The Matarese Countdown

  "Where the hell do we go?" he asked gruffly.

  "The elevator is down the hall on the left, sir," replied the policeman.

  "Thank you, young man, and my regards to the commissioner."

  "I'll tell him myself, sir. We're on special detail and report only to him."

  "You'll have a long and rewarding career, fella. What's your name?"

  "O'Shaughnessy, sir."

  "Another wop, right?" The three men laughed as the V.I.P and his bodyguard walked down the hall to the elevator.

  "I can't believe I'm doing this!" continued the businessman, his breath short.

  "Some nobody flies in, supposedly from Amsterdam, and I'm summoned to meet him, and that's exactly what it was, a goddamned summons! Who the hell does he think he "?"

  "The others say he knows the words, Albert," replied the man acting as bodyguard, removing his hand from under his raincoat.

  "All the words."

  "It could be a fishing expedition," said the shorter man, the one called Albert.

  "If it is, he knows where certain fish are. The banking and the utility boys want to meet you after you've seen this William Clayton-" "No doubt a false name," interrupted the executive.

  "There's no one by that name on any list I've got."

  "You hardly have an inclusive list, Al, none of us do. Just listen to his words and don't volunteer a damn thing. Do as the others did, act innocent and shocked."

  "You know, just because you're a lawyer you don't have to remind me of the obvious." The elevator door opened; both men walked in, and the armed attorney pressed the four-digit code for the floor as it had been given.

  "Take off your coat and hat, Stuart," added Albert Whitehead, CEO of Wall Street's Swanson and Schwartz, a major brokerage firm.

  "I will now," agreed the lawyer named Stuart Nichols, removing his Burberry and Irish walking cap.

  "I didn't care to before. I wanted to make sure those cops were on our side."

  "That's paranoid."

  "No, memories of things past. I was a military prosecutor in Saigon, where a lot of uniforms wanted to see me dead. A couple nearly did and they were dressed as MP's.. .. You're still going to introduce me as your attorney?"

  "You're goddamned right. I'll add that you know everything everything-about me. I'm an open book to you-only you."

  "He still may ask me to leave."

  "Give him reasons why you shouldn't. You're good at that."

  "I'll try, but if he insists, I'm not going to argue."

  "Glad to meet you, Mr. Nichols, and delighted you're here," said "William Clayton," a.k.a. Brandon Scofield, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate, convivially addressing the attorney and shaking hands. Scofield was dressed in a conservative dark blue business suit that came off a very high-priced rack serviced by tailors. He led his guests to their appropriate chairs, each with a side table, and rang a silver bell. Antonia, dressed in a starched black-and-white maid's uniform, her graying hair pulled back into a severe bun, emerged from a door. She was an imposing sight.

  "Coffee, tea, a drink? ..." asked Brandon.

  "By the way, this is Constantina, from the hotel, and she doesn't speak a word of English. It was a request I made; she and I converse in Italian."

  "Sorry it's not French," said Stuart Nichols, the lawyer.

  "I took several years at prep school and it served me well in Saigon."

  "Let's see.. .. Constantina, vous parlez franca is

  "Che cosa, signore?" "Capisce france se

  "Non, signore. Linguaggio volga re

  "I'm afraid she can't join us. She says it's a vulgar tongue. When will they make peace with each other?" No one cared for anything, so Antonia, nodding professionally, was dismissed.

  "I know your time is limited, as is mine," said Scofield, "so shall we get down to business?"

  "I'd like to know what our business is, Mr. Clayton," insisted Whitehead.

  "Our mutual business, sir," replied Beowulf Agate.

  "Stocks, bonds, debentures, loans-corporate and transnational, in the main initial stock offerings, naturally, but, most vitally, your servicing the intricacies of mergers and buy outs Inestimable contributions."

  "You're covering an enormous range of activities," said the CEO of Swanson and Schwartz, "and the majority are of a highly confidential nature."

  "As they are in the Exchange in London, the Bourse in Paris, the Borsa in Rome, and the Borse in Berlin, all are highly confidential. But certainly not regarding Amsterdam."

  "Would you clarify that, please," broke in Nichols.

  "If I have to, perhaps you don't know your client, or his firm, as well as you think you do," answered Brandon.

  "I'm the firm's attorney, Mr. Clayton. It is my sole client. There isn't anything I'm not aware of."

  "Does that include Mr. Whitehead here? Because if it doesn't, I suggest you leave us."

  "He's already told you it does."

  "Then I can't imagine your not knowing about Amsterdam.. ..

  Twelve years ago, a Randall Swanson, now deceased, and a Seymour Schwartz, currently retired and living in Switzerland, combined to start a new brokerage house in the most competitive few blocks in the capitalistic world. Wonder of wonders, within a few years they blossomed into an important player, growing so rapidly they soon were on the edge of becoming a major force rivaling Kravis and the former Milken. Then, more wonderful still, during the last year Swan-son and Schwartz engineered the most impressive mergers in recent memory number one on the charts, my friends. Simply remarkable, but how was it done?"

  "Talent pays, Mr. Clayton," said the lawyer, in complete control.

  "Mr. Whitehead is considered a brilliant, if not the most brilliant, managing director in current financial circles."

  "Oh, he's good, very, very good, but can anybody really be that good? Talent without the resources to exercise that talent is a terrible waste, isn't it? But perhaps I've said enough, for if I'm wrong, I've frittered away your time, as well as my own, and that is unforgivable.

  Time is money, isn't it, gentlemen?"

  "Just what do you mean by resources?" asked a nervous White-head, unable to stop himself despite the subtle shaking of his attorney's head.

  "Just what I said," replied Scofield.

  "Investments in your talents, specifically foreign investment, if you like."

  "There's nothing remotely illegal about that, Mr. Clayton," said Stuart Nichols.

  "Surely, you realize that."

  "I never implied that it was.. .. Look, my time is short and so is yours. All I wish to say-and if it does not apply to you, forget I ever said it-is this: Do not deal with Amsterdam. Amsterdam is finished, kaput, banished out of the league, for it wants to control everything and that cannot be permitted. Amsterdam can't be trusted any longer; it has turned, for its own short-term advantage, ultimately to self-destruct.

  For that reason I left-fled, to be precise."

  "Could you be clearer, please?" asked the attorney.

  "No, I can't," answered Beowulf Agate, "for the records are buried in a maze of complexity. I'm not at liberty to discuss them. However, if you should care to reach me, call this hotel, ask for the manager, and he'll tell you the number and the code. However, again, if anything I've said does make sense, take my word, do not call Amsterdam. Should you do so, you could be on its death list.... I think this is good afternoon, gentlemen."

  Scofield showed his bewildered guests out and firmly, loudly, closed the door on their backs. He then turned and walked into the living room as Antonia came out of the kitchen; she was still in her black-and-white uniform, but her hair had been freed from its confinement.

  "They're lying from jib to jigger," said Bray, lighting a small, thin cigar.

  "By the way, luv, you were damned convincing."

  "It wasn't difficult, darling, the role fit, no acting required. You, on the other hand, gave a grand performance, extremely imaginative."

  "Why thank you, my sweet, how so?"


  "I read your notes on everyone you've already met with. With the others I could follow you, for there were too many coincidences, too much convergence of similar interests leading to collusion. You genuinely frightened a few of them, and they hid their fear with silence and abstract denials; the rest were completely confused. But when you mentioned foreign investments to these two, their silence was very loud, the mention of Amsterdam frightening, or so it seemed."

  "Yeah, I kinda dragged that one out of my butt. It paid off, though, didn't it? They couldn't deny it fast enough, or at least justify it."

  "How did you figure it, Bray? I'm simply curious."

  "Part of the truth, Toni, part of the essential truth. We called them gaps in the old days, spaces that weren't filled.. .. Why would an up-and-coming brokerage house named Swanson and Schwartz sell out when their best years were ahead of them? Swanson died of a coronary when he had no history of heart trouble, and Schwartz left the States and became a citizen of Switzerland, both in their middle forties. For me, it was a classic Matarese pattern of manipulation. Both of those boys are Matarese down to their Gucci shoes."

  "Sometimes you really revert to Beowulf Agate, don't you?"

  "If the Serpent were still with us, I hope he'd agree. We owe a great deal to Taleniekov."

  "Our lives, Bray, only our lives."

  "So let's get on with it, luv," said Brandon, walking to the telephone console on the desk. He pressed a series of numbers and reached Frank Shields in an unmarked federal car nearby.

  "Everything under control, Squinty?" he asked.

  "Would you mind not using that offensive name over government communications?"

  "Sorry, Frank, it's meant only as a supreme compliment. You see what others can't see 'cause you narrow things down."

  "Bullshit isn't required.. .. We're tailing the two subjects; they're turning onto Central Park South."

  "What do you figure?"

  "Well, he's not heading back to his office, which tells us something.

  This was the last one, wasn't it?"

  "Two as it turned out. Yes, they were. Stay in touch and if anything develops, call me. Toni and I are going to relax and order our way through the room-service menu, which, of course, the taxpayers don't have to cough up a dime for."

  "Please, Brandon!"

  "He knows!" cried a terrified Albert Whitehead in the limousine.

  "He knows everything!"

  "Possibly," said the attorney, Nichols, coolly, "and just as possibly, he may not."

  "How can you say that?" protested the CEO of Swanson and Schwartz.

  "You heard him, the stock offerings, the loans, the mergers and buy outs for Christ's sake! Our entire schedule!"

  "All easily discovered and confirmed by legal research. A first-year law student could do it."

  "Then answer me this, Clarence Darrow! What about the foreign investment? How do you explain that?"

  "That may be where he slipped up. The monies were funneled through a Texas consortium of venture capitalists, done orally through Amsterdam, and left no paper trail whatsoever."

  "You can't be sure of that, Stuart."

  "No, I can't be," admitted Nichols, turning and gazing absently at Whitehead.

  "It's what bothers me, I'll be honest with you. This Clayton is obviously tuned in to Amsterdam, which says a great deal .. .

  and he claims it's now off-limits, really off-limits."

  "Dangerously so! He mentioned a death list-that's not an unknown calculation among our silent partners. They'll stop at nothing. We can't risk calling Amsterdam."

  "So we can't learn the truth, if there's another truth, and we're not scheduled to report for another eight days. If we violate that schedule, which is timed for sterile satellite transmission, Amsterdam will know we think something's wrong."

  "We could make up something, you're good at that!"

  "Nothing I can think of. We're on time with everything, not a glitch in the agenda. Perhaps the others will have an idea, a reason to call the Keizersgracht."

  "One of them must," insisted a panicked Whitehead.

  "We're all in this together and we've made millions!"

  "You do realize, don't you, Albert, that this Clayton may be employing an enormous bluff?"

  "Yes, I do, Stuart. But who's going to call it?"

  The room-service table was filled with the remains of a devoured porterhouse steak, veal piccata, assorted vegetables, iced goblets of Iranian caviar (for Antonia), and three chocolate eclairs (for Scofield).

  They were now enjoying espresso coffee with ponies of Courvoisier VSOP brandy.

  "I could get used to this, m'luv," said Scofield, wiping his mouth with an enormous pink napkin.

  "You could also die, old man," said Antonia.

  "If we ever get out of this, I want you back on the fish we catch and the fresh vegetables we grow."

  "They're all so dull."

  "They keep you alive, you old goat."

  The telephone rang, and as if the sound were a relief, Scofield jumped out of his chair and walked rapidly to the console.

  "Yes?"

  "It's Frank, Brandon. You're proving to have a fine batting average.

  The two big shots from Swanson and Schwartz ended up at one of those little unadvertised garden restaurants in the Village, the kind where you've got to have a financial pedigree to make a reservation." "Not in my frame of reference, Mr. Director."

  "Think of those clam houses in Brooklyn and Jersey, where the clientele are descendants of the old Moustache Petes and they can ice pick anyone they like because they own them. These new ones are way upscale; the suits and the speech are different, but the meetings aren't."

  "Get to the point, Frank."

  "Your two honchos left your hotel and met with the banker Benjamin Wahlburg of that new banking conglomerate, and both Jamieson Fowler, head of Boston's Standard L and P, and Bruce Ebersole, president of Southern Utilities. They represent the mergers of the major electric and bicoastal banking institutions with a heavy arm in the Mediterranean. We have photographs. You had ten candidates and four proved out. Congratulations, Beowulf Agate, you're batting four hundred."

  "Thanks, Squinty. What have you heard from London?"

  "Find them, find him!" screamed Julian Guiderone over his satellite telephone on board his private jet en route to London from Marseilles.

  "We pay millions to gnomes who have lifestyles far beyond anything they could possibly earn, who exist only to service us! Why are they failing, why are you failing?"

  "We're all working around the clock, I assure you," replied Jan van der Meer Matareisen from his sanctum sancto rum above the Keizersgracht in Amsterdam.

  "It's as if an unseen, unexpected blanket had descended over our sources."

  "Then remove it, blow it apart! Kill several dozen on your payrolls-send out the word that they were suspected of betrayals.

  Spread terror through the ranks, create your own inquisition. As the bodies fall, traitors will be exposed; fear is the catalyst. Have you learned nothing, "Grandson'?"

  "I've learned to have patience, sir, and do not shout at me. While you fly around the world engineering crises, I have to hold the entire operation together. And may I remind you, sir, that while you are the son of the Shepherd Boy, I am the legitimate grandson of the Barone di Matarese, who created the Shepherd Boy. You have many, many millions, but I have billions. I respect you, sir, for what you nearly achieved-my God, the White House-however, I beg you, do not fight me."

  "For God's sake, I'm not fighting you, I'm trying to teach you. Your heart and your intellect convince you that you're right, but you must have the stomach to follow through with those convictions! Where you find weakness, you root it out, the weed as well as its offshoots.

  Destroy everything in your path, no matter how appealing the wildflowers!"

  "I've understood that for years," said Matareisen, "and don't try to insinuate that I haven't. I have no emotions where the work o
f the Matarese is involved; our disciples live or die by their actions."

  "Then do as I say, start the killing, create the panic. Someone out there will know-or will force himself to learn-where Scofield is!

  Especially if failure may well cost him his life. Beowulf Agate! He's the one behind these interruptions, I told you that!"

  "Our sources cannot tell us what they don't know, Mr. Guiderone."

  "How do you know that, "Grandson'?" asked the son of the Shepherd Boy caustically.

  "For all your brilliance, Jan van der Meer, you have a flaw common to genius. You believe that what you have created is infallible, for the creator cannot be faulted. Nonsense! You don't have the vaguest idea what Scofield is doing, what attack strategies he's mounted, or with whom. He neutralized Atlantic Crown .. .

  how many others are walking-no, goddamn it, probably running-into his nets? Once confirmed, how many of those may break?"

  "No one will be broken," answered the Dutchman quietly.

  "Not only do they understand the consequences, but there are numerous fallback positions designed by our attorneys that completely legitimatize everything we've done. We're legally immaculate, free to continue until everything's in place. I also created that."

  "You think you have-" "I know I have, old man!" broke in Matareisen, suddenly shouting.

  "The only near catastrophe was because of you and your foolishness at Westminster House in London," went on Jan van der Meer, abruptly lowering his voice, "but you've apologized so we'll say no more about it."

  "Well, well," mused Guiderone out loud, "the young lion really wants to dominate the pride."

  "I do dominate it, through your appointment, if you recall. Do you regret it?"

  "Good heavens, no. I could never do what you've done. However, I doubt I was the only catastrophe. Something happened in Wichita, and I don't believe I've ever been there, nor did I know the gentlemen involved."

  "And they knew no one but a code and an answering machine in Amsterdam, buried in the Department of Canals."

  "An inscrutable bureaucracy," conceded the son of the Shepherd Boy.

  "You are truly a genius, Jan van der Meer, but you're missing something, and that something is a someone. Beowulf Agate. If you do not find him, kill him, he will discover more flaws-and bring your house down. He did it before and we thought-we knew-we were invincible. Don't let it happen again.. .. You were correct, of course, I'm an old man, and so is Scofield. The difference between us is that he can move with the quick and the dead, I can only move with the dead and the near dead. You, on the other hand, can move with the quick and the dead and, above all, those filled with greed. They're the most powerful army on earth, an unstoppable battalion. Use it, use them! Do not disappoint me."