The Matarese Countdown (13 page)

“The Shepherd Boy? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you when and if I think the time is right.”

The four-story stone house above the waters of the Keizersgracht in Amsterdam was a monument to, if not a remembrance of, the splendor that was the port city’s wealthiest years at the turn of the century. The Victorian furniture was sturdy yet delicate in design, heirlooms handed down
through generations of a family born to riches. The walls of the high-ceilinged rooms were filled with priceless Flemish and French tapestries, the tall windows bordered by velour drapes, the sunlight filtered through the finest lace. A small brass-grilled mahogany elevator, self-operated, was centered at the far rear wall of the building; it was capable of carrying up to five occupants. However, to reach the fourth and top floor required the insertion of a specific code in the panel, a code that was altered daily, and programming an incorrect one would result in the elevator’s instant cessation, along with the locking of the brass grill. Whoever attempted to reach the fourth floor without code clearance was trapped, to be dealt with according to the circumstances.

Further, the main area of each succeeding level had a general function. The first floor was essentially a large drawing room, complete with a Steinway grand piano; it was suitable for afternoon teas, cocktail parties, small recitals, and occasional lectures. The second level, easily reached by the staircase, held a grandiose dining room, seating sixteen comfortably, with a separate library-study, and at the rear, an immense kitchen. The third floor was basically designed for sleeping quarters. There was a master bedroom and bath, and three additional guest rooms, each good-sized and with all the amenities. The fourth level was off-limits. The staircase stopped at the third; the railing curved into the hallway with no evidence of another floor, only an exquisitely papered wall.

Should an occupant or a guest possess the elevator code, however, he would be astonished by what he observed when he emerged on the fourth floor. It was nothing short of a military war room. The entire front wall was a detailed map of the world, eerily illuminated from behind, tiny flashing lights of various colors pulsating in erratic rhythms. Facing this global display were six white computer stations, three on each side of an aisle that led to a huge elevated desk, the station-throne, as it were, for the monarch of the equipment.

Beyond this display of high technology, so anachronistic in contrast to the floors below, perhaps the oddest observable
fact was the absence of windows. On the outside, they were there. On the inside, they did not exist. Like the staircase that abruptly ended on the third floor, the windows on the fourth had been sealed off, the only light emanating from the overwhelming map of the world and the halogen lamps at each computer station. Lastly, as if to finally compound the macabre atmosphere, the six males operating the computers were far from the image of bright young people with eager faces usually associated with such equipment. Instead, they were, to a man, middle-aged, neither slender nor corpulent, with stern features that bespoke successful business executives, prosperous but not given to frivolity.

It was late afternoon in Amsterdam, confirmed by one of the blue clocks on the map atop the Greenwich-mean-time zone containing the Netherlands. All six white computers on the floor level were quietly humming, the operators’ fingers nimbly prancing over their keyboards, their eyes alternately on the global screen, on the small flashing lights, geographically ascertaining the information being sent and received.

From a thick side door, the figure of Jan van der Meer Matareisen emerged; he walked rapidly, purposefully to the elevated desk and sat down, instantly turning to his computer. He pressed a series of keys and studied the screen. Abruptly, he called out, his voice metallic, anxious. “Number Five, what’s the latest from the Caribbean?” he asked in Dutch. “There’s nothing, absolutely
nothing
that I can bring up!”

“I was about to transfer it,
meneer
,” replied the nervous, balding man at Station Five. “There’s been considerable confusion and the decoding was laborious, as the message was sent hastily and incomplete.”

“What was it?
Quickly!
”

“Our pilot is convinced he was picked up by AWACS radar out of Guantánamo. He took evasive action, shutting down all communications, and headed south.”

“Destination?”

“Unknown, sir. He implied—for he was not very clear—
that he would make ‘unorthodox’ contact when he was secure.”

“Unorthodox,” interrupted Station Six, nearest on the right below Matareisen, “which means he’ll probably reach one of our branches and have it make contact with us.”

“What are his choices?”

“The nearest is Barranquilla in Colombia,” answered Station Two, punching his keys. “Or Nicaragua, or possibly the Bahamas, although that’s dangerous. Nassau is cooperating too freely with Washington.”

“A moment,
meneer!
” cried Five. “A transmission. From Caracas!”

“Good flying, good thinking,” said the leader of the Matarese. “We’re entrenched in Venezuela.”
Entrenched indeed
, thought Matareisen,
they’re on the boards of the major oil companies
. “The message, please.”

“I’m decoding it, sir.”

“
Quickly!
”

“Here it is. ‘Argonaut with Neptune, no inheritors. Report to follow.’ ”

“Excellent,
excellent!
” exclaimed Matareisen, getting up from his chair. “Make a note that we must reward our pilot. He sank the trawler with no survivors.… And I must make my own report.” With this last statement, van der Meer walked back to the heavy side door on the right wall. He pressed his palm against the recessed security pad; there was a click; he reached for the knob and opened the forbidding door, then closed it rapidly.

As one, the six operators appeared to heave sighs of relief. “Do you think we’ll ever find out what’s in there?” whispered Station Three, smiling.

“We’re extremely well paid to accept his explanation,” replied One, also whispering. “He says it’s his private quarters with equipment superior even to ours, and we have the finest.”

“Yet he answers to no one, he’s also made that clear,” said Two. “Whom could he possibly report to?”

“Who knows?” continued Three. “But if that’s a communications annex, it must hold twenty or thirty machines.
It may be somewhat narrower than this place, but it has to be every bit as long.”

“Dwell not, my friends,” said the submissive Station One. “We’re richer than we ever were; we believe, and we must accept our regulations. I, for one, would never care to return to my corporate position, for the salary, as extravagant as it was, was no match for
Heer
van der Meer’s generosity.”

“Nor I,” said Four. “I have partnerships in several diamond exchanges, the costs excessive because I am a gentile. Entirely beyond my reach before I joined this firm.”

“Then I repeat,” said One. “Don’t speculate. Let us accept what we have and enjoy it. None of us is terribly young, and in a few years we’ll all retire as millionaires several times over.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” chimed in Station Five. “A moment! Another transmission. This on my Istanbul routing.” All eyes turned, focused on the computer screen.

“Read it,” said Four. “We may have to interrupt van der Meer.”

“It’s from Eagle—”

“That’s Washington,” Six broke in, “our contact at Langley.”

“Read it!”

“Give me several minutes to decode; it’s not that long.” Ninety-seven seconds passed, the executives’ eyes all on Station Five. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve transposed the cipher eliminating the false names. Thus, it reads as follows. ‘Beowulf Agate survives. He and the Hawk—read that as Cameron Pryce—in contact with D-Director Shields. Beowulf and the woman flying to U.S. under Agency protection. The wolf will assume operational command.’ ”

“Break in on van der Meer,” ordered Four.

“We’re not supposed to when he’s in there—”

“
Do
it!”

“Why don’t you?”

“I shall.… I’ll give him a few minutes in case he returns.”

•  •  •

Jan van der Meer Matareisen closed the thick door to his private sanctuary and walked into the last light of the day, streaming through the unsealed windows. The enormous suite was designed for comfort. Gone was any sign of the sophisticated machinery beyond the concrete wall; instead, there were the appointments of a luxurious living room: brocaded easy chairs, a curving sofa covered with pale yellow Loro Piana vicuna, and again, priceless tapestries. There was a huge entertainment complex consisting of a large television set along with all the audio devices, and a mirrored glass bar with the most expensive whiskeys and brandies. It was the dwelling place of someone who demanded the finest things.

Van der Meer stood immobile in front of a wide, gold-framed mirror. “It is I again, Mr. Guiderone. I bring you great news.” The language he spoke was English.

“News you didn’t have fifteen minutes ago?” came the crisply spoken amplified words, also in English, the accent American—cultured American, not traceable to any region, the speech of the educated, the wealthy.

“It just arrived.”

“How important?”

“Beowulf Agate.”

“The brilliant
pig
of the world,” said the voice of the unseen man called Guiderone, laughing softly. “I’ll be out shortly, I’m on the telephone.… Turn on the satellite feed from Belmont Park in New York. I should like to hear great news from there as well. I have horses running in the first and third races.”

Matareisen did as he was told. The immense screen was filled with dashing Thoroughbreds breaking from the starting gate, jockeys hunched high, straining, whipping their mounts. And Julian Guiderone came out of a door. He was a fair-sized, well-trimmed man, a shade under six feet, and wearing a paisley print sport shirt of Italian silk above creased gray flannels and Gucci loafers. His age was at first difficult to estimate—although he was certainly not young.
His gray hair was subtly streaked with pale yellow, bespeaking its original blond, but it was his sharp-featured face that confounded attempts to guess his years. It was a handsome face, perhaps too perfectly proportioned, too symmetrical, and the tan flesh appeared to be ever so slightly discolored, as frequently happens when northern tourists too eagerly confront a tropic sun. This oddity would probably not be noticed in casual meetings; the tan skin took precedence. But it was there if a person studied the lined, handsome face, just as the minor limp was there in his left leg.

“Incidentally, old sport,” he said, “I’ll be here for another three days, leaving as I arrived—at four o’clock in the morning. Deactivate the alarms for my exit.”

“Will another be arriving shortly?”

“Only with your approval. You have your own schedules, of course, and things are coming to a head, aren’t they?”

“Nothing I’d permit to inconvenience you, Mr. Guiderone.”

“Don’t think like that, van der Meer. You’re in command, it’s your show. In two years I’ll be seventy; younger blood must take over. I’m merely an adviser.”

“Whose advice and guidance are treasured,” Matareisen hastened to interrupt. “You were here in other days when I was merely a raw young man. You know things I can never know.”

“But then, van der Meer, you can
do
things I can no longer do. I’m told that despite your professional demeanor and your less-than-imposing size, your hands and feet are lethal weapons. Actually, that you can dispatch men much larger and heavier than you in a matter of seconds.… In the old days I climbed the Matterhorn and the Eiger, but I doubt I could handle a novice ski slope now.”

“Whatever physical and intellectual skills I have cannot match the wisdom of your experience.”

“I doubt that, but I accept the compliment—”

“Tell me about this Scofield, this ‘Beowulf Agate,’ ” Matareisen broke in politely but firmly. “I’ve followed your instructions without question, but, if I may say it, with a
degree of risk. Naturally, I’m most curious. You called him ‘the brilliant pig of the world.’ Why?”

“Because he lived with swine, dealt with swine—his own American swine, who tried to kill him. ‘Execute for treason’ was their legal
modus operandi.
”

“My curiosity now knows no bounds! The Americans wanted to
kill
him?”

“He found out, and rather than taking revenge on those who gave the order, he reversed the circumstances and became truly the untouchable.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He’s blackmailed all the other pigs for lo those twenty-five years.”

“
How
?”

“He told them he had documented proof that we had totally corrupted the major departments of his government and were about to install our own man as President of the United States. It was all true. Except for Beowulf Agate and the Serpent, we would have engineered the greatest coup in the history of the civilized world.”

“The Serpent?”

“A Soviet intelligence officer named Taleniekov.… That’s all you have to know, van der Meer. The Serpent died a most unseemly death, and now we must fulfill the order for the execution of Beowulf Agate prescribed by his own people.”

“We have. That is my news. The Alpha trawler was blown up. Scofield was confirmed to be on it. He’s dead, Mr. Guiderone.”

“
Congratulations
, van der Meer!” exclaimed the adviser to the chairman of the Matarese. “You truly deserve your ascendancy! I shall proclaim it to the Council in Bahrain. If Scofield left any documents, we’re prepared for them. The rantings of a disgraced dead madman are meaningless, we can handle that. Again, fine work, Matareisen! Now you can get on to the next level. How goes it? Where are you
really?
”

“We’re ready to move throughout Europe, the Mediterranean, and the United States. We’ve been in secret negotiations
with corporate boards that we’ve packed with our own people—basically we’re unopposed; we have the numbers.”

“Sound strategy,” said Guiderone. “You need the votes.”