The Matarese Countdown (65 page)

“In this situation, my sensibilities cannot possibly be offended. Just don’t bring me a corpse. A corpse can’t speak.”

Jan van der Meer Matareisen bent his body over in a telephone booth in a crowded Piccadilly Circus. He had wads of cotton in his mouth, which he had punctured with his teeth to create the illusion of hemorrhaging. He removed the cotton, as across the Channel a phone rang in Brussels. “Hello,” said the voice in Belgium.

“It is I. Have you the information and, if so, how soon can you make arrangements?”

“I have the information and am prepared to make the arrangements when you tell me.”

“The information first.”

“The private golf course is called Fleetwood. It is twenty-two miles northwest of London and reached by using the motorways—”

“I know the area and a taxi will get me there. The arrangements?”

“A small plane, a Cessna prop, will land on the fairway between the eleventh hole and the twelfth tee—it’s the longest and flattest and farthest away from the clubhouse. He’ll arrive around four-forty-five while there’s a minimum of light but it’s too dark for golfers, not that there are many this time of year. You’ll be flown to a field in Scotland where your jet is waiting for you. A flight plan for Marseilles will be filed under one of your corporations, departure open, approval guaranteed. Everything’s in place, shall I proceed?”

“At once.”

Jan van der Meer killed the time remaining in a motion-picture house. At three o’clock Matareisen hailed a taxi and gave the driver vague instructions to the Fleetwood Golf Club. They arrived at 4:10, the traffic heavy, and van der Meer ordered the man to drive around the outskirts of the course. Fourteen minutes later, the Dutchman spotted the flag of the twelfth hole; he stopped the taxi shortly thereafter, paid the driver, got out, and started walking back when the car disappeared around a curve.

By 4:30 van der Meer lay in the grass of a tree-filled rough midway between the eleventh hole and the twelfth tee. It was twilight but not dark. At 4:39 the muted sound of a distant plane could be heard in the sky. Matareisen crawled to the edge of the forestlike rough, then stood up by a thick trunk of a tree. He peered through the branches; the plane came into view and began circling the area, with each circle dropping lower.

Suddenly, the unexpected, the unwanted. A sprinkler system erupted, cascading sprays arcing everywhere, as a lawn-skeeper, flashlight in hand, rode in an electric cart checking the sprinklers in this unusually dry autumn. He zigzagged back and forth over the fairway. He was in the path of the descending plane nearing its final approach! Van der Meer raced out shouting, “You there! Come
over
here. I fell, I’m injured, I’ve been unconscious!”

The lawnskeeper turned the cart around and accelerated
toward Matareisen. They met in the middle of the fairway, the landing stretch, the
runway!
Swiftly, van der Meer grabbed the man’s hair and smashed his head down on the front bar, then ripped the flashlight from his hand. He began feverishly waving the beam of light in circles. Seemingly at the last moments before landing, the plane swooped up, swinging to the left for yet another approach. Matareisen yanked the body with its blood-drenched head out of the cart, jumped in, and drove to the edge of the green. Turning off the motor and throwing away the key, he raced back onto the manicured grass, now waving the flashlight in short vertical strokes, indicating a landing. The pilot understood; the small plane came down and taxied toward Matareisen’s light.

“Did you bring me a change of clothes as I requested?” asked van der Meer harshly, climbing in the cramped backseat.

“Yes, sir, but I wish you wouldn’t change now. I want to get out of here before the place is soaked and we lose traction.”

“Then go!”

“Also, the course is loaded with moving carts. I’d hate to crash into one.”

“I said
go!
”

Airborne, on their way to the Scottish border, Matareisen returned to the question that had vexed him since his capture. His ego had convinced him he would somehow escape; that was inevitable. The real problem now was where would he operate from, where would he establish the Matarese headquarters? He owned many residences, all well-equipped although not to the technical extent of the Keizersgracht, but certainly computerized for global communications and that was all he needed. Time was so
short!
Only days before the burning of the Mediterranean, the first of the catastrophes, the harbinger of multiple world crises leading to economic chaos!

Suddenly, a calm spread over Jan van der Meer Matareisen. He knew where he would go, where he
had
to go.

•  •  •

It was 3:38 in the afternoon in Philadelphia and Benjamin Wahlburg had made no attempt to reach Pryce. Cam decided the ball was in his court so he called the office of the Matarese conduit.

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Wahlburg hasn’t come into the office today.”

“Do you have his home phone?”

“Sorry again, sir. We’re not permitted to give out that information.”

Frank Shields in Washington was, both the telephone number and Benjamin Wahlburg’s address. Pryce called Scott Walker when no one answered at Wahlburg’s mansion and together they drove out to the elegant estate. Repeated rings on the front doorbell brought no response. Finally Cameron said, “I believe it’s called breaking and entering, but I think, under the circumstances, we should consider it, don’t you?”

“Consider it done,” replied the CIA officer. “I carry a national security Invasive Procedures Card.”

“What does that mean?”

“Not a great deal, but most of the locals buy it. Under extreme conditions we’re allowed extra latitude in completing our assignments, as long as there’s no threat to life and we accept responsibility.”

“That’s pretty loose.”

“It has its flaws,” conceded Walker. “I really don’t have any in-depth knowledge of this operation, but if you tell me national security is involved, well, you’re in the loop and there’s no one to argue with you.”

“National security is involved in ways that would blow your mind.”

“The place is no doubt alarmed, so let’s break through a patio or a kitchen door and I’ll take the heat from whoever shows up. I know what to say and how to say it.”

“You’ve done this before—”

“I’ve done it before,” said the agent quietly, without comment, as the two men started toward the side and the
rear of the property. There was a glass-enclosed porch in the back looking over a tennis court. “This is fine,” continued Walker, checking the glass-paned door fronted by a screen. He took out his automatic and, holding it by the barrel, broke through the screen, then smashed the windowpane nearest the knob, reached in, and opened the door.

Both were startled by the ensuing silence. “No alarm,” said Pryce.

“For a house like this, it’s unusual.”

“Let’s go.” Cameron and the CIA man walked through the porch into the interior of the mansion, and it
was
that, a mansion. The downstairs rooms were filled with the finest furniture, recognizable oil paintings on the most expensive wallpaper, and enough glistening silver to dress a showroom at Tiffany’s.

The house appeared to be deserted, as Pryce called out, “Federal government, we’re here to speak to Benjamin Wahlburg.” He did so several times.

“I never heard that name,” said Scott. “Bad hearing.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” They started up the wide, imposing staircase, Pryce calling out his “federal” announcement to no avail. They reached the second floor and checked the various rooms and baths; there was no one. Finally, they came to the master bedroom; the door was locked. Cameron knocked and ended up pounding. “Mr.
Wahlburg
,” he shouted. “It’s imperative that we talk!”

“We’ve gone this far,” said Walker, “we might as well try for the bell.” With these words, he stepped back, then rushed forward, hurling his muscular body at the door. It splintered but did not open. Several well-placed kicks by the agent and the door collapsed. They walked inside.

There, sprawled across the bed, the satin quilt soaked with blood and human tissue, was the body of Benjamin Wahlburg. The banker had shot himself through the mouth with a .38-caliber pistol, still gripped in his hand.

“You never saw this, Scott,” said Pryce. “In fact, you weren’t even here.”

T
he Villa d’Este resort on Lake Como sent a limousine to the Milan airport for the hotel’s latest American guests, Mr. and Mrs. Paul Lambert, a.k.a. Brandon Scofield and Antonia. Their passports were courtesy of Frank Shields in Washington, who had them jetted across the Atlantic by military courier. The flight landed at ten o’clock in the morning, Milan time, and by noon the exhausted couple were in their suite, “Mr. Lambert” complaining about the long previous night’s briefing in London.

“Geoffrey doesn’t know how to say something once, he has to say it thirty times.”

“Bray, you kept arguing with him.”

“Damn right, because I don’t
need
him! I have Togazzi.”

“Which doesn’t thrill Geof, as you know.”

“He’s anti-Italian.”

“No, he’s somewhat leery about working with a man reputed to be a powerful mafioso.”

“That’s horseshit. The Servizio Segreto got some of its best recruits from the Mafia. Besides, Silvio hasn’t had anything to do with the Mafia in years. He’s honorably retired.”

“How respectable of him.” The telephone rang and Toni picked it up from the antique leather-topped desk. “Yes?”

“This must be the glorious Antonia, a Mediterranean
signora
whom I have never met, but I spend the moments in great anticipation when I shall have the honor and the privilege to do so.”

“Your English is extraordinary … Signor Togazzi?”

“Indeed, and much of my English was learned at the feet of a master, your extraordinary companion.”

“Yes, I thought as much. Here, I’ll turn you over to the … master.”

“I can hear the lilt of the Mare Nostra in your own speech, great beauty!” pressed Togazzi.

“How nice, I’ve been trying for years to lose it.” She handed the phone to Scofield, who had been shaking his head and pointing to the bed, a nap in his plea. Reluctantly, he accepted it.

“Hi, wop?”

“Ever the endearing Brandon. And how is the Yankee scumball, that is the term, is it not? I gather you’ve arrived.”

“No, I’m a clone who needs a few hours’ sleep.”

“Not now, old friend, we have work to do. Word from the Milan post office is that another general delivery from Barcelona has arrived, this to a Signor Del Monte the Fourth, the ‘Del Monte’ quite a common name in Italy, the ‘Fourth’ an aberration, the identifying code for the receiver. The next general-delivery truck is due at three o’clock this afternoon. My associate will hold the material, claiming it to be on the last shipment. We must be there.”

“I just got
out
of there! Don’t you have shadows on your payroll who can follow whoever it is that picks it up?”

“The last communication from Barcelona was six days ago. When will another come?”

“Oh, Jesus, you’re right! The Keizersgracht is shut down—”

“What?
Che cosa?
”

“It’s been a busy week, I’ll fill you in later. But you’re
right, we won’t get another chance to find the Milan connection. How will you pick me up?”

“Walk out the west entrance as if you’re about to stroll around the gardens. Then take the path that bypasses the barricade on the road into the villa and start walking up the street to Bellagio. I’ll meet you there.”

“I’m not armed—goddamned metal detectors—and I want to be armed. Do you have any weapons?”

“Does our Ligurian Sea have water?”

“I figured. See you in fifteen or twenty minutes.” Scofield hung up the phone and turned to Antonia. “I guess you heard.”

“You guess correctly, and I don’t like the need for weapons.”

“Probably no need at all, but I’d prefer to have some firepower, since we’re behind enemy lines. You do remember the old days, don’t you, girl?”

“Yes, dear. I also remember that you were far younger. And Togazzi’s older than you. Two old men playing roles they long ago left behind them.”

“Why don’t you have us mummified while you’re at it. Where are my rubber-soled shoes?”

“In the closet.”

“Never go to work without rubber soles on your feet.”

“You won’t be alone, will you? Old men need younger men.”

“I’m sure Silvio will find a body or three.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“We do.”

The drive to Milan was made in record time, Scofield and Togazzi refining their tactics of rapid surveillance. Two of the don’s guards were in the front seat, a second car with three others behind them; they would meet a block away from Milan’s main post office. Togazzi’s man inside had provided a floor plan of the general-delivery section; it was intrinsic to the strategy. The don’s guards, all with lapel-attached walkie-talkies, would place themselves in receding positions from near the counter to the exit doors, the driver remaining outside, close to Togazzi’s vehicle. The don’s
man would signal the nearest guard when the recipient picked up the Barcelona merchandise; he, in turn, would alert the others, describing the conduit.

Togazzi stayed in his automobile, a high-speed telescopic camera in his hand, while Scofield was a few feet away, watching the door and listening to the guards’ transmissions. The words came over the wire.

“The man is in disheveled clothing, a torn jacket and unpressed trousers.”

“Got him,” said Bray, seeing the Matarese recipient, a short man, walking rapidly out the door of the post office. “You see him, Silvio?”

“Of course. He’s heading for the row of bicycles. Quickly, one of you! Get out here and take the motorbike from the trunk.
Follow
him!”

The swiftest of the guards did so, yanking the motorized bike out of its recess, starting the engine, climbing on, and zooming off in pursuit of the bicycling messenger. Minutes later, the pursuer spoke over the radio. “He is in the worst part of the city,
signore!
The bike is new and very expensive. I fear for my life.”