-particulars, and afterward pick up something to drink and eat. He would be in his room for a long time; he had phone calls to make. They would take five to seven hours to complete. They had to be routed on a very precise schedule through Lisbon.

Bray watched as the manager of the Plaza Duplicating Service extracted the collated sheets of his indictment from the levels of gray trays that protruded from the machine. He had chatted briefly with the balding man, remarking that he was doing a favor for a nephew; the young fellow was taking one of those creative writing courses at Emerson and had entered some sort of college competition.

“That kid’s got some imagination,” said the manager, clipping the stacks of copies together.

“Oh, did you read it?”

“Just parts. You stand over that machine with nothing to do but make sure there’s no jamming; you look. But when people come in with personal things—like letters and wills, you know what I mean—I always try to keep my eyes on the dials. Sometimes it’s hard.”

Bray laughed. “I told my nephew he’d better win or he’d be put in jail.”

“Not anymore. These kids today, they’re great. They say anything. I know a lot of people don’t like ’em for it, but I do.”

“I think I do, too.” Bray looked at the bill placed in front of him and took his money from his pocket. “Say,
you wouldn’t by any chance have an Alpha Twelve machine here, would you?”

“Alpha
Twelve?
That’s an eighty-thousand-dollar piece of equipment. I do a good business, but I’m not in that class.”

“I suppose I could find one in Boston.”

“That insurance company over on Lafayette Street has one; you can bet your life the home office paid for it. It’s the only one I know of
north
of Boston, and I mean right up to Montreal.”

“An insurance company?”

“West Hartford Casualty. I trained the two girls who run the Alpha Twelve. Isn’t that just like an insurance company? They buy a machine like that but they won’t pay for a service contract.”

Scofield leaned on the counter, a weary man confiding. “Listen, I’ve been traveling for five days and I’ve got to get a report into the mails by tonight. I need an Alpha Twelve. Now, I can drive into Boston and probably find one. But it’s damn near four o’clock and I’d rather not do that. My company’s a little crazy; it thinks my time is valuable and lets me have enough money to save it where I can. What do you say? Can you help me?” Bray removed a hundred-dollar bill from his clip.

“You work for one hell of a company.”

“That I do.”

“I’ll make a call.”

It was 5:45 when Bray returned to the hotel on Salem harbor. The Alpha Twelve had performed the service he had needed, and he had found a stationery store where he had purchased a stapler, six manila envelopes, two rolls of packaging tape, and a Park-Sherman scale that measured weight in ounces and grams. At the Salem Post Office he had bought fifty dollars worth of stamps.

A porterhouse steak and a bottle of Scotch completed his shopping list. He spread his purchases on the bed, removing some to the table, others to the Formica counter between the Lilliputian stove and refrigerator. He poured a drink and sat in the chair in front of the window overlooking the harbor. It was growing dark, he could barely see the water except where it reflected the lights of the piers.

He drank the whisky in short swallows, letting the alcohol spread, suspending all thought. He had no more than ten minutes before the telephone calls would begin. His cannons were in place, his nuclear bomb in its rack. It was vital now that everything take place in sequence—always sequence—and that meant choosing the right words at the right time; there was no room for error. To avoid error, his mind had to be free, loose, unencumbered—capable of listening closely, picking up nuances.

Toni?…

No!

He closed his eyes. The gulls in the distance were foraging the waters for their last meal before darkness was complete. He listened to their screeches, the dissonance somehow comforting; there was a kind of energy in every struggle to survive. He hoped he would have it.

He dozed, awakening with a start. He looked at his watch, annoyed. It was six minutes past six; his ten minutes had stretched nearer to fifteen. It was time for the first telephone call, the one he considered least likely to bring results. It would not have to be routed through Lisbon, the chances of a tap so remote as to be practically nonexistent. But practically was not totally; therefore, his conversation would last no longer than twenty seconds, the minimum amount of time needed for even the most sophisticated tracing equipment to function.

The twenty-second limit was the one he had instructed the Frenchwoman to use weeks ago when she had placed calls for him all through the night to a suite of rooms at the hotel on Nebraska Avenue.

He rose from the chair and went to his attaché case, taking out notes he had written to himself. Notes with names and telephone numbers. He walked over to the bedside telephone, pulled the armchair next to the phone, and sat down. He thought for a moment, composing a verbal shorthand French for what he wanted to say, doubting, however, that it would make any difference. Ambassador Robert Winthrop had disappeared more than a month ago; there was no reason to think he had survived. Winthrop had raised the names of the Matarese with the wrong men—or man—in Washington.

He picked up the phone and dialed; three rings followed before an operator got on the line and asked for his
room number. He gave it and more distant rings continued.

“Hello?”

“Listen! There’s no time. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

She knew him; she was with him. He spoke rapidly in French, his eyes on the sweep hand of his watch. “Ambassador Robert Winthrop. Georgetown. Take two Company men with you, no explanations. If Winthrop’s there ask to see him alone, but say nothing out loud. Give him a note with the words: ‘Beowulf wants to reach you.’ Let him advise in writing. The contact must be sterile. I’ll call you back.”

Seventeen seconds
.

“We
must
talk,” was the strong, quick reply. “Call back.”

He hung up; she’d be safe. It was not only unlikely that the Matarese had found her and tapped her, but even if they had, they would not kill her. There was nothing to gain, more to learn by keeping the intermediary alive, and too much of a mess killing the Company men with her. Besides, there were limits to his liability under the circumstances; he was sorry, but there were.

It was time for Lisbon. He had known since Rome that he would use Lisbon when the moment came. A series of telephone calls could be placed through Lisbon only once. For once those receiving the calls were listed in the overnight data banks, red cards would fly out of computers into alarm slots, the coded source traced through other computers in Langley, and no further calls permitted by that source, all transmissions terminated. Access to Lisbon was restricted to those who dealt solely with high-level defections, men in the field who in times of emergency had to go directly to their superiors in Washington who in turn were authorized to make immediate decisions. No more than twenty intelligence officers in the country had the codes for Lisbon, and no man in Washington ever refused a call from Lisbon. One never knew whether a general, or a nuclear physicist, or a ranking member of the presidium or the KGB might be the prize.

It was also understood that any abuse of the Lisbon access would result in the severest consequences for the abuser. Bray was amused—grimly—at the concept; the
abuse he was about to inflict was beyond anything conceived by the men who made the rules. He looked at the five names and titles he was about to call. The names in themselves were not that unusual; they could probably be found in any telephone book. Their positions, however, could not.

The Secretary of State

The Chairman of the National Security Council

The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency

The Chief Foreign Policy Advisor to the President

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff

The probability that one, possibly two of these men were
consiglieri
of the Matarese convinced Bray not to try to send his indictment directly to the President. Taleniekov and he had believed that once the proof was in their hands the two leaders of both their countries could be reached and convinced. It was not true; Presidents and Premiers were too closely guarded, too protected; messages were filtered, words interpreted. The charges of “traitors” would be dismissed. Others had to reach Presidents and Premiers. Men whose positions of trust and responsibility were beyond reproach; such men had to bring them the news, not “traitors.”

The majority if not all of those he was about to call were committed to the well being of the nation; any one of them could get the ear of the President. It was all he asked for, and none would refuse a call from Lisbon. He picked up the telephone and dialed the overseas operator.

Twenty minutes later the operator called back. Lisbon had, as always, cleared the traffic to Washington quickly; the Secretary of State was on the line.

“This is State One,” said the Secretary. “Your codes are cleared, Lisbon. What is it?”

“Mr. Secretary, within forty-eight hours you’ll receive a manila envelope in the mail; the name Agate will be printed in the upper left corner—”

“Agate?
Beowulf Agate?
”

“Please, listen to me, sir. Have the envelope brought directly to you unopened. Inside there’s a detailed report describing a series of events which have taken place—and are taking place right now—that amount to a conspiracy to assume control of the government—”

“Conspiracy? Please be specific. Communist?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You
must
be specific, Mr. Scofield! You’re a wanted man, and you’re abusing the Lisbon connection! Self-seeking cries of alarm from you are not in your interest. Or in the interest of the country.”

“You’ll find all the specifics you need in my report. Among them is proof—I repeat,
proof
, Mr. Secretary—that there’s been a deception in the Senate that goes back twenty years. It’s of such magnitude that I’m not at all sure the country can absorb the shock. It may not even be in its interest to expose it.”

“Explain yourself!”

“The explanation’s in the envelope. But not a recommendation; I haven’t got any recommendations. That’s your business. And the President’s. Bring the information to him as soon as you get it.”

“I order you to report to me immediately!”

“I’ll come out in forty-eight hours, if I’m alive. When I do I want two things: vindication for me and asylum for a Soviet intelligence officer—if he’s alive.”

“Scofield, where
are you?
”

Bray hung up.

He waited ten minutes and placed his second call to Lisbon. Thirty-five minutes later the Chairman of the National Security Council was on the line.