The Matarese Countdown (33 page)

“What are you talking about, Cam?” asked Leslie.

Pryce had no chance to answer as MI-5’s ill-humored Geoffrey Waters came bounding down the staircase. “Damn, damn,
damn
,” he exclaimed.

“I already said that,” remarked Cameron. “Why now you?”

“The whole bloody place is wired! It could bloody well be an adjunct of the BBC, or one of those penny-dreadful offshore stations in the channel!”

“Clarification, please?” said Pryce.

“Try this, chap. We found the bug in the garage, three in this room, two in the dining room, and one in every other damn room in the house—excuse me, another two in the upstairs library.”

“That’s so
disgusting!
” cried Angela.

“It had to have taken a long time to install them,” said Leslie.

“Without being observed,” added Cameron. “A person or persons in here alone without fear of being discovered.” He turned to Angela Brewster. “Since your mother’s death, you and your brother have been back at your schools, haven’t you?”

“We stayed here in London about a fortnight after the funeral—meeting with solicitors and executors and too many relatives, that sort of thing. And, of course, we’ve come back for a couple of weekends. Rog picks me up and we drive down like we did yesterday.”

“What Special Agent Pryce is getting at, my dear,” said Geoffrey Waters, “is that when you were
not
here, we must assume that Sergeant Major Coleman was, is that correct?”

“Yes,” replied Angela, barely audible, her eyes downcast.

“Then I’d say we have the answer as to who planted the intercepts. He’s obviously a candidate for the Old Bailey and I’d be delighted to call Scotland Yard right now.” The MI-5 chief started toward a phone.

“
No
, Geof!” objected Cameron, raising his voice. “That’s the last thing we do—or with luck, the next-to-last.”

“Now, just wait, chap. The only person who could have planted those intercepts is Coleman, and I remind you, it’s a crime.”

“Then we put him under surveillance, the tightest possible, but we don’t lock him up.”

“I’m not sure I follow you—”

“It’s what I was saying before,” interrupted Pryce. “We’re being distracted by everything that’s happening and not concentrating on the fundamental question, the reason Leslie and I flew over here.
Why
was Angela’s mother killed? What’s the connection to the Matarese?”

“The
who?
”

“I’ll explain later, dear,” said Montrose.

“I strongly disagree,” Waters broke in. “By pursuing everything that’s happened, hopefully we’ll find that connection.
Have a little patience, old man. What else have we got to go on?”

“We’re missing something,” continued Cameron, slowly shaking his head. “I don’t know what it is but we’re
missing
something.… Maybe we should go back to what Scofield said on Brass Twenty-six—”

“On what, chap?”

“Oh, sorry. Where I first met Beowulf Agate.”

“What a charming ellipsis,” said Leslie. “What did Scofield say?”

“Basically, that we needed an in-depth profile of Lady Alicia. Talk to lawyers, bankers, doctors, neighbors; build a psychological dossier; above all, follow any money trails.”

“My dear
fellow!
” exclaimed the MI-5 man. “Do you think we’ve been sitting around sucking our damn
thumbs?
We’ve put together a rather generous file on Lady Alicia, covering most of those items you just mentioned.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“We had other priorities, if you recall. Priorities we honestly believed would lead to shortcuts on the way to that connection you speak of.”

“Shortcuts? You’ve been talking with Scofield.”

“Not in years, but we all look for shortcuts, don’t we?”

“And psychological profiles are long shots,” said Leslie. “They take a great deal of time, which I’m not sure my son can afford. That may be selfish … but I can’t help it.”

“No one could blame you for that!” said Angela Brewster.

“No one is,” said Waters. “You’re right, Cameron, we put the bastard Coleman under complete surveillance, personal and electronic. Considering the dynamics of recent events, he could well lead us to others.”

“And if he suddenly moves around a lot and your personnel runs thin,
then
we call in Scotland Yard.”

There were four rapid beeps from the area beyond the archway. It was the front door. “That would be Rog and Coley,” Angela said. “They both have remotes that shut off the alarm.… I don’t know what to
say
, how to
behave
. What should I do?”

“Just act natural,” replied Leslie Montrose. “Don’t feel you have to say anything other than perfectly normal greetings. I suspect they’ll be doing most of the talking—they’ll have to.”

Roger Brewster came through the arch carrying two large cardboard cartons, apparently not very heavy. “Hello, everybody,” he said, carefully lowering the cartons to the floor.

“How did it go, Rog?” asked Angela haltingly. “Where’s Coley?”

“Question two, he’s driving the Bentley down into the garage.… Question one, just fine. Old Coley’s a devious son of a bitch, let me tell you!”

The others in the room exchanged glances. “How so, young fellow?” said Waters.

“Well, he walked into the security company like a lamb, getting our alarm records and plans, asking the questions we wanted answered, and making sure the technology was available to transmit the system to his flat in Lowndes Street. It was, of course.”

“So where’s the deviousness?” asked Pryce.

“He suddenly turned and became a bloody tiger, a regular Jekyll and Hyde! He’d hinted at some irregularities in the system when we were in the car driving over, but he didn’t elaborate so I figured he was just bitching—these systems all have glitches.”

“But he wasn’t just bitching?”

“Hell no, sir. He held up the computerized-record printout and proceeded to give the firm’s owner what-for while referring to his notebook.”

“What was he complaining about?” said the MI-5 chief, his outward calm disguising his anxiety.

“He claimed there were errors, quite a few of them, in the entries. You see, our system electronically computes the dates and times when the alarm is turned on, as well as any violations while it’s activated.”

“
And
, Bro?”

“Coley said that there were occasions when he left the house, noting the times when he turned on the alarm, and
they weren’t listed on the printouts. And if they weren’t listed, how could he believe there weren’t any violations.”

“What did the owner say?”

“Not an awful lot, Mrs. Montrose, Coley didn’t give him a chance. When the owner said that Coley probably didn’t insert the correct codes, old Coleman simply told him that wasn’t possible.”

“One of your classic sergeant majors, Geof,” said Pryce softly.

“Indubitably, chap,” agreed Waters. “What’s in the boxes, Roger?”

“There are two more in the foyer, I’ll bring them in.”

“What
are
they?”

“I’ll let Coley tell you. I’m not sure I understand.” Roger dashed into the archway, instantly colliding with an emerging figure carrying two cartons. Oliver Coleman, ex-sergeant major in the Royal Fusiliers, was a medium-sized plug of a man whose broad chest, thick neck, large shoulders, and erect posture gave away his military background, despite his business suit. His lined face was topped by brush-cut white hair with tinges of its former red, his features set, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, instead noncommittal. The larger Roger Brewster had literally bounced off him.

“Sorry, lad,” he said, glancing at the off-balance young man. “Good afternoon, Sir Geoffrey,” he continued in his pronounced Yorkshire accent, “I see there’s a gray van outside, I figure it’s one of yours.”

“You’re not supposed to. It’s unmarked.”

“Then I’d suggest you paint a sign on the sides, like Fishmonger or Greengrocers. Those gray vehicles stand out. You might as well be announcing yourselves.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.… May I introduce you to our new associates, Sergeant Major. Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, United States Army, and Special Agent Pryce, CIA.”

“Yes, the children told me about the two of you,” said Coleman, first approaching Leslie.

“Sergeant Major.” Montrose leaned forward on the couch, extending her hand.

“I’d salute, Colonel, but that was quite a few years ago.” They shook hands. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am, the kids think very highly of you—of both of you.” Coleman turned to Cameron; they also clasped hands. “An honor, Special Agent. We don’t get to see many of you chaps.”

“The name’s Pryce, and I’m not ‘special.’ We don’t have ‘special agents,’ Sergeant Major, but I can’t get it through Sir Geoffrey’s head.”

“And I’m Coley, Mr. Pryce, everybody calls me Coley.”

“While we’re at it, Coley old man, Roger said you’d explain the paraphernalia in those boxes. Please do so.”

“With enthusiasm, sir! Y’see, I kept a record of my exits and entries over the past—”

“
Yes
, old chap, the young fellow explained all that, your notebook, et cetera. What are you
doing?
”

“Well, a week and a half ago I got suspicious, I did. I drove down to Kent one morning—on a rather personal matter—and when I returned late in the afternoon I noticed that the potted azaleas on the front steps had been disturbed, several new buds broken off, actually, as if struck by something. I didn’t think much about it; postmen and delivery people often carry large packages, if you see what I mean.”

“But you thought enough about it to start keeping a record, is that right?” asked Pryce, studying the old soldier.

“That’s it, sir. I wrote down the exact times whenever I left and reentered the house. Sometimes it was only for a few minutes, like down to the market and back, at others I’d wait around the corner for an hour or more to see if any bounder showed up.”

“But no one ever did,” said Cameron.

“No, sir, and that gave me an idea—in truth, it only struck me the other day. On Thursday, I picked up a phone in here, coughed loudly while pretending to dial, then spoke clearly, saying I’d meet a chap in Regent’s Park around noon. I added some nonsense that could be construed as a code and hung up.”

“The oldest infantry trick since radios were introduced into combat,” said Pryce. “The assumption based on the
probability that the enemy had zeroed in on your outer frequency.”

“That’s
right
, sir!”

“Let me finish your scenario. You drove to Regent’s Park, picked up a car on your tail, parked, and waltzed through the paths until you saw who was following you—”

“You’re
bloody
right, sir!”

At that moment, the three-man intercept unit from MI-5 came down the staircase carrying their equipment. Ian, the team’s leader, spoke while reaching the great hall’s floor and glancing at his clipboard. “We found two more in the attic, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Coley,
look!
” shouted Roger Brewster.

“What, lad?”

“The equipment they’re bringing down! It’s like the stuff we picked up at your friend’s shop in the Strand.”

“So it is, Roger. MI-Five wasn’t far behind us. They simply got here before us.”

“What do you mean, Coleman?”

“Bugs, Sir Geoffrey. There had to be listening devices all over the house! I damn well proved it.”

“You proved it and we found them,” said Waters, his voice low and laced with suspicion. “Rather splendid if unusual timing, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m not sure what you said, sir.”

“I believe we should have a look-see at your flat, Coleman.”

“What for? The new equipment won’t be installed for several days.”

“We’re interested in the existing equipment.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll be blunt, old chap. This afternoon may be a brilliant performance on your part but I doubt you’re aware of the latest technology in intercept tracking.”

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talkin’ about,” said Coleman, his face beginning to flush with anger.

“The listening post for the devices in this house was determined to be in Lowndes Street. Your flat is in Lowndes Street. Need I say more?”

“If you’re suggestin’ what I think you’re suggestin’, your title and rank be damned, I’ll tear your throat out!”

“I shouldn’t advise that,” said Waters as the MI-5 unit stepped forward as one. “Bad form, old man.”

“It’s a hell of a lot better than yours, y’
scum!
Brigadier Daniel Brewster was the finest commander I ever served under. He was also the greatest friend I ever had, a friendship I would never have known if he hadn’t saved my life in the mountains of Muscat, where the terrorists left me to die! When he passed on, I swore to meself I’d serve the family till m’last day on earth. So how
dare
you come in here spoutin’ your
garbage?
”

“Your excellent acting is beginning to annoy me, Coleman.”

“And your insinuations have got me blood boilin’,
Sir Hogspit!
”

“Cool it, both of you!” ordered Pryce. “We can settle this very quickly.… Sergeant Major, have you any objection to Sir Geoffrey’s checking your flat?”

“No, of course not. Asked like a gentleman, I would have said so before.”

“When were you last home?” pressed a somewhat subdued Waters.

“Let’s see now,” answered Coleman, “the children got here late yesterday, and I’ve been staying upstairs, so it must have been three or four days ago when I checked on my mail. The computerized alarm records,
if
they’re accurate, will show that.”

“There. See, it’s settled,” said Cameron, turning to the MI-5 chief. “Get the entry code and send your team over, Geof.”

“Well, I may have been hasty, Coley, old fellow, but the evidence seemed pretty firm, y’know.”

“Yes, well, Lowndes is a pretty big street. Also, I may have been a touch hasty m’self—I try to be more disciplined with my superiors. Sorry about that.”

“Think nothing of it, old chap. I’d have done the same.”

“Hey, Coley,” Roger Brewster interrupted. “I like Sir
Geoffrey, but he’s not your ‘superior.’ He’s a civilian and so are you.”