The Matarese Countdown (45 page)

“I can only tell you the truth,” replied the old Italian, struggling out of his chair and walking slowly out from the shadows toward an open space, to one of the red telescopes. It was different from the others, as there was a black circular instrument above the thick red tube. He stopped and patted it, turning back to Pryce and Montrose. “You’ve heard of the two families, the Scozzis and the Paravacinis?”

“Yes,” answered Cameron, “together they owned the Scozzi-Paravacini Industries until there was bad blood and they split.”

“Not merely ‘bad blood,’ Signor Pryce, but
real
blood, murderously spilled by the Paravacinis to force out the Scozzis. Force them out so they could ascend in the deadly Mataresa. Brothers and sons were murdered, executives bought and blackmailed, directors manipulated into compromising incidents that cost them their directorships. Scozzi-Paravacini was diseased, poisoned from within, and the disease won.”

“I think I see where you’re heading,” said Leslie softly. “You were very close to the Scozzis, the Scozzi family.”

The old man laughed, a quiet, sad laugh. “Quite perceptive, Colonel, although ‘close’ is not the word I would choose. I
am
a Scozzi, the last living member of the Scozzi family.”

“But your name’s Togazzi,” protested Cameron.

“ ‘What’s in a name?’ as the lady said. You can call a rose a tulip but it remains a rose.… We must go back several decades—before the killings began. The killers
would never be found, of course, for the Paravacinis had great influence in Milan and Rome, as well as the Vatican. Because my mother despised and feared them, I was sent to Sicily, to the home of a
cugino
of my mother’s, for my own protection. In the early years I was tutored, then sent to Rome for advanced education, using the
cugino’s
name, Togazzi, again for my protection.”

“Is that where you met Mr. Scofield?” said Montrose.

“My dear Colonel, you reveal your
youth!
” Don Silvio chuckled as he slapped the telescope. “That was many years later, after my
universitario
days.”

“By then you were with Italian intelligence?” asked Pryce.

“Yes, the Servizio Segreto. I was accepted as soon as my studies were complete, courtesy of a few well-connected friends in Palermo. Outside of my normal duties, I entered the Servizio with only one thought in mind, one obsession. To bore into the Paravacini interests, the whole sordid landscape, which led, naturally, to the Mataresa. That is when I encountered Scofield and Taleniekov. Our concerns were the same, but to gain their confidence, I told them my story, as I tell it to you now. You may, of course, confirm everything with Brandon, but you’ll have to do it elsewhere. There is no equipment here that would guarantee confidentiality.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Cameron.

“I agree,” added Montrose.

“And no one here in Bellagio knows who you are?”

“
Mio Dio
, no. I’m an immensely wealthy
siciliano
, whose once-blond hair and riches buy him respectability in the northern provinces.” Again, the old man touched—caressed—the red telescope. “Here, I want to show you something. Come, come, both of you look through this.”

Leslie and Cam did so, marveling at the magnification. What each saw was a mansion on the banks of Lake Como, complete with manicured lawns, a pier, an immense yacht moored in the water, and fountains everywhere. Figures of men and women strolled around the grounds, so enlarged in the lens they could be thirty yards away, not several miles.

“Nice spread,” said Pryce, backing away and turning to Togazzi. “Whose is it?”

“It is the Paravacini estate, and even the harshest mountain winds will not move this telescope. It is bolted in place. I can see, and if need be, photograph, everyone who comes and goes.”

“You’re a special piece of work, Don Silvio,” added Cameron. “By the way, can your new name be traced?”

“Silvio Togazzi is duly registered—or should I say inserted—in the proper records of birth in Palermo, as is his baptism at the Church of the Blessed Savior, a country church south of Cafala. These documents are beautifully executed, as ‘authentic’ as any in the ledgers.”

“Who bestowed the title of ‘don’?” asked a bemused Pryce.

“When one hires scores of men to clear the land and build, is extremely generous with the local families, pays for several festivals, and funds a new church or two or three, the ‘don’ comes naturally. Enough, however, about me. Come inside and I shall deliver everything we’ve put together for you. I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Forgive my curiosity,” said Colonel Montrose, “but you mentioned that the injury to your spine was a result of Agent Scofield’s failure to break your fall from a balcony. Was the incident related to your combined hunt for the Matarese?”

“Hardly, my dear Colonel, although my escape was mandatory. The woman in question was married to a fanatic
comunista
, such a slave to his work that he paid little attention to his wife. I merely tried to fill a void.… Come now, to the information we have compiled for you.”

I
t was a drenching rain in New York City, both cleansing and an inconvenience for the noonday traffic. On a busy street that intersected Madison Avenue, three police officers removed the temporary No Parking signs. The instant they were taken away, cars swung into the spaces, the first a limousine within feet of a pale green door belonging to the Hotel Marblethorpe, the other two across the street directly opposite the luxury vehicle. Inside the three automobiles were armed men, their concentration on the man who emerged from the car near the pale green door, accompanied by an apparent bodyguard who kept his right hand under his raincoat. As if timed down to seconds, the hotel door was opened by another police officer; he nodded and the two hotel guests were admitted. The New York police, under orders from command, knew who the VIP’s were, if not by name, by connections.

The man under protection was of medium height, in his late forties, and when he removed his canvas hat and raincoat in the short hallway, he appeared to be an expensively dressed business executive. His face was pale, his eyes darting back and forth in fear.

“Where the hell do we go?” he asked gruffly.

“The elevator is down the hall on the left, sir,” replied the policeman.

“Thank you, young man, and my regards to the commissioner.”

“I’ll tell him myself, sir. We’re on special detail and report only to him.”

“You’ll have a long and rewarding career, fella. What’s your name?”

“O’Shaughnessy, sir.”

“Another wop, right?” The three men laughed as the VIP and his bodyguard walked down the hall to the elevator. “I can’t believe I’m
doing
this!” continued the businessman, his breath short. “Some nobody flies in, supposedly from Amsterdam, and I’m
summoned
to meet him, and that’s exactly what it was, a goddamned
summons!
Who the hell does he think he
is
?”

“The others say he knows the words, Albert,” replied the man acting as bodyguard, removing his hand from under his raincoat. “
All
the words.”

“It could be a fishing expedition,” said the shorter man, the one called Albert.

“If it is, he knows where certain fish are. The banking and the utility boys want to meet you after you’ve seen this William Clayton—”

“No doubt a false name,” interrupted the executive. “There’s no one by that name on any list I’ve got.”

“You hardly have an inclusive list, Al, none of us do. Just listen to his words and don’t volunteer a damn thing. Do as the others did, act innocent and shocked.”

“You know, just because you’re a lawyer you don’t have to remind me of the obvious.” The elevator door opened; both men walked in, and the armed attorney pressed the four-digit code for the floor as it had been given. “Take off your coat and hat, Stuart,” added Albert Whitehead, CEO of Wall Street’s Swanson and Schwartz, a major brokerage firm.

“I will now,” agreed the lawyer named Stuart Nichols, removing his Burberry and Irish walking cap. “I didn’t care
to before. I wanted to make sure those cops were on our side.”

“That’s paranoid.”

“No, memories of things past. I was a military prosecutor in Saigon, where a lot of uniforms wanted to see me dead. A couple nearly did and they were dressed as MP’s.… You’re still going to introduce me as your attorney?”

“You’re goddamned right. I’ll add that you know everything—
everything
—about me. I’m an open book to you—
only
you.”

“He still may ask me to leave.”

“Give him reasons why you shouldn’t. You’re good at that.”

“I’ll try, but if he insists, I’m not going to argue.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Nichols, and delighted you’re here,” said “William Clayton,” a.k.a. Brandon Scofield, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate, convivially addressing the attorney and shaking hands. Scofield was dressed in a conservative dark blue business suit that came off a very high-priced rack serviced by tailors. He led his guests to their appropriate chairs, each with a side table, and rang a silver bell. Antonia, dressed in a starched black-and-white maid’s uniform, her graying hair pulled back into a severe bun, emerged from a door. She was an imposing sight.

“Coffee, tea, a drink?…” asked Brandon. “By the way, this is Constantina, from the hotel, and she doesn’t speak a word of English. It was a request I made; she and I converse in Italian.”

“Sorry it’s not French,” said Stuart Nichols, the lawyer. “I took several years at prep school and it served me well in Saigon.”

“Let’s see.… Constantina,
vous parlez français?
”

“
Che cosa, signore?
”

“
Capisce francese?
”

“
Non, signore. Linguaggio volgare!
”

“I’m afraid she can’t join us. She says it’s a vulgar
tongue. When will they make peace with each other?” No one cared for anything, so Antonia, nodding professionally, was dismissed. “I know your time is limited, as is mine,” said Scofield, “so shall we get down to business?”

“I’d like to know what our business
is
, Mr. Clayton,” insisted Whitehead.

“Our
mutual
business, sir,” replied Beowulf Agate. “Stocks, bonds, debentures, loans—corporate and transnational, in the main—initial stock offerings, naturally, but, most vitally, your servicing the intricacies of mergers and buyouts. Inestimable contributions.”

“You’re covering an enormous range of activities,” said the CEO of Swanson and Schwartz, “and the majority are of a highly confidential nature.”

“As they are in the Exchange in London, the Bourse in Paris, the Borsa in Rome, and the Börse in Berlin, all are highly confidential. But certainly not regarding Amsterdam.”

“Would you clarify that, please,” broke in Nichols.

“If I have to, perhaps you don’t know your client, or his firm, as well as you think you do,” answered Brandon.

“I’m the
firm’s
attorney, Mr. Clayton. It is my sole client. There isn’t anything I’m
not
aware of.”

“Does that include Mr. Whitehead here? Because if it doesn’t, I suggest you leave us.”

“He’s already told you it does.”

“Then I can’t imagine your not knowing about Amsterdam.… Twelve years ago, a Randall Swanson, now deceased, and a Seymour Schwartz, currently retired and living in Switzerland, combined to start a new brokerage house in the most competitive few blocks in the capitalistic world. Wonder of wonders, within a few years they blossomed into an important player, growing so rapidly they soon were on the edge of becoming a major force rivaling Kravis and the former Milken. Then, more wonderful still, during the last year Swanson and Schwartz engineered the most impressive mergers in recent memory—number one on the charts, my friends. Simply remarkable, but how was it
done?
”

“Talent pays, Mr. Clayton,” said the lawyer, in complete control. “Mr. Whitehead is considered a brilliant, if not
the
most brilliant, managing director in current financial circles.”

“Oh, he’s good, very, very good, but can anybody really be
that
good? Talent without the resources to exercise that talent is a terrible waste, isn’t it? But perhaps I’ve said enough, for if I’m wrong, I’ve frittered away your time, as well as my own, and that is unforgivable. Time
is
money, isn’t it, gentlemen?”

“Just what do you mean by resources?” asked a nervous Whitehead, unable to stop himself despite the subtle shaking of his attorney’s head.

“Just what I said,” replied Scofield. “Investments in your talents, specifically foreign investment, if you like.”

“There’s nothing remotely illegal about that, Mr. Clayton,” said Stuart Nichols. “Surely, you realize that.”

“I never implied that it was.… Look, my time is short and so is yours. All I wish to say—and if it does not apply to you, forget I ever said it—is this: Do
not
deal with Amsterdam. Amsterdam is finished, kaput, banished out of the league, for it wants to control everything and that cannot be permitted. Amsterdam can’t be trusted any longer; it has turned, for its own short-term advantage, ultimately to self-destruct. For that reason I left—fled, to be precise.”

“Could you be clearer, please?” asked the attorney.

“No, I can’t,” answered Beowulf Agate, “for the records are buried in a maze of complexity. I’m not at liberty to discuss them. However, if you should care to reach me, call this hotel, ask for the manager, and he’ll tell you the number and the code. However, again, if anything I’ve said does make sense, take my word, do
not
call Amsterdam. Should you do so, you could be on its death list.… I think this is good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Scofield showed his bewildered guests out and firmly, loudly, closed the door on their backs. He then turned and walked into the living room as Antonia came out of the
kitchen; she was still in her black-and-white uniform, but her hair had been freed from its confinement.

“They’re lying from jib to jigger,” said Bray, lighting a small, thin cigar. “By the way, luv, you were damned convincing.”