The Matarese Countdown

by Robert Ludlum

  "That would be Grosvenor Crescent, this Chesham Place, and the one with the lights and presumably the listening post, probably Lowndes Street."

  "Lowndes?" exclaimed Angela.

  "That's where Coley lives," she added softly.

  The night sky over Bahrain was dark, the last Islamic prayers shouted by the mullahs from the minarets, the hour for sleep and the nocturnal games of the privileged royals about to begin. Jamie Montrose slowly got out of bed and silently put on his clothes. Fully dressed, he turned on the desk lamp, walked to the locked white door, took a deep breath, and suddenly started hammering his fist on the steel panel.

  "Help!" he screamed.

  "Somebody help me!"

  "What is it, Master James?" shouted the voice beyond the door.

  "Who are vow?"

  "Kalil, Master James. What is it?"

  "I don't know, but my stomach's on fire! I guess you should call a doctor-I've been doubled up on my bed for almost an hour but the pain won't go away!" James Montrose Jr. picked up an iron dumbbell that he had been given for his exercise routine, and stood by the wall next to the door.

  "For God's sake hurry! I feel like I'm going to die!"

  The door crashed open as the Bahrain! rushed inside; seeing no one, he was briefly bewildered. The moment he turned, the teenager smashed the dumbbell into his forehead. The guard fell to the floor unconscious.

  "Sorry, Kalil," whispered the youngster, breathless.

  "My dad would have called it a diversion." Jamie proceeded to search the immobile figure, removing a Colt .45 from its holster, several papers written in Arabic, and a billfold containing what appeared to be a great deal of paper money. He remembered what Amet, the head of the prison-villa, had said to him. Don't try to bribe our guards with promises, James. By our lights, they are very well paid, quite rich, really. Young Montrose put the money in his pocket. He then dragged the unconscious body to the bed and ripped the top sheet into shreds; he wound several strips around the guard's mouth, then his hands and feet, pulling the linen tight, and raced back to the desk, switching off the light.

  He walked cautiously through the open door and closed it softly, turning the large brass key, then made his way down the corridor he had walked for weeks, toward the arch that led to the open area of the estate. From long nights of looking through the bars of his opposing windows, Jamie knew the grounds were patrolled by two guards with automatic rifles strapped across their shoulders and sidearms holstered at their hips. Dressed in white Arabic robes and headdresses, they walked in casual, quasi-military fashion, meeting at the east and west walls and retracing their steps.

  The whitewashed arch that Montrose approached led to the east yard and wall, seen through the dim light shining from the main house. He crouched in the darkness of the stone corridor and waited until the two guards came into view, meeting at the center of the white wall, which was equidistant from the locked, impenetrable north and south gates.

  The guards paused, maddeningly lighting cigarettes and chatting. Jamie was suddenly alarmed. The blow he had dealt the guard, Kalil, was harsh enough to render him unconscious, but not life-threatening; there was no need for that. Kalil might well regain consciousness any minute, and there were a dozen ways he could make sufficient noise to attract the guards-kicking chairs, shoving plates off tables, smashing the television, so many ways.

  Young Montrose remained frozen, staring at the two Bahrainis, silently urging them to resume their patrol. Still they did not move, instead laughing quietly at some joke. Jamie Montrose began to sweat, perspiration born of anxiety and fear. It was common knowledge that the laws of the Arab emirates were as tough as those anywhere in the world, depending upon whom one displeased, and it was the whom that determined the punishment.. .. But what was he worried about? His "sequestration" was a joint exercise between Bahrain and the United States government!

  Or was it? That was the question, for Jamie could not adequately convince himself that he had been told the truth. There was simply too much that was too crazy! His mother would have reached him someway, somehow, to let him know-even a hint-of what was going on. To think otherwise was nuts, as crazy as everything else that had happened!

  It came! A crash from his cell, followed by moans and muted screams at the window. Then the smashing of glass and china dishes, finally the collapsing of wood from a disintegrating table and desk. The two guards raced over to the east window and Jamie held his breath, terrified that the worst would happen. It did not! They had no flashlights!

  The guards screamed in Arabic, each pointing in opposite directions.

  One to the north, the other to the arch where Jamie was crouched in the shadows. The second guard raced past him, intent only on reaching his cell. Suddenly, searchlights were flashed on throughout the entire villa and its compound.

  There was no one yet on the east wall. It was his only chance! He ran out into the yard and raced to the eight-foot wall, jumping as he had never jumped before, ripping his bleeding fingernails as he gripped whatever crevices of stone he could feel. In sheer panic, he reached the top of the ledge, then, again suddenly, he realized that his hands were drenched with blood. The wall was crowned not only with shattered glass, but also a coil of barbed wire, its points as sharp as razor blades.

  Jamie thought for a second, a millisecond-circumstances. Evaluate.

  What would Dad have done? The roving searchlights caught him in their beams and converged on his frozen figure. Thinking suspended, instinct his command, he leaped over the top of the wall as a pole vaulter might, twisting his body in an arc and landing hard on his shoulders on the ground. His right arm was in agony, but he could live with it as long as he was out of his so-civilized prison.

  Running wildly, he reached a dirt road, and waited for a car or a truck he could flag down. Several passed, paying no attention, then finally a taxi stopped. The driver spoke in Arabic.

  "I don't understand you, sir," said young Montrose, out of breath.

  "I

  am an American-" "Americain?" shouted the driver.

  "You Americain?"

  "Yes!" cried Jamie, nodding his head rapidly, grateful that the man understood some English.

  "Is there a ... consulate or an American embassy here?"

  "H'ambassie Americain!" replied the driver, shouting and grinning and also nodding his head up and down like an excited chicken.

  "Shaikh Isa .. . in Manama!"

  "The embassy?"

  "Yes, yes-" "Take me there-drive me!" Montrose reached into his pocket, pulled out a fistful of money, and jumped into the backseat.

  "Aiyee Americain!" gleefully shouted the Bahraini as his taxi roared off down the road.

  Sixteen minutes later, after crossing three bridges, Jamie's bloodsoaked hands curled in his shirt, they were in the capital of Manama.

  The sights and sounds seemed strange to Montrose junior, peering out the window. Sections of the small city were in silent darkness, few people in what appeared to be nearly deserted streets. Yet other areas were brightly lighted, storefronts blazing with exotic wares, and Middle Eastern music emanating from loudspeakers; these streets were crowded, not raucous at all, but filled with people. What astonished Montrose junior was the sight of numerous American sailors and naval officers.

  "H'ambassie Americain!" exclaimed the driver, gesturing ahead at a pink-and-white mansion in the Shaikh Isa Street. Jamie looked outside at the front of the building-something was wrong! There were four men in Arab robes, two on each side of the ornate entrance of glistening dark wood. At first glance, it might be presumed they were guards, but American embassies, without exception, posted American Marines as guards. And those few embassies that required external patrols at night would never, never use native civilians of the host city for that duty. It was not only unheard of, it was potentially suicidal.

  Montrose junior had been in too many countries to doubt that.

  There was only one answer: The four Arabs were from the ala
baster villa on the shores of the Persian Gulf!

  "Keep going!" yelled Jamie, gripping the driver's shoulder with the strength of a young wrestler and jabbing his right index finger back and forth, indicating the street ahead.

  "Take me back to the lights, the people .. . the stores!"

  "Aiyee, shop pees You buy!"

  His hands wrapped in gauze, awkwardly purchased at a pharmacy, young Montrose wandered into the thick crowds roving through the shopping area of the Az Zahran district in Manama. He spotted a naval officer, a lieutenant senior grade, as denoted by the insignia on his open-shirted summer-dress collar and the silver wings on his shirt.

  Something about the man and the way he handled himself vaguely reminded Jamie of his father. The black officer was tall, his features clean-cut, sharp but not aggressively so, his informal manner conveyed by his humorous handling of several enlisted sailors who had obviously discovered shops where illegal liquor could be obtained. He gently mocked their salutes and conferred with a few, apparently urging them to get out of the area before they were spotted by the shore patrols. The advice was taken.

  Montrose junior approached the officer.

  "Lieutenant," he said,

  speaking loud enough to be heard over the noise of the crowd, "may I speak with you, sir?"

  "You're an American," observed the naval officer.

  "What the hell happened to your hands, kid?"

  "It's part of what I have to talk to you about, sir. I think I need help."

  Cameron Pryce walked aimlessly, anxiously around the stately furniture in the Brewster drawing room while Leslie Montrose sat with Angela on the brocaded sofa.

  "We're being sidetracked, damn it!" cried the CIA field officer.

  "We're going around in circles, circles with no tangents, as Scofield would say."

  "What are you talking about, Cam?" asked Leslie.

  Pryce had no chance to answer as MI-5's ill-humored Geoffrey Waters came bounding down the staircase.

  "Damn, damn, damn," he exclaimed.

  "I already said that," remarked Cameron.

  "Why now you?"

  "The whole bloody place is wired! It could bloody well be an adjunct of the BBC, or one of those penny-dreadful offshore stations in the channel!"

  "Clarification, please?" said Pryce.

  "Try this, chap. We found the bug in the garage, three in this room, two in the dining room, and one in every other damn room in the house-excuse me, another two in the upstairs library."

  "That's so disgusting!" cried Angela.

  "It had to have taken a long time to install them," said Leslie.

  "Without being observed," added Cameron.

  "A person or persons in here alone without fear of being discovered." He turned to Angela Brewster.

  "Since your mother's death, you and your brother have been back at your schools, haven't you?"

  "We stayed here in London about a fortnight after the funeral meeting with solicitors and executors and too many relatives, that sort of thing. And, of course, we've come back for a couple of weekends. Rog picks me up and we drive down like we did yesterday."

  "What Special Agent Pryce is getting at, my dear," said Geoffrey Waters, "is that when you were not here, we must assume that Sergeant Major Coleman was, is that correct?"

  "Yes," replied Angela, barely audible, her eyes downcast.

  "Then I'd say we have the answer as to who planted the intercepts.

  He's obviously a candidate for the Old Bailey and I'd be delighted to call Scotland Yard right now." The MI-5 chief started toward a phone.

  "No, Geof!" objected Cameron, raising his voice.

  "That's the last thing we do-or with luck, the next-to-last."

  "Now, just wait, chap. The only person who could have planted those intercepts is Coleman, and I remind you, it's a crime."

  "Then we put him under surveillance, the tightest possible, but we don't lock him up."

  "I'm not sure I follow you-" "It's what I was saying before," interrupted Pryce.

  "We're being distracted by everything that's happening and not concentrating on the fundamental question, the reason Leslie and I flew over here. Why was Angela's mother killed? What's the connection to the Matarese?"

  "The who?"

  "I'll explain later, dear," said Montrose.

  "I strongly disagree," Waters broke in.

  "By pursuing everything that's happened, hopefully we'll find that connection. Have a little patience, old man. What else have we got to go on?"

  "We're missing something," continued Cameron, slowly shaking his head.

  "I don't know what it is but we're missing something.. ..

  Maybe we should go back to what Scofield said on Brass Twentysix-" "On what, chap?"

  "Oh, sorry. Where I first met Beowulf Agate."

  "What a charming ellipsis," said Leslie.

  "What did Scofield say?"

  "Basically, that we needed an in-depth profile of Lady Alicia. Talk to lawyers, bankers, doctors, neighbors; build a psychological dossier;

  above all, follow any money trails."

  "My dear fellow!" exclaimed the MI-5 man.

  "Do you think we've been sitting around sucking our damn thumbs? We've put together a rather generous file on Lady Alicia, covering most of those items you just mentioned."

  "Why didn't you say something?"

  "We had other priorities, if you recall. Priorities we honestly believed would lead to shortcuts on the way to that connection you speak of."

  "Shortcuts? You've been talking with Scofield."

  "Not in years, but we all look for shortcuts, don't we?"

  "And psychological profiles are long shots," said Leslie.

  "They take a great deal of time, which I'm not sure my son can afford. That may be selfish .. . but I can't help it."

  "No one could blame you for that!" said Angela Brewster.

  "No one is," said Waters.

  "You're right, Cameron, we put the bastard Coleman under complete surveillance, personal and electronic.

  Considering the dynamics of recent events, he could well lead us to others."

  "And if he suddenly moves around a lot and your personnel runs thin, then we call in Scotland Yard."

  There were four rapid beeps from the area beyond the archway. It was the front door.

  "That would be Rog and Coley," Angela said.

  "They both have remotes that shut off the alarm.... I don't know what to say, how to behave. What should I do?"

  "Just act natural," replied Leslie Montrose.

  "Don't feel you have to say anything other than perfectly normal greetings. I suspect they'll be doing most of the talking-they'll have to."

  Roger Brewster came through the arch carrying two large cardboard cartons, apparently not very heavy.

  "Hello, everybody," he said, carefully lowering the cartons to the floor.

  "How did it go, Rog?" asked Angela haltingly.

  "Where's Coley?"

  "Question two, he's driving the Bentley down into the garage.. ..

  Question one, just fine. Old Coley's a devious son of a bitch, let me tell you!"

  The others in the room exchanged glances.

  "How so, young fellow?"

  said Waters.

  "Well, he walked into the security company like a lamb, getting our alarm records and plans, asking the questions we wanted answered, and making sure the technology was available to transmit the system to his flat in Lowndes Street. It was, of course."

  "So where's the deviousness?" asked Pryce.

  "He suddenly turned and became a bloody tiger, a regular Jekyll and Hyde! He'd hinted at some irregularities in the system when we were in the car driving over, but he didn't elaborate so I figured he was just bitching-these systems all have glitches."

  "But he wasn't just bitching?"

  "Hell no, sir. He held up the computerised-record printout and proceeded to give the firm's owner what-for while referring to his notebook."


  "What was he complaining about?" said the MI-5 chief, his outward calm disguising his anxiety.

  "He claimed there were errors, quite a few of them, in the entries.

  You see, our system electronically computes the dates and times when the alarm is turned on, as well as any violations while it's activated."

  "And, Bro?"

  "Coley said that there were occasions when he left the house, noting the times when he turned on the alarm, and they weren't listed on the printouts. And if they weren't listed, how could he believe there weren't any violations."

  "What did the owner say?"

  "Not an awful lot, Mrs. Montrose, Coley didn't give him a chance.

  When the owner said that Coley probably didn't insert the correct codes, old Coleman simply told him that wasn't possible."

  "One of your classic sergeant majors, Geof," said Pryce softly.

  "Indubitably, chap," agreed Waters.

  "What's in the boxes, Roger?"

  "There are two more in the foyer, I'll bring them in."

  "What are they?"

  "I'll let Coley tell you. I'm not sure I understand." Roger dashed into the archway, instantly colliding with an emerging figure carrying two cartons. Oliver Coleman, ex-sergeant major in the Royal Fusiliers, was a medium-sized plug of a man whose broad chest, thick neck, large shoulders, and erect posture gave away his military background, despite his business suit. His lined face was topped by brush-cut white hair with tinges of its former red, his features set, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, instead noncommittal. The larger Roger Brewster had literally bounced off him.

  "Sorry, lad," he said, glancing at the off-balance young man.

  "Good afternoon, Sir Geoffrey," he continued in his pronounced Yorkshire accent, "I see there's a gray van outside, I figure it's one of yours."

  "You're not supposed to. It's unmarked."

  "Then I'd suggest you paint a sign on the sides, like Fishmonger or Greengrocers. Those gray vehicles stand out. You might as well be announcing yourselves."

  "I'll bear it in mind.. .. May I introduce you to our new associates, Sergeant Major. Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, United States Army, and Special Agent Pryce, CIA."

  "Yes, the children told me about the two of you," said Coleman, first approaching Leslie.