The Matarese Countdown (55 page)

“Why not bring him in and
break
him?” said Pryce angrily.

“Because it would send a message we don’t want to send,
goddamn it!
” exclaimed Scofield.

“Why, Your
Holiness?
”

“We’re not close enough!” insisted Brandon. “If there’s a big snake in Amsterdam, we have to zero in on him first. By destroying the contact, you cut off the road to practicality.”

“I may be crazy,” said Colonel Montrose, “but I think I know what he means.”

“So do I, and I really hate to admit it,” agreed Cameron Pryce. “It’s like altering an electronic compass for a pilot lost in the mountains.”

“You could find a cleaner metaphor, youngster, but essentially you’re right. Let the unseen designer, who may not be as powerful as he thinks he is, continue to believe he has total control. Once his link to reality is shattered, he—or she —is isolated. That’s when you break the Matarese circle. A key may be in the ‘K-Gracht’ found in the Symond flat.”

“I believe I hear Beowulf Agate speaking,” said Geoffrey Waters quietly.

“Come on, Geof, there’s nothing mythical about it. You work from the large boulders down to the rocks, then even stones and pebbles, if you have to. Human behavior everywhere is pretty much the same, Taleniekov and I agreed about that.”

“Beowulf Agate really has a vision,” said Cameron Pryce quietly, almost to himself, staring at Scofield. “Let’s talk about the stones and the pebbles. What do we do, Bray?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Scofield replied. “I’m going to become a dedicated member of the Matarese.”

“
What?
” The other four looked at one another, perplexed.

“Relax everybody, it’s really very easy. Our Matarese mole, Leonard Fredericks, will encounter an emissary from Amsterdam—God knows I have enough information to make me believable.”

“The guy’s just a stringer, a damned good one but a stringer nevertheless,” said Cameron. “What do you think he can tell you?”

“I have no idea. It depends on the cards I’m dealt. I make statements, he reacts; I ask questions, he answers. One thing usually leads to another, the other to something else. It’s sort of like instant mental tennis.”

“How in heaven’s name do you think you can get away with it?” asked Sir Geoffrey, astonished.

“He doesn’t know me, and the only photographs of my handsome face are twenty-nine years old and were once in
the Agency files. I haven’t been over here in, let’s see, at least twenty-five years, so he won’t have a clue.”

“I hate to add to that ego of yours,” said Cameron, “but your reputation has definitely preceded you. Even Paravacini, while damning your soul to hell, acknowledged your talents. If he, an Italian, spoke so generously of you, you’d better believe that all of Matarese Europe knows who you are and what you’re capable of.”

“And certainly it wouldn’t be difficult for their people to hunt down any number of men who were at Chesapeake or Peregrine,” added Leslie. “They could pick up clear descriptions of you.”

“Also, Bray,” said Antonia firmly, “Frank Shields freely admitted there was a covert Matarese inside the CIA!”

“To answer the lieutenant colonel first”—Brandon nodded, smiling at Montrose—“I’ll just have to be a little more inventive, won’t I? As to you, m’luv, the matter’s easily disposed of. The minute Squinty heard from Cam that he had found me on Brass Twenty-six, all references to yours truly, including photographs, dossiers, et cetera, were removed from the Agency files and deleted in the computers.”

“Not exactly true,” interrupted Leslie. “I was given a limited background on you and so was Ev Bracket.”

“The operative word being ‘limited,’ right?”

“There was enough. I could have picked you out of a crowd, if I had to. Also Toni.”

“And what did you do with this limited material, Colonel?”

“What we were ordered to do in each other’s presence. Together, Everett and I burned our copies.”

“No one else saw them?”

“Of course not. It was restricted data.”

“And I presume you haven’t been in touch with any of the elusive Matarese.”

“Please, Brandon, I’m not a fool, so don’t treat me like one.”

“I emphatically agree,” said Antonia.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Scofield, “because you’re not a fool, you’re a superb officer. My point is that whatever information the Matarese has on me is also limited, very limited and probably very exaggerated. Despite my charm, good looks, and certain abilities in weaponry, I appear to be an average sixty-something-year-old American. A perfectly ordinary fellow.”

“When pigs fly over the moon and cows give bourbon,” said Pryce softly, slowly shaking his head.

The meeting with the Foreign Office’s Leonard Fredericks, second director of European Economic Negotiations, was arranged with all the finesse and secrecy for which Sir Geoffrey Waters was noted within the intelligence community. The arranging began with a perfectly normal request to the Foreign Office. It was to assign a high-level director of European Economic Negotiations to meet with a prominent American banker who had vigorously complained about the FO’s policy of accepting Euro-Comm’s rates of exchange over those of the World Bank. It was detrimental to U.S. investment and the realization of profits thereof.

It was as foolish an accusation as cows producing bourbon, but couched in pseudoacademic babble, it was acceptable to the bureaucracy.

“Accommodate me, old chap.”

“Just how am I to do that, Geoffrey?”

“Send memoranda all over the place. The banker’s name is Andrew Jordan, our target is one Leonard Fredericks. Assign him to Jordan.”

“May I ask a question or two?”

“Sorry, it’s a major operation.”

“A sting then?”

“I told you, no questions.”

“I’ll have to log this, you understand. We can’t be compromised, you know.”

“Log whatever you like, just do it, my old friend.”

“You wouldn’t ask if it weren’t major. It’s done, Geof.”

•  •  •

“Andrew Jordan,” a.k.a. Beowulf Agate, was shown into Leonard Fredericks’s office by a secretary. The tall, lean occupant rose from his chair, walked around his desk, and enthusiastically greeted the reputedly prominent American banker.

“I’m not sure I like meeting here,” said the man called Jordan. “I know all about offices, I have twenty-six in various cities in the U.S. There’s a bar, what you call a pub, two blocks from here, the ‘Lion’ something.”

“The Lion of St. George,” broke in Leonard Fredericks. “Would you rather we talk there?”

“Yes, I would, if you don’t mind,” said Jordan-Scofield.

“Then we’ll do it,” agreed the bureaucrat. “Whatever makes you comfortable. You go on ahead of me, and after I tidy up a few things, I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

The Lion of St. George was a typical London pub: thick wood, heavy stools and chairs and tables, with a minimum of light and a maximum of smoke, in short words, an outstanding watering hole for the likes of Brandon Alan Scofield. He sat at a table in the front, nearest the entrance, nursing a draft, and waiting for Fredericks. The Foreign Office’s second director arrived carrying an attaché case. He glanced around impatiently in the dim light until he saw the strange American who did not care to talk in the office. He walked between the few tables and sat down opposite Andrew Jordan. He spoke while opening his attaché case.

“I’ve studied your complaint, Mr. Jordan, and although I find merit in your argument, I’m not sure what we can do.”

“Why don’t I get you a drink? You’re going to need one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know the way we work,” said Beowulf Agate, signaling a waiter. “What do you drink?”

“A small gin and bitters will be fine, thank you.” Scofield gave the order, and Fredericks continued. “What do you mean—the way
who
works?”

“In circuitous ways is the best answer. The complaint is horseshit, I’m bringing you orders from Amsterdam.”

“
What?
”

“Come off it, Leonard, we’re on the same side. How do you think I reached you if Amsterdam hadn’t set it up?” The waiter returned with Fredericks’s drink. The timing was perfect. The Matarese’s eyes were wide with doubt and fear. The waiter left, and before the mole could speak, Scofield did. “Damned ingenious, I call it. That complaint may be horseshit, but a lot of bankers across the pond believe it, and I
am
a banker, check your computers. But I’m also something else. I take my instructions from the K-Gracht in Amsterdam.”

“The
K
-Gracht?…” Fredericks’s mouth dropped, the fear overcoming the doubt in his eyes.

“Where else?” said Beowulf Agate casually. “I’m the one who tore apart everything in Atlantic Crown’s top offices—our offices—and had it flown to the Netherlands—”

The Matarese mole looked close to panic, his doubt erased, his fear paramount. “What orders do you bring from Amsterdam—from the K-Gracht?”

“To begin with, make no contact whatsoever. I’m your only courier, trust
no
one else. We’ve created this Foreign Office problem to last a number of days, each day bringing us closer to our objective—”

“Which isn’t that far
away
,” interrupted Fredericks, as if to emphasize his own importance.

“Now it’s my turn to question you, Leonard,” said Jordan-Scofield quietly, ominously. “How do you know the date of our objective? It’s completely secret, only a very few of us know.”

“I’ve heard—rumors out of Amsterdam, passed to its most-trusted agents.”

“
What
rumors?”

“The fires, the fires in the
Mediterranean
.”

“Who
told
you this?”

“Guiderone, of course! I walked him through the London labyrinths, showed him everything!”

“
Julian
Guiderone?” Now it was Scofield who was
stunned. “He really
is
alive,” whispered Brandon, barely audible.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.… What gave
you
the right to seek out Guiderone?”

“
I
didn’t seek
him
, he found me through Amsterdam! How could I question him? He’s the son of the Shepherd Boy, the leader of our movement!”

“Do you honestly believe he could override Amsterdam with all its resources?”

“
Resources?
Money is a necessary lubricant, a vital one, but commitment comes first. Guiderone could strip Amsterdam of its authority with only a few words, he made that very clear.… My God, it’s what’s happening now, isn’t it? If I’m not to make contact, that
tells
me something.”

“Julian will be pleased at your perception,” said Scofield quietly, locking eyes with Fredericks. “He told me you were good, very good, and very trustworthy.”

“My
word!
” The Matarese mole chucked down his gin and bitters, then leaned forward, his voice low, intense, confidential. “I believe I understand,” he began, “Mr. Guiderone frequently mentioned that Amsterdam was becoming too self-inflated. He acknowledged its vast wealth, based on the fortunes of the Baron of Matarese, but claimed it was irrelevant without a sound world strategy, workable tactics, and most important, global contacts.”

“As usual, Julian was right.”

“So, Andrew Jordan, you’re not a courier from Amsterdam, you’re the messenger from Mr. Guiderone.”

“To repeat, you’re perceptive, Leonard.” Now Scofield leaned forward. “Do you know Swanson and Schwartz?”

“In New York? Certainly, it’s Albert Whitehead’s brokerage firm. I’ve traveled there often—for Amsterdam.”

“Then you know the attorney Stuart Nichols?”

“He does most of the talking.”

“What about Ben Wahlburg and Jamieson Fowler?”

“Banking and utilities—”

“Good,” interrupted Scofield. “So you can understand the scope of events. Reach them and tell them what I’ve told
you, but
don’t
mention me. Julian would go through the roof, if you did. Explain that through an anonymous source you were instructed to stay away from Amsterdam. Ask if they know anything about it.”

Albert Whitehead, chief executive officer of Swanson and Schwartz, hung up the telephone and turned to Stuart Nichols, the brokerage firm’s attorney, who simultaneously replaced an extension phone.

“What’s going on, Stu? What the
hell
is going on?”

“God knows you tried to probe, Al, I couldn’t have done it better myself. Leonard wouldn’t move an inch, just simple facts, nothing else.”

“One thing more, Stuart. He wasn’t lying.” The buzzer on Whitehead’s console sounded; he touched a button and spoke. “Yes, Janet?”

“It’s time for your conference call, sir.”

“Oh, yes, I remember, it was scheduled earlier today. Who am I conferring with? I don’t think you told me.”

“You were late for lunch, I didn’t get a chance.”

“Well, who is it, Janet?”

“Mr. Benjamin Wahlburg and Mr. Jamieson Fowler.”

“
Really?
” Whitehead looked over at the attorney, his expression frozen.

D
eputy Director Frank Shields ripped open the sealed
EYES ONLY
envelope with his name on the front and began scanning the contents. Having signed the release for the guard, who acknowledged that the metallic seal was intact, he walked back to his desk. He started reading again from the top, his concentration now absolute.

The six pages were verbatim transcripts of conversations over the private, supposedly nontappable telephones belonging to Albert Whitehead, Stuart Nichols, Benjamin Wahlburg, and Jamieson Fowler. They were the four Mataresans who had convened at the small, isolated restaurant in lower New York after having their shocking meetings with William Clayton, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate, as well as Andrew Jordan and Brandon Alan Scofield. Breaking antibug commercial phones was no problem for the intercepting devices of the government.

The language employed by all parties was relatively clear, although not completely. It was as if those speaking had considered the unthinkable: Were their phone lines, which cost thousands, really impregnable?