The Matarese Countdown

  "Company policy. Apparently whenever an important executive at Atlantic Crown dies suddenly, all his office effects are removed immediately."

  "Why?" Scofield broke in, still yelling.

  "Industrial espionage is rampant, it's common knowledge these days.. .. Heart attacks, seizures, unexpected tumors, they're also common. Highly competitive corporations try to protect themselves under those circumstances."

  "That's crazy, Squinty! What about the police?"

  "Where's the crime? It was a backcountry intersection, no witnesses, only imbedded fragments of metal indicating a possible collision. So far, it's listed as an accident."

  "But you know and I know it wasn't."

  "I agree with you completely," acknowledged the deputy director of the CIA, "especially considering the swiftness of the office cleansing One might even say the tragic event was anticipated."

  "Of course it was, and even the suspicion of foul play gives the police the right to seal off all avenues potentially relevant to a crime."

  "That's both the irony and our proof of premeditated homicide. Oh, was it premeditated?"" "What do you mean, Frank?" asked Toni.

  "By the time the police and the paramedics at the scene of the 'accident' had finished their work, the contents of those two offices were history."

  "

  "Within an hour or so,"

  " said Scofield, repeating Shields's earlier words.

  "You're right. There's no way Atlantic Crown's directors could have learned so quickly."

  "Age is addling your brain, Brandon. Of course we know how they knew."

  "Oh, yes, we do, don't we? Then we have to find out where they took everything!"

  "And who gave the order," suggested Antonia, "and who reached whoever it was that carried it out."

  "Three excellent questions," agreed Shields.

  "We'll start on each immediately."

  "It should be interesting," said an angry Scofield.

  Sir Geoffrey Waters, OBE, studied the information the American lieutenant Luther Considine had delivered on the secure phone from Scotland. An official fax, sterile transmission, would follow so the pilot could check his words, but as the equipment was temporarily down, the MI-5 officer decided not to wait for confirmation.

  To say that the two Bahrainian estates had a convoluted history of ownership, both past and present, would be a gross understatement.

  The names obtained were the names of attorneys, companies, and international corporations and conglomerates; no specific people were accountable for ownership. It was a maze of obfuscation; even the Middle East lawyers, who wanted to cooperate, could do nothing. Contracts were electronically transmitted, they reported, and the funds for purchase were wired incognito from such diverse cities as Madrid, London, Lisbon, and Bonn. Monies were transferred; there was nothing to question.

  There was, however, one extraordinary exception, extraordinary insofar as the Bahrainian attorney brokering the purchase had received an additional one million dollars, American, beyond the purchase price.

  An additional zero had been innocently punched into a coded financial transfer computer. The Bahrainian broker, aware of the strict territorial laws regarding fraud, dutifully reported the overcharge to the authorities, as well as to the sender. It was an obscure holding company in Amsterdam.

  Amsterdam.

  The slender, balding man in the data-processing complex of the Central Intelligence Agency rose from his desk in his assigned cubicle and brought both his hands to his temples. He walked out of his area and staggered to the next station, a cubicle adjacent to his own.

  "Hey, Jackson," he said to the occupant.

  "I've got one of my migraines again. Jesus, I can't stand it!"

  "Go to the lounge, Bobby, I'll switch your machine over to mine and cover. You really ought to see a doctor about those."

  "I have, Jackson. He says they're brought on by stress."

  "Then get out of here, Bobby. You could grab a better-paying job anywhere."

  "I like it here."

  "That's bullshit. Go on, I'll cover your screen."

  Bobby Lindstrom did not go to the employees' lounge, but instead walked outside to one of the pay phones on the concrete walk. He inserted four quarters, one after another, and dialed seven zeros. A series of bell tones sounded, five of them, and then he pressed eight zeros and waited.

  "On tape," said the metallic voice over the line.

  "Go ahead."

  "Eagle reporting. Have unscrambled DD Two communications.

  Targets are in North Carolina, the P.V. complex. Proceed according to Marseilles. Out."

  It was night, a dark night, the rays of the moon blurred by the mountain mists that hovered over the ground everywhere. From the ascending approach road to the Peregrine View gatehouse, there came into gradual focus the dual beams of headlights. As it drove nearer to the steel barrier that fell across the road cut out of the forest, a brown sedan was revealed, a government vehicle with two military flags flanking the hood. The insignias proclaimed it to be a general's car, a two-star general officer.

  The vehicle came to a stop as a guard emerged from the gatehouse.

  He peered inside at the four uniformed officers-the driver a major, the general beside him in the front seat, and two captains in the rear.

  "General Lawrence Swinborn, young fella," announced the general, holding papers in his hand, which he extended across the driver's chest to the open window.

  "Here are my clearances from the CIA and the Department of the Army."

  "I'm sorry, sir," said the Gamma Force sergeant, "we are to have those clearances at least twelve hours prior to a guest's arrival. No can do, sir. You'll have to turn around in our cul-de-sac to your rear."

  "That's a pity, Sergeant," replied the general, angling his head slightly to the left and nodding once. At the signal, the captain in the left rear seat raised a silenced pistol and fired the deadly spit, shooting the man in the forehead. At the sight of his comrade falling, the second guard ran out of the windowed gatehouse only to be met by two rounds fired by the same captain, again head shots, cutting off all sound from the victims.

  "Get out," ordered the general officer, "drag the bodies into the woods and raise the barrier."

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Major, extinguish the headlights."

  "Right away!

  "Lawrence'-nice ring to it."

  "I trust you'll never have to remember it." In the darkness, the steel bar was raised, the captains returned to their seats, and the sedan slowly started up the road. A third guard appeared through the mist and the shadows; he was obviously bewildered and approached the car.

  "What the hell is this?" he asked.

  "Who are you people?"

  "Pentagon security check, soldier," answered the general.

  "I

  presume you can see the flags."

  "I can hardly see a damn thing, but this isn't in the regs."

  "We're cleared, Corporal, we're here, and I'm General Lawrence Swinborn."

  "General or not, sir, our instructions are to blow up any vehicle we haven't been told about."

  "You obviously missed the roll call, soldier. Now, where are the others concentrated? I don't care to be stopped again."

  The muscular, broad-shouldered Gamma Force corporal studied the car and its inhabitants. He slowly backed away, his right hand on his holster, unbuckling it, his left pulling a radio out of a strap on his field jacket. He could see a pistol through the open rear window.

  "None of your damned business, mister." The guard spun and dove to his left, rolling over and over as the spit like bullets exploded the earth around him. He shouted into his radio.

  "Hostile vehicle, Sector Three! Gunfire."

  "Phase B!" commanded the man who called himself Swinborn, as all four jumped out of the left side of the sedan and began removing their uniforms while the corporal, now wounded in his right leg, struggled to his feet, ran into the cover of the woo
ds, and began returning fire. The four invaders used the protection of the sedan as they shed the last of their outerwear, revealing camouflage garb identical to that worn by the Gamma Force patrols.

  "Spread out!" ordered the false general.

  "He's in the first structure on the right, about two hundred yards up the road. Use the woods, we'll meet there!"

  What followed was violence and chaos born of confusion. The beams of powerful flashlights cut through the ground and forest mist.

  Uniforms-camouflage combat field jackets-were the first marks of identity, and weapons were lowered at the sight of them. Then those lowering their guns were killed in their legitimate mistakes.

  At the sound of the erratic, guerrilla-like gunfire, Scofield turned off all the lights, convincing Antonia and Frank Shields to stay in the darkest shadows of the room. He grabbed two MAC-10 automatic weapons from their small arsenal and handed them to his wife and Frank, instructing them to go on rapid fire should anyone appear through the door or a shattered window.

  "What are you going to do, Bray?" asked Toni.

  "What I'm pretty good at, old girl," replied Scofield, heading for the kitchen and the back door, dressed in his combat fatigues and picking up a standard Colt .45 with six magazines of ammunition. He slipped outside and ran into the surrounding woods. Silently he crept through them, like an angry panther protecting its lair, instinct telling him that he was all-too-possibly the object of execution. His legs and arms ached with the prowling, his bones and muscles and lungs lacking the strength they had years ago. But his eyesight was decent, his hearing still acute, and the hearing was paramount.

  He heard it! The crack of a dead branch under the weight of a foot.

  And then the rustle of fallen branches as boots brushed them aside.

  Beowulf Agate retreated into the underbrush, pulling the forest debris over him. What he saw through the leaves and the sparse particles of small limbs not only puzzled but infuriated him. Three figures, dressed in Gamma Force field jackets, berets, trousers, and boots, had made a mistake! To a man their hair was short, but not the usual crew-cut variety favored by the Gamma guards. Strands fell below their berets at the napes of their necks, unheard of for the patrols at Peregrine View.

  Hair was clipped so short it was practically invisible, especially at the back of the skull, for that was where sweat formed in moments of heat and stress. A minor physical irritant, but an irritant nevertheless, and the Peregrine forces could not afford it.

  A fourth man appeared out of the forest, obviously in an arranged meeting with the other three.

  "By shouting that I was 'in pursuit," said the ersatz Gamma leader, laughing quietly, "I sent the Boy Scouts over to Sector Seven, the farthest area in the compound. Our targets are inside this fancy place here.. .. Waste them! Let's go!"

  Scofield raised his automatic and fired twice, bringing down two of the deadly intruders. As he did so, he lurched through the underbrush, scrambling roughly ten yards from where he had pulled the trigger of the Colt. A fusillade of bullets filled the night air, hissing on Bray's right, shattering clumps of forest garbage, and thumping into trees with terrible finality.

  "Where is the bastard?" yelled the leader hysterically.

  "I don't know!" roared the other man, "but he just dropped Greg and Willie!"

  "Shut up! No names! .. . He's somewhere over there-" "Where? " "Around or behind that cluster of bushes, I think."

  "He hasn't fired again .. . maybe he took off."

  "Maybe he didn't. Let's blast!"

  "If he's there, we'll get the bastard!"

  Like crazed animals, the two killers rushed forward, their weapons on automatic fire. After several prolonged bursts, they stopped. Silence. And during that silence, Scofield hurled a heavy rock far to the left of the invaders. The firing instantly began again, and Bray waited for what he knew would happen.

  It did. Through the filtered mist he could see that one of the men upturned his weapon; he had stopped shooting for the simple reason that he had run out of rounds and had to insert a second magazine.

  So Scofield shot the second man, breaking through the woods as he fell.

  "Drop the iron!" ordered Bray, confronting the killer who held his weapon in his right hand, a full magazine of shells in his left.

  "Drop it!" repeated Brandon, clicking the hammer of his automatic into the firing position.

  "Jesus Christ, you're him, aren't you?"

  "Your grammar notwithstanding, yes, I'm he. But then, I'm a Harvard man, although nobody wants to believe it."

  "Son of a bitch!"

  "That would be you, I assume. Or should we put it another way? A son of the Matarese." The man slowly, half inch by half inch in the forest mist, moved the magazine toward the automatic weapon.

  Suddenly, he shook his right leg, lifting it slightly off the ground.

  "Easy," said Scofield, "you're less than a breath away from being history."

  "It's my leg, goddamn it! I've got cramps from all this running."

  "I'm not going to say it again, scum. Drop the gun."

  "I will, I will!" The killer pressed the automatic rifle against his upper right leg, wincing as he did so.

  "I gotta separate these muscles, they're climbing all over each other."

  "Well, I'll agree with you there, scum bucket Cramps can be-" The Matarese assassin suddenly whipped around, plunging the loaded magazine into his weapon's chamber and literally spinning in midair, ready to blow Scofield away. Bray fired. The killer collapsed, his body a tangled heap of dead flesh.

  "Damn, " cried Beowulf Agate.

  "I wanted you alive, you slime."

  An hour later, Peregrine View had been stabilized, the few dead mourned, their parents soon to be notified; no one with a wife or children had been assigned. Scofield sat in a chair, exhausted.

  "You could have been killed!" shouted Frank Shields.

  "Goes with the territory, Squinty. I'm here, aren't I?"

  "One day you may not be, you gray-haired old fool," exclaimed Antonia, standing beside Bray, holding his tired head.

  "So what else is new, Frank?"

  "We've heard from Wichita, Brandon. The entire contents of McDowell's and Karastos's offices were shipped on KLM Airlines.

  Destination, Amsterdam."

  Amsterdam.

  The sleek Citroen limousine rolled slowly through the furious night downpour on the Marseilles waterfront, the swirling mists and the drenching rain reducing visibility to no more than forty haze like feet.

  The headlights were almost useless as their beams were swallowed up by the fog rolling off the Mediterranean, the illumination refracted into walls of billowing white. Julian Guiderone peered out the left rear window.

  "This is the row of warehouses!" he yelled to the driver over the pounding rain on the vehicle's roof.

  "Have you a flashlight-a torch?"

  "Oui, Monsieur Paravacini. Always."

  "Shine it over there, on the left. We're looking for number forty one

  "This is thirty-seven. It cannot be much farther, monsieur."

  It wasn't. A small, dim, wire-meshed bulb glowed, barely seen through the mist.

  "Stop!" ordered the son of the Shepherd Boy, now using the ominous name of Paravacini.

  "Press your horn, two short blasts."

  The driver did so and immediately a large loading door was raised, somewhat brighter lights revealed inside.

  "Shall I drive in?"

  "Only briefly," replied Guiderone, "just long enough for me to get out. Then back up and wait in the street. When the door opens again, come in for me."

  "An honor, monsieur."

  Julian Guiderone climbed out, standing on the deserted concrete floor, and nodded to his chauffeur. The limousine backed out into the downpour; the loading door slowly descended. Guiderone stood alone, knowing it would not be for long. It wasn't. Out of the shadows walked Jan van der Meer Matareisen, his slender figure and square pale face seemingly d
warfed by the cavernous warehouse.

  "Welcome, my superior in all things."

  "Mother of Christ, man!" exclaimed the son of the Shepherd Boy.

  "I

  trust you can justify dragging me here at this hour. It's nearly four o'clock in the morning, and I've had an exhausting two days!"

  "It was unavoidable, sir. My information is such that it can only be delivered in person, for we must discuss immediate strategies."

  "Here, in this cold, damp, cement mausoleum?"

  "Please accompany me to my office. Actually, I have offices in every building, for I own all the warehouses on ihis street. Also six piers, which I frequently lease out. They cover all of my expenses."

  "Am I to be impressed?" asked Guiderone, following Matareisen toward a glass-enclosed office thirty feet away.

  "Forgive my boastfulness, Mr. Guiderone. It seems I constantly seek approval from you, for you are the guiding star of our movement."

  "I was, Jan, now you should look upon me as merely a consultant."

  They entered the office with its abundance of electronic equipment.

  Guiderone chose a black leather couch; Matareisen sat behind his desk.

  "Let's discuss this strategy you speak of. I'd like to get back to my hotel as soon as possible."

  "I think you should know, sir, that three and a half hours ago I was comfortably asleep in my house on the Keizersgracht in Amsterdam. I felt it necessary to get up, alert my pilot, and fly to Marseilles."

  "Now I am impressed. Why?"

  "We must move up our schedule-" "What? We're not ready-you're not ready!"

  "Hear me out, please. Events have taken place that we could not have envisioned. There are serious problems."

  "Beowulf Agate," whispered Guiderone in a monotone.

  "Tell me he's dead!" roared the son of the Shepherd Boy.

  "He did not die. As near as we can determine, the mercenary unit failed, losing their lives in the attempt."

  "What are you saying?" Julian, his voice chilling, his erect posture in the chair immobile, stared at the younger man.

  "I'm saying it as calmly as I can, although I feel the rage you feel.

  Apparently, Scofield's talents in the field have not deserted him. The word from Eagle is that he took out the entire unit himself."