The Matarese Countdown (9 page)

“We know the Frenchman’s connected to the Matarese,” Pryce went on. “It’s on record, his own words, presumably. Also the financial histories of the others are filled with confusing gaps regarding their money, according to Frank Shields’s latest information.”

“ ‘Squint Eyes’ would be accurate in that department,”
conceded Beowulf Agate. “He was always very astute where gaps were concerned. He looked for patterns, and when they weren’t there, he looked for something else.”

“The something else here is the Matarese. The murders took place within forty-eight hours, the killers disappeared, no traces, no tracks—”

“That’s consistent,” Scofield interrupted.

“And why is the trail of their wealth so complex?” continued Cameron. “ ‘Amorphous’ was the word Frank used; undefined, I guess he meant.”

“I’m sure he did.” The retired, gray-haired former intelligence officer once more laughed softly, more to himself. “How many millionaires do you know who willingly share their portfolios, especially if their sources of income may have questionable aspects, no matter how long ago?”

“I don’t know that many millionaires, not personally.”

“You know me now.”

“Are
you
—”

“Enough on the subject, not another word. See what I mean?”

“I’d rather not, but in light of your service record, I’ll consider it a separation bonus.… Where do we start? Where do
I
start?”

“You said it yourself, the money trail,” replied Scofield. “Frank Shields is good, but he’s an analyst. He crunches numbers, works with paper, with computerized printouts of charts and graphs and dossiers written by both responsible, and irresponsible, and usually untraceable authors of same. You’ve got to deal with
people
, not electronic reproductions.”

“I’ve done that before,” said Pryce, “and I firmly believe in doing it. The new technology can span borders and watch and listen, but it can’t talk with the men and the women we have to confront. There’s no substitute for that. But this money trail, where do I begin?”

“I’d say,” said Beowulf Agate thoughtfully, “since you can’t find the killers, you start with the victims themselves. Their families, their attorneys, their bankers, perhaps even their close friends or neighbors. Anyone who might know
something of their attitudes, of what they may have mentioned about themselves. It’s damnably boring—which is part of your job—but you may find another door to open in the maze.”

“Why would any of them talk to me?”

“Hell, that’s easy. The Company has connections,
Frank
has connections. They’ll get you credentials—good God, we’ve given
them
enough over here. You’re the good guy; you’re trying to find out who killed their loved ones, and the combined intelligence communities have given you an open road.”

“An ‘open road’? What does that mean?”

“We make up our own jargon. It simply means you have the authority to ask questions.”

“
What
authority?”

“Who
cares?
You have the credentials.”

“It can’t be as simple as that—”

“Simplicity is the mother’s milk of penetration, young Cameron. I’m sorry I have to remind you of that.”

“I both understand, and I don’t understand.”

“Then think about it some more.”

Suddenly, Antonia Scofield rushed through the archway. “
Bray
,” she cried, “I went out to the porch to shut off the lights and there was fire on the horizon, explosions, I think.”

“Extinguish the candles!” ordered Scofield. “You, Pryce, you come with me!” Like scrambling infantrymen in a jungle, with Beowulf Agate in the lead, the two men raced through the heavy foliage on the barely discernible path. Cameron had the presence of mind to grab his flight bag when he saw Scofield reach for a square leather-bound object on a table as they left the house. Crashing through succeeding walls of greenery, they came to the rock-hewn beach where the photoelectric cells caught the rays of the Caribbean sun.

“Get down!” said the older man, opening the leather case and removing large night-vision binoculars. Pryce unzipped his flight bag and did the same. Together they scanned the horizon. There was a shimmering glow far out
in the water, accompanied by erratic flashes of light. “What do you make of it?” asked Scofield.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” replied Cameron, reaching into the bag for his precalibrated telephone, “but right now I’ve got a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach.”

“Sort of hollow, right?”

“Very hollow, Mr. Scofield.”

“I’ve been there. It never changes.”

“Oh,
Christ!
” spat out Pryce. “There’s
nothing
. Nobody answers!”

“Your boat?”

“The Coast Guard cutter. It was blown out of the water. Those kids … they were just kids! All
dead.
”

“They may come in here—”

“They?
Who?
”

“Whoever sank the cutter,” replied Scofield coldly. “We’re part of a very small archipelago, six or seven mini-islands, but they may center on this one.”

“Who
are
they? Drug pirates getting rid of their hunters maybe?”

“We should be so lucky, young man, and I say that in profound sorrow for those kids.”

“What do you mean? Are you suggesting they’re after
me?
If you are., that’s crazy! I got off port side—the vessel was heading west—and waited for an extensive cloud cover before I pushed off. No one could have seen me except someone here—which was you.”

“No, Cameron Pryce, they’re not after you; they followed you but they’re not after you. You’ve managed to do what I honestly believed could never be done: You’ve roped me back into hell. They have charts, a location. If not tonight, sooner or later.”

“I’m sorry! I tried to think out every move so as to
protect
you!”

“Don’t blame yourself. As experienced as you are, you’re not prepared for them, few are. But if it is tonight, someone who
is
prepared has a surprise in store for them.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later. Stay here, I’ll be back in five minutes or less.” The former deep-cover field officer got to his feet.

“Who’s ‘them’?” asked Pryce.

“Need I say it?” replied Scofield. “The Matarese, young man.”

A
nguish mixed with fury, Cameron imposed a cold control over himself, his hands steady as he stared through the night-vision binoculars. The pulsating glow of light was diminished in the sporadic darkness; finally it ceased to exist. Fire swallowed up by the sea, what was had disappeared. Pryce slowly moved the binoculars with every break in the cloud cover that intercepted the moonlight—to the left, to the right, above where the drowned fires were, then below in case a vessel had crept forward in the darkness.

There it was! A small, black silhouette, illuminated by the now-dim rays of the moon. It seemed to be on a direct course toward Outer Brass 26—or was it? Where was
Scofield?

As if on cue, he heard the sound of rustling foliage as Beowulf Agate broke through the palm leaves, his wife, Antonia, behind him. Each carried what appeared to be a heavy object, Scofield’s defined first. It was a three-foot, four-inch-bore, shoulder-hoisted rocket launcher. The large canvas duffel bag, half carried, half dragged by his wife, obviously contained the ammunition.

“Anything new?” asked Bray, taking the duffel from
Antonia and setting the launcher down on the rocks protruding from the sand.

“Another boat, too far out to get a description, but it looks like it’s headed here.”

“There are several small land masses, barely islands, on both its flanks. Whoever’s skippering may head to the nearest first—we’re like third.”

“That’s not much consolation—”

“It could be enough,” Scofield cut in. “I want to see what kind of equipment it’s got on board.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Enough to tell me whether to blow it to hell or not. Heavy antennae, satellite dishes, radar grids—oh, it makes a lot of difference, take my word.”

“You’ll have to destroy it if it weighs anchor off the beach.”

“Good God, you’ve just given me another idea!” cried the older man, turning to his wife.

“If it’s what I think, you’re crazy,” said Antonia Scofield, crouching behind her husband, her words delivered through dry ice.

“Not really,” replied Beowulf Agate, “we have the advantage,
all
the advantages! Even now we can determine that it’s a relatively small craft. How many crew can there be? Four, five, six?”

“I’ll grant you the logic, my dear,” answered Antonia reluctantly. “I’ll also go back to the house and bring us additional weapons.” She rose and ran into the heavy foliage.

“Toni always changes ‘my darling’ into ‘my dear’ when she’s pissed off at me,” said Scofield, grinning. “It means she knows I’m right, but she hates to admit it.”

“I hate to admit that I don’t know what you’re talking about!
Either
of you.”

“Sometimes I think you’re slow, Cam.”

“Get off it! What
are
you talking about?”

“Speaking as an ex-professional, wouldn’t it be lovely if we got on board that craft? Commandeered it, actually? We might learn a great deal, no? We can suck ’em in here and
take control, reverse the circumstances.
They
become the targets.”

“
Hey
, my
God
, I see what you mean!” exclaimed Pryce. “There has to be ship-to-shore communication. We take whoever comes in, show them your rocket blaster aimed at their boat, and make it clear that one hostile move and it’s exit-city.”

“That’s the bottom line.”

“What’s Mrs. Scofield bringing us?”

“Three MAC-Tens would be my guess. They have longer and straighter ranges. Also, they’re very special, they have silencers attached; you hear punctuated spits but no loud fire. Our theory is that if we ever have to actually shoot, we could run away and not reveal our positions.”

“She knows about that sort of thing?”

“As much as either of us. She keeps up with the world I left far more than I do. She can’t forget how long we were fugitives—she still believes we’re fugitives now. I think she could put on a scuba tank and blow up a destroyer, if either of us—or Taleniekov—was threatened.”

“That’s some lady.”

“Some lady,” agreed Beowulf Agate softly. “Without her, neither Vasili nor I would have survived.… Here she comes!”

“I decided on the Uzi for me,” said a breathless Antonia, parting the last low-hanging palms and throwing the weapons down. “It’s lighter and best at close range.” She then lowered the canvas bag from her shoulder. “I’ve brought sixty rounds apiece for the MAC’s; they’re in the red-striped plastic pouches; mine are in the blue.… What now, my darling?”

“Ah, she softens!” exclaimed Scofield. “It’s like Ajaccio or Bonifacio all over again, isn’t it, Toni?”

“It makes me sick, you bastard.”

“But you see, Cam, she rises to the occasion. Right, old girl?”

“Old I can accept. Dead, I can’t.”

“Have you got a flashlight in that bag of tricks of yours, Pryce?”

“Of course.”

“Take it out, turn it on, and wave the beam around helter-skelter. Don’t zero in on the boat but weave around it. We don’t want our victims to miss it.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Cameron.

“To paraphrase you, my boy, I both do and I don’t. I just know it can be a shortcut, and that’s what we always look for, isn’t it?”

“No argument there,” agreed Pryce, turning on the high-powered flashlight and circling the dark sky, finally arcing over the suddenly approaching silhouette in the distance.

“He changed course!” said Scofield. “He was heading for Brass Twenty-four, and he turned! Good work, young fellow.”

“What now?” asked Cameron.

“They’ll send a skiff in,” said Antonia. “I’ll head to the right of the beach cul-de-sac, and you go to the left, Cam.”

“Then what?” asked the younger man.

“We’ll see what scoots in,” replied Scofield, his rocket launcher in place between the rocks. “I’ll also be zeroing in on the craft itself. Whoever’s left on board will be on deck.… Then we’ll know what the odds are.”

“Suppose they have what
you
have?” said Cameron. “Seventy-five millimeters, or something like that. They could blow up your island!”

“If they have it, and I see it, and if I catch anybody running to it, the whole shebang is blown out of the water.”

The small ship, a trawler, continued toward Outer Brass 26, and as it came within two hundred yards, a heavy-calibered cannon could be distinguished on its bow, large enough and powerful enough to blow up a Coast Guard cutter. But the few hands on deck—three, to be precise—were more concerned with lowering a power-driven PVC boat into the water. The skipper emerged from the bridge, apparently shouting orders to drop anchor, and then stood there, the binoculars at his eyes, a large holstered weapon strapped around his waist.

“I know that face!” exclaimed Pryce. “He’s a Swede,
on Stockholm’s terrorist list. One of the suspects in Palme’s assassination!”

“He’s found a home,” said Scofield. “Now I really want to get on board.”

“Be careful, my dear.”

“She’s still pissed off.… I will, lovey, just get to the right flank. But for Christ’s sake, stay low and use our little jungle. Remember, he’s got the same night-glasses we do.”

“On my way.”

“You, too, Pryce, head left. We’ll have the bastards in a cross fire. But remember, if you have to shoot, the initial rounds go over their heads. We want captives, not corpses.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Cut the ‘sir’ bullshit. I’m not your mentor, I’m an accident.”

The PVC lapped its way into the beach no more than two hundred feet from Scofield and the launcher. On the right side of the cove’s horseshoe configuration, Antonia stood in the shadows of the island jungle, the Uzi in her strong hands. On the far-left flank, Pryce knelt by a large volcanic boulder, the MAC-10 poised to fire. The first of the three men in the rubber raft leaped over the bow, a weapon in his left hand, a rope in his right. The man in the middle was next, gripping a large repeating automatic rifle in both hands. The skipper at the stern shut off the engine and followed the others; he was equally armed. Their combined firepower was considerable.