The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"Jamie?" Considine looked over at the teenager.

"What the hell did you do, kid?"

"Without you, Luther, I'd probably be in a sand pit in Bahrain.

You're entitled to know why you risked being a swab-jockey, remember? . Also, when you're an admiral, maybe you'll help me get into the Navy or Marine Air Corps like my dad."

"I don't know whether to thank you or run like a chicken out of here! This whole thing is way above my maximum altitude. Great balls of mule shit a worldwide conspiracy to take over the financial interests of half the globe-" "The rest to follow, Lieutenant," interrupted Leslie Montrose.

"By corruption and fear, that's their agenda. My son and I were only a minor event in an attempt to kill one man who knows the Matarese's history and can possibly point the way to the present."

"Yeah, the Mata-whatever. What does it mean, Colonel?"

"It's based on a name, Luther," answered Pryce, "a Corsican whose original ideas became a blueprint for an international monopoly, far more powerful than the Mafia."

"As I said, way above my max altitude."

"Above all of ours, Lieutenant," said Leslie.

"None of us is prepared for it, no training exists to address it. We each do what we can to fight it in our individual spheres, hoping to God that those above us are making the right decisions."

Considine shook his head in consternation.

"What do we do now?"

"We're waiting for instructions from Frank Shields," replied Cameron.

"In Peregrine?" asked Leslie.

"No, they've moved to New York."

"Why New York?"

"Scofield's created a scenario he thinks might work. It's worth a try.

Geof Waters is mounting the same strategy in the U.K. out of London."

"Hold it!" exclaimed the black naval officer, his dark eyes on fire.

"Am I supposed to understand that, too? .. . Who's Scofield, what 'scenario," and who's Waters in London?"

"You retain specifics extremely well," said Montrose.

"When you've got several dozen printouts at thirty thousand feet, you damn well better, ma'am-Colonel."

"I told you, Mom, he's really gonna be an admiral someday."

"Thanks, Jamie, and you may be consigned to a juvenile detention center."

The telephone rang, the phone on the table installed by MI-5. Cameron Pryce picked it up.

"Yes?"

"Waters, here, London. Scrambler both ends. How are you?"

"Bewildered, how are you?"

"Equally so, old chap. We're mounting Beowulf Agate's strategy but it'll take a day or so, if we're not penetrated, that is. However, this transmission can't be."

"Small favors and all that kind of thing," said Cam.

"What do you want us to do? Where do you want us to go?"

"Is your American pilot officer within reach?"

"He's sitting next to me."

"Ask him if he's certified in fixed-wing, low-flying propeller aircraft."

Pryce did so. Considine replied.

"I'm certified in anything that leaves the ground, with the possible exception of spacecraft, which I could probably handle."

"Did you hear him?"

"Clearly, and that's good. In two hours a vintage but totally refurbished Bristol Freighter, a twin-engined workhorse of a machine, will land at the Loch Torridon airfield. You're all to get on it."

"Where are we going?"

"Your sealed instructions are to be opened once you're airborne, at the precise minute written on the envelope."

"That's bullshit, Geof!"

"That's your Beowulf Agate, chap. Something to do with radar."

It was 5:30 A.M. in Marseilles, the sprays of dawn breaking through the sky over the slowly awakening harbor. Teams of dock workers trudged along the piers and the multiple sounds of erratic machinery began to be heard. Jan van der Meer Matareisen was alone in his office, the relief he had felt with Julian Guiderone's departure suddenly shattered by the news from London.

"Do you have an explanation for such incompetence?" he asked sharply over his sterile telephone.

"I doubt if anyone else could have done better," replied the voice in the U.K." a woman's voice, her speech clipped, aristocratic.

"We can't know that, can we?"

"I know it and I resent your attitude."

"Resent all you like, although I doubt you're in a position to do so."

"That's hardly civil, Jan. Or fair."

"I'm sorry, Amanda, things are very difficult-" "Shall I fly over to Amsterdam and try to ease things for you?"

"I'm not in Amsterdam, I'm in Marseilles."

"You do get around, don't you, my dear? Why Marseilles?"

"It was necessary."

"It was Julian, wasn't it? I think he considers Marseilles his third or fourth home. It's the one I liked least, the people who came to see him were so gross."

"Please don't remind me of your relationship-" "Past relationship, way past. And why not? I've never hidden anything from you .. . and it's the way we met, darling."

"Perhaps in a day or so-" "Don't let him bully you, Jan! He's an ugly, horrible man, concerned with no one but himself."

"It's the way he has to be, I understand that. Still, I must have an explanation for him. Two failures in a row are simply intolerable."

"I don't know what you're talking about-" "You don't have to," broke in Matareisen, his hand beginning to tremble.

"I meant what I said before. What happened? How did Pryce and the Montrose woman disappear?"

"I didn't say they disappeared, I said they got away."

"How?"

"By plane, obviously. When my source in Tower Street told me they were at an inn in a place called Loch Torridon, north of Edinburgh, I reached the man you call London Control and relayed the information.

He thanked me and said it was all he needed."

"He's not permitted to call me, we're in contact only through third and fourth parties. Did he tell you?"

"Of course-" "Then for God's sake tell me!"

"You haven't given me a chance. You've simply shouted-you were quite abusive."

The Dutchman in Marseilles briefly held his breath, calming himself.

"All right, Amanda, what did London Control say?"

"He's quite a remarkable man, very resourceful."

"What did he tell you?"

"He said that by the time he reached the inn at Loch Torridon, the owner told him that the four people he was looking for had checked out."

"Four people?"

"Four Americans. A brother and sister, both registered as Brooks, a black American naval officer, and a young teenager, neither of whom registered at all, as instructed by Mr. Brooks."

"Mother of Christ, it's the Montrose boy! They flew him to Scotland!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. What else?"

"Your London control learned they had all been taken to the airport.

So he drove there and found out that the people he described had boarded a two-engine propeller plane less than an hour before he got there."

"Oh, my God!"

"Here's where I think your soft-spoken London fellow was extremely resourceful. He said to tell you, in case you and he hadn't spoken by now, that he found the flight plan for the plane the four Americans boarded."

"What was the destination?" asked Matareisen rapidly, perspiration breaking out on his forehead.

"Mannheim, Germany."

"Unbelievable!" exclaimed the Dutchman, clearly panicked.

"They've now zeroed in on the Verachten Works, the Voroshin offspring! Years ago .. . generations ago! They're doing it. They're filling out the chart!"

"Jan? ..."

The Englishwoman was too late. Matareisen had slammed down the phone.

The twin-engine, late-forties Bristol Freighter was airborne, heading southeast over the North Sea, when the pilot, Luther Considine, glanced a

t his watch. He turned to Pryce, seated next to him in the first-officer's position.

"I'm not too happy with you in that chair, but it's time, Cam." He handed Pryce a sealed brown manila envelope, the red plastic stripes unbroken, not tampered with.

"Why aren't you happy?" asked Cameron, breaking open the envelope and extracting two smaller ones.

"I showered this morning."

"Suppose I get a bad stomachache, or worse. You gonna fly this mother-excuse me, this grandmother?"

"I'll hold your head while you throw up, and you can tell Jamie how to do it. Here-" He handed an envelope to the pilot.

"That's for you."

Both men opened their instructions. Considine spoke first, as his was the shorter.

"My, oh, my!" he mumbled, checking the aircraft's dials, in particular the airspeed, altimeter, and the Greenwich mean time clock. He then glanced at the plastic framed chart above the complex dashboard.

"We're going to make a rapid descent, ladies and gentlemen, in about two minutes, thirty seconds!" he said in a loud voice, turning his head so Leslie and her son, in the bulkhead seats, could hear above the engines.

"Not to be concerned a bit, but it might be a good idea to clamp your noses and force the air out of your ears. Again, nothing to worry about, a piece of cake."

"Why?" asked Leslie.