The Matarese Countdown (70 page)

“Very, Mr. Whitehead. Shall I stay and assist you? I can call my husband—”

“No, no, my dear, you run along. I’ll be fine, and remember, our little meeting was just between us, as well as my visit here.”

“I understand, sir.”

“On behalf of the investors and myself, you’ll find an envelope under your blotter in the morning.”

“That’s not necessary, sir.”

“Oh, but it is, it is.”

“Well,
thank
you, Mr. Whitehead.… And I hope everything
is all right. I think Mr. Nichols is a wonderful man, so kind and considerate.”

“He’s all of that and a dear friend.”
And a fucking Judas to boot!

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Joanne.”

It was close to midnight when Albert Whitehead extracted the last disk. He was exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, his breath short. He had gone back three full years and over four thousand documents. There was nothing! Had Nichols gone outside the office and hired a typist from some sleazy employment agency? Or perhaps from a third-rate newspaper’s Help Wanted column? Of course he had. It
had
to be! He couldn’t very well indict the head of Swanson and Schwartz in front of an employee—or could he? Secretaries were an unpredictable breed, ranging from stealing petty cash to breaking up marriages.

Shall I stay and assist you? I can call my husband
.

Sure, young lady, call your husband and tell him you’re working with the owner of the company until midnight! What’s next? Rape? Blackmail?

Whitehead dragged himself out of the chair and replaced the final disk in the large white file cabinet. He returned to the desk, picked up Nichols’s telephone, and dialed his limousine service.

“
Madre di Dio! Il mare Mediterraneo! Mare nostra!
” The screams filled the silent night at the airfield in Senetosa, Corsica.

“What the hell is
that?
” shouted Scofield, bolting from the cot in the cabin north of the runway.

“Damned if I know,” said Pryce, sitting up on the couch.

The door of the cabin crashed open as Luther Considine ran inside. “For God’s sake, will somebody
translate?
Krazy Kat’s going nuts out there!”

“What is it?” asked Brandon.

“You tell
me
,” replied Luther. “He’s running up here.”

The air controller burst through the door. “
La radio! Mare nostra. Fuoco, incendio!
”

“
Lentamente, lentamente
,” said Scofield, telling the man to slow down. “English,
piacere?
”

“Over radio,” answered the controller in his broken English. “All through
il Mediterraneo
—fires everywhere! From bay of Muscat to Africa, Israel,
fuochi. Inferno, maledetto! Il diavolo
takes up the world!”

“ ‘Fires all over,’ ” said Bray haltingly. “ ‘The devil takes over the world.’ From Oman to Israel to North Africa.”

“The Mediterranean fires,” said Cameron. “Matareisen’s sent it out. It’s the signal!”

“Let’s
go!
” cried Scofield.

“I’m coming with you,” said Luther Considine. “My people came from Africa, and nobody burns our ocean.”

I
t was shortly past eleven o’clock, the moon bright, alive in the sky, as Scofield, Pryce, and Considine crawled through the barbed wire into the Matarese compound.

“Luther, you’re our rear point,” whispered Brandon. “If anyone comes up the road, or even if you see headlights, get on the radio and tell us.”

“Gotcha, elder spook. Do you guys do this sort of thing on a regular basis?”

“No,” replied Cameron, “usually we’re announced.”

“Funny man.”

“Not at the moment,” said Pryce, following Scofield up the steep, wooded incline. They reached the border of the circular drive; the mansion was dark except for a single window on the top floor. Suddenly a figure appeared behind the glass.

“You wanted confirmation?” asked Bray.

“I’ve got it. It’s he.”

“ ‘It’s he’? It’s
him
.”

“Case closed on Harvard. Get
back!
He’s looking down here.”

“Then stay still, your face down!” Scofield clamped his hand on Pryce’s neck. “He’s moving away.”

“Let’s run to the side of the house,” whispered Cam.

“
No
, he’s come back! He’s on the phone.”

Matareisen’s face in the window appeared angry; he seemed to be shouting. He then walked away again only to reappear, holding what looked like a long computer printout, his face still twisted in a grimace. Once more he left the window in apparent fury.

“
Now!
” said Brandon, getting up and racing across the drive to the side of the house, Cameron close behind him.

“He’s pissed off about something,” added Scofield. “We’re okay for a couple of moments.”

“Then what?”

“I want to look around, study the alarm setup, if I can find it.”

“You screw with it, you’ll set it off!”

“Maybe, maybe not. Weapons at the ready, as Geof would say, and check your silencer.”

“Checked.”

“Cover the front door. If I blow it with the alarm, I’ll get back as soon as I can, but you be ready. Shoot anyone who comes out—”

“
Hey, spooks!
” It was Luther’s whispered voice over both their radios. “Headlights heading straight for that medieval iron gate.”

“Let’s get out of sight in the back,” said Scofield.

“
No
,” countered Pryce firmly. “This could be our way in. No mess, no fuss, no alarms.”

“No heartbeats, either!”

“Come on, Bray, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

“Explain how.”

“Out of sight, yes, but not in the back. Did you see the front door?”

“Three brick steps, a thick, heavy door, carriage lanterns on the right and left,” answered the observant Scofield.

“
And?
”

“And what?… The
bushes
, tall bushes flanking the porch! Whoever it is goes inside while the alarm is off and we—”

“We’re wasting time. I’ll take the far side, you take this one.”

“
Spooks!
” Considine again. “The gate opened and they’re driving through.”

“
They?
”

“Two gorillas, I’d say.”

“Get off the radio,” ordered Cameron, turning to Brandon. “Hurry
up
. Get in there and crouch!”

“Easy for you.”

The large black sedan, its headlights blinding, rounded the curving drive and stopped in front of the wide brick porch. Two men got out, the driver medium-sized with long, light brown hair, the other much larger, barrel-chested, his head topped by a receding crew cut. Instead of walking up the steps to the entrance, they opened the rear doors and began carrying out grocery bags and small cartons, the labels and logos indicating that they had been purchased in the port city of Bonifacio. They piled the merchandise on the porch, speaking in the patois of Corsica, an odd mix of French and Italian.

“In the name of God, such delicacies!” said the driver. “The
padrone
must be planning a celebration.”

“For whom? Us and the three servants? I doubt it.”

“Certainly for the whore. He likes her, you know.”

“I’m not sure she’s a whore, I think she’s a nymphomaniac. As for his liking her, wait’ll he finds out she’s slept with all of us! It would offend his aristocratic dignity. He looks down on us, I trust you know that.”

“I know that, and I don’t give a shit if he considers us worms. The pay is good—more than good—far better than the Sicilians.”

“Same rotten jobs, my friend. Frankly, I cannot go to the confessional any longer.”

“Do not worry. Our God sent us here to do what we do. Everything is preordained.”

“Ring the chimes, tell the idiots to shut off the alarm and open the door.”

The driver did as the larger man told him. Moments later there were lights in the downstairs windows and a female voice over the porch intercom. “Yes, who is it?” she asked in the Corsican dialect.

“Two of your most experienced lovers, Rosa.”

“
You’re
certainly the heaviest!”

“Open up,” said the driver. “We need help out here. Quickly!”

“Not until I turn off the alarm, unless you care to be blown out of the hills.”

The two Corsicans looked at each other, their expressions conveying weary disgust. “Loud bells would have been sufficient,” muttered the large, heavyset man. “Why the explosives? A true idiot inside could blow us to hell, along with the porch.”

“The
padrone
takes no risks. He’s safe and we take our chances.”

The door opened and the voluptuous maid, who had previously strolled in the driveway with a guard, appeared. Her revealing negligee emphasized the swells of her generous breasts and the curvature of her hips.

“Mother of God!” cried the woman. “What are all these?”

“The
padrone
must be having a party,” replied the driver.

“
That
explains things,” said the scantily clad maid.

“What things?”

“We’re running around like headless chickens! The rooms must be spotless, the sheets washed and softened, the silver polished, the banquet hall set up, and the cook is going crazy. The butcher and the greengrocer were here this afternoon delivering enough meat and produce to feed a houseful of Sicilian mamas!”

“What does the
padrone
say?”

“Nothing himself. He’s locked on the top floor and sends down messages in the air tube. Besides the ones I just told you, he tells us that guests will be arriving shortly past dawn. Shortly past
dawn!
Can you imagine?”

“With
the padrone
I can imagine most anything,” said the large man, picking up a case of wine. “I’ll take this into the kitchen.”

“I’ll follow with two of these cartons. They’re too heavy for our delicate Rosa.”

“Delicate, my ass!”

“That isn’t, Rosa.”

The two Corsicans disappeared into the house as the maid bent over, sorting through the packages. Suddenly, Pryce broke through the bushes and leaped up on the porch, grabbing the woman by the neck, yanking her head back, his left hand clamped over her mouth. “Your
gas!
” he whispered to Scofield, who was climbing up the front steps, the low brick side too difficult for him to negotiate. Swiftly, he reached into the pocket of his camouflage fatigues and pulled out his canister of aerosoled chloroform. He rapidly administered two sprays into her face, concentrating on her nostrils; she collapsed instantly. Cameron dragged her off the porch and placed her unconscious body to the right of the foliage, out of sight. Both men raced back behind the bushes.

The two Corsicans returned, confused by the absence of the maid. “Rosa, where the hell
are
you?” called out the driver, walking down the brick steps. This time it was Scofield who walked out of the thick foliage, his silenced pistol in the porch’s light.

“You raise your voice, young man, you won’t have any vocal cords. I’ll blow them out of your throat.”

“What
is
this?” roared the huge man, lunging across the porch. “Who
are
you?”

Again, Cameron ran out, his pistol in hand. “
Silenzio!
” he said in his limited Italian. “One move and you are
morto.
”

“I understand English,
signore
, and I do not care to die.” The large Corsican backed up the steps. “We are merely servants of the house, our possessions are insignificant.”

“We’re not interested in your possessions,” said Pryce, “only information. We know the owner of this house, as you call it, is upstairs. How do you reach the top floor?”

“The stairs,
signore
, how else?”

“The front stairs
and
the back stairs?”

“Both. You know the house?”

“I’m trying to. Where are the back stairs?”

“In the kitchen. The staff must use them.”

“How many floors?”

“Four,
signore
.”

“Are there any exits to the outside from the back stairs?”

“Not directly.”

“Fire escapes, where and how many?”

“
Che?
”

“I know that one,” interrupted Scofield. “
Scala di sicurezza.
”

“Ah,
sì
,” acknowledged the Corsican. “There are two,
signore
. West and east sides, the first for guests, the second for the staff.”

“How are they reached?”

“Each floor has a locked emergency door in the corridor that opens on the
scala
. It is released by a concealed button in the wall or by a master switch in the kitchen.”

“Besides the owner, your
padrone
, who else is inside and where are they?”

“The cook and a second maid—where is
Rosa?
”

“She’s resting.”

“You
killed
her?”

“I said resting, not dead. Now where are the cook and the second maid?”

“The cook has a bedroom on the second floor above the kitchen, the girl on the third.”

“I think that does it, don’t you, Bray?”

“Short, sweet, and complete,” agreed Scofield.

“
Now!
” cried Pryce. Operating in tandem, the Americans shoved their weapons into the stomachs of the two Corsicans while yanking out their gas canisters. Holding their breaths, they sprayed each at close range and, as each started to collapse, they propelled the body into the interior lawn of the circular drive. The men would be unconscious for at least an hour, and maybe as long as three hours. “Use the radio and get Luther up here,” continued Cameron.

“The second fire escape, right, youngster?” Scofield pulled out his radio and spoke into it.

“You’ve got it. When Luther gets here, you two cover the fire escapes, and I’ll go in for the cook and the maid.”

“
Here
I am, spooks.” Considine raced out of the Porto Vecchio woods. “What do I do?”

“Come over here,” said Pryce as the pilot ran to his side. “Around the corner of the house, on the west side, there’s a fire escape. If anyone tries to come down, fire your gun, but
away
from the body. We don’t want anyone wounded, much less dead.”