"For change, van der Meer, that elusive abstraction. And our people are prepared-everywhere?"
"Naturally. It is to their benefit, as well as their governments', without whom they cannot exist and continue to thrive."
"You really are a genius, van der Meer! To do it all so quickly, so efficiently."
"It's really not that difficult, meneer. The wealthy of the world want more riches while those below want the benefits of that wealth to provide jobs. It's historically consistent. All one has to do is penetrate one or the other, or preferably both, and convince each that-as the Americans say-they're being 'screwed." The old Soviet Union appealed to the workers, who had no expertise. The economic conservatives appeal to the entrepreneurs, who generally have no sense of a social contract. We have both."
"So then we have control," agreed Guiderone.
"That was the dream, the vision of the Barone di Matarese. It is the only way. Except for the governments-he never envisioned that, only international finance."
"He was of another time, and times have changed. We must control governments. The later Matarese understood that, of course.. .. My God, the President of the United States? You could have done that?"
"He would have been swept into office," stated Guiderone quietly, a trancelike tone in his voice.
"He was unstoppable-and he was ours.
Christ in heaven, he was ours!" The older man turned toward the last sunlight streaming through the windows and continued, his voice cold with loathing.
"Until he was cut down by the pig of the world."
"Someday, when it's feasible for you, I should like to hear the story of what happened."
"It can never be told, my young friend, even to you, and there is none higher in my regard. For if that story, as you call it, ever saw the light of day, no government anywhere would be trusted by those it must govern. All I'll say to you, van der Meer, is stay your course. It is the right one."
"I prize your words, Mr. Guiderone."
"You should," said the elegant old man, turning back to Matareisen.
"For while you are the grandson of the Barone di Matarese, I am the son of the Shepherd Boy."
It was as though van der Meer Matareisen had been struck by a bolt of lightning, the thunder exploding within his skull.
"I'm stunned!" he gasped, his eyes wide in shock.
"It was said that he was killed-" "He was 'killed," but he did not die," whispered Guiderone sotto voce, his own eyes dancing with amusement.
"But it's a secret you'll take to your grave."
"Of course, of course! Still, the Council-in Bahrain-surely they must know."
"Oh, that! Frankly, I exaggerated. I frequently reside in Bahrain, but in truth, I am the Council, the others are avaricious mannequins. Live with it, van der Meer, I'll simply advise you." There was a low hum on an intercom that was placed in the wall. Guiderone was startled; he glared at Matareisen.
"I thought you were never to be disturbed while you were in here!" he said, his voice guttural now.
"It must be an emergency. No one knows you are here-my God, these are my private quarters, completely soundproof. The walls and floors are eight inches thick. I simply don't know-" "Answer it, you fool!"
"Yes, naturally." Van der Meer, like a man coming out of a nightmare, rushed to the walled intercom and lifted the receiver.
"Yes? I told you I'm never to be-" Obviously cut off by the voice on the line,
he listened, turning pale. He hung up and stared at Julian Guiderone.
"Word from Eagle in Washington," he began, barely audible.
"Yes, that's Langley. What is it?"
"Scofield survived the bombing. He's on his way to the States with the woman and Cameron Pryce."
"Kill him, kill them all!" ordered the son of the Shepherd Boy between clenched teeth.
"If Scofield survived the trawler, he'll come after us like a crazed bear-which is how it all began. He must be silenced; enlist everyone on our American payrolls! Kill him before he stops me again!"
""Me? .. ." Matareisen's astonishment was now compounded by a terrible fear. It was in his eyes as he continued to stare at Julian Guiderone.
"It was you then, you were our ultimate weapon. You were about to become the President of the United States!"
"It was a foregone conclusion, nothing could stop me-except the pig of the world."
"That's why you travel so secretly, with so many passports.
Everywhere."
"I'll be forthright with you, van der Meer. We have different approaches to our responsibility. No one looks for a man declared dead nearly thirty years ago, but that man, that myth, remains alive to encourage his legions everywhere. He rises from the grave to propel them forward, a living, breathing human being, a god on earth they can feel, touch, and hear."
"Without fear of exposure," said the Dutchman, interrupting, studying the American Guiderone in a suddenly critical light.
"You, on the other hand," continued the son of the Shepherd Boy, "work in darkness, never seen, never touched, never heard. Where are your soldiers? You don't know them, you only give them orders."
"I work internally, not externally," protested Matareisen.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"I formulate, I do not parade myself. I'm not a motion-picture star, I'm the brains behind the stardom. They all know that."
"Why? Because of the money you distribute?"
"It is enough. Without me they are nothing!"
"I beg you, my brilliant young friend, to reconsider. You feed an animal too much, he becomes hostile, it's the law of nature. Stroke the animal, it needs to be touched, felt, and to listen to a voice."
"You do things your way, Mr. Guiderone, I'll do them my way."
"I pray we don't collide, van der Meer."
The sterile house on the banks of the Chesapeake Bay was the former estate of one of the wealthiest families on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. It had been leased to the intelligence community for a dollar a year in exchange for the Internal Revenue Service washing away a mountain of unpaid taxes due to loopholes declared blatantly illegitimate. The government won both the battle and the war. It would have cost far more to purchase, legally rent, or even reconstruct such a desirable residence and location.
Beyond the stables and the fields was inhibiting marshland, more swamp than marsh, indigenous to untamed inland waterways. In front of the antebellum mansion was a huge manicured lawn sloping down to a boathouse and a long dock, the pier stretching out over the bay's gentle waters, gentle when the Atlantic was at peace with itself, dangerous when it was not. Secured to the pilings were two crafts, a rowboat and a motorized skiff, each used to reach a thirty-six-foot yawl moored a hundred feet out in the bay. Unseen, in the boathouse, was a large low-slung Chris-Craft capable of forty knots an hour.
"The yawl's there so you'll have something to sail, if the spirit moves you," Deputy Director Frank Shields had said when he met the Navy jet that had flown Pryce, Scofield, and Antonia to the airfield in Glen Burnie.
"It's a little beauty!" Bray had exclaimed, as later they walked across the lawn.
"But is our taking a sail such a good idea?"
"Of course not, but every other estate like this has one or two boats, so it might appear irregular if you didn't."
"It'd also appear pretty irregular if it never left its mooring," said Cameron Pryce.
"We understand that," agreed his superior.
"Therefore, it can be used for short outings under certain conditions."
"What are they, Mr. Shields?" asked Antonia.
"The patrols are to be alerted an hour before and advised of your precise sailing route; they'll precede you on the shore. Also, two guards must be with you, everyone wearing protective gear."