"The pig of the world!" Guiderone's voice was guttural and barely audible.
"I'm afraid there's more, which is why we must discuss tactics," said Matareisen quietly yet with a hint of strength.
"We know it was Scofield who broke into McDowell's office in Wichita, but we don't know what he learned, if anything. However, the fact that he zeroed in on McDowell tells us a great deal, and combined with the news from London-" "What happened in London?" asked the son of the Shepherd Boy icily.
"I had the Brewster house in Belgravia wired."
"Was that necessary?" Guiderone interrupted, his voice once again cold.
"Yes, it was. Lady Alicia reacted violently against my entreaties, protesting that the Matarese was no part of her life nor ever would be.
She made it clear that there were others who felt the same way, those who devoted their lives and their riches to repay the sins of their ancestral wealth. That statement led us to the heir of the Scozzi-Tremontes, the so-called playboy, Giancarlo, who was actually an international attorney opposed to us."
"He was killed on a polo field in America. So what? No traces."
"So your enemy, Beowulf Agate, was called in by the Central Intelligence Agency. He knew-knows-more about us than anyone on earth. God knows why or how, but he was recruited."
"The pig of the world!" Guiderone spat out again.
"That's why we had to know what transpired at the Brewster house in Belgravia. We compromised her idiot husband to act as our surveillance, finally ordering him to kill her when the damn fool stole millions.
Accidents will happen and he was a disaster, though a temporary one.
We took care of him. Again, no trail."
"We stray," said Guiderone curtly.
"So you had Belgravia wired-" "The bugs were discovered."
"Surely that was a given from the start. The people who service the Brewsters are not fools, they're highly paid stewards who can't afford to be careless. One slip and a truckload of debugging paraphernalia would be at the front door-which it obviously was. To our detriment."
"It's more complicated than that, but I assure you, there's no traceability. The man who did the installation has been eliminated, and his receiving post in Lowndes Street cleaned out, all the tapes removed."
"I commend your efficiency," said the Shepherd Boy's son, who years ago was about to occupy the White House.
"But I'm sure there's more. You didn't fly down in the middle of the night from Amsterdam to impress me with your efficiency." Guiderone paused, his hostile glare returning.
"You mentioned something about moving up the schedule, which I'm unalterably opposed to. There's far too much to do, too many operations to be refined. There can be no interruptions, no changes!"
"With respect, I disagree. Through your outstanding efforts and my minor contributions, the major chess pieces are in place throughout Europe, North America, and the Mediterranean. We must strike while our machine is primed, before any obstacles suddenly appear."
"What obstacles? It's the boy, isn't it, the Montrose son!"
"Gone, vanished, disappeared," said the Dutchman quickly.
"He's in the past and is irrelevant. What have we lost? The obedience of a mother who's no longer important to us? She's in London now with Scofield's associate, a man named Pryce, deadly by reputation. To stem any conceivable progress they might make, both will be killed within days, perhaps hours, and that is important to us."
"Why is it? I have no objection, but there must be things you're not telling me."
"Forgive me, sir, but those 'things' are self-evident."
"Be careful, young Matareisen. Remember whom you're talking to."
"My apology, but with respect, I must make my case clear.. .. How, we don't know, but McDowell was uncovered in Wichita. How? How did Scofield know? Everything in McDowell's office was shipped to us;
the files under spectrograph indicated recent tampering; the decoder as well, and we know an attempt was made to use the computer because that is what set off the alarms. What did your Beowulf Agate learn, or did he learn anything?"
"What could he learn?" asked Guiderone quietly, pensively.
"McDowell was as cautious as he was brilliant. He'd never leave anything in his office pertaining to us. It's unthinkable."
"He may have felt safer in his suite at Atlantic Crown. His marriage was sour, his wife a jealous alcoholic-with good reason. Don't you see, sir, we just don't know!"
"Certain lapses granted, it's no reason to alter schedules. To achieve the results we seek, everything's in the timing. It must be flawless, the successive shocks catastrophic. Our progress is sound. There'll be no changes."
"Then I'll try to be clearer," said the frustrated man from Amsterdam.
"And you're right, there are things I haven't told you, for they were under control and there was no point in bothering you.
However, when the news about Scofield's kills reached me, I knew it was time to meet you face-to-face."
"In order to convince me?"
"In order to convince you," agreed the grandson softly.
"Then try harder, Jan," said Guiderone, alarmed, his concentration now absolute.
"You've accomplished a great deal-extraordinary leaps, to be sure. I can't dismiss you. Go ahead, what haven't you told me that you think is so vital?"
"It's not simply one thing, it's when you put them all together.. ..
We must go back to the trawler in the Caribbean, the Swedish captain who escaped. He made his way to Puerto Rico by way of Tortola-" "Yes, yes," interrupted Guiderone impatiently.
"You funneled money to him to fly back to Amsterdam, I know all about it."
"He never arrived. He was spotted on the plane by a Swedish businessman, met at Heathrow by the police, and flown back to Stockholm to face charges in the Palme assassination."
"Unfortunate for him, but how does it concern us?"
"He's pleading for his life. We could be part of a deal."
"He doesn't know that much."
"He knows enough. He was under orders, no matter how obscured."
"I see. Go on."
"Prior to closing down the Lowndes Street listening post, our informer reached London control with the news that Pryce, the Montrose woman, and an Mi-Five officer were on their way to Westminster House-" "The Brewsters' private bank, for all intents and purposes," broke in the son of the Shepherd Boy.
"If you recall, to make a casual inroad or two, I used the same accounts man who serviced her ladyship, a fellow named Chadwick. Had several pleasant lunches, but I didn't learn much."
"That's why he had to be killed," said Matareisen, his voice flat.
"We could have no idea what transpired between the two of you, but we understood that there could be no possible linkage. Our control himself took care of the job and removed your file from Chadwick's office. It was fortunate that he did."
"Why is that?"
"Among Mr. Chadwick's comments were, and I quote, "Mr.
Guiderone is inordinately interested in the Brewsters of Belgravia.
Another rich American social climber no doubt."
" "The dirty bastard," said Julian, chuckling; and then he was abruptly serious.
"Again, I commend your efficiency, Jan, and I'm sincerely grateful. It was a stupid and unnecessary risk on my part.. .. But you're talking about what-ifs and all-too-possible events that do not necessarily lead to the consequences that so disturb you."
"Substitute 'possible' with 'conceivable." Only a shade of difference, Mr. Guiderone."
"Neither is strong enough to interrupt the operations now being developed and refined. The Persian Gulf, the Mediterranean, the North Sea-progressive strategies that will paralyze the fuel of the financial world, my young friend. Done with the sweep of a Gotterdammerung!
Irresistible.. .. You'll have to come up with something much stronger, Jan."
"I think I can, if you'll give me another minute."
"You have it."
"The progressive financial madness in the Euro-AmericanMediterranean markets is all to our benefit, exactly as we planned. The current economic analyses project a loss of over eighty million jobs, again to our benefit, for we are prepared to fill the vacuums and restore stability, with us as the mentors-" "All to the good, Jan, all to the good! Perception is everything, reality only secondary. We shall control the economies, and therefore the governments, of sixty-two countries, including the seven most influential national capitals. Our goal will be reached, the Matarese agenda complete! Everything legal under the laws, or beyond the laws into the spatial continuum of legal theory. We are invincible!"
"You still do not understand, Mr. Guiderone," shouted Matareisen.
"You do not see!"
"See what? The fulfillment of a legend as vital as the search for the Arc of the Covenant? The answer for our planet!" "Sir, I implore you, face that reality you consider secondary, for it so easily becomes perception!"
"What are you babbling about?"
"Through my inheritor in Lisbon, a man of enormous influence matched only by his deviousness-" "The fellow who corralled the Azores, taxes and all?"
"The same, also the man who had our enemy, Dr. Juan Guaiardo, eliminated in Monte Carlo."
"Yes, what about him?"
"He's very close to corruptible elements in the nearby Spanish government, by and large the remnants of the old Franco crowd, including Madrid intelligence. He wasn't sure what it all meant, but it so stunned him that he reached me this afternoon-yesterday afternoon-and faxed me up what materials he could get his hands on. They weren't complete, but they're frightening."
"About what? Spit it out, Matareisen!"
"I'm trying to choose my words carefully-" "Try quickly!"
"Apparently, unknown to us, Dr. Guaiardo and the Brewster woman, both of whom violently opposed us, were close cousins, much closer than we knew."
"So the Armada achieved at least something. So what?"
"Dr. Guaiardo, a research scientist, put his medical skills to other endeavors. He was building no less than a genealogical chart of the Matarese organization dating back to the Baron, naming families, companies, corporations, and alliances. It's like a genealogical tree, each entity a marriage or birth that evolves into another entity, until it has to finalize into our major cartels."
"Oh, my Christ!" whispered the son of the Shepherd Boy, his fingers harshly massaging his lined forehead.
"You say has to finalize has it? Is the chart complete?"
"We can't be sure. As I said, our inheritor made clear-" "Even if it were," interrupted Guiderone, breathing deeply, defensively, "such evidence would take months, perhaps years, the complexities overwhelming, each conclusion legally challenged."
"You're too brilliant to know that's not feasible, sir. Even the specter, the perception, that such a global enterprise as ours is linked to the economic crises that are spreading across national borders is a blueprint for disaster. Our disaster, Mr. Guiderone."
"The pig of the world!" said the son of the Shepherd Boy quietly, leaning back on the black leather couch.
"He killed his assassins and found Wichita. Christ, how? He's behind everything. Again!"
The Marblethorpe was a small, elegant hotel on New York's Upper East Side, a temporary residence for the movers and shakers of the international scene. These included diplomats, giants of transnational finance, emerging and receding statesmen of consequence, all usually in negotiations best not conducted where the parties might be observed. The Marblethorpe was ideal for such occasions; it had been designed along those general lines, built by a multimillionaire who sought confidentiality as well as comfort above the crowded streets of Manhattan. There were no advertisements beyond the required line in the telephone book's white pages, and no single or double rooms, only suites. Each floor was divided into two large areas across from each other. Eight stories high, sixteen suites; none was ever available, all perpetually "leased."
"There's a side entrance with very little light and a green door," said Frank Shields, sitting in an overstuffed pale red easy chair, as Scofield walked around a Queen Anne desk with a white telephone console on top. Antonia emerged from one of the bedrooms.
"It's all really quite beautiful, Frank," she said, smiling.
"When it's midnight, will it turn into a hovel?"
"I hope not. A number of guests might have heart attacks-or their guests would."
"Oh, a house of assignations?"
"I'm sure there are and have been, my dear, but that's not its primary function. In truth, the board of directors frowns on that sort of thing."
"Then what?"
"You might say conferences between people who for one reason or another shouldn't be conferring. The security here is the best in the private sector. You don't make a reservation at the front desk, you have to be referred."
"How did you get in, Squinty?"
"We're on the board of directors."
"Good work. Still, it strikes me that these digs are out of your league, unless you've become careless with contingency funds."
"We have an arrangement. As part of the board, we research in depth the referrals."
"So you don't pay."
"We also learn who's meeting with whom. It's a splendid quid pro quo and since our service is often invaluable, we couldn't allow the taxpayers to absorb these costs."
"You're a beaut, Frank."
"But why in New York?" asked Toni, interrupting.
"If people need secrecy, I'd think there are better places than one of the most famous cities in the world. The countryside, islands like ours, hundreds of places."
"I'm afraid you'd be wrong, Toni. It's easier to be hidden in a bustling, overcrowded city than it is in the boondocks. Ask the mob boys who were in Appalachia-or ourselves in Chesapeake and Peregrine, or even you two on Brass Twenty-six. Pryce found you because there was a trail to follow. Trails can get lost in a frenzied city, and God knows New York is that."
"I'll have to think about it," said the now and always Mrs. Scofield.
"But why are we here, Frank?"
"Hasn't Brandon told you?"
"Told me what? ..."
"It struck me as an excellent idea, and knowing that I could commandeer a place here, I went along with him."
"Told me what?" Toni demanded.
"I was getting around to it last night at Peregrine, but if you recall, you slept in the other bedroom."
"Because I was furious! An overage fool approaching seventy goes out at night into a shooting gallery. You could have been killed."" "I wasn't, now, was I?"
"Please, you two, cut it out."
"I want an explanation! Why are we here, Bray?"
"If you'll calm down, I'll explain, old 'girl.. .. New York's a major hub of international finance, I think you'll agree with that."
"So?"
"International finance is essential to the Matarese, that's what they're aiming to control, if they haven't already. Now, there's another 'essential' in their operations, and I know it because Taleniekov and I saw it, lived through it, and damned near got killed because we learned "I was there, too, my husband."
"Thank God you were, old girl. We'd both be dead if you weren't.
But this was before we found you, how we traced the Matarese to Corsica in the first place."
"What in heaven's name is it, Brandon?" exploded Shields.
"Hell, Squinty, I told you."
"Oh, yes, yes, now I recall. It's why we're here. Sorry, Toni, it's just that he's so ... melodramatic, and I'm so tired."
"Tell me!" shouted Antonia.
"The Matarese hierarchy never fully reveals to its branches-its disciples, if you like-the negative things that happen. It's as if they can't admit they're vulnerable in any way, for if they do, fear of exposure might spread."
"And?"
"Well, you see, girl, Wichita is finished, gone, history, a blip on a radar screen. But I'll bet my
offshore accounts that the disciples don't know about it."
"Your what'l ..."
"Shut up, Squinty. You're so much older than I am you can't remember what I told you yesterday."
"I never heard your last statement. Offshore-oh, Jesus! ..."
"So you see, Toni-mine, I'm going to make like I'm a high mucketymuck in the Matarese-recently from Amsterdam, which apparently plays a large role in the organization. I'm going to tell each and every one I secretly confer with that Wichita is finished, out, finito."
"Who are they? Who are you going to 'confer' with?"
"A few dozen goddamned presidents, CEO's, treasurers, and chairmen of the boards of all those mother-loving companies and corporations that have engineered mergers, buy outs and all kinds of funny business.
We've got a list of thirty-eight possibles here and in Europe. Someone will blink."
"If you're right, Brandon," Shields broke in, "suppose they reach Amsterdam?"
"That's the squeegee on the glass, Squint Eyes. I'll tell 'em that Amsterdam may be the next Wichita and my advice, as the emerging major player, is to stay the hell away from Amsterdam, they've screwed up enough."
"But will they believe you, Bray?"
"M'love, Taleniekov and I spent years honing our malignant skills for just such times as this. The words will come from both of us. By Christ, they'll come!"
It was morning in Loch Torridon, Scotland; the multi paned window of the inn's small dining room overlooked the dew-drenched fields that led to the Highland hills. The breakfast dishes had been cleared away, two large pots of coffee and tea left for the occupants of the table. They were Leslie Montrose and her son; Cameron Pryce; and Luther Considine, lieutenant senior grade, U.S. Navy. Explanations, as complete as they could be, had been delivered.
"It's wild!" said the pilot.
"It's what's happening," countered Pryce.
"Are you sure I should be in the loop on this?" asked Considine.
"Probably not. However, your somewhat unorthodox clearance comes from someone nobody's going to argue with-" "Oh, I see," the pilot broke in.
"That deputy director at the CIA I spoke to. A Mr. Shields, I think."
"No, he's small potatoes."
"Then who?"
"Your young friend here, Montrose junior, whom you ran into in Manama."
The Matarese Countdown Page 32