The Matlock Paper (3 page)

“The what?” asked Sam Kressel.

“The man with the newspaper.”

“That’s right. I knew you’d noticed me this afternoon. I thought you’d recognize me the minute you saw me again. I didn’t know I looked like a commuter.”

“It was the newspaper. We called you an irate father.”

“Sometimes I am. Not often, though. My daughter’s only seven.”

“I think we should begin,” Sealfont said. “Incidentally, James, I’m relieved your reaction is so understanding.”

“My only reaction is curiosity. And a healthy degree of fear. To tell you the truth, I’m scared to death.” Matlock smiled haltingly. “What’s it all about?”

“Let’s have a drink while we talk.” Adrian Sealfont smiled back and walked to his copper-topped dry bar in the corner of the room. “You’re a bourbon and water man, aren’t you, James? And Sam, a double Scotch over ice, correct? What’s yours, Mr. Loring?”

“Scotch’ll be fine. Just water.”

“Here, James, give me a hand.” Matlock crossed to Sealfont and helped him.

“You amaze me, Adrian,” said Kressel, sitting down in a leather armchair. “What in heaven’s name prompts you to remember your subordinates’ choice of liquor?”

Sealfont laughed. “The most logical reason of all. And it certainly isn’t confined to my … colleagues. I’ve raised more money for this institution with alcohol than with hundreds of reports prepared by the best analytic minds in fund-raising circles.” Here Adrian Sealfont paused and chuckled—as much to himself as to those in the room. “I once gave a speech to the Organization of University Presidents. In the question and answer period, I was asked to what I attributed Carlyle’s endowment.… I’m afraid I replied, ‘To those ancient peoples who developed the art of fermenting the vineyards.’ … My late wife roared but told me later I’d set the fund back a decade.”

The three men laughed; Matlock distributed the drinks.

“Your health,” said the president of Carlyle, raising his glass modestly. The toast, however, was brief. “This is a bit awkward, James … Sam. Several weeks ago I was contacted by Mr. Loring’s superior. He asked me to come to Washington on a matter of utmost importance, relative to Carlyle. I did so and was briefed on a situation I still refuse to accept. Certain information which Mr. Loring will impart to you seems incontrovertible on the surface. But that is the surface: rumor; out-of-context statements, written and verbal; constructed evidence which may be meaningless. On the other hand, there might well be a degree of substance. It is on that possibility that I’ve agreed
to this meeting. I must make it clear, however, that I cannot be a party to it. Carlyle
will not
be a party to it. Whatever may take place in this room has my unacknowledged approval but not my official sanction. You act as individuals, not as members of the faculty or staff of Carlyle. If, indeed, you decide to act at all.… Now, James, if that doesn’t ‘scare you,’ I don’t know what will.” Sealfont smiled again, but his message was clear.

“It scares me,” said Matlock without emphasis.

Kressel put down his glass and leaned forward on the chair. “Are we to assume from what you’ve said that you don’t endorse Loring’s presence here? Or whatever it is he wants?”

“It’s a gray area. If there’s substance to his charges, I certainly cannot turn my back. On the other hand, no university president these days will openly collaborate with a government agency on speculation. You’ll forgive me, Mr. Loring, but too many people in Washington have taken advantage of the academic communities. I refer specifically to Michigan, Columbia, Berkeley … among others. Simple police matters are one thing, infiltration … well, that’s something else again.”

“Infiltration? That’s a pretty strong word,” said Matlock.

“Perhaps too strong. I’ll leave the terms to Mr. Loring.”

Kressel picked up his glass. “May I ask why we—Matlock and I—have been chosen?”

“That, again, will be covered in Mr. Loring’s discussion. However, since I’m responsible for
your
being here, Sam, I’ll tell you
my
reasons. As dean, you’re more closely attuned to campus affairs than anyone else.… You will also be aware of it if Mr. Loring or
his associates overstep their bounds.… I think that’s all I have to say. I’m going over to the assembly. That filmmaker, Strauss, is speaking tonight and I’ve got to put in an appearance.” Sealfont walked back to the bar and put his glass on the tray. The three other men rose.

“One thing before you go,” said Kressel, his brow wrinkled. “Suppose one or both of us decide we want no part of Mr. Loring’s … business?”

“Then refuse.” Adrian Sealfont crossed to the library door. “You are under no obligation whatsoever; I want that perfectly clear. Mr. Loring understands. Good evening, gentlemen.” Sealfont walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

The three men remained silent, standing motionless. They could hear the front entrance open and close. Kressel turned and looked at Loring.

“It seems to me you’ve been put on the spot.”

“I usually am in these situations. Let me clarify my position; it will partly explain this meeting. The first thing you should know is that I’m with the Justice Department,
Narcotics
Bureau.”

Kressel sat down and sipped at his drink. “You haven’t traveled up here to tell us forty percent of the student body is on pot and a few other items, have you? Because if so, it’s nothing we don’t know.”

“No, I haven’t. I assume you
do
know about such things. Everyone does. I’m not sure about the percentage, though. It could be a low estimate.”

Matlock finished his bourbon and decided to have another. He spoke as he crossed to the copper bar table. “It may be low or high, but comparatively speaking—in relation to other campuses—we’re not in a panic.”

“There’s no reason for you to be. Not about that.”

“There’s something else?”

“Very much so.” Loring walked to Sealfont’s desk and bent down to pick up his briefcase from the floor. It was apparent that the government man and Carlyle’s
president had talked before Matlock and Kressel arrived. Loring put the briefcase on the desk and opened it. Matlock walked back to his chair and sat down.

“I’d like to show you something.” Loring reached into the briefcase and withdrew a thick page of silver-colored stationery, cut diagonally as if with pinking shears. The silver coating was now filthy with repeated handling and blotches of grease or dirt. He approached Matlock’s chair and handed it to him. Kressel got up and came over.

“It’s some kind of letter. Or announcement. With numbers,” said Matlock. “It’s in French; no, Italian, I think. I can’t make it out.”

“Very good, professor,” said Loring. “A lot of both and not a predominance of either. Actually, it’s a Corsican dialect, written out. It’s called the Oltremontan strain, used in the southern hill country. Like Etruscan, it’s not entirely translatable. But what codes are used are simple to the point of not being codes at all. I don’t think they were meant to be; there aren’t too many of these. So there’s enough here to tell us what we need to know.”

“Which is?” asked Kressel, taking the strange-looking paper from Matlock.

“First I’d like to explain how we got it. Without that explanation, the information is meaningless.”

“Go ahead.” Kressel handed the filthy silver paper back to the government agent, who carried it to the desk and carefully returned it to his briefcase.

“A narcotics courier—that is, a man who goes into a specific source territory carrying instructions, money, messages—left the country six weeks ago. He was more than a courier, actually; he was quite powerful in the distribution hierarchy; you might say he was
on a busman’s holiday, Mediterranean style. Or perhaps he was checking investments.… At any rate, he was killed by some mountain people in the Toros Daglari—that’s Turkey, a growing district. The story is, he canceled operations there and the violence followed. We accept that; the Mediterranean fields are closing down right and left, moving into South America.… The paper was found on his body, in a skin belt. As you saw, it’s been handed around a bit. It brought a succession of prices from Ankara to Marrakesh. An Interpol undercover man finally made the purchase and it was turned over to us.”

“From Toros Dag-whatever-it-is to Washington. That paper’s had quite a journey,” said Matlock.

“And an expensive one,” added Loring. “Only it’s not in Washington now, it’s here. From Toros Daglari to Carlyle, Connecticut.”

“I assume that means something.” Sam Kressel sat down, apprehensively watching the government man.

“It means the information in that paper concerns Carlyle.” Loring leaned back against the desk and spoke calmly, with no sense of urgency at all. He could have been an instructor in front of a class explaining a dry but necessary mathematics theorem. “The paper says there’ll be a conference on the tenth of May, three weeks from tomorrow. The numbers are the map coordinates of the Carlyle area—precision decimals of longitude and latitude in Greenwich units. The paper itself identifies the holder to be one of those summoned. Each paper has either a matching half or is cut from a pattern that can be matched—simple additional security. What’s missing is the precise location.”

“Wait a minute.” Kressel’s voice was controlled but sharp; he was upset. “Aren’t you ahead of yourself,
Loring? You’re giving us information—obviously restricted—before you state your request. This university administration isn’t interested in being an investigative arm of the government. Before you go into facts, you’d better say what you want.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kressel. You said I was on the spot and I am. I’m handling it badly.”

“Like hell. You’re an expert.”

“Hold it, Sam.” Matlock raised his hand off the arm of the chair. Kressel’s sudden antagonism seemed uncalled for. “Sealfont said we had the option to refuse whatever he wants. If we exercise that option—and we probably will—I’d like to think we did so out of judgment, not blind reaction.”

“Don’t be naïve, Jim. You receive restricted or classified information and instantly,
post facto
, you’re involved. You can’t deny receiving it; you can’t say it didn’t happen.”

Matlock looked up at Loring. “Is that true?”

“To a degree, yes. I won’t lie about it.”

“Then why should we listen to you?”

“Because Carlyle University
is
involved; has been for years. And the situation is critical. So critical that there are only three weeks left to act on the information we have.”

Kressel got out of his chair, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “Create the crisis—without proof—and force the involvement. The crisis fades but the records show the university was a silent participant in a federal investigation. That was the pattern at the University of Wisconsin.” Kressel turned to Matlock. “Do you remember that one, Jim? Six days of riots on campus. Half a semester lost on teach-ins.”

“That was Pentagon oriented,” said Loring. “The circumstances were entirely different.”

“You think the Justice Department makes it more palatable? Read a few campus newspapers.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sam, let the man talk. If you don’t want to listen, go home. I want to hear what he has to say.”

Kressel looked down at Matlock. “All right. I think I understand. Go ahead, Loring. Just remember, no obligations. And we’re not bound to respect any conditions of confidence.”

“I’ll gamble on your common sense.”

“That may be a mistake.” Kressel walked to the bar and replenished his drink.

Loring sat on the edge of the desk. “I’ll start by asking both of you if you’ve ever heard of the word
nimrod
.”

“Nimrod is a Hebrew name,” Matlock answered. “Old Testament. A descendant of Noah, ruler of Babylon and Nineveh. Legendary prowess as a hunter, which obscures the more important fact that he founded, or built, the great cities in Assyria and Mesopotamia.”

Loring smiled. “Very good again, professor. A
hunter
and a
builder
. I’m speaking in more contemporary terms, however.”

“Then, no, I haven’t. Have you, Sam?”

Kressel walked back to his chair, carrying his glass. “I didn’t even know what you just said. I thought a nimrod was a casting fly. Very good for trout.”

“Then I’ll fill in some background.… I don’t mean to bore you with narcotics statistics; I’m sure you’re bombarded with them constantly.”

“Constantly,” said Kressel.

“But there’s an isolated geographical statistic you may not be aware of. The concentration of drug traffic in the New England states is growing at a rate exceeding
that of any other section of the country. It’s a startling pattern. Since 1968, there’s been a systematic erosion of enforcement procedures.… Let me put it into perspective, geographically. In California, Illinois, Louisiana, narcotics controls have improved to the point of at least curtailing the growth curves. It’s really the best we can hope for until the international agreements have teeth. But not in the New England area. Throughout this section, the expansion has gone wild. It’s hit the colleges hard.”

“How do you know that?” asked Matlock.

“Dozens of ways and always too late to prevent distribution. Informers, marked inventories from Mediterranean, Asian, and Latin American sources, traceable Swiss deposits; that
is
restricted data.” Loring looked at Kressel and smiled.

“Now I know you people are crazy.” Kressel spoke disagreeably. “It seems to me that if you can substantiate those charges, you should do so publicly. And loud.”

“We have our reasons.”

“Also restricted, I assume,” said Kressel with faint disgust.

“There’s a side issue,” continued the government man, disregarding him. “The eastern prestige campuses—large and small, Princeton, Amherst, Harvard, Vassar, Williams, Carlyle—a good percentage of their enrollments include VIP kids. Sons and daughters of very important people, especially in government and industry. There’s a blackmail potential, and we think it’s been used. Such people are painfully sensitive to drug scandals.”

Kressel interrupted. “Granting what you say is true, and I don’t, we’ve had less trouble here than most other colleges in the northeast area.”