The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"He kept whining about how stony he was and couldn't keep up with his bills and his payrolls. He damned near fell to his knees when I showed him the twenty-six hundred pounds."

"That sounds more like the truth to me," continued Montrose.

"I

mean, if he was as successful as he led us to believe, why wasn't his garage larger, with more space for more cars? And I only saw two other mechanics inside; that's hardly a staggering payroll."

"So maybe he lied to impress us," said Pryce.

"What with Geoffrey's ID, it would fit."

"Granted, but there's a real contradiction here. He talked about the Brewsters' Westminster accountants in almost glowing terms. They had their jobs to do, he had his, so why make a fuss?"

"To keep Henshaw's business," replied Waters rhetorically.

"Where's the contradiction?"

"Because that's not the way things are, Geoffrey. Since my husband died, I've had my share of bouts with car repairs. Those people are a pretty aggressive breed, and I can't believe it's much different over here."

"No sexism intended," said Pryce, "but those people, as you call them, tend to be a little rougher on women, figuring your knowledge of their work is limited."

"That's my point, or part of it. When Jim didn't come back, a friend of ours, a CPA with his own accounting firm, took care of all our finances until I could get things together. Because I was transferred several times, the arrangement lasted almost a year-" "What is your point, Leslie?" asked an impatient Cameron.

"I was in several accidents, one my fault for lack of concentration, the other two fairly minor bashes in parking lots. Joe Gamble-he's our accountant and even he agrees it's a hell of a name for a CPA-told me the worst part of his job was the car-repair bills. Not only were the insurance adjusters impossible, but the shop owners, whose bills were outrageous, dunned for their money, constantly swearing at him like Vikings."

"My dear girl," interjected Geoffrey Waters, "on such a flimsy coincidence you're inferring some parallel here?"

"Not a parallel, a contradiction, an inconsistency."

"Which is?"

"Alfred Noyes's benign appreciation of the Brewster accountants.

They regularly delayed paying him on time, frequently argued with him over his charges, and all he could say was "They has their jobs to do'?"

"I restate my opinion that plainspoken old Alfie didn't care to risk losing Henshaw as a customer."

"Alfie may be plainspoken, Geof, but he isn't stupid to the cube," said Pryce.

"He was providing a valuable confidential service arranged by a stranger. As long as he followed the rules, he wasn't going to lose Henshaw. I think he was assured of that."

"What are you all talking about?" interrupted Angela Brewster.

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I." said the brother.

"How well do you two know the accounts people at the Westminster House?" asked Leslie.

"Whom do you deal with there?"

Again the Brewster offspring looked at each other, frowning.

"We went down with Mum a couple of years ago to sign some papers," said the sister.

"We met the head of the firm, a Mr. Pettifrogge-I remember the name because I thought it was wild-and everyone was very nice and polite, but then people were usually like that around our mother."

"Did Henshaw go with you?" asked Waters.

"No, he didn't," answered the brother, "and I recall that clearly.

Don't you remember, Angela? Mum said there was no reason to tell Gerry that we'd all been down there."

"Of course I do. The papers were very confidential."

"What were they?" said Cameron.

"If they're not too confidential."

"Something about the disposal of selected properties-in the event of . et cetera, et cetera," replied Roger softly.

"I didn't read them too carefully."

"Well, I read them more carefully than 'et cetera, et cetera,"

" said Angela firmly.

"There were several pages of inventory-paintings, tapestries, furniture-that were to remain in the Brewster family and not be removed from the premises without the consent of Rog and me under the supervision of Mum's solicitors."

Pryce whistled quietly. " Whoa, one Gerald Henshaw was efficiently locked out."

"No, sir," countered the younger sister, "the inventory was locked in. There was a clause-an order really-that in case our mother's whereabouts couldn't be verified after forty-eight hours of trying to locate her, the house was to be put under guard, nothing was to be removed."

"Parental discretion just got a new definition," said Cam.

"Certainly she began to have her suspicions about Mr. Charm, at least," Angela said.

"However," broke in Geoffrey Waters, "there was no one specific person at the firm that you were to reach in case it was necessary?"

"No, but a number have been around since Mother's death," replied Roger.

"Old Pettifrogge came over once, more as a condolence call than anything else; he's so ancient you can picture him with a quill.

The man who seemed to be in charge, who kept checking the inventory list, was a fellow named Chadwick. He introduced himself as an assistant managing director whose major duties concerned Mother's accounts as well as the Wildlife's."

"I'd say the Westminster House of Finance should be our next stop, wouldn't you, chaps?" said the man from MI-5.

The Westminster House was exactly what it proclaimed. A narrow, venerated eighteenth-century city dwelling of brownstone, six stories high and lovingly renovated, in Carlisle Place. The tasteful brass plaque to the right of the entrance of thick glass double doors clarified its identity.

WESTMINSTER HOUSE

ESTABLISHED 1902 PRIVATE

FINANCIAL SERVICES

The building itself emanated an image of understated strength, and bespoke generations, even dynasties, of the wealthy and the powerful as clients. The Westminster House had enjoyed nearly a century of quiet influence in London's financial circles, justified by its acuity and unquestioned integrity. It had built a near-impenetrable wall of total respectability around itself.

As the MI-5 vehicle with Waters, Pryce, and Montrose sped toward Carlisle Place, that wall was about to experience a crack in its stone, a fissure so wide that Westminster House would be subject to insidious speculation.

Geoffrey Waters turned right on Victoria Street into Carlisle; he and his colleagues were astonished at what they saw. In front of Westminster House were two police cars and an ambulance, their red lights flashing. Together, t

he two intelligence officers and the U.S. Army colonel leaped out of the car and raced into the crowd in front of the building. The MI-5 chief of security, showing his credentials, bulldozed his way through the onlookers, Leslie and Cameron behind him.

"Mi-Five!" yelled Waters.

"This is Crown business, let me and my two associates in there!"

Inside, the pandemonium was electric, all were in a state of shock.

Executives, secretaries, file personnel, and maintenance crews were hysterical. Finally, after shoving aside and shoulder-blocking the crowd, Geoffrey Waters confronted a man in a vested dark suit, his superior position apparent.

"My name's Waters, Mi-Five, in service of the Crown!

What happened?"

"Oh, what? Everything's so confused-" "What happened?"" yelled Cameron.

"It's so terrible, so absolutely terrible!"" "What is?" cried Montrose.

"Brian Chadwick, our first vice president and the chap we all knew would run the firm someday, just committed suicide!"

"All police officers!" shouted Sir Geoffrey Waters.

"Seal off the office of the deceased!"

Bahrain, two o'clock in the afternoon.

n an alabaster villa on the shores of the Persian Gulf, a young man of fifteen sat at a desk in a white-walled room with bars covering the windows. It was both a cell and not a cell, for he had private toilet facilities, a comfortable bed, a television set, and whatever books and writing materials he requested. His name was James Montrose Jr." his nickname, Jamie.

His schedule, such as it was, was self-imposed within limits. He was free to walk around the grounds of the walled estate as long as he was accompanied by a guard, and he had full use of the swimming pool as well as the tennis backboard-the two courts were useless as there were no other "guests" to play against. Also, he could order the meals he favored. It was an odd sort of captivity, but it was captivity nevertheless.