The Matarese Countdown

  "

  "Fires all over,"

  " said Bray haltingly. "

  "The devil takes over the world." From Oman to Israel to North Africa."

  "The Mediterranean fires," said Cameron.

  "Matareisen's sent it out. It's the signal!"

  "Let's go!" cried Scofield.

  "I'm coming with you," said Luther Considine.

  "My people came from Africa, and nobody burns our ocean."

  It was shortly past eleven o'clock, the moon bright, alive in the sky, as Scofield, Pryce, and Considine crawled through the barbed wire into the Matarese compound.

  "Luther, you're our rear point," whispered Brandon.

  "If anyone comes up the road, or even if you see headlights, get on the radio and tell us."

  "Gotcha, elder spook. Do you guys do this sort of thing on a regular basis?"

  "No," replied Cameron, "usually we're announced."

  "Funny man."

  "Not at the moment," said Pryce, following Scofield up the steep, wooded incline. They reached the border of the circular drive; the mansion was dark except for a single window on the top floor.

  Suddenly a figure appeared behind the glass.

  "You wanted confirmation?" asked Bray.

  "I've got it. It's he."

  "

  "It's he'? It's him."

  "Case closed on Harvard. Get back! He's looking down here."

  "Then stay still, your face down!" Scofield clamped his hand on Pryce's neck.

  "He's moving away."

  "Let's run to the side of the house," whispered Cam.

  "Wo, he's come back! He's on the phone."

  Matareisen's face in the window appeared angry; he seemed to be shouting. He then walked away again only to reappear, holding what looked like a long computer printout, his face still twisted in a grimace.

  Once more he left the window in apparent fury. "Now!" said Brandon, getting up and racing across the drive to the side of the house, Cameron close behind him.

  "He's pissed off about something," added Scofield.

  "We're okay for a couple of moments."

  "Then what?"

  "I want to look around, study the alarm setup, if I can find it."

  "You screw with it, you'll set it off!"

  "Maybe, maybe not. Weapons at the ready, as Geof would say, and check your silencer."

  "Checked."

  "Cover the front door. If I blow it with the alarm, I'll get back as soon as I can, but you be ready. Shoot anyone who comes out-" "Hey, spooks!" It was Luther's whispered voice over both their radios.

  "Headlights heading straight for that medieval iron gate."

  "Let's get out of sight in the back," said Scofield.

  ' Wo," countered Pryce firmly.

  "This could be our way in. No mess, no fuss, no alarms."

  "No heartbeats, either!"

  "Come on, Bray, we're better than that, aren't we?"

  "Explain how."

  "Out of sight, yes, but not in the back. Did you see the front door?"

  "Three brick steps, a thick, heavy door, carriage lanterns on the right and left," answered the observant Scofield.

  "And?"

  "And what? .. . The bushes, tall bushes flanking the porch!

  Whoever it is goes inside while the alarm is off and we-" "We're wasting time. I'll take the far side, you take this one."

  "Spooks!" Considine again.

  "The gate opened and they're driving through."

  "They?"

  "Two gorillas, I'd say."

  "Get off the radio," ordered Cameron, turning to Brandon.

  "Hurry up. Get in there and crouch!"

  "Easy for you."

  The large black sedan, its headlights blinding, rounded the curving drive and stopped in front of the wide brick porch. Two men got out, the driver medium-sized with long, light brown hair, the other much larger, barrel-chested, his head topped by a receding crew cut. Instead of walking up the steps to the entrance, they opened the rear doors and began carrying out grocery bags and small cartons, the labels and logos indicating that they had been purchased in the port city of Bonifacio.

  They piled the merchandise on the porch, speaking in the patois of Corsica, an odd mix of French and Italian.

  "In the name of God, such delicacies!" said the driver.

  "The padrone must be planning a celebration."

  "For whom? Us and the three servants? I doubt it."

  "Certainly for the whore. He likes her, you know."

  "I'm not sure she's a whore, I think she's a nymphomaniac. As for his liking her, wait'll he finds out she's slept with all of us! It would offend his aristocratic dignity. He looks down on us, I trust you know that."

  "I know that, and I don't give a shit if he considers us worms. The pay is good-more than good-far better than the Sicilians."

  "Same rotten jobs, my friend. Frankly, I cannot go to the confessional any longer."

  "Do not worry. Our God sent us here to do what we do. Everything is preordained."

  "Ring the chimes, tell the idiots to shut off the alarm and open the door."

  The driver did as the larger man told him. Moments later there were lights in the downstairs windows and a female voice over the porch intercom.

  "Yes, who is it?" she asked in the Corsican dialect.

  "Two of your most experienced lovers, Rosa."

  "You're certainly the heaviest!"

  "Open up," said the driver.

  "We need help out here. Quickly!"

  "Not until I turn off the alarm, unless you care to be blown out of the hills."

  The two Corsicans looked at each other, their expressions conveying weary disgust.

  "Loud bells would have been sufficient," muttered the large, heavyset man.

  "Why the explosives? A true idiot inside could blow us to hell, along with the porch."

  "The padrone takes no risks. He's safe and we take our chances."

  The door opened and the voluptuous maid, who had previously strolled in the driveway with a guard, appeared. Her revealing negligee emphasized the swells of her generous breasts and the curvature of her hips.

  "Mother of God!" cried the woman.

  "What are all these?"

  "The padrone must be having a party," replied the driver.

  "That explains things," said the scantily clad maid.

  "What things?"

  "We're running around like headless chickens! The rooms must be spotless, the sheets washed and softened, the silver polished, the banquet hall set up, and the cook is going crazy. The butcher and the greengrocer were here this afternoon delivering enough meat and produce to feed a houseful of Sicilian mamas!"

  "What does the padrone say?"

  "Nothing himself. He's locked on the top floor and sends down messages in the air tube. Besides the ones I just told you, he tells us that guests will be arriving shortly past dawn. Shortly past dawn! Can you imagine?"

  "With the padrone I can imagine most anything," said the large man, picking up a case of wine.

  "I'll take this into the kitchen."

  "I'll follow with two of these cartons. They're too heavy for our delicate Rosa."

  "Delicate, my ass!"

  "That isn't, Rosa."

  The two Corsicans disappeared into the house as the maid bent over, sorting through the packages. Suddenly, Pryce broke through the bushes and leaped up on the porch, grabbing the woman by the neck, yanking her head back, his left hand clamped over her mouth.

  "Your gas!" he whispered to Scofield, who was climbing up the front steps, the low brick side too difficult for him to negotiate. Swiftly, he reached into the pocket of his camouflage fatigues and pulled out his canister of aero soled chloroform. He rapidly administered two sprays into her face, concentrating on her nostrils; she collapsed instantly. Cameron dragged her off the porch and placed her unconscious body to the right of the foliage, out of sight. Both men raced back behind the bushes.

  The two
Corsicans returned, confused by the absence of the maid.

  "Rosa, where the hell are you?" called out the driver, walking down the brick steps. This time it was Scofield who walked out of the thick foliage, his silenced pistol in the porch's light.

  "You raise your voice, young man, you won't have any vocal cords.

  I'll blow them out of your throat."

  "What is this?" roared the huge man, lunging across the porch.

  "Who are you?"

  Again, Cameron ran out, his pistol in hand.

  "Silenzio!" he said in his limited Italian.

  "One move and you are mo rto

  "I understand English, signore, and I do not care to die." The large Corsican backed up the steps.

  "We are merely servants of the house, our possessions are insignificant."

  "We're not interested in your possessions," said Pryce, "only information. We know the owner of this house, as you call it, is upstairs. How do you reach the top floor?"

  "The stairs, signore, how else?"

  "The front stairs and the back stairs?"

  "Both. You know the house?"

  "I'm trying to. Where are the back stairs?"

  "In the kitchen. The staff must use them."

  "How many floors?"

  "Four, signore" "Are there any exits to the outside from the back stairs?"

  "Not directly."

  "Fire escapes, where and how many?"

  "Che?"

  "I know that one," interrupted Scofield.

  "Scala di sicurezza. " "Ah, si," acknowledged the Corsican.

  "There are two, signore.

  West and east sides, the first for guests, the second for the staff."

  "How are they reached?"

  "Each floor has a locked emergency door in the corridor that opens on the scala. It is released by a concealed button in the wall or by a master switch in the kitchen."

  "Besides the owner, your padrone, who else is inside and where are they?"

  "The cook and a second maid-where is Rosa?"

  "She's resting."

  "YouMWher?"

  "I said resting, not dead. Now where are the cook and the second maid?"

  "The cook has a bedroom on the second floor above the kitchen, the girl on the third."

  "I think that does it, don't you, Bray?"

  "Short, sweet, and complete," agreed Scofield.

  "Now!" cried Pryce. Operating in tandem, the Americans shoved their weapons into the stomachs of the two Corsicans while yanking out their gas canisters. Holding their breaths, they sprayed each at close range and, as each started to collapse, they propelled the body into the interior lawn of the circular drive. The men would be unconscious for at least an hour, and maybe as long as three hours.

  "Use the radio and get Luther up here," continued Cameron.

  "The second fire escape, right, youngster?" Scofield pulled out his radio and spoke into it.

  "You've got it. When Luther gets here, you two cover the fire escapes, and I'll go in for the cook and the maid."

  "Here I am, spooks." Considine raced out of the Porto Vecchio woods.

  "What do I do?"

  "Come over here," said Pryce as the pilot ran to his side.

  "Around the corner of the house, on the west side, there's a fire escape. If anyone tries to come down, fire your gun, but away from the body. We don't want anyone wounded, much less dead."

  "Gotcha, brother," whispered Luther.

  "So do I," said Brandon, removing his weapon. He turned, walking rapidly to the east side of the estate.

  "Unless there are interruptions, we'll meet back here in ten minutes," was Cameron's last instruction before heading into the house.

  Inside, he bore to the left, the east section, where the Corsicans had carried the cartons from Bonifacio. The kitchen was immense, worthy of any upscale restaurant, the back staircase narrow and poorly lighted, as apparently befitted the staff, in their employer's view. Pryce crept up to the second floor, his body nearly prone, his camouflage fatigues giving rise to the image of a giant lizard approaching its prey. He stood up in the hallway, judging which door on the right was above the kitchen. It was obvious, so he sidestepped toward it, his gun and the gas canister in his hands. Awkwardly, he shoved the canister under his left arm and silently tried to twist the doorknob; it did not move, it was locked.

  He studied the door, stepped back across the hallway, shifted the canister to his right hand, and bolted forward with all his weight and strength. With an enormous crack, the door burst open, and Cam rushed in, holding his breath and spraying the bed with the immobilizing gas. The slender, stunned chef opened his eyes in panic, started to scream, then collapsed back into the pillows.

  Pryce returned to the back stairs, checking his watch; he had four minutes to go. He climbed to the third floor and rounded the corner into the narrow, dark corridor. The first thing that caught his eye was the strip of light at the bottom of the second door on the right. Shoving his weapon into his belt, the canister in his left hand, he reached for the knob. The door opened and Cam quickly stepped inside. The room was deserted but on the wall above the bed was a small glass panel, a red light blinking in the center accompanied by a low humming sound akin to a soft but constantly ringing alarm clock. Apparently the room belonged to the arousable Rosa. Obviously, it was her night to cover the doors and the alarms.

  He had barely two minutes left, not that the time was written in cement, but time spans were important and he did not want Scofield and Considine to think that something had gone wrong and do something foolish like rushing in to search for him. He returned to the dark, narrow hallway, looking to the right and the left. There were three more doors, four in all. A modicum of propriety would dictate that the floors be divided by gender, the proper way for servants' quarters regardless of improper visiting rights.

  Taking his chances, based only on a vague perception that Rosa was the sturdier of the women, Pryce crossed to the first door nearest the staircase and the emergency exit. Oddly enough-and something he had not noticed in the very dim light-the door was open, only an inch perhaps, but definitely open. He slowly pushed it back when he heard the words spoken from within the darkness.

  "Padrone? Mi amore?"

  One did not have to be a linguist to catch the lady's meaning.

  "Si, " replied Cameron, approaching the bed. The rest took less than fifteen seconds and Pryce was back by the front porch with twenty-odd seconds to spare.

  "I gather your incursion was not only successful but silent," said Beowulf Agate, his voice low.

  "It was," answered Cam.

  "Now comes the delicate part."

  "Time for the Gallic commandos, right, fellas?" said Luther.

  "Not right," replied Scofield.

  "A jet landing-very cautiously, I might add-on that not exactly state-of-the-art airstrip, and word goes out about how crazy it is. The same jet unloading a commando unit, and emergency sirens aren't out of the question."

  "However," interrupted the pilot, "not any telephone calls."

  "What do you mean?" asked Pryce.

  "Well, before we left Senetosa, I took a pair of pliers out of the nets on the plane, ran into that so-called tower, and cut the telephone wire that came down from the roof."

  "This young man really has possibilities," said Bray.

  "You should recruit him."

  "No thanks, elder spook. I like it in the sky."

  "Don't minimize your contribution, Luther," Pryce broke in firmly.

  "You may have given us the few extra moments we need."

  "Why? Because of the telephone?"

  "Exactly."

  "But if that controller was going to call here, why didn't he call before?"

  "Good question," said Scofield, "and I'll answer it. Because the French authorities told Senetosa that we're gathering evidence of drug couriers sailing in to the port of Solenzara. This is the nearest airfield, and no French officials will interfere with drug interdicti
ons. They could spend twenty to thirty years in prison if they did."

  "So they don't know anything about this place?"

  "That's the way it's been planned, Lieutenant."

  "What do you suggest, Bray? You've been here before, we haven't," Cameron said.

  "Matareisen's isolated, no guards, no servants, right?"

  "Right."

  "Total surprise, shock. The fire escape on the top floor has a short lateral walk that passes the right window. One of us breaks through the door from the front stairs, the other stays by the side of the window and crashes the glass. Timed right, he's cornered."

  "I can climb on your shoulders, Cam," said Luther.

  "I'll be able to reach the bottom rung of the ladder."

  "You could also be in the first line of fire."

  "I can't support you, you big white gorilla, so in for a dime, in for a dollar."

  "Remind me to call a naval commander in Pensacola."

  "Not with my obituary, you dirty dog."

  "I hope not, but I want you to know what you're doing."

  "I want to do it. Enough said."

  "Enough said."

  "Let's synchronize our watches, as all those dumb movies say," said Scofield.

  "What do you figure, Pryce?"

  "Give us three minutes to get Luther on the ladder, another one for me to rejoin you, and thirty seconds for you to go out and cover our pilot on the fire escape. If Matareisen walks to a window, he could spot him. Then allowing for me to find out where I'm going and how to get there without any noise, add five minutes. Altogether that's nine minutes thirty. It's now midnight plus seven. Mark.. .. Let's go, Luther."

  The pilot climbed to the lowest tier and sat motionless, his eyes on his watch. He would creep up to the top floor during the last thirty seconds of the time span. Cameron slid along the side of the house, judging the line of sight that would be the most feasible for Scofield to protect Considine. Once that was determined, he ran back to Brandon.

  "Take your position at the edge of the woods, Bray."

  "Why so far?"

  "It'll have the best sight line to the window. The other angles would either show you on the lawn or are too tough to shoot from."

  "Thanks, kid, I might have recruited you myself."

  "Gosh, thank you, Mother."

  "You've got roughly five minutes."

  Pryce ran up the porch steps and into the house. The front staircase was at the end of the long foyer of rose marble, the railings gold-plated and glistening under the dim glow of a distant chandelier. He approached the steps, looking for concealed wire trips. His fingers caressed the underside of the railing that curved around to the first landing leading to the second floor; there were none that he could find.