The Matarese Countdown (38 page)

“Are you saying—”

“It’s worth a try, Frank. I learned years ago that pilots are a breed apart, probably something to do with being encased in a flying warhead miles above the earth, all alone. And Junior’s father was a highly decorated fighter pilot … posthumously. You have nothing to lose, Squinty. Contact this Considine. Give him a shot.”

Nothing is perfect in the world of high technology, mainly due to the fact that once a technology is perfected, a new counterproduct is invented, just as perfect. However, MSTS—Military Satellite Transmission Scrambler—is as close to clandestine perfection as can be expected. Until, perhaps, next week. The key is in the sending and receiving instruments: They have alternating calibrations that both separate and combine the voice patterns on their instantaneous journeys through the airwaves of space. There was a minuscule margin of risk, but it had to be weighed against a mother’s sanity and the degree of protection of the parties involved.

Lieutenant Senior Grade Considine was ordered to the carrier’s communications complex and put in contact with Peregrine View, where the proper electronic equipment had been hastily flown down from the Pentagon. It was installed on Clingmans Dome, the highest peak in the Great Smokies. Shortly thereafter, Luther Considine sat in front of a console, earphones in place, on the aircraft carrier U.S.S.
Ticonderoga
in Bahrain.

“Lieutenant Considine,” said the disembodied voice eight thousand miles away from the Persian Gulf, “my name is Frank Shields, deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Can you hear me?”

“I read you, Mr. Director.”

“I’ll be as brief as possible.… Your young friend refuses to speak directly with any government official and I can’t blame him. He’s been lied to enough in the name of the government.”

“Then he’s been telling me the truth!” interrupted the pilot, not disguising his relief. “I
knew
it.”

“He’s been telling you the truth,” agreed Shields, “but for reasons of personal safety, I don’t believe we can put him in touch with the person he insists on talking to. Perhaps in a few days when we can work out the most secure arrangements, but not at the moment.”

“I don’t think he’ll accept that. I don’t think I would, if I were he.”

“Then you know where he is?”

“For the record, no. Next question, please?”

“It’s not a question, Lieutenant, it’s a request. Ask him to tell you something,
anything
, that only the person he wants to reach would know. Will you do that?”

“When and if I find him, I’ll convey your message, Mr. Director.”

“We’ll be waiting, Lieutenant. Your senior communications officer has the codes to reach me. They’re only numbers; no one else has been privy to our conversation.”

“Good-bye, sir. I hope I can help.” Considine removed the earphones as a technician switched off the transmission.

•  •  •

“Listen to me, Jamie,” said the pilot, sitting across from the wary youngster, both on crates in a storage room belowdecks. “The man sounded straight—actually he sounded like he was embalmed, but he made sense. He’s an intelligence guru and has to study all aspects of a complicated diagram.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Luther.”

“He’s afraid of a trap. He said he understood your position about talking only to your mother because you’d been lied to in the
name
of the government. He mentioned his concern with ‘personal safety’ and ‘secure arrangements’ before he puts you two together. He’s thinking of both of you.”

“In other words, I could be a lure. I might not be
me
at all.”

“Very good … Where did you learn that?”

“I’ve heard Uncle Ev and Mother talk. Although they were both G-Two, they would be assigned to other branches for counterintelligence purposes.”

“Sweet
Jesus
,” muttered Considine, his low voice emphatic. “I said before that your momma must be involved in something heavy, but this is heavier and deeper than anything I’ve ever thought about. She’s dealing undercover with something world-class. Good God, Jamie, do you realize that our intelligence exec has been on the safe-horn with NI in Washington, then was turned over to the DIA, the State Department, and finally to the White House’s Thomas Cranston, who is like the President’s shadow where national security is concerned? If you recall, he’s the guy who guaranteed to get the Big Man himself in touch with you!”

“I don’t know the President, I know my mother. No one could imitate her voice to me, or know what she knows.”

“That’s all this Shields wants from you, what
you
know that only
she
could know. Can’t you see that? Once he knows you’re for real and she confirms it, he can move. I think that’s reasonable, just as I think whatever’s going on
is rumbling the highest levels of the government. Now, come on, Jamie, give me something.”

“All right, let me think.” Montrose junior got off the crate and paced the steel floor of the storage room. “Okay,” he continued, “when I was a kid, I mean a real little kid, Mom and Dad got me a small stuffed animal, a lamb, the kind a child can’t get hurt with. Even the buttons were kidproof. Years later, months after my father was killed, Mother sold our house and we moved—too many memories, stuff like that. While I was helping her clean out the attic she found the little stuffed lamb and said, ‘Look, here’s Malcomb.’ I didn’t remember it, and certainly not the name. Mom told me that she and Dad laughed when I called the thing ‘Malcomb,’ which I could barely pronounce. She said I got it from a cartoon character on television. I couldn’t remember, but I took her word for it.”

“Then that’s it?” asked Luther. “The name of the stuffed animal?”

“It’s all I can think of. And I can’t think of anybody else who’d know about it.”

“Maybe it’s enough. By the way, have you studied the Polaroids of the estates?”

“I marked two that could be it. I can’t be positive, but I think it’s one of those two.” The teenager reached awkwardly into his pockets, inhibited by the gauze around his hands, his extended fingers now encased in tape, and handed Considine a dozen-plus photographs.

“I’ll look at them after I report upstairs. Incidentally, I’m moving you when I come back.”

“Where to?”

“My inside wing man wangled a three-day pass to Paris, where his wife’s flying in for the week. She’s a fashion editor or something, and his roommate is in sick bay with the measles—can you believe that, the measles? Before you know it, our squadrons will be flown by twelve-year-olds.”

“I’m fifteen and I’ve already taken eleven hours of flying lessons. I’m ready to solo, Luther.”

“That gives me great comfort. See you later.”

•  •  •

Leslie Montrose was in a glass booth within a large white room filled with electronic equipment that rose to the ceiling. There were green-tinted screens everywhere, replete with dials and digital readouts, and work places for ten operatives, men and women, all expert in covert communications. It was MI-6’s international message center, transmissions sent and received to and from all over the world. Leslie sat in front of a computerized telephone console, three phones in cradles across the machine, each in a different color—green, red, and yellow. A female voice came over the booth’s unseen speaker.

“Madam, will you please pick up the green telephone? Your call is coming through.”

“Thank you.” Montrose reached for the phone, a horrible wave of anxiety passing through her. She feared the worst as her trembling hand picked up the instrument. “This is the officer assigned to London—”

“It’s okay, Leslie,” Frank Shields interrupted, “no obscure litany is required.”

“
Frank?
”

“They say this hardware is as confidential as if we were talking in a broom closet in Alaska.”

“I don’t know anything about that, but I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster ever since Geof Waters told me to be here for a call. He didn’t even say it was you.”

“He doesn’t know, and if he’s an honorable Etonian, he won’t when we’re finished, not unless you tell him.”

“For God’s sake, what
is
it, Frank?” Montrose suddenly lowered her voice to a whispered monotone. “Has anything happened to my son?”

“I may have news for you, Leslie, but first I have to ask you a question.”

“A
question?
I don’t want a question, I want news of my
child!
”

“Does the name Malcomb mean anything to you?”

“Malcomb—
Malcomb?
I don’t know anybody named
Malcomb!
What kind of stupid question is
that?
”

“Calm down, Colonel, take it easy. Just think for a minute—”

“I don’t have to
think, goddamn
you!” yelled a near-hysterical Montrose. “What the hell is a
Malcomb
and what does it have to do with my
son?
I don’t know anyone—I’ve
never
known anyone …” Abruptly, Leslie stopped; she gasped, pulling the green telephone away from her ear, and staring blankly through the glass at the white wall beyond, her eyes widening. “Oh, my God!” she whispered, bringing the phone back. “That little stuffed sheep, a woolly lamb, a three-year-old’s toy
animal!
He called it ‘Malcomb’ after the cartoon—”

“That’s right, Leslie,” confirmed Frank Shields, four thousand miles away at the base of the Great Smoky Mountains. “A young child’s stuffed toy, long forgotten by both of you until—”

“Until we found it in the attic!” cried Montrose, breaking in. “
I
found it and Jamie couldn’t remember, so I told him. It’s
Jamie!
You’ve heard from my
son!
”

“Not directly, but he’s safe. He escaped, an extraordinary feat for a young man of his age.”

“Hey, he’s an extraordinary
kid!
” exclaimed the wildly happy mother. “Maybe not a whiz at biology or Latin, but he’s a hell of a wrestler! Did I tell you he’s a damn fine wrestler?”

“We know that.”

“Oh, Lord, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” admitted a tearful Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, U.S. Army. “I’m sorry, Frank, I’m babbling and crying at the same time.”

“You’re entitled to, Leslie.”

“Where
is
he? When can I talk to him?”

“At the moment, he’s at a naval base in the Middle East—”

“The
Middle East?
”

“I can’t risk putting him in touch with you right now. There’s no way we could install the proper equipment that would guarantee complete secrecy of communication. I’m sure you can understand that those he escaped from are
searching for him everywhere, and they’re no less talented than we are at electronic interception.”

“I understand, Frank. I’m a computer girl.”

“So I’ve been told by Pryce.”

“He’s a dear, incidentally. He insisted on coming over here with me, and I know that he and Sir Geoffrey had other plans. Plans that included a relaxing night of poker at Waters’s club. Richly deserved, I might add.”

“Have you told him who, or what, you really are? A roving G-Two officer and not a bona fide RDF colonel?”

“No, but he probably suspects, since I worked the computers in Belgrave Square. I’m not sure he’d know the difference, or care.”

“He might. He doesn’t like anything withheld. He’s as rough as Beowulf Agate in that department.”

“I don’t see a problem. You’ll get word to Jamie that I know the situation, won’t you?”

“Sure. Give me something like the Malcomb so he knows it’s from you.”

“All right.… Tell him I received a personal note from his biology teacher. He’d better start cracking or he could become ineligible for varsity sports.”

Leslie walked out of MI-6’s international message center into the long, wide corridor, deserted except for two figures. One was an armed guard seated at a table at midpoint, the other was Cameron Pryce, standing at the far end. Her heart pounding as rapidly as she could ever recall, Leslie nodded to the guard and quickened her pace toward Cameron. Her face ecstatic with joy, her bright smile childlike, she rushed the final ten feet into Pryce’s arms, holding him fiercely and whispering into his ear.

“It’s
Jamie!
He got away, he’s
safe!
”

“That’s wonderful, Leslie!” Cam began to shout, quickly lowering his voice. “It’s terrific, really
terrific
,” he added, holding her as tightly as she held him. “Who reached you?”

“Frank Shields. They got word quite a while ago, but they had to make sure—and they
did
. It’s
Jamie!
”

“You must be so relieved—”

“There aren’t words!” Abruptly, as if Lieutenant Colonel Montrose was suddenly aware they were in each other’s arms, she stammered and said quietly while partially disengaging herself, “I’m—I’m sorry, Cam. I’m behaving like a child—”

“Because
your
child is safe,” Pryce rejoined, still holding her gently as he tipped her face up with a soft right hand. “You’re crying, Leslie.”

“They’re not tears of sorrow, my friend, my good friend.”

“Great relief will do that.”

“Yes, I guess it will. Just as great sadness does.” Their faces, their eyes, were barely inches from each other’s. Cameron released her and stepped back, his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you, friend,” she said.

“For what? For being here? I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“For that, too, but that’s not what I meant. A few seconds ago I wanted to kiss you,
so
wanted to.”

“You’re pretty vulnerable right now, Colonel.”

“That’s what I’m thanking you for. For knowing it.”

Pryce smiled, and removed his hands. “You’re off the hook for the time being, but don’t trust me. I’m not a thirty-six-year-old monk.”

“Nor am I a thirty-six-year-old nun.… Well, I suppose I sort of have been for the past few years.”

“Let’s ponder this conundrum the way we intelligence folk examine a problem.”

“I’m afraid that would exclude me—”

“Come on, lady, I’ve known since the Chesapeake compound.”

“Known what?”

“You’re top Army G-Two and so was Ev Bracket.”