The Matlock Paper

by Robert Ludlum

  Loring looked at his watch. It was twelve forty, but Matlock was still in his apartment. Time was running short. In a few minutes, Loring was expected to be at Crescent Street. 217 Crescent. It was where he would make cover-contact for his second vehicle transfer.

  He knew it wasn’t necessary for him to physically watch Matlock. After all, he’d read the file thoroughly, looked at scores of photographs, and even talked briefly with Dr. Sealfont, Carlyle’s president. Nevertheless, each agent had his own working methods, and his included watching subjects for a period of hours before making contact. Several colleagues at Justice claimed it gave him a sense of power. Loring knew only that it gave him a sense of confidence.

  Matlock’s front door opened and a tall man walked out into the sunlight. He was dressed in khaki trousers, loafers, and a tan turtleneck sweater. Loring saw that he was modestly good looking with sharp features and fairly long blond hair. He checked the lock on his door, put on a pair of sunglasses, and walked around the sidewalk to what Loring presumed was a small parking area. Several minutes later, James Matlock drove out of the driveway in a Triumph sportscar.

  The government man reflected that his subject seemed to have the best of a pleasant life. Sufficient income, no responsibilities, work he enjoyed, even a convenient relationship with an attractive girl.

  Loring wondered if it would all be the same for James Barbour Matlock three weeks from then. For Matlock’s world was about to be plunged into an abyss.

  2

  Matlock pressed the Triumph’s accelerator to the floor and the low-slung automobile vibrated as the speedometer reached sixty-two miles per hour. It wasn’t that he was in a hurry—Pat Ballantyne wasn’t going anywhere—just that he was angry. Well, not angry, really; just irritated. He was usually irritated after a phone call from home. Time would never eliminate that. Nor money, if ever he made any to speak of—amounts his father considered respectable. What caused his irritation was the infuriating condescension. It grew worse as his mother and father advanced in years. Instead of making peace with the situation, they dwelled on it. They insisted that he spend the spring midterm vacation in Scarsdale so that he and his father could make daily trips into the city. To the banks, to the attorneys. To make ready for the inevitable, when and if it ever happened.

  “… There’s a lot you’ll have to digest, son,” his father had said sepulchrally. “You’re not exactly prepared, you know.…”

  “… You’re all that’s left, darling,” his mother had said with obvious pain.

  Matlock knew they enjoyed their anticipated, martyred leave-taking of this world. They’d made their mark—or at least his father had. The amusing part was that his parents were as strong as pack mules, as healthy as wild horses. They’d no doubt outlast him by decades.

  The truth was that they wanted him with them far more than he wished to be there. It had been that way for the past three years, since David’s death at the Cape. Perhaps, thought Matlock, as he drew up in front of Pat’s apartment, the roots of his irritation were in his own guilt. He’d never quite made peace with himself about David. He never would.

  And he didn’t want to be in Scarsdale during the midterm holidays. He didn’t want the memories. He had someone now who was helping him forget the awful years—of death, no love, and indecision. He’d promised to take Pat to St. Thomas.

  The name of the country inn was the Cheshire Cat, and, as its title implied, it was Englishy and pubbish. The food was decent, the drinks generous, and those factors made it a favorite spot of Connecticut’s exurbia. They’d finished their second Bloody Mary and had ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. There were perhaps a dozen couples and several families in the spacious dining area. In the corner sat a single man reading The New York Times with the pages folded vertically, commuter fashion.

  “He’s probably an irate father waiting for a son who’s about to splash out. I know the type. They take the Scarsdale train every morning.”

  “He’s too relaxed.”

  “They learn to hide tension. Only their druggists know. All that Gelusil.”

  “There are always signs, and he hasn’t any. He looks positively self-satisfied. You’re wrong.”

  “You just don’t know Scarsdale. Self-satisfaction is a registered trademark. You can’t buy a house without it.”

  “Speaking of such things, what are you going to do? I really think we should cancel St. Thomas.”

  “I don’t. It’s been a rough winter; we deserve a little sun. Anyway, they’re being unreasonable. There’s nothing I want to learn about the Matlock manipulations; it’s a waste of time. In the unlikely event that they ever do go, others’ll be in charge.”

  “I thought we agreed that was only an excuse. They want you around for a while. I think it’s touching they do it this way.”

  “It’s not touching, it’s my father’s transparent attempt at bribery.… Look. Our commuter’s given up.” The single man with the newspaper finished his drink and was explaining to the waitress that he wasn’t ordering lunch. “Five’ll get you ten he pictured his son’s hair and leather jacket—maybe bare feet—and just panicked.”

  “I think you’re wishing it on the poor man.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m too sympathetic. I can’t stand the aggravation that goes with rebellion. Makes me self-conscious.”

  “You’re a very funny man, Private Matlock,” said Pat, alluding to Matlock’s inglorious army career. “When we finish, let’s go down to Hartford. There’s a good movie.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. We can’t today.… Sealfont called me this morning for an early evening conference. Said it was important.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not sure. The African studies may be in trouble. That ‘Tom’ I recruited from Howard turned out to be a beaut. I think he’s a little to the right of Louis XIV.”

  She smiled. “Really, you’re terrible.”

  Matlock took her hand.

  The residence of Dr. Adrian Sealfont was imposingly appropriate. It was a large white colonial mansion with wide marble steps leading up to thick double doors carved in relief. Along the front were Ionic pillars spanning the width of the building. Floodlights from the lawn were turned on at sundown.

  Matlock walked up the stairs to the door and rang the bell. Thirty seconds later he was admitted by a maid, who ushered him through the hallway toward the rear of the house, into Dr. Sealfont’s huge library.

  Adrian Sealfont stood in the center of the room with two other men. Matlock, as always, was struck by the presence of the man. A shade over six feet, thin, with aquiline features, he radiated a warmth that touched all who were near him. There was about him a genuine humility which concealed his brilliance from those who did not know him. Matlock liked him immensely.

  “Hello, James.” Sealfont extended his hand to Matlock. “Mr. Loring, may I present Dr. Matlock?”

  “How do you do? Hi, Sam.” Matlock addressed this last to the third man, Samuel Kressel, dean of colleges at Carlyle.

  “Hello, Jim.”

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” asked Matlock, looking at Loring. “I’m trying to remember.”

  “I’m going to be very embarrassed if you do.”

  “I’ll bet you will!” laughed Kressel with his sardonic, slightly offensive humor. Matlock also liked Sam Kressel, more because he knew the pain of Kressel’s job—what he had to contend with—than for the man himself.

  “What do you mean, Sam?”

  “I’ll answer you,” interrupted Adrian Sealfont. “Mr. Loring is with the federal government, the Justice Department. I agreed to arrange a meeting between the three of you, but I did not agree to what Sam and Mr. Loring have just referred to. Apparently Mr. Loring has seen fit to have you—what is the term—under surveillance. I’ve registered my strong objections.” Sealfont looked directly at Loring.

  “You’ve had me what?” asked Matlock quietly.

  “I apologize,” sai
d Loring persuasively. “It’s a personal idiosyncrasy and has nothing to do with our business.”

  “You’re the commuter in the Cheshire Cat.”

  “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.

  3

  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 inv
estments.… 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.”