The Matarese Countdown

by Robert Ludlum

  "Top contingency funds," added Pryce.

  "A suite? .. ." Leslie looked pointedly at Waters.

  "Oh, not to be concerned, my dear. Separate rooms, naturally. The reservations are in the names of Mr. John Brooks and Miss Joan Brooks, brother and sister. If anyone should inquire, which is highly unlikely, you're over here to settle an inheritance from a British uncle."

  "Who's the attorney?" asked Cameron.

  "The solicitor, I mean."

  "Braintree and Ridge, Oxford Street. We've used them before."

  "You're smooth, Geof, I'll say that."

  "I should hope, after all these years, the rough edges have been ground down a touch.. .. Come now, into the car."

  "May I say something?" Montrose's immobility stopped both men.

  "Of course, what is it?"

  "The suite's fine, Geoffrey, but our flight was west to east, not the reverse. As you mentioned, it's still around noon for us. I'm not at all tired-" "It will catch up with you, my dear," interrupted the MI-5 chief.

  "Probably, but I am extremely anxious to get to work. I think you know why."

  "I certainly do. Your child."

  "Can't we take an hour to freshen up and start?"

  "I have no problem with that," said Pryce.

  "Your suggestion is music to my suddenly un deaf ears! Tell you what, chaps, since we can't remove any papers from the office, a car will pick you up, say around seven-thirty. If you're hungry, you'll have time for room service, not the dining room, however."

  "Great contingency funds," mumbled Cameron.

  "Wish you'd talk to a guy named Shields in Washington."

  "Frank Shields? Old Squint Eyes? Is he still around?"

  "I

  think I'm hearing a broken record," said Pryce.

  Rome, five o'clock in the afternoon.

  Julian Guiderone, in a dark silk suit from the Via Condotti, walked down the cobblestoned Due Macelli and up the Spanish Steps toward the canopied entrance of the celebrated Hassler-Villa Medici hotel. As he had done in Cairo's Al Barrani Boulevard, he paused in the narrow culde-sac and lit a cigarette with his gold Dunhill, his eyes straying to the top of the famous stone steps glorified by Byron. He stood still and watched for a man or a woman who might quickly emerge, his or her own eyes darting about. None appeared. He could proceed.

  Guiderone crossed under the scarlet canopy; the automatic glass doors opened and he entered the opulent marble lobby, immediately heading to the left and the bank of glistening brass elevators. He was aware that several hotel guests, also waiting, glanced at him. It did not concern him; he was used to the attention. He realized that when he cared to, he radiated natural authority, a superiority born of features, breeding, height, and tailoring; it was ever thus, and he knew it, he welcomed it.

  The elevator doors opened; he walked in last and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Two stops later he was there, emerging into the heavily carpeted hallway, studying the brass plaque that directed him to the suite he sought. It was at the far end of the corridor, on the right, a small blue circle affixed to the doorknob. He knocked on the center panel four times, a pause of one second between raps; he heard a click and walked inside.

  The room was large and ornate, the walls covered with pastel scenes of ancient Rome, the soft velour colors varied but predominantly gold, white, red, and blue. The events depicted ranged from chariot races in the Colosseum to erupting fountains to the more famous statuary from the chisels of Michelangelo and his contemporaries. The central area of the room was filled with four rows of four chairs, all facing a lectern, and all were occupied, the occupants exclusively men. Their ages were as diversified as their nationalities, from early thirties through the forties, the fifties, and the sixties. Their origins covered all of Europe, the United States, and Canada.

  Everyone in attendance, in one form or another, was in the profession of journalism. Some were recognized reporters, others editors of repute; a number were controllers or financial consultants, and the remainder were on the boards of several major newspapers.

  And each-in one form or another-had been compromised by the son of the Shepherd Boy, the ultimate leader of the Matarese.

  Julian Guiderone walked slowly, deliberately to the lectern as the room became silent. He smiled benevolently, then began.

  "I fully understand that there are those of you here unwillingly, not of your own volition or commitment, but under duress. I sincerely hope to change your minds so you will come to understand the progressive enlightenment of our objectives. I am no monster, gentlemen. Rather, I am a man extraordinarily blessed with vast wealth, and I can assure you, I'd much prefer tending to my widespread interests-my investments, my horses, my athletic teams, my hotels-than leading what amounts to an economic revolution for the good of us all. But I cannot.. .. Let me ask you a rhetorical question. Who but a man with unlimited resources, a man beholden to no one for his survival or lifestyle, with no responsibility to special interests whatsoever, can objectively discern the financial sickness that pervades our civilized nations? I submit that only such a man can, for he has nothing to gain.

  Conversely, he could lose a great deal, but even that would be insignificant in the long run.. .. What I am, gentlemen, is the unfettered, completely neutral referee, an arbiter, if you like. But to fulfill that vision and my destiny, I need your support. I trust I have it, so let me hear your reports. No names are necessary, only your publications.

  We'll start with the first row on my left."

  "I am the principal investments adviser for the Manchester Guardian," said the Englishman, his reluctance evident in his low, hesitant voice.

  "As scheduled, I've delivered the long-term economic projections relative to the paper's anticipated accelerating losses over the next decade. They call for supplemental capital far beyond anything envisioned by the Guardian's directors. There's no alternative but to seek a massive infusion of external funds ... or an affiliation with other journalistic publications." The man from the Guardian paused, adding quietly, "I've had highly confidential meetings with my counterparts at the Independent, the Daily Express, The Irish Times, and the Edinburgh

  ISO

  Evening News." He abruptly stopped. He was finished, his face set in disgust and defeat.

  "Le Monde, Paris, Marseilles, Lyon, et tout de France," spoke the Frenchman sitting beside the Britisher.

  "As our section-this first row-is primarily concerned with structured finance, I echo my English colleague's calculations and have acted accordingly. The projections are self-evident. Along with normal inflation, the dwindling resources of paper accompanied by soaring prices demand economic reassessments, basically consolidation. In this pursuit, I, too, have held very discreet talks with select executives of France Soir, Le Figaro, and the Paris Herald. They will bear fruit."

  "There's no doubt of that," said a balding American in his middle fifties.

  "The technological advances in computerized, multi feed print operations make it irresistible; one plant can service a minimum of six newspapers, tomorrow a dozen, with totally diversified copy. My contacts at The New York Times, The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, and The Wall Street Journal are merely waiting for the first shoe to drop.

  They call it survival."

  "You can add the Toronto Globe and Mail and the Edmonton Journal to the list," completed the fourth member of the row, a youngish Canadian, his eyes alive with the realization that he was among the elite of his profession.

  "When I return, I'm heading west to initiate preliminary negotiations with the Winnipeg Free Press and the Vancouver Sun."

  "Your enthusiasm is to be applauded," said the son of the Shepherd Boy, "but keep in mind the walls of utter secrecy within which you must operate."

  "Naturally! Of course!"

  "Now to our second row," continued Guiderone, "our section devoted to the boards of our leading international publications, namely, again, The New York Times and the Guardian, as well as
Rome's Giornale, and Germany's Die Welt. I understand, gentlemen, that you are all currently subordinate-dare I say lesser?-members of your respective boards, but please accept my word-your statuses will change, both by mortality and forced attrition. Each of you will soon become a major factor, a voice with control. How say you?"

  There was not even a murmur of dissent. When in position, they would act in concert. For practical survival.

  "Our third row, the basic engines that drive your endeavors, the guts, as we Americans say, of your newspapers-the journalists themselves. These are the men in the streets, in the states, the provinces, and national capitals, those on the front lines who daily report the events enlightening readers across the world."

  "You can ease off on the hype," said an elderly American with a husky voice, his creased features bespeaking years of endless nights and too much whiskey.

  "We've got the message. You issue the 'events," we'll write 'em up. We haven't got much of a choice, do we, since we prefer our status quos to the alternatives?"

  "I agree, memer," added a Dutch reporter.

  "As the English say, you are too clever by half."

  "C'est vrai, " said a journalist from Paris.

  "All too true-das stimmt!" joined in a German reporter.

  "Come now, gentlemen, that's such a negative approach," said Guiderone, slowly, charmingly shaking his head.

  "I know only two of you personally, but all four by reputation. You are the leaders in your fields; your words cross oceans and continents with electronic speed, and when you appear on television screens you are accepted authorities, honored men of the fourth estate."

  "I hope to hell we can keep that one," interrupted the cynical American.

  "You will, of course, for you will accurately report events as they take place .. . naturally emphasizing the positive aspects and minimizing whatever negative reactions there may be under the blanket of the new century. After all, we must be realistic; we must advance our civilized countries, not let them erode."

  "You say a great deal with but a few bromides," said the Hollander, laughing softly.

  "You are quite the politician, meneer."

  "A vocation pressed upon me by others, great minds, to be sure, but not a direction of my own choosing."

  "Better yet, monsieur," observed the Parisian, "you are the outsider on the inside. Tres bien" "And you are, each one of you, extraordinarily talented and convincing journalists. Whatever your past indiscretions-and they will never be exploited by me-they pale beside your abilities.. ..

  Now to our fourth and final row, perhaps the most unique for our purposes. The editorial staffs of the four major publications in the world, and through their chains of ownerships, the editorial flagships for over two hundred important international newspapers in Europe and the Americas Your influence is vast, gentlemen. You mold opinions throughout the industrial nations, endorsements by you, or the lack of same, can make or break candidates."

  "You're too flattering," broke in a corpulent, white-haired German, his heavy legs dwarfing his chair, his lined, splotched face betraying a sedentary existence.

  "That was before the television," he continued.

  "Today the challengers and the incumbents buy the television! That is where opinions are formed."

  "Only to a degree, mein Herr," objected the son of the Shepherd Boy.

  "You put a lightweight cart before a strong horse. When you speak, television reflects on your words and always has. It must, for you have the time for reflection, it doesn't; everything is immediate, instantly processed. The majority of television executives, if only to avoid embarrassment, go back and heed your opinions, even to the extent of distancing themselves from political advertisements."

  "He has a point, Gunther," said another American, in counterpoint to his cynical reporter-compatriot, dressed in a conservative business suit.

  "More and more we hear the words "The following is a paid commercial' or, conversely, "That was a political advertisement paid for by the committee for Senator so-and-so, or candidate such-and-such."

  " "Ach, so what does it mean? It's all so fast."

  "It means we still and will always carry weight," answered a third editor, British, by his accent.

  "I trust it will always be so," added the last of the men in the fourth row, an Italian wearing a tailored pin-striped suit.

  "I reiterate what I mentioned to our second section, those members of the four boards of directors," said Guiderone, his eyes focusing briefly, staring, at each man in the last row.

  "I-we-realize that you are currently at the lower ends of your editorial staffs, but that will change.

  Through procedures you need know nothing about, you will be elevated to positions of leadership, your judgments accepted as writ."

  "Which means," said the fastidious American in the dark suit and regimental tie, "that we editorially endorse what you suggest we endorse throughout our chains of newspapers."

  "

  "Suggest' is such a flexible verb, isn't it?" asked the son of the Shepherd Boy.

  "It's so subject to interpretation. I prefer the word 'advise," for it limits alternatives, doesn't it?"

  There was a momentary silence, far beyond a pause, until the Italian spoke.

  "Done," he said, nearly choking on the affirmative.

  "Or we all lose everything."

  "I do not make threats. I merely open the windows of possibility. I believe our meeting is over."

  It was.

  All together, as if to rid themselves of the stench of a communicable disease, the congregation summoned by the Matarese left the room.

  One of the last to depart was the enthusiastic Canadian.

  "Oh, Mac Andrew said Guiderone, his hand touching the young man's elbow.

  "Now that this dreary business is over, why don't we have a drink in the lounge downstairs? I believe we have mutual acquaintances in Toronto. I'd like to catch up." He mentioned several names.

  "Certainly, sir! A pleasure."

  "Good. I'll meet you there in five minutes. I've got a phone call to make. Grab a table in the rear, if you can."

  "I'll be waiting .. . sir."

  The "acquaintances" were, except one, only vaguely remembered names to the young Mac Andrew but the fact that they were in Guiderone's memory elated him, especially the one he did recall vividly.

  His ex-wife.

  "I was so sorry to hear of that," said Julian.

  "It was probably my fault, sir. I admit I was terribly ambitious, and treated her rather badly where business was concerned. You see, after getting my doctorate in managerial finance from McGill University, I was filled with myself. So many offers coming in, none that well paying although prestigious, until out of the blue came a position with a Montreal investments firm at a salary I truly believed I wouldn't reach for a decade!"

  "I understand. And then one thing led to another."

  "Oh, boy, did it! I then-" "Excuse me, young man," interrupted Guiderone.

  "I'm out of Cuban cigars. Would you please buy me several at the counter in the lobby? Here's a ten-thousand-lira note."

  "Of course, sir. A pleasure, sir!"

  The ambitious Canadian promptly rose from the table and walked rapidly out of the bar. The son of the Shepherd Boy withdrew a small packet from his pocket and emptied its contents into the young man's drink; he gestured for a waiter.

  "Tell my friend I had to make a telephone call. I'll be back shortly." "Si, signore.

  Julian Guiderone did not return, but the young Canadian did. His head turning right and left, anticipating the sight of the most important man in his life, Mac Andrew drank from his glass. Thirty-four seconds later he fell across the table, his eyes wide in death.

  The son of the Shepherd Boy walked down the Spanish Steps into the Via Due Macelli, and turned right to the American Express office. His coded communique to Amsterdam would be deciphered quickly and acted upon. Decoded, it read:

  Our Canadian was a
threat. In his enthusiasm, he talked too much.

  Problem solved. Search for another.

  Guiderone walked back to the intersection of the Via Condotti, one of the shopping meccas of the world. He would not buy; however, he would stop at a coffee shop and have a slow cappuccino or two, summarizing his thoughts.

  He-they-the Matarese! had accomplished more than any other elite organization on earth ever had. They controlled industries, utilities, global suppliers, motion pictures and television, and finally newspapers the world over. Nothing could stop them! Soon they would control the planet, and it was all so simple.

  Greed.

  Infiltrate and promise, or blackmail, and who could resist? The bottom line keeps rising until it's out of sight, profits are extraordinary, the lower classes stand in line for their share-better the devil you can live with than one you don't know. And what of the underclass, the indigent and the uneducated parasites on society? Do what they did in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries! Force them to better themselves! It could be done. It's what made America!

  Was it really? Or was it something else?

  The blinds were drawn in the neon-lit room of British intelligence, MI-5. There was no need to block out the bright light of the London day, for it was past ten in the evening. It was merely a precaution held over from the Cold War when telescopic cameras were found in buildings across the wide street.

  Pryce and Montrose had been picked up at the Connaught at seven thirty they arrived at MI-5 headquarters well before eight o'clock.

  Coffees in hand, provided by Geoffrey Waters, without-the-Sir, the three of them had pored over the notes found in Gerald Henshaw's locked drawer in the Brewster house on Belgrave Square. In the main they were scraps of paper torn from loose-leaf pads and filled with hastily scribbled, barely legible handwriting. Then, in contradiction, the majority had been neatly folded two and three times over, as if they were secret clues in a treasure hunt, to be shoved under rocks or into the bark of trees.

  "What do you make of it all?" asked Waters, returning to the hot plate after refilling Cameron's cup of coffee.