The Matarese Countdown (28 page)

“It means we still and will always carry weight,” answered a third editor, British, by his accent.

“I trust it will always be so,” added the last of the men in the fourth row, an Italian wearing a tailored pin-striped suit.

“I reiterate what I mentioned to our second section, those members of the four boards of directors,” said Guiderone, his eyes focusing briefly, staring, at each man in the last row. “I—
we
—realize that you are currently at the
lower ends of your editorial staffs, but that will change. Through procedures you need know nothing about, you will be elevated to positions of leadership, your judgments accepted as writ.”

“Which means,” said the fastidious American in the dark suit and regimental tie, “that we editorially endorse what you suggest we endorse throughout our chains of newspapers.”

“ ‘Suggest’ is such a flexible verb, isn’t it?” asked the son of the Shepherd Boy. “It’s so subject to interpretation. I prefer the word ‘advise,’ for it limits alternatives, doesn’t it?”

There was a momentary silence, far beyond a pause, until the Italian spoke. “Done,” he said, nearly choking on the affirmative. “Or we all lose everything.”

“I do not make threats. I merely open the windows of possibility.… I believe our meeting is over.”

It was.

All together, as if to rid themselves of the stench of a communicable disease, the congregation summoned by the Matarese left the room. One of the last to depart was the enthusiastic Canadian.

“Oh, MacAndrew,” said Guiderone, his hand touching the young man’s elbow. “Now that this dreary business is over, why don’t we have a drink in the lounge downstairs? I believe we have mutual acquaintances in Toronto. I’d like to catch up.” He mentioned several names.

“
Certainly
, sir! A pleasure.”

“Good. I’ll meet you there in five minutes. I’ve got a phone call to make. Grab a table in the rear, if you can.”

“I’ll be waiting … 
sir.
”

The “acquaintances” were, except one, only vaguely remembered names to the young MacAndrew, but the fact that they were in Guiderone’s memory elated him, especially the one he did recall vividly. His ex-wife.

“I was so sorry to hear of that,” said Julian.

“It was probably my fault, sir. I admit I was terribly ambitious, and treated her rather badly where business was concerned. You see, after getting my doctorate in managerial
finance from McGill University, I was filled with myself. So many offers coming in, none that well-paying although prestigious, until out of the blue came a position with a Montreal investments firm at a salary I truly believed I wouldn’t reach for a decade!”

“I understand. And then one thing led to another.”

“Oh,
boy
, did it! I then—”

“Excuse me, young man,” interrupted Guiderone. “I’m out of Cuban cigars. Would you please buy me several at the counter in the lobby? Here’s a ten-thousand-lira note.”

“Of course, sir. A
pleasure
, sir!”

The ambitious Canadian promptly rose from the table and walked rapidly out of the bar. The son of the Shepherd Boy withdrew a small packet from his pocket and emptied its contents into the young man’s drink; he gestured for a waiter.

“Tell my friend I had to make a telephone call. I’ll be back shortly.”

“
Sì, signore.
”

Julian Guiderone did not return, but the young Canadian did. His head turning right and left, anticipating the sight of the most important man in his life, MacAndrew drank from his glass. Thirty-four seconds later he fell across the table, his eyes wide in death.

The son of the Shepherd Boy walked down the Spanish Steps into the Via Due Macelli, and turned right to the American Express office. His coded communiqué to Amsterdam would be deciphered quickly and acted upon. Decoded, it read:

Our Canadian was a threat. In his enthusiasm, he talked too much. Problem solved. Search for another
.

Guiderone walked back to the intersection of the Via Condotti, one of the shopping meccas of the world. He would not buy; however, he would stop at a coffee shop and have a slow cappuccino or two, summarizing his thoughts.

He—
they
—the
Matarese!
had accomplished more than any other elite organization on earth ever had. They controlled
industries, utilities, global suppliers, motion pictures and television, and finally newspapers the world over. Nothing could
stop
them! Soon they would control the planet, and it was all so simple.

Greed
.

Infiltrate and promise, or blackmail, and who could resist? The bottom line keeps rising until it’s out of sight, profits are extraordinary, the lower classes stand in line for their share—better the devil you can live with than one you don’t know. And what of the underclass, the indigent and the uneducated parasites on society? Do what they did in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries! Force them to better themselves! It could be done. It’s what made
America!

Was it really? Or was it something else?

The blinds were drawn in the neon-lit room of British intelligence, MI-5. There was no need to block out the bright light of the London day, for it was past ten in the evening. It was merely a precaution held over from the Cold War when telescopic cameras were found in buildings across the wide street.

Pryce and Montrose had been picked up at the Connaught at seven-thirty; they arrived at MI-5 headquarters well before eight o’clock. Coffees in hand, provided by Geoffrey Waters, without-the-Sir, the three of them had pored over the notes found in Gerald Henshaw’s locked drawer in the Brewster house on Belgrave Square. In the main they were scraps of paper torn from loose-leaf pads and filled with hastily scribbled, barely legible handwriting. Then, in contradiction, the majority had been neatly folded two and three times over, as if they were secret clues in a treasure hunt, to be shoved under rocks or into the bark of trees.

“What do you make of it all?” asked Waters, returning to the hot plate after refilling Cameron’s cup of coffee.

“For starters,” said Pryce, “the obvious. Everything’s written in random codes, which means there’s no basic code whatsoever. No consistency, no meaning to anyone but him,
each different, or mostly so, and each probably decipherable in a different way.”

“I’m certainly no expert,” said Leslie, “but have you tried all the usual decoding methods?”

“To the point of driving our inanimate computers up the walls,” replied Geoffrey, heading back to the round oak table and sitting down. “Numbers in arithmetic and geometric sequence; lexical and alphabetical overlaps, synonyms and antonyms, both in plain English and street idiom, as well as the more vulgar applications—Henshaw didn’t speak a foreign language.”

“How do you know?” asked Cameron.

“The children. It was one of the few times they displayed a touch of humor during our extensive questioning. Like many wealthy youngsters in sophisticated families, they’ve traveled widely and speak a passable French. So when they wanted to exchange confidences in front of Henshaw, they did so in French. It usually made him furious, which they obviously enjoyed.”

“Some of this nonsense is so simplistic it’s ridiculous,” Pryce noted, holding up the scrap of paper in his hand. “Look here,” he added, placing the torn scrap faceup on the table. “
MAST/V/APR/TL/BF
. All in capital letters.”

“I don’t understand,” said Montrose.

“A simple unscrambling of the abbreviated anagram makes it fairly clear.
Amsterdam via Paris telephone in billfold
. That’s supported by the way all these pieces of paper are double- and triple-creased, folded methodically to fit in small places.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a leap?” asked Leslie.

“We don’t think so, my dear,” answered Waters. “We came up with the same thing on that one.… How about this little darling?” The MI-5 veteran picked up another note from the pile on the table. “I’ll read it; nothing’s in caps, incidentally, all small letters:
ng
-dash-
st
-dash-
oh
, period. It doesn’t make a bit of sense. On the other hand, here’s one that does:
cy
-dash-
bk
-dash-
nu
-dash-
bf
again, period.”

“A bank account,” said Cameron, “probably in the Cayman
Islands, the number, like the telephone number to reach Amsterdam, also shoved into a billfold.”

“Quite, old man, that’s what we believe.”

“He might as well have written it out, it’s so clear.”

“That’s just it,” exclaimed the frustrated Waters. “He jumps from the simplistically ridiculous to the unfathomably sublime. I swear, if the chaps who created Enigma had ciphered this way, our boys at Chequers would still be working on it!”

“Didn’t Cam say it was a code he devised only for himself?” said Montrose.

“Indeed, yes,” agreed the Englishman. “It’s why it’s unfathomable. It’s only in
his
head.”

“Beware the amateurs,” said Pryce. “They’ll screw you up every time.… There’s still no clue as to his whereabouts?”

“None at all. It’s as though he’s vanished from the face of the earth.”

“That’s a frightening thought.” Cameron got out of his chair, stretched, and walked to a window, separating a blind to peer outside. “And one that’s not particularly surprising.”

“How so?” asked Leslie.

“No corpse, Colonel. Scofield told me that whenever the Matarese killed without hiring killers, its law was to leave no corpse.”

“Are you saying that Henshaw was part of the Matarese?”

“A minor part, Geof. From everything we know, he was too stupid to be more than that. But his killer—
if
he was killed—wasn’t. Whoever it was is
very
major; ‘Make sure it’s done, you’re accountable, and there can be no traces.’ That’s the way I read it.”

“It makes sense,” said Waters. “Where do you suggest we go next?”

“I assume you’ve covered relatives, friends, neighbors, solicitors, banks, doctors—the whole bag?”

“Most definitely. Lady Alicia and her first husband, Daniel, were paragons of civility, using their wealth and
prominence for the benefit of worthy causes. They were, from all reports, a very congenial and generous couple.”

“And after her husband’s death?” said Montrose. “When Henshaw came on the scene?”

“Quite a different story. At first he was accepted, then progressively he began to lose that acceptance. There were rumors of infidelity and excessive alcohol. Along with the gossip, there were more tangible reports of automobile accidents while under the influence. The bills are quite substantial, as are the verified complaints of numerous pubs and clubs that refused him entrance. Finally and most dastardly, the accounting firm that handles Lady Alicia’s Wildlife Association volunteered that Henshaw was suspected of squirreling funds from it. They’ll go no further for fear of drying up other sources of revenue, but I’ll bet it was true and involved a hell of a lot of money.”

“The bank in the Cayman Islands,” said Pryce.

“That would be my guess, chap.”

“It’s more than a guess, Geof. But even if we had the account number, it’d be tough to invade.”

“We have our ways, old man. However, we may not need them. Just before she died, Lady Alicia made out a check for two-million-plus pounds to Wildlife. Her children made some mention of it, but did not elaborate. Again, protecting her charity.”

“You asked where we should go next, Geoffrey,” said Leslie. “I think you just answered that. The children. May we see them?”

“Of course. They’re in town rattling around in that old place on Belgrave Square. But I should warn you, they’re still terribly upset; they were very close to their mum, and the boy’s a veritable tiger. They’re besieged by vultures of all stripes—relatives they barely know, solicitors making outrageous claims against Henshaw, streams of reporters from the tuppenny cheap sheets—tabloids, you call them—those horrible papers and magazines obsessed with female mammaries, you know the sort of scum.”

“Why is the boy a tiger?” asked Leslie. “He’s only, what is it, seventeen, isn’t he?”

“Looks more like twenty, with a physique that could match a very tough rugby player’s. He’s extremely protective of his younger sister, and without assistance bodily ejected three—not one or two, but
three
—slime-type journalists who were questioning her. Our boys were impressed; apparently he wrapped all three together, then booted them out one by one. Two suffered broken arms and the third—how should I put it?—had a groin problem.”

“We’ll be very gentle,” said Cameron, “and I’ll wear a steel jockstrap.”

“Other than that, he’s quite pleasant, if a touch intense. Actually, they’re both rather nice, just upset.”

“He sounds like a time bomb, Geof.”

“Hardly, chap. He’s a wrestler, that’s all. Gathered a few medals in the Midlands, I’m told.”

“I like him already,” said Leslie. “My son’s a wrestler. He’s only fifteen but he’s won the Junior Interscholastics two years in a row—”

“I chase butterflies,” interrupted Pryce. “The nets are heavy but I manage.… When can we see them, Geof?”

“Tomorrow. Name the time, they’re expecting you.”

R
oger and Angela Brewster rose as one from their armchairs in the downstairs drawing room in the mansion on Belgrave Square. The morning sun streamed through the large bay windows, highlighting the antique furniture and fine paintings on the walls. The grandeur of the room did not diminish its aura of comfort; instead, it seemed to cry out,
Relax, chill out, this is a friendly place—a chair is still a chair, a sofa just a sofa
.

Geoffrey Waters preceded Leslie and Cameron through the open double doors of the room. His appearance had an immediate effect on the two adolescents.

“Sir Geoffrey!” said the girl enthusiastically as she approached him.

“Morning, Sir Geoffrey,” added the boy beside his sister, his hand extended.

“Now, now, haven’t I taught you
anything?
… No, Roger, I will
not
shake your hand until you change your salutation!”