The Matarese Countdown (41 page)

“Maybe he didn’t. Let’s blast!”

“If he’s there, we’ll get the bastard!”

Like crazed animals, the two killers rushed forward, their weapons on automatic fire. After several prolonged bursts, they stopped. Silence. And during that silence, Scofield
hurled a heavy rock far to the left of the invaders. The firing instantly began again, and Bray waited for what he knew would happen.

It did. Through the filtered mist he could see that one of the men upturned his weapon; he had stopped shooting for the simple reason that he had run out of rounds and had to insert a second magazine.

So Scofield shot the second man, breaking through the woods as he fell. “Drop the iron!” ordered Bray, confronting the killer who held his weapon in his right hand, a full magazine of shells in his left. “
Drop
it!” repeated Brandon, clicking the hammer of his automatic into the firing position.

“Jesus Christ, you’re
him
, aren’t you?”

“Your grammar notwithstanding, yes, I’m he. But then, I’m a Harvard man, although nobody wants to believe it.”

“Son of a
bitch!
”

“That would be you, I assume. Or should we put it another way? A son of the Matarese.” The man slowly, half inch by half inch in the forest mist, moved the magazine toward the automatic weapon. Suddenly, he shook his right leg, lifting it slightly off the ground. “
Easy
,” said Scofield, “you’re less than a breath away from being history.”

“It’s my leg, goddamn it! I’ve got cramps from all this running.”

“I’m
not
going to say it again,
scum
. Drop the gun.”

“I will, I
will!
” The killer pressed the automatic rifle against his upper right leg, wincing as he did so. “I gotta separate these muscles, they’re climbing all over each other.”

“Well, I’ll agree with you there, scumbucket. Cramps can be—” The Matarese assassin suddenly whipped around, plunging the loaded magazine into his weapon’s chamber and literally spinning in midair, ready to blow Scofield away. Bray fired. The killer collapsed, his body a tangled heap of dead flesh.

“
Damn
,” cried Beowulf Agate. “I wanted you alive, you slime.”

•  •  •

An hour later, Peregrine View had been stabilized, the few dead mourned, their parents soon to be notified; no one with a wife or children had been assigned. Scofield sat in a chair, exhausted.

“You could have been
killed!
” shouted Frank Shields.

“Goes with the territory, Squinty. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“One day you may
not
be, you gray-haired old fool,” exclaimed Antonia, standing beside Bray, holding his tired head.

“So what else is new, Frank?”

“We’ve heard from Wichita, Brandon. The entire contents of McDowell’s and Karastos’s offices were shipped on KLM Airlines. Destination, Amsterdam.”

Amsterdam
.

T
he sleek Citröen limousine rolled slowly through the furious night downpour on the Marseilles waterfront, the swirling mists and the drenching rain reducing visibility to no more than forty hazelike feet. The headlights were almost useless as their beams were swallowed up by the fog rolling off the Mediterranean, the illumination refracted into walls of billowing white. Julian Guiderone peered out the left rear window.

“This is the row of warehouses!” he yelled to the driver over the pounding rain on the vehicle’s roof. “Have you a flashlight—a torch?”

“
Oui
, Monsieur Paravacini. Always.”

“Shine it over there, on the left. We’re looking for number forty-one.”

“This is thirty-seven. It cannot be much farther,
monsieur.
”

It wasn’t. A small, dim, wire-meshed bulb glowed, barely seen through the mist. “Stop!” ordered the son of the Shepherd Boy, now using the ominous name of Paravacini. “Press your horn, two short blasts.”

The driver did so and immediately a large loading door was raised, somewhat brighter lights revealed inside. “Shall I drive in?”

“Only briefly,” replied Guiderone, “just long enough for me to get out. Then back up and wait in the street. When the door opens again, come in for me.”

“An honor,
monsieur.
”

Julian Guiderone climbed out, standing on the deserted concrete floor, and nodded to his chauffeur. The limousine backed out into the downpour; the loading door slowly descended. Guiderone stood alone, knowing it would not be for long. It wasn’t. Out of the shadows walked Jan van der Meer Matareisen, his slender figure and square pale face seemingly dwarfed by the cavernous warehouse.

“Welcome, my superior in all things.”

“Mother of
Christ
, man!” exclaimed the son of the Shepherd Boy. “I trust you can justify dragging me here at this hour. It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning, and I’ve had an exhausting two days!”

“It was unavoidable, sir. My information is such that it can only be delivered in person, for we must discuss immediate strategies.”

“
Here
, in this cold, damp, cement mausoleum?”

“Please accompany me to my office. Actually, I have offices in every building, for I own all the warehouses on this street. Also six piers, which I frequently lease out. They cover all of my expenses.”

“Am I to be impressed?” asked Guiderone, following Matareisen toward a glass-enclosed office thirty feet away.

“Forgive my boastfulness, Mr. Guiderone. It seems I constantly seek approval from you, for you are the guiding star of our movement.”

“I
was
, Jan, now you should look upon me as merely a consultant.” They entered the office with its abundance of electronic equipment. Guiderone chose a black leather couch; Matareisen sat behind his desk. “Let’s discuss this strategy you speak of. I’d like to get back to my hotel as soon as possible.”

“I think you should know, sir, that three and a half hours ago I was comfortably asleep in my house on the Keizersgracht in Amsterdam. I felt it necessary to get up, alert my pilot, and fly to Marseilles.”

“Now I
am
impressed. Why?”

“We must move up our schedule—”

“
What?
We’re not ready—
you’re
not ready!”

“Hear me out, please. Events have taken place that we could not have envisioned. There are serious problems.”

“
Beowulf Agate
,” whispered Guiderone in a monotone. “Tell me he’s
dead!
” roared the son of the Shepherd Boy.

“He did not die. As near as we can determine, the mercenary unit failed, losing their lives in the attempt.”

“What are you
saying?
” Julian, his voice chilling, his erect posture in the chair immobile, stared at the younger man.

“I’m saying it as calmly as I can, although I feel the rage you feel. Apparently, Scofield’s talents in the field have not deserted him. The word from Eagle is that he took out the entire unit himself.”

“The
pig
of the
world!
” Guiderone’s voice was guttural and barely audible.

“I’m afraid there’s more, which is why we must discuss tactics,” said Matareisen quietly yet with a hint of strength. “We know it was Scofield who broke into McDowell’s office in Wichita, but we don’t know what he learned, if anything. However, the fact that he zeroed in on McDowell tells us a great deal, and combined with the news from London—”

“What happened in London?” asked the son of the Shepherd Boy icily.

“I had the Brewster house in Belgravia wired.”

“Was that necessary?” Guiderone interrupted, his voice once again cold.

“Yes, it was. Lady Alicia reacted violently against my entreaties, protesting that the Matarese was no part of her life nor ever would be. She made it clear that there were others who felt the same way, those who devoted their lives and their riches to repay the sins of their ancestral wealth. That statement led us to the heir of the Scozzi-Tremontes, the so-called playboy, Giancarlo, who was actually an international attorney opposed to us.”

“He was killed on a polo field in America. So what? No traces.”

“So your enemy, Beowulf Agate, was called in by the Central Intelligence Agency. He knew—
knows
—more about us than anyone on earth. God knows why or how, but he was recruited.”

“The
pig
of the
world!
” Guiderone spat out again.

“That’s why we had to know what transpired at the Brewster house in Belgravia. We compromised her idiot husband to act as our surveillance, finally ordering him to kill her when the damn fool stole millions. Accidents will happen and he was a disaster, though a temporary one. We took care of him. Again, no trail.”

“We stray,” said Guiderone curtly. “So you had Belgravia wired—”

“The bugs were discovered.”

“Surely that was a given from the start. The people who service the Brewsters are not fools, they’re highly paid stewards who can’t afford to be careless. One slip and a truckload of debugging paraphernalia would be at the front door—which it obviously was. To our detriment.”

“It’s more complicated than that, but I assure you, there’s no trace ability. The man who did the installation has been eliminated, and his receiving post in Lowndes Street cleaned out, all the tapes removed.”

“I commend your efficiency,” said the Shepherd Boy’s son, who years ago was about to occupy the White House. “But I’m sure there’s more. You didn’t fly down in the middle of the night from Amsterdam to impress me with your efficiency.” Guiderone paused, his hostile glare returning. “You mentioned something about moving up the schedule, which I’m unalterably opposed to. There’s far too much to do, too many operations to be refined. There can be no interruptions, no changes!”

“With respect, I disagree. Through your outstanding efforts and my minor contributions, the major chess pieces are in place throughout Europe, North America, and the Mediterranean. We must strike while our machine is primed, before any obstacles suddenly appear.”

“What
obstacles?
It’s the boy,
isn’t
it, the Montrose son!”

“Gone, vanished, disappeared,” said the Dutchman quickly. “He’s in the past and is irrelevant. What have we lost? The obedience of a mother who’s no longer important to us? She’s in London now with Scofield’s associate, a man named Pryce, deadly by reputation. To stem any conceivable progress they might make, both will be killed within days, perhaps hours, and that
is
important to us.”

“Why is it? I have no objection, but there must be things you’re not telling me.”

“Forgive me, sir, but those ‘things’ are self-evident.”

“Be careful, young Matareisen. Remember whom you’re talking to.”

“My apology, but with respect, I must make my case clear.… How, we don’t know, but McDowell was uncovered in Wichita.
How?
How did Scofield know? Everything in McDowell’s office was shipped to us; the files under spectrograph indicated recent tampering; the decoder as well, and we know an attempt was made to use the computer because that is what set off the alarms. What did your Beowulf Agate learn, or did he learn anything?”

“What could he learn?” asked Guiderone quietly, pensively. “McDowell was as cautious as he was brilliant. He’d never leave anything in his office pertaining to us. It’s unthinkable.”

“He may have felt safer in his suite at Atlantic Crown. His marriage was sour, his wife a jealous alcoholic—with good reason. Don’t you see, sir, we just don’t
know!
”

“Certain lapses granted, it’s no reason to alter schedules. To achieve the results we seek, everything’s in the timing. It must be flawless, the successive shocks catastrophic. Our progress is sound. There’ll be no changes.”

“Then I’ll try to be clearer,” said the frustrated man from Amsterdam. “And you’re right, there are things I haven’t told you, for they were under control and there was no point in bothering you. However, when the news about Scofield’s kills reached me, I knew it was time to meet you face-to-face.”

“In order to convince me?”

“In order to convince you,” agreed the grandson softly.

“Then try harder, Jan,” said Guiderone, alarmed, his concentration now absolute. “You’ve accomplished a great deal—extraordinary leaps, to be sure. I can’t dismiss you. Go ahead, what haven’t you told me that you think is so vital?”

“It’s not simply one thing, it’s when you put them all together.… We must go back to the trawler in the Caribbean, the Swedish captain who escaped. He made his way to Puerto Rico by way of Tortola—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Guiderone impatiently. “You funneled money to him to fly back to Amsterdam, I know all about it.”

“He never arrived. He was spotted on the plane by a Swedish businessman, met at Heathrow by the police, and flown back to Stockholm to face charges in the Palme assassination.”

“Unfortunate for him, but how does it concern us?”

“He’s pleading for his life. We could be part of a deal.”

“He doesn’t
know
that much.”

“He knows enough. He was under orders, no matter how obscured.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Prior to closing down the Lowndes Street listening post, our informer reached London control with the news that Pryce, the Montrose woman, and an MI-Five officer were on their way to Westminster House—”

“The Brewsters’ private bank, for all intents and purposes,” broke in the son of the Shepherd Boy. “If you recall, to make a casual inroad or two, I used the same accounts man who serviced her ladyship, a fellow named Chadwick. Had several pleasant lunches, but I didn’t learn much.”

“That’s why he had to be killed,” said Matareisen, his voice flat. “We could have no idea what transpired between the two of you, but we understood that there could be no possible linkage. Our control himself took care of the job
and removed your file from Chadwick’s office. It was fortunate that he did.”

“Why is that?”

“Among Mr. Chadwick’s comments were, and I quote, ‘Mr. Guiderone is inordinately interested in the Brewsters of Belgravia. Another rich American social climber no doubt.’ ”