The Matarese Countdown

by Robert Ludlum

  "It was the Matarese's offer to me, wasn't it? The millions and the ranch somewhere-" "That was a throwaway line," interrupted Shields, "but it stuck for a while. You yourself made a President of the United States pay you off twenty-five years ago. The answer's yes."

  "How do you know I didn't accept?"

  "Because you never would have brought it up with Denny, especially with such specificity."

  " You're impossible!"

  "Maybe, but remember Prague. By the way, where is Denny?"

  "I ordered him to stay away until I was finished with you, since, as we agreed, I'm running this operation. I do have that authority, don't

  I?"

  "Are you finished with me, Brandon?" asked the deputy director without answering the question.

  "Hell, no! Your idea of shutting down this place and moving to North Carolina is out! We're staying right here."

  "You're certifiable. The Matarese know where we are-where you are. They know you survived the trawler, and by flying up here to join us you threw down the gauntlet. They won't stop until they kill you."

  "Tell me, Squinty, why do they want to kill me?"

  "For the same reason we wanted to find you-for what may or may not be in that concrete head of yours. Years ago your initial debriefing was hardly illuminating, but in your own words, you know more about the Matarese than anyone else on our side does."

  "What's to prevent me from giving you everything I know on paper?"

  "Not a thing, but there are laws and we're dealing with powerful interests, presumably very rich, very influential people in and out of government."

  "So what?"

  "So typewritten statements-depositions-from a dead, discredited deep-cover agent with a record of flagrant abuse of conduct, including misinformation, disinformation, and consistent lying to his superiors, isn't the sort of file you present to the courts, much less a congressional hearing."

  "Tear up the file, burn it! That was ancient history and has nothing to do with the present circumstances."

  "You've been away too long, Beowulf Agate. This is the nineties.

  Files aren't neatly inserted into manila folders, they're computerized, and any senior department head with the proper codes throughout the entire intelligence community can access them. And you may be certain a few already have."

  "You're saying that my cold corpse can't be interrogated, and all that's left is a record of necessary actions I took that label me a lying loose cannon."

  "That's precisely what I'm saying. You'd be posthumous rotten meat for the Matarese grinders." Shields paused, then gestured for Scofield and Pryce to move with him away from the now-silent aircraft and its bustling crew.

  "Listen to me, Brandon," he continued out of the crew's earshot, "I know Cameron's put you through an interrogation wringer, and I will too. But before we go any farther, I've got to come clean with you. There can't be any secrets between us."

  "Squinty has a confession to make to little old me?" said Bray mockingly.

  "I didn't think we prehistoric dinosaurs had any secrets left worth talking about."

  "I'm serious, Brandon. It'll explain how far I got-I think I got and it may even bring you a degree of relief, if you had any qualms talking about it."

  "I can't wait."

  "When you left years ago, there were so many questions left unanswered, things you simply refused to clarify-" "I had a goddamned good reason," broke in Scofield quietly, harshly.

  "Those debriefing clowns were looking six ways to hell and back to pin the whole mess on Taleniekov. They kept repeating the words 'enemy' and "Commie bastard' to the point where I could have wasted them. They wanted to paint Vasili as the whole evil empire, all by himself, when nothing could have been farther from the truth."

  "Only the hotheads, Brandon, only the hotheads. The rest of us didn't say those things or believe them."

  "Then you cooler fellows should have put out the fires! When I told them that Taleniekov had to get out of Moscow because he was under a death sentence, they kept saying 'a setup' and 'a double agent' and other stupid cliches they knew nothing about!"

  "But you knew that if you told the whole truth, Taleniekov would go down in history as the madman who brought the superpowers to the edge of nuclear war, possibly over it."

  "I'm not sure what you mean, Squinty," said Scofield cautiously.

  "Of course you do. You couldn't state for any official record that the United States of America was about to elect a President who was heir to the most vicious organization the world has ever known outside of the Nazis. Only it wasn't a Communist Hitler, it was an elusive man only whispered about in the geopolitical cellars. The son of the Shepherd Boy."

  "What the hell-" choked Brandon, turning to an astonished Pryce, who shook his head.

  "How did you know?" he said, addressing Shields.

  "I never mentioned the son of the Shepherd Boy. He was dead, the whole damn bunch was dead! And yes, one of the reasons I kept quiet was Taleniekov, but there was another, whether you'll believe it or not. Our country, our whole system of government, would have become the laughingstock of the civilized world. How did you find out?"

  "The Leviticus Factor, my old friend. Remember what I once told you about the L-Factor?"

  "Yes, I do. You said "Look at the high priest, and wonder whether under his robes he's a rat." Still, how did you figure it out?"

  "We'll continue this discussion out on the water. Somebody here is another form of rat, and I'll take no chances on electronic surveillance.. .. That unit you saw at the helicopter is a team of antiterrorist experts trained and with the instruments to unearth all manner of bugs no matter how well concealed."

  "I'll say this, Squinty. After all these years, you've picked up a field trick or two."

  "Your approval touches me deeply."

  THE ALBANY TIMES-UNION

  (Business Section, Page 2)

  CONSOLIDATION OF UTILITIES IMMINENT

  ALBANY, OCT. 2. Due to the ever-increasing demand for energy and the concomitant accelerating costs involved, utility companies from Toronto to Miami are engaged in serious discussions about consolidating their operations. Word of these initial conferences began circulating when Standard Light and Power of Boston experienced what could be termed a consumer revolt over the exploding costs of electricity passed on to municipalities, corporations, and individual families. Pockets of industry, as well as numerous research centers, have threatened to leave the state in an already depressed real-estate market. Conventional wisdom predicts that universities might follow, the aggregate leaving Massachusetts an impoverished state and Boston a deserted ghetto.

  When questioned, Jamieson Fowler, CEO of Standard L and P, was succinct.

  "Energy costs money and it's getting worse, not better. Is there a solution? Sure, it's down the road and it's nuclear. But nobody wants those plants within a hundred miles of their districts, so where are we? I don't believe there are any states with deserts that large. Now, if we could unify the vast network of grids into a single authority, a consortium, costs would plummet as a result of eliminating duplication alone."

  Bruce Ebersole, president of Southern Utilities, echoed Mr.

  Fowler's confidence.

  "Our stockholders would be happy, and they're mostly elderly folk-our beloved grandmas and grand daddies-the public would be better served 'cause we'd upgrade equipment everywhere, and we could all look forward to a brighter day-from those huge combine machines down to the electric bulb, my friend."

  On the issue of the tens of thousands of jobs that would be lost, Ebersole stated, "We'd retrain the trainable, I reckon."

  The figure standing in the dark, recessed corner of the boathouse peered around the edge of the open door, the waves below lapping against the sides of the Chris-Craft's slip. The speedboat was cruising slowly toward the center of the bay, the three occupants in casual conversation, Scofield at the helm, turning constantly to the others and speaking.

  Lieut
enant Colonel Leslie Montrose withdrew a small portable phone from her tunic, dialed a series of thirteen numbers, and raised the instrument to her right ear.

  "Circle Vecchio," said the male voice over the line.

  "Proceed."

  "Three major subjects in conference beyond surveillance. Make no moves until situation is clarified."

  "Thank you. The information will be forwarded to our people in London. Incidentally, your new equipment will be on the six P.M. flight. It's been cleared for transfer. A package from your son."

  The Chris-Craft's engine was cut to idle as the speedboat bobbed up and down in the gentle waves of Chesapeake Bay, the motor sputtering at the stern.

  "I still don't get it, Frank," said Scofield at the wheel, turning back to Shields.

  "I never mentioned the Shepherd Boy or the son of the Shepherd Boy in those debriefings. They were dead, the whole damn bunch of them were dead!"

  "It was in the notes we found after the massacre at the estate called Appleton Hall outside of Boston. The fragments were badly burned, but they were studied under glass in our laboratories and the name, or partial name, of "Sheph-Boy' kept coming up. Then the Corsican branch of Interpol uncovered the name of Guiderone. It was presumed he was the Shepherd Boy."

  "So where did that take you?"

  "For me to a logical search. In one of the fragments, barely legible, was the stilted phrase, 'he is the son," repeated twice in two separate memoranda. And in the second, 'we must obey." .. . Am I reaching you, Brandon?"

  "Yes," replied Scofield quietly.

  "It's what Taleniekov and I followed. But how did you?"

  "For months, even years, none of us could figure it out. Then finally I did."

  "For Christ's sake how?"

  "The Leviticus Factor again-the high priest was a rat."

  "Come again?"

  "Among those killed that afternoon was the honored guest at the conference in Appleton Hall. He was a true descendant of the Appleton dynasty, brought back to be applauded by the new owners of the estate."

  "You knew who they were then," said Scofield, making a statement.

  "I was getting closer. The honored guest was Senator Joshua Appleton the Fourth, the anticipated next President of the United States. No one doubted it; it was a given. He was the most popular figure on the political landscape. He was about to become the most powerful leader of the free world."

  "And?"

  "In reality, the honored senator wasn't Appleton at all; for years he had been someone else. He was Julian Guiderone, the son of the Shepherd Boy, anointed by Guillaume, the Baron of Matarese."

  "I knew it, but how did you find out?"

  "Your doing, Brandon. Let me take you back, step by step, as I believe you took them yourself."

  "I'm fascinated," Scofield interrupted.

  "I wish Toni were here."

  "Where is she?" asked Pryce, leaning against the swaying gunwale.

  "Asking questions," replied Bray without elaborating.

  "Go on, Frank, what sort of trail did you follow?"

  "First, knowing you, I assumed you'd put together some kind of false identification to get you where you wanted to go-that was basic.

  As I learned, it was up to your creative standards: Your ID officially proclaimed you to be an 'aide' to Senator Appleton himself. Then, since you were in the dark about so many things, you went to see Appleton's mentally disturbed old mother in Louisburg Square."

  "She was an alcoholic, had been for over a decade," added Scofield.

  "Yes, I know," said Shields.

  "She was in the same condition twenty-one months later when I saw her."

  "It took you that long?"

  "You weren't any help.... To begin with, she didn't remember you, but when I was about to leave I got lucky. Out of the blue-I should say the haze-she suddenly said in an eerie singsong, "At least you didn't insist on seeing Josh's old room." My first bingo because I knew her other visitor had to be you."

  "So you did the same thing."

  "I certainly did and it led to bingo two. Especially as she said she hadn't been there since Joshua had allowed my long-ago predecessor inside."

  "I thought Appleton was dead," interrupted Pryce.

  "Actually, the real Appleton was. The whiskey ghosts had taken over.

  "What was bingo two?" pressed Scofield.

  "That room was nothing more than a fake shrine with useless memorabilia. Photographs, school banners, and sailing trophies. Fake because Appleton never lived in Louisburg Square. He came out of the Korean War with a few wounds, and after the hospital returned to the family estate."

  "Don't get ahead of me, Brandon, all that's part of the trail.

  However, you did mention the magic word-'photographs." The minute we got inside that room the old girl lurched over to a wall and yelled that one was missing. She started screaming about "Josh's favorite picture."

  " "Well, well, Squinty, you'd found another spoor, hadn't you? You questioned the poor old dear and learned that it was a photo of Appleton and his closest friend. Two strapping young men in front of a sailboat, pretty much the same size, both with imposing builds, both handsome in the prep-school mold-like they could be cousins, maybe."

  "Closer, according to Mrs. Appleton. Brothers. Until one went to war and the other suddenly refused to go and flew to Switzerland."

  Shields reached into his pocket and withdrew a small notebook; it was wrinkled, the pages yellow with age.

  "I dug this out of a file cabinet. I wanted to make sure I had the facts and the names straight when we talked. Where were we?"

  "A photograph ..." Cameron, by the gunwale, was engrossed.

  "The photograph."

  "Oh, yes," said the deputy director, flipping the pages of his notebook.

  "It was after Korea; Appleton was in law school when he was in a terrible collision on the Massachusetts Turnpike. He nearly died at Mass General, with multiple fractures, massive internal bleeding, and horrible facial disfiguration. The family had specialists from everywhere working around the clock; it seemed hopeless, but obviously it wasn't. So your next move, Brandon, was fairly obvious.

  You marched over to Massachusetts General Hospital, directly to the Department of Records and Billing. Although she's now retired, the woman in charge remembers you very clearly."

  "I got her into trouble?"

  "No, but as the chief aide to Senator Appleton, you promised her a personal thank-you note from the man who was soon to become President. She never got it, that's how she remembered."

  "Hell, I didn't have time to write," said Bray.

  "Go on, you're doing pretty well."

  "The hospital's R and B didn't tell you a great deal-most of it was medical mumbo jumbo with eighty-odd pages of procedures, services, and whatnot-and you wanted more. You wanted names. So she sent you up to the Department of Personnel, by then completely computerized, the records going back years."

  "There was a black kid on the equipment and without him I'd have been a dead pigeon," broke in Scofield.

  "He was a student at Tech, making ends meet to stay in school. It's funny, but I can't recall his name."

  "You should. He's now Dr. Amos Lafollet-Ph.D.-and a leading authority on nuclear medicine. When I finally tracked him down, he said if I ever saw you, I should ask if you liked the inscription in his first book."

  "I didn't know he wrote one."

  "Well, I went out and bought it; it's a standard text on nuclear medicine. You want to hear the inscription? I've got it here."

  "Sure."

  "

  "To a generous stranger who asked little and gave a great deal, making possible a young man's career, including this book." .. . Not bad for a stranger who couldn't elicit those words from his own mother."

  "My mother thought I was either a gangster or a professional gambler. Let's get back to Boston."

  "Certainly," said Shields, returning to his notebook.

  "Dr. Lafollet, then a
young student working the hospital's computers, discovered that the two surgeons of record for Appleton had been replaced, and to his astonishment, one replacement had died and the name of the other replacement had been deleted from the records."

  "Don't forget the nurses, Frank," said Scofield quietly, staring at Shields.

  "For me they were a significant bingo."

  "Indeed they were," agreed the deputy director.

  "What about the nurses?" asked Pryce.

  "Presumably on orders from the Appleton family, the hospital personnel were replaced by three private nurses, all of whom were killed in a freak boating accident four days before Joshua Appleton was re leased and taken back to the family estate, which, incidentally, was in the process of being sold. To a very old, very wealthy banker named Guiderone, a friend of the Appletons who knew their money was dwindling."

  "Say it, Squinty. To Nicholas Guiderone, the Shepherd Boy."

  "You didn't have any real answers then, Brandon, but you saw the pattern of a monstrous conspiracy. All you really had were the names of the original two surgeons of record, one dead, the other forced into retirement. His name was Dr. Nathaniel Crawford. He died about fifteen years ago, but I reached him several years before that. He also remembered you, remembered your very disturbing phone call. He told me it brought back his nightmares."

  "He should never have had them. His diagnosis was accurate, but he was set up. His patient, Joshua Appleton the Fourth, died in the hospital as he predicted."

  "In the company of the two replacement surgeons and perhaps one or two of the private nurses," added Shields.

  "I can't know the sequence or what you were beginning to perceive, but I assume that's when you persuaded the young Amos Lafollet to fly to Washington and pick up a set of old X rays."

  "Everything was happening so fast I can't remember the sequence," said Bray, turning the Chris-Craft into the mild wind.

  "Taleniekov and Toni were being held hostage; there wasn't time to plan much. I was flying half blind but I couldn't stop."

  "Yet you knew the X rays might prove what you had begun to suspect, no matter how outrageous it seemed."