The Matlock Paper (37 page)

And then he would spell out his terms for an accommodation with Nimrod. Lucas Herron’s diaries for his life—and the life of the girl. Certainly the diaries were worth a sum of money sufficient for both of them to start again somewhere.

Nimrod could do this. Nimrod
had
to do it.

“The key to this … let’s call it phase one … is the amount of conviction you display.” Dunois spoke carefully. “Remember, you are in panic. You have taken lives, killed other human beings. You are not a violent man but you’ve been forced, coerced into frightening crimes.”

“It’s the truth. More than you know.”

“Good. Convey that feeling. All a panicked man wants is to get away from the scene of his panic. Nimrod must believe this. It guarantees your immediate safety.”

A second telephone call would then be made by Matlock—to confirm Nimrod’s acceptance of a meeting. The location, at this point, could be chosen by
Nimrod. Matlock would call again to learn where. But the meeting must take place before ten o’clock in the morning.”

“By now, you, the fugitive, seeing freedom in sight, suddenly possess doubts,” said Dunois. “In your gathering hysteria, you need a guarantee factor.”

“Which is?”

“A third party; a mythical third party.…”

Matlock was to inform the contact at the Carlyle Police Headquarters that he had written up a complete statement about the Nimrod operation. Herron’s diaries, identities, everything. This statement had been sealed in an envelope and given to a friend. It would be mailed to the Justice Department at ten in the morning unless Matlock instructed otherwise.

“Here, phase two depends again on conviction, but of another sort. Watch a caged animal whose captors suddenly open the gate. He’s wary, suspicious; he approaches his escape with caution. So, too, must our fugitive. It will be expected. You have been most resourceful during the past week. By logic you should have been dead by now, but you survived. You must continue that cunning.”

“I understand.”

The last phase was created by Julian Dunois to guarantee—as much as was possible in a “best-efforts situation”—the reclaiming of the girl and the safety of Matlock. It would be engineered by a third and final telephone call to Nimrod’s contact. The object of the call was to ascertain the specific location of the meeting and the precise time.

When informed of both, Matlock was to accept without hesitation.

At first.

Then moments later—seemingly with no other reason
than the last extremity of panic and suspicion—he was to reject Nimrod’s choice.

Not the time—the location.

He was to hesitate, to stutter, to behave as close to irrationality as he could muster. And then, suddenly, he was to blurt out a second location of his
own
choice. As if it had just come to mind with no thoughts of it before that moment. He was then to restate the existence of the nonexistent statement which a mythical friend would mail to Washington at ten in the morning. He was then to hang up without listening further.

“The most important factor in phase three is the recognizable consistency of your panic. Nimrod must see that your reactions are now primitive. The act itself is about to happen. You lash out, recoil, set up barriers to avoid his net, should that net exist. In your hysteria, you are as dangerous to him as a wounded cobra is deadly to the tiger. For rationality doesn’t exist, only survival. He now must meet you himself, he now must bring the girl. He will, of course, arrive with his palace guard. His intentions won’t change. He’ll take the diaries, perhaps discuss elaborate plans for your accommodation, and when he learns that there is no written statement, no friend about to mail it, he’ll expect to kill you both.… However, none of his intentions will be carried out. For we’ll be waiting for him.”

“How? How will you be waiting for him?”

“With my own palace guard.… We shall now, you and I, decide on that hysterically arrived at second location. It should be in an area you know well, perhaps frequent often. Not too far away, for it is presumed you have no automobile. Secluded, because you are hunted by the law. Yet accessible, for you
must travel fast, most likely on back roads.”

“You’re describing Herron’s Nest. Herron’s house.”

“I may be, but we can’t use it. It’s psychologically inconsistent. It would be a break in our fugitive’s pattern of behavior. Herron’s Nest is the root of his fear. He wouldn’t go back there.… Someplace else.”

Williams started to speak. He was still unsure, still wary of joining Dunois’s world. “I think, perhaps …”

“What, Brother Williams? What do you think?”

“Professor Matlock often dines at a restaurant called the Cheshire Cat.”

Matlock snapped his head up at the black radical. “You too? You’ve had me followed.”

“Quite often. We don’t enter such places. We’d be conspicuous.”

“Go on, brother,” broke in Dunois.

“The Cheshire Cat is about four miles outside Carlyle. It’s set back from the highway, which is the normal way to get there, about half a mile, but it also can be reached by taking several back roads. Behind and to the sides of the restaurant are patios and gardens used in the summer for dining. Beyond these are woods.”

“Anyone on the premises?”

“A single night watchman, I believe. It doesn’t open until one. I don’t imagine cleanup crews or kitchen help get there before nine thirty or ten.”

“Excellent.” Dunois looked at his wristwatch. “It’s now ten past five. Say we allow fifteen minutes between phases one, two, and three and an additional twenty minutes for traveling between stations, that would make it approximately six fifteen. Say six thirty for contingencies. We’ll set the rendezvous for seven. Behind the Cheshire Cat. Get the notebook, brother. I’ll alert the men.”

Williams rose from his chair and walked to the door. He turned and addressed Dunois. “You won’t change your mind? You won’t let me come with the rest of you?”

Dunois didn’t bother to look up. He answered curtly. “Don’t annoy me. I’ve a great deal to think about.”

Williams left the room quickly.

Matlock watched Dunois. He was still sketching his meaningless figures on the yellow pad, only now he bore down on the pencil, causing deep ridges on the paper. Matlock saw the diagram emerging. It was a series of jagged lines, all converging.

They were bolts of lightning.

“Listen to me,” he said. “It’s not too late. Call in the authorities. Please, for Christ’s sake, you can’t risk the lives of these kids.”

From behind his glasses, surrounded by the gauze bandages, Dunois’s eyes bore into Matlock. He spoke with contempt. “Do you for one minute think I would allow these children to tread in waters I don’t even know
I
can survive? We’re not your Joint Chiefs of Staff, Matlock. We have greater respect, greater love for our young.”

Matlock recalled Adam Williams’ protestations at the door. “That’s what Williams meant then? About coming with you.”

“Come with me.”

Dunois led Matlock out of the small, windowless room and down the corridor to a staircase. There were a few students milling about, but only a few. The rest of Lumumba Hall was asleep. They proceeded down two flights to a door Matlock remembered as leading to the cellars, to the old, high-ceilinged chapter room in which he’d witnessed the frightening performance of the African tribal rite. They descended the stairs
and, as Matlock suspected, went to the rear of the cellars, to the thick oak door of the chapter room. Dunois had not spoken a word since he’d bade Matlock follow him.

Inside the chapter room were eight blacks, each well over six feet tall. They were dressed alike: dark, tight-fitting khakis with open shirts and black, soft leather ankle boots with thick rubber soles. Several were sitting, playing cards; others were reading, some talking quietly among themselves. Matlock noticed that a few had their shirt sleeves rolled up. The arms displayed were tautly muscular, veins close to the skin. They all nodded informally to Dunois and his guest. Two or three smiled intelligently at Matlock, as if to put him at ease. Dunois spoke softly.

“The palace guard.”

“My God!”

“The elite corps. Each man is trained over a period of three years. There is not a weapon he cannot fire or fix, a vehicle he cannot repair … or a philosophy he cannot debate. Each is familiar with the most brutal forms of combat, traditional as well as guerrilla. Each is committed until death.”

“The terror brigade, is that it? It’s not new, you know.”

“Not with that description, no, it wouldn’t be. Don’t forget, I grew up with such dogs at my heels. Duvalier’s Ton Ton Macoute were a pack of hyenas; I witnessed their work. These men are no such animals.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Duvalier.”

“On the other hand, I acknowledge the debt to Papa Doc. The Ton Ton’s concept was exciting to me. Only I realized it had to be restructured. Such units are springing up all over the country.”

“They sprung up once before,” Matlock said. “They
were called ‘elite’ then, too. They were also called ‘units’—SS units.”

Dunois looked at Matlock and Matlock saw the hurt in his eyes. “To reach for such parallels is painful. Nor is it justified. We do what we have to do. What is right for us to do.”

“
Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Fuehrer
,” said Matlock softly.

Everything happened so fast. Two of Dunois’s elite guard were assigned to him, the rest left for the rendezvous with Nimrod, to prepare themselves to meet another elite guard—the selected few of Nimrod’s private army who undoubtedly would accompany him. Matlock was ushered across the campus by the two huge blacks after the word came back from scouts that the path was clear. He was taken to a telephone booth in the basement of a freshman dormitory, where he made his first call.

He found that his fear, his profound fear, aided the impression Dunois wanted to convey. It wasn’t difficult for him to pour out his panicked emotions, pleading for sanctuary, for, in truth, he
felt
panicked. As he spoke hysterically into the phone, he wasn’t sure which was the reality and which the fantasy. He wanted to be free. He wanted Pat to live and be free with him. If Nimrod could bring it all about, why not deal with Nimrod in good faith?

It was a nightmare for him. He was afraid for a moment that he might yell out the truth and throw himself on the mercy of Nimrod.

The sight of Dunois’s own Ton Ton Macoute kept bringing him back to his failing senses, and he ended the first telephone call without breaking. The Carlyle
police “superintendent” would forward the information, receive an answer, and await Matlock’s next call.

The blacks received word from their scouts that the second public telephone wasn’t clear. It was on a street corner, and a patrol car had been spotted in the area. Dunois knew that even public phones could be traced, although it took longer, and so he had alternate sites for each of the calls, the last one to be made on the highway. Matlock was rushed to the first alternate telephone booth. It was on the back steps of the Student Union.

The second call went more easily, although whether that was an advantage was not clear. Matlock was emphatic in his reference to the mythical statement that was to be mailed at ten in the morning. His strength had its effect, and he was grateful for it. The “superintendent” was frightened now, and he didn’t bother to conceal it. Was Nimrod’s private army beginning to have its doubts? The troops were, perhaps, picturing their own stomachs blown out by the enemy’s shells. Therefore, the generals had to be more alert, more aware of the danger.

He was raced to a waiting automobile. It was an old Buick, tarnished, dented, inconspicuous. The exterior, however, belied the inside. The interior was as precisely tooled as a tank. Under the dashboard was a powerful radio; the windows were at least a half-inch thick, paned, Matlock realized, with bulletproof glass. Clipped to the sides were high-powered, short-barreled rifles, and dotted about the body were rubber-flapped holes into which these barrels were to be inserted. The sound of the engine impressed Matlock instantly. It was as powerful a motor as he’d ever heard.

They followed an automobile in front of them at
moderate speed; Matlock realized that another car had taken up the rear position. Dunois had meant it when he said they were to cover themselves on all flanks. Dunois was, indeed, a professional.

And it disturbed James Matlock when he thought about the profession.

It was black. It was also
Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Fuehrer
.

As was Nimrod and all he stood for.

The words came back to him.

“… 
I’m getting out of this goddamn country, mister
.…”

Had it come to that?

And: “… 
You think it’s all so different?… It’s mini-America!… It’s company policy, man!
”

The land was sick. Where was the cure?

“Here we are. Phase three.” The black revolutionary in command tapped him lightly on the arm, smiling reassuringly as he did so. Matlock got out of the car. They were on the highway south of Carlyle. The car in front had pulled up perhaps a hundred yards ahead of them and parked off the road, its lights extinguished. The automobile behind had done the same.

In front of him stood two aluminum-framed telephone booths, placed on a concrete platform. The second black walked to the right booth, pushed the door open—which turned on the dull overhead light—and quickly slid back the pane of glass under the light, exposing the bulb. This he rapidly unscrewed so that the booth returned to darkness. It struck Matlock—impressed him, really—that the Negro giant had eliminated the light this way. It would have been easier, quicker, simply to have smashed the glass.

The objective of the third and final call, as Dunois
had instructed, was to reject Nimrod’s meeting place. Reject it in a manner that left Nimrod no alternative but to accept Matlock’s panicked substitute: the Cheshire Cat.

The voice over the telephone from the Carlyle police was wary, precise.

“Our mutual friend understands your concerns, Matlock. He’d feel the same way you do. He’ll meet you with the girl at the south entrance of the athletic field, to the left of the rear bleachers. It’s a small stadium, not far from the gym and the dormitories. Night watchmen are on; no harm could come to you.…”