The Matarese Countdown (68 page)

“Why can’t I fly solo?”

“Two reasons. One, this isn’t a small rural airport or a foreign one with which we negotiate, but Heathrow, where the regulations are extraordinarily strict. To disregard them would call attention to your flight, which we don’t want. Two, you’ve just crossed five time zones; that has an effect on your system. Caution dictates a backup.”

“Tell that to a couple of thousand fighter pilots from World War Two through Desert Storm.”

“Yes, well, that would be rather difficult, wouldn’t it?”

“Yassuh, massa.”

They landed past nightfall, and Cameron was taken to Togazzi’s car while Luther was driven to a preselected hotel, and the MI-5 copilot made arrangements in the terminal to fly back to London.

Inside the familiar vehicle with the distressed exterior and luxurious interior, Pryce found himself of two minds. The first was that he missed Leslie enormously, missed her not being beside him, missed her quick mind and their conversations … and, of course, her sexual appetite. He had to face the truth: Cameron Pryce, he of the single persuasion and, except for his job, free of long-range entanglements and the responsibilities therein, was deeply in love.
He had come close two or three times since college, but his obsession with academics and later his fascination with the extensive training at the Agency precluded deeper relationships. Those obstacles were eliminated; the fascination would always be there and he understood that with every operation he could learn something, but there was space now and time, as much as there would ever be. And he had found someone he wanted to share those moments with for the rest of his life. It was as simple as that, and he recognized it. Temporary liaisons were simple and gratifying, love was crazy, a topsy-turvy world of longing, exuberance, and impatience.

The other part of Cameron’s reflections dwelt on Scofield. What had the legend that was Beowulf Agate uncovered and why was he so secretive? It was no time for grandstanding and Brandon’s reality check would tell him that. So what prompted his odd behavior? He would find out within the hour.

They reached Togazzi’s wooded sanctuary in the forest above Bellagio, and Pryce was led out to the also-familiar narrow balcony with the row of telescopes overlooking Lake Como. The greetings were brief, as Scofield was anxious to tell his story, anxious and intense. He described the strange telephone call to the yacht, and the woman who said they would pay for Cardinal Paravacini’s death.

“That call could only have come from the house, so while Togazzi here was making arrangements to get rid of the corpse and clean things up, I ran to the house and began searching. There was nobody, at least I couldn’t find anyone, but I did find a pair of binoculars near a telephone in the library. The sight line was perfect, direct to the yacht. Whoever she was called from there.”

“But you couldn’t find her?”

“No, but I was curious about that library. It was like no other library I’d ever seen. Oh, there were the usual leather-bound volumes, which meant they were probably never read, and hundreds of regular books, but there was something else. A whole section of what looked like archives. Huge scrapbooks, many with old, thick, yellowed paper,
held together with heavy string. I pulled several out and began studying them. That’s when I called one of the guards and told him to go down to the yacht and explain to Silvio that I’d be there for a while.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing short of a pictorial history of the Matarese family as far back as the turn of the century. Photographs, daguerreotypes, old newspaper clippings, and maps with specific markings. Not many words, no text as such, only captions in Italian, some short, others longer.”

“I translated them for him,” Togazzi broke in. “He speaks a little of our language but his reading is practically illiterate.”

“I speak French better than you do!”

“A diseased language.”

“Did you learn anything new?” asked an exasperated Pryce.

“No, something old,
very
old, and it started me thinking. We’ve been looking in the wrong direction, trying to anticipate the crises, when and where they’ll take place and what they’ll be.”

“How can we short-circuit them if we don’t look for them?”

“That’s the point, we’ll
never
find them. Only one man knows, the one who gives the orders, Matareisen. He’s buried them so deep I suspect he’s the only one who has the information we desperately need.”

“So?”

“I have a hunch so strong it’s eating a hole in my gut.”

“What do you mean?”

“You see, one of those huge scrapbooks was devoted entirely to the ruins of the old Matarese fortress or castle, as in the
Baron
of Matarese. There were dozens of photographs, from every angle of the inside ruins and the grounds outside. At least thirty big pages, and the pictures weren’t old, I mean they weren’t grainy or yellowed, but could have been taken yesterday. On the last page, there was a small handwritten note.
Negatives per J.V.M.
”

“Negatives for J.V.M.,” said Cameron. “Jan van der Meer Matareisen, the one who gives the orders.”

“Exactly. And why would Matareisen want an extensive photographic record of the old place—because they
were
ruins.”

“The answer is obvious,” Togazzi again interrupted. “For reconstruction.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Scofield. “The genesis of the Matarese, the original seat of power. I’m not much for psychobabble, but we know Matareisen is a fanatic to the core, a brilliant basket case, but certifiable. Where would such a man go but to his roots when he’s about to pull off a worldwide catastrophe?”

“But you don’t know that, Bray.”

“We will tomorrow.”

“
What?
”

“I called Geof in London on one of Silvio’s private lines, and got Considine’s code name and hotel number. At first light he’ll take off from Milan and fly to the unmapped airstrip near Lake Maggiore—he said he knows it because he picked up you and Leslie there.”

“He does and he did.”

“His tanks will be full and we’ll head for the southeast coast of Corsica. It’s roughly two hundred forty air miles, four-eighty with a return; that’s no problem for his aircraft. We’ll fly below Solenzara to Porto Vecchio, north of Bonifacio. Using the coordinates from Paravacini’s maps, we’ll pass over the Matarese ruins.”

“Is that smart?” asked Pryce.

“At twelve thousand feet it is. Among the equipment I asked for was a high-altitude photo-television scope that penetrates cloud cover. With a few passes, we’ll be able to determine if there’s any activity down there. If there is, we’ll go into Phase Two.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s an airfield in Senetosa, about twenty minutes from the old Matarese fortress. We’ll deplane, trek over, and see what we can find.”

“Good God, why no backups? Why this
secrecy
, which amounts to a
blackout?
”

“Because I don’t trust anybody; we’re
all
penetrated. If I’m right, Matareisen will be there in all his simulated glory. But if he has even the inkling of a suspicion that we’ve centered in on Porto Vecchio, he’ll either hightail it out of there or call in enough firepower to blast an army away.”

“Reality check, Bray,” said Cameron sharply. “Suppose you’re wrong and he’s not there?”

“So I’m wrong. London’s working like hell, Squinty’s working, the Keizersgracht is working, they’re all working. We’re not in this alone, for Christ’s sake. All we’ve lost is our time.”

“Suppose he is there and he’s already got his guards, his firepower?”

“Hey, young fella, this isn’t my first run. I was here when you were sucking tits.”

“That’s not an answer, Brandon.”

“All right, it’s in the equipment Geof provided. A Comsat mobile-link phone, direct satellite transmission to London. If what you suggest is the
reality
, as you put it, there’s a unit of French commandos at the airport in Marseilles. By jet, they can be in Senetosa in a matter of minutes.”

“So your secrecy isn’t exactly total—”

“The hell it isn’t. Those guys haven’t a clue, just that there might be an incursion on an island in the Mediterranean. Once I give Geof the word, he relays it to the Deuxième Bureau and the jet takes off for Senetosa. I’ll meet the unit on the road and issue the orders. If I ever call them.”

“That would assume you’ve done some reconnoitering.”

“I assume
we
will have. That part’s in the equipment, too. Camouflage outfits, binoculars, two machetes, knives, guns with silencers, boots, wire cutters, gas canisters—all the usual stuff.”

“The usual
‘stuff’?
”

T
hey flew down the Corsican coast at eight thousand feet until they reached Solenzara, where Luther ascended to twelve thousand. The sophisticated high-altitude camera was in place, clamped to the floor of the fuselage, the opening part of the Bristol Freighter’s multipurpose design.

“Map coordinates coming up two minutes plus,” said Considine over the loudspeaker. “Are you prepared?”

“Everything’s ready,” replied Scofield, hovering over the camera whose ten-inch screen magnified the ground below a thousandfold while photographs were taken roughly every half second.

Two minutes later Luther spoke again. “Start your leadins and check for focus. Refine.”

“I gather you’ve done this before, Lieutenant,” said Pryce into his throat microphone.

“You gather right, spook. It’s called Iraqi fly-bys. Very relaxing duty, except when the idiots get missile-happy.”

“
Rolling
,” cried Brandon, peering down at the screen. “Look at that, Cam! You’d think those trees were only a couple of hundred feet away, not two miles.”

“Approaching target,” exclaimed Considine. “Good luck, bombardier.”

“There it is!” yelled Scofield. “Only it
isn’t
. Those aren’t ruins—Togazzi and I were right, the whole place has been rebuilt! Turn around and make another pass, Luther.”

“Peeling,” said the pilot as the aircraft veered to the left.

The second, third, and fourth passes revealed a total of five figures at various times on the grounds of the Matarese estate. Two of the people appeared to be women; one male apparently was a gardener, as he was in the middle of a cluster of flowers, and two other men were climbing into an automobile.

“That’s enough for me,” said Beowulf Agate, “we go to Phase Two.
Senetosa
, Luther! Can you find it?”

“I found it before we took off, ye elder spook.”

On the ground at the Senetosa airfield, Scofield and Pryce opened the crate of supplies, dividing up the equipment among them. Bray threw Considine a camouflage suit complete with a full cartridge belt and a silenced pistol. “What the hell are these for?” asked the pilot. “I’ve already got new clothes without any labels.”

“Just in case we need assistance, and it would only be under extreme circumstances.”

“If they’re not in the air, I don’t like extreme circumstances. I fight in the sky, man.”

“I doubt any such thing would be required. However, there’s a possibility that a small contingent of French commandos will be arriving—”

“French
commandos!
” exploded Luther. “You white clowns are playing fast and loose with this black ass.”

“No, no, Lieutenant, you misunderstand. There’s only one road from here to Porto Vecchio and if they’re required, I’ll meet them halfway and I’ll give them their orders. It’s just that they’ll feel more confident if you’re dressed in combat gear.”

“
I
won’t feel more confident.”

“Pensacola, Luther, Pensacola,” said Cam quietly.

“I don’t know whether that’s a promise or an albatross.”

“He’s a very clever young man,” observed Scofield. “Come on, fellas, strip and get into the gear.”

Outside the aircraft, Brandon and Pryce, in full guerrilla
regalia, and Considine, self-conscious in his camouflage fatigues with the cartridge belt, stood by the plane while the traffic controller from the small tower approached. He spoke in broken English.

“You most welcome to Senetosa,
signori
, although I have never seen you. You are to proceed with your operation. Our crew will cover your plane with nets.”

“Is that necessary?” asked Luther.

“Orders from London. Proceed,
piacere
, the airstrip will be closed until we receive additional orders.”

“Good enough,” said Scofield. “Stay by your radio, Lieutenant. We’ll keep in touch.”

“You do that.”

Bray and Cameron started down the road from the airfield cut out of the hills. It was now late morning and they stayed on the edge of the coarse pavement, prepared to race into bordering woods at the first sight or sound of humans or vehicles. Twice it was necessary to do so; the first time it was the appearance of an old gray Renault coming toward them in the distance. Peering through the trees, they saw it was driven by a couple in their thirties and obviously in the middle of a heated argument. The second was the sound of voices behind them. Startled, they ran for cover. To their relief, the voices belonged to four boisterous teenagers, student-athletes, perhaps, out for a noonday run.

The youngsters out of sight, Scofield and Pryce resumed their positions on the edge of the country road, accelerating their pace. Minutes later they came to a steep, descending section; across the way, on a hill, stood the restored great house of the Baron of Matarese.

“From here on we go solo, agreed?” said Beowulf Agate softly.

“Looks best to me,” said Cameron. “I’ll take the right flank, you go left.”

“Both of us in the woods.”

“Certainly not on the road.”

“Let’s go. We’ll check radios in five minutes.”

They split, Pryce walking across the road and entering the Porto Vecchio forest, Scofield disappearing into the
woods on the left. Each found the steep, ravinelike slope nearly impenetrable, trees and tropical vines intertwined, the ground soft from the Corsican rains. The difficult trudging was matched and overmatched by the subsequent, equally steep climb up the succeeding hill of the brief valley. They had tested the radios, keeping both on open frequencies.