The Matarese Countdown (67 page)

“Too late,
signore
. He had a weapon and was firing at us, severely wounding Paolo in the leg. He was exposed; we shot him.”

“Bring the package here and take Paolo to a doctor!
Hurry!
” Brandon returned to the silent cardinal, now covered by Togazzi’s gun. “I’d like nothing better than to turn
you over to the Pope myself. Unfortunately, there are more pressing matters.”

“I shall do the honors, old friend,” said Don Silvio. “I could use a blessing or two.”

A guard raced up the gangplank, the package from Barcelona in his hand. He brought it to Scofield, briefly explaining that he was rushing back to take his wounded colleague to a “private doctor” known personally to his don. Brandon tore apart the thick, padded manila envelope and removed a portion of the pages inside. He sat in a deck chair, reading, aware that Cardinal Paravacini was staring at him.

After several minutes of slowly turning the pages, Scofield put the material on his lap and looked over at the cardinal. “Quite some change, isn’t it, priest?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Paravacini. “I never read whatever’s there, for it does not belong to me. If you’ll notice, the envelope is addressed to a Del Monte and that is not my name. Mail, like the confessional, is confidential.”

“Really? Then why was it opened?”

“A courtesy of my late young employee whom you murdered. I shall pray for his soul, even for the souls of those who killed him, as Jesus prayed for the Roman crucifiers.”

“That’s beautiful. But why did your young employee bring this to you?”

“You’d have to ask him; unfortunately you cannot. I assume it was mistakenly routed to my postal box in Bellagio, which I use when away from Rome.”

“Del Monte doesn’t remotely resemble Paravacini.”

“In haste, mistakes are made, especially when a young man zealously tries to serve his far-older superior.”

“He was a priest then?”

“No, he was not. He was a promising youngster who unfortunately strayed from his faith as well as the law—”

“Your
Eminence
,” Togazzi interrupted curtly, “you’re wasting your breath, and your lies only add to your sins. I took photographs, from Milan and your first courier to the third driving to Bellagio, where there was no stop at a postal
box. Before we veered away I photographed your employee. He was wearing a clerical collar and turning off on the Paravacini road.”

“You shock me, Don Silvio. These are things I know nothing about, and the only answers are with a dead man, murdered by this mad American.”

“Don’t waste
your
time, either, old friend,” said Togazzi, addressing Brandon. “We have ways of dealing with such monumental
ipocriti
. What was the change you mentioned a few minutes ago?”

“It’s not good news,” answered Scofield, picking up the papers in his lap. “They’ve moved up the schedule—he, Matareisen, has moved it up.… Here, listen to this. ‘I will announce a new date soon, possibly from another location. I cannot reach our man in London and that concerns me. Was he trapped by MI-Five? If so, did he break? His wife claims to know nothing, but then she never did. It’s all very unsettling. In the following pages you will find the coded shortwave transmissions for the sectors as they are triggered. They are only wide areas, your memory must recall the specifics. Use your computer access for deciphering. If I do decide to relocate, it will be one of many possibilities, all sufficiently equipped, and a place where no one will find me. Stay at your post. The moment has come. The world will change.’ That’s the end of it, no signature, of course, but it’s Matareisen. The exquisite irony is that Guiderone, his own man, if not his superior, killed their mole in London, the man he can’t find. The only aspect more exquisite is the job I did on Leonard Fredericks, separating the two fuckers.… I know you won’t be offended by my language, priest, you’ve symbolically done the same to your Church.”

“I’m not only offended,” said the handsome, well-spoken cardinal, his voice icelike, “I’m outraged. I’m not only a prince of that holy Church, I’ve dedicated my life to her. To associate me with some wild global economic conspiracy is sheer nonsense and the Holy Father will certainly understand. This is just another anti-Catholic diatribe, we suffer from them constantly.”

“Oh, boy, Cardinal-baby, you just really blew it. Who said anything about global economics?”

Paravacini’s head snapped around toward Bray, his eyes wide. He was trapped and he knew it. “I have nothing more to say.”

“Then I’ll just have to mess up your face until you do.” Scofield put the papers and the envelope on the deck, got up from the chair, and menacingly approached the prince of the Church.

“No need to bruise your frail hands, old friend,” broke in Togazzi, walking away from the railing, “I gave the camera to one of my men. For the record, I’m sure he’ll take a picture of the body on the lawn, and together with the other photographs, the sequence will be clear. He’ll bring the camera to me and you’ll hold the Barcelona envelope in front of our errant cardinal. The evidence will be irrefutable.”

“Certainly convincing,” agreed Brandon.

“Also, I have friends of friends in the curia. This traitor to his faith will be the disgrace of the Church, a pariah in his own world.”

Suddenly, without warning, Cardinal Paravacini leaped up from his chair, wrestling the gun from old Togazzi’s hand. Before Scofield could react, the priest turned the weapon on himself, the barrel at his temple. He fired, shattering his skull into a thousand fragments.

“
Morte prima di disonore
,” said Don Silvio, looking down at the befouled corpse. “It’s an Italian expression, you know, from the sixteenth century.”

“ ‘Death before dishonor,’ ” said Brandon quietly. “The tattoo trade has made it banal, but this is what it’s all about. He had power, wealth, and enormous influence in and out of the Church. Stripped of all that, there was nothing.”

“
Rispetto
,” offered Togazzi. “He had respect and without respect he lost his manhood. Above all, an Italian male, especially a priest, must keep his manhood.”

“So much for the Italian branch of the Matarese. We’d better fly this material to the computer wizards in Amsterdam. Maybe they’ll come up with something. It’s all we’ve
got.” The shipboard telephone rang, startling both men. Five rings echoed throughout the yacht before Brandon found it. “
Buon giorno
,” he said, prepared to hand over the phone to Togazzi if the Italian was spoken too rapidly. Instead, the words were in precise if accented English, the voice that of a woman.

“You have shed the blood of a Paravacini, a man of great honor. You will pay.”

Inside the mansion, standing by a library window, the housemaid hung up the phone while putting down binoculars on a nearby table. Tears fell down her cheeks; her lover was gone and with him a way of life she would never know again.

Y
ou three have to get back to London,” said Frank Shields over the phone to Pryce in Philadelphia. “Right away.”

“What about Wahlburg?”

“We’re taking care of that. Our people have already been there, removed the body and all signs of the suicide. Nothing will reach the media, he’s just disappeared.”

“Nobody else lived there?”

“Just a butler or a manservant or whatever you call them who had a room down the hall from Wahlburg. He was a trained male nurse, and Wahlburg was somewhat of a hypochondriac. His wife died several years ago, and his two daughters are married and live in Los Angeles and San Antonio. We’ve got a clear field; the telephone answering machine is covered by an out-of-town message.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“I think, and hope, that his three Matarese friends, Fowler, Whitehead, and Nichols, will go out of their minds when they can’t reach him. And if you did your job in New York and Palm Beach, they’ll assume the worst and start looking for sanctuary. That’s when mistakes will be made.”

“I did my job, Frank. Now what’s this about London?”

“Hold on to your hats or sit down. Matareisen escaped from MI-Five.”

“
Impossible!
” roared Pryce.

“All too possible,” replied Shields. “I won’t go into the particulars, but he got away and is presumed to be en route to somewhere in Europe.”

“Good
Christ!
”

“There’s more. Scofield and his friend Togazzi found the Matarese connection in Milan. It was the Cardinal Paravacini you spoke about in your debriefing.”

“No surprise,” interrupted Cameron. “Have they got him in tow?”

“No, he killed himself, shot himself in the head when they spelled out his involvement.”

“They gave him a
gun?
”

“He grabbed it out of old Togazzi’s hand. The point is that the cardinal received a multicouriered package sent by Matareisen before you fellows took him. It’s all in computer-speak so it’s been flown to the Keizersgracht. In essence, the Matarese schedule has been moved up—”

“Moved
up
,” yelled Pryce. “There aren’t that many days left!”

“That’s why Scofield wants you back. He won’t even tell me or Geoffrey Waters why. Just that it’s a job for you two.”

“The elliptical son of a bitch!”

“You’re all booked on the Concorde’s morning flight at nine-forty-five out of Kennedy. Captain Terence Henderson is the pilot and a good friend of MI-Five. He’ll meet you in the lounge and escort you on board.”

“That doesn’t give us much time.”

“A helicopter will pick you up in a field west of the hotel’s parking lot and fly you there. We’ve cleared it; the chopper will arrive in roughly fifty minutes.”

“We’re going to be jet-lagged out.”

“You’ve only begun. A plane will be ready for you at Heathrow. Lieutenant Considine will fly you directly to Milan, to Brandon and Togazzi.”

“As I believe I said once before, you’re all heart, Squinty.”

“Never pretended to be otherwise,
Camshaft
. Start packing.”

The flight to London was uneventful, Captain Henderson the perfect British officer, in the military or out, his modulated speech the essence of understated authority; one did not cross him.

“When we land,” said Henderson, “please stay on board until everyone else leaves the cabin. I’ll escort you past customs.”

“Boy, you’re really into this stuff, aren’t you, Captain?” said Luther, in the aisle seat across from Pryce and Montrose. “Are you a James Bond type, or something?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.” Henderson smiled; it was a genuine smile, laced with humor. He leaned down and whispered, “But don’t pursue it, or I’ll switch on the afterburners and blow you out of your seat.”

“Hey, man, I’m a flyboy, too—”

“I know that, Commander—”

“Everybody jumps me a grade.”

“Why not come up to the flight deck? You might enjoy it.”

“I think I will—and watch your moves.”

“Be my guest, old chap. Come along now.” Luther got out of his seat and followed the captain up the aisle.

Leslie turned to Pryce. “I want to go with you to Milan.”

“Not this time,” said Cameron. “I called Geof Waters from the Concorde lounge, and he told me that Scofield was sending Antonia back to London.”

“That’s Antonia, not me,” interrupted Lieutenant Colonel Montrose firmly.

“Easy, Army, I haven’t finished. Geof also said that Bray requested a truckload of crazy equipment—‘positively insane’ was the way Waters described it—to be flown to a destination he would name later.”

“And Geoffrey agreed?”

“He said a funny thing. He said that when Beowulf Agate behaves this way, he’s usually on to something.”

“Then I’d say he damn well better share it.”

“I said pretty much the same thing; at least he should offer a justification. But Geof disagreed. He wants to give Scofield a day or two to confirm whatever it is he’s zeroed in on.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around, confirm first?”

“Maybe not. The Matarese’s schedule has been moved up, as I told you, so we could be looking at a week or less. Bray must be damn sure of himself, and if he proves out, we have to move fast.”

“It doesn’t appear to be sound field strategy to me.”

“You mean military strategy, only we’re not military and the fields are different.”

“I’d still rather go with you.”

“Not until I find out what Scofield’s got in mind. You have a child, I don’t.”

The next eight hours were a nonstop whirl of activity. Captain Henderson broke his own record by crossing the Atlantic in two hours and fifty-one minutes. At Heathrow Airport, after being escorted off the plane by the captain, they met Sir Geoffrey Waters, who carried two suitcases, one for Cam, the other for Luther.

“Since we obtained the lieutenant’s uniform measurements from the U.S. Navy, and we had a number of Cameron’s clothes from the last hotel, we ordered new clothing for each of you. It’s in this luggage.”

“Why did you do that?” asked Pryce.

“Just a precaution, old man. There are no labels, no common fabrics favored by specific clothiers—in other words, no way to trace your identities through the purchases.”

“Holy
shit!
” exclaimed Luther. “What did this cat figure we’d be doing?”

“He didn’t say, Lieutenant. But I go back a long time with the man we call Beowulf Agate, much of it at a distance, I grant you. However, I’m aware of his, shall we say,

outré
machinations. Therefore, we must protect the Service.”

“What about protecting
us?
” said Considine.

“If it comes down to your clothing, chap, you’ll be beyond protection.”

“Thanks a lot! I’m a superqualified pilot. Can’t NASA send me to the moon or to Mars?”

“Remember Pensacola, Luther,” said Pryce. “There’s a commander who’s waiting for you—Commander.”

“That isn’t much good if it comes down to the clothing.”

“You still have a couple of hours of light, Lieutenant,” remarked Waters, “and your Bristol Freighter is on a nearby runway. Your copilot—one of our fellows who only knows he’s accompanying you to Milan—has the approved flight plan. You and Cameron had better get started.”