The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"I've been on a lot of missions, and outside of hostile gunfire, I've never heard of this. Why the evasive action?"

"Mom, cut it out! Luther knows what he's doing."

"Orders, Colonel, I just read 'em.. .. Secure seat belts-tight, please."

"I'll explain later," cried Pryce as Considine advanced to his arc of descent, the engines roaring. Cameron read his orders; without question they were the words of Brandon Alan Scofield, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate.

Sweet young gorilla, this is your commander speaking. We're now entering Operation Wolf Pack, forgive the play on my name.

Your pilot is going to descend to an altitude that will avoid the immediate radar, which is listed on his scope as Vector 22. Your flight plan lists Mannheim, Germany, as your destination, but he will change course and head for Milan, Italy. Once on the ground, you and your party will be met by several friends of mine from the old days. They're splendid fellows, although they may not be dressed in apparel sanctioned by Gentlemen 's Quarterly.

They're savvy and know the ways of the Matarese in and around Bellagio and Lake Como. The key is the name Paravacini, one of the long-forgotten ScozziParavacini companies.

Using my old friends and the information they give you, begin penetrating the Paravacinis. The bastards are still there-they have to be, rotten families always hold on-and you should find another avenue to the Matarese. Suggest you do as I 'm doing and Waters s boys in MI-5, that you speak for Amsterdam, soon to be discredited.

The plane came out of its dive-descent, pilot and passengers breathing deeply as they literally skimmed over the water.

"What happens now?" asked Pryce.

"I stay three to four hundred feet above sea level until I reach the Alps, then take the lowest routes until I reach spaghetti-land. Whoever vectored this flight plan knew what he was doing. He should be employed by the drug meisters."

"Then what do you do?"

Considine looked at Cam.

"Don't you know? Wasn't it in your orders?"

"No, and no, again."

"I'm temporarily detached from the fleet and assigned to you."

"For what?"

"For whatever you need, I guess. I fly airplanes, maybe that's what the high brass had in mind."

"Welcome aboard, pilot," said Pryce.

"You come highly recommended by the younger crowd."

"That's got me troubled." Luther spoke softly, studying his dials.

"We go to one hell of a lot of trouble to get the boy out of Bahrain, out of harm's way, and here we are taking him back into a danger zone. I feel kind of responsible. He's a good kid."

"I can't answer you, Lieutenant. I hadn't really thought about it, which makes me a prime jerk, because you're right, it's stupid. I'll reach Shields and Waters soon after we land."

It was not necessary for Cameron to make the calls to London or New York. A separate set of instructions for the plane was awaiting them in Milan. It was addressed and delivered to Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Montrose. Startled, she thanked the uniformed American Marine who was the courier, and opened the sealed envelope with the markings of Rome's Embassy of the United States of America on the upper left-hand corner.

"I flew up with this an hour ago, Colonel," explained the Marine.

"My name's Olsen, captain of the embassy guard detail, and the envelope hasn't left my person."

"Understood, Captain, and thanks again."

"You're welcome." The officer saluted and walked away.

"It's from Tom Cranston," said Leslie, moving across the noisy tarmac with Pryce and her son while Considine made arrangements for the plane.

"That explains the embassy in Rome," said Cam.

"Maximum security, White House and State back channels. You've got clout, lady."

"I'm impressed, Mom."

"You may not be for long, Jamie. You're going back on the plane.

Arrangements have been made for you to join the Brewster children in

France. Tom says that you'll all be completely safe, your whereabouts kept secret."

"Aw, Mother, come on!" yelled the son, stopping in his tracks.

"I

don't want to be dumped in France."

"Hey, cool it, Jamie," said Pryce with quiet but firm authority.

"It's for your own good, surely you can understand that. I don't think you'd be overjoyed being yanked back to Bahrain, or some place like it."

"Hell, no, but we've got fifty states across the pond, as they call it.

Why not somewhere back home? Why with two guys I don't know?"

"You won't believe this," answered Cameron, "but you're more vulnerable making such a trip, either alone or with your mother, than you are in protective custody somewhere in Europe."

"That's the thinking regarding the Brewster kids," Leslie broke in.

"Fast, private aircraft, short distance, total control. No airports watched, no informers in the Pentagon or the CIA or British intelligence to report covert flights or high-level clandestine orders."

"Who are these people you're so afraid of?" demanded Montrose junior.

"You're talking like they're some kind of all-powerful crime nuts!"

"You're not far wrong," said Pryce, "except they're very bright nuts, and very, very powerful. But not all-powerful. Not yet."

"Okay, okay," mumbled a disconsolate Jamie, "who are these Brewster guys?"

"Not guys, son. A brother and a sister who may be targets. British intelligence wants to exclude any future hostage-taking. You'll like them, Jamie. I do."

"Yeah, well, sometimes English kids can act kind of superior, you know what I mean?" "Not an English kid who was obviously number one in his welding and blow-torching class," replied Cameron.

"What class?"

"Welding. You mean your expensive prep school in Connecticut doesn't have such a course?"

"No, why should they?"

"Roger Brewster said he should learn a trade, like those who didn't have his advantages."

"Wow, no kidding?"

"No kidding, Jamie," confirmed his mother.

"He's also a wrestler, like you."

"That's all I need, to get pinned by a Brit."

Luther Considine was seen walking rapidly across the tarmac.

"We'll be ready to get upstairs in five minutes, Junior," he said, approaching the trio.

"I gather you've got the scoop by now."

"You knew about this, Luther?" asked Jamie.

"I had to, kid, I'm the driver, remember? We're refueled and we've got a weird flight plan, but it'll be interesting. I bought you one of those throwaway cameras at a spaghetti booth so you

can take pictures.

You're never gonna see this kind of travel again!"

"It's safe, isn't it, Lieutenant?" Leslie's eyes were wide with anxiety.

"A milk run, Colonel. Even if both props stopped spinning, we're low enough to glide our grandmother down into a field or a highway."

"Where are you going?" said Pryce.

"Would you believe, Cam, I'm not even permitted to tell you?"

"Who says?"

"The White House. You want to argue?"

"I don't think I'd win."

"You wouldn't, spook. By the way, your suitcases are in baggage.

Come on, Junior, we've got to get over to Runway Seven, and we're not even allowed field transport. We're nonexistent, you might say."

Mother and son embraced briefly, with emotion, and James Montrose Jr. ran to catch up with the Navy pilot, racing across the field to their plane.

Brandon Scofield's "several friends from the old days" turned out to be one elderly man in his mid-seventies. The journey to reach him was circuitous. It began when Pryce and Montrose approached the Milan terminal. Suddenly a hoarse voice called out.

"Signore, signora!" Out of the shadows of a cargo door a scruffily dressed youngster, perhaps eighteen or a year older, walked toward them. His demeanor telegraphed his anxiety as well as a fair degree of furtiveness.

"Che cosa?" asked Cameron.

"Capisce italiano, signore?"

"Not very well, I haven't in years."

"I speak some English-abbastanza."

"

"Enough'? That's good. What is it?"

"I take you to Don Silvio. Hurry!"

"Who?"

"Signer Togazzi. Rapido! Follow!"

"Our luggage, Cam."

"It'll wait.... So can you, ragazzo. Attesa!"

"Che?"

"Who is this Togazzi, this Don Silvio? And why should we follow you? Perche?"

"You see him."

"Quali nuove?"

"I am to say-Bay .. . ohh-lupo? ..."

"Lupo, 'wolf." Bay .. . ohh-wolf? You're to say Beowulf?"

"St. Vero!"

"Let's go, Colonel."

At the far end of the airport's parking lot, the young man held open the door of a small Fiat, gesturing for Pryce and Montrose to quickly climb into the backseat, a cramped area once they were inside.

"Are you okay?" asked Cameron, somewhat out of breath from the rapid pace across the crowded lot. They were interrupted by having to dodge several cars that seemed to have exploded out of their spaces.