The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

He could not be driven into the capital of Manama or any other area of the independent archipelago. He was confined to the villa, with no communication to the outside world.

Jamie Montrose was a good-looking teenager, large for his years, a meld of his attractive parents. He had that quiet resolve that is so often found in children of the military. It apparently comes from the frequent moves from base to base, at home and in foreign lands, and the constant adjustments from the familiar to the unfamiliar. In the case of Leslie Montrose's son, however, there was a side to him that was often absent in military offspring. Whereas statistics indicate that military offspring often harbor a highly developed sense of resentment toward their parents' way of life, especially toward the father, who was usually the one in uniform, James Montrose Jr. worshiped his father, or more precisely, the memory of him.

His devotion did not manifest itself in aggressive military posturing, nor did he proselytize on the positive aspects, of which there were many, of life in the services. He felt it was a decision to be made by an individual after careful introspection and evaluation of one's weaknesses and strengths. If a single description could outwardly sum up Jamie, it would probably be that he was a quiet observer who studied circumstances before he became a participant. The last few years of sudden adjustments had taught him to be soft-spoken and cautious but not indecisive. Beneath his calm, even laconic, exterior was the strength and determination of a very quick mind.

"James, " came the loud voice from beyond the locked door, "it is convenient for me to enter, is it not?"

"Come on in, Amet," replied young Montrose.

"I'm still here 'cause I could only bend the iron bars in the windows a few inches. I can't squeeze through them yet."

The door opened and a slender man in a Western business suit but with an Arabic headdress walked inside.

"You are always quite amusing, James," said the newcomer, his diction clipped in the manner of those from the Middle East who learn English in British schools.

"You can be a delightful guest when you are not ... sullen, I believe is the word."

"Try angry. You haven't let me phone my mother. I don't know what she knows or doesn't know, what she's been told or hasn't been told.

I'm not sullen, Amet, I'm real angry!"

"You have not been abused, have you?"

"What do you call it?" asked a contentious Jamie, rising from the desk.

"I'm locked up here in Ali Baba Land, a prisoner in a fancy jail, but my cell is just that, a lousy cell! When are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"But you know, James, your mother is assisting her superiors in a highly secret, extremely dangerous assignment. By sequestering you here, you're out of harm's way with no chance of your whereabouts being traced through any means of communication. Believe me, young man, your mother is most grateful. She understands that she could be compromised if anything happened to you."

"Then let her tell me that! A call, a letter ... for God's sake, anything!"

"No risks can be taken. She understands that, too."

"You know something, Amet," said the Montrose son, walking around the desk and standing in front of the Bahraini, "you tell me these things and you expect me to believe them. But why should I?

When the headmaster at school called me out of class and told me I'd be driven to Kennedy Airport and be met by government officials-all on a national-security priority, I went along figuring it had something to do with my mother. Outside of verifying the ID's of the Washington guys, which looked real enough, I didn't ask any questions."

"Why should you have? You're an Army brat, I believe is the expression. You must comprehend the chain of command where complete security is involved."

"I can accept it when I understand it. But this whole thing is crazy! I know my mother and she doesn't act like you say. She would at least have called me, clued me in."

"There wasn't time, James. She was pulled into the operation at the last minute and on her way beyond re comm before she could even pack. You do understand what 'beyond re comm means, don't you?"

"Yes, I do, because that's what I am. No communication. So now, tell me this. Why is it when I tried calling Colonel Bracket from the airport, the recording said the number was no longer in use? Then when I reached an operator she said the current number was unlisted and she couldn't help me. I repeat, what's going on?"

"Substitute 'government' for "God," and you'll find the answer in your Bible. It moves in mysterious ways."

"Yeah, but not totally crazy!"

"That's a judgment call, as you Americans say. I cannot answer you."

"Well, somebody better," said James Montrose Jr. firmly, his eyes locked with those of the Arab, a ranking member of the Matarese.

"Or what, young man?"

Jamie Montrose said nothing.

The body of Brian Chadwick was removed from London's Westminster House to the coroner's office. The instructions were for a full autopsy despite the fact that the bullet hole in his right temple and the auto

ma tic in his hand would seem to confirm the manner of death by suicide. The question was, why? A man in his mid-forties, with a superb reputation, about to enter the prime of his professional life what made him do it?

The forensic pathologist had the answer.

It was murder.

"There were no traces of potassium chlorate on the skin of his right hand, no powder burns as the telly constantly, though usually erroneously, tells us," said the chief coroner.

"Further, there's a massive contusion at the base of his skull, an ecchymosis that had to be inflicted by a skilled killer. He was rendered unconscious, shot, and the weapon forced into his hand."

"That's kind of stupid for a trained killer, isn't it?" asked Pryce, sitting at the table in MI-5 headquarters, where the doctor had come for a confidential meeting.

"If you want a guess, I'll give you one," said the forensic pathologist.

"I'd say the man who murdered him was in a great hurry and didn't have time for cover-up niceties. I remind you, that's only a guess."

"You mean he was reached and told to do the job immediately?"

asked Leslie.

"If not sooner," added the doctor.

"In other words," said Cameron, "you're saying that whoever it was knew we were on our way over to see Chadwick, right? But the only people who knew were the two Brewster kids." Pryce shook his head.

"That doesn't make sense!"

"Can't help you there, old man."

"Perhaps I can," Waters broke in.

"It's something we hadn't considered, and we should have."

"What's that, Geof?"

"With all our sophistication and high technology, we overlooked the primitive procedure of bugging a house."

Angela Brewster peered through the sliding-glass security slot and opened the front door for Waters, Montrose, and Pryce.

"Where's your brother, my dear?"

"He went with Coleman over to the home-alarm company-" "What happened?" asked Leslie sharply.

"Nothing. It was Coleman's idea. He said we should change the system, or at least areas of it."

"Who's Coleman?" insisted Cameron.

"I forgot to mention him, chap-" "Coley's sort of a man for all jobs around here, I guess you'd say," replied Angela.

"He's been with us for years, since before I can remember. He was a friend of my father's, a sergeant major under Dad's command during the Emirates skirmishes in the fifties. He and Dad both got the Military Cross."

"What does he do?" pressed Montrose.

"Like I said, just about everything. If we have to be driven, he drives us; if Mum needed something at the shops, he got it. He also oversees the cleaning maids, who come in twice a week, as well as any and all deliveries and maintenance repair people. Many a time I've heard him tell plumbers or electricians that they didn't know what the hell they were doing."

"Sounds like one of your British sergeant majors, Geo

ffrey."

"They're a breed apart, Cameron. I truly believe they were responsible for most of our victories since the seventeen hundreds, the one exception being the colonial revolution, where they were obviously absent.. .. Coleman's a likable, plainspoken fellow who refuses to admit he's getting on in years. Rugged chap, too, for his age."

"Does he live here, Angela?" asked Pryce.

"Only when nobody's home, sir. When we're away, he stays in one of the guest rooms. His flat is close by with immediate contact to the house. There are special phones in every room; if we need him, we ring and he's here in a mo'."

"Independent guy, isn't he?"

"Yes, and our dad always said we should respect that."

"He was right," agreed Cameron.

"He has a life.. .. After your father died, how did he get along with Henshaw?"

"I think he hated him, but out of loyalty to Dad and Mum, he didn't show it much. He mostly stayed to himself when Gerry was around.. ..

Let me explain why I'm sure Coley didn't have much use for Mr.

Charm. One Sunday morning about six months ago, I was home for the weekend; Roger was at school and Mother was at church when it happened." The young girl paused, as if embarrassed to go on.

"What happened, Angela?" asked Leslie gently.

"Gerry walked down the staircase in his undershorts. He had a

massive hangover and the upstairs library bar didn't have the whiskey he wanted. He lurched back and forth and I guess I overreacted-I mean, he looked so angry, so unstable ... so ... naked. I rang for Coley, pressing the button several times, which is the signal for him to come right over."

"Did he?" said Geoffrey Waters.

"In less than two minutes, it seemed. By this time Gerry was really spaced; he was yelling at me, calling me ugly names because he couldn't find his damned whiskey on the copper bar. Of course, at the sight of Coley, Mr. Charm was stunned; he tried to straighten up and sweet-talk us. But good old Coleman wasn't having any. He walked between us and I'll never forget what he said." Here Angela briefly stopped, and, as teenage girls frequently do, imitated the voice of the one she was describing. In this case, it was a gruff, bass-toned Yorkshire dialect. "

"You're not properly dressed for the drawing room, sir, and I'd advise you not to take another step forward. I assure you I have no need of a weapon, but the result could be the same, and it would be one of the greatest pleasures of my retirement." .. . Wasn't that amazing? I tell you, Henshaw ran out of the room, stumbling up the staircase like a drunken scarecrow!"

"Did either you or Mr. Coleman say anything to your mother?"

asked the MI-5 chief.

"We talked about it and decided not to. However, Coley made me promise that if I ever saw Gerry like that again, I was to ring him immediately."

"Suppose he wasn't home?" Montrose said.