The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"There it is, sir," said the naval officer, a lieutenant j.g. even younger than the commander of station in St.

Thomas.

"That's "Big Stone Mother,"

" he added, pointing to an enormous cliff like rock that seemingly had lurched out of the sea.

"Another name, Lieutenant?

"Big Stone Mother'?"

"We gave it that one, I'm afraid. We don't like to come out here, too many shoals."

"Then stay pretty far from shore. If a boat comes out, we'll spot it."

"A Cigarette on starboard northwest," said the sudden voice over the intercom.

"Shit!" exclaimed the young skipper.

"What the hell is that?" asked Pryce. "

"A cigarette?"

" "Cigarette boat, sir. We're fast, but no match for one of them."

"Please bring me up to speed, Lieutenant."

"That's what we're talking about. Speed. The Cigarette boat is the favorite of the drug crowd. It can outrun anything on the water. It's why, when we know they're in use, we call in aircraft. But with all our equipment, here and in the air, we're no damned good after dark. The Cigarettes are too small and too fast."

"And I thought it was as simple as our lungs."

"Funnyman .. . sir. If your target goes full throttle, we'll lose it. No interdiction, no boarding."

"I don't want to interdict and I certainly don't want to board, Lieutenant. " "Then, if I may, sir, why the hell are we here?"

"I want to pinpoint where the target goes. You can do that, can't you?"

"Probably. At least to a land mass, an island maybe. But there are lots of them, and if he pulls into one and we get a radar fix, then he pulls out for another, we've had it!"

"She, Lieutenant, she."

"Oh? Wow, I never figured."

"Get your radar fix, I'll take my chances."

The minor island in question was named simply Outer Brass 26 on the charts. Uninhabited; questionable foliage; no long-range human habitation considered. It was barely four square miles of volcanic rock expunged from the depths of the ocean, with several hills that permitted profuse greenery from the generosity of the tropic sun, the afternoon showers, and said greenery spread to the lands below. Although once considered part of the Spanish Caribbean chain, it had never actually been claimed in recent history. It was an orphan in a sea of illegitimate children, nobody cared.

Cameron Pryce stood at midships in a diver's wet suit provided by the Coast Guard. Below him was a ladder that led down to a rubber raft with a small, quiet three-horsepower motor that would take him into the shore. In his left hand was the waterproof flight bag with his items f choice and necessity.

"I feel damned awkward just leaving you here, sir," said the very young skipper of the vessel.

"Don't, Lieutenant, it's what I came for. Besides, I can reach you whenever I want, can't I?"

"Of course. As you instructed, we'll remain out here, roughly five miles from land, beyond visual sighting if the light's right."

"When it's daylight, just stay in the path of the sun. The old cowboys-and-Indians movies were right about that."

"Yes, sir, it's part of our combat-strategies courses. Good luck, Mr.

Pryce. Good hunting with whatever you're doing."

"I'll need a little of both." The former CIA case officer descended the ladder to the bobbing PVC craft below.

The engine gurgled, it did not really run, as Pryce steered the rubber raft into shore. He chose what appeared in the moonlight to be a small cove; it was wooded, with overhanging palms roofing the perimeter. He jumped out of the raft and pulled it between the rocks to the sand, securing it to the trunk of a palm. He lifted out his waterproof case and flung the strap over his right shoulder; it was time for the hunt, and hopefully luck would be part of it.

He knew what to look for initially: light. A fire or battery-induced illumination, it had to be one or the other. For two people to live on a deserted island without either was not only uncomfortable, it was dangerous. He started to his right, walking cautiously over the rocky shoreline, constantly peering into the heavy foliage on his left. There were no signs of light or life. He trudged for nearly twenty minutes, greeting only darkness, until he saw it. But it was neither light nor life, only small metallic reflections of the moon; numerous short poles were in the ground, mirrors on top, angled toward the sky. He approached them, yanked the flashlight out of his case, and saw the wires, leading to the right and the left, connecting the poles. There were dozens, scores of them, forming a semicircle on the rock-hewn shoreline. Photoelectric cells! Catching the rays of the sun from dawn to high noon and beyond.

Searching farther, he found a thick, central cable that led into the tropical forest. He started to follow it when he heard the words, spoken clearly, harshly, in English behind him.

"Are you looking for someone?" asked the mid-deep voice.

"If you are, you've gone about it amateurishly."

"Mr. Scofield, I presume."

"Since we're not in Africa, and you're not Henry Stanley, you may presume correctly. Keep your hands above your head and walk straight forward. It's our cable path, so use your light, because if you break it, I'll blow your head off. It took me too long to put it together."

"I come in peace, Mr. Scofield, without any intent to divulge your whereabouts," said Pryce, walking carefully ahead.

"We want information we think only you can provide."

"Let's wait until we reach the house, Mr. Cameron Pryce."

"You know who I am?"

"Certainly. They say you're the best, probably better than I ever was.. .. Put your hands down. The palm leaves get in your face."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Scofield suddenly shouted, "It's okay. Turn on the lights, Antonia. He was clever enough to find us, so open a bottle of wine."

The clearing in the forest was suddenly illuminated by two floodlights revealing a large one-story cabin of tropical wood, a natural lagoon on the right.

"My God, it's beautiful!" cried the CIA agent.

"It took us a long time to find this place and longer to build it."

"You built it yourself?"

"Hell, no. My lady designed it, and I boated in crews from St. Kitts and other islands to do the work. Since I paid them half in advance, no one took offense at the blindfolds out of Tortola. Just discretion, young man."

"Young and not so young," broke in Cameron, in awe.

"Depends where you're coming from, fella," said Scofield, walking into the light. His thin, narrow face was framed by a short white beard and longish gray hair, but his eyes were bright, youthful behind his steel-rimmed glasses.

"We like it."

"You're so alone-" "Not really. Toni and I frequently take the 'butt' over to Tortola, grab an inter island to "Rico, and a flight to Miami or even New York.

Like you, if you've got a brain in your head, I have half a dozen Passports that get me through."

"I don't have a brain in my head," acknowledged Pryce.

"Get one. Maybe you'll find someday that's all you've got. After you've appropriated a few hundred thousand in contingency funds.

Placed in off-shore investments, of course."

"You did that?"

"Have you any idea what our pensions allow us? Maybe a condominium in Newark in the lesser part of town. I wasn't going to settle for that. I deserved more."

"The Matarese?" said Cameron softly.

"It's back."

"That's out of orbit, Pryce. An old boy in D.C. called me and said that he heard you were looking for me-yes, I've got the same kind of phones you have, and the generators, and the security, but you're not going to drag me back into that hell."

"We don't want to drag you back, sir, we only want the truth as you know it."

Scofield did not reply. Instead, as they had reached the short steps to the cabin's entrance, he said, "Come on inside and get out of that outfit.