The Matarese Countdown (25 page)

“I mourn in my own way, Mr. Pryce. I lost a husband, remember? As to anger, believe me, it’s there.… What was your suggestion? I recall you said you had one.”

“And you’ve just reinforced my argument for your taking it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The chain of command you’re so fond of—it’s being misused and abused. A meeting’s been arranged between me, the Scofields, and Cranston; Shields insisted on it. But you’re not going to be there.”

“Oh?” Leslie’s eyes reflected her instinctive suspicion and her reluctant acceptance.

“I think you should be,” Cameron continued quickly. “I repeat, you’re a major player with a great deal at stake. You should have the whole picture, not just fragments. Sometimes we carry the need-to-know maxim too damned far until the left hand isn’t sure where the right hand is. Take my word for it, I’ve been there in the cold. You should be at that meeting.”

“There’s not much I can do about it,” said Montrose in a caustic monotone. “Undersecretary Cranston made a decision. I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“They’re fatuous. He’s concerned about your very personal involvement. He thinks you might fold.”

“I resent that.”

“So do I. What I resent even more is that, de facto, he’s eliminating any contributions you might make.”

“How could I do that?”

“It would depend on what was said in the calls to you. Were you able to tape any of them?”

“No. The men who spoke to me—different men—said they had equipment that could detect such devices, and if they were activated, the consequences would be severe. However, every conversation was indelibly printed on my mind and in a notebook back in a safe in my house.”

“Does Cranston have that notebook, or copies of the pages?”

“No, I simply gave him summaries.”

“He was satisfied with that?”

“It’s what he asked for.”

“He’s not only fatuous, he’s an idiot,” said Pryce.

“I think he’s a very brilliant and caring man.”

“He may be both, but he’s also an idiot. And how can you say that? He’s excluded you from an important conference that ultimately, directly affects your son.”

“I’ll say it again,” replied the lieutenant colonel, “he had his reasons. Perhaps he’s right; how objective can I be?”

“I’d say your control is outstanding. I can’t know what being a parent in your circumstances is like, but I know why I’ve never told my mother, father, brother, or sister where I’m going or what I’m doing.… Don’t you
want
to be at the meeting?”

“With all my heart—”

“Then you will be,” interrupted Cameron firmly. “And I’ll only have to use a little blackmail to get you there.”

“You’ve lost me. Blackmail?”

“Hell, yes. I can threaten Shields with the news that the Scofields and I refuse to attend without you, and he’d better straighten Cranston out.”

“Why would he accept that?”

“Number one, they both need us, and far more important, number two, Cranston never asked for that notebook of yours, he settled for summaries. That alone would send Frank, the analyst, and Brandon, the once and former super-deep-cover, into orbit.”

“Weren’t the summaries sufficient?”

“
Never.
”

“Why not? They conveyed the essential information. What else was there?”

“Word usage, references, strange idioms, anything could lead anywhere,” replied Pryce, the total professional. “As I read it,” he continued softly, beside Montrose, “Cranston is one hell of a geopolitical strategist, like a Kissinger, but he was never in the field himself. There are the forests and there are the trees. Cranston may be terrific in projecting the greenery, but he doesn’t know the difference between a real tree and a plastic stage prop that has a ton of explosives inside it.… You’ll be at that meeting, lady—excuse me, Colonel.”

She was.

The military turboprop took off from Andrews Air Force Base at five o’clock in the morning carrying two passengers, Undersecretary Thomas Cranston and Deputy Director Frank Shields of the Central Intelligence Agency. Its destination was a private airfield in Cherokee, North Carolina, seven miles south of a condominium resort development called Peregrine View in the Great Smoky Mountains. As each man respected the confidentiality of the other prior to the meeting that was to take place barely two hours away, the conversation was innocuous, but not without information.

“How did you fellows find this place?” asked the undersecretary.

“The developers extravagantly overbuilt a golf sanctuary that only the wealthiest could afford, but unfortunately the wealthiest were, by and large, too old to take the altitude as well as the difficult paths,” replied Shields, chuckling. “The developers went under and we bought it for half the paper.”

“I think Congress ought to reevaluate its concerns about your budget. You’re damn smart businessmen.”

“We can spot a bargain when we see one, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“What’s it like?”

“Very elegant and very isolated. We keep a minimum crew to maintain it, and use it for a maximum-security sterile area. In the old days, a lot of Soviet defectors learned to play golf there.”

“Such a capitalist game—”

“Most took to it like padding their KGB expense accounts in Washington’s favorite restaurants.”

“Yes, I remember seeing copies of those expense reports. In the old days.… Where are we meeting?”

“It’s called Estate Four, a golf cart will take us there. It’s about a quarter of a mile up the mountain trail.”

“Will I need an oxygen mask?”

“Not at your age. Possibly at mine.”

They sat in comfortable chairs in the living room of a well-appointed condominium near the base of the Appalachians’ Great Smoky Mountains. Scofield was next to his wife, Pryce and Lieutenant Colonel Montrose to their left, she in civilian clothes, a pleated dark skirt and a white silk blouse. Across the room were the deputy director and Undersecretary Cranston.

Thomas Cranston was a medium-sized man, slightly corpulent, with a face that might have been sculpted by a benign Bernini. Soft in flesh, but aquiline in features, he had the air of a middle-aged don in academia who had heard it all but remained intellectually skeptical. His large eyes, magnified by his tortoiseshell glasses, conveyed a desire to understand, not confront—unless it was necessary. He spoke.

“After your friends from the compound stopped shouting at me, they made clear the error of my ways. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Tom, I didn’t mean for anything like this to happen—”

“If you didn’t,
I
did and do, little girl!” broke in Brandon Scofield angrily.

“My name is Montrose, Leslie, and I’m a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army,
not
a ‘little girl’!”

“You’re not much of an intelligence officer, either, and neither is Mr. Fancy-pants here. Good
Christ
, you’ve got verbatim records of those phone calls, or at least close to it, and this clown settles for
summaries?
”

“May I remind you, Mr. Scofield,” said Montrose with military authority, “Undersecretary Cranston is an aide to the President of the United States.”

“You sure throw around the U.S. of A. a lot, don’t you? I’ll
bet
he’s an
under
secretary, I wouldn’t let him be secretary to my cat!”

“That’s enough, Brandon.” Shields shot up from his chair.

“Knock it off, Bray,” said Pryce, leaning forward.

“You’ve made your point, dear,” added Antonia.

“Whoa, hold it,” said Cranston, a thin smile creasing his lips. “Agent Scofield has every right to be upset with me. I’m not above learning, and as has been pointed out, I’ve neither been in a hostile field nor do I have the expertise to advise those who have been. My work is different, and is of little help to you in the short run.”

“Try a long pass,” said Bray under his breath.

“I’ll do better, Agent Scofield, I’ll try a ‘Holy Mary,’ if my football parlance is accurate.”

“How so?” asked Cameron.

“I’ve studied Leslie’s—the colonel’s—notebook, as well as placing the pages into a word-processing computer with its myriad functions. My former and far more knowledgeable colleague, Frank here, told me what to examine, and since it was easier, with Leslie’s consent, that I retrieve the notebook first, I may have come up with something.”

“Do tell,” said Scofield sarcastically. “So far your ‘Hail Mary’ is heading for a ‘Judas trap.’ ”

“Cut it out, Brandon,” Shields interrupted wearily, sitting down.

“Can’t help it, Squinty. These types put me beyond salvage.”

“I was in my middle teens when that egregious decision was made, Mr. Scofield, and having read the record, I would have firmly dissented. You may accept that or not.”

“You’re convincing, I’ll say that,” responded Bray. “I also believe you, although I’m not sure why. What did you come up with?”

“Two expressions that appear in each of the communications Colonel Montrose received from her son’s kidnappers. There are minor variations but the redundancy is there, that’s the best way to say it.”

“Then say it more clearly,” said Scofield.

“The colonel—”

“ ‘Leslie’ is fine, Tom,” interrupted Montrose, “they know we’re friends, and right now military titles are a bit unnerving. They’re rather cold, aren’t they?”

“We’re all going to swear we never heard that,” said Pryce, smiling gently at the lieutenant colonel, who could not help but laugh softly, embarrassed. “Please go on, Mr. Undersecretary,” continued Cameron.

“All right—Leslie was contacted about her son a total of seven times, twice from the Netherlands—Wormerveer and Hilversum; we assume that’s Amsterdam—the rest from Paris, Cairo, Istanbul, and over here, Chicago and Sedgwick, Kansas. The geographical—global—spread was basic to their intimidation. Who were they? Where do they come from? It was meant to be terrifying. In each case, the men who called her issued instructions that were to be carried out once she was inside the compound; they were to be followed or else her boy would be killed … slowly.”

“Good
God
,” whispered Antonia, looking at Montrose.

“What were the expressions?” asked Shields. “The two expressions you picked up?”

“The first was in all her instructions. They were to be executed ‘with great precision.’ The second was in an admonition that was intrinsic to their threat of reprisal.”

“ ‘Reprisal’ doesn’t say it, Tom,” Leslie broke in. “It’s the torture and death of my child.”

“Yes.” Cranston paused, avoiding her stare. “The words
were as follows, starting with the first call from Wormerveer in the Netherlands—”

“Which you assumed to be Amsterdam,” interrupted Scofield. “Why?”

“I’ll get to that later,” replied the presidential aide.

“The words, please, from Wormerveer,” said Frank Shields, his creased eyes slits of concentration.

“ ‘Stay cool,’ a peculiarly American expression—spoken by a man in the Netherlands.”

“African-American, to be more accurate,” added Pryce, “although it’s been incorporated far beyond its origins. Sorry, go on.”

“From Hilversum, also Dutch, ‘Remember, be cool.’ In the Paris and Cairo calls, the words ‘stay cool’ reappear; then from Istanbul, ‘it is imperative to remain cool’—from a
Turkish
intermediary. A remarkable linguistic transliteration, wouldn’t you say?”

“Depends who’s saying it,” answered the current and former Beowulf Agate. “What else?”

“Here in the States, from Chicago and Sedgwick, Kansas: ‘Don’t lose your cool’ and ‘Cool it is, Colonel, or the cradle falls.’ ”

Montrose closed her eyes, the hint of a tear appearing. She inhaled deeply and resumed her military posture in the chair.

“So summarize what we’ve got,” said Scofield harshly, glancing painfully at Leslie, then turning to the White House man. “You’re pretty fond of summaries, so summarize.”

“The instructions were scripted, written out for the messengers to use regardless of where they were calling from. Leslie described the voices as being diverse, the accents varied, which is perfectly natural. What isn’t natural is the consistent use of the terms ‘with precision,’ and the variations on ‘cool.’ ”

“I think we’d all agree with that, Tom,” said Shields. “What’s your point?”

“Would you also agree that the word ‘cool’ is American-oriented?”

“Of course,” interrupted an impatient Brandon. “So what?”

“Designed for an American ear, for vernacular emphasis—”

“It would seem so,” agreed Pryce. “What else are you suggesting?”

“The obvious,” replied Cranston. “The instructions were written by an American, someone in the upper ranks of the Matarese.”

Lieutenant Colonel Montrose bolted forward in her chair. “The
who?
” she asked.

“That’s their name, Leslie,” said the undersecretary of state. “The people who kidnapped your boy are called the Matarese. I’ve prepared a file for you, everything we have on record, in the main supplied by Mr. Scofield here, known to the Matarese as Beowulf Agate.”

Montrose snapped her head toward Bray and started to speak when she was cut off by Frank Shields. “I see where you’re going, Tom,” he said, oblivious to Leslie’s consternation. “The upper ranks, the
hierarchy.
”

“Nobody below that level would be permitted the information, or even know who our colonel is.”

“And if Brandon’s right, somewhere in the Matarese group over here, probably a company or a conglomerate marching to its drum, is a heavy corporate type who wrote out those instructions.… Besides Chicago, where was the other call from?”

“Sedgwick, Kansas.”

“I’ll have the research unit that’s compiling all the materials for Bray concentrate on Illinois and Kansas.” The CIA deputy director got out of his chair and walked across the room to a telephone.

“It may not lead anywhere but it’s a start, Frank,” said Cranston, nodding.

“Will
somebody
tell me what’s going
on?
” cried Montrose, standing up defiantly. “What materials? And what is this
Matarese?
”

“Read the file, Colonel,” replied Scofield, slightly, purposely emphasizing her rank as opposed to the demeaning