The Matarese Countdown (57 page)

“Will you two
stop
playing ‘who’s king of the hill’?” An agitated Benjamin Wahlburg walked between Whitehead and Fowler, looking back and forth at each. “Put your egos back in the stables, we’ve got much bigger problems!”

The conversation, though no less contentious, zeroed in immediately on the issues. It began with Albert Whitehead’s earlier question to his attorney, Stuart Nichols. “What the hell’s going
on
?”

The answers came rapidly, on top of one another, and frequently in conflict. They ranged from blaming Amsterdam for a lack of controlling strength to possible defections of individual cells driven by greed and reluctant to give up their fiefdoms. They then considered the role Julian Guiderone was playing relative to the information Leonard Fredericks had supplied from London.

“Where is Guiderone now?” asked Albert Whitehead.

“He has a place somewhere in the east Mediterranean,
I’m told,” said Wahlburg. “It could be just a rumor, of course. No one seems to know where it is.”

“I’ve a few connections in the intelligence community,” added Nichols. “I’ll see if they can help.”

“Help you find a man who supposedly died twenty or thirty
years
ago?” Fowler grunted a derisive laugh.

“Jamieson,” interrupted Whitehead, “you’d be astonished at the number of false deaths that occur, only to be followed by resurrections years later. In point of fact, the recent gossip on the street was that you were Jimmy Hoffa.”

“
Funny
man.” Fowler turned to Wahlburg. “Say Stu comes up with something, which isn’t likely, what can Guiderone do?”

“The answer to that is, anything he likes. And I’d have no problem flying over and talking to Julian. Regardless of his legend, he’s a civilized man, as long as you’re honest with him. The Dutchman may
talk
reasonably, but underneath the gloss, he’s pathological.”

“But what can he
do?
” asked Whitehead. “Jamieson’s got a point, a valid one—”

“Why thank you, Al.”

“I never said you were stupid, Jamieson, just limited by choice. This time you’re not.” Whitehead looked at the banker. “I repeat, Ben, what can Guiderone do, if he can even be found?
He
doesn’t control Amsterdam.”

“And Amsterdam’s where the money comes from!” exclaimed the attorney, Nichols.

“Yes, of course, the money,” agreed Wahlburg. “And where did that money come from?… Never mind, I’ll answer that. From his grandfather, the Baron of Matarese’s vast fortunes—plural—all over the world. And who is Julian Guiderone? Where does he come from? I’ll answer that, too. He’s the son of the Shepherd Boy, Nicholas Guiderone, anointed by the Baron to carry out his life’s work, his dreams and ideals.”

“What the hell are you driving at, Ben?” broke in Fowler. “Get to the point!”

“The point’s a subtle one, Jim, but as powerful as all the money the grandson can get his hands on.”

“I think you’d better explain that,” said Stuart Nichols.

“It’s as eternal as the prophets of the Old Testament and their followers, who considered the prophets’ words sacred, holy.”

“We can do without a Talmudic exercise, Ben,” protested Whitehead. “We’re dealing with here-and-now reality. Please be clearer.”

“That’s why it’s so real,” replied Wahlburg enigmatically. “It goes back to time immemorial.… Heaven knows your Jesus had no money, no wealth to spread around to convince people, but within decades after his death by crucifixion, before a half century, the Christian movement began spreading across the then-civilized world. And those converts held the wealth of that world.”

“And?” pressed Nichols.

“His ideas, his prophecies—his dreams were accepted by those who believed in him. No money was exchanged.”

“
And?
” roared a frustrated, impatient Fowler.

“Suppose one of the disciples, or even Jesus himself in a death confession, claimed that it was all a hoax? That the whole thing was an ego trip to divide the Jews. What would have happened?”

“Damned if I know!” replied an angry Whitehead.

“The Christian movement would have been at sea, the multitudes of converts lost, their collective commitment all for nothing—”

“For God’s
sake
, Ben!” interrupted Fowler, furious and frozen in his chair. “What’s all that shit got to do with
us?
”

“Al’s partially right, Jim, you do limit your thinking.”

“Just clarify, don’t preach, you son of a bitch!”

“Exercise your imaginations, gentlemen,” said Wahlburg, getting out of his chair and, like the banker he was, lecturing as if to a group of new MBA recruits. He spoke slowly, clearly. “It’s both a confluence and a conflict between immediate financial resources and the channels of influence through which those resources must flow. Whereas the Dutchman, the grandson, operates in a vacuum
of darkness, distant and unreachable, Julian Guiderone, the son of the anointed Shepherd Boy, travels throughout the world, checking and supporting the troops of the Matarese. Logically, one cannot operate without the other, but realistically, the troops, the converts, trust the one they see and know. Ultimately, influence wins over immediate finance, for no other reason than familiarity with the vision. The stock markets across the globe prove my point, both positively and negatively.”

“What you’re saying, then,” said a pensive Albert Whitehead, “is that Guiderone can either keep everything together, saving our asses, or blow everything apart, and we lose the whole fucking enchilada.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And don’t for an instant think he doesn’t know it.”

“Find him!” yelled Jamieson Fowler. “Find this damn son of the Shepherd Boy!”

Fearing Bahrain to be dangerous, Julian Guiderone flew to Paris, letting Amsterdam know where he was and how long he expected to stay. As anticipated, Matareisen was cool, his message obvious: The fossil known as the son of the Shepherd Boy was no longer a man to be revered. So be it. The reverence would return later, when the young Turk realized that Amsterdam could not act alone.

It was late afternoon and the fashionable avenue Montaigne was crowded with traffic, in the main, taxies and limousines dropping off their business-executive fares at their elegant, canopied residences. Guiderone stood by a window, staring down at the street. These next few weeks, he mused, would be a preamble to chaos and a prelude to near-global control. Many scurrying out of automobiles in the avenue of wealth below would soon be facing the shocking loss of financial security. High positions would be terminated, boards of directors nullifying extravagant retirements and pensions, preferring to face the courts rather than plunge their corporations into further economic disaster.

Jan van der Meer Matareisen notwithstanding, everything remained on schedule. Van der Meer did not understand how profound was Shakespeare’s line, “Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream.” That phantasma, or hideous dream, had to be factored in, calculated, and ultimately rejected. For the “dreadful thing” had to remain constant, neither premature action nor procrastination acceptable. Instant and total coordination was paramount; it was the shock wave that would paralyze the industrial nations. It was that paralysis, however temporary —a few weeks or even a month—that was vital. It was sufficient for the legions of the Matarese to break out and fill the vacuums.

Matareisen had to learn that emotional doubts, however provocative, were intolerable. They were merely potholes in the great boulevard that led to the greater victory of the Matarese. Why couldn’t the insolent bastard
see
that?

The telephone rang, startling Julian. No one but Amsterdam knew his number in Paris. No one except several extremely beautiful women who exchanged sexual favors for money or fine jewelry, and none of those knew he was here now. He walked to the table and picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“It’s Eagle, Mr. Guiderone.”

“How the
hell
did you get this number? You’re to contact only Amsterdam!”

“I got it
through
Amsterdam, sir.”

“And what is so extraordinary that Amsterdam gave you this number?”

“I didn’t fully explain, I think to your benefit.”

“
What?
Not explain to the
Keizersgracht?
”

“Hear me out, sir. I told them—him—that I had to reach you on a matter that did not involve the enterprise. I am a loyal participant and he accepted my word.”

“Readily, I suspect. I’m apparently no longer on his list of highest priorities.”

“That would be stupid on Amsterdam’s part, Mr.
Guiderone,” broke in Eagle in Washington. “You’re the son of the Shepherd—”

“Yes,
yes!
” interrupted Julian. “Why did you contact me? What is so extraordinary?”

“There’s a blanket inquiry throughout the intelligence community as to your whereabouts.”

“That’s
absurd!
Official Washington declared me dead years ago!”

“Someone thinks you’re still alive.”

“The pig of the
world!
” shouted Guiderone. “
Beowulf Agate!
”

“That would be Brandon Scofield, am I correct?”

“You’re goddamned right. Where is he?”

“In London, sir.”

“What happened to our
man
in London? He was under orders! Kill the son of a bitch!”

“We don’t understand, and neither can Amsterdam. The man in London can’t be reached.”

“What are you
saying?
”

“It’s as though he disappeared.”

“
What?
”

“Every noninvasive avenue to him has been blocked. I’ve used every access we have here at Langley, all to no avail.”

“What the hell is
happening?
”

“I wish I could tell you, Mr. Guiderone.”

“It’s the
pig
of the world, Eagle,” said the son of the Shepherd Boy, his voice guttural. “He’s in London and I’m in Paris, a half hour in the air from each other. Which of us will make the first move?”

“If it’s you, sir, I’d be terribly cautious. He’s guarded around the clock.”

“That’s his vulnerability, Eagle, because I’m not.”

B
randon Scofield, in his Savoy robe, paced angrily in front of the windows overlooking the Thames River. Antonia remained at a room-service table, picking on a breakfast tray that she claimed would last her the rest of the week. Beyond the single central room of the minisuite, an armed three-man MI-5 unit patrolled the corridors, their weapons concealed under white floor-stewards’ jackets. They were relieved by additional units timed to the schedules of the Savoy’s actual employees, and thus were indistinguishable from them.

“Sir
Hog’s Butt
has us caged like animals or the lepers of Molokai!” spat out Beowulf Agate. “And not even in a decent-sized suite.”

“The larger suites have more entrances; Geof explained that. Why take the chance of diversion and access?”

“And
I
explained that more entrances mean more exits,” countered Scofield. “Why eliminate them?”

“It’s Geoffrey’s call. We’re his responsibility.”

“And this horseshit that only he can call us but we can’t call
him
?”

“Hotel switchboards keep a record of all outgoing telephone numbers for billing purposes, and he’s not taking any
more risks with cell phones because of scanners. At least not where you’re concerned.”

“To repeat, we’re caged. We might as well be in jail!”

“I doubt that the room service is comparable, to say nothing of the accommodations, Bray.”

“I don’t like it. I was better than Hog’s Butt twenty-some years ago, and I’m still better now.”

“However, I trust you’ll admit he’s extremely good at what he does—”

“I’m better at covering my ass than he is,” said Scofield like a pouting, overage adolescent. “There’s such a thing as overcomplicating dark operations’ security. Does he think the real floor stewards are blind, mute, and morons?”

“I’m sure he’s considered that aspect.”

A knock on the door sent Bray stalking across the room. “Yes, who is it?”

“Mrs. Downey … sir,” was the hesitant reply. “Housekeeping.”

“Oh, certainly.” Scofield opened the door, somewhat startled to see an elderly woman whose tall, slender figure, erect posture, and chiseled aristocratic features hardly seemed compatible with the soft, light blue uniform of the Savoy’s maid service, along with the mandatory vacuum cleaner and dust rags. “Come in,” Bray added.

“Please don’t get up,” said Mrs. Downey, walking inside and addressing Antonia, who started to rise from the room-service table.

“No, really,” replied Toni, “I couldn’t eat another scrap. You may clear it all away.”

“I may but I shan’t. A steward will take care of it.… However, I shall introduce myself. For the time being, my name
is
Downey, Mrs. Dorothy Downey—a fine, solid name, I chose it myself—and I’m duly registered in the Savoy’s employment records with splendid credentials, housekeeping division. That, I’m afraid, is absurd; I couldn’t properly make a bed to the hotel’s standards if my life depended upon it. In point of fact I’m a cryptographer, and at the moment I’m your sole contact with Sir Geoffrey Waters.”

“I’ll be goddamned—”

“Please, Bray.… And how do we reach you, Mrs. Downey?”

“Here’s the number,” said the MI-5 cryptographer, crossing to Antonia and handing her a small piece of paper. “Please commit to memory and burn it.”

“We’ll commit and burn after you detail the security of that number,” countered Scofield testily.

“An excellent request.… It’s a direct sterile line that bypasses the switchboard and goes to the small office the Savoy has provided me. I, in turn, have a direct sterile access to Sir Geoffrey Waters. Does that answer you,
sir
?”

“I trust my name is as sterile as your access.”

“
Bray!…
”

The extraordinarily efficient “Mrs. Dorothy Downey, Housekeeping” proved to be a perpetual irritant to Scofield and superb at her job. Information flowed back and forth between Waters, Brandon, and Antonia, and Pryce and Leslie Montrose, who were ensconced incognito at the Blakes Hotel in Roland Gardens. Like pieces of a puzzle set in place by unseen hands, the outlines of the next phase of strategy began to emerge.