The Matarese Circle (71 page)

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

It was exactly fourteen minutes past midnight when he completed the final call. Among the men he had reached were honorable men. Their voices would be heard by the President.

He had forty-eight hours. A lifetime.

It was time for a drink. Twice during the placement of calls he had looked at the bottle of Scotch, close to rationalizing the necessity of calming his anxieties, but both times rejected the method. Under pressure, he was the coldest man he knew; he might not always feel that way, but it was the way he functioned. He deserved a drink now; it would be a fitting salute to the call he was about to make to Senator Joshua Appleton, IV, born Julian Guide-rone, son of the Shepherd Boy.

The telephone rang, the shock of its sound causing Bray
to grip the bottle in his hand, oblivious to the whisky he was pouring. Liquor spilled over the glass onto the counter.
It was impossible!
There was no way the calls to Lisbon could be retraced so rapidly. The magnetic trunklines fluctuated hourly, insuring blind origins; the entire system would have to be shut down for a minimum of eight hours in order to trace a single call. Lisbon was an absolute; place a call through it and a man was safe, his location buried until it no longer mattered.

The phone rang again. Not to answer was not to know, the lack of knowledge infinitely more dangerous than any tracing. No matter what, he still had cards to play; or at least the conviction that those cards were playable. He would convey that. He lifted up the phone. “Yes?”

“Room Two-twelve?”

“What is it?”

“The manager, sir. It’s nothing really, but the outside operator has—quite naturally—kept our switchboard informed of your overseas telephone calls. We noticed that you’ve chosen not to use a credit card, but rather have billed the calls to your room. We thought you’d appreciate knowing that the charges are currently in excess of three hundred dollars.”

Scofield looked over at the depleted bottle of Scotch. Yankee skepticism would not change until the planet blew up; and then the New England bookkeepers would sue the universe.

“Why don’t you come up personally and I’ll give you the money for the calls. It’ll be in cash.”

“Oh, not necessary, not necessary at all, sir. Actually, I’m not at the hotel, I’m at home.” There was the slightest, slightly embarrassed pause. “In Beverly. We’ll just attach—”

“Thank you for your concern,” interrupted Bray, hanging up and heading back to the counter and the bottle of Scotch.

Five minutes later he was ready, icelike calm spreading through him as he sat down next to the telephone. The words would be there because the outrage was there; he did not have to think about them, they would come easily. What he had thought about was the sequence. Extortion, compromise, weakness, exchange. Someone within the Matarese wanted to talk with him, recruit him for the most
logical reasons in the world; he’d give that man—whoever he was—the chance to do both. It was part of the exchange, prelude to escape. But the first step on the tightrope would not be made by Beowulf Agate; it would be made by the son of the Shepherd Boy.

He picked up the phone; thirty seconds later he heard the famous voice laced with the pronounced Boston accent that reminded so many so often of a young President cut down in Dallas.

“Hello?
Hello?
” The Senator had been roused from his sleep; it was in the clearing of his throat. “Who’s there, for God’s sake?”

“There is a grave in the Swiss village of Col du Pillon. If there’s a body in the coffin below it’s not the man whose name is on the stone.”

The gasp on the line was electrifying, the silence that followed a scream suspended in the grip of fear. “Who?…” The man was in shock, unable to form the question.

“There’s no reason for you to say anything, Julian—”

“
Stop it!
” The scream was released.

“All right, no names. You know who I am—if you don’t, the Shepherd Boy hasn’t kept his son informed.”

“I won’t
listen!
”

“Yes you will, Senator. Right now that phone is part of your hand; you won’t let it go. You can’t. So just listen. On November 11, 1943, you and a close friend of yours went to the same dentist on Main Street in Andover, Massachusetts. You had X-rays taken that day.” Scofield paused for precisely one second. “I have them, Senator. Your office can confirm it in the morning. Your office also can confirm the fact that yesterday a messenger from the General Accounting Office picked up a set of more recent X-rays from your current dentist in Washington. And finally, if you’re so inclined, your office might check the X-ray Depository of the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. They’ll find that a single plate, frontal X-ray taken twenty-five years ago is missing from the Appleton file. As of an hour ago all are in my possession.”

There was a quiet, plaintive cry on the line, a moan without words.

“Keep listening, Senator,” continued Bray. “You’ve got a chance. If the girl’s alive you’ve got a chance, if she’s
not you don’t. Regarding the Russian, if he’s going to die, I’ll be the one who kills him. I think you know why. You see, accommodations can be made. What I know I don’t
want
to know. What you do is no concern of mine, not any longer. What you want, you’ve already won, and men like me simply end up working for people like you, that’s all that ever happens. Ultimately, there’s not much difference between any of you. Anywhere.” Scofield paused again, the bait was glaring; would he take it?

He did, the whisper hoarse, the statement tentative. “There are … people who want to talk with you.”

“I’ll listen. But only after the girl is free, the Russian turned over to me.”

“The X-rays?…” The words were rushed, cut off; a man was drowning.

“That’s the exchange.”

“
How?
”

“We’ll negotiate it. You’ve got to understand, Senator, the only thing that matters to me now is me. The girl and I, we just want to get away.”

“What?…” Again the man was incapable of forming the question.

“Do I want?” completed Scofield. “Proof that she’s alive, that she can still walk.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t know much about exchanges, either. A package that’s immobile isn’t any package at all; it voids the exchange. I want proof and I’ve got a very powerful pair of binoculars.”

“
Binoculars?
”

“Your people will understand. I want a telephone number and a sighting. Obviously, I’m in the Boston vicinity. I’ll call you in the morning. At this number.”

“There’s a debate on the Senate floor, a quorum—”

“You’ll miss it,” said Bray, hanging up.

The first move had been made; telephones would be in use all night between Washington and Boston. Move and countermove, thrust and parry, press and check; the negotiations had begun. He looked at the manila envelopes on the table. Between calls he had sealed all of them, weighed and stamped them; they were ready to go.

Except one, and there was no reason to believe he would mail it, the tragedy found in the disappearance of the man
and what he might have done. It was time to call his old friend from Paris back. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Bray, thank God! We’ve been waiting for hours!”

“
We?
”

“Ambassador Winthrop.”

“He’s
there?
”

“It’s all right. It was handled extremely well. His man, Stanley, assured me that no one could possibly have followed them and for all purposes, the ambassador is in Alexandria.”

“Stanley’s good!” Scofield felt like yelling to the skies in sheer relief, sheer
joy
. Winthrop was alive! The flanks were covered, the Matarese destroyed. He was free to negotiate as he had never negotiated in his life before, and he was the best there was. “Let me talk to Winthrop.”

“Brandon, I’m on the line. I’m afraid I took the phone from your friend quite rudely. Forgive me, my dear.”

“What
happened?
I tried calling you—”

“I was hurt—not seriously—but enough to require treatment. I went to a doctor I knew in Fredericksburg; he has a private clinic. It wouldn’t do for the eldest of so-called statesmen to show up at a Washington hospital with a bullet in his arm. I mean, can you imagine Harriman turning up in a Harlem emergency ward with a gunshot wound?… I couldn’t involve you any further, Brandon.”

“
Jesus
. I should have considered that.”

“You had enough to consider. Where are you?”

“Outside of Boston. There’s so much to tell you, but not on the phone. It’s all in an envelope, along with four strips of X-rays. I’ve got to get it to you right away, and you’ve got to get it to the President.”

“The Matarese?”

“More than either of us could imagine. I have the proof.”

“Take the first plane to Washington. I’ll reach the President now and get you full protection, a military escort, if need be. The search will be called off.”

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“Why
not?
” The Ambassador was incredulous.

“There are … hostages involved. I need time. They’ll be killed unless I negotiate.”

“Negotiate? You don’t have to negotiate. If you have what you say you have, let the government do it.”

“It takes roughly one pound of pressure and less than a fifth of a second to pull a trigger,” said Scofield. “I’ve got to negotiate.… But you see, I
can
now. I’ll stay in touch, pinpoint the exchange ground. You can cover me.”

“Those words again,” said Winthrop. “They never leave your vocabulary, do they?”

“I’ve never been so grateful for them.”

“How much time?”

“It depends; it’s delicate. Twenty-four, possibly thirty hours. It has to be less than forty-eight; that’s the deadline.”

“Get the proof to me, Brandon. There’s an attorney, his firm’s in Boston but he lives in Waltham. He’s a good friend. Do you have a car?”

“Yes. I can get to Waltham in about forty minutes.”

“Good. I’ll call him; he’ll be on the first plane to Washington in the morning. His name is Paul Bergeron; you’ll have to get his address from the phone book.”

“No problem.”

It was 1:45
A.M.
when Bray rang the bell of the fieldstone house in Waltham. The door was opened by Paul Bergeron, dressed in a bathrobe, creases of concern on his aging, intelligent face.

“I know I’m not to ask your name, but would you care to come in? From what I gather, I’m sure you can use a drink.”

“Thanks just the same, but I still have work to do. Here’s the envelope, and thanks again.”

“Another time, perhaps.” The attorney looked at the thick manila envelope in his hand. “You know, I feel the way Jim St. Clair must have felt when he got that last call from Al Haig. Is this some kind of smoking-gun?”

“It’s on fire, Mr. Bergeron.”

“I called the airline an hour ago; I’m on the 7:55 to Washington. Winthrop will have this by ten in the morning.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

Scofield drove back toward Salem, scanning the roads instinctively for signs of anyone following him; there were none, nor did he expect to see any. He was also looking for an all-night supermarket. Their wares were rarely, if ever, restricted to foodstuffs.

He found one on the outskirts of Medford, set back from the highway. He parked in front, walked inside, and saw what he was looking for in the second aisle. A display of inexpensive Big Ben alarm clocks. He bought ten of them.

It was 3:18 when he walked into his room. He took the alarm clocks from their boxes, lined them up on the table, and opened his attaché case, taking out a small leather case containing miniature hand tools. He would buy bell wire and batteries first thing in the morning, the explosives later in the day. The charges might be a problem, but it was not insurmountable; he needed more show than power—and in all likelihood he would need nothing at all. The years, however, had taught him caution; an exchange was like the workings of a giant aircraft. Each system had a backup system, each backup an alternative.

He had six hours to prepare his alternatives. It was good he had something to do; sleep now was out of the question.

The shift from dawn to daybreak was barely discernible; winter rain was promised again. By eight o’clock it had arrived. Bray stood, his hands on the windowsill, looking out at the ocean, thinking about calmer, warmer seas, wondering if he and Toni would ever sail them. Yesterday there was no hope; today there was and he was primed to function as he had never functioned before. All that was Beowulf Agate would be seen and heard from this day. He had spent his life preparing for the few brief hours that would prolong it the only way that was acceptable to him. He would bring her out or he would die;
that had not changed. The fact that he had effectively destroyed the Matarese was almost incidental now. That was a professional objective and he was the best … he and the Russian were the best.

He turned from the window and went to the table, surveying his work of the last few hours. It had taken less time than he had projected, so total was his concentration. Each clock was dismantled, every main wheel spring drilled at the spindle, new pinion screws inserted in the ratchet mechanisms, the miniature bolts balanced. Each was now prepared to accept the insertion of bell wires leading to battery terminals that would throw thirty seconds of sparks into exposed powder. These sparks would, in turn, burn and ignite explosives over a span of fifteen minutes. Each alarm had been set and reset a dozen times, infinitesimal grooves filed across the gears insuring sequence; all worked a dozen times in sequence. Professional tools, no particular significance attached to his knowing them. The designer was also a mechanic, the architect a builder, the critic a practitioner of the craft. It was essential.

Powder could be obtained at any gunsmith’s with the purchase of shells. As for explosives, a simple visit to a demolition or excavation site, armed with the proper government identification, was all that it took for an on-the-spot inventory. The rest was a matter of having large pockets in a raincoat. He had done it all before; lay mentality was the same everywhere. Beware the man bearing a black plastic ID case who spoke softly. He was dangerous. Cooperate; do not allow your name to get on a list.