"Jamie?" Considine looked over at the teenager.
"What the hell did you do, kid?"
"Without you, Luther, I'd probably be in a sand pit in Bahrain.
You're entitled to know why you risked being a swab-jockey, remember? . Also, when you're an admiral, maybe you'll help me get into the Navy or Marine Air Corps like my dad."
"I don't know whether to thank you or run like a chicken out of here! This whole thing is way above my maximum altitude. Great balls of mule shit a worldwide conspiracy to take over the financial interests of half the globe-" "The rest to follow, Lieutenant," interrupted Leslie Montrose.
"By corruption and fear, that's their agenda. My son and I were only a minor event in an attempt to kill one man who knows the Matarese's history and can possibly point the way to the present."
"Yeah, the Mata-whatever. What does it mean, Colonel?"
"It's based on a name, Luther," answered Pryce, "a Corsican whose original ideas became a blueprint for an international monopoly, far more powerful than the Mafia."
"As I said, way above my max altitude."
"Above all of ours, Lieutenant," said Leslie.
"None of us is prepared for it, no training exists to address it. We each do what we can to fight it in our individual spheres, hoping to God that those above us are making the right decisions."
Considine shook his head in consternation.
"What do we do now?"
"We're waiting for instructions from Frank Shields," replied Cameron.
"In Peregrine?" asked Leslie.
"No, they've moved to New York."
"Why New York?"
"Scofield's created a scenario he thinks might work. It's worth a try.
Geof Waters is mounting the same strategy in the U.K. out of London."
"Hold it!" exclaimed the black naval officer, his dark eyes on fire.
"Am I supposed to understand that, too? .. . Who's Scofield, what 'scenario," and who's Waters in London?"
"You retain specifics extremely well," said Montrose.
"When you've got several dozen printouts at thirty thousand feet, you damn well better, ma'am-Colonel."
"I told you, Mom, he's really gonna be an admiral someday."
"Thanks, Jamie, and you may be consigned to a juvenile detention center."
The telephone rang, the phone on the table installed by MI-5. Cameron Pryce picked it up.
"Yes?"
"Waters, here, London. Scrambler both ends. How are you?"
"Bewildered, how are you?"
"Equally so, old chap. We're mounting Beowulf Agate's strategy but it'll take a day or so, if we're not penetrated, that is. However, this transmission can't be."
"Small favors and all that kind of thing," said Cam.
"What do you want us to do? Where do you want us to go?"
"Is your American pilot officer within reach?"
"He's sitting next to me."
"Ask him if he's certified in fixed-wing, low-flying propeller aircraft."
Pryce did so. Considine replied.
"I'm certified in anything that leaves the ground, with the possible exception of spacecraft, which I could probably handle."
"Did you hear him?"
"Clearly, and that's good. In two hours a vintage but totally refurbished Bristol Freighter, a twin-engined workhorse of a machine, will land at the Loch Torridon airfield. You're all to get on it."
"Where are we going?"
"Your sealed instructions are to be opened once you're airborne, at the precise minute written on the envelope."
"That's bullshit, Geof!"
"That's your Beowulf Agate, chap. Something to do with radar."
It was 5:30 A.M. in Marseilles, the sprays of dawn breaking through the sky over the slowly awakening harbor. Teams of dock workers trudged along the piers and the multiple sounds of erratic machinery began to be heard. Jan van der Meer Matareisen was alone in his office, the relief he had felt with Julian Guiderone's departure suddenly shattered by the news from London.
"Do you have an explanation for such incompetence?" he asked sharply over his sterile telephone.
"I doubt if anyone else could have done better," replied the voice in the U.K." a woman's voice, her speech clipped, aristocratic.
"We can't know that, can we?"
"I know it and I resent your attitude."
"Resent all you like, although I doubt you're in a position to do so."
"That's hardly civil, Jan. Or fair."
"I'm sorry, Amanda, things are very difficult-" "Shall I fly over to Amsterdam and try to ease things for you?"
"I'm not in Amsterdam, I'm in Marseilles."
"You do get around, don't you, my dear? Why Marseilles?"
"It was necessary."
"It was Julian, wasn't it? I think he considers Marseilles his third or fourth home. It's the one I liked least, the people who came to see him were so gross."
"Please don't remind me of your relationship-" "Past relationship, way past. And why not? I've never hidden anything from you .. . and it's the way we met, darling."
"Perhaps in a day or so-" "Don't let him bully you, Jan! He's an ugly, horrible man, concerned with no one but himself."
"It's the way he has to be, I understand that. Still, I must have an explanation for him. Two failures in a row are simply intolerable."
"I don't know what you're talking about-" "You don't have to," broke in Matareisen, his hand beginning to tremble.
"I meant what I said before. What happened? How did Pryce and the Montrose woman disappear?"
"I didn't say they disappeared, I said they got away."
"How?"
"By plane, obviously. When my source in Tower Street told me they were at an inn in a place called Loch Torridon, north of Edinburgh, I reached the man you call London Control and relayed the information.
He thanked me and said it was all he needed."
"He's not permitted to call me, we're in contact only through third and fourth parties. Did he tell you?"
"Of course-" "Then for God's sake tell me!"
"You haven't given me a chance. You've simply shouted-you were quite abusive."
The Dutchman in Marseilles briefly held his breath, calming himself.
"All right, Amanda, what did London Control say?"
"He's quite a remarkable man, very resourceful."
"What did he tell you?"
"He said that by the time he reached the inn at Loch Torridon, the owner told him that the four people he was looking for had checked out."
"Four people?"
"Four Americans. A brother and sister, both registered as Brooks, a black American naval officer, and a young teenager, neither of whom registered at all, as instructed by Mr. Brooks."
"Mother of Christ, it's the Montrose boy! They flew him to Scotland!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Never mind. What else?"
"Your London control learned they had all been taken to the airport.
So he drove there and found out that the people he described had boarded a two-engine propeller plane less than an hour before he got there."
"Oh, my God!"
"Here's where I think your soft-spoken London fellow was extremely resourceful. He said to tell you, in case you and he hadn't spoken by now, that he found the flight plan for the plane the four Americans boarded."
"What was the destination?" asked Matareisen rapidly, perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
"Mannheim, Germany."
"Unbelievable!" exclaimed the Dutchman, clearly panicked.
"They've now zeroed in on the Verachten Works, the Voroshin offspring! Years ago .. . generations ago! They're doing it. They're filling out the chart!"
"Jan? ..."
The Englishwoman was too late. Matareisen had slammed down the phone.
The twin-engine, late-forties Bristol Freighter was airborne, heading southeast over the North Sea, when the pilot, Luther Considine, glanced a
t his watch. He turned to Pryce, seated next to him in the first-officer's position.
"I'm not too happy with you in that chair, but it's time, Cam." He handed Pryce a sealed brown manila envelope, the red plastic stripes unbroken, not tampered with.
"Why aren't you happy?" asked Cameron, breaking open the envelope and extracting two smaller ones.
"I showered this morning."
"Suppose I get a bad stomachache, or worse. You gonna fly this mother-excuse me, this grandmother?"
"I'll hold your head while you throw up, and you can tell Jamie how to do it. Here-" He handed an envelope to the pilot.
"That's for you."
Both men opened their instructions. Considine spoke first, as his was the shorter.
"My, oh, my!" he mumbled, checking the aircraft's dials, in particular the airspeed, altimeter, and the Greenwich mean time clock. He then glanced at the plastic framed chart above the complex dashboard.
"We're going to make a rapid descent, ladies and gentlemen, in about two minutes, thirty seconds!" he said in a loud voice, turning his head so Leslie and her son, in the bulkhead seats, could hear above the engines.
"Not to be concerned a bit, but it might be a good idea to clamp your noses and force the air out of your ears. Again, nothing to worry about, a piece of cake."
"Why?" asked Leslie.
"I've been on a lot of missions, and outside of hostile gunfire, I've never heard of this. Why the evasive action?"
"Mom, cut it out! Luther knows what he's doing."
"Orders, Colonel, I just read 'em.. .. Secure seat belts-tight, please."
"I'll explain later," cried Pryce as Considine advanced to his arc of descent, the engines roaring. Cameron read his orders; without question they were the words of Brandon Alan Scofield, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate.
Sweet young gorilla, this is your commander speaking. We're now entering Operation Wolf Pack, forgive the play on my name.
Your pilot is going to descend to an altitude that will avoid the immediate radar, which is listed on his scope as Vector 22. Your flight plan lists Mannheim, Germany, as your destination, but he will change course and head for Milan, Italy. Once on the ground, you and your party will be met by several friends of mine from the old days. They're splendid fellows, although they may not be dressed in apparel sanctioned by Gentlemen 's Quarterly.
They're savvy and know the ways of the Matarese in and around Bellagio and Lake Como. The key is the name Paravacini, one of the long-forgotten ScozziParavacini companies.
Using my old friends and the information they give you, begin penetrating the Paravacinis. The bastards are still there-they have to be, rotten families always hold on-and you should find another avenue to the Matarese. Suggest you do as I 'm doing and Waters s boys in MI-5, that you speak for Amsterdam, soon to be discredited.
The plane came out of its dive-descent, pilot and passengers breathing deeply as they literally skimmed over the water.
"What happens now?" asked Pryce.
"I stay three to four hundred feet above sea level until I reach the Alps, then take the lowest routes until I reach spaghetti-land. Whoever vectored this flight plan knew what he was doing. He should be employed by the drug meisters."
"Then what do you do?"
Considine looked at Cam.
"Don't you know? Wasn't it in your orders?"
"No, and no, again."
"I'm temporarily detached from the fleet and assigned to you."
"For what?"
"For whatever you need, I guess. I fly airplanes, maybe that's what the high brass had in mind."
"Welcome aboard, pilot," said Pryce.
"You come highly recommended by the younger crowd."
"That's got me troubled." Luther spoke softly, studying his dials.
"We go to one hell of a lot of trouble to get the boy out of Bahrain, out of harm's way, and here we are taking him back into a danger zone. I feel kind of responsible. He's a good kid."
"I can't answer you, Lieutenant. I hadn't really thought about it, which makes me a prime jerk, because you're right, it's stupid. I'll reach Shields and Waters soon after we land."
It was not necessary for Cameron to make the calls to London or New York. A separate set of instructions for the plane was awaiting them in Milan. It was addressed and delivered to Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Montrose. Startled, she thanked the uniformed American Marine who was the courier, and opened the sealed envelope with the markings of Rome's Embassy of the United States of America on the upper left-hand corner.
"I flew up with this an hour ago, Colonel," explained the Marine.
"My name's Olsen, captain of the embassy guard detail, and the envelope hasn't left my person."
"Understood, Captain, and thanks again."
"You're welcome." The officer saluted and walked away.
"It's from Tom Cranston," said Leslie, moving across the noisy tarmac with Pryce and her son while Considine made arrangements for the plane.
"That explains the embassy in Rome," said Cam.
"Maximum security, White House and State back channels. You've got clout, lady."
"I'm impressed, Mom."
"You may not be for long, Jamie. You're going back on the plane.
Arrangements have been made for you to join the Brewster children in
France. Tom says that you'll all be completely safe, your whereabouts kept secret."
"Aw, Mother, come on!" yelled the son, stopping in his tracks.
"I
don't want to be dumped in France."
"Hey, cool it, Jamie," said Pryce with quiet but firm authority.
"It's for your own good, surely you can understand that. I don't think you'd be overjoyed being yanked back to Bahrain, or some place like it."
"Hell, no, but we've got fifty states across the pond, as they call it.
Why not somewhere back home? Why with two guys I don't know?"
"You won't believe this," answered Cameron, "but you're more vulnerable making such a trip, either alone or with your mother, than you are in protective custody somewhere in Europe."
"That's the thinking regarding the Brewster kids," Leslie broke in.
"Fast, private aircraft, short distance, total control. No airports watched, no informers in the Pentagon or the CIA or British intelligence to report covert flights or high-level clandestine orders."
"Who are these people you're so afraid of?" demanded Montrose junior.
"You're talking like they're some kind of all-powerful crime nuts!"
"You're not far wrong," said Pryce, "except they're very bright nuts, and very, very powerful. But not all-powerful. Not yet."
"Okay, okay," mumbled a disconsolate Jamie, "who are these Brewster guys?"
"Not guys, son. A brother and a sister who may be targets. British intelligence wants to exclude any future hostage-taking. You'll like them, Jamie. I do."
"Yeah, well, sometimes English kids can act kind of superior, you know what I mean?" "Not an English kid who was obviously number one in his welding and blow-torching class," replied Cameron.
"What class?"
"Welding. You mean your expensive prep school in Connecticut doesn't have such a course?"
"No, why should they?"
"Roger Brewster said he should learn a trade, like those who didn't have his advantages."
"Wow, no kidding?"
"No kidding, Jamie," confirmed his mother.
"He's also a wrestler, like you."
"That's all I need, to get pinned by a Brit."
Luther Considine was seen walking rapidly across the tarmac.
"We'll be ready to get upstairs in five minutes, Junior," he said, approaching the trio.
"I gather you've got the scoop by now."
"You knew about this, Luther?" asked Jamie.
"I had to, kid, I'm the driver, remember? We're refueled and we've got a weird flight plan, but it'll be interesting. I bought you one of those throwaway cameras at a spaghetti booth so you
can take pictures.
You're never gonna see this kind of travel again!"
"It's safe, isn't it, Lieutenant?" Leslie's eyes were wide with anxiety.
"A milk run, Colonel. Even if both props stopped spinning, we're low enough to glide our grandmother down into a field or a highway."
"Where are you going?" said Pryce.
"Would you believe, Cam, I'm not even permitted to tell you?"
"Who says?"
"The White House. You want to argue?"
"I don't think I'd win."
"You wouldn't, spook. By the way, your suitcases are in baggage.
Come on, Junior, we've got to get over to Runway Seven, and we're not even allowed field transport. We're nonexistent, you might say."
Mother and son embraced briefly, with emotion, and James Montrose Jr. ran to catch up with the Navy pilot, racing across the field to their plane.
Brandon Scofield's "several friends from the old days" turned out to be one elderly man in his mid-seventies. The journey to reach him was circuitous. It began when Pryce and Montrose approached the Milan terminal. Suddenly a hoarse voice called out.
"Signore, signora!" Out of the shadows of a cargo door a scruffily dressed youngster, perhaps eighteen or a year older, walked toward them. His demeanor telegraphed his anxiety as well as a fair degree of furtiveness.
"Che cosa?" asked Cameron.
"Capisce italiano, signore?"
"Not very well, I haven't in years."
"I speak some English-abbastanza."
"
"Enough'? That's good. What is it?"
"I take you to Don Silvio. Hurry!"
"Who?"
"Signer Togazzi. Rapido! Follow!"
"Our luggage, Cam."
"It'll wait.... So can you, ragazzo. Attesa!"
"Che?"
"Who is this Togazzi, this Don Silvio? And why should we follow you? Perche?"
"You see him."
"Quali nuove?"
"I am to say-Bay .. . ohh-lupo? ..."
"Lupo, 'wolf." Bay .. . ohh-wolf? You're to say Beowulf?"
"St. Vero!"
"Let's go, Colonel."
At the far end of the airport's parking lot, the young man held open the door of a small Fiat, gesturing for Pryce and Montrose to quickly climb into the backseat, a cramped area once they were inside.
"Are you okay?" asked Cameron, somewhat out of breath from the rapid pace across the crowded lot. They were interrupted by having to dodge several cars that seemed to have exploded out of their spaces.
The Matarese Countdown Page 33