The Matarese Countdown

"Haven't the slightest. Never asked, don't care. Contraband, I gather; drugs, I suspect. Meeting tankers and cargos on their way to Durban and Port Elizabeth."

  "You're a beautiful man."

  "M'children think I am. I bring home the bacon, as you Yanks say."

  "Hold your head straight, Aussie, it'll hurt less that way."

  "What? ..."

  Cameron dropped his MAC-10, walked up to the man, his arms raised above him, then crashed his taut, hard, experienced hands into both sides of the rogue Australian's neck. The carotid vessels were damaged, not severed; he would be unconscious for at least two hours.

  Suddenly, out of the darkness of the small cove beach, came the words shouted in accented English.

  "Jack, Harry, I've found it! There are more than I can count. Dozens and dozens of small plates that lead to a central cable! They're here, we've found them; this is their electricity!"

  "And I've found you," said Scofield, standing up from the dark beach rocks, the silenced automatic rifle in his hand.

  "I suggest you get rid of the AK-Forty-seven before I become upset and put a bullet in your forehead. I don't approve of those weapons; they kill people."

  "My God, it is you!"

  "What did you say?"

  "Beowulf Agate, your code name."

  "You can tell in this light?"

  "I've listened to your voice on tape."

  "Why were you so anxious to find me? Not that I was so hard to find."

  "We had no reason until recently. Beowulf was a forgotten relic, a man who had disappeared."

  "And now I've reappeared?"

  "You know the reason as well as I do. The old woman in Chelyabinsk, Rene Mouchistine on that yacht."

  "I've heard of those people."

  "Why else would the Agency's new Beowulf Agate, the vaunted Cameron Pryce, come after you?"

  "I have no idea. You tell me."

  "He's an expert, and you have names going back years."

  "If I have, I've forgotten them. That world no longer interests me.

  And, incidentally, how could you possibly have known about Pryce? It was a Four-Zero search, maximum classified."

  "Our methods, too, are maximum classified, but very thorough.

  More thorough than the Company's."

  "

  "Ours' being the Matarese's, of course."

  "It's to be presumed that Officer Pryce revealed that to you."

  "Actually, he didn't have to, if that interests you."

  "Really?"

  "Which means that your sources and my sources come from the same source. Now that's interesting, isn't it?"

  "It's also immaterial, Mr. Scofield. These names you've forgotten,

  and the companies they represented-surely you realize they're meaningless now. Most of the people, if not all, are dead, the corporations swallowed up by others. Meaningless."

  "Ah, yet some do come back to me, I truly believe, but then they were pretty well buried all those years ago, weren't they? Let's see if I can remember.. .. There was Voroshin in the Soviet city of Leningrad, which gave birth, of course, to Essen's Verachten, not so?

  Both were owned by their governments but they were beholden to someone-something-else. In the American city of Boston, Massachusetts, wasn't it?"

  "That is enough, Mr. Scofield."

  "Don't be such a killjoy. My memory's activated-it hasn't been for years. There was also the English Waverly Industries; it, too, was irrevocably bound to Boston. And Scozzi-Paravacini, or was it Paravacini-Scozzi? In Milan, wasn't it? However, it also took its orders from Boston-" "You've made your point-" "Good heavens, not until we consider the untimely, tragic deaths of such leaders as the brilliant Guillaumo Scozzi, the seductive Odile Verachten, and the stubborn David Waverly. I've always felt that somehow they displeased-dare I say the name-the Shepherd Boy?"

  "Ashes, Scofield. I repeat, meaningless! And that's nothing but a sobriquet for someone long dead and forgotten."

  "

  "Sobriquet'? That's a nickname, isn't it?"

  "You're not uneducated."

  "The Shepherd Boy.... In some parts of that secret world of yours, that world of constant night, he's a legend going back decades. A legend about whom words were written down by those he ultimately destroyed. If found and pieced together, those writings would change the history of international finance, wouldn't they? ... Or perhaps describe a blueprint for the future."

  "I say it for the last time!" The search-party leader both spat and choked out the words.

  "Meaningless ramblings!"

  "Then why are you here?" asked Bray.

  "Why were you so anxious to find me?"

  "We follow orders."

  "Oh, I love that phrase! It certainly covers a lot of exculpatory ground, doesn't it? Doesn't it?"

  "You finish your statements with too many questions."

  "It's the only way you learn anything, isn't it?"

  "Let me be frank, Mr. Scofield-" "You mean you haven't been?" interrupted Beowulf Agate.

  "Please stop that!"

  "Sorry, go on."

  "We live in a different age from when you left the Service, sir-" "Are you saying I'm antediluvian, out of touch?" again Bray broke in.

  "Only in terms of technological relativity," replied the Middle European with marked irritation.

  "Data banks have been upgraded beyond belief, instruments electronically scan thousands of documents every hour and store them, the depth of research has become extraordinary."

  "Which means if I happened to mention a few of those names to interested parties, it might lead to new ones now-new names, new companies, is that what you're saying? My word, the entire history of corporate Boston would have to be rewritten."

  "What I'm saying, Mr. Scofield," said the intruder through clenched teeth, as if addressing a senile idiot, "is that we're prepared to pay you several million dollars to disappear again. South America, the South Pacific islands, anywhere you wish. A mansion, a ranch, the finest that can be purchased for you and your wife."

  "We were never really married you know, just sort of our own commitment-" "I really don't care. I'm simply offering you a superb alternative to what you have."

  "Then why didn't you just come in here and blow us up with your cannon? You could have smoked us out and killed me-ergo, your problem is solved."

  "I remind you that Officer Pryce was tracked here. It would lead to unacceptable complications. And by the way, where is he?"

  "Mrs. Scofield is showing him around our lagoon; it's quite beautiful in the moonlight, what there is of it.... So you don't reject the solution, only the consequences."

  "Just as you would have done in your younger years. Beowulf Agate was the most pragmatic of deep-cover, black-operations officers. He killed when he believed he had to."

  "That's not quite true. He killed when it was necessary-there's a difference. Belief, or conjecture, had nothing to do with it."

  "Enough. What is your answer? Live out your days in splendid comfort or stay on this tiny island hovel? And die on it."

  "Good Lord, such a decision!1" said Scofield, lowering his MAC-10 automatic rifle against the rocks, his left hand pensively shading his eyes but still on the intruder.

  "It would be wonderful for my wife-my common wife, as it were, and perfectly legal-but I'd be constantly thinking .. ." Beowulf Agate watched through his slightly parted fingers the subtle movements of the intruder. The man's right hand was lowered, close to his loose jacket.. .. Suddenly, he ripped up the flap and reached for a gun under his belt. Before he could fire, Bray raised his weapon and sent off a single round. The Mataresan collapsed in the sand, blood trickling from his chest.

  "What was that?" came the voice from the dead man's radio.

  "I

  heard something! What was it?"

  Scofield raced to the corpse, pulling it into the bushes out of sight and removing the small intercom from the jacket pocket; he switched it off. Then, concealing himself
in the shadows, he called out sotto voce, "From your silence, my hidden pigeons, I assume you've completed your assignments. With great caution, please return to Father Christmas.

  " "My man's asleep," said Pryce, emerging from the palm-engulfed bushes.

  "He'll be asleep for a couple of hours."

  "Here's another on his hands and knees," added Antonia, crawling with her captive out of the foliage.

  "Where's the other man?"

  "He was most impolite; he tried to kill me. He's doing penance in our jungle."

  "What do we do now, my husband?"

  "Simplest thing in the world, old girl," replied Scofield, peering through the night-vision binoculars.

  "We activate the bowels of the captain of that so-called trawler.. .. Cam, have you got any rope in your tricky bag?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Not too bright, either. Take off your T-shirt, rip it in strips, and bind Toni's prisoner, hands and feet. With what's left, shove it in the bastard's mouth, and, if you wouldn't mind, a little physical anesthesia would be helpful."

  "It'll be a pleasure." Pryce went to work, his assignment taking less than ninety seconds.

  "And me, Bray?"

  "Wait a minute, lovey," answered Scofield, still staring through the binoculars.

  "There he goes. He's heading below, probably to a radio.

  He's not watching the shore and obviously there's no one else on board!"

  "So?"

  "So run back to the house and gather up a few flares, four or five'll be enough. Then dash down the east path, say two or three hundred feet, and send one up."

  "Good heavens, why? He'll know we're here!"

  "He knows already, dearest. Now we've got to confuse him."

  "How?"

  "By your racing back to the house and into the west path, past the lagoon, and setting off another flare over there. Ignite the first one, say in eight minutes, the second in eleven, give or take. Don't you remember?"

  "I'm beginning to see what you mean.. .. Livorno, Italy, to be precise."

  "It worked there, didn't it?"

  "Yes, it did, my darling. I'm on my way." Antonia disappeared into the brush.

  "Since I was never in Livorno-actually, I was, but not when you two were," protested Cameron, "would you mind telling me what you did there? And, while you're at it, what am I supposed to do?"

  "Can you swim?"

  "Yes. Professional certification in deep-sea down to three hundred feet, and all certificates in scuba."

  "Very commendable, but we have no tanks here or the time for you to get into your Spider-Man outfit. I mean, can you just plain swim?"

  "Of course."

  "How far in a breach underwater? Without fins?"

  "At least fifty to seventy feet."

  "That should do it. Go out there, duck beneath the trawler, come up on the other side, get on deck, and take that soon-to-be-confused son of a bitch. Have you got a knife?"

  "Need you ask?"

  "Get going while our skipper's still below!"

  Pryce reached into his flight bag, pulled out his belted hunting knife, strapped it around his waist, and raced to the lapping waters of the each. He plunged in and with strong strokes started toward the trawler two hundred yards away, his open eyes constantly on the deck of the boat. The captain emerged from the below cabin, so Cameron went underwater. Twenty, thirty, forty feet, surfacing for breath in the darkness, then under again and again until he reached the hull of the trawler. He surged beneath it, rising to the air on the starboard side.

  He raised his hand in the water and looked at his waterproof watch.

  The radium dial told him it had taken nearly six minutes for him to reach the trawler; the first flare would appear in less than two. Slowly he made his way toward the bow. As the initial flare lit up the eastern sky, the captain would undoubtedly race to the stern of his boat, which faced the east. It was his best and possibly sole chance to get on deck without being seen. Cameron understood that his knife was his only weapon and a blade was no match for the captain's bullets.

  There it was! The night sky to the left of the trawler exploded with light. It pulsated as the streak was propelled upward, then, reaching an apex, burst again as it briefly remained still, blinding, until it began its slow descent, swinging back and forth as it fell into the tropic forest.

  "Mikhail, Mikhail!" screamed the captain, apparently into his radio, while his feet raced across the deck.

  "What was that? .. . Mikhail, answer me! Where are you?" Pryce surged up from the water, his arms extended; he reached a lateral rib, merely a small bulge, but it was enough. Fingers gripping the wood, he pulled himself up and flung his right arm above him until his hand grabbed the gunwale; the rest was sheer strength. He crawled over the railing and collapsed onto the deck, his body supine, breathing deeply, his chest heaving. In moments, air was back in his lungs, his excessive heart rate receding.

  All the while, the Swedish terrorist-captain kept shouting into the unresponsive radio.

  "Mikhail, if you can hear me, I'm going to commence firing! It is your signal to return to the ship immediately!

  With or without you, I'm getting out of here!"

  So much for the Matarese's sense of brotherly concern, say nothing of loyalty, thought Cameron. The superior officer would leave his subordinates to a deadly unknown to save his own skin. Pryce wondered why he was surprised. Scofield had implied just that.

  There was the second explosion! Far to the right, the western sky was on fire, the light more intense, more blinding than the first flare- or was it the sudden cloud cover that cut off the competing moonlight? Cam rose swiftly to his feet as the thundering cannon roared so loudly it had to blow a hole in the palm-laden greenery of Outer Brass 26. He edged his way along the wall of the deck cabin; the moonlight reappeared. The now-hysterical captain ran to the stern of the trawler, the night-vision binoculars held to his eyes.

  Thank you, thought Pryce as he walked slowly, silently toward the man's back. It's so much easier when it's easy. With his left clenched fist, he hammered the Swede's lower spine as his right gripped the holster, unsnapping it and ripping out a large .357 automatic. The captain fell to the deck, screaming in pain.

  "Come on, Mr. Viking, you're not that hurt, just a little bruise on a vertebra. According to your Aussie recruit, Harry, you're better off than they are. He's convinced that he, London Jack, and fancy Mikhail are going to be sacrificial meat for hungry savages.. .. Get on your feet, you son of a bitch! You blew that CG cutter up, killing all those young men! If I didn't think you could be useful, I'd happily put a bullet in your throat. Up, you scum!"

  "Who are you?" choked the captain cautiously, painfully rising.

  "How did you get on board?"

  "That's for you to wonder about. Maybe I'm the avenging angel come to make you pay for taking the lives of all those youngsters. One thing's certain, you're on your way back to Stockholm."

  "No!"

  "Oh, yes. I've too many friends there to consider anything else.. ..

  Your radio, if you please?"

  "Never!" The captain lunged forward, his hands like grappling hooks. Cameron sprang back, crashing his right foot into the terrorist's groin. Again the Swede fell to the deck, groaning and grabbing his testicles.

  "You people seem to enjoy inflicting pain, but you're not very good at receiving it, are you? Why doesn't that surprise me?" Pryce knelt down and yanked the walkie-talkie out of the captain's jacket pocket.

  He stood up, studied the various buttons in the moonlight, pressed one, and spoke.

  "Scofield, are you there, or do I have to yell?"

  "Oh, I'm here, laddie buck and I've been listening to a hell of a good scene. Your slime bucket had his radio on Transmit. I guess he was nervous, or confused."

  "You've made your point, sir. I'd suggest you get out here and we'll look around."

  "Can you believe that's what I was thinking?"

  "I can imagine it's
possible."

  Their two living, securely bound captives in tow, Antonia and Scofield pulled alongside the trawler.

  "What did you do with the elegant dude named Mikhail?" yelled Pryce.

  "He's absolutely disappeared, young fella," replied Beowulf Agate.

  "It's why we're a bit late."

  "What are you talking about? If there's a radio here, they've got our coordinates. They'll find his body!"

  "Not likely, Cam," said Scofield.

  "We stuffed him with chum, pockets and gullet, and dropped him off at Breeding Sharks Bay, where we keep our boat. As I say, that's why we're a little late getting out here."

  "What?"

  "No one with a brain in his head swims there. Believe me, he's absolute history, bless the Almighty for those ravenous fish."

  The below-deck cabin was a panoply of computer equipment, lining both the starboard and port walls.

  "I'll be hanged if I can understand any of this stuff," said Scofield.

  "To me, it's all a total mystery," added Antonia.

  "Surely one must be a scientist to make them work."

  "Not really," said Pryce, sitting down in front of a machine.

  "There are basic insertions that take you step by step to the function you want."

  "Would you mind translating that?" asked the older man.

  "It'd take too long and bore you to death," replied the CIA field agent.

  "This particular equipment is still on open-line, which means it's recently been used and was expected to be used again very shortly."

  "Is that good?"

  "More than good, a blessing. We can pull up a recall, see what's been sent out." Pryce began pressing letters and numbers; bright green words instantly appeared on the black screen.

  Insert proper code for recall.

  "Damn it!" said Cameron under his breath, getting out of the chair and rapidly heading for the steps of the cabin's entrance.

  "I'll be right back," he added.

  "I'm bringing down our skipper, who's going to unlock this machine for us or he joins fancy Mikhail in shark heaven!"

  Pryce ran up the short steps and looked around on the deck in the progressively elusive moonlight. What he saw paralyzed him-it was impossible. The captain of the so-called trawler was not there; he had been roped to a gunwale cleat but he was not there! Instead, his two companions were a blood-soaked mess, the London cockney obviously dead, the Australian barely alive, his skull crashed open, his eyes losing focus.