The Matarese Countdown

  "There it is, sir," said the naval officer, a lieutenant j.g. even younger than the commander of station in St.

  Thomas.

  "That's "Big Stone Mother,"

  " he added, pointing to an enormous cliff like rock that seemingly had lurched out of the sea.

  "Another name, Lieutenant?

  "Big Stone Mother'?"

  "We gave it that one, I'm afraid. We don't like to come out here, too many shoals."

  "Then stay pretty far from shore. If a boat comes out, we'll spot it."

  "A Cigarette on starboard northwest," said the sudden voice over the intercom.

  "Shit!" exclaimed the young skipper.

  "What the hell is that?" asked Pryce. "

  "A cigarette?"

  " "Cigarette boat, sir. We're fast, but no match for one of them."

  "Please bring me up to speed, Lieutenant."

  "That's what we're talking about. Speed. The Cigarette boat is the favorite of the drug crowd. It can outrun anything on the water. It's why, when we know they're in use, we call in aircraft. But with all our equipment, here and in the air, we're no damned good after dark. The Cigarettes are too small and too fast."

  "And I thought it was as simple as our lungs."

  "Funnyman .. . sir. If your target goes full throttle, we'll lose it. No interdiction, no boarding."

  "I don't want to interdict and I certainly don't want to board, Lieutenant. " "Then, if I may, sir, why the hell are we here?"

  "I want to pinpoint where the target goes. You can do that, can't you?"

  "Probably. At least to a land mass, an island maybe. But there are lots of them, and if he pulls into one and we get a radar fix, then he pulls out for another, we've had it!"

  "She, Lieutenant, she."

  "Oh? Wow, I never figured."

  "Get your radar fix, I'll take my chances."

  The minor island in question was named simply Outer Brass 26 on the charts. Uninhabited; questionable foliage; no long-range human habitation considered. It was barely four square miles of volcanic rock expunged from the depths of the ocean, with several hills that permitted profuse greenery from the generosity of the tropic sun, the afternoon showers, and said greenery spread to the lands below. Although once considered part of the Spanish Caribbean chain, it had never actually been claimed in recent history. It was an orphan in a sea of illegitimate children, nobody cared.

  Cameron Pryce stood at midships in a diver's wet suit provided by the Coast Guard. Below him was a ladder that led down to a rubber raft with a small, quiet three-horsepower motor that would take him into the shore. In his left hand was the waterproof flight bag with his items f choice and necessity.

  "I feel damned awkward just leaving you here, sir," said the very young skipper of the vessel.

  "Don't, Lieutenant, it's what I came for. Besides, I can reach you whenever I want, can't I?"

  "Of course. As you instructed, we'll remain out here, roughly five miles from land, beyond visual sighting if the light's right."

  "When it's daylight, just stay in the path of the sun. The old cowboys-and-Indians movies were right about that."

  "Yes, sir, it's part of our combat-strategies courses. Good luck, Mr.

  Pryce. Good hunting with whatever you're doing."

  "I'll need a little of both." The former CIA case officer descended the ladder to the bobbing PVC craft below.

  The engine gurgled, it did not really run, as Pryce steered the rubber raft into shore. He chose what appeared in the moonlight to be a small cove; it was wooded, with overhanging palms roofing the perimeter. He jumped out of the raft and pulled it between the rocks to the sand, securing it to the trunk of a palm. He lifted out his waterproof case and flung the strap over his right shoulder; it was time for the hunt, and hopefully luck would be part of it.

  He knew what to look for initially: light. A fire or battery-induced illumination, it had to be one or the other. For two people to live on a deserted island without either was not only uncomfortable, it was dangerous. He started to his right, walking cautiously over the rocky shoreline, constantly peering into the heavy foliage on his left. There were no signs of light or life. He trudged for nearly twenty minutes, greeting only darkness, until he saw it. But it was neither light nor life, only small metallic reflections of the moon; numerous short poles were in the ground, mirrors on top, angled toward the sky. He approached them, yanked the flashlight out of his case, and saw the wires, leading to the right and the left, connecting the poles. There were dozens, scores of them, forming a semicircle on the rock-hewn shoreline. Photoelectric cells! Catching the rays of the sun from dawn to high noon and beyond.

  Searching farther, he found a thick, central cable that led into the tropical forest. He started to follow it when he heard the words, spoken clearly, harshly, in English behind him.

  "Are you looking for someone?" asked the mid-deep voice.

  "If you are, you've gone about it amateurishly."

  "Mr. Scofield, I presume."

  "Since we're not in Africa, and you're not Henry Stanley, you may presume correctly. Keep your hands above your head and walk straight forward. It's our cable path, so use your light, because if you break it, I'll blow your head off. It took me too long to put it together."

  "I come in peace, Mr. Scofield, without any intent to divulge your whereabouts," said Pryce, walking carefully ahead.

  "We want information we think only you can provide."

  "Let's wait until we reach the house, Mr. Cameron Pryce."

  "You know who I am?"

  "Certainly. They say you're the best, probably better than I ever was.. .. Put your hands down. The palm leaves get in your face."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." Scofield suddenly shouted, "It's okay. Turn on the lights, Antonia. He was clever enough to find us, so open a bottle of wine."

  The clearing in the forest was suddenly illuminated by two floodlights revealing a large one-story cabin of tropical wood, a natural lagoon on the right.

  "My God, it's beautiful!" cried the CIA agent.

  "It took us a long time to find this place and longer to build it."

  "You built it yourself?"

  "Hell, no. My lady designed it, and I boated in crews from St. Kitts and other islands to do the work. Since I paid them half in advance, no one took offense at the blindfolds out of Tortola. Just discretion, young man."

  "Young and not so young," broke in Cameron, in awe.

  "Depends where you're coming from, fella," said Scofield, walking into the light. His thin, narrow face was framed by a short white beard and longish gray hair, but his eyes were bright, youthful behind his steel-rimmed glasses.

  "We like it."

  "You're so alone-" "Not really. Toni and I frequently take the 'butt' over to Tortola, grab an inter island to "Rico, and a flight to Miami or even New York.

  Like you, if you've got a brain in your head, I have half a dozen Passports that get me through."

  "I don't have a brain in my head," acknowledged Pryce.

  "Get one. Maybe you'll find someday that's all you've got. After you've appropriated a few hundred thousand in contingency funds.

  Placed in off-shore investments, of course."

  "You did that?"

  "Have you any idea what our pensions allow us? Maybe a condominium in Newark in the lesser part of town. I wasn't going to settle for that. I deserved more."

  "The Matarese?" said Cameron softly.

  "It's back."

  "That's out of orbit, Pryce. An old boy in D.C. called me and said that he heard you were looking for me-yes, I've got the same kind of phones you have, and the generators, and the security, but you're not going to drag me back into that hell."

  "We don't want to drag you back, sir, we only want the truth as you know it."

  Scofield did not reply. Instead, as they had reached the short steps to the cabin's entrance, he said, "Come on inside and get out of that outfit.

  You look
like Spider-Man."

  "I've got clothes in my bag."

  "I used to carry one of those. Change of shorts and a garrote, a lightweight jacket and a couple of weapons, maybe some underwear and a hunting knife. Also whiskey, can't forget the whiskey."

  "I've got bourbon-" "Then the D.C. boys are right. You've got possibilities."

  The inside of the cabin-more than a cabin, a medium-sized house, really-was nearly all white, accentuated by several table lamps. White walls, white furniture, white archways that led to other rooms, all to repel the heat of the sun. And standing next to a white wicker armchair was Scofield's wife. As reported by the Tortolan in the Road Town post office, she was tall, full of figure but not obese, and with that mixture of gray and dark hair that bespoke her advancing years. Her face was delicate yet strong; a mind was at work inside that handsome head.

  "Congratulations, Mr. Pryce," she said in slightly accented English.

  "We've been on the alert for you, although I didn't think you could possibly find us. I owe you one dollar, Bray."

  "I'll bet another that I never see it."

  "Finding you wasn't that difficult, Mrs. Scofield."

  "The mailbox, of course," the once and former whiz of deep-cover intelligence broke in.

  "It's a hell of a flaw but a necessary one. We still sail, we still like the charter business, and it's a way to make a few dollars and socialize a bit.. .. We're not antisocial, you know. We enjoy most people, actually."

  "This house, the isolation, wouldn't seem to support that, sir."

  "On the surface, I suppose not, but the obvious can be misleading, can't it, young man? We're not hermits, we're here for a very practical reason. You're an example."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Have you any idea, Mr. Pryce," interrupted Antonia Scofield, "how many people have tried to pull my husband back into his former profession? Beyond Washington, there's the British Mi-Five and Mi Six the French Deuxieme, the Italian Servizio Segreto, and just about everybody in NATO's intelligence community. He keeps refusing and refusing, but they never 'let up," as you Americans say."

  "He's considered a brilliant man-" "Was, was .. . maybe!" exclaimed Scofield.

  "But I haven't anything to offer any longer. Good Christ, it was damn near twenty-five years ago! The whole world's changed and I haven't the slightest interest in it.

  Sure, you could find me; if our roles were reversed, it'd take me no more time than it took you to find me. But you'd be astonished what a little deterrence, like a mostly uncharted island and a stupidly named mailbox, can do to stop the curious. You want to know why?"

  "Yes, I would."

  "Because they've got a hundred other problems and they don't want the hassle, it's as simple as that. It's so much easier to say to a superior that I'm seemingly impossible to locate. Think about the funds needed for airline tickets along with experienced personnel; the whole ball of wax becomes so tangled they give up. It's just easier."

  "Yet you just said you were told I was coming down looking for you. You could have put up barriers, not used the mailbox. You didn't.

  You didn't protect yourself."

  "You're very perceptive, young man."

  "It's almost comical that you use that phrase. That's what I called the lieutenant in St. Thomas."

  "He was probably half your age, as you are of mine. So what?"

  "Nothing really, but why didn't you? Protect your isolation?"

  "It was a joint decision," answered Scofield, looking over at his wife.

  "More hers than mine, to tell you the truth. We wanted to see if you had the patience, that godforsaken quiescence before you made your move. An hour becomes a day, a day a month; we've all been there. You passed with all the colors; you actually slept on the beach.

  Damn good training!"

  "You haven't answered my question, sir."

  "No, I haven't, because I knew why you had come. Only one reason, and you said the name. The Matarese."

  "Tell him, Bray, tell him everything you know," said Antonia Scofield.

  "You owe Taleniekov that, we both owe Vasili that."

  "I know, my dear, but may we first have a drink? I'll settle for wine, but I'd rather have brandy."

  "You may have both, if you like, my darling."

  "You see why I keep her around after all these years? A woman who calls you 'my darling' for a quarter of a century is a girl you keep."

  We have to go back to the turn of the century, actually before that to be accurate," began Scofield, rocking in his chair on the screened-in, candlelit veranda of the isolated cottage on the presumably deserted island named Outer Brass 26. "The dates are imprecise, as the records were lost, or destroyed, but it can be estimated that Guillaume, Baron of Matarese, was born around 1830. The family was rich by Corsican standards, mostly in property, the baronage and the land being a gift of Napoleon, although that's questionable."

  "Why?" asked Pryce, in shorts and a T-shirt, mesmerized by the gray-haired, white-bearded former intelligence officer whose eyes seemed to dance impudently behind the steel-rimmed glasses.

  "There had to be documents of possession, of inheritance."

  "As I mentioned, the original records were lost, new ones found and registered. There were those who claimed they were counterfeits, forgeries commissioned by a very young Guillaume, that the Matarese never even knew a Bonaparte, Third or Second, and certainly not the First. Nevertheless, by the time those doubts arose, the family was too powerful to be questioned."

  "How so?"

  "Guillaume was a financial genius, nothing less, and like most of that ilk, he knew when and how to cut corners while staying marginally within the laws. Before he was thirty years of age, he was the richest, most powerful landowner in Corsica. The family literally ran the island,

  and the French government couldn't do anything about it. The Matarese were a law unto themselves, drawing revenues from the major ports, tributes and bribes from the growing industries of agriculture and resort developers who had to use their docking facilities and their roads.

  It was said that Guillaume was the first Corso, that's the Corsi-can equivalent of the Black Hand, the Mafia. He made the later godfathers look like wimps, the Capones misguided children. Although there was violence, brutal violence, it was kept to a minimum and used to great effect. The Baron ruled by fear, not unbridled punishment."

  "Couldn't Paris simply shut him down or throw him out?"

  interrupted Pryce.

  "What they did was worse than that. They ruined two of the Baron's sons-destroyed them. Both died violently, and after that the Baron was never the same. It was soon after this that Guillaume conceived his so-called vision. An international cartel the likes of which the Rothschilds never dreamed of. Whereas the Rothschilds were an established banking family throughout Europe, Guillaume went in the opposite direction. He recruited powerful men and women to be his satellites. They were people who once possessed enormous wealth inherited or accumulated-and like him had a taste for revenge. Those initial members stayed out of the spotlight, avoiding all forms of public scrutiny, preferring to handle or manipulate their riches from a distance.

  They employed fronts, such as lawyers, and speaking of the Bonapartes, they used a tactic proclaimed by Napoleon the First. He said, "Give me enough medals and I'll win you any war." So these original Mataresans gave out titles, large offices, and extravagant salaries as if they were

  Rockefeller dimes. All for a single purpose: They wanted to remain as anonymous as possible. You see, Guillaume understood that his design for a global financial network could only come about if the key players appeared completely clean, above suspicion of corrupt practices."

  "I'm afraid that's not consistent with my briefing," said the CIA field officer.

  "Frankly, it's contradictory."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Yes, sir. The two sources that revived our interest in the Matarese-the reason I'm here-described it as evil. The first calle
d it consummate evil; the second, evil incarnate. Since these statements were made by two elderly, knowledgeable people facing imminent death, even the courts would consider their words valid.. .. You've described something else."

  "You're right and you're wrong," said Scofield.

  "I described Guillaume's vision as he conceived it, and make no mistake, he wasn't a saint. In terms of control, he wanted it all, but part of his genius was to recognize practical and philosophical imperatives-" "Fancy language," interrupted Pryce.

  "And very real," added the former intelligence officer, "very germane. When you think about it, Matarese was almost a century ahead of his time. He wanted to form what was later to be called a World Bank or an International Monetary Fund, or even a Trilateral Commission. To do that, his disciples had to appear legitimate through and through, squeaky-clean."

  "Then something must have happened to them, something changed, assuming that my briefing was accurate."

  "Indeed something did happen, because you are right in that area.

  The Matarese became monsters."

  "What was it?"

  "Guillaume died. Some say he passed away while making love to a woman fifty years younger than he was, and he was roughly in his middle eighties. Others know differently. Regardless, his inheritors that is what he called them-moved in like a swarm of bees to the honey pot. The machinery was in place, Matarese branches throughout Europe and America, money and, even more important, confidential information flowing back and forth weekly, if not daily. It was an unseen octopus, silently monitoring, efficiently threatening to expose the dirty tricks and the unwarranted excessive profits of scores of industries, national and international."

  "Initially, sort of a self-policing apparatus where business is concerned-both national and international?"

  "That's as good a description as I've heard. After all, who better than corrupt police to know how to break the laws they enforce? The inheritors seized the moment. The confidential information between the branches was no longer used as a threat, instead it was sold. Profits soared and Guillaume's successors demanded a piece of the action of succeeding profits. By Christ, they covered whole territories and became an underworld cult-I mean a real cult. Like the Cosa Nostra, new members of various statuses were ceremoniously sworn in, the upper crowd actually wearing small blue tattoos proclaiming their rank."