The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"Haven't the slightest. Never asked, don't care. Contraband, I gather; drugs, I suspect. Meeting tankers and cargos on their way to Durban and Port Elizabeth."

"You're a beautiful man."

"M'children think I am. I bring home the bacon, as you Yanks say."

"Hold your head straight, Aussie, it'll hurt less that way."

"What? ..."

Cameron dropped his MAC-10, walked up to the man, his arms raised above him, then crashed his taut, hard, experienced hands into both sides of the rogue Australian's neck. The carotid vessels were damaged, not severed; he would be unconscious for at least two hours.

Suddenly, out of the darkness of the small cove beach, came the words shouted in accented English.

"Jack, Harry, I've found it! There are more than I can count. Dozens and dozens of small plates that lead to a central cable! They're here, we've found them; this is their electricity!"

"And I've found you," said Scofield, standing up from the dark beach rocks, the silenced automatic rifle in his hand.

"I suggest you get rid of the AK-Forty-seven before I become upset and put a bullet in your forehead. I don't approve of those weapons; they kill people."

"My God, it is you!"

"What did you say?"

"Beowulf Agate, your code name."

"You can tell in this light?"

"I've listened to your voice on tape."

"Why were you so anxious to find me? Not that I was so hard to find."

"We had no reason until recently. Beowulf was a forgotten relic, a man who had disappeared."

"And now I've reappeared?"

"You know the reason as well as I do. The old woman in Chelyabinsk, Rene Mouchistine on that yacht."

"I've heard of those people."

"Why else would the Agency's new Beowulf Agate, the vaunted Cameron Pryce, come after you?"

"I have no idea. You tell me."

"He's an expert, and you have names going back years."

"If I have, I've forgotten them. That world no longer interests me.

And, incidentally, how could you possibly have known about Pryce? It was a Four-Zero search, maximum classified."

"Our methods, too, are maximum classified, but very thorough.

More thorough than the Company's."

"

"Ours' being the Matarese's, of course."

"It's to be presumed that Officer Pryce revealed that to you."

"Actually, he didn't have to, if that interests you."

"Really?"

"Which means that your sources and my sources come from the same source. Now that's interesting, isn't it?"

"It's also immaterial, Mr. Scofield. These names you've forgotten,

and the companies they represented-surely you realize they're meaningless now. Most of the people, if not all, are dead, the corporations swallowed up by others. Meaningless."

"Ah, yet some do come back to me, I truly believe, but then they were pretty well buried all those years ago, weren't they? Let's see if I can remember.. .. There was Voroshin in the Soviet city of Leningrad, which gave birth, of course, to Essen's Verachten, not so?

Both were owned by their governments but they were beholden to someone-something-else. In the American city of Boston, Massachusetts, wasn't it?"

"That is enough, Mr. Scofield."

"Don't be such a killjoy. My memory's activated-it hasn't been for years. There was also the English Waverly Industries; it, too, was irrevocably bound to Boston. And Scozzi-Paravacini, or was it Paravacini-Scozzi? In Milan, wasn't it? However, it also took its orders from Boston-" "You've made your point-" "Good heavens, not until we consider the untimely, tragic deaths of such leaders as the brilliant Guillaumo Scozzi, the seductive Odile Verachten, and the stubborn David Waverly. I've always felt that somehow they displeased-dare I say the name-the Shepherd Boy?"

"Ashes, Scofield. I repeat, meaningless! And that's nothing but a sobriquet for someone long dead and forgotten."

"

"Sobriquet'? That's a nickname, isn't it?"

"You're not uneducated."

"The Shepherd Boy.... In some parts of that secret world of yours, that world of constant night, he's a legend going back decades. A legend about whom words were written down by those he ultimately destroyed. If found and pieced together, those writings would change the history of international finance, wouldn't they? ... Or perhaps describe a blueprint for the future."

"I say it for the last time!" The search-party leader both spat and choked out the words.

"Meaningless ramblings!"

"Then why are you here?" asked Bray.

"Why were you so anxious to find me?"

"We follow orders."

"Oh, I love that phrase! It certainly covers a lot of exculpatory ground, doesn't it? Doesn't it?"

"You finish your statements with too many questions."

"It's the only way you learn anything, isn't it?"

"Let me be frank, Mr. Scofield-" "You mean you haven't been?" interrupted Beowulf Agate.

"Please stop that!"

"Sorry, go on."

"We live in a different age from when you left the Service, sir-" "Are you saying I'm antediluvian, out of touch?" again Bray broke in.

"Only in terms of technological relativity," replied the Middle European with marked irritation.

"Data banks have been upgraded beyond belief, instruments electronically scan thousands of documents every hour and store them, the depth of research has become extraordinary."

"Which means if I happened to mention a few of those names to interested parties, it might lead to new ones now-new names, new companies, is that what you're saying? My word, the entire history of corporate Boston would have to be rewritten."

"What I'm saying, Mr. Scofield," said the intruder through clenched teeth, as if addressing a senile idiot, "is that we're prepared to pay you several million dollars to disappear again. South America, the South Pacific islands, anywhere you wish. A mansion, a ranch, the finest that can be purchased for you and your wife."

"We were never really married you know, just sort of our own commitment-" "I really don't care. I'm simply offering you a superb alternative to what you have."

"Then why didn't you just come in here and blow us up with your cannon? You could have smoked us out and killed me-ergo, your problem is solved."

"I remind you that Officer Pryce was tracked here. It would lead to unacceptable complications. And by the way, where is he?"

"Mrs. Scofield is showing him around our lagoon; it's quite beautiful in the moonlight, what there is of it.... So you don't reject the solution, only the consequences."

"Just as you would have done in your younger years. Beowulf Agate was the most pragmatic of deep-cover, black-operations officers. He killed when he believed he had to."

"That's not quite true. He killed when it was necessary-there's a difference. Belief, or conjecture, had nothing to do with it."

"Enough. What is your answer? Live out your days in splendid comfort or stay on this tiny island hovel? And die on it."

"Good Lord, such a decision!1" said Scofield, lowering his MAC-10 automatic rifle against the rocks, his left hand pensively shading his eyes but still on the intruder.

"It would be wonderful for my wife-my common wife, as it were, and perfectly legal-but I'd be constantly thinking .. ." Beowulf Agate watched through his slightly parted fingers the subtle movements of the intruder. The man's right hand was lowered, close to his loose jacket.. .. Suddenly, he ripped up the flap and reached for a gun under his belt. Before he could fire, Bray raised his weapon and sent off a single round. The Mataresan collapsed in the sand, blood trickling from his chest.

"What was that?" came the voice from the dead man's radio.

"I

heard something! What was it?"

Scofield raced to the corpse, pulling it into the bushes out of sight and removing the small intercom from the jacket pocket; he switched it off. Then, concealing himself

in the shadows, he called out sotto voce, "From your silence, my hidden pigeons, I assume you've completed your assignments. With great caution, please return to Father Christmas.

" "My man's asleep," said Pryce, emerging from the palm-engulfed bushes.

"He'll be asleep for a couple of hours."

"Here's another on his hands and knees," added Antonia, crawling with her captive out of the foliage.

"Where's the other man?"

"He was most impolite; he tried to kill me. He's doing penance in our jungle."

"What do we do now, my husband?"

"Simplest thing in the world, old girl," replied Scofield, peering through the night-vision binoculars.