"
"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 pre calibrated 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 n 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."
Anguish 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 foe 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 bolstered 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.
In the brief illuminations of moonlight, they appeared to be ordinary fishermen. Two had unkempt beards, attesting to the aversion at sea to wasting warm water and manipulating a razor; the third was clean shaven. This last member was the skipper of the raft and appeared younger than the others, perhaps in his middle thirties, while his companions-rugged, heavyset-appeared to be in their late forties or slightly beyond. Too, the third man was dressed in what could best be described as casual-expensive. Form-fitting white jeans, a loose blue cotton jacket, and a visored sailing cap, as opposed to his associates' tattered shirts and trousers whose only laundering was probably a plunge in the salt water every other day or so. Also, around each neck was a rawhide strap attached to a flashlight.
"You there, Jack," shouted the younger man, addressing the intruder in front, "beach the raft and look around over there!" He pointed in Antonia's direction.
"And you, Harry, check the other side of the beach." It was Pryce's domain.
"There's someone here, that beam of light didn't appear out of nowhere!" The language the search party leader spoke was English, but it was not his native tongue. The accent was middle European, Slovak or Baltic.
"I din no mate," cried Harry, his speech obviously AustralianS trine as it was called.
"These Carib spots can be ruddy loony.
Reflections all over the plyce."
"We saw what we saw. Go on!"
"If we saw wot we think we seen," said the man called Jack, evidently a London cockney, "they weren't bashful about it, now were they?"
"Just look, just look!"
"I ayn't paid to get me bloody head whacked off by some cryzy savages."
"You're paid far more than you're worth, Harry, now hurry up!" It was at this moment that the concealed Scofield saw what he hoped to
see. The search party's superior officer took out a small walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket and spoke into it.
"No sign of anyone on the beach and no visible light beyond the trees and the brush. We'll reconnoiter; keep your radio with you."
The comparatively well-dressed leader of the unit lifted the rawhide strap over his head and, looping the flashlight into his left hand, switched it on and swung the beam around, crisscrossing the area.
Scofield ducked as the light shot over his head, behind the rocks and the hidden rocket launcher. Darkness again, except for the erratic moonlight; Beowulf Agate peered over the ragged edge of stone. He was alarmed.
The leader had spotted something and Bray knew exactly what it was: the rows of small sun-absorbing plates that fed the photoelectric cells that were an alternate source of Outer Brass 26's energy. Slowly the man crept forward.
At the far right side of the beach, the slovenly subordinate named Jack cautiously walked through the sand, the beam of his flashlight swinging in all directions. He came within two feet of Antonia, and the moment he did so, she stepped out of the foliage, shoved the short barrel of the Uzi into his back, and whispered, "You utter a sound and you'll sleep with the fishes, I believe is the expression. Drop your gun!"
Over on the left flank, Pryce waited behind the boulder as the Australian approached with his flashlight. When the man came nearer, actually brushing the large rock with his shoulder, Cameron circled the huge stone and stepped out, three feet behind the intruder.
"You raise your voice, you're in kangaroo hell, mate," he said quietly but harshly.
"What the-" "I told you once!" interrupted Pryce softly, angrily.
"I won't say it again. Instead, you'll be a bloody corpse on the beach."
"Don't you worry about me, mate! I didn't come on board for this kind of shit."
"Why did you come on board .. . mate?"
"The screw-the salary. The bastards pay every week what it would take me two months to make!"
"Why are you so far away from home?"
"I worked for 'em in the west territories, way above Perth it was, servicing the Indian Ocean. I'm a good hand and m'morals aren't a priority, if you know what I mean. We're all gon' to that hell anyway."
"Do you know whom you're working for?"
The Matarese Countdown Page 7