The Matarese Countdown (6 page)

“Which means he comes back to pick up his mail.”

“Or sends someone with a key. He gets his pension check every month and, presumably, whatever inquiries there are for his charters.”

“He’s still sailing then?”

“Under a new name. ‘Tortola Caribbean,’ a tax dodge, if you want my opinion, which is kind of stupid since he hasn’t paid any taxes for over twenty-five years.”

“Some deep-cover boys never change. Where is he now?”

“Who knows?”

“Nobody’s seen him?”

“Not for the record, and we’ve asked around. Discreetly, of course.”

“Someone’s got to pick up his mail—”

“Look, sir, we just got this inquiry eight days ago, and we have friends in Tortola,” said the Coast Guard lieutenant. “They don’t have a clue. Tortola is roughly twenty square miles of island with about ten thousand residents, mostly native and British. Its main post office is in Road Town, where mail comes in erratically and most of the time the clerks are asleep. I can’t change the habits of a subtropic environment.”

“Don’t get irritated, I’m merely asking questions.”

“I’m not irritated, I’m frustrated. If I could really help you, it would look good on my record and I might get out of this goddamned place. I simply can’t. For all intents and purposes, that son of a bitch Scofield has disappeared.”

“Not when he has a mailbox, Lieutenant. It’s just a question of watching it.”

“You’ll forgive me, Mr. Pryce, but I’m not permitted to leave my station and sit on my ass in Tortola.”

“Spoken like an officer and a gentleman, young man. But you can hire someone to do just that.”

“With
what?
The budget’s so tight here I have to rely on volunteer help when lousy catamarans can’t get into shore!”

“Sorry, I forgot. Bureaucrats in suits make those decisions. They probably think St. Thomas is a Catholic territory in the Pacific.… Cool off, Lieutenant, I’m wired into the suits. You help me, I’ll help you.”

“How?”

“Get me an interisland flight to Tortola with no identification.”

“That’s too easy.”

“I’m not finished. Send one of your cutters to the harbor in Road Town under my command.”

“That’s too hard.”

“I’ll clear it It’ll look good on your record.”

“I’ll be damned—”

“You will be if you refuse me. Let’s go, Lieutenant, let’s
set up shop. Instant communications and all the rest of that horseshit.”

“You’re for real, aren’t you?”

“Reality is my middle name, youngster. Don’t you forget it, especially not now.”

“What are you after?”

“Someone who knows the truth about an old story with numerous dimensions, and that’s all
you
have to know.”

“That doesn’t tell me a hell of a lot.”

“And I don’t know much more, Lieutenant. I won’t until I find Scofield. Help me.”

“Sure, of course. I can ferry you over to Tortola on our second cutter, if you like.”

“No thanks. Marinas are watched, the immigration procedures are pretty thorough—those tax dodges you mentioned. I’m sure you can find me an airstrip or a water touchdown that’s off the usual routes.”

“As a matter of fact, I can. We both use it to interdict drug smugglers.”

“Use it now, please.”

It was sundown, the third day of surveillance, and Pryce was in a hammock strung between two sturdy palms on the island beach. Dressed in tropic clothes—docksiders, shorts, and a light guayabera—he was basically indistinguishable from the dozen or so other male tourists lolling about in the early-evening sand. The difference was in the contents of his “beach bag.” Whereas others were filled with sunscreen lotion, crumpled magazines, and forgettable paperbacks, his bag held, first, a portable phone, calibrated to put him in immediate contact with St. Thomas as well as the Coast Guard cutter moored in the Tortola harbor and capable of sending and receiving less esoteric communications via satellite. In addition to this vital link, there was a holstered weapon—a .45 Star PD auto pistol with five clips of ammunition—a belt-scabbarded hunting knife, a flashlight, a pair of night-vision binoculars, charts of Tortola and the nearby islands, a first-aid kit, a bottle of flesh antiseptic, and two
flasks—one filled with spring water, the other with McKenna sour-mash bourbon. Experience had taught him that each item had its place in the scheme of unpredictable things.

He was about to doze off in the debilitating heat when the low hum of the phone penetrated the lining of his waterproof flight bag. He reached down, unzipped the thin nylon strip, and pulled out the state-of-the-art instrument. “Yes?” he said quietly.

“Finally pay dirt,
mon!
” replied one of the black Tortolans recruited by the lieutenant in St. Thomas for the surveillance team; he was calling from the Road Town post office.

“The mailbox?”

“Not much in it, but she got it all.”

“She?”

“A white lady, mon. Middle-aged, mebbe forties or fifties, difficult to tell ’cause she damn near as dark as us from the sun.”

“Hair? Height?”

“Half gray, half brown. Pretty tall, mebbe three, four flat hands above five feet.”

“It was his wife. Where did she go?”

“She got into a Jeep, mon, no license plate. She’s heading toward the Point, I think.”

“What
Point?
”

“Got lots of names, only one road. I’ll follow her on my moped. Gotta hurry, mon.”

“For God’s sake, keep in touch!”

“You get to cut-boat. Tell ’em to cruise east to Heavy Rock, they know it.”

Cameron Pryce switched channels and spoke to the skipper of the Coast Guard cutter. “Pull into the dock and I’ll get on board. Do you know a place, a point, called Heavy Rock?”

“Or ‘Lotsa Rock,’ or ‘Big Stone Point,’ or ‘Black Rock Angel’?… Sure, it depends where you live on Tortola. At night it’s a favorite landing site for the
contrabandistas.
The older natives say it’s haunted with obeah, that’s like voodoo.”

“That’s where we’re going.”

The long shadows, created by the orange sun disappearing over the horizon, fell across the Caribbean waters as the cutter slowly, lazily, rounded the coastline. “There it is, sir,” said the naval officer, a lieutenant j.g. even younger than the commander of station in St. Thomas. “That’s ‘Big Stone Mother,’ ” he added, pointing to an enormous cliff-like rock that seemingly had lurched out of the sea.

“Another name, Lieutenant? ‘Big Stone Mother’?”

“We gave it that one, I’m afraid. We don’t like to come out here, too many shoals.”

“Then stay pretty far from shore. If a boat comes out, we’ll spot it.”

“
A Cigarette on starboard northwest
,” said the sudden voice over the intercom.

“Shit!” exclaimed the young skipper.

“What the hell is that?” asked Pryce. “ ‘A
cigarette
?’ ”

“Cigarette boat, sir. We’re fast, but no match for one of them.”

“Please bring me up to speed, Lieutenant.”

“That’s what we’re talking about. Speed. The Cigarette boat is the favorite of the drug crowd. It can outrun anything on the water. It’s why, when we know they’re in use, we call in aircraft. But with all our equipment, here and in the air, we’re no damned good after dark. The Cigarettes are too small and too fast.”

“And I thought it was as simple as our lungs.”

“Funny man … sir. If your target goes full throttle, we’ll lose it. No interdiction, no boarding.”

“I don’t want to interdict and I certainly don’t want to board, Lieutenant.”

“Then, if I may, sir, why the
hell
are we here?”

“I want to pinpoint where the target goes. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Probably. At least to a land mass, an island maybe. But there are lots of them, and if he pulls into one and we get a radar fix, then he pulls out for another, we’ve had it!”

“She, Lieutenant,
she.
”

“Oh? Wow, I never figured.”

“Get your radar fix, I’ll take my chances.”

The minor island in question was named simply Outer Brass 26 on the charts. Uninhabited; questionable foliage; no long-range human habitation considered. It was barely four square miles of volcanic rock expunged from the depths of the ocean, with several hills that permitted profuse greenery from the generosity of the tropic sun, the afternoon showers, and said greenery spread to the lands below. Although once considered part of the Spanish Caribbean chain, it had never actually been claimed in recent history. It was an orphan in a sea of illegitimate children, nobody cared.

Cameron Pryce stood at midships in a diver’s wet suit provided by the Coast Guard. Below him was a ladder that led down to a rubber raft with a small, quiet three-horsepower motor that would take him into the shore. In his left hand was the waterproof flight bag with his items of choice and necessity.

“I feel damned awkward just leaving you here, sir,” said the very young skipper of the vessel.

“Don’t, Lieutenant, it’s what I came for. Besides, I can reach you whenever I want, can’t I?”

“Of course. As you instructed, we’ll remain out here, roughly five miles from land, beyond visual sighting if the light’s right.”

“When it’s daylight, just stay in the path of the sun. The old cowboys-and-Indians movies were right about that.”

“Yes, sir, it’s part of our combat-strategies courses. Good luck, Mr. Pryce. Good hunting with whatever you’re doing.”

“I’ll need a little of both.” The former CIA case officer descended the ladder to the bobbing PVC craft below.

The engine gurgled, it did not really run, as Pryce steered the rubber raft into shore. He chose what appeared in the moonlight to be a small cove; it was wooded, with overhanging palms roofing the perimeter. He jumped out of the raft and pulled it between the rocks to the sand, securing it
to the trunk of a palm. He lifted out his waterproof case and flung the strap over his right shoulder; it was time for the hunt, and hopefully luck would be part of it.

He knew what to look for initially: light. A fire or battery-induced illumination, it had to be one or the other. For two people to live on a deserted island without either was not only uncomfortable, it was dangerous. He started to his right, walking cautiously over the rocky shoreline, constantly peering into the heavy foliage on his left. There were no signs of light
or
life. He trudged for nearly twenty minutes, greeting only darkness, until he saw it. But it was neither light nor life, only small metallic reflections of the moon; numerous short poles were in the ground, mirrors on top, angled toward the sky. He approached them, yanked the flashlight out of his case, and saw the wires, leading to the right and the left, connecting the poles. There were dozens,
scores
of them, forming a semicircle on the rock-hewn shoreline. Photoelectric cells! Catching the rays of the sun from dawn to high noon and beyond. Searching farther, he found a thick, central cable that led into the tropical forest. He started to follow it when he heard the words, spoken clearly, harshly, in English behind him.

“Are you looking for someone?” asked the mid-deep voice. “If you are, you’ve gone about it amateurishly.”

“Mr. Scofield, I presume.”

“Since we’re not in Africa, and you’re not Henry Stanley, you may presume correctly. Keep your hands above your head and walk straight forward. It’s our cable path, so use your light, because if you break it, I’ll blow your head off. It took me too long to put it together.”

“I come in peace, Mr. Scofield, without any intent to divulge your whereabouts,” said Pryce, walking carefully ahead. “We want information we think only you can provide.”

“Let’s wait until we reach the house, Mr. Cameron Pryce.”

“You know who I
am
?”

“Certainly. They say you’re the best, probably better
than I ever was.… Put your hands down. The palm leaves get in your face.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Scofield suddenly shouted, “It’s
okay
. Turn on the lights, Antonia. He was clever enough to find us, so open a bottle of wine.”

The clearing in the forest was suddenly illuminated by two floodlights revealing a large one-story cabin of tropical wood, a natural lagoon on the right.

“My
God
, it’s beautiful!” cried the CIA agent.

“It took us a long time to find this place and longer to build it.”

“You built it yourself?”

“Hell, no. My lady designed it, and I boated in crews from St. Kitts and other islands to do the work. Since I paid them half in advance, no one took offense at the blindfolds out of Tortola. Just discretion, young man.”

“Young and not so young,” broke in Cameron, in awe.

“Depends where you’re coming from, fella,” said Scofield, walking into the light. His thin, narrow face was framed by a short white beard and longish gray hair, but his eyes were bright, youthful behind his steel-rimmed glasses. “We like it.”

“You’re so alone—”

“Not really. Toni and I frequently take the ‘butt’ over to Tortola, grab an interisland to ’Rico, and a flight to Miami or even New York. Like you, if you’ve got a brain in your head, I have half a dozen passports that get me through.”

“I don’t have a brain in my head,” acknowledged Pryce.

“Get one. Maybe you’ll find someday that’s all you’ve got. After you’ve appropriated a few hundred thousand in contingency funds. Placed in off-shore investments, of course.”

“
You
did that?”

“Have you any idea what our pensions allow us? Maybe a condominium in Newark in the lesser part of town. I wasn’t going to settle for that. I deserved more.”

“The
Matarese?
” said Cameron softly. “It’s back.”

“That’s out of
orbit
, Pryce. An old boy in D.C. called me
and said that he heard you were looking for me—yes, I’ve got the same kind of phones you have,
and
the generators,
and
the security, but you’re not going to drag me back into that hell.”

“We don’t want to drag you back, sir, we only want the truth as you know it.”

Scofield did not reply. Instead, as they had reached the short steps to the cabin’s entrance, he said, “Come on inside and get out of that outfit. You look like Spider-Man.”