The Matarese Countdown (39 page)

“
What?
”

“You’re an elite unit, what the British call Special
Branch. You go from place to place unearthing the evil people—with proper training, naturally.”

“How in heaven’s name did you
learn
that?”

“You gave yourself away too many times. You think like a spook, often talk like one, and the Army doesn’t send a commando or an RDF officer to the University of Chicago’s computer-science graduate school so he or she can carry a laptop into combat.”

“This is funny, really
funny!
” exclaimed Montrose, her reddish eyes laughing, no denial in them. “Only five minutes ago, Frank asked me if I had told you, and I said I hadn’t, but I thought you might have suspected because I used the computer in Belgravia. He doesn’t mind, incidentally, but
was
it the computer?”

“No, much simpler. I realize that some people at the Pentagon and in Langley think it’s unwise, but we CIA types and you G-Two types often have good reason to work together. The bottom line is that I reached an old friend in Arlington and he researched you and Bracket for me. One or the other of us saved the other’s life on a Prospekt in Moscow, can’t remember which. He had no choice.”

Leslie now laughed out loud, softly but loud enough for the guard at the table to glance over. “Agent Pryce,” she said, “or even Special Agent Pryce, do you think we can spin the tape back a bit and start again?”

“I think it’s a grand idea, Colonel Montrose. Our tape’s clean and I suggest we begin again with a dinner of thanks at a very fine restaurant. Since I play fast and loose with contingency funds, it’s on me.”

“And I shouldn’t trust you?”

“Not for an instant. That should be on the tape.”

F
rank Shields instructed his secretary of nineteen years that he would be “off property” for two days and nobody was to be told his whereabouts. That included anyone and everyone at the Agency, no matter their rank.

“I’ll use the Denver connection, if any crises come up,” had said the middle-aged woman who was all too familiar with her employer’s “disappearances.” She went on to say that she would reach Mrs. Shields, reassuring her while preparing her for her husband’s absence, and would issue an order for an aircraft to fly the deputy director to Montreal. This order was to be classified top-secret and subsequently canceled after the plane to Cherokee was early airborne, the pilot instructed to return to Andrews.

“As usual, you’ve covered all the bases, Margaret,” Frank Shields had complimented. “However, perhaps you should run a check on the Denver relay.”

“I already have, sir. There’ve been no invasions. I call Colorado and your pager alerts you, the call itself ending in Denver.”

“I think I’ll propose you for the directorship.”

“It’s yours for the asking, Frank.”

“I don’t want it and you’re organizationally better qualified.…
And, Maggie, tell Alice I’m really sorry I had to leave today. The kids are coming to dinner tonight or tomorrow with all their children; she’ll be pretty upset.”

“That’s not until later this week,” corrected the secretary. “You may be back by then.”

“How do you know?”

“Alice called and asked me to check your calendar. I’d rather you didn’t make a liar out of me, so I hope you
will
be back.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“
Please
do.”

“I believe that’s an order.”

Shields then redoubled his efforts to put the Montroses, mother and son, together, working at the highest levels of security with Geoffrey Waters, MI-5, and MI-6. It was decided that the simplest and perhaps the most obvious method of travel would also be the safest. The
Ticonderoga
was scheduled to patrol the Persian Gulf between Bandar-e Chārak and Al-Wakrah; that was the modus operandi. As the jets swept off the carrier’s deck on their reconnaissance runs, one aircraft, its fuel at capacity, would break formation and fly to a Royal Air Force base in the district of Loch Torridon, Scotland. The pilot was Lieutenant Senior Grade Luther Considine, his passenger, James Montrose Jr.

The only comment from an elated Jamie was, “Hey, out of
sight!
Except that biology prick had to write Mom! That sucks!”

The reunion would take place in a small village twelve miles north of Edinburgh. Geoffrey Waters personally made the arrangements for special communications equipment and three armed MI-5 personnel to meet the American aircraft and drive the pilot and the Montrose boy to the country inn on the far outskirts of Edinburgh. The inn was commandeered by the government, no locals or tourists to be in residence for forty-eight hours starting with the arrival of Miss Joan Brooks and her brother John—Leslie Montrose and Cameron Pryce.

Waters remained in London, staying in touch with Frank
Shields and Brandon Scofield relative to the new material Beowulf Agate had unearthed.

There was another reason for Cameron Pryce to be on the flight to Scotland. Luther Considine carried on his person photographs of the two Persian Gulf estates Jamie Montrose had identified as similar to the compound where he was held prisoner. The pilot had obtained what backgrounds he could find on the owners of the two mansions. It wasn’t easy. Bahrain was highly protective when it came to sheltering finances from taxes. So a clandestine triangle was created from London to the Great Smokies to an obscure village in Scotland. Information could be instantly relayed, and information was the only weapon they had to penetrate the Matarese and the global strategies it had set in motion. And that it had set “things” in motion was becoming more and more apparent.

Things were happening, but no one in the private or the public sector knew what; or if they did know, they kept silent.

•  •  •

The meeting between Leslie Montrose and her son was predictable. The mother’s eyes were filled with tears, the sight of Jamie’s bandaged hands nearly unbearable to her. James Montrose Jr. showed an admixture of relief and exuberance with a touch of embarrassment over his mother’s behavior. Cameron Pryce remained at a discreet distance, in the shadows of the deserted inn’s publike barroom. After Leslie released her red-faced son, blew her nose, and took several deep breaths, she spoke.

“Jamie, I’d like you to meet Mr. Pryce, Cameron Pryce. He’s a field officer in the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Same business, huh, Mom? Nice to meet you, sir.” James junior broke away from his mother.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jamie,” said Cam, walking forward out of the shadows. “I should say honor,” he continued. “What you did was extraordinary, and I mean that.” They shook hands—cautiously, gently.

“It wasn’t really that tough, sir, not after I got over the wall. The top was filled with broken glass and coiled barbed wire.”

Leslie Montrose gasped.

“That’s where you got the hands?” Cameron said.

“Yes, sir. They’re healing pretty well now. Those Navy doctors know their stuff.… By the way, where’s Luther?”

“In the other room, on the sterile phone with our associates in MI-Five and MI-Six.”

“Okay, Mr. Pryce.” The teenager hesitated, then the words rushed forward in growing anger. “Will somebody tell me what the hell’s going
on?
Why have all these things
happened?
The lies, my being kidnapped, not being able to talk to Mom, telephone numbers suddenly not there or changed and unpublished, all that crap! But especially the
lies! Why?
”

“Your mother and I will tell you everything we can. God knows you deserve it.”

“Well, I guess the first question I want answered,” said
Jamie, “no disrespect intended, sir, but where is Uncle Ev —Colonel Everett Bracket?”

“Dear,” interrupted Leslie, walking to her son. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you this, but I honestly don’t know how.”

“What do you mean, Mom?”

“Everett was part of this operation. Army intelligence was recruited by the CIA for military protection. He wanted me to operate his security computers, he could never get the hang of them. And the phone calls had started. Horrible calls, terrifying calls, from all over the place. You had been kidnapped, and if I didn’t do as I was ordered, you would be tortured and then executed. Uncle Ev was sure it was all tied up together.”

“Holy
shit!
” exclaimed Jamie under his breath. “What did you do, Mom?”

“Controlled myself in ways I never thought I was capable of. Everett was great. He went to Tom Cranston, an old friend in the White House. Cranston’s instructions were explicit. We weren’t to say anything to anyone, Tom was going to handle everything at the highest level. Then Chesapeake became a series of horrible incidents, finally a battleground. Everett was killed, how doesn’t matter.”

“Jesus
Christ, no!
”

“I’m afraid so,” said Cameron softly.

“Oh, shit, shit,
shit!
Uncle
Ev!
”

“That was my second exercise in control, Jamie. I couldn’t even let Mr. Pryce know how devastated I was. I had to submerge my feelings and deal only through Tom.”

“Your mother was very successful,” said Cameron, a slight edge in his voice. “If she had been clearer with me sooner, perhaps we might have made more progress.”

“About
what?
” shouted Montrose junior.

“That’ll be my job to explain,” replied Pryce, “and it will take a long time. So I suggest we tackle it in the morning. All of us, especially you, young man, have had a harrowing few days. Let’s get some rest, okay?”

“I
am
tired, but I’ve got so many questions!”

“You haven’t gotten any answers for nearly three weeks, Jamie, so what’s a few more hours? You need some sleep.”

“What do you say, Mom?”

“I think Cam’s right, son. We’re all so stressed, so exhausted, I’m not sure any of us can think straight.”

“ ‘Cam,’ Mother?”

At Peregrine View, Scofield, Frank Shields, and Antonia stood around the condominium’s dining-room table, which was littered with photographs. The rolls of film Bray had taken in Wichita had been processed locally on an emergency basis, a Gamma patrol in attendance during the developing and enlarging procedures.

“This batch,” said Brandon, pointing to several rows of photographs showing pages of handwritten names and dates, “I took from Alistair McDowell’s appointments book.”

“I’ll photofax them up to my secretary so she can run an in-depth check on everyone. Maybe we’ll find a pattern, or a few surprises.”

“What are these, Bray?” asked Toni. “They look like formulas.… Mathematics or physics, scientific things.”

“Damned if I know,” answered Scofield. “They were in folders marked ‘Quotient Group Equations.’ I’ve always figured that when someone goes to the trouble to dig up obscure, ambiguous words, then writes out even more inscrutable letters and numbers, that means he’s trying to hide something—something that he has to have access to, but is afraid to put in a computer.”

“Because computers can be permanent,” said Shields, picking up several of the quotient photographs. “Even deletions have a nasty way of returning, in the hands of an expert.”

“That’s exactly the way I figured it,” agreed Bray. “You can burn papers, but it’s tough to torch a machine.”

“These aren’t math or physics,” continued Deputy Director Shields, “they’re chemical formulas, which are in line with McDowell’s dossier.”

“I think that calls for an explanation, Squinty.”

“Alistair McDowell’s a chemical engineer, top of his class at MIT, right through to his doctorate. By his middle twenties, his brilliance in the laboratory was nearly legend and Atlantic Crown snapped him up, promising to fund all the research he could handle.”

“It’s rather a leap from the laboratory to the head of a food company, isn’t it, Frank?” posed Toni.

“Certainly, but there was a damn good reason for his fast climb up the ladder. His smarts were matched by his organizational skills. Given virtually unlimited financing, he reorganized all the research divisions—apparently he was a virtual dictator in the laboratories—until they were more profitable than they had ever been. He was a natural for top management.”

“There’s information in those letters and numbers and fractions, Squinty. I feel it, I
know
it.”

“I think you’re right, Brandon. I’ll send this off to our chem-analysis unit and see what they come up with.”

“There’ve got to be variations of codes that lead to names, organizations, countries—”

“If they don’t,” said Shields flatly, “they’re the newest products or the latest preservatives. But for the moment, I happen to think you’re right.”

“What about these pictures?” asked Antonia, gesturing at seven photographs of technical equipment.