"In addition to the electrified main gate," she continued, "we've erected a gatehouse a hundred fifty feet before the main, complete with two armed guards and a steel barrier."
"What's on either side?" asked Cameron.
"The most impassable section of the marsh," she replied.
"The road was initially built on compressed landfill with stratums of concrete and wire to the depth of seven feet. Very much like an airport's runway."
"Stratums?"
"Strata, if you prefer. Blocks of high-density cement layered to conform to the configuration of the road."
"I know what 'stratums'-'strata' are, Miss .. . Miss-" "Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, Mr. Pryce."
"Oh, you know my name?"
"On a need-to-know basis, sir. Our job is to secure the compound and protect-" The woman abruptly stopped.
"I understand," said Cameron quickly, defusing the embarrassment.
"Lieutenant Colonel Montrose is my second in command," the full colonel broke in, somewhat haltingly.
"Of a commando unit?" asked Pryce skeptically.
"Commando tactics are intrinsic to our training, but we're not commandos," said the lieutenant colonel, removing her cap and shaking her ash-blond hair.
"We're RDF."
"Who?"
"Rapid Deployment Force," answered Scofield.
"Even I know that one, youngster."
"It pleases me you're so erudite, old, old man. Where's Antonia?"
"She took one of the Agency boys and went hunting."
"Whatyor?" asked Montrose, alarmed.
"Don't know. My girl's a pretty independent lady."
"So am I, Mr. Scofield! There can be no individual searches unless accompanied by one of our men!"
"Obviously there can be, Miss-Colonel. My wife studied the grounds very thoroughly. She's had to do that kind of thing before."
"I'm aware and appreciative of your backgrounds, sir, but I'm responsible for all personnel escorts."
"Come on, Colonel," interrupted Cam, "our Agency fellows may not wear uniforms but they're pretty damned handy. I know because I'm one of them."
"Your machismo doesn't interest me, Mr. Pryce. Military escorts are a priority assigned to us."
"Feisty thing, isn't she?" mumbled Bray.
"A bitch, if you like, Mr. Scofield. I'll accept that, too."
"You said it, lady."
"That's enough!" exclaimed Cameron.
"We're supposed to cooperate, not compete, for Christ's sake."
"I was merely trying to clarify our specific training and, not incidentally, our firepower."
"I wouldn't pursue that, Colonel Montrose," said Pryce, nodding ever so gently at the bleeding corpse on the ground.
"I still don't understand!" cried the RDF full colonel.
"How did he do it?"
"Well, son," said Scofield, "we know he wasn't afraid of heights, which usually means a person isn't afraid of depths."
"What the hell does that mean?" asked Pryce.
"I'm not sure, but that's what a lot of psychologists claim. Someone who skydives generally feels at home underwater. Something to do with the inverse effects of gravity. I read that somewhere."
"Thanks a bunch, Bray. So what do you suggest?"
"Check the waterfront, maybe?"
"Checked and rechecked and triple-checked constantly," said Montrose firmly.
"It was our first consideration. We not only have patrols lining the area for nearly a thousand yards on both sides of the dock, but laser trip beams inland. No one could penetrate those sectors."
"And an assassin would assume that, wouldn't he?" asked Scofield.
"I
mean kind of naturally."
"Probably," agreed the lieutenant colonel.
"Were there any signs of penetration within the past several hours?"
pressed Brandon.
"Actually, there were, all negative," she replied.
"Children of neighboring estates camping out on the lawns, several drunks who were turned back after parties, and a couple of fishermen trespassing on private property, again all intercepted."
"Did you inform the other patrols of the activity?"
"Certainly. We might have needed backups."
"So concentrations might have been interrupted, isn't that so?
Unintentionally, or perhaps-intentionally."
"That's too general a postulation and, frankly, quite impossible."
"Quite, Colonel Montrose?" said Brandon Scofield.
"Not totally."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying, lady, I'm just trying to figure things."
Suddenly, from beyond the blinding wash of the floodlights, came Antonia's voice.
"We found them, my darling, we found them!" The figures of Scofield's wife and her CIA companion rushed through the diffuse, mist-filled light and ran to the circle of guards. They threw down the objects in their hands: a heavy scuba tank; an underwater, suction-pressed mask; a submersible flashlight, its beam blue; a waterproof walkie-talkie; and a pair of fins.
"They were in the mud on the bank of the marsh below the main gate," said Antonia.
"It was the only way he could have gotten inside."
"How do you know that?" demanded Montrose.
"How did you know?"
"The waterfront was covered, impenetrable. The marshes were patrolled but still open, subject only to diversion."
"What?"
"Exactly like the time Taleniekov told us about, when he was getting out of Sevastopol, right, luv?" Scofield interrupted pleasantly.
"Your memory's very accurate, my dear."
"Why 'my dear'? What did I do wrong?"
"You didn't think of it. What did Vasili do to pass through the Dardanelles?"
"Diversion, of course. A boat with a false hull designed for detection. The Soviet patrols found it, then went nuts because it was empty!"
"Exactly, Bray. Now, transfer that to land."
"Of course! Divert the obvious to the remote, then activate the obvious within a matter of seconds!"
"That's the radio, my darling."
"Bravo, luv!"
"What are you talking about?" demanded Lieutenant Colonel Montrose.
"I'd suggest you find out who the drunks were who wandered onto this property," said Cameron Pryce, "and probably the two fishermen as well."
"Why?"
"Because one or both or all had hand-held radios frequencied into the one down there on the ground. Beside our intruding corpse."
Her name was Leslie Montrose, lieutenant colonel, U.S. Army, daughter of a general, graduate of West Point, and underneath that harsh military exterior, a personable woman. Or so thought Cameron, as he, Montrose, and her superior officer, one Colonel Everett Bracket, sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee and analyzing the events of the night. The lieutenant colonel's background had been supplied by Bracket, who obviously, reluctantly, accepted her as his second in command.
"Don't get me wrong, Pryce, it's not that she's a female," Bracket had said while Montrose was outside giving orders to the Army unit. I like her-hell, my wife likes her-but I just don't think that women should be part of the RDF."
"What does your wife think?"
"Let's just say she doesn't totally agree. And my seventeen-year-old daughter's worse. But they haven't been in combat when things get rough. I have, and it's no place for a woman! Prisoners are taken, it's a realistic aspect of war, and I can't help thinking of my wife and daughter in those circumstances."
"A lot of men agree with you, Colonel."
"Don't you?"
"Of course I do, but we've never been attacked on our own ground, our own mainland. The Israelis have and there are a great many women in their military-so have the Arabs, and women are in their active and reserve combat forces, even more prominent in their terrorist cadres.
We both might feel differently if the beaches of California or Long Island were invaded
."
"I don't think I would," said Bracket firmly.
"Maybe the women would change your mind. After all, it was the women, the mothers, who got us all through the Ice Age. In the animal kingdom, the female is the most vicious in protecting her young."
"Boy, you're weird! How'd you figure that?"
"Rudimentary anthropology, Colonel.. .. Tell me, your lieutenant colonel wears the same kind of cap that you do, but the insignia's different. How come?"
"We allow it, that's why."
"I don't understand. A Yankee baseball player doesn't put on a Boston Red Sox cap."
"It's her husband's squadron. Was her husband's squadron."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Her husband was a fighter pilot in the Air Force. He was shot down in Desert Storm over Basra. They say he ejected, but he was never heard from after the cessation of hostilities-which there never should have been!"
"That was years ago," said Pryce reflectively.
"And she stayed in the Army?"
"She certainly did, and aggressively so, I might add. My wife and I tried to talk her out of it-find a new life, we told her. With her training there are dozens of companies that would take her in a minute. She's management-trained, computer-smart, all those things the television commercials say about the Army, plus the fact that she was a fast rising officer-a major at the time. She wouldn't have it."
"That seems strange to me," said Cameron.
"She could probably make more in the private sector."
"Try ten, maybe twenty times more. In addition, she'd be in a workplace where there were a lot of civilian guys, and with her class probably rich. She could mix with them, you know what I mean?"
"It's not hard to follow. She rejected the suggestion?"
"Like a shot. Probably because of the kid."
"The kid?"
" She and Jim had a son, exactly eight months and twenty days after they both graduated from West Point, a fact she always referred to, laughing like hell. He's fourteen or fifteen now, and worshiped his father. Our guess is that if she left the Army, she thinks her son would resent her."
"Since she's here-incommunicado-where's the boy?"
"In one of those prep schools in New England-Jim wasn't poor and neither is the general's daughter. And the kid understands the phrase "Your mother's away on assignment."
" "A normal military brat."
"I guess so. My kids wouldn't take that, but I suppose he does."
"You're not a dead hero," said Pryce, "so they don't have to worship you."
"Thanks for nothing, spook. You're probably right though."
"Still, she's never found someone here in the military that she might find even passably acceptable? After all, she's a relatively young woman."
"You think my wife and I haven't tried? If you could see all the guys we've paraded.. .. She always says good night, in our house, with a firm, polite handshake-no chance for any action with anybody.. ..
And if you're sniffing around, Mr. Secret Agent, forget it. She's strictly male-free."
"I wasn't sniffing around, Colonel. I simply have to know the personnel I'm involved with. It's my job to do just that."
"You've got the dossiers of every person on this detail, twenty-seven to be exact."
"Forgive me, but I've just spent five days in the Caribbean without much sleep, and the last two without any. I haven't gotten to your dossiers."
"You'll find them quite acceptable."
"I'm sure I will."
The kitchen door had opened, breaking off the conversation between Pryce and Colonel Bracket as Lieutenant Colonel Montrose walked in.
"Everything is secure and I've shifted additional patrols to the waterfront," she stated.
"Why?" asked Cameron.
"Because it was his logical way out, for the killer, I mean."
"Why do you assume that?" continued Cameron pleasantly but firmly.
"Because it's his most logical means of egress from the property."
"
"Egress'? I gather you mean escape."
"Certainly. The marshes would be on total watch."
"I disagree. You said before that the beach was lined with trip lights for a thousand yards, laterally and inland, electronically fencing off the property. Do you honestly believe that an assassin wouldn't know that?"
"What's your point, Mr. Pryce?" asked an angry Leslie Montrose.
"What other escape could he have?"
"The same way he got in, Colonel. Except that Scofield's wife found the scuba gear. I'd suggest you send a patrol west to the nearest road heading north and south. Keep the vehicle as quiet as possible, and see who's waiting there. Naturally, there'll be no headlights, so we shouldn't have them either."
"That strikes me as ludicrous! The killer can't come out. He's dead."
"He certainly is, Colonel Montrose," agreed Cameron.
"But unless we have a traitor here with a radio we don't know about-" "Impossible!" cried Bracket.
"I trust we don't," continued Pryce.
"And if we don't, whoever's waiting for our assassin doesn't know he's dead.. .. Get on it, Colonel Montrose, that's an order."
Nearly an hour passed. Bracket, his head on his folded arms, slept at the table. Barely awake, Cameron frequently went to the kitchen sink and doused his face with water until his neck and shirt were drenched.
The door opened slowly and Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Montrose walked inside, as exhausted as the man she faced.
"The car was there," she said quietly, "and I wish to God it hadn't been."
"Why?" asked a heavy-lidded Pryce, getting to his feet.
"They killed one of my men-" "Oh, Christ, no!" Cam's voice jolted Bracket awake.
"Yes. They would have killed me, but my corporal shoved me off the road, exposing himself, and in doing so took the bullets. He was just a boy, the youngest soldier in the detail. He gave his life for me."
"I'm sorry, so sorry!"
"Who are these people, Mr. Pryce?" Leslie Montrose demanded, a frantic edge in her voice.
"Someone called them the evil of the world," replied Cam softly, going to her and briefly, tentatively holding her shoulders as she wept.
"They must be stopped!" cried Montrose sharply, her head abruptly straight, erect, her eyes focused, furious as the tears fell down her cheeks.
"I know," said Pryce, releasing her and stepping away as a stunned Colonel Bracket slowly sank back in his chair.
THE INTERNATIONAL
HERALD TRIBUNE
(Front Page)
STUNNING MOVE BY AIRCRAFT GIANTS
PARIS, SEPT. 30-The combined announcement from London and Paris that British Aeronauticals and the French Compagnie du Ciel have merged into a single corporate entity has sent shock waves through the aircraft industries in Europe and the United States. The merging of these two giants along with their seemingly unlimited resources, their secure private and government contracts, their manufacturing subsidiaries, as well as their access to economically favorable labor markets, makes this new company the largest and most powerful aircraft manufacturer in the world.
Financial analysts on both sides of the Atlantic have concluded that Sky Waverly, the new name, will be the granite pillar of the aircraft industry. In the words of Clive Lawes, business columnist for the London Times, "They'll be the drummers all the others will have to march to."
The use of the name Waverly is in honor of Sir David Waverly, who founded the original company, Waverly Industries, absorbed by Anglo-American interests over a quarter of a century ago.
Unconfirmed details of the merger, including stock transfers and projected moves the combined board of directors might take, appear on page 8. Amalgamations of the vast labor pools and the elimination of duplicating management personnel are examined.
One might paraphrase an often-repeated quote from an American film in the fifties: Fasten your seat belts, it'll be a bumpy road ahead.
It was midmorning o
n the Eastern Shore of Maryland, the blazing autumn sun halfway to its noon apex, its rays shimmering across the waters of Chesapeake Bay. Pryce joined Scofield and Antonia on the huge screened-in porch overlooking the shoreline; a breakfast buffet had been set up for those staying at the mansion, the remaining personnel billeted in the three more-than-ample guest houses
"Sit down, Cameron," said Scofield's wife.
"May I pour you some coffee?"
"No thanks," Pryce replied pleasantly, veering toward the buffet with the coffee urns.
"I'll get it."
"Poor move," grumbled Bray.
"Don't lead her into bad habits."
"You're not real, you know that?" said Cameron, sleep, or the lack thereof, in his speech.
"It's too early for you to be real."
"It's not early at all," protested Scofield, "it's damn near ten o'clock. Where the hell are the others?"
"I don't know. I don't even know who they are."
"The two colonels, major and minor, the CIA fella who went with Toni last night-this morning, and Frank Shields's liaison, who looks at me like I'm diseased."
"Frank no doubt told him all about you." Pryce filled his coffee cup, walked to the table, and sat down. Antonia spoke.
"Colonel Bracket and Lieutenant Colonel Montrose are in rooms in the west wing along with Eugene Denny, Director Shields's man. And my 'fella," as you call him, darling, is down the hall from us.... He and I don't have to travel very far to get together while you're snoring away."
"Hah!" cried Bray, grinning.
"Cradles are for snatching whatever's in them, Cam, the younger the better!"
"For that you can get your own eggs, my dear."
"Don't want eggs. You keep saying they're bad for me."
"Who fixed all this stuff?" interrupted Pryce.
"Why, you figure it's poisoned?"
"Not specifically, but geometrically along those lines of possibility."
"You speak funny, youngster."
"I'll tell you," said Antonia, once again with the information.
"All food is prepared in the kitchens at Langley, hermetically sealed, wired, and tagged, then flown here by helicopter every morning and evening at six o'clock."
"I've heard the noise," Cam broke in, "but I thought it was airborne surveillance or visiting honchos.. .. How did you find out, Toni? I mean, the food, where people sleep-" "I ask questions."
The Matarese Countdown Page 12