The Matarese Countdown

  "For starters," said Pryce, "the obvious. Everything's written in random codes, which means there's no basic code whatsoever. No consistency, no meaning to anyone but him, each different, or mostly so, and each probably decipherable in a different way."

  "I'm certainly no expert," said Leslie, "but have you tried all the usual decoding methods?"

  "To the point of driving our inanimate computers up the walls," replied Geoffrey, heading back to the round oak table and sitting down.

  "Numbers in arithmetic and geometric sequence; lexical and alphabetical overlaps, synonyms and antonyms, both in plain English and street idiom, as well as the more vulgar applications-Henshaw didn't speak a foreign language."

  "How do you know?" asked Cameron.

  "The children. It was one of the few times they displayed a touch of humor during our extensive questioning. Like many wealthy youngsters in sophisticated families, they've traveled widely and speak a passable French. So when they wanted to exchange confidences in front of Henshaw, they did so in French. It usually made him furious, which they obviously enjoyed."

  "Some of this nonsense is so simplistic it's ridiculous," Pryce noted, holding up the scrap of paper in his hand.

  "Look here," he added, placing the torn scrap faceup on the table.

  "MAST/V/APR/

  TL/BF. All in capital letters."

  "I don't understand," said Montrose.

  "A simple unscrambling of the abbreviated anagram makes it fairly clear. Amsterdam via Paris telephone in billfold. That's supported by the way all these pieces of paper are double- and triple-creased, folded methodically to fit in small places."

  "Isn't that a bit of a leap?" asked Leslie.

  "We don't think so, my dear," answered Waters.

  "We came up with the same thing on that one.. .. How about this little darling?" The MI-5 veteran picked up another note from the pile on the table.

  "I'll read it; nothing's in caps, incidentally, all small letters: ng-dash-st dash-oz, period. It doesn't make a bit of sense. On the other hand, here's one that does: cy-dash-bk-dash-nu-dash-bf again, period."

  "A bank account," said Cameron, "probably in the Cayman Islands, the number, like the telephone number to reach Amsterdam, also shoved into a billfold."

  "Quite, old man, that's what we believe."

  "He might as well have written it out, it's so clear."

  "That's just it," exclaimed the frustrated Waters.

  "He jumps from the simplistically ridiculous to the unfathomably sublime. I swear, if the chaps who created Enigma had ciphered this way, our boys at Chequers would still be working on it!"

  "Didn't Cam say it was a code he devised only for himself?" said Montrose.

  "Indeed, yes," agreed the Englishman.

  "It's why it's unfathomable.

  It's only in his head."

  "Beware the amateurs," said Pryce.

  "They'll screw you up every time.. .. There's still no clue as to his whereabouts?"

  "None at all. It's as though he's vanished from the face of the earth."

  "That's a frightening thought." Cameron got out of his chair, stretched, and walked to a window, separating a blind to peer outside.

  "And one that's not particularly surprising."

  "How so?" asked Leslie.

  "No corpse, Colonel. Scofield told me that whenever the Matarese killed without hiring killers, its law was to leave no corpse."

  "Are you saying that Henshaw was part of the Matarese?"

  "A minor part, Geof. From everything we know, he was too stupid to be more than that. But his killer-if he was killed-wasn't. Whoever it was is very major; "Make sure it's done, you're accountable, and there can be no traces." That's the way I read it."

  "It makes sense," said Waters.

  "Where do you suggest we go next?"

  "I assume you've covered relatives, friends, neighbors, solicitors, banks, doctors-the whole bag?"

  "Most definitely. Lady Alicia and her first husband, Daniel, were paragons of civility, using their wealth and prominence for the benefit of worthy causes. They were, from all reports, a very congenial and generous couple."

  "And after her husband's death?" said Montrose.

  "When Henshaw came on the scene?"

  "Quite a different story. At first he was accepted, then progressively he began to lose that acceptance. There were rumors of infidelity and excessive alcohol. Along with the gossip, there were more tangible reports of automobile accidents while under the influence. The bills are quite substantial, as are the verified complaints of numerous pubs and clubs that refused him entrance. Finally and most dastardly, the accounting firm that handles Lady Alicia's Wildlife Association volunteered that Henshaw was suspected of squirreling funds from it.

  They'll go no further for fear of drying up other sources of revenue, but I'll bet it was true and involved a hell of a lot of money."

  "The bank in the Cayman Islands," said Pryce.

  "That would be my guess, chap."

  "It's more than a guess, Geof. But even if we had the account number, it'd be tough to invade."

  "We have our ways, old man. However, we may not need them. Just before she died, Lady Alicia made out a check for two-million-plus pounds to Wildlife. Her children made some mention of it, but did not elaborate. Again, protecting her charity."

  "You asked where we should go next, Geoffrey," said Leslie.

  "I

  think you just answered that. The children. May we see them?"

  "Of course. They're in town rattling around in that old place on Belgrave Square. But I should warn you, they're still terribly upset;

  they were very close to their mum, and the boy's a veritable tiger.

  They're besieged by vultures of all stripes-relatives they barely know, solicitors making outrageous claims against Henshaw, streams of reporters from the tuppenny cheap sheets-tabloids, you call them those horrible papers and magazines obsessed with female mammaries, you know the sort of scum."

  "Why is the boy a tiger?" asked Leslie.

  "He's only, what is it, seventeen, isn't he?"

  "Looks more like twenty, with a physique that could match a very tough rugby player's. He's extremely protective of his younger sister, and without assistance bodily ejected three-not one or two, but three-slime-type journalists who were questioning her. Our boys were impressed; apparently he wrapped all three together, then booted them out one by one. Two suffered broken arms and the third-how should I put it?-had a groin problem."

  "We'll be very gentle," said Cameron, "and I'll wear a steel jockstrap."

  "Other than that, he's quite pleasant, if a touch intense. Actually, they're both rather nice, just upset."

  "He sounds like a time bomb, Geof."

  "Hardly, chap. He's a wrestler, that's all. Gathered a few medals in the Midlands, I'm told."

  "I like him already," said Leslie.

  "My son's a wrestler. He's only fifteen but he's won the Junior Interscholastics two years in a row-" "I chase butterflies," interrupted Pryce.

  "The nets are heavy but I manage.. .. When can we see them, Geof?"

  "Tomorrow. Name the time, they're expecting you."

  Roger and Angela Brewster rose as one from their armchairs in the downstairs drawing room in the mansion on Belgrave Square. The morning sun streamed through the large bay windows, highlighting the antique furniture and fine paintings on the walls. The grandeur of the room did not diminish its aura of comfort; instead, it seemed to cry out, Relax, chill out, this is a friendly place-a chair is still a chair, a sofa just a sofa.

  Geoffrey Waters preceded Leslie and Cameron through the open double doors of the room. His appearance had an immediate effect on the two adolescents.

  "Sir Geoffrey!" said the girl enthusiastically as she approached him.

  "Morning, Sir Geoffrey," added the boy beside his sister, his hand extended.

  "Now, now, haven't I taught you anything? .. . No, Roger, I will not shake your hand unt
il you change your salutation!"

  "Sorry, Geoffrey," said the Brewster wrestler, shaking hands.

  "And you, child?" Waters looked at the girl.

  "Also a peck on the cheek, if you'd be so kind."

  "All right .. . Geoffrey." She kissed Waters, speaking to the two strangers.

  "Isn't he a charmer?"

  "One can't help getting older, my dear, but one doesn't have to be old. May I introduce my two new associates? Lieutenant Colonel Mon trose, United States Army, and Special Agent Pryce of the Central Intelligence Agency."

  They shook hands, briefly, haltingly.

  "I don't get it," said Roger Brewster.

  "What does our mother's death, her murder, have to do with the United States Army?"

  "Specifically, it doesn't," replied Leslie.

  "But I'm going to be up front with you two even if my superiors bust me to private or throw me out of the Army. The people responsible for your mother's death have kidnapped my son. They claim they'll kill him if I don't do as they say."

  "Good Lord!" exclaimed Angela Brewster.

  "That's horrible!" echoed her brother.

  "How do they contact you?"

  "They haven't for nearly three weeks now. I was given instructions through a third party, which I ostensibly carried out in our last post. In essence, they were testing me: Where were we? What was the security?

  The firepower? .. . That sort of thing. Since we learned there was a mole, or moles, in the CIA, the information I delivered was accurate but superfluous."

  "When do you expect to hear from them again?" asked the Brewster daughter.

  "Any moment .. . any hour now," replied Leslie, her eyes briefly distant, inward.

  "Somewhere soon a message will arrive-a telephone number to be dialed from a public phone-where and when to call, and a recorded voice giving me my orders. There was no way they could reach me during the past five days. Our entire security was altered, mole proof we believe, but this morning we let the word out at Langley. They now know I'm in London."

  "Doesn't that frighten you?" exclaimed Angela Brewster.

  "It would frighten me far, far more if they didn't contact me."

  "What can we do?" asked the Brewster son.

  "Tell us everything you know about Gerald Henshaw," replied Pryce.

  "And answer the questions we ask you."

  "We've told what we both know to the police and Mi-Fiveeverything."

  "Tell us, Angela dear," said Montrose.

  "Do so, my child," added Waters.

  "We're all human, therefore imperfect. Perhaps our new friends might pick up on something we've missed."

  The litany began with Henshaw's weaknesses: his frequent drunkenness, the womanizing, his flagrant abuse of the money he was both given and stole, his arrogance toward servants when Lady Alicia was out of earshot, the constant lies as to his whereabouts on the occasions when he could not be found-the list was seemingly endless.

  "I'm surprised your mother put up with him," said Cameron.

  "You'd have to know Gerald Henshaw to understand," answered Angela, her voice soft, as if searching for words.

  "Mother wasn't stupid, she just didn't see the things other people saw. He hid that side of himself from her."

  "He was a bloody genius at it," Roger broke in.

  "Around her he was all lovable charm. For a few years I actually liked the bastard.

  Angela didn't but I did."

  "We women are brighter in that area, don't you think?"

  "That's a myth, little sister, and in the early days he was good for her."

  "He distracted her, that's all."

  "But weren't you two away at school most of the time?" asked Pryce.

  "Yes," replied the brother, "for the past six years anyway, but we were home during the summers and the holidays and occasional weekends. Not necessarily together, but we were here enough to see what was happening."

  "Enough to change your mind, Roger?" pressed Cameron.

  "Definitely, sir."

  "What started your conversion?" asked Leslie.

  "To your sister's way of thinking."

  "All the things we've told you."

  "Things you learned gradually, I assume. I mean, they weren't all suddenly apparent to you, were they? Something had to start you thinking."

  Brother and sister looked at each other. Angela spoke.

  "It was the automobile-repair shop in St. Albans, wasn't it, Rog? They called to say the Jag was fixed, remember?"

  "That's right," agreed the brother.

  "The owner thought he was speaking to Gerry. He said he wouldn't release the car except for hard cash-no checks, no bills to accountants, just plain money."

  "Why was that?" Pryce looked at Geoffrey Waters, who shook his head, signifying bewilderment.

  "As I later learned, it was the eleventh time in a year and a half that Gerry took the Jaguar in for repairs. He and Mum were in Brussels for a Wildlife gig, so I drove her Bentley up to St. Albans and talked to the fellow. He told me that Henshaw had him send the first few bills to Mother's accountants, who aren't famous for paying immediately. Also, they apparently haggle a bit."

  "That's hardly a reason to demand cash," said Montrose.

  "Insurance companies commonly question automobile repairs."

  "Well, that's just it. Gerry never used our insurance, he didn't report the accidents."

  "Some people don't," explained Cameron, "because their premiums go up."

  "I've heard that, sir, but there was something else. Why did he have the shop in St. Albans do the repairs in the first place? Why not the Jaguar Motors right here in London? We've been dealing with them for years."

  "Probably to keep your mother from learning about the accidents."

  "That's what I figured, Mr. Pryce, but Mum wasn't blind, and a missing car is pretty obvious. Especially a bright red Jag that's usually parked out front-Gerald couldn't be bothered to put it in the garage."

  "I see what you mean. Then this 'something else," did you find it?"

  "I may have, sir. The bill for the repairs that day was twenty-six hundred and seventy pounds-" "Twenty-six hundred .. . nearly three thousand pounds?" exploded Waters of MI-5. "He must have practically totaled the damn car!"

  "I'm afraid he didn't, at least nothing on the bill indicated it. There were charges for a fender pounded out and repainted, also a 'detailing," which is merely a thorough washing and vacuuming."

  "What else?" demanded the MI-5 chief.

  "How did the bugger come up with over twenty-six hundred pounds?"

  "The remainder was listed under 'miscellaneous'-" "What?" said an astonished Pryce.

  "Did he think he could get away with that?"

  "I don't believe he thought about it," replied Roger Brewster.

  "I

  should explain that when I arrived, he was startled that I wasn't Gerry. I don't think he would have told me the amount over the phone if he knew it was me."

  "Did he justify the 'miscellaneous'?" pressed Cameron.

  "He said to ask my 'old man."

  " "Did you bring the money, the cash?" Leslie inquired.

  "Yes, I wanted to get the car back. Since Mother traveled all over the place for Wildlife, she set up emergency accounts for Angela and me. I stopped off at the bank, made a withdrawal, and drove to St. Albans, expecting to hire someone to drive the Bentley back here."

  "Were you going to tell your mother?" continued Montrose.

  "Well, I figured I'd confront Gerry first, see if he had any kind of reasonable explanation."

  "Did you?" asked Pryce.

  "Of course, and he really blew me away. To begin with, he peeled off three thousand pounds-and he never had that kind of money- saying that the extra was for the trouble I went to. Then he told me not to say anything to Mum because she was responsible for the Jag's repairs and he didn't want her upset."

  "How was she supposedly responsible?" asked Geoffrey Waters.

&nbs
p; "He claimed Mother drove it to our country house without oil in the crankcase and with the wrong petrol. That he had to have the whole engine overhauled."

  "You accepted that?"

  "Hell, no! Mother hated that car; it was a present to Gerry, who loved it. It wasn't the fact that it was a Jaguar, it was the color. She said it was ostentatious, stood out like a bleeding thumb. That wasn't her way."

  "Why didn't you ever mention this during our interrogations?"

  "It never came up, Geoffrey. Nobody asked how we learned about the real Gerald Henshaw."

  "How did you?" asked Cameron.

  "An automobile-repair bill, no matter how out of whack, couldn't tell you that much, could it?"

  "Rog was angry," answered Angela, interrupting.

  "He talked to me, which he doesn't always do, and he said something was wrong, really wrong. I said of course it was, I always knew it! Then we both remembered, we had a cousin, a barrister in Regent Street. We went to see him and asked him to look into Gerry, find out everything he could."

  "That's when the whole ghastly story came to light," added the brother.

  "The girlfriends, names and addresses included, the drinking, the paid-off accidents, the banishments from restaurants and private clubs the entire bloody mess, all confirmed."

  "Did you go to your mother and tell her?" Pryce glanced back and forth between the two children.

  "Not at first," replied Roger, "but try to understand why. Gerry was a rogue, a charlatan, but he did make our mother happy. When our father died, she was a basket case-for a while Angela and I actually feared she might take her own life."

  "And then this marvelous actor appeared," said Angela.

  "Tall, polished, with extraordinary credentials-none of which proved accurate-but he was there for her. How could we destroy that?"

  "If I may, chaps?" asked Sir Geoffrey Waters, not answering the question.

  "We've covered most of this. Where are we heading?"

  "It's that 'miscellaneous,"

  " answered Cameron.

  "Twenty-six hundred pounds for a fender bender? I think we should drive to St.

  Albans."

  "Two points for the colonials," said the man from MI-5.

  The St. Albans Motor Works was a small shop in the industrial part of the city. The hammering and the shrill sounds of multiple drills along with the incessant, wheezing bursts of air from the two-pronged lifts announced its occupational activity. The owner was a portly fellow in grease-laden coveralls, his face that of a man who worked physically hard for a living, the lines around his eyes and creasing his forehead premature, the result of his labors, not from indulgence. He was in his forties and his name was properly Alfred-Alfie Noyes.