The Matarese Countdown (34 page)

“Right!” Angela chimed in.

“I’m thoroughly chastised,” said Waters, a warm gleam in his eyes. “It’s hardly the first time. However, except for discovering the bugs, we’re back where we started.”

“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” objected Coleman. “I didn’t get a chance to finish, but I recognized one of the chaps who was following me in Regent’s Park. He works for the alarm company, a repairman, and I think his name is Wally or Waldo, something like that.”

“Run with it, Geof!” Pryce cried. “Get your people on it. Find the guy, and dig up his whole enchilada.”

As if the impersonal instrument had been privy to the words spoken in Belgrave Square, Waters’s cellular phone suddenly erupted from inside his jacket. The MI-5 chief pulled it out, pressed the button that stopped the ringing, and brought the phone to his ear. “Waters,” he said, then listened. “You rang me at the right moment, Mark, I was about to call you, although on an entirely different matter.” Sir Geoffrey removed a notebook and a ballpoint pen, began writing, and continued. “Repeat that please, chap, and spell the names.… Oh, they’re bona fides, you’ve researched them already. Very good, I’ll be along in a bit. Now, to the other matter.” Waters proceeded to issue his instructions regarding a Wally or a Waldo employed by the Brewsters’ alarm company. “Dig deep but in silence.” Waters replaced his cellular phone and turned to Cameron. “Hereafter,
Agent
Pryce, this may possibly be in our lexicon ‘the day of dual shortcuts.’ ”

“Speak American English, Geof.”

“A linguistic oxymoron, sir.… However, a top chap in the Foreign Office, one of the few who has limited knowledge of our operation, called my assistant and said he might have something for me. Do you remember the three others besides Lady Alicia who were killed, and how we looked for a linkage and couldn’t find any?”

“Sure,” replied Cameron. “The French millionaire on his yacht, the Spanish doctor in Monte Carlo, and the Italian
polo player on Long Island. There was no linkage, not even any evidence that they knew one another.”

“There is now. The doctor poisoned in Monte Carlo was a research scientist from a wealthy family in Madrid. The university where he had his laboratory was in the process of pulling up data from his computers when out popped several transmissions to Alicia Brewster, Belgravia, off-line, confidential.”

“What was his name?” asked Roger quickly.

“Juan Garcia Guaiardo.”

“
I
know that name,” said Angela.

“How so, my dear?” Waters sat down, his concentration on Lady Alicia’s daughter.

“I’m not sure. But every now and then when Rog and I were home and we were having dinner or tea, Mum would mention that she had heard from a Juan, or a Guaiardo, and she would become tense, her eyes kind of funny-like, unfocused, even angry. Once I heard her say something like ‘Stop them, they must be stopped,’ or words to that effect.”

“She never elaborated?” asked Pryce.

“Not really,” said Roger Brewster pensively, blinking in thought. “You see, Mother worked very hard, too hard in my opinion, after Dad died. She’d get pretty stretched sometimes, and say things that didn’t always make sense.”

“What your sister just said makes a great deal of sense,” interrupted Cameron. “Where’s your mother’s computer?”

“Upstairs in her office,” answered Angela.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Cam?” said Leslie Montrose.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.… Where’s your mother’s office?”

“Come on, we’ll show you,” said the daughter, getting up and heading for the elegant circular staircase, followed by the others.

Alicia Brewster’s home office was a combination of old-fashioned comfort and modern efficiency. Flanking either side of the large bay windows were the room’s two distinctly different areas. On the left were floor-to-ceiling
bookshelves, a long, soft leather couch and armchairs, and assorted tables and fringed lamps. If a word was applicable for this area, it would be
warm
.

Conversely, the opposite side was a gleaming white nightmare of the most expensive, up-to-the-minute technology. There was a huge computer with an appropriate screen, an outsized printer, two fax machines, and a telephone console/answering machine with at least four separate lines. The term
ice cold
was far too warm for the right side of the room.

“Geof,” said Pryce, once they were all inside the office, “call your friend at the Foreign Office and get the dates of the Guaiardo transmissions to Lady Alicia.”

“Right.… Can you operate these things, old man?”

“Reasonably well.”

“Good, because I’m no expert.”

“I am,” said Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, her voice a monotone. “The Army sent me to the University of Chicago, Department of Computer Sciences. I trust I’m somewhat more than reasonably proficient.”

“Then go to work, Army, I’m not in your league.”

“Few are,
Special
Agent Pryce. Let me study the equipment and any manuals I may find.” Eight minutes later, a manual perused and the dates of the Madrid transmissions in her hand, Leslie bent over the computer, her fingers literally flying over the keys. “We’re in luck,” she said. “The search and retrieve function hasn’t any blocks. We’ll pull up the Madrid transmissions and check for any replies within the time frame.”

One by one, each page emerged from the printer, accompanied by a barely audible hum. There were seven pages of varying lengths, four from Madrid to London, three from London to Madrid. Taken all together, they were a barely comprehensible road map, a map where the routes had no numbers, the towns and villages no names, but one that offered so many elusive hints as to form a mosaic of possibilities. In sequence, they were as follows:

Madrid, August 12. My dear cousin. Tracing and employing what medical records I could find of the
original members going back to the year 1911, I’ve come up with numerous surviving issue. This was facilitated by the fact that the members were exclusively from established families, the genealogies available.

London, August 13. Dearest Juan. Thank God you’re in research. Move as rapidly as you can. Word from Lake Como, the Scozzi survivors, as in the old Scozzi-Paravacini, pressure is being applied.

Madrid, August 20. Cousin Alicia dear. Using my certainly tainted but very real resources, I’ve employed highly reputable private investigators, giving them minimal information. As a result, I have eliminated 43 percent of my original list. Perhaps more will follow. Quite simply, they had no cognizance or association whatsoever. Voice-tape analyses confirmed their complete ignorance.

London, August 22. Keep digging, dear heart. Pressure building from Amsterdam, which I have firmly rejected.

London, August 23. Dearest Juan. The pressures from Amsterdam have turned ugly, bordering on threats. The children don’t know it but I’ve hired bodyguards to stay close to them, hopefully without being seen.

Madrid, August 29. Cousin dearest. The slaughter at Estepona killing Mouchistine and his four international attorneys was a disaster. I cannot trace the order, but one thing is certain, it came from the M, for Antoine Lavalle, Mouchistine’s confidant, revealed the old man’s intentions. The attorneys from Paris, Rome, Berlin, and Washington were merely fronts. But how were they to execute
Mouchistine’s orders and how can we find out? I’m at a loss.

“
Damn
it!” shouted Roger, after reading the next-to-last transmission. “I
knew
it! There were these three or four blokes. They’d show up at different times, odd times, like in a pub or around the soccer field. I confronted two of them and asked them what they were doing. They were like innocent lambs—claimed to be local lads who liked a pint now and then and rooted for our teams.”

“I saw mine, too, Bro,” said Angela. “I’m afraid I got one into trouble. I reported him to the prefects as a possible stalker with sexual intentions. Then he wasn’t there anymore, but there were others. That’s when I figured it out. Mum was worried about us.”

“Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“Because you’ve got a quick temper, Rog, and I figured Mother knew what she was doing.”

Monte Carlo, August 29. The murder of Giancarlo Tremonte, the last male descendant and heir to the original Scozzi interests, is proof that the M will stop at nothing. It intends to silence us all. Be careful, my dearest cousin. Trust no one.

“So much for linkage!” exclaimed Waters. “My God, they were
cousins
, very
close
cousins! How did we miss it?”

Once again, Waters’s cellular phone sounded its muted ring from inside his jacket. He retrieved it, punched the button, and spoke. “Yes?” he said. What followed could hardly be good news, for the face of the MI-5 officer changed from its usual neutrality to a frown and then a grimace. Finally, he closed his eyes and sighed audibly. “I agree, it’s hardly helpful, but keep digging. Find out who his mate was in Regent’s Park.” Sir Geoffrey turned to the others as he replaced his telephone. “The body of Wallace Esterbrook, also known as Wally Esterbrook, employed by the Trafalgar Guardian Company, was fished out of the Thames this afternoon with two gunshots in the back of his
head. The time of death has been temporarily established as within the past forty-eight hours.”

“Thursday night or Friday morning,” said Coleman. “M’God, it
fits
!”

“What fits?” asked Pryce.

“There was a moment, just a few seconds, it was, when our eyes met. He knew I recognized him.”

“What about the guy
with
him?” pressed Cameron.

“I dunno, I really can’t say, but I seem to recall that he glanced at both of us.”

“Run with it, Geof!”

B
randon Alan Scofield, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate, was in the element he knew best, remembered from a quarter of a century ago. He was the stalker once again, the primeval cat who hunted its prey at night, or the two-legged, deep-cover killer who sought out the enemy in darkness, killing as a last resort, for capture was eminently more desirable.

To keep communications intact and Scofield’s whereabouts a secret, Antonia remained at Peregrine View in the Great Smoky Mountains. Any calls that came from Cameron Pryce or Leslie Montrose in Europe could be instantly communicated to him through the magic of cellular technology. She demanded only that Bray, once he landed in Wichita, reach her every eight hours, telling her of his progress. If he was more than two hours late, she would call Frank Shields at the Central Intelligence Agency and tell him the truth. Scofield objected but Antonia was adamant. “I want you back whole, you overage idiot! What the hell could I do with Brass Twenty-six without you?”

Beowulf Agate was in Wichita, Kansas, the headquarters of Atlantic Crown, Limited, purveyors to the world. Someone in the upper regions of its executive offices had written the orders to Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Montrose and had
them replicated in Amsterdam, Paris, Cairo, Istanbul, and God knew where else. That someone was a member of the Matarese hierarchy, and Brandon intended to find out who it was.

The clock in the rental car read 2:27
A
.
M
. The enormous parking lot of Atlantic Crown was nearly deserted, only the well-lit security cars seen under the floodlights, their white-lettered Patrol Vehicle markings very obvious. Bray smiled to himself. In the old days, the Soviets were much smarter. The last thing they would do was advertise. Taking a hunting knife out of its scabbard, Scofield opened the car door, stepped onto the pavement, and silently closed it. He crept swiftly through the floodlights and proceeded to slash all the tires on the patrol cars. He then weaved through the intermittent shadows to a side door and studied the alarm box, customary for a well-armed complex, but also its weakest point. It was almost primitive, thought Bray. Atlantic Crown, like many overprotected, overindulgent companies, overlooked the essentials of basic series electronics, believing that a security breach could never happen to
them
. Salaried security personnel were a necessary expense, complicated wiring systems were often more trouble than they were worth, a duplicating cost.

Scofield pried open the box with a small crowbar he removed from his belt, pulled out a penlight, and examined the wires. Primitive, hell, these were antediluvian. Another few thousand dollars for each circuit would prohibit overpass throughout the entire complex.
Bless the bean counters
, he mused, as he pointed the beam of light at the various wires.
Red, white, blue, blue, orange, white, blue
. Amateur time. Bray pulled out a pair of small pliers and snipped the three blue wires. He waited for the response. There was none. He had dismantled the east quadrant of the system.

“
The old man can now go to work
,” whispered Beowulf Agate to himself. “
Move, boy!
”

Miniature wire prongs in his hand, Bray manipulated the lock of the side door and walked inside. The corridors were dark, the neon lights at their dimmest, gray upon gray, all muted, dull and shadowless. Bray knew he could not use an
elevator, so he looked for a staircase; he found it and began climbing. The Atlantic Crown building was seventeen stories high; he had to reach the sixteenth floor.

He did so.

In an odd way, Scofield felt exhilarated. The fear was there, of course, and that was a good thing; he had been away too long and needed the brakes of caution. But he had recalled the tools of his former profession, starting with the thick crepe-soled shoes that reduced the noise of footsteps; the lock prongs; a blue penlight; a magnetized stethoscopic meter for vaults; a canister of immobilizing gas; a miniature camera; a Heckler & Koch .25-caliber automatic, silenced, of course, and a wire garrote. His hair had been cut, his beard trimmed, and he wore Army-issue combat fatigues with multiple pockets. He delighted in the fact that Frank Shields had paid for his entire outfit by requisitions without being told the truth.

“You’re
not
to go into the field!” exploded the CIA analyst. “We agreed to that.”