"Well, who is it, Janet?"
"Mr. Benjamin Wahlburg and Mr. Jamieson Fowler."
"Really?"
Whitehead looked over at the attorney, his expression frozen.
Deputy Director Frank Shields ripped open the sealed EYES ONLY envelope with his name on the front and began scanning the contents.
Having signed the release for the guard, who acknowledged that the metallic seal was intact, he walked back to his desk. He started reading again from the top, his concentration now absolute.
The six pages were verbatim transcripts of conversations over the private, supposedly nontappable telephones belonging to Albert Whitehead, Stuart Nichols, Benjamin Wahlburg, and Jamieson Fowler. They were the four Mataresans who had convened at the small, isolated restaurant in lower New York after having their shocking meetings with William Clayton, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate, as well as Andrew Jordan and Brandon Alan Scofield. Breaking anti bug commercial phones was no problem for the intercepting devices of the government.
The language employed by all parties was relatively clear, although not completely. It was as if those speaking had considered the unthinkable: Were their phone lines, which cost thousands, really impregnable?
Regardless, all were stunned at the orders to avoid Amsterdam, which they amateurishly referred to as A.M. There were expressions of dismay mixed with alarmed curiosity, and no little fear about the direction the "enterprise" was taking. Therefore, they all agreed to meet in two days at a small, exclusive hotel in the wealthy township of
Bernardsville, New Jersey. The reservations would be made in the name of the Genesis Company, their private planes to land at the Morristown airport, roughly twenty minutes away.
The Directorate of Operations, the CIA's covert branch of infiltration, went to work without knowing what the objectives were, not an unusual situation. The Genesis Company would be assigned four specific mini suites and a conference room. A Directorate team flew up, said as little as possible, and placed bugs in every area.
Frank Shields picked up his scrambler phone and dialed London, Geoffrey Waters's sterile phone at MI-5 headquarters.
"Internal Security," said the voice in England.
"Hello, Geof, it's Frank."
"Have you got something, old boy?"
"Put another feather in Scofield's headdress. His four-now five candidates paid off. The four possibles over here are now definite.
They've arranged a meeting, and it's covered by our DO. Believe me, they're all close to panic."
"How the devil did he do it?" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey.
"No doubt, rather simply," replied Shields.
"So many of us are inured to the complexities of secrecy and manipulation that we overlook the direct approach. In whatever roles he plays, Brandon disregards the complications of his cover, and goes quickly to the jugular before his target can adjust."
"That strikes me as a quick path to exposing a cover," said Waters.
"I agree, but we're not Beowulf Agate. I'll be in touch."
"Righto, Frank."
Sir Geoffrey glanced at his watch; once again he was late for dinner at home, so he called his wife, Gwyneth.
"Sorry, old girl, got a bit tangled down here."
"Same problem, Geof, the one you can't discuss?"
"In a word, yes."
"Then stay as long as is necessary, my dear. Cook has your dinner on a low oven. Use the pot holders to take out the tray."
"Thank you, Gwyn, and I am sorry."
"Don't be, Geof, just catch the bastards. Clive is a complete wreck, totally depressed. He's here with me now."
"I may be a bit longer-"
"Whatever, I have to take care of Clive. I'll put him in a guest bedroom."
Waters hung up the phone, thinking about where he might have dinner out, thus avoiding his whining brother-in-law at least until morning. He picked up his intercom phone and asked for his SIS guards, the most experienced patrols where assassination attempts were concerned. Don Carlo Paravacini's death sentence would not be tolerated.
The three paramilitary guards arrived, their camouflage dress abetted by the lethal automatic weapons strapped over their shoulders, their berets at the proper angle for total vision.
"Anytime you like, sir," said the leader of the unit, an immense man, whose large, muscular shoulders stretched the fabric of his uniform.
"All roofs in the area have been secured. We're up to speed."
"Thank you. Frankly, I think that much of this is unnecessary, but others disagree."
"We're the others, sir," said the leader.
"A man's life is threatened, no matter by whom, we're here to prevent that threat from being carried out."
"Again, my thanks. Would it be against the rules, however, to stop somewhere, say, Simpsons for dinner? My treat, of course."
"Sorry, sir. Our orders are to take you directly to your home, and wait there until we're relieved."
"I might prefer being shot," mumbled Sir Geoffrey.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Nothing, nothing at all," said Waters, putting on his jacket.
"All right, let's go."
The unit opened the right door of the MI-5 entrance on the first floor.
Two SIS agents rushed out, instantly taking their positions on the right and the left, their weapons at the ready. The leader nodded to Waters; it was his cue to rush down to the waiting armored vehicle parked at the curb. He ran.
Suddenly, out of the darkness, a black limousine raced around the corner, its left rear windows open. The barrels of automatic weapons were shoved through the dark, open spaces and staccato bursts of gunfire filled the night. The first two SIS guards fell, their chests exploding with blood. The unit's leader crashed his body against Geoffrey Waters, propelling him down the short flight of steps until he was prone on the pavement behind the armored car. The action cost the SIS officer a shattered left shoulder when a semicircle of bullets lodged in his flesh and bone. He raised his right arm, his automatic in his hand, and fired repeatedly at the disappearing limousine. It was to no avail; his wounded shoulder prevented his left arm from supporting him. He collapsed, a part of his body covering Sir Geoffrey.
From inside MI-5 headquarters people rushed out at the sound of gunfire, all carrying weapons. Surveying the blood-drenched scene, a middle-aged officer issued his instructions quietly, firmly.
"Call the police, order an ambulance-priority status-and alert Scotland Yard."
Slowly, with assistance, Geoffrey Waters stood up, breathless and trembling but still very much in control.
"What's the count?" he asked no one in particular.
"Two SIS dead, the unit leader badly damaged, but we'll put a tourniquet on his left arm," replied the officer nearest in age to Waters.
"The bastards!" said Sir Geoffrey softly, in fury, as he pulled out his cellular telephone and touched the numbers of the hotel where Pryce and Montrose were billeted.
"Room Six Hundred."
"Hello," said the voice of Cameron Pryce.
"Your Matarese tried to carry out Paravacini's death sentence on me a few minutes ago. The cost was two dead and one severely wounded."
"Jesus Christ!" roared Cam.
"Are you all right?"
"A few bruises on this elderly body and a scratched face from the pavement, otherwise mobile and violently angry."
"I can understand. What can we do? Should we come over?"
"Not on your life!" exclaimed Waters.
"The Matarese surely has scouts in the area to assess the damage, and no one knows you're here in London. Stay away!"
"Understood. What are you doing?"
"First, trying to get my thoughts together. Then, since the killers were in a limousine, a black limousine without any rear license plate that I could see, I'm going to tear into every limo rental service in London and its environs."
"It's a place to start, Geof, but it was probably stolen."
"We'll check the po
lice records, naturally. You just stay incognito and incommunicado, except for me and Brandon."
"How's Scofield doing?"
"Very well; we'll fill you in later. In the meantime, he's racking up the largest room-service charges in the Savoy's history, except for several Arabian sheikhs with their multiple wives."
"You can always count on Bray. He has multiple talents."
The small hotel in New Jersey's "hunt country" was conveniently, if distantly, situated between a golf course a half mile down the road on the right, and riding stables a half mile up on the left. Each had memberships going back generations, and family pedigrees of new applicants were studied assiduously. Few ever passed, sons and daughters of members filling the ranks, as was deemed proper. The hotel itself was countrified-quaint, more traditionally New England than New Jersey.
The exterior three stories were of white clapboard, the first-floor entrance flanked by colonial pillars below a sloping porch roof with the usual winged brass eagle over the door. Inside was a profusion of dark pine furniture and glistening brass lamps and small chandeliers. Along with the thickly carpeted lobby and the less-than-imposing, even casual, front desk, the small hotel exuded an air of regulated comfort. In the main, the guests seemed to confirm this. They were exclusively white, middle- to late-middle-aged, expensively dressed, and used to authority, both elected and inherited.
There was one addition to the hotel's staff, very much unappreciated by the management. However, since the request was routed through the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the correct authority, it amounted to a demand. On the day before the Matarese quartet arrived, a substitute operator appeared on the switchboard. All taps and calls from the four guests' accommodations were directed through her station, where a triple-layered taping device was kept operative. The woman was in her early forties, well-spoken and attractive, as befitted her environment, and her name was Mrs. Cordell.
She studied her equipment, checked every concealed tap, improving the locations where she felt improvement was needed, and went to bed early. There would be precious little sleep for the next two days, as the operation was considered so secret there could be no relief for Mrs.
Cordell. She was the sole CIA agent-technician with instant communication to Deputy Director Frank Shields.
Morning came in New Jersey's hunt country, the fairways and the pastures glistening with the sun and the early dew, and the quartet arrived approximately thirty minutes apart. Cordell had no idea what each man looked like, as there were no television cameras on the entrance; however, their appearances did not concern her. She simply wanted to hear their voices, which would be placed on isometric recorders, sonic ally identified. The calls began, the first from Jamieson Fowler to the attorney Stuart Nichols's room. "Stu, it's Fowler. Let's meet in my place, say in twenty minutes, all right?"
Kerwish. Voice recorded and identified.
"Certainly, Jim. I'll call the others. " Kerwish. Voice recorded and identified.
"Yes?" "Stuart here, Ben. Jamieson's room in twenty minutes, okay?"
"I may be a little late," replied the banker, Benjamin Wahlburg.
"There's a transfer glitch between L.A." London, and Brussels. Some idiot punched in a wrong access. We "II catch it soon."
"Hello?" said Albert Whitehead, CEO of Swanson and Schwartz.
"It's Stu, Al. Fowler wants us to get together at his place in about twenty minutes. I agreed. " "Don't be so quick to agree," interrupted the Wall Street broker harshly.
"Tell him I want an hour!"
"Why, Al?" "Let's say I don't trust any of these bastards.
"That's pretty severe, Al-" "Everything's severe, Counselor! Get your goddamned head out of the law books and look at reality. Several pressure points are eroding, and I don't like it. Como doesn't respond and now Amsterdam is off-limits. What the hell's going on?"
"We don't know, Al, but that's no reason to alienate Fowler and Wahlburg. "How do you know that, Stuart? We 've got millions-no, billions-riding on the enterprise. A breakdown could cost us every cent we have!
"Fowler and Wahlburg are on our side, Al. They're in as deep as we are. Don't antagonize them.
"All right, but don't give them the decision about timing. A specific time connotes authority, which I will not abdicate. Tell them I'll be there in forty-five minutes, more or less. " Kerwish.
Each voice was recorded on Mrs. Cordell's layered tapes. No matter who spoke on succeeding recordings, he would be instantly identified.
Mrs. Cordell was now ready for her electronic surveillance of the Matarese quartet.
The preamble began at precisely 11:02 A.M. in Jamieson Fowler's suite. It was a preamble because the initial dialogue was harsh and contentious between three, not four, men.
"Where the hell is Whitehead, Stuart?" Wahlburg said.
"He'll be here as soon as he can."
"What's keeping him?"
"A glitch, not unlike yours, Ben. Lack of communication over the final terms of a merger. He'll straighten it out soon."
"This is far, far more important than any goddamn merger!"
"He knows that as well as you do, Jamieson. However, losing your heads over a half hour won't solve anything. Nothing will be gained, only a loss of concentration where it's needed."
"Words! Fucking lawyer."
"Hey, Wahlburg, animus is not our friend right now."
"Sorry, Stu, but you know Whitehead better than any of us. Al plays his little games; he's a control freak."
"How can you leap from one telephone call to control freak?"
"Oh, shut up, both of you! Whitehead's a prick-always was, always will be."
"Now just hold it, Fowler," Stuart Nichols said.
"Al's not only my client, he's my friend."
And so it went, back and forth among the trio for twenty-two minutes until Albert Whitehead arrived. By the tone of his voice, he was all contrition.
"I'm terribly sorry, fellas, I really am. I had to get a neutral interpreter on my end of the call. Schweizerdeutsch is a hell of a language."
"Schweizerdeutsch," mumbled Fowler in disgust as he threw himself into an easy chair.
"You should try negotiating in it, Jamieson," said Whitehead, standing firm and looking down at the utilities executive.
"It's good exercise for the mind."
"I don't exercise my mind over things I can't understand, Al. It's not very good business."
"No, I guess you don't, that's why you need people like us. Men who do exercise their minds, so you can get the financing you need for your mergers and buy outs
"I'd get it with or without you-" "Not actually, Fowler," interrupted Whitehead sharply.
"Our organization, or enterprise, if you like-" "Call us who we are, Al," broke in Jamieson Fowler curtly, "or does the name frighten you?"
"Not at all, I use it proudly.. .. The Matarese has specific rules in the funding of capital. Where tracing is possible, only certain channels can be employed, channels that are within the laws of the country of receivership. In the case of a very large transfer, with a firm like mine-usually, only my firm, as you well know-" "Will you two stop playing 'who's king of the hill'?" An agitated Benjamin Wahlburg walked between Whitehead and Fowler, looking back and forth at each.
"Put your egos back in the stables, we've got much bigger problems!"
The conversation, though no less contentious, zeroed in immediately on the issues. It began with Albert Whitehead's earlier question to his attorney, Stuart Nichols.
"What the hell's going on?"
The answers came rapidly, on top of one another, and frequently in conflict. They ranged from blaming Amsterdam for a lack of controlling strength to possible defections of individual cells driven by greed and reluctant to give up their fiefdoms. They then considered the role Julian Guiderone was playing relative to the information Leonard Fredericks had supplied from London.
"Where is Guiderone now?" asked Albert Whitehead.
"He has a place
somewhere in the east Mediterranean, I'm told," said Wahlburg.
"It could be just a rumor, of course. No one seems to know where it is."
"I've a few connections in the intelligence community," added Nichols.
"I'll see if they can help."
"Help you find a man who supposedly died twenty or thirty years ago?" Fowler grunted a derisive laugh.
"Jamieson," interrupted Whitehead, "you'd be astonished at the number of false deaths that occur, only to be followed by resurrections years later. In point of fact, the recent gossip on the street was that you were Jimmy Hoffa."
"Funny man." Fowler turned to Wahlburg.
"Say Stu comes up with something, which isn't likely, what can Guiderone do?"
"The answer to that is, anything he likes. And I'd have no problem flying over and talking to Julian. Regardless of his legend, he's a civilized man, as long as you're honest with him. The Dutchman may talk reasonably, but underneath the gloss, he's pathological."
"But what can he do?" asked Whitehead.
"Jamieson's got a point, a valid one-" "Why thank you, Al."
"I never said you were stupid, Jamieson, just limited by choice. This time you're not." Whitehead looked at the banker.
"I repeat, Ben, what can Guiderone do, if he can even be found? He doesn't control Amsterdam."
"And Amsterdam's where the money comes from!" exclaimed the attorney, Nichols.
"Yes, of course, the money," agreed Wahlburg.
"And where did that money come from? .. . Never mind, I'll answer that. From his grandfather, the Baron of Matarese's vast fortunes-plural-all over the world. And who is Julian Guiderone? Where does he come from?
I'll answer that, too. He's the son of the Shepherd Boy, Nicholas Guiderone, anointed by the Baron to carry out his life's work, his dreams and ideals."
"What the hell are you driving at, Ben?" broke in Fowler.
"Get to the point!"
"The point's a subtle one, Jim, but as powerful as all the money the grandson can get his hands on."
"I think you'd better explain that," said Stuart Nichols.
"It's as eternal as the prophets of the Old Testament and their followers, who considered the prophets' words sacred, holy."
"We can do without a Talmudic exercise, Ben," protested Whitehead.
The Matarese Countdown Page 43
