The Matlock Paper

by Robert Ludlum

  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.…”

  “All right. All right, that’s O.K.” Matlock did his best to sound quietly frantic, laying the groundwork for his ultimate refusal. “There are people around; if any of you tried anything, I could scream my head off. And I will!”

  “Of course. But you won’t have to. Nobody wants anyone hurt. It’s a simple transaction; that’s what our friend told me to tell you. He admires you.…”

  “How can I be sure he’ll bring Pat? I have to be sure!”

  “The transaction, Matlock.” The voice was oily, there was a hint of desperation. Dunois’s “cobra” was unpredictable. “That’s what it’s all about. Our friend wants what you found, remember?”

  “I remember.…” Matlock’s mind raced. He realized he had to maintain his hysteria, his unpredictability. But he had to switch the location. Change it without being suspect. If Nimrod became suspicious, Dunois had sentenced Pat to death. “And you tell our friend to remember that there’s a statement in an envelope addressed to men in Washington!”

  “He knows that, for Christ’s sake, I mean … he’s concerned, you know what I mean? Now, we’ll see you at the field, O.K.? In an hour, O.K.?”

  This was the moment. There might not come another.

  “No! Wait a minute.… I’m not going on that campus! The Washington people, they’ve got the whole place watched! They’re all around! They’ll put me away!”

  “No, they won’t.…”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “There’s nobody. So help me, it’s O.K. Calm down, please.”

  “That’s easy for you, not me! No, I’ll tell you where.…”

  He spoke rapidly, disjointedly, as if thinking desperately while talking. First he mentioned Herron’s house, and before the voice could either agree or disagree, he rejected it himself. He then pinpointed the freight yards, and immediately found irrational reasons why he could not go there.

  “Now, don’t get so excited,” said the voice. “It’s a simple transaction.…”

  “That restaurant! Outside of town. The Cheshire Cat! Behind the restaurant, there’s a garden.…”

  The voice was confused trying to keep up with him, and Matlock knew he was carrying off the ploy. He made last references to the diaries and the incriminating affidavit and slammed the telephone receiver into its cradle.

  He stood in the booth, exhausted. Perspiration was dripping down his face, yet the early morning air was cool.

  “That was handled very nicely,” said the black man in command. “Your adversary chose a place within the college, I gather. An intelligent move on his part. Very nicely done, sir.”

  Matlock looked at the uniformed Negro, grateful for his praise and not a little astonished at his own resourcefulness. “I don’t know if I could do it again.”

  “Of course you could,” answered the black, leading Matlock toward the car. “Extreme stress activates a memory bank, not unlike a computer. Probing, rejecting, accepting—all instantaneously. Until panic, of course. There are interesting studies being made regarding the varying thresholds.”

  “Really?” said Matlock as they reached the car door. The Negro motioned him inside. The car lurched forward and they sped off down the highway flanked by the two other automobiles.

  “We’ll take a diagonal route to the restaurant using the roads set back in the farm country,” said the black behind the wheel. “We’ll approach it from the south-west and let you off about a hundred yards from a path used by employees to reach the rear of the building. We’ll point it out to you. Walk directly to the section of the gardens where there’s a large white arbor and a circle of flagstones surrounding a goldfish pond. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m wondering how you do, though.”

  The driver smiled. “I’m not clairvoyant. While you were in the telephone booth, I was in touch with our men by radio. Everything’s ready now. We’re prepared. Remember, the white arbor and the goldfish pond.… And here. Here’s the notebook and the envelope.” The driver reached down to a flap pocket on the side of his door and pulled out the oilcloth package. The envelope was attached to it by a thick elastic band.

  “We’ll be there in less than ten minutes,” said the man in command, shifting his weight to get comfortable. Matlock looked at him. Strapped to his leg—sewn into the tight-fitting khaki, actually—was a leather scabbard. He hadn’t noticed it before and knew why. The bone-handled knife it contained had only recently been inserted. The scabbard housed a blade at least ten inches long.

  Dunois’s elite corps was now, indeed, prepared.

  35

  He stood at the side of the tall white arbor. The sun had risen over the eastern curve, the woods behind him still heavy with mist, dully reflecting the light of the early morning. In front of him the newly filled trees formed corridors for the old brick paths that converged into this restful flagstone haven. There were a number of marble benches placed around the circle, all glistening with morning moisture. From the center of the large patio, the bubbling sounds of the man-made goldfish pond continued incessantly with no break in the sound pattern. Birds could be heard activating their myriad signals, greeting the sun, starting the day’s foraging.

  Matlock’s memory wandered back to Herron’s Nest, to the forbidding green wall which isolated the old man from the outside world. There were similarities, he thought. Perhaps it was fitting that it should all end in such a place.

  He lit a cigarette, extinguishing it after two intakes of smoke. He clutched the notebook, holding it in front of his chest as though it were some impenetrable shield, his head snapping in the direction of every sound, a portion of his life suspended with each movement.

  He wondered where Dunois’s men were. Where had the elite guard hidden itself? Were they watching him, laughing quietly among themselves at his nervous gestures—his so obvious fear? Or were they spread out, guerrilla fashion? Crouched next to the earth or in the low limbs of the trees, ready to spring, prepared to kill?

  And who would they kill? In what numbers and how armed would be Nimrod’s forces? Would Nimrod come? Would Nimrod bring the girl he loved safely back to him? And if Nimrod did, if he finally saw Pat again, would the two of them be caught in the massacre which surely had to follow?

  Who was Nimrod?

  His breathing stopped. The muscles in his arms and legs contorted spastically, stiffened with fear. He closed his eyes tightly—to listen or to pray, he’d never really know, except that his beliefs excluded the existence of God. And so he listened with his eyes shut
tight until he was sure.

  First one, then two automobiles had turned off the highway and had entered the side road leading to the entrance of the Cheshire Cat. Both vehicles were traveling at enormous speeds, their tires screeching as they rounded the front circle leading into the restaurant parking area.

  And then everything was still again. Even the birds were silent; no sound came from anywhere.

  Matlock stepped back under the arbor, pressing himself against its lattice frame. He strained to hear—anything.

  Silence. Yet not silence! Yet, again, a sound so blended with stillness as to be dismissed as a rustling leaf is dismissed.

  It was a scraping. A hesitant, halting scraping from one of the paths in front of him, one of the paths hidden amongst the trees, one of the old brick lanes leading to the flagstone retreat.

  At first it was barely audible. Dismissible. Then it became slightly clearer, less hesitant, less unsure.

  Then he heard the quiet, tortured moan. It pierced into his brain.

  “Jamie … Jamie? Please, Jamie.…”

  The single plea, his name, broke off into a sob. He felt a rage he had never felt before in his life. He threw down the oilcloth packet, his eyes blinded by tears and fury. He lunged out of the protective frame of the white arbor and yelled, roared so that his voice startled the birds, who screeched out of the trees, out of their silent sanctuary.

  “Pat! Pat! Where are you? Pat, my God, where? Where!”

  The sobbing—half relief, half pain—became louder.

  “Here.… Here, Jamie! Can’t see.”

  He traced the sound and raced up the middle brick path. Halfway to the building, against the trunk of a tree, sunk to the ground, he saw her. She was on her knees, her bandaged head against the earth. She had fallen. Rivulets of blood were on the back of her neck; the sutures in her head had broken.

  He rushed to her and gently lifted up her head.

  Under the bandages on her forehead were layers of three-inch adhesive tape, pushed brutally against the lids of her eyes, stretched tight to her temples—as secure and unmovable as a steel plate covering her face. To try and remove them would be a torture devised in hell.

  He held her close and kept repeating her name over and over again.

  “Everything will be all right now.… Everything will be all right.…”

  He lifted her gently off the ground, pressing her face against his own. He kept repeating those words of comfort which came to him in the midst of his rage.

  Suddenly, without warning, without any warning at all, the blinded girl screamed, stretching her bruised body, her lacerated head.

  “Let them have it, for God’s sake! Whatever it is, give it to them!”

  He stumbled down the brick path back to the flagstone circle.

  “I will, I will, my darling.…”

  “Please, Jamie! Don’t let them touch me again! Ever again!”

  “No, my darling. Not ever, not ever.…”

  He slowly lowered the girl onto the ground, onto the soft earth beyond the flagstones.

  “Take the tape off! Please take the tape off.”

  “I can’t now, darling. It would hurt too much. In a little …”

  “I don’t care! I can’t stand it any longer!”

  What could he do? What was he supposed to do? Oh, God! Oh, God, you son-of-a-bitching God! Tell me! Tell me!

  He looked over at the arbor. The oilcloth packet lay on the ground where he had thrown it.

  He had no choice now. He did not care now.

  “Nimrod!… Nimrod! Come to me now, Nimrod! Bring your goddamn army! Come on and get it, Nimrod! I’ve got it here!”

  Through the following silence, he heard the footsteps.

  Precise, surefooted, emphatic.

  On the middle path, Nimrod came into view.

  Adrian Sealfont stood on the edge of the flagstone circle.

  “I’m sorry, James.”

  Matlock lowered the girl’s head to the ground. His mind was incapable of functioning. His shock was so total that no words came, he couldn’t assimilate the terrible, unbelievable fact in front of him. He rose slowly to his feet.

  “Give it to me, James. You have your agreement. We’ll take care of you.”

  “No.… No. No, I don’t, I won’t believe you! This isn’t so. This isn’t the way it can be.…”

  “I’m afraid it is.” Sealfont snapped the fingers of his right hand. It was a signal.

  “No.… No! No! No!” Matlock found that he was screaming. The girl, too, cried out. He turned to Sealfont. “They said you were taken away! I thought you were dead! I blamed myself for your death!”

  “I wasn’t taken, I was escorted. Give me the diaries.” Sealfont, annoyed, snapped his fingers again. “And the Corsican paper. I trust you have both with you.”

  There was the slightest sound of a muffled cough, a rasp, an interrupted exclamation. Sealfont looked quickly behind him and spoke sharply to his unseen forces.

  “Get out here!”

  “Why?”

  “Because we had to. I had to. There was no alternative.”

  “No alternative?” Matlock couldn’t believe he had heard the words. “No alternative to what?”

  “Collapse! We were financially exhausted! Our last reserves were committed; there was no one left to appeal to. The moral corruption was complete: the pleas of higher education became an unprofitable, national bore. There was no other answer but to assert our own leadership … over the corruptors. We did so, and we survived!”

  In the agonizing bewilderment of the moment, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place for Matlock. The unknown tumblers of the unfamiliar vault locked into gear and the heavy steel door was opened.… Carlyle’s extraordinary endowment.… But it was more than Carlyle; Sealfont had just said it. The pleas had become a bore! It was subtle, but it was there!

  Everywhere!

  The raising of funds throughout all the campuses continued but there were no cries of panic these days; no threats of financial collapse that had been the themes of a hundred past campaigns in scores of colleges and universities.

  The general assumption to be made—if one bothered to make it—was that the crises had been averted. Normality had returned.

  But it hadn’t. The norm had become a monster.

  “Oh, my God,” said Matlock softly, in terrified consternation.

  “He was no help, I can assure you,” replied Sealfont. “Our accomplishments are extremely human. Look at us now. Independent! Our strength growing systematically. Within five years every major university in the Northeast will be part of a self-sustaining federation!”

  “You’re diseased.… You’re a cancer!”

  “We survive! The choice was never really that difficult. No one was going to stop the way things were. Least of all ourselves.… We simply made the decision ten years ago to alter the principal players.”

  “But you of all people …”

  “Yes. I was a good choice, wasn’t I?” Sealfont turned once again in the direction of the restaurant, toward the sleeping hill with the old brick paths. He shouted. “I told you to come out here! There’s nothing to worry about. Our friend doesn’t care who you are. He’ll soon be on his way.… Won’t you, James?”

  “You’re insane. You’re …”

  “Not for a minute! There’s no one saner. Or more practical.… History repeats, you should know that. The fabric is torn, society divided into viciously opposing camps. Don’t be fooled by the dormancy; scratch the surface—it bleeds profusely.”

  “You’re making it bleed!” Matlock screamed. There was nothing left; the spring had sprung.

  “On the contrary! You pompous, self-righteous ass! Sealfont’s eyes stared at him in cold fury, his voice scathing. “Who gave you the right to make pronouncements? Where were you when men like myself—in every institution—faced the very real prospects of closing our doors! You were safe; we sheltered you.… And our appeals went unanswered. There wasn�
��t room for our needs …”

  “You didn’t try! Not hard enough …”

  “Liar! Fool!” Sealfont roared now. He was a man possessed, thought Matlock, Or a man tormented. “What was left? Endowments? Dwindling! There are other, more viable tax incentives!… Foundations? Small-minded tyrants—smaller allocations!… The Government? Blind! Obscene! Its priorities are bought! Or returned in kind at the ballot box! We had no funds; we bought no votes! For us, the system had collapsed! It was finished!… And no one knew it better than I did. For years … begging, pleading; palms outstretched to the ignorant men and their pompous committees.… It was hopeless; we were killing ourselves. Still no one listened. And always … always—behind the excuses and the delays—there was the snickering, the veiled reference to our common God-given frailty. After all … we were teachers. Not doers.…”

  Sealfont’s voice was suddenly low. And hard. And utterly convincing as he finished. “Well, young man, we’re doers now. The system’s damned and rightly so. The leaders never learn. Look to the children. They saw. They understood.… And we’ve enrolled them. Our alliance is no coincidence.”

  Matlock could do no more than stare at Sealfont. Sealfont had said it: Look to the children.… Look, and behold. Look and beware. The leaders never learn.… Oh, God! Was it so? Was it really the way things were? The Nimrods and the Dunoises. The “federations,” the “elite guards.” Was it happening all over again?

  “Now James. Where is the letter you spoke of? Who has it?”

  “Letter? What?”

  “The letter that is to be mailed this morning. We’ll stop it now, won’t we?”

  “I don’t understand.” Matlock was trying, trying desperately to make contact with his senses.

  “Who has the letter!”

  “The letter?” Matlock knew as he spoke that he was saying the wrong words, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop to think, for he was incapable of thought.

  “The letter!… There is no letter, is there?! There’s … no ‘incriminating statement’ typed and ready to be mailed at ten o’clock in the morning! You were lying!”