The Matarese Countdown

  Philadelphia brought Scott Walker back into Pryce's and Leslie's lives, as sharp and as precise as ever. He met them at a private field on the outskirts of Chestnut Hill, handed Shields's sealed instructions to Cameron, and drove them to a small hotel in Bala-Cynwyd, twenty-five minutes from the city. Again registered under false names, Luther Considine joined Pryce and Montrose to hear Cam read Frank Shields's pages.

  Wahlburg was a philanthropist, especially where the arts were concerned. He and his banks contributed heavily to the symphony, the opera, and the nonprofit theaters. A side privilege for the few largest contributors was to attend the final dress rehearsal before a specific cultural event took place. Tomorrow evening he was scheduled to attend the rehearsal of the Philadelphia Orchestra, where he was to deliver a speech thanking and encouraging his fellow contributors. He would be alone, as his wife had died four years ago and he had never remarried.

  Shields had arranged for the head usher-a CIA officer-to lead Wahlburg to an aisle seat in the sixteenth row, behind the sparse audience; the adjacent seat was to be occupied by Cameron. Once again, the target and Pryce would be alone.

  Tomorrow evening came, Leslie and Luther in the back row, and after Wahlburg's speech he sat next to Pryce, as the orchestra swung into the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth, the orchestral and choral rendition of the master's "Ode to Joy."

  "Your speech was wonderful, Mr. Wahlburg," said Cameron, whispering.

  "SM, shh, this is far more wonderful."

  "I'm afraid we have to talk-" "We don't talk, we listen."

  "I have it on good authority that you were willing to fly to the eastern Mediterranean to meet with Julian Guiderone if you could locate him. Why not listen to his words? I'm his messenger."

  "What?" Benjamin Wahlburg snapped his head toward Pryce, his face creased in fear and anxiety.

  "How could you possibly know such a thing?"

  "Mr. Guiderone has sources beyond any we both possess."

  "Dear God in heaven!"

  "Perhaps we should move to the rear of the theater."

  "You're from Guiderone?"

  "Shall we?" Cam nodded at the aisle on Wahlburg's left.

  "Yes, yes, of course."

  At the back of the concert hall, while the symphony orchestra segued into the soaring chorale of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," Benjamin Wahlburg heard the words that would change his life and his world, leaving him to wonder whether his life had been worth living or his world worth saving.

  "There's a severe crisis in Amsterdam," began Pryce.

  "We assumed something had drastically changed," interrupted the banker.

  "We were told not to contact the Keizersgracht!"

  "There'd be no point if you tried. Van der Meer has disappeared.

  Guiderone is trying to hold things together."

  "This is insane! Where did van der Meer go? Why?"

  "We can only speculate. Perhaps he learned that we'd been penetrated, that countermeasures were rapidly being mounted and deployed against us. Who knows? We only know he's vanished."

  "My God ..." Wahlburg's hands began to tremble; he brought them to his temples, his face now ashen as the chorus onstage swelled, the myriad voices filling the large concert hall with the intoxicating music of the Ninth Symphony.

  "The work, the years .. . and now- what have we done?"

  "If Guiderone has his way, nothing will change."

  "Everything's changed! Everything came from the Keizersgracht.

  We're rudderless."

  "Julian accepts his responsibilities," said Cameron firmly, with sudden authority.

  "All instructions will come from him, through me.

  The schedules remain in force."

  "But we don't know what they are. Amsterdam hasn't told us."

  "You'll know," continued Pryce, trying to recall fragments of the printouts as well as Scofield's summary of his talk with Leonard Fredericks in London.

  "The Mediterranean, the fires. It will start in the Middle East, and as the sun moves west, so will the chaos. Slowly at first, then gathering momentum, until within a few weeks or months there'll be economic paralysis. Everywhere."

  "That's our cue to begin offering solutions. Everywhere. Whitehead, Fowler, Nichols, and I understand that, but we don't have the specifics!

  Van der Meer told us that our moves would be calculated, who to reach in the Senate and the House, even the White House. We don't have those instructions!"

  "You don't have Jamieson Fowler either."

  "What?"

  "He's retrenched, if that's the word. Without telling you, he's alerted his associates in the utilities industries to contemplate alternative plans-" "I don't believe that!" Wahlburg broke in.

  "It happens to be true."

  "What alternative plans?"

  "As near as we can gather, a slowdown, a wait-and-see strategy."

  "Preposterous! The electric companies all along the eastern seaboard are prepared to lock into one another, proving the economic feasibility."

  "Along with thousands upon thousands of lost jobs," noted Cameron.

  "Devoutly to be wished."

  "A temporary condition, to be eventually rectified."

  "Neither will take place if Fowler delays. Everything must be coordinated for maximum effect."

  "Why would he delay?"

  "You tell me, but that's what he's set in motion. Cold feet maybe, last-minute jitters, wanting to see for himself that all the others will participate, and he won't be left holding the bag.. .. Remember, there are still laws; in his mind he could become a pariah, facing years in prison."

  "You're wrong, wrong. He's as committed as I am, for completely different reasons, I grant you, but he will not turn back!"

  "We certainly hope you're right. However, until Mr. Guiderone hears more from his sources, try to avoid Fowler. If he reaches you, we never spoke; and if he acts strangely, saying odd things, leave a message at this number." Pryce reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

  "It's a drop. Just tell me to call my bank, I'm overdrawn."

  Cameron turned and walked toward the doors of the hall as the symphony orchestra and the chorus reached the soaring dramatic climax of Beethoven's Ninth. Benjamin Wahlburg stood immobile, trancelike, hearing nothing and seeing nothing, staring only at a dark red velour wall.

  He was a broken man, filled with great sadness, and he knew why.

  He had listened to the siren's song, a false siren, rationalizing the unpardonable, the ungodly. Yet, in the name of God, for the right reasons! Did they still apply? He would go to temple hoping to find solace, perhaps direction.

  Back at the small hotel in Bala-Cynwyd, Cam, Leslie, and Luther Considine convened in the couple's suite.

  "Man," said Luther.

  "That cat was on a hot tin roof! He just gazed at the wall like the air had been sucked out of him."

  "I think our leader did something akin to that," said Montrose.

  "Am I right, Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

  "Who?"

  "I forgot, you don't go to the movies."

  "Yes, I rolled over him, but he was different from the others. Hell, he was frightened, but if I read him right, there was something else.

  There were a few flashes of remorse, genuine remorse. When I told him that the utilities mega boss Fowler, might be holding back, not ready to deliver-" "A good tactic," broke in the lieutenant colonel.

  "Divide, then wait for the panic."

  "I think I said as much at the Keizersgracht. The success record is better than most strategies."

  "What about the remorse?" asked the pilot.

  "How could you tell?"

  "What he said, just a few words, but also the way he said them.

  About van der Meer's disappearance, he sort of whispered, "The years, the work, what have we done?" as if what they'd done wasn't kosher.

  Then later, regarding Fowler, he said, "He's as committed as I am, for completely different reasons, I gr
ant you that." .. . "Completely different reasons," where does that take us?"

  "Different ways of reaching their goals?" offered Leslie.

  "I don't think so. The goals themselves, maybe, I just don't know.

  But I do know that he didn't sound self-serving-trying to protect himself. The others did."

  "What do you want to do?"

  "Pull rank, as you would say, Colonel. Since I'm in the field, I'm calling Frank Shields and giving him orders. I want an in-depth dossier on one Benjamin Wahlburg, and I want it tomorrow morning."

  Morning came and the sealed dossier was delivered by Scott Walker at seven-fifteen.

  "This was flown up at five A.M. You're not the most popular guy in Langley, sir."

  "That breaks my heart, Scotty, but I'll just have to live with the pain."

  "You look like it. I think you're salivating."

  "You've got it, Officer Walker. I am."

  "Should I wait for a reply? The pilot's still in town."

  "No need to. This is all I need."

  "You know where to reach me, sir. I can be here in twenty minutes."

  Pryce, in his shorts, tore open the sealed envelope and began reading.

  Leslie was still asleep; his concentration was absolute. Thirty-six minutes later, when she emerged, yawning, he announced, "Colonel Montrose, we may have found the link in the chain that can be broken."

  "What? ..." She sat down next to him on the couch.

  "Wahlburg's dossier. It's a beaut. Our all-powerful banker is a refugee from the radical left. In the late forties, he was on Hoover's un-American list, very vocal and close to the communist fringe.

  Then he disappeared for a few years and emerged as a bona fide believer of the capitalist system, an advocate of everything he previously denounced."

  "He saw the light?"

  "Maybe, or maybe he looked for another way, a more realistic way to implement the reforms he sought when he was younger."

  "The Matarese?" said Leslie, astonished.

  "How could that be?

  They're monopolistic, fascist, they want to control everything!"

  "The flip side of socialism," interrupted Cam.

  "An equal playing field for the rich and the poor, which is total bananas because there's no such thing. Kennedy was right when he said it was an unfair world.

  It is, and the Matarese will make it far worse. Maybe Wahlburg is beginning to understand that."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Give him a day to reach me. If he doesn't, I'll reach him."

  Scofield and Antonia walked the streets of London in their newfound freedom. Well, not complete freedom, as Geoffrey Waters insisted on a two-man protection unit, one several feet in front, the other behind them. It was early morning and they were strolling down the Mall in St.

  James's Park when a racing car screeched to a stop at the curb.

  Instantly, the two MI-5 guards ran toward the street, weapons drawn, placing themselves between the vehicle and the Scofields. Just as quickly, they concealed their guns; they recognized the driver, a colleague.

  "Emergency, chaps! Get them in here."

  Once hustled into the car, the first guard sitting in the back with Bray and Toni, the second beside the driver, an angry Scofield spoke.

  "What the hell's going on? Where did this come from?"

  "You've never been out of my line of sight, sir," answered the driver.

  "Sir Geoffrey's orders."

  "He's kinda overdoing it, isn't he? These two fellas plus an automobile."

  "This car is bulletproof, sir."

  "That's a happy thought. Who's going to shoot me?"

  "Chief Waters is very methodical. He considers everything."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To Mi-Five headquarters."

  "Why?"

  "I have no idea, sir."

  "Golly gee, that's just swell."

  "Behave, Bray," said Antonia.

  Geoffrey Waters was as upset as anyone could remember during his long years of service. Apoplectic would be a more appropriate description.

  Scofield and Antonia were ushered into his office, the door firmly closed, while Waters paced furiously behind his desk.

  "What's eating you?"

  asked Brandon.

  "The last thing you want to hear, old friend. Let's all sit down, I believe it would be easier." They did so, the Scofields in two chairs facing the desk.

  "What is it, Geof?" said Toni.

  "The unbelievable as well as the unacceptable. Matareisen has escaped."

  "What?" roared Brandon, leaping up from his chair.

  "If this is a bad joke, it's really lousy!"

  "It's no joke, I only wish to God it were."

  "How the hell could it have happened? You had him practically in a glass cage, the guards constant!"

  "He wasn't here, Bray."

  "Jesus, you gave him a night out on the town?"

  "Let Geof explain, Brandon."

  "Thank you, my dear, this isn't easy for me. At three-forty-five this morning, I received a call from the Matareisen watch. He was coughing up blood; it was literally streaming out of his mouth, according to the doctor, and he was unconscious. Fearing for his life, I ordered him taken to the hospital, the detail to accompany him. Somewhere between here and the emergency entrance, no more than twelve minutes, he regained consciousness, and to my utter astonishment, he overcame two strapping young officers, killing one of them and removing the clothes of the chap nearest his size. He then must have taken billfolds, cash, and ID cards, for there was nothing left, broke open the rear door, and ran into the traffic."

  "Who were your agents, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Pollyanna?"

  "Really, Bray!" said Antonia angrily.

  "One of those young men was killed."

  "Sorry, but-it's nuts!"

  "Cameron Pryce can tell you about Matareisen's extraordinary martial arts technique-like nothing he'd ever seen. Naturally, we're combing the city for him, using the London police as well, without explanations."

  "You won't find him," said Scofield.

  "He's got to have contacts who'll hide him and get him out of the country."

  "So we assume, but that's not my primary concern. You and Antonia are. As we speak, you're being moved from the Savoy to the Ritz."

  "Why?" protested Bray.

  "Van der Meer's not going to stick around London, and Guiderone's dead. I'm not a target."

  "We don't know that," insisted the MI-5 chief of security.

  "We have no idea whether Guiderone was in touch with Matareisen, or if he was, what he told the Dutchman. Guiderone was going for his final, most important kill. Perhaps he took out insurance with van der Meer, as you call him."

  "Highly unlikely, if not impossible," retorted Scofield.

  "If I did my job, as I usually do, I split Guiderone from the Keizersgracht."

  "In all due respect, old chap, none of us knows what others will do under extreme stress. It's an unpredictable area."

  "All right, we're moving to the Ritz."

  "Thank you, Bray," said Antonia.

  The telephone rang on Waters's desk.

  "Yes?" he said, quickly picking it up. He listened for a moment or two, hung up, and looked at the Scofields.

  "A patrol car believes it just spotted Matareisen. They pulled up and he saw the vehicle, then dashed into the underground. They're in full chase now."

  "Why do they think it was him?"

  "The clothes at first, they were ill-fitting, then the general description based on the photographs we took when we brought him from Amsterdam. We've circulated them."

  "Speaking of Amsterdam, could those computers have any data on London? Any references to contacts or conduits?"

  "Nothing," replied Sir Geoffrey.

  "I checked with Greenwald in the Keizersgracht. All he found were vague references to streets and monuments going back months. Meeting grounds long gone." The telephone rang aga
in and Sir Geoffrey pounced on it.

  "Yes?" He stared at a glass paperweight as he listened. Finally, the caller finished, he briefly closed his eyes and without a word hung up.

  "They lost him," he said, sitting down.

  "Alert all the private airfields," said Bray, "one of them will be his exit."

  "Where will he go?" asked Antonia.

  "Amsterdam's out. Does he own other property, other places than in Holland?"

  "If he does, they'd be impossible to find. He operates through holding companies and dummy corporations, like the limousine service and that Argus group. Knowing his resources, he undoubtedly has many other places, but we need a paper trail and we don't have one."

  "Does he have any attorneys?" Toni again.

  "He must use the services of a law firm."

  "Probably dozens in as many countries. We traced the Argus group to Marseilles. The offices consist of two rooms, a toilet, and one secretary whose only job is to forward mail and cables to Barcelona, which relays them to a general delivery station in Milan. Are you getting the picture, chaps?"

  "In three dimensions," acknowledged Scofield.

  "Obfuscation, un traceability and evasion. What's surprising is the Milan relay. It suggests that someone has taken over the Paravacini cell, a very major player."

  "I was wondering about that myself," said Waters.

  "If true, they certainly rebounded in a hurry."

  "Too much of a hurry," Brandon interrupted, "which means that somebody was in place to assume the authority." Scofield turned to Antonia.

  "How'd you like a short vacation to Lake Como, luv? Better grab it now 'cause Sir Hog's Butt's paying, I can't afford it."

  "I think we've already paid for Como," said Waters.

  "This includes the services of the incomparable Don Silvio Togazzi, who probably owns most of Milano by now, and certainly the postal unions. An upstanding mafioso would never neglect them, unseen communications are too important."

  "The general-delivery station?"

  "Exactly. I'm sure the transfers are done in relays, one poor soul is paid a few thousand lire to deliver to another poor soul, and then another, until it reaches our major player. We'll be there when the event takes place, and I don't think you care to hear the tactics we intend to employ. They might offend your sensibilities, but we'll bring you a trophy, count on it."

  "In this situation, my sensibilities cannot possibly be offended. Just don't bring me a corpse. A corpse can't speak."