The Matarese Countdown (71 page)

“Gotcha, brother,” whispered Luther.

“So do I,” said Brandon, removing his weapon. He turned, walking rapidly to the east side of the estate.

“Unless there are interruptions, we’ll meet back here in ten minutes,” was Cameron’s last instruction before heading into the house.

Inside, he bore to the left, the east section, where the Corsicans had carried the cartons from Bonifacio. The kitchen was immense, worthy of any upscale restaurant, the back staircase narrow and poorly lighted, as apparently befitted the staff, in their employer’s view. Pryce crept up to the second floor, his body nearly prone, his camouflage fatigues giving rise to the image of a giant lizard approaching its prey. He stood up in the hallway, judging which door on the right was above the kitchen. It was obvious, so he sidestepped toward it, his gun and the gas canister in his hands. Awkwardly, he shoved the canister under his left arm and silently tried to twist the doorknob; it did not move, it was locked.

He studied the door, stepped back across the hallway, shifted the canister to his right hand, and bolted forward with all his weight and strength. With an enormous crack, the door burst open, and Cam rushed in, holding his breath and spraying the bed with the immobilizing gas. The slender, stunned chef opened his eyes in panic, started to scream, then collapsed back into the pillows.

Pryce returned to the back stairs, checking his watch; he had four minutes to go. He climbed to the third floor and rounded the corner into the narrow, dark corridor. The first thing that caught his eye was the strip of light at the bottom of the second door on the right. Shoving his weapon into his belt, the canister in his left hand, he reached for the knob.
The door opened and Cam quickly stepped inside. The room was deserted but on the wall above the bed was a small glass panel, a red light blinking in the center accompanied by a low humming sound akin to a soft but constantly ringing alarm clock. Apparently the room belonged to the arousable Rosa. Obviously, it was her night to cover the doors and the alarms.

He had barely two minutes left, not that the time was written in cement, but time spans were important and he did not want Scofield and Considine to think that something had gone wrong and do something foolish like rushing in to search for him. He returned to the dark, narrow hallway, looking to the right and the left. There were three more doors, four in all. A modicum of propriety would dictate that the floors be divided by gender, the proper way for servants’ quarters regardless of improper visiting rights.

Taking his chances, based only on a vague perception that Rosa was the sturdier of the women, Pryce crossed to the first door nearest the staircase and the emergency exit. Oddly enough—and something he had not noticed in the very dim light—the door was open, only an inch perhaps, but definitely open. He slowly pushed it back when he heard the words spoken from within the darkness.

“
Padrone? Mi amore?
”

One did not have to be a linguist to catch the lady’s meaning. “
Sì
,” replied Cameron, approaching the bed. The rest took less than fifteen seconds and Pryce was back by the front porch with twenty-odd seconds to spare.

“I gather your incursion was not only successful but silent,” said Beowulf Agate, his voice low.

“It was,” answered Cam. “Now comes the delicate part.”

“Time for the Gallic commandos, right, fellas?” said Luther.

“Not right,” replied Scofield. “A jet landing—
very
cautiously, I might add—on that not exactly state-of-the-art airstrip, and word goes out about how
crazy
it is. The same jet unloading a commando unit, and emergency sirens aren’t out of the question.”

“However,” interrupted the pilot, “not any telephone calls.”

“What do you mean?” asked Pryce.

“Well, before we left Senetosa, I took a pair of pliers out of the nets on the plane, ran into that so-called tower, and cut the telephone wire that came down from the roof.”

“This young man
really
has possibilities,” said Bray. “You should recruit him.”

“No thanks, elder spook. I like it in the sky.”

“Don’t minimize your contribution, Luther,” Pryce broke in firmly. “You may have given us the few extra moments we need.”

“Why? Because of the telephone?”

“Exactly.”

“But if that controller was going to call here, why didn’t he call before?”

“Good question,” said Scofield, “and I’ll answer it. Because the French authorities told Senetosa that we’re gathering evidence of drug couriers sailing in to the port of Solenzara. This is the nearest airfield, and no French officials will interfere with drug interdictions. They could spend twenty to thirty years in prison if they did.”

“So they don’t know anything about
this
place?”

“That’s the way it’s been planned, Lieutenant.”

“What do you suggest, Bray? You’ve been here before, we haven’t,” Cameron said.

“Matareisen’s isolated, no guards, no servants, right?”

“Right.”

“Total surprise, shock. The fire escape on the top floor has a short lateral walk that passes the right window. One of us breaks through the door from the front stairs, the other stays by the side of the window and crashes the glass. Timed right, he’s cornered.”

“I can climb on your shoulders, Cam,” said Luther. “I’ll be able to reach the bottom rung of the ladder.”

“You could also be in the first line of fire.”

“I can’t support
you
, you big white gorilla, so in for a dime, in for a dollar.”

“Remind me to call a naval commander in Pensacola.”

“Not with my obituary, you dirty dog.”

“I hope not, but I want you to know what you’re doing.”

“I want to do it. Enough said.”

“Enough said.”

“Let’s synchronize our watches, as all those dumb movies say,” said Scofield. “What do you figure, Pryce?”

“Give us three minutes to get Luther on the ladder, another one for me to rejoin you, and thirty seconds for you to go out and cover our pilot on the fire escape. If Matareisen walks to a window, he could spot him. Then allowing for me to find out where I’m going and how to get there without any noise, add five minutes. Altogether that’s nine minutes, thirty. It’s now midnight plus seven.
Mark
.… Let’s go, Luther.”

The pilot climbed to the lowest tier and sat motionless, his eyes on his watch. He would creep up to the top floor during the last thirty seconds of the time span. Cameron slid along the side of the house, judging the line of sight that would be the most feasible for Scofield to protect Considine. Once that was determined, he ran back to Brandon.

“Take your position at the edge of the woods, Bray.”

“Why so far?”

“It’ll have the best sight line to the window. The other angles would either show you on the lawn or are too tough to shoot from.”

“Thanks, kid, I might have recruited you myself.”

“Gosh, thank
you
, Mother.”

“You’ve got roughly five minutes.”

Pryce ran up the porch steps and into the house. The front staircase was at the end of the long foyer of rose marble, the railings gold-plated and glistening under the dim glow of a distant chandelier. He approached the steps, looking for concealed wire trips. His fingers caressed the underside of the railing that curved around to the first landing leading to the second floor; there were none that he could find. He then tested the staircase runner for slight bulges that could indicate alarms; again there were none that he could feel. He found the rheostat for the chandelier and turned up the lights.

Silently, he began climbing, reaching the second floor, his eyes searching every inch below him, looking for the abnormal, a trap. Cam glanced at his watch; his caution was costing him time. He had ninety-eight seconds left and two more floors to go; he hastened his pace.

Stop!
On the steps to the fourth floor, there was a slight discoloration in the runner caused by a minuscule elevation. Pryce took out his knife and swiftly carved around one-half of the circular bulge. Carefully, he peeled the carpeting back. Beneath was a flat metal disc with two wires leading up the staircase. It was either an alarm trip or a land mine, and considering the monstrous agenda of Matareisen, the mine was a distinct possibility. What’s a servant or two?

Sixty-one seconds!

Cameron took the steps two at a time, his eyes now red with strain, knowing that each planted foot could cost him his life.
Thirty-nine seconds!
And he had to be ready, weapon in place, his concentration absolute, his breathing steady. He had been in too many similar situations where a calm, still attitude was as vital as firepower. Without it, operations could easily fail or be aborted.
No more time!

Breathing deeply, Pryce stood five feet from the door, his arm outstretched, his gun aimed at the wood around the knob. Several shots would weaken the lock, his shoulder doing the rest.
Four seconds, three, two, one—now!
He fired three bullets, splintering the wood, simultaneously hearing the loud crash of shattered glass from within. He rushed forward, and with all his strength crashed through the door, instantly lunging to the floor, rolling away from his point of impact.

Jan van der Meer Matareisen, in shock, recovered enough to race to a stack of computer printouts. He picked it up and dashed to a shredder clamped over a large iron receptacle, the glow from which indicated burning coals at the bottom.

“
Don’t do it!
” roared Pryce, his weapon aimed.

“There’s no way you can
stop
me!” screamed Matareisen. “You can’t kill me, I’m worthless to you dead!”

“You’ve got a point,” agreed Cameron, firing. Not, however,
into any life-threatening part of his body; instead, at his legs, specifically his kneecaps. Shrieks of agony filled the room as the Baron of Matarese’s descendant fell to the floor, the printouts flying everywhere but into the shredder. “Break the rest of the window and get in here, Luther!” yelled Pryce, taking out his canister and going over to the writhing, screaming Matareisen. “I’m going to do you a favor, you
bastard
,” said Cam, bending over and spraying the wounded monster’s face. “Unpleasant dreams,” he added.

Considine leaped through the destroyed window and rushed over to Pryce. “Piece of cake, spook,” noted the pilot. “You know, I’m getting to be pretty good at this sort of thing. I mean, when you consider the nets on the plane, the Senetosa telephone, and now this, well, I’m not too shabby.”

“You’re a goddamned hero, Luther.”

“Why, thank you, Cam.”

“I haven’t finished. I agree with Scofield, I hate heroes. They get people killed.”

“Hey, what kind of remark is that?”

“An extremely truthful one. Come on, we’re not finished.”

“What’s to do?”

“First, go downstairs to the kitchen, it’s on the ground floor to the right. Tear the place apart and try to find a first-aid kit. There should be one; people cut themselves in kitchens. We have to bind and tourniquet Matareisen’s legs.”

“Why so kind?”

“Because he was right. He’s no good to us dead. On the staircase, stay off the carpet, the runner, it’s tripped.”

“It’s
what?
”

“Never mind, just stay on the marble. Hurry up, get
going!
” Luther ran out, leaping over the fallen door as Cameron scooped up the computer printouts, shuffling them, and staring at the contents. Two sheets appeared to be some sort of key codes in columns, but they were beyond his expertise. The rest, twenty-odd pages, were again coded, perhaps decipherable with the columned two sheets. Pryce
walked rapidly to the damaged window and shouted, “
Bray
, are you down there?”

Silence. A disturbing silence.

Suddenly, an ear-shattering bell echoed throughout the entire mansion, so loud and startling that it produced instant paralysis. Putting down the printouts, Cameron raced over the demolished door into the hallway. Below on the staircase stood a bewildered Scofield; he had stepped on the alarm trip. Pryce ran down the steps, pulling out his knife and shoving the vaunted Beowulf Agate aside. He knelt down, lifted the cut circle of carpeting, and severed the wires. The deafening bell stopped. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a bomb,” said Cam.

“Why the hell didn’t you
tell
me about it?”

“I thought you were still outside. Come on, I want to show you what we’ve got up here.” They returned to Matareisen’s lair.

“His legs are bleeding,” observed Scofield, seeing the unconscious figure of the Matarese leader.

“It’s his knees, actually. Luther’s looking for some bandages.”

“Bandages, hell. Put a bullet in his head.”

“Counterproductive,” said Pryce, picking up the printouts. “He tried to get rid of these.”

“What are they?”

“Unless I’m grossly mistaken, they’re the signals he was sending out. They’re coded and I’m not that much of a computer whiz.”

“Send them to Amsterdam. With all this equipment, there must be a fax machine.”

“There’s one over there, but I don’t know the fax number at the Keizersgracht.”

“I have it,” said Beowulf Agate, reaching for an inside pocket. “You should learn to be prepared, youngster.”

While the fax did its work, Cameron phoned Greenwald in Amsterdam, explaining the circumstances and the material he was sending to the Keizersgracht. The computer scientist made it clear that all other work would cease, the
unit’s concentration fixed solely on the pages from Corsica. “Do you have a number where I can call you back?”

“Whatever you learn, call Waters in London and Frank Shields at Langley. I can’t do anything here and we’ll be damn busy. I’ll reach you later this morning.” Pryce hung up and turned to Scofield. “You’ve got the Comsat mobile-link phone on you?”

“Of course. Direct to MI-Five on scrambler.”

“Call Geof. Tell him to reach the Deuxième in Marseilles and fly those commandos here.”

“Here?
Now?
What in God’s name
for?
”

“We’re going to a banquet.”