The Matlock Paper

by Robert Ludlum

  So be it.

  If it had to be this way, if hope really had been taken from him, he’d end it all with a gesture, at least. He reached into his belt for the automatic.

  The streets they now traveled—the pursuer and the pursued—ran through the outskirts of the campus, consisting mainly of the science buildings and a number of large parking lots. There were no houses to speak of.

  He swerved the Chevrolet as far to the right as possible, thrusting his right arm across his chest, the barrel of the pistol outside the car window, pointed at the pursuing automobile.

  He fired twice. The car behind him accelerated; he felt the repeated jarring of contact, the metal against metal as the car behind hammered into the Chevrolet’s left rear chassis. He pulled again at the trigger of the automatic. Instead of a loud report, he heard and felt only the single click of the firing pin against an unloaded chamber.

  Even his last gesture was futile.

  His pursuer crashed into him once more. He lost control; the wheel spun, tearing his arm, and the Chevrolet reeled off the road. Frantic, he reached for the door handle, desperately trying to steady the car, prepared to jump if need be.

  He stopped all thought; all instincts of survival were arrested. Within those split seconds, time ceased. For the car behind him had drawn parallel and he saw the face of his pursuer.

  There were bandages and gauze around the eyes, beneath the glasses, but they could not hide the face of the black revolutionary. Julian Dunois.

  It was the last thing he remembered before the Chevrolet swerved to the right and skidded violently off the road’s incline.

  Blackness.

  32

  Pain roused him. It seemed to be all through his left side. He rolled his head, feeling the pillow beneath him.

  The room was dimly lit; what light there was came from a table lamp on the other side. He shifted his head and tried to raise himself on his right shoulder. He pushed his elbow into the mattress, his immobile left arm following the turn of his body like a dead weight.

  He-stopped abruptly.

  Across the room, directly in line with the foot of the bed, sat a man in a chair. At first Matlock couldn’t distinguish the features. The light was poor and his eyes were blurred with pain and exhaustion.

  Then the man came into focus. He was black and his dark eyes stared at Matlock beneath the perfectly cut semicircle of an Afro haircut. It was Adam Williams, Carlyle University’s firebrand of the Black Left.

  When Williams spoke, he spoke softly and, unless Matlock misunderstood—once again—there was compassion in the black’s voice.

  “I’ll tell Brother Julian you’re awake. He’ll come in to see you.” Williams got out of the chair and went to the door. “You’ve banged up your left shoulder. Don’t try to get out of bed. There are no windows in here. The hallway is guarded. Relax. You need rest.”

  “I don’t have time to rest, you goddamn fool!” Matlock tried to raise himself further but the pain was too great. He hadn’t adjusted to it.

  “You don’t have a choice.” Williams opened the door and walked rapidly out, closing it firmly behind him.

  Matlock fell back on the pillow.… Brother Julian.… He remembered now. The sight of Julian Dunois’s bandaged face watching him through the speeding car window, seemingly inches away from him. And his ears had picked up Dunois’s words, his commands to his driver. They had been shouted in his Caribbean dialect.

  “Hit him, mon! Hit him again! Drive him off, mon!”

  And then everything had become dark and the darkness had been filled with violent noise, crashing metal, and he had felt his body twisting, turning, spiraling into the black void.

  Oh, God! How long ago was it? He tried to lift up his left hand to look at his watch, but the arm barely moved; the pain was sharp and lingering. He reached over with his right hand to pull the stretch band off his wrist, but it wasn’t there. His watch was gone.

  He struggled to get up and finally managed to perch on the edge of the bed, his legs touching the floor. He pressed his feet against the wood, thankful that he could sit up.… He had to put the pieces together, to reconstruct what had happened, where he was going.

  He’d been on his way to Pat’s. To find a secluded telephone on which to reach Adrian Sealfont. To warn him that Kressel was the enemy, Kressel was Nimrod. And he’d made up his mind that Herron’s diaries would be Pat’s ransom. Then the chase had begun, only it wasn’t a chase. The car behind him, commanded by Julian Dunois, had played a furious game of terror. It had toyed with him as a lethal mountain cat might play with a wounded goat. Finally it had attacked—steel against steel—and driven him to darkness.

  Matlock knew he had to escape. But from where and to whom?

  The door of the windowless room opened. Dunois entered, followed by Williams.

  “Good morning,” said the attorney. “I see you’ve managed to sit up. That’s good. It augurs well for your very abused body.”

  “What time is it? Where am I?”

  “It’s nearly four thirty. You are in a room at Lumumba Hall. You see? I withhold nothing from you.… Now, you must reciprocate. You must withhold nothing from me.”

  “Listen to me!” Matlock kept his voice steady. “I have no fight with you, with any of you! I’ve got …”

  “Oh, I disagree,” Dunois smiled. “Look at my face. It’s only through enormous good fortune that I wasn’t blinded by you. You tried to crush the lenses of my glasses into my eyes. Can you imagine how my work would suffer if I were blind?”

  “Goddamn it! You filled me with acid!”

  “And you provoked it! You were actively engaged in pursuits inimicable to our brothers! Pursuits you had no right to engage in … But this is concentric debate. It will get us nowhere.… We do appreciate what you’ve brought us. Beyond our most optimistic ambitions.”

  “You’ve got the notebook.…”

  “And the Corsican document. The Italian invitation we knew existed. The notebook was only a rumor. A rumor which was fast being ascribed to fiction until tonight—this morning. You should feel proud. You’ve accomplished what scores of your more experienced betters failed to accomplish. You found the treasure. The real treasure.”

  “I’ve got to have it back!”

  “Fat chance!” said Williams, leaning against the wall, watching.

  “If I don’t get it back, a girl will die! Do whatever you goddamn well please with me, but let me use it to get her back. Christ! Please, please!”

  “You feel deeply, don’t you? I see tears in your eyes.…”

  “Oh, Jesus! You’re an educated man! You can’t do this!… Listen! Take whatever information you want out of it! Then give it to me and let me go!… I swear to you I’ll come back. Give her a chance. Just give her a chance!”

  Dunois walked slowly to the chair by the wall, the chair in which Adam Williams sat when Matlock awoke. He pulled it forward, closer to the bed, and sat down, crossing his knees gracefully. “You feel helpless, don’t you? Perhaps … even without hope.”

  “I’ve been through a great deal!”

  “I’m sure you have. And you appeal to my reason … as an educated man. You realize that it is within my scope to help you and therefore I am superior to you. You would not make such an appeal if it were not so.”

  “Oh, Christ! Cut that out!”

  “Now you know what it’s like. You are helpless. Without hope. You wonder if your appeal will be lost on a deaf ear.… Do you really, for one second, think that I care for the life of Miss Ballantyne? Do you honestly believe she has any priority for me? Any more than the lives of our children, our loved ones mean anything to you!”

  Matlock knew he had to answer Dunois. The black would offer nothing if he evaded him. It was another game—and he had to play, if only briefly.

  “I don’t deserve this and you know it. I loathe the people who won’t do anything for them. You know me—you’ve made that clear. So you must know that.”

>   “Ahh, but I don’t know it! You’re the one who made the choice, the decision to work for the superior mon! The Washington mon! For decades, two centuries, my people have appealed to the superior Washington mon! ‘Help us,’ they cry. ‘Don’t leave us without hope!’ they scream. But nobody listens. Now, you expect me to listen to you?”

  “Yes, I do! Because I’m not your enemy. I may not be everything you want me to be, but I’m not your enemy. If you turn me—and men like me—into objects of hatred, you’re finished. You’re outnumbered, don’t forget that, Dunois. We won’t storm the barricades every time you yell ‘foul,’ but we hear you. We’re willing to help; we want to help.”

  Dunois looked coldly at Matlock. “Prove it.”

  Matlock returned the black’s stare. “Use me as your bait, your hostage. Kill me if you have to. But get the girl out.”

  “We can do that—the hostaging, the killing—without your consent. Brave but hardly proof.”

  Matlock refused to allow Dunois to disengage the stare between them. He spoke softly. “I’ll give you a statement. Written, verbal—on tape; freely, without force or coercion. I’ll spell it all out. How I was used, what I did. Everything. You’ll have your Washington men as well as Nimrod.”

  Dunois folded his arms and matched Matlock’s quiet voice. “You realize you would put an end to your professional life; this life you love so much. No university administration worthy of its name would consider you for a position. You’d never be trusted again. By any factions. You’d become a pariah.”

  “You asked for proof. It’s all I can offer you.”

  Dunois sat immobile in the chair. Williams had straightened up from his slouching position against the wall. No one spoke for several moments. Finally Dunois smiled gently. His eyes, surrounded by the gauze, were compassionate.

  “You’re a good man. Inept, perhaps, but persevering. You shall have the help you need. We won’t leave you without hope. Do you agree, Adam?”

  “Agreed.”

  Dunois got out of the chair and approached Matlock.

  “You’ve heard the old cliché, that politics make strange bedfellows. Conversely, practical objectives often make for strange political alliances. History bears this out.… We want this Nimrod as much as you do. As well as the Mafiosi he tries to make peace with. It is they and their kind who prey upon the children. An example must be made. An example which will instill terror in other Nimrods, other Mafiosi.… You shall have help, but this is the condition we demand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The disposition of Nimrod and the others will be left to us. We don’t trust your judges and your juries. Your courts are corrupt, your legalistics no more than financial manipulations.… The barrio addict is thrown into jail. The rich gangsters appeal.… No, the disposition must be left to us.”

  “I don’t care about that. You can do whatever you like.”

  “Your not caring is insufficient. We demand more than that. We must have our guarantee.”

  “How can I give a guarantee?”

  “By your silence. By not acknowledging our presence. We will take the Corsican paper and somehow we will find the conference and be admitted. We will extract what we want from the diaries—that’s being done now, incidentally.… But your silence is the paramount issue. We will help you now—on a best-efforts basis, of course—but you must never mention our involvement. Irrespective of what may happen, you must not, directly or indirectly, allude to our participation. Should you do so, we will take your life and the life of the girl. Is this understood?”

  “It is.”

  “Then we are in agreement?”

  “We are.”

  “Thank you,” said Dunois, smiling.

  33

  As Julian Dunois outlined their alternatives and began to formulate strategy, it became clearer to Matlock why the blacks had sought him out with such concentration—and why Dunois was willing to offer help. He, Matlock, had the basic information they needed. Who were his contacts? Both inside and without the university? Who and where were the government men? How were communications expedited?

  In other words—whom should Julian Dunois avoid in his march to Nimrod?

  “I must say, you were extraordinarily unprepared for contingencies,” Dunois said. “Very slipshod.”

  “That occurred to me, too. But I think I was only partially to blame.”

  “I dare say you were!” Dunois laughed, joined by Williams. The three men remained in the windowless room. A card table had been brought in along with several yellow pads. Dunois had begun writing down every bit of information Matlock supplied. He double-checked the spelling of names, the accuracy of addresses—a professional at work; Matlock once again experienced the feeling of inadequacy he had felt when talking with Greenberg.

  Dunois stapled a number of pages together and started on a fresh pad. “What are you doing?” asked Matlock.

  “These will be duplicated by a copier downstairs. The information will be sent to my office in New York.… As will a photostat of every page in Professor Herron’s notebook.”

  “You don’t fool around, do you?”

  “In a word—no.”

  “It’s all I’ve got to give you. Now, what do we do? What do I do? I’m frightened, I don’t have to tell you that. I can’t even let myself think what might happen to her.”

  “Nothing will happen. Believe me when I tell you that. At the moment, your Miss Ballantyne is as safe as if she were in her mother’s arms. Or yours. She’s the bait, not you. The bait will be kept fresh and unspoiled. For you have what they want. They can’t survive without it.”

  “Then let’s make the offer. The sooner the better.”

  “Don’t worry. It will be made. But we must decide carefully—aware of the nuances—how we do it. So far, we have two alternatives, we agreed upon that. The first is Kressel, himself. The direct confrontation. The second, to use the police department, to let your message to Nimrod be delivered through it.”

  “Why do that? Use the police?”

  “I’m only listing alternatives.… Why the police? I’m not sure. Except that the Herron diaries state clearly that Nimrod was replaced in the past. This current Nimrod is the third since the position’s inception, is that not correct?”

  “Yes. The first was a man named Orton in the lieutenant governor’s office. The second, Angelo Latona, a builder. The third, obviously, Kressel. What’s your point?”

  “I’m speculating. Whoever assumes the position of Nimrod has authoritarian powers. Therefore, it is the position, not the man. The man can make whatever he can of the office.”

  “But the office,” interrupted Williams, “is given and taken away. Nimrod isn’t the last voice.”

  “Exactly. Therefore, it might be to Matlock’s advantage to let the word leak out very specifically that it is he who possesses the weapon. That Kressel—Nimrod—must exercise great caution. For everyone’s sake.”

  “Wouldn’t that mean that more people would be after me?”

  “Possibly. Conversely, it could mean that there’d be a legion of anxious criminals protecting you. Until the threat you impose is eliminated. No one will act rashly until that threat is taken away. No one will want Nimrod to act rashly.”

  Matlock lit a cigarette, listening intently. “What you’re trying to do then is to partially separate Nimrod from his own organization.”

  Dunois snapped the fingers of both hands, the sound of castanets, applause. He smiled as he spoke.

  “You’re a quick student. It’s the first lesson of insurgency. One of the prime objectives of infiltration. Divide. Divide!”

  The door opened; an excited black entered. Without saying a word, he handed Dunois a note. Dunois read it and closed his eyes for several moments. It was his way of showing dismay. He thanked the black messenger calmly and dismissed him politely. He looked at Matlock but handed the note to Williams.

  “Our stratagems may have historic precedence, but I�
�m afraid for us they’re empty words. Kressel and his wife are dead. Dr. Sealfont has been taken forcibly from his house under guard. He was driven away in a Carlyle patrol car.”

  “What? Kressel! I don’t believe it! It’s not true!”

  “I’m afraid it is. Our men report that the two bodies were carried out not more than fifteen minutes ago. The word is murder and suicide. Naturally. It would fit perfectly.”

  “Oh, Christ! Oh, Jesus Christ! It’s my fault! I made them do it! I forced them! Sealfont! Where did they take him?”

  “We don’t know. The brothers on watch didn’t dare follow the patrol car.”

  He had no words. The paralysis, the fear, was there again. He reeled blindly into the bed and sank down on it, sitting, staring at nothing. The sense of futility, of inadequacy, of defeat was now overwhelming. He had caused so much pain, so much death.

  “It’s a severe complication,” said Dunois, his elbows on the card table. “Nimrod has removed your only contacts. In so doing, he’s answered a vital question, prevented us from making an enormous error—I refer to Kressel, of course. Nevertheless, to look at it from another direction, Nimrod has reduced our alternatives. You have no choice now. You must deal through his private army, the Carlyle police.”

  Matlock looked numbly across at Julian Dunois. “Is that all you can do? Sit there and coolly decide a next move?… Kressel’s dead. His wife is dead. Adrian Sealfont’s probably killed by now. These were my friends!”

  “And you have my sympathies, but let me be honest: I don’t regret the loss of the three individuals. Frankly, Adrian Sealfont is the only real casualty—we might have worked with him, he was brilliant—but this loss does not break my heart. We lose thousands in the barrios every month. I weep for them more readily.… However, to the issue at hand. You really don’t have a choice. You must make your contact through the police.”