The Matarese Countdown

by Robert Ludlum

  "You did, kindly and gently, yet in your work you're neither kind nor gentle.. .. Yes, Cam, I've read all about you. You're essentially a black-operations officer, no quarter given, none taken. You've killed twelve terrorist leaders on record, and probably a dozen or so unrecorded. You infiltrated them and you assassinated them."

  "It was my job, Leslie. If I hadn't, they would have killed hundreds more-perhaps thousands with their insurrections."

  "I believe you, my dear, I'm only trying to say that there's another side of Officer Pryce that he's shown to me. Am I allowed that?"

  "Certainly, but let's limit the circulation, okay?"

  "Oh, I will, I will. Do you know why? Never mind, I'll answer that.... I don't know what will happen next week or next month, or God knows, next year, but at the moment I don't want to lose you, Cameron Pryce. I lost one decent man, I can't lose another." They fell into the bed, each holding the other fiercely.

  A string quartet played under the roof of a sculpted gazebo on the far right of the croquet course. By the time John and Joan Brooks arrived, the now well-publicized brother-and-sister philanthropists of American culture, most of the guests were already there in their casual finery. A large green blackboard had been set up on a stanchion behind the goal wicket; a pairing of players had begun in bracketed colored chalk.

  Several buffet tables with the finest linen and silver were scattered about the immense manicured lawn by the lake.

  The huge, imposing yacht was moored at the end of the long dock, a sturdy gangplank with chrome railings leading to the lower deck; a canopied veranda capable of holding sixty-odd people overlooking the northern waters of Lake Como was an awesome sight.

  The mansion itself had only been hinted at under the magnification of Togazzi's telescope. It was a contemporary "castle" of flagstone and teakwood, rising four stories high with flagged open-air turrets.

  The only thing missing was a moat. The Villa d'Este concierge was accurate when he extolled the Paravacini estate as the most glorious on the lake.

  "We paid roughly a month's salary for each of these outfits," said Montrose as they walked along a brick path that rounded the great house and led to the lakeside carnival, "but I have an idea that we look like the poorest people here."

  "You're crazy," protested Pryce.

  "I think we both look terrific, especially you."

  "That's another thing. Stop gazing at me like that. We're supposed to be brother and sister, but not incestuous."

  "Sorry, it comes kind of naturally."

  "Don't look over, just laugh and tilt your head to the right. There's a man staring at us. He's in blue slacks and a bright yellow shirt."

  "I caught a glimpse of him. Never saw him before."

  "He's coming over-John."

  "Gotcha-Joan."

  "You must be the Brookses!" said the dark-haired, extremely handsome man enthusiastically, his English laced with a deep Italian accent.

  "I can see the family resemblance."

  "We hear that frequently," said Leslie, extending her hand.

  "And who are you?"

  "Your obedient host, Carlo Paravacini, grateful that you accepted my invitation," replied the don, kissing Montrose's hand.

  "Or as my American friends call me, Charlie," he continued, shaking hands with Cameron.

  "Then I'll be presumptuous," said Pryce, "and say it's a pleasure to meet you, Charlie."

  "I like that, I like it.... A libation, perhaps, a fine Chablis, or a rare Scotch?"

  "Someone's been tattling on us," interrupted Leslie, laughing.

  "Those are our favorite drinks."

  "But always in moderation, I've learned that, too. And I like that, I like it."

  "Then it's the moment to tell you that Villa d'Este's concierge sends you his regards," added Cameron.

  "I accept them gratefully," said the attractive host, "but for God's sake, don't tell him that I stole his first sous-chef to cater this little afternoon party. That scoundrel steals all of his superior's recipes, and after all, it's his day off."

  "Our lips are sealed, Carlo-Charlie," said Montrose charmingly as Pryce glanced at his lover, not entirely pleasantly.

  Paravacini, taking Leslie's elbow, led them through the strolling crowds toward a bar table and ordered drinks. While he did so a relatively tall, elegant figure, dressed in tan trousers and a black short-sleeved shirt, topped with a clerical collar and graying hair, approached them. Carlo turned at the sight of the priest and introduced him.

  "His Eminence is my uncle, Cardinal Rudolfo Paravacini, but here in Como we call him Papa Rudy. Isn't that right, holy Cardinal?"

  "I grew up here, why not?" replied the exalted priest of the Catholic Church.

  "I ran in these fields chasing goats and rabbits like everyone else. I was chosen, I did not seek. My nephew's generosity allows me moments of luxury that my commitments do not."

  "Nice to meet you," said Cameron, shaking hands.

  "A pleasure," said Leslie, doing the same.

  "Thank God for American Protestants," replied the cardinal.

  "My Italian, French, and Spanish flocks kiss my ring and think I can guarantee them a place in heaven when I cannot guarantee it for myself.. ..

  Welcome to Lacus Larius."

  "I hear you're a ... heck ... of a croquet player, Cardinal," said Pryce.

  "I'm one hell of a player. Care to go against me?"

  "I'd rather be on your side. My sister's a better player than I am."

  "Set it up, Carlo," ordered the priest.

  "My partner will be Signer Brooks

  "As you wish," said Don Carlo Paravacini, looking strangely at the cardinal.

  The time passed on the croquet course, the yelps of a successfully entered wicket accompanied by the desolate groans of those who missed. And during the succeeding games, servants rushed out with iced tea and lemonade to refresh the players, alcohol absent by design.

  After three hours, the winners were awarded sterling silver croquet mallets, instantly monogrammed, and everyone began to repair to the yacht's canopied veranda.

  "I'm really sorry," said Pryce to his partner, Cardinal Paravacini.

  "I

  loused us up."

  "Although the Lord for giveth I find it hard to do so, John Brooks," said the priest, smiling.

  "You were a disaster. However, your sister, Miss Joan, teamed with my nephew, Carlo, won the whole damned thing! They make a lovely couple, don't they? So handsome together, so intelligent. Things could go further, not so?"

  "Well, my sister's not Catholic-" "There's always conversion," interrupted the prince of the Church.

  "We annulled his first marriage, and his second wife died not long ago."

  "I don't know what to say," said a totally confused Cameron Pryce, staring at Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, who was laughing and walking off the croquet course gripping Carlo Paravacini's arm.

  Half an hour later, still in the presence of the cardinal, Cam had met dozens of other guests who flocked around both men as the curious might at the arrival of two celebrities. In a sense, both were; the priest had celebrated influence inside the Vatican, and the fine-looking American's vast wealth was enough to gain him instant celebrity status.

  Finally, feigning social exhaustion, Cardinal Paravacini insisted they sit down at a relatively isolated table on the captain's-wheel perch, easily seen but not easy to reach. Pryce's eyes roamed over the crowd looking for Leslie.

  She was not there. She had disappeared.

  Excuse me, Cardinal, but my sister's not here. I can't see her anywhere."

  "No doubt, my nephew is showing her around the estate," said the priest.

  "It's really quite beautiful, and his art collection is among the finest in Italy."

  "Art collection? Where is it?"

  "In the main house, of course." At the mention of the mansion, Cardinal Paravacini apparently saw the sudden alarm in Pryce's eyes.

  "Oh, I can assure you, Mr. Broo
ks, you've nothing to be concerned about. Carlo is the most honorable of men, he would never take advantage of a guest. In truth, he doesn't have to, the ladies have always seemed to line up for his affections."

  "You don't understand," Cameron interrupted, "my sister and I have an agreement between us whenever we're out together, especially where there are a great many people. Each lets the other know when he's leaving, for whatever reason."

  "That sounds positively suffocating, Mr. Brooks," observed the priest.

  "Not really, it's just common sense," replied Pryce, thinking quickly and doing his best not to show it.

  "When we're out separately, which is most of the time, we each have an armed escort."

  "Now you sound insulting, sir."

  "You wouldn't think so, Your Eminence, if you knew the number of kidnapping threats we've received. Last year alone, our security firm in America thwarted four attempts against me and five against my sister."

  "I had no idea-" "It's not something you make public," said Cameron with a grim smile.

  "The idea could be planted in too many demented minds."

  "Naturally, such crimes have been committed here in Europe, but the idea, as you call it, is still shocking to an aging cleric like myself."

  "So you see," continued Cam, "your nephew, Carlo, doesn't worry me at all. I'll be relieved if she's with him, so if you'll pardon me, I'm going to see if I can find them. The art collection, right?"

  "Yes, the gallery's on the main floor, west wing. I understand you have a superb family collection yourself, along with priceless tapestries."

  That's it! thought Pryce as he rose from his chair. In all the misinformation circulated about the American Brookses, there was no mention of an art collection or tapestries. John and Joan Brooks were reported to be self-indulgent dilettantes, socialites who loved the spotlight, especially show business, not serious collectors of paintings and tapestries.. .. Cameron's telephone conversation with Geoffrey Waters in London had been tapped, and this attractive prince of the Church was sadly part of the conspiracy.

  "Main floor, west wing," said Pryce, glancing down at the cardinal.

  "Thanks. See you later." As he entered the brick walk that led to the mansion, Cam was grateful that his false concerns about his "sister" were an acceptable reason for him to get into the Paravacini house.

  However, except for a minor twinge of adolescent jealousy, he had no worries about Leslie. Lieutenant Colonel Montrose was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, probably with a crushing knee to the groin.

  Also, it was likely that the extrovert Don Carlo was simply impressing her with the extraordinary beauty of the Paravacini estate with its numerous fountains, its ancient and modern statuary, and the rows of gardens, exploding with color. Cameron had no idea what he might learn inside the castle like structure, but an axiom of his profession was that to infiltrate any property was to make progress.

  He was wrong on all counts, all counts.

  Cameron walked through massive doors of the mansion into the marble hall of the great house. It was deserted, the silence disturbing as opposed to the distant, muted laughter outside. The door closed automatically, the silence now complete. He casually strode forward toward a high-ceilinged central room preceded by another intersecting marble corridor that extended both east and west. He turned right into the west wing where there were scores of exquisite paintings covering the walls, many recognizable from art books and magazines devoted to the masters.

  Suddenly, along with his own, other footsteps echoed off the walls;

  they were behind him. He stopped and turned around. A heavyset man in nondescript dark clothing stood immobile, a trace of a smile on his lips.

  "Buona sera, signore, please keep walking," he said, the last three words in relatively cultured English.

  "Who are you?" asked Pryce sharply.

  "I am an aide to Don Carlo."

  "That's nice. What do you aid?"

  "I'm not required to answer questions. Now, piacere, walk to the end of the gallery. There is a door on the left."

  "Why should I? I'm not used to being given orders."

  "Do try, signore." The Paravacini aide reached behind his loose black silk shirt and pulled an automatic from his belt.

  "Follow this order, piacere, to the door, signore."

  The armed, heavyset man opened the thick, carved door. It led to what could best be described as a very high-ceilinged aviary: birds in scores of cages hanging from the beams, all sizes, from the lesser parrots to mature macaws, to large falcons, and huge vultures, their wired prisons commensurate with their sizes. It was the immense personal collection of an eccentric. And behind a long polished table in front of a wide-paneled window that overlooked the manicured lawn at sundown was Carlo Paravacini. On his left, Leslie Montrose sat stiffly in a chair, her face impassive.

  "Welcome, Officer Cameron Pryce," intoned the don of Lake Como in a flat, courteous voice.

  "I wondered how long it would take you to come here."

  "Papa Rudy suggested I do so, as I expect you know."

  "Yes, he's such a lovely man, so committed to his faith."

  "When did you find out?"

  "About the cardinal's faith?"

  "You know what I mean-" "Oh, you're referring to Agent Pryce of the American CIA, and Colonel Montrose, United States Army Intelligence." Paravacini leaned forward on the table, his eyes leveled at Cameron.

  "Would you believe less than an hour ago?"

  "How?"

  "Please, I'm sure you understand the necessity of confidentiality;

  after all, you live with it every day. You're living with it now."

  "Speaking of now-what now?"

  "Obviously, it can't be very attractive for you." Don Carlo rose from his chair and walked around the glistening table, heading toward the cluster of cages, hanging in varying heights, none lower than seven feet from the floor.

  "How do you like my airborne friends, Colonel Montrose and Officer Pryce? Are they not magnificent?"

  "Birds aren't my favorite animals," answered Leslie coldly from the chair.

  "I told you that when you brought me in here."

  "How come they're so quiet?" asked Pryce.

  "Because there's peace in here, nothing to upset them, nothing to provoke them," replied Paravacini, picking up a small wooden instrument from a low mahogany stand. He raised it to his lips and blew into the mouthpiece. For a half second there was only silence, then suddenly, without warning, the room was filled with screams and shrieks as if some obscene hell beyond human understanding had broken loose. Wings flapped and feathers flew; panic showed in the riveting large eyes of several dozen caged, furious birds. Carlo reversed the instrument and blew again; within three or four seconds, the ear-shattering, thunderous clamor stopped.

  "Rather amazing, isn't it?" the host said.

  "That was the most horrible sound I've ever heard in my life!" cried Montrose, removing her hands from her ears.

  "It was bestial!"

  "Yes, indeed it was," said Don Carlo, "because they're truly beasts, you see. In one way or another, they're all attack birds, some carnivorous, others so protective of their nests they are willing to go to their deaths."

  "What's your point, Charlie?" asked Cameron, glancing at the heavyset armed guard still holding his weapon on the two prisoners.

  "It goes back years ago," answered the young don of Lacus Larius, "when I became obsessed with the medieval sport of falconry. Such an ingenious exercise of man's control over the flying beast. It started, perhaps, with the ancient training of simple pigeons to return to their nests, having been smuggled miles away to bring back messages to their pharaoh owners. They were the original spies before the wireless and the radio. But my studies taught me something: All birds can be trained, from the pretty household parakeets to the larger avaricious falcons, to the immense lethal vultures. It came down to an anatomical and chemical combination of inbred sight and acute smell."r />
  "You're not impressing me, Charlie," said Pryce.

  "All of us have esoteric methods, some anatomical, others chemical, and a lot brutal.

  Why are you so different?"

  "Because I'm more clever than you are."

  "Why? Because your Matarese moles in Washington and London let you know who we are?"

  "Washington gave us nothing because they didn't know anything!

  Beowulf Agate is a genius, I'll grant you that. However, our man in London put it together, and his immediate target is your British ally, Sir Geoffrey Waters. He'll be dead within twenty-four hours."

  "You're the Italian branch of the Matarese, aren't you?"

  "Of course I am! We are the answer to the global economy, as our predecessors were. We will put the world on a stable basis, no one else can do it!"

  "As long as everyone goes along with you, buys what you sell, only what you sell. Collusion is the order of the day, mergers and buy outs eliminating competition until you run the whole goddamned thing."

  "It's far better than the economic cycles of a warped capitalistic system. We will eliminate recessions and depressions."

  "You'll also eliminate choice."

  "I've had enough of your sophomoric abstractions, Mr. Pryce. Neither you nor Colonel Montrose will survive this day."

  "What if I told you that Mi-Five and our Italian branch of the CIA know that we're here right now?"

  "I'd have to say you were lying. On pure speculation, all your calls have been monitored from the Villa d'Este."

  "Hell, I knew that when your lousy prince of the Church told me about our tapestries! You think that when our bodies are found with bullets in our heads, you're off the hook, Charlie?"

  "There'll be no such thing. Let me show you." Paravacini crossed back to his table and pressed a button on the right. The huge window behind him slid back, its opening at least twenty feet by twelve. He then pressed a second button and blew into his wooden instrument; the cages opened and at least forty screeching birds of all sizes and shapes flew out into the sundown, circling in the orange sky. The don blew into the opposite end, the signal for the birds to return.