The Matarese Countdown

by Robert Ludlum

  "Any suggestions?"

  "One or two maybe.. .. Aaron Greenwald in Silicon Valley. He's the creative brains behind several major companies, consultant status.

  Then there's Pierre Campion in Paris. Not well known but he's a wizard, way ahead of the times."

  "Do you know them?"

  "They were part of the tutorial teams recruited by G-Two. They might remember me, but no guarantees."

  "They'll remember you now. Any others?"

  "Check with the Army, they were brought in relays."

  "Which meant all had maximum-security clearance."

  "Most definitely."

  Frank Shields went to work in Washington while Geoffrey Waters reached the Deuxieme Bureau in Paris. Forty-eight hours passed as Colonel Montrose explored the various computers in the Matarese's communications center. On the morning of the third day, seven of the finest minds in computer science were gathered in London and flown to Amsterdam by Luther Considine. The house on the Keizersgracht had been sealed off, patrolled by a new unit of British MI-6 in civilian clothes. The commandos had returned to the U.K.; van der Meer's residence was now occupied by Cameron, Leslie, the seven computer brains, and a small domestic staff of four, all English and fluent in Dutch.

  When one of the former executives who manned the Matarese computers called to speak with Meneer van der Meer, he was told that the owner was out of the country on business. Knowing the current circumstances, the man was suspicious. He drove over and saw the bustling activity. He phoned his colleagues.

  Stay away from the Keizersgracht. Something's happened!

  It was apparent from the first meeting in the downstairs drawing room that the Californian Aaron Greenwald would be the group leader of the computer specialists. He was a slender man, bordering on the gaunt, in his early forties, with a pleasant face and a soft, compelling voice. If there was any hint of brilliance, it was in his eyes. There was a gentleness about them but they were also penetrating, leveled completely on whomever he was addressing, his concentration total. It was as though he were peeling away layers, seeing and understanding things in the other person that someone else might miss. The group was made up of five men, two women, and, of course, Leslie Montrose.

  Rooms were assigned, luggage unpacked, and preliminary schedules drawn up. They gathered in the downstairs drawing room and Greenwald spoke.

  "We'll take each machine into the progressions from alpha through omega, utilizing all the variations we can create, logging every entry and invasion. I've prepared identical charts with suggestions, but they're only suggestions. Please don't feel constricted by them-it's your inventiveness that's paramount, certainly not mine. Incidentally, we've unscrambled the elevator and wired a top-floor access. Remember, no more than three people per trip. Finally, for maximum efficiency in the workloads, the day and night schedules are posted on the bulletin board in the upstairs dining room."

  The labors began, and they were labors. Grueling, frustrating, exhausting, and around the clock, for no one wanted to leave the team effort. Schedules went out the proverbial window; sleep came when it had to come, meals taken only when hunger pangs interfered with thought and invention. The specialists would temporarily leave their machines and hover over others, encouraging them when near-access progressions were pulled up. There was a growing sense of urgency as each particle of information was revealed, leading to explosive possibilities. But there was far too much that was not revealed, that remained elusive, beyond reach.

  "There has to be a commonality," insisted Greenwald from the elevated console.

  "Or at least a partial, a similar pre-access applicable to all."

  "Like an area code, Aaron?" asked Leslie, seated below and to the left of the Californian.

  "Yes, an identifying series of symbols branching off to the individual equipment. For efficiency as well as a kind of banner or herald."

  "That's certainly consistent with this whole setup," said Pryce, standing by Greenwald, watching his fingers roam over the keyboard.

  "A powerful ego's behind it all."

  "His name is Matareisen, of course," said Aaron, his tone distasteful.

  "Is Sir Geoffrey making any progress with him in London?"

  "No, and it's driving him up the wall. That guy is as impenetrable as Gibraltar. They've tried every serum from the Pentothal to the old scopolamine and nothing works. He's got the mind-set of a robot. He's beaten, but Waters says he acts as if he'd won. They keep him in a lighted cell and won't let him sleep, with minimal food and water .. .

  nothing fazes him. He's got the constitution of a bull."

  "He'll either waste away or break," said Greenwald.

  "Let us pray it's the latter and in time."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Again and again I'm putting up a time frame. Whatever's going to happen is precisely scheduled and widespread."

  "And we haven't a clue what it is. The only fragment we've got Scofield got-is something about 'fires in the Mediterranean."

  " "So it's back to alpha through omega, themes and multiple variations," said Aaron Greenwald, leaning back in his swivel chair, stretching briefly, then pushing forward, hands and fingers flying.

  Breakthrough!

  It came at 3:51 in the morning of the fourth day. The specialist from Paris, Pierre Campion, burst into Greenwald's room, where the exhausted group leader had retired less than a half hour before.

  "Aaron, Aaron, wake up, mon ami!" cried the Frenchman.

  "I think we've done it!"

  "What .. . what?" Greenwald shot up, instantly throwing his long legs over the side of the bed. He was still dressed in his rumpled clothes, his wide, gentle eyes red from fatigue.

  "When? How?"

  "Only minutes ago. It was an algebraic combination of your early projections-equations, Aaron! Come, Cameron and Leslie are there with two others. We don't want-don't dare-proceed without you."

  "Let me splash some water on my face, then perhaps I can focus.

  Where are my glasses?"

  "You're wearing them."

  Upstairs in the vast communications center, the five experts and an outclassed Pryce converged on the elevated console that Campion had taken over from Greenwald.

  "The M and the B symbols are factored into a progression that equates them by division," said Aaron pensively.

  "The Baron of Matarese," explained Cameron, "the giant and the source of everything they have. He's never far from Matareisen's mind.

  It's an obsession he has to follow."

  "Let's proceed-very cautiously," said Greenwald.

  "We'll lock in what we have and play with the equation, possibly geometrically, I suspect."

  "Really?" asked Campion.

  "Why?"

  "Because cubes and fourth or fifth powers would not be logical.

  Illogical logic could be the basis of the Matarese's codes."

  "You're beyond me, Aaron," said Pryce.

  "I'm beyond myself, Cam. I'm fishing."

  Twenty-six minutes later, as Greenwald's fingers rapidly accelerated over the keyboard, suddenly the multicolored map of the world on the wall became alive. Scores of flashing red lights appeared to explode all over the place. It was as if the huge map had taken on a life of its own, riveting attention, refusing to be denied. It was frightening, its power hypnotic.

  "Good Lord!" whispered Leslie, staring at the startling display as Campion and the others took several steps forward in disbelief.

  "What is it, Aaron?" said Pryce.

  "My guess is that whatever's going to happen will take place in those pulsating centers.. .. We're getting closer. Somewhere in these machines are the answers."

  "Keep fishing, please."

  "Printout!" shouted Campion, who had returned to his computer.

  The announcement was as electrifying as it was unexpected.

  "Mon Dieu, the print is self-induced, I did nothing!"

  "A release trip, Pierre," said Greenwald.


  "You reached an in load threshold and tripped the printer. For God's sake, what's the data?"

  "

  "Sector Twenty-six,"

  " began the Frenchman haltingly, leaning over and reading the printout as it rolled out. "

  "Phase One commences.

  Estimated foreclosures, bankruptcies, suspensions of activity: within thirty business days, forty-one thousand."

  " "Any indication which sector is number twenty-six?"

  "I think it's on the map," answered Lieutenant Colonel Montrose, pointing at the illuminated wall.

  "Of the flashing lights, there's one with a bluish glow on the West Coast of the United States."

  "She's right," said Cameron.

  "It's in the Los Angeles area."

  "Any hint as to the date, Pierre?"

  "More than a hint. Two weeks and five days from now."

  "Wake up the rest of the group!" ordered Greenwald, addressing the two other specialists.

  "Leslie, you and Pierre go to each machine inserting his codes, everything he's logged. When you've finished I'll cross force-feed."

  "You'll what?" asked Pryce.

  "Vernacular for selectively connecting the equipment. It's really quite simple, if rarely done. Using a master cable, you attach the modems to a central base." Aaron went on to explain that since they had the partial codes, they might save time by interconnecting, in essence locking in additional machines.

  A sense of urgency grew quickly as the entire group worked furiously. It was heightened when at first two and three printers became operational, then a few more, and finally the majority were spewing out reams of paper. The hours passed and fatigue turned into euphoria. Had they unlocked the secrets of the Matarese?

  At ten minutes past noon, Aaron Greenwald rose from the elevated console and spoke.

  "Listen up, everybody-quiet, please, and listen. At this juncture, we have more material than we can possibly absorb, but we've got to begin absorbing a large portion of it. I suggest we gather up what we have, collate by source, remove our stiff, bent-over bodies from these savage chairs, and .. . start reading again!"

  By three-thirty in the afternoon, nearly twelve hours after the initial breakthrough, the mountain of printouts had been perused, and the group of specialists gathered in the first-floor drawing room for their collective appraisal.

  "It is both terrifying and yet tragically incomplete," began Pierre Campion.

  "A catastrophic financial tidal wave will roll across the industrial nations. Literally millions upon millions of jobs will be lost as companies and corporations collapse."

  "It'll make the depression of the late twenties and thirties look like a minor ripple," said an American specialist.

  "The problem is that we have no hard specifics," added another.

  "But we have hints, ladies and gentlemen," pressed Greenwald.

  "They're in the words! Such as 'media'-newspapers, television;

  'consolidating grids'-utilities, power companies; 'act. tables'-easily translated as actuarial tables: insurance companies and their derivatives in health care. There are others also, among them quite prominently 'transfers," 'rollovers."

  "Transfers," boys and girls .. . banks. Any operation of this magnitude has to involve massive sums of capital unknown in the annals of economics."

  "We know a number of the banks that have merged or consolidated," said Pryce.

  "They're transnational."

  "And we've all read about the health organizations that are gobbling up one another," offered Leslie.

  "Profits first, patients somewhere down the road."

  "Certainly, we're aware of many such events," added the Frenchman, Campion, "but our problem is that there are no specific identifications in the voluminous material we've read."

  "We must bear in mind," said yet another American, "that the Matarese are not fools-avaricious psychopaths on a global scale, yes, but not fools. They've been at this for a long time, and on the surface we have to assume they have stayed within legal guidelines."

  "Naturally," agreed Aaron, " 'on the surface' being the operative phrase. So we can't challenge the obvious because, as Pierre says, we don't have specifics-" "No, we don't," interrupted Cameron angrily, "but we have something else and it's enough to work on now! We know for certain that the four caballeros Frank Shields has under surveillance are Matarese down to their socks. We'll start with them, I'll start with them!"

  "By yourself?" Leslie Montrose shot forward in her chair, glaring at Pryce.

  "I've done it before. Penetrate and pit individuals against one another. Of all the dumb games in the stupid business, this one has the highest rate of success. Besides, we don't have time for anything else.

  For Christ's sake, you heard Campion. Two weeks and five days!"

  "But you alone?" protested Greenwald.

  "Slight exaggeration," said Cam.

  "I'll convince Shields to provide me with all the wizardry we've got, along with a couple of bodies."

  "That means you'll be going to the States-" "As fast as I can, Aaron. Waters will get me there, and I want Luther with me in case there's some fast, quiet flying-no leak able personnel or official requisitions, please."

  "I'm going with you, Officer Pryce," said Leslie.

  "I figured I'd hear that."

  "And we'll keep at it here," said Greenwald.

  "Please set up instant communications between us so we can feed you whatever additional information we retrieve."

  "It's as good as done." Pryce reached into his jacket and pulled out his radio.

  "Luther, get the bird ready to go. We'll be down there in twenty minutes."

  The R.A.F supersonic jet landed at Dulles International Airport at 7:05 P.M." eastern standard time. An unmarked CIA vehicle took Pryce, Montrose, and Considine to Langley where Frank Shields waited for them in his office. Greetings exchanged and Luther introduced, Frank outlined his proposed scenario.

  "Commander Considine-" "You jumped me one, but Luther's fine, sir."

  "Thank you. Luther, we've appropriated a Rockwell jet; it's on a private field in Virginia, less than forty minutes from Washington.

  Does that meet with your approval?"

  "Sure. It's good equipment, depending on the air miles required."

  "At the moment, that's not a problem. Jamieson Fowler commutes between Boston, Maryland, and Florida; Stuart Nichols and Albert Whitehead are in New York; and Benjamin Wahlburg is in Philadelphia. No flight is over three and a half hours, including Florida."

  "Then there's no problem. May I inspect the aircraft and its security in the morning?"

  "We'll all inspect it, Luther. I want to get to New York," interrupted Cameron.

  "What do you know, spook?"

  "I know I want to get to New York."

  "Then hear me out before you go off half-cocked," said Shields firmly.

  "According to Geoffrey Waters, you want to corner Whitehead and the others on a one-to-one basis, correct?"

  "Yes. One to one, and one by one."

  "We've established that Whitehead leaves his office between five forty-five and six o'clock each evening, and employs a single limousine service. He makes one stop before going home to his apartment on Fifth Avenue. It's to a bar in Rockefeller Center called Templars. The management reserves a banquette for him. He has exactly two vodka martinis and returns to the waiting car."

  "That's very precise."

  "That's not all. We've recruited the limo service, very sub rosa, and the driver on the day you choose will be one of our people. Make your contact at the bar, doing whatever you have to do, and escort him back to the car. Can you do that?"

  "In spades, aces high."

  "I want to go with him," broke in Montrose.

  "These people are killers and, as I'm sure you're aware, I'm an expert in weapons."

  "That's not necessary, Leslie-" "Yes, it is! You made it necessary, my dear."

  "No comment," said the deputy director.


  "We'll position you in a nearby booth."

  "What about me?" asked Considine.

  "Someone should watch their flanks, that's what we do in the air."

  "Come on, Luther! It'll look like I'm covered, and the driver's one of us."

  "Your call, spook, but I'm from the streets, remember? Substitutes can be hired."

  "You're over anticipating my man."

  "I happen to agree with Cameron," said Shields.

  "But if it'll make you feel better, you'll be across the room, all right?"

  "I'll feel better," replied the pilot.

  "So, Cam, when you're in the car you can talk as long as you like, order the driver to wherever you want to gain time. It'll unnerve our broker that you have control."

  "So much for Whitehead. What about Nichols?"

  "The next morning. He stops at his club for a thirty-minute workout. It's on Twenty-second Street, and he gets there around seven fifteen We've arranged for you to be in the steam room, which Nichols uses after his exercises-" "Nice touch," Pryce broke in.

  "How can we be sure that I'll be alone with him?"

  "A trainer will take care of that. At that hour it shouldn't be difficult. You'll be inside and once he admits Nichols, he'll stay by the door, telling anybody who shows up that the room is temporarily out of order."

  "What explanation did you give him?" asked a concerned Leslie.

  "None, Colonel. He's one of us.. .. Now, considering the time change you've experienced, the three of you better get some rest, preferably a good night's sleep. You're in a motel not far from here, it's nearest the private field. Our car will take you there and pick you up in the morning, say eight o'clock?"

  "How about seven?" said Pryce.

  "Whatever you say."

  "I assume we'll be staying at your own private hotel in New York.

  Bray said it was the Marble something-or-other."

  "Wherever we can save the taxpayers' money, we do our best."

  "Scofield told me the room service was outstanding."

  "He would. He abused it."

  The flight to New York was uneventful, the traffic in Manhattan horrendous. They had been met at La Guardia Airport by a CIA case officer who drove them to the Hotel Marblethorpe. They used the side entrance and settled into the same suite Scofield and Antonia had occupied when Brandon held his "interviews" with the possible conduits to the Matarese. Luther Considine went into the guest bedroom, Cameron and Leslie into the master; unpacking was rapid, and they emerged as the CIA agent came up for a planning session. His name was Scott Walker, and he looked more like a lean, erect military officer than a member of Central Intelligence. He spoke.