The Matarese Countdown

I
n the forests of Chelyabinsk, roughly nine hundred air miles from Moscow, there is a hunting lodge once considered a favorite retreat by the elite rulers of the Soviet Union. It was a
dacha
for all seasons, in spring and summer a festival of gardens and wildflowers on the edge of a mountain lake, in autumn and winter a paradise for hunters. In the years since the collapse of the old Presidium, it was held inviolate by the new rulers, an apolitical resting place of Russia’s most venerated scientist, a nuclear physicist named Dimitri Yuri Yurievich, a
man
for all seasons. For he had been assassinated, brutally led into a monstrous trap by killers who held no respect, only fury, for his genius, which he wanted to share with all nations. No matter where the assassins came from, and no one really knew, they were the evil ones, certainly not their target, regardless of the lethal implications of his scholarship.

The white-haired, balding old woman lay on the bed, the huge bay window in front of her revealing the early northern snow. Like her hair and her wrinkled flesh, everything beyond the glass was white, frozen new purity from the skies, bending branches with its weight, a paradise of blinding light. With effort, she reached for the brass bell on the bedside table and shook it.

In moments, a buxom woman in her thirties with brown hair and eyes that were alive and questioning rushed through the door. “Yes, Grandmother, what can I do for you?” she asked.

“You’ve already done more than you should, my child.”

“I’m hardly a child, and there’s nothing I
wouldn’t
do for you, you know that. May I get you some tea?”

“No, you can get me a priest—doesn’t matter which variety. We weren’t permitted them for so long.”

“You don’t need a priest, you need some solid food, Grandmother.”

“My God, you sound like your grandfather. Always arguing, forever analyzing—”

“I wasn’t analyzing at all,” interrupted Anastasia Yuriskaya Solatov. “You eat like a sparrow!”

“They probably eat their weight every day.… Not that it matters, but where’s your husband?”

“Out hunting. He says one can track animals in the new snow.”

“He’ll probably shoot his foot off. Also, we don’t need provisions. Moscow is generous,” the old woman said.

“As they
should
be!” interjected Anastasia Solatov.

“No, my dear. Because they’re frightened to be otherwise.”

“What are you
saying
, Maria Yuriskaya?”

“Bring me the priest, my child. I’m eighty-five years old, and someone must be told the truth.
Now!
”

The elderly, black-robed Russian Orthodox prelate stood over the bed. He knew the signs; he had seen them too often. The old woman was dying, her breath growing shorter, with each moment more difficult. “Your confession, dear lady?” he intoned.

“Not mine, you
ass!
” replied Maria Yuriskaya. “It was a day not unlike this—the snow on the ground, the hunters ready, their guns strapped over their shoulders. He was killed on such a day as this, his body mauled, torn apart by a crazed wounded bear driven into his path by madmen.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve all heard the story of your tragic loss, Maria.”

“They said at first it was the Americans, then that it was my husband’s critics in Moscow—even his jealous competitors, but it was
neither.
”

“It was so long ago, madame. Stay calm, the Lord is waiting for you. He will take you into his bosom and comfort you—”

“
Guvno
, you fool! The truth must be
told
. I learned later—calls from all over the world, nothing written, only words spoken through the air—that I and my children, and their children, would never live to see another daybreak should I speak of what my husband said to me.”

“What was that, Maria?”

“My breath is leaving me, Father, the window grows dark.”

“What
was
it, my child of God?”

“A force far more dangerous than what exists between all the warring factions on this earth.”

“What ‘force,’ dear woman?”

“The
Matarese
 … the consummate evil.” The old woman’s head fell back. She was dead.

The huge, glistening white yacht, its length over a hundred fifty feet from bow to stern, slowly maneuvered its way into the marina at Estepona, the northern point of Spain’s opulent Costa del Sol, a retirement haven for the wealthy of the world.

The gaunt old man in the luxurious master stateroom sat in a velvet-covered chair, attended to by his personal valet of nearly three decades. The aged owner of the ship was being groomed by his servant and friend for the most important conference of his long life, a life that spanned over ninety years, the precise age kept secret, for much of that life was spent in the cutthroat arenas of men much younger. Why give those avaricious turks the advantage of his rumored senility, which in reality amounted to several generations of superior experience? Three cosmetic operations on
his features might have left his face partially masklike, but that was merely superficial, a misleading image to confuse the opportunists who would usurp his financial empire, given half a chance.

An empire that meant nothing any longer. It was a paper colossus worth over seven billion American dollars, seven thousand times a million, built on the manipulations of a long-forgotten entity. It began with a vision of revenge and turned ever more violently satanic, further corrupted by underlings who had no vision beyond themselves.

“How do I look, Antoine?”

“Splendid,
monsieur
,” replied the valet, applying a mild aftershave lotion and removing a lap cloth to reveal formal clothes complete with a striped cravat.

“This isn’t too much, is it?” asked the elegant employer, gesturing at his finery.

“Not at all. You are the
chairman
, sir, and they must understand that. You can brook no opposition.”

“Oh, my old friend, there’ll be no opposition. I plan to instruct my various boards to prepare for destructurization. I intend to give generous benefits to all who have devoted their time and energy to enterprises they essentially knew nothing about.”

“There will be those who will find your instructions difficult to accept,
mon ami
René.”

“Good! You’re dropping our pretenses, you’re about to tell me something.” Both men laughed softly as the old man continued. “If the truth were told, Antoine, I should have put you on some executive committee. I can’t remember when your advice was in error.”

“I only offered it when you asked and when I thought I understood the circumstances. Never in the areas of business negotiations, of which I understand nothing.”

“Only of people, correct?”

“Let’s say I’m protective, René…. Come, let me help you up and put you in the wheelchair—”

“
No
, Antoine, no wheelchair! Take my arm and I’ll walk into the meeting.… By the way, what did you mean when you said there’ll be those who won’t like my instructions?
They’ll get their benefits. They’ll all be more than comfortable.”

“Security is not the same as active involvement,
mon ami
. The workers will be grateful, indeed, but your executives may feel otherwise. You are removing them from their fiefdoms of power, of influence. Beware, René, several who’ll be at this conference are among that group.”