The Matarese Countdown

by Robert Ludlum

  "I

  remember he pressed the top button on the left," said Brewster as they got out of the car.

  They walked up the steps, entered the glass-enclosed foyer, and stood in front of the panel of buttons. Roger pressed the top button on the left. There was no response. He pressed it again and again, still nothing.

  "Here," said Coleman, studying the names opposite the numbers.

  "We'll try something else," he added, pressing the button marked Management.

  "Yes?" said the gruff voice over the intercom.

  "Sir Geoffrey Waters, sir, Crown Military Intelligence. We're in a dreadful hurry, but if you care to check the Mi-Five Index, you'll find that I am who I say." Coleman's authority was absolute.

  "We must talk immediately."

  "Good heavens, of course!" cried the obviously frightened manager of the building.

  "Come right in," the man continued as the entrance buzzer sounded, "I'll meet you in the hall. I'm on this floor."

  The former sergeant major flashed an old Royal Fusiliers ID card in front of the startled manager and spoke-again with enormous authority.

  "Flat Eight-A, there's no response. Is the lessee, Symond, not in?"

  "Hasn't been for days, your .. . sir."

  "We have to check the premises, it's most urgent."

  "Yes, certainly-sure!" The shabbily dressed manager led them to an elevator at the end of the hall.

  "Here's a master key," he said.

  "You can let yourselves in."

  "The Crown thanks you." Coley accepted the key with a cold nod.

  The Symond flat was a well-appointed, attractive apartment with upscale decor and expensive furniture. Roger and Oliver Coleman began their search. There were three rooms, two baths, and a kitchen. A bedroom, the living room, and what appeared to be a library study the shelves minimally filled with books, but papers scattered across the desk. Coleman started with the papers, a hodgepodge of bills, magazines, memos reminding the writer of various engagements initials taking the place of names-and numerous personal letters, many sent from the Continent. The postmarks read like the itinerary of wealthy fun-seekers and shopping aficionados: Paris, Nice, Cote d'Azur, Rome, Baden-Baden, Lake Como, the watering and purchasing centers of Europe.

  The letters themselves were chatty, innocuous, the wish-you-were here variety-in a word, boring. Coleman would, of course, turn everything over to Sir Geoffrey; it was his duty to do so, but the woman named Symond would remain an enigma unless she could be found.

  "Coley!" shouted Roger Brewster from another room.

  "Come look at this!"

  "Where are you, lad?"

  "The kitchen!"

  Coleman ran out of the study, glanced around the living room, then dashed into the white-tiled kitchen.

  "What is it, Roger?"

  "Here," replied young Brewster, standing by a wall phone with a notepad beside it, a ballpoint pen hanging from a small brass chain on the right.

  "There, see that? There are puncture marks on the pad and they were made by someone angry, I mean really pissed-off. So much so he-or I guess she-stabbed the pad."

  "What? All I can see are parts of two letters and three numbers. The rest are only indentations."

  "That's because this kind of pen doesn't write well on the side, you know, on the horizontal. We have one in our dorm at school-most of the time we substitute pencils, but they don't last-" "What are you driving at, lad?"

  "Well, if we're in a hurry, say a girl's giving us a number, we just keep writing heavy, then figure it out later."

  "We've all done that," said Coleman, ripping off the page, "and you've got a point. The Symond woman must have been in a dreadful hurry. Otherwise, she would have put the caller on hold and gotten a decent writing instrument." The retired old soldier carried the page to a counter, took a mechanical pencil from his inside jacket pocket, and began lightly drawing the lead back and forth over the indentations.

  "What do you make of it, Roger?" "NU Three Five Zero." Young Brewster read the emerging white lettering.

  "Amst. K-Gr. Conf. Tues. Surrey A.P.... I can figure out the first and the last parts. The "NU Three Five Zero' are the tail numbers of a private plane. I know that because Mother often had to hire one for Wildlife trips. And the "Surrey A.P." is obviously an airport in Surrey."

  "Perhaps I can fill in the obvious parts of the rest. The "Amst." is Amsterdam, "Conf." and "Tues." undoubtedly a conference on Tuesday.

  The "K-Gr." is apparently a location in Amsterdam, and since we can assume the "Gr." is "Gracht," which in Dutch is 'canal," it's probably the address of some place on a canal with the letter "K' in it. There are probably dozens of canals with a prominent "K," and hundreds and hundreds of such offices or residences."

  "What do you think it all means?" asked Roger.

  "I think it means we should march right over and deliver this information to Sir Geoffrey Waters."

  "Come on, Coley. He'll lock me up again in France!"

  "That, young man, would not make me unhappy. Now, we'll tear this flat apart, looking for any evidence of Henshaw's whereabouts, but if none can be found, you've accomplished your mission, won't you agree?"

  "Suppose she comes back?"

  "We'll make an agreement with Waters and Mi-Five. In writing, if you like. He'll have this place covered as if there's a skin around the street. Should Symond or Henshaw return, you'll be instantly notified and flown back to London."

  "Let's start looking!" exclaimed Roger Brewster.

  Sir Geoffrey Waters did his very best to control his nearly uncontrollable temper. Called by Coleman to come to the Brewster house in Belgravia, his face flushed with anger at the sight of Roger Brewster.

  "I trust you realize, Roger, that you've caused this organization, and others, a great deal of aggravation, to say the least, as well as placing the lives of Angela and James Montrose in extreme jeopardy."

  "The boy has also brought you what I believe to be extraordinary information," said Oliver Coleman firmly, in defense of young Brewster. "None of us knew about the Symond woman until he remembered her.

  He did it, I didn't, and he should be given credit for doing so. By your own admission, he couldn't trust your-" "Afyra Symond?" interrupted Waters.

  "My God, it's incredible!"" "Yes, I believe that was the first name on the letters sent to her," said Coleman.

  "Why is it incredible?"

  "She was one of us, damn it! A member of our associate branch, Mi-Six! She was one of the most successful operatives in foreign penetrations."

  "Yet she was obviously a traitor, a mole," continued Coleman.

  "So our young friend has brought you information you knew nothing about."

  "How could we?" protested Waters.

  "She retired a year ago, claiming burnout, which is not unusual."

  "She wasn't too burned out to work for somebody else, was she?"

  said Roger.

  "Gerald Henshaw killed my mother because she stood up against this Matarese, her computer messages to and from Madrid damn well proved it. Suddenly, this Symond woman is tight with Gerry and Mum's murdered. Jesus, sir, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the connection!"

  "Yes, yes, it's quite apparent," Waters spoke quietly and nodded his head in understatement, "and your knowledge of that, should it ever be suspected, would mark you for a Matarese bullet or a knife. And as someone recently said, "They're everywhere, we just can't see them."

  " "I understand, sir, I'll go back to France, no argument from me."

  "No France, either, Roger," said Waters.

  "We closed that place down within minutes after you were found missing. I wasn't joking, young man, you seriously risked the lives of the others by the chaos you created. People talk and other people listen; word spreads swiftly when a secret government operation is uncovered in a foreign country."

  "I'm truly sorry, sir."

  "Well, don't be too hard on yourself. The sergeant major is right,
you have brought us extraordinarily helpful information. More than you realize, perhaps.. .. I'll tell you this much. We believe we've identified a Matarese agent here in London. Combined with what you've discovered, we may be a step closer."

  "To what, sir?"

  "The soul of the serpent, I dearly hope. It's still beyond our reach, but a step is a step."

  "Where will I be going?" asked the Brewster son.

  "South is all you have to know."

  "How will I get there?"

  "We use only one pilot and one plane. Come to think of it, it's been a rather exhausting day for the poor chap. Oh, well, he's young and strong."

  "Luther's a gas, sir."

  "Yes, he's refueled a number of times today. Petrol, I mean."

  Lieutenant Senior Grade Luther Considine, U.S. Navy, once again swept left for yet another final approach, this in to an alternate diplomatic airstrip at Heathrow Airport.

  "You've got to be kidding,"" he roared into the mouthpiece of his radio headgear.

  "I've been ferrying this relic since four o'clock this morning, and it's now almost five o'clock in the afternoon! Give me a break, like lunch maybe?"

  "Sorry, Leftenant, those are the orders."

  "It's not leftenant, it's loo tenant and I'm hungry."

  "Apologies again, old sport. I'm simply relaying the orders, I don't make them. The flight plan will be delivered to you by an officer of Mi Five

  "Okay, okay, Brit. Tell the refueling truck to get out here fast, and bring the passenger with it. I'd like to get back to London by midnight.

  I've got a heavy date with a single bed and a large meal."

  "What's the matter?" asked Cameron Pryce, sitting with Leslie in the bulkhead seats.

  "I drop you cats off here at Heathrow and pick up an anonymous requiring full fuel tanks. Where to, I've got twenty minutes to figure out."

  "You're the best, Luther," said Montrose, raising her voice above the engines.

  "That's why they chose you."

  "Yeah, I've heard that before.

  "Many are called but few are chosen."

  Why the hell did it have to be me?"

  "The colonel just told you," yelled Cameron as the pilot reversed thrust upon landing.

  "You're the best!"

  "I'd rather have lunch," said Considine, proceeding down the runway.

  The movement on the ground was choreographed. Luther taxied down the airstrip to a predetermined, isolated area. A refueling truck raced from a hangar, and as two uniformed mechanics reeled out hoses for the dual-wing tanks, a third man in civilian clothes approached the plane. Considine opened the fuselage panel of the Bristol Freighter; the man spoke.

  "Here's your flight plan, Lieutenant. Study it and if you've any questions, you know whom to call."

  "Thanks a bunch," said Luther, reaching out and taking the manila envelope.

  "Here's your cargo," he added, gesturing at Pryce and Montrose.

  "Yes, I assumed that. If the two of you will please accompany me, our car is directly behind the truck."

  "We have luggage," Cameron broke in, "give me a minute to get it together."

  "Lieutenant," said the MI-5 officer, "perhaps you could assist us."

  Luther Considine, USN." looked imperiously down at the stranger.

  "I

  do not do windows," he said with quiet authority, "and I do not do laundry, and for your information, Cipher Head, I'm not a redcap in one of those old movies."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never mind, fella," interrupted Pryce, "our friend is a little stressed. I've got the suitcases."

  "Thank you, Chicken Little."

  "What are you chaps talking about?"

  "It's colonial code," answered Cameron.

  "Our pilot is brewing tea to throw into the Southampton harbor."

  "I don't understand a word you're saying."

  "They're both stressed," broke in Leslie, her voice flat and insistent.

  "Let's go, kiddies."

  As Pryce, Montrose, and the intelligence agent walked rapidly toward the MI-5 vehicle, a second car, its windows shaded from the late-afternoon sunlight, sped out on the field to the Bristol aircraft.

  "That must be Mr. or Mrs. Anonymous," said Leslie.

  "Unless you've short-circuited my perceptions," observed Cameron, "it's a young mister."

  "Roger Brewster?" whispered Montrose, as they were in the backseat.

  "But why and where are they flying him?"

  "To the south of Spain, a bull ranch owned by a colleague of ours during the Basque rebellions, and you were right, Cameron," said Geoffrey Waters, addressing Pryce and Montrose in his office at MI-5.

  "He reached old Coleman in Belgravia because, as you correctly assumed, he had no one else to turn to."

  "Good Lord, you are good," interjected Leslie, looking at Cam.

  "Not really, I just tried to narrow down his options. What could he do alone, without help? But he had to have a substantive reason for breaking out and coming back here."

  "He did, indeed," agreed Waters, his voice rising.

  "A woman in High Holborn we knew nothing about."

  Sir Geoffrey Waters described the revelations as they had been told him by young Roger Brewster and Oliver Coleman. He then produced the letters and, most notably, the deciphered notepad from Myra Symond's flat.

  "Amsterdam, Pryce! The head of the snake has got to be in Amsterdam!"

  "It looks that way, doesn't it? But whoever it is in Amsterdam that's running this whole obscene thing is a manager, a bureaucrat, not the total power. There's someone else behind him or her."

  "Why do you say that, Cam?" asked Leslie.

  "I know you'll think I'm stupid, or something, but when I was in college, I really loved reading and listening to recordings of Shakespeare. Silly, isn't it? But one phrase always stuck with me-I can't even remember the play."

  "What was it?"

  "

  "Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream."

  " "I believe it's Julius Caesar," said Waters.

  "What's the application here?"

  "The 'phantasma," I think. I had to look it up to get the context. The specter, the hidden phantom. There's someone or something beyond Amsterdam."

  "But Amsterdam is certainly our first priority, isn't it?"

  "Of course, Geof. Definitely. But would you do me a favor? Fly Scofield over here. I think we need Beowulf Agate."

  THE NEW YORK TIMES

  MEDICAL COMMUNITY STUNNED

  Over Nine Hundred Formerly Nonprofit Hospitals Sold to Consortium NEW YORK, OCT 26. In what can only be described as a move that has stunned the medical community, 942 formerly nonprofit hospitals in the United States, Canada, Mexico, France, the Netherlands, and Great Britain have been sold to Carnation Cross International, a medical group whose headquarters are in Paris. The consortium's spokesman, Dr. Pierre Froisard, issued the following statement.

  "At last the medical dream of the century, Project Universal, as we call it, has become a reality. In private hands, and with instantaneous global communications so readily available, we shall upgrade the quality of hospital care wherever we have the authority. By pooling our resources, information, and expertise, we can and will provide the best. Again, Project Universal, to which we have devoted quiet years and extraordinary sums of money, is now a reality, and the civilized world will be better for it."

  In response to Dr. Froisard's statement, Dr. Kenneth Burns, a noted New England oncological surgeon, had this reply. ""It depends on where they go. If words were actions, we'd all be living in Utopia. What bothers me is so much authority in so few hands. Suppose they take another tack and say, "You do it this way, or we don't share." I think we've seen enough of that with the insurance companies. Choice is obliterated."

  Another opposition voice came from the plainspoken Senator Thurston Blair of Wyoming.

  "How the [
expletive deleted] did this ever happen? We've got antitrust laws, foreign-intervention laws, all kinds of laws that prohibit this kind of thing. Were the [expletive deleted] idiots on the watch asleep at the switch?"

  The answer to Senator Blair is quite simple. International conglomerates only have to satisfy the laws of the specific countries in which they operate. The laws vary and none prohibits subsidiaries. Therefore, Ford is Ford U.K. in England; the Dutch Phillips is Phillips, USA; and Standard Oil is all over the world as Standard Oil-wherever it is. By and large, these international corporations benefit the economies of their host locations. Therefore, it may be assumed that Carnation Cross will be C.C. USA, C.C. U.K." C.C. France, et cetera.

  Continued on Page D2

  Brandon Scofield and Antonia had settled into their suite at the Savoy, Bray exhausted by the trip on the Air Force jet, Toni exhilarated by the fact that they were back in London.

  "I'm just going to go out and wander around," said Antonia, hanging up the last of their clothes.

  "Give all the pubs my best wishes," said Scofield, shoes off and supine on the bed.

  "I'll try to touch base with the best of them."

  "They're not on this tourist's agenda."

  "I forgot, you're the reincarnation of that bitch Carry Nation."

  "A little of her agenda wouldn't hurt you." The telephone rang.

  "I'll get it." Toni crossed to the bedside phone.

  "Hello?"

  "Antonia, it's Geoffrey! It's been a thousand years, old girl."

  "At least twenty or so, Geof. I understand you're now Sir Geoffrey Waters."

  "Accidents happen, luv, even in this business. Is the reprobate there?"

  "He is and he isn't. He hates the time zones, but here he is." She handed the phone to Brandon.

  "Hello, Sir Asshole, would you mind if I got a couple of hours' sleep?"

  "Normally, I'd be loath to interrupt your much-needed rest, old chap, but what we have to discuss is extremely important. Cameron and Leslie are with me."

  "So important we can't talk about it over the phone while I'm lying down?"

  "You know the answer to that, Bray."

  "I do now," said Scofield, wearily moving his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up.