The Matarese Countdown (62 page)

“By yourself?” Leslie Montrose shot forward in her chair, glaring at Pryce.

“I’ve done it before. Penetrate and pit individuals against one another. Of all the dumb games in the stupid business, this one has the highest rate of success. Besides, we don’t have time for anything else. For Christ’s sake, you heard Campion. Two weeks and five days!”

“But you
alone?
” protested Greenwald.

“Slight exaggeration,” said Cam. “I’ll convince Shields to provide me with all the wizardry we’ve got, along with a couple of bodies.”

“That means you’ll be going to the States—”

“As fast as I can, Aaron. Waters will get me there, and I want Luther with me in case there’s some fast, quiet flying —no leakable personnel or official requisitions, please.”

“I’m going with you, Officer Pryce,” said Leslie.

“I figured I’d hear that.”

“And we’ll keep at it here,” said Greenwald. “Please set up instant communications between us so we can feed you whatever additional information we retrieve.”

“It’s as good as done.” Pryce reached into his jacket and
pulled out his radio. “Luther, get the bird ready to go. We’ll be down there in twenty minutes.”

The RAF supersonic jet landed at Dulles International Airport at 7:05
P
.
M
., eastern standard time. An unmarked CIA vehicle took Pryce, Montrose, and Considine to Langley where Frank Shields waited for them in his office. Greetings exchanged and Luther introduced, Frank outlined his proposed scenario.

“Commander Considine—”

“You jumped me one, but Luther’s fine, sir.”

“Thank you. Luther, we’ve appropriated a Rockwell jet; it’s on a private field in Virginia, less than forty minutes from Washington. Does that meet with your approval?”

“Sure. It’s good equipment, depending on the air miles required.”

“At the moment, that’s not a problem. Jamieson Fowler commutes between Boston, Maryland, and Florida; Stuart Nichols and Albert Whitehead are in New York; and Benjamin Wahlburg is in Philadelphia. No flight is over three and a half hours, including Florida.”

“Then there’s no problem. May I inspect the aircraft and its security in the morning?”

“We’ll all inspect it, Luther. I want to get to New York,” interrupted Cameron.

“What do
you
know, spook?”

“I know I want to get to New York.”

“Then hear me out before you go off half-cocked,” said Shields firmly. “According to Geoffrey Waters, you want to corner Whitehead and the others on a one-to-one basis, correct?”

“Yes. One to one, and one by one.”

“We’ve established that Whitehead leaves his office between five-forty-five and six o’clock each evening, and employs a single limousine service. He makes one stop before going home to his apartment on Fifth Avenue. It’s to a bar in Rockefeller Center called Templars. The management
reserves a banquette for him. He has exactly two vodka martinis and returns to the waiting car.”

“That’s very precise.”

“That’s not all. We’ve recruited the limo service, very sub rosa, and the driver on the day you choose will be one of our people. Make your contact at the bar, doing whatever you have to do, and escort him back to the car. Can you do that?”

“In spades, aces high.”

“I want to go with him,” broke in Montrose. “These people are killers and, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m an expert in weapons.”

“That’s not necessary, Leslie—”

“Yes, it
is!
You made it necessary, my dear.”

“No comment,” said the deputy director. “We’ll position you in a nearby booth.”

“What about me?” asked Considine. “Someone should watch their flanks, that’s what we do in the air.”

“Come
on
, Luther! It’ll look like I’m covered, and the driver’s one of us.”

“Your call, spook, but I’m from the streets, remember? Substitutes can be hired.”

“You’re overanticipating, my man.”

“I happen to agree with Cameron,” said Shields. “But if it’ll make you feel better, you’ll be across the room, all right?”

“I’ll feel better,” replied the pilot.

“So, Cam, when you’re in the car you can talk as long as you like, order the driver to wherever you want to gain time. It’ll unnerve our broker that you have control.”

“So much for Whitehead. What about Nichols?”

“The next morning. He stops at his club for a thirty-minute workout. It’s on Twenty-second Street, and he gets there around seven-fifteen. We’ve arranged for you to be in the steam room, which Nichols uses after his exercises—”

“Nice touch,” Pryce broke in. “How can we be sure that I’ll be alone with him?”

“A trainer will take care of that. At that hour it shouldn’t be difficult. You’ll be inside and once he admits Nichols,
he’ll stay by the door, telling anybody who shows up that the room is temporarily out of order.”

“What explanation did you give him?” asked a concerned Leslie.

“None, Colonel. He’s one of us.… Now, considering the time change you’ve experienced, the three of you better get some rest, preferably a good night’s sleep. You’re in a motel not far from here, it’s nearest the private field. Our car will take you there and pick you up in the morning, say eight o’clock?”

“How about seven?” said Pryce.

“Whatever you say.”

“I assume we’ll be staying at your own private hotel in New York. Bray said it was the Marble something-or-other.”

“Wherever we can save the taxpayers’ money, we do our best.”

“Scofield told me the room service was outstanding.”

“He would. He abused it.”

T
he flight to New York was uneventful, the traffic in Manhattan horrendous. They had been met at La Guardia Airport by a CIA case officer who drove them to the Hotel Marblethorpe. They used the side entrance and settled into the same suite Scofield and Antonia had occupied when Brandon held his “interviews” with the possible conduits to the Matarese. Luther Considine went into the guest bedroom, Cameron and Leslie into the master; unpacking was rapid, and they emerged as the CIA agent came up for a planning session. His name was Scott Walker, and he looked more like a lean, erect military officer than a member of Central Intelligence. He spoke.

“I’m on a tight need-to-know basis and Director Shields made it plain that the less I knew the better. I’m only here to assist, not actively participate unless an emergency arises.”

“Fair enough,” said Pryce. “Have you been given the itinerary?”

“Templars bar at Rockefeller Center this evening by six
P
.
M
. Each of you will enter separately and sit where you’ve been instructed. Those seats will be occupied, but when you say the words, ‘Oh, I thought I reserved this table,’ our people will vacate with apologies.”

“I go in last?” asked Cam.

“No, sir, you go in first. When you’re all inside, I’ll be outside watching the door from the next corridor.” Here Walker reached into his vest pocket. “Incidentally, Shields gave me these two photographs. The first is the man you’re meeting tonight; the second, the one you’re seeing tomorrow morning. I’m afraid I can’t leave the photos with you; they can’t be on your person. So please study and commit.”

“How many times have I heard those words—”

“I’m sure you have, sir. The deputy director allowed that you were top-flight.”

“I haven’t heard that one—those two.… Will you be following me when I get our illustrious Mr.—”

“No names, sir!”

“Sorry. When I get the target into the limousine?”

“Not necessary. Our colleague is your driver and he knows what to do should any problems come up.”

“That’s comforting,” said Montrose. “I think.”

The rest of the day was spent with Leslie resting, jet lag catching up with her; Cameron writing on a legal pad, summarizing his thoughts about the meeting with Albert Whitehead; and Luther monopolizing the phone, talking to his girlfriend, the commander, in Pensacola. At four o’clock they ordered an early dinner; no one was sure when he would eat next. At five-fifteen, Scott Walker phoned from the CIA vehicle at the side entrance. It was time to leave for the Templars bar in Rockefeller Center.

Seated in their appointed locations, Pryce at the crowded bar, Luther and Leslie acknowledged each other with mutual glances and slightly nodding heads. At twelve minutes past six, Albert Whitehead walked through Templars’ double doors and headed straight for the banquette with a reserved sign on the table. Luther caught Cameron’s eye; he nodded as Pryce unobtrusively glanced at the banquette and Whitehead. He acknowledged Considine’s message, rose from the bar, and crossed to the broker’s table, startling Whitehead as he slid into the small booth.

“I
beg
your pardon,” said the offended financial arm of the Matarese. “Can’t you see this table is reserved?”

“I don’t think you want it to be,” replied Cameron
softly. “I’m from Amsterdam, ordered by the son of the Shepherd Boy to reach you.”

“
What?
”

“Don’t have cardiac arrest, we’ve got enough problems. You’re swimming with sharks.”

“Who
are
you?”

“I just told you, I’m from Amsterdam, a courier, if you like. Finish your drink casually—a vodka martini, isn’t it. That’s what Mr. G. said.”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about,” mumbled the frightened Whitehead.

“You haven’t the vaguest idea what’s happened. Or whom you’re dealing with. Do you have a car outside?”

“Of course.”

“Is it secure?”

“Absolutely. I close the chauffeur’s partition and we can’t be heard.… Why am I
talking?
Who the hell
are
you?”

“Let’s not go through that again,” said Pryce wearily. “I’m here because you need me, not because I want to be.”

“Why do I need
you?
” choked the broker, half whispering. “What did you mean, I’m ‘swimming with sharks’?”

“A few have fallback positions in case of unforeseen difficulties, surely you’re aware of that.”

“No, I’m not. We can’t fail!”

“We don’t expect to. Nevertheless …”

“Nevertheless
nothing
. Spell it out!”

“In the event anything short-circuits, your attorney, Nichols, has sheltered himself. Word is that he’s filed a deposition under a court seal that he was kept in the dark about your funneling our money.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Mr. Guiderone has sources beyond any we possess. It’s true. He wants you to keep your distance from Nichols and when you receive instructions, which you will soon, don’t relay them to him.”

“This is all unbelievable—”

“Believe,” said Cameron. “Come on, I’m not comfortable
talking here. Let’s go out to your car. Shall I get the check?”

“No … no. They put everything on my tab.” Again, the stunned Whitehead could only mumble.

When they were out on the street, Pryce walked over and opened the door of the limousine for the broker. “You knew the car,” said Whitehead, staring at him.

“Yes, I did.” Cam followed the broker into the backseat, leaned forward, and spoke to the CIA agent behind the wheel. “Drive us around Central Park, I’ll tell you when to get back on Fifth Avenue. And raise the partition, please.”

“The driver,” said Albert Whitehead, his eyes wide, glazed. “I don’t know him, he’s not one of
my
drivers.”

“The son of the Shepherd Boy is not only precise, he plans ahead.”

By the time the broker reached his Fifth Avenue apartment, he was a wreck. His head was spinning; he was nauseated, his analytical mind—primarily concerned with figures and financial stratagems—was filled with an onslaught of information that had nothing to do with figures and strategies. It had to do with power grabs in Amsterdam, betrayals at the top of the enterprise, conceivable defections of warring cells—above all, with fear. Pure, raw
fear
. It was a storm of negative abstractions, no clean lines of mathematical precision. Stuart Nichols, his lawyer and right-hand man for years, a
traitor?
To
him?

How many others were there? How many Matarese cells had he illegally furnished with money? Would any of them turn on him? If so, who were they? Some had implied that he skimmed funds from them … well, there were certain expenses that went with the transactions. Would those ingrates expose him in case of “unforeseen difficulties”?

Albert Whitehead felt positively ill. Years ago he had marched happily into a sea of great wealth. Now he wondered if he was drowning in it.

Draped in a towel, Pryce sat in a corner of the mist-filled steam bath. There was a single tap on the glass door; it was
the signal. The next figure who walked in would be Stuart Nichols, first vice president of Swanson and Schwartz, brokerage firm, and for all intents and purposes, a Matarese attorney. The man walked in, similarly covered, and sat on the slatted bench across from Cameron. Neither could clearly see the other, and that was fine with Pryce. The words would be more emphatic. After a minute passed, Cam spoke.

“Hello, Counselor.”

“What? Who’s that?”

“My name doesn’t matter, my speaking with you does. We’re alone.”

“I’m not in the habit of speaking with unidentified strangers in the steam room of my club.”

“There’s always a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

“Not this.” Nichols rose from the bench.

“I’m from Amsterdam,” said Cameron quietly but curtly.

“
What?
”

“Sit down, Counselor. It’s to your benefit that you do, and if you won’t take my word for it, take that of Julian Guiderone.”

“
Guiderone?
…” Through the layers of mist, the lawyer moved back to the bench.

“It’s kind of a password, isn’t it? The name of a man presumed dead for years. Remarkable. I mean, the fact that anyone should use it.”

“You’ve made your point,
up
to a point. I want more. What happened to Amsterdam? Why is it on-the-vine unreachable?”

“You already know, but have you tried reaching the Keizersgracht?”

“The Keizersgracht?… You impress me. Why should I know?”