The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

They are two men, very old men who have given me everything they know, but will not meet you face-to-face."

"Why not?" Leslie asked.

"As I said, they are very old, signora, older than I, and do not care to be involved in past wars that caused them so much pain. However, everything's been written down for you."

"Yet you're willing to help us," Cameron said.

"I have their memories, and I also have other reasons."

"May we know what they are?" asked Leslie.

"It's not necessary. Bayohlupo knows."

"He's not here," said Cam.

"We are."

"I see. I have treated you in a most unusual and inconvenient manner.

You are no doubt thinking we could have met anywhere, say in a park or a hotel room in Milan."

"Yes, we could have."

"You don't know me, so I can say anything I like, and because I use Scofield's name, you think I believe you'll accept my words."

"Something like that," agreed Pryce.

"But now you ask yourself .. . who is this man?"

"I've already asked myself that."

"Rightly so. You now consider that I might not be what I appear to be, but, instead, a false courier with access to specific information, certain names."

"I can't help thinking what I think, no matter how out of line it is."

"Of course you can't. You cannot deny your years of training. As Brandon said, you're very good, perhaps the best the Agency has."

"Are you sure that was the Scofield I know?" asked Cameron, suppressing a laugh, then continuing.

"You understand where I'm coming from. Tell us your reasons for helping us. Give us something that'll make us believe you."

"I can only tell you the truth," replied the old Italian, struggling out of his chair and walking slowly out from the shadows toward an open space, to one of the red telescopes. It was different from the others, as there was a black circular instrument above the thick red tube. He stopped and patted it, turning back to Pryce and Montrose.

"You've heard of the two families, the Scozzis and the Paravacinis?"

"Yes," answered Cameron, "together they owned the ScozziParavacini Industries until there was bad blood and they split."

"Not merely 'bad blood," Signer Pryce, but real blood, murderously spilled by the Paravacinis to force out the Scozzis. Force them out so they could ascend in the deadly Mataresa. Brothers and sons were murdered, executives bought and blackmailed, directors manipulated into compromising incidents that cost them their directorships. ScozziParavacini was diseased, poisoned from within, and the disease won."

"I think I see where you're heading," said Leslie softly.

"You were very close to the Scozzis, the Scozzi family."

The old man laughed, a quiet, sad laugh.

"Quite perceptive, Colonel, although 'close' is not the word I would choose. I am a Scozzi, the last living member of the Scozzi family."

"But your name's Togazzi," protested Cameron.

"

"What's in a name?" as the lady said. You can call a rose a tulip but it remains a rose.... We must go back several decades-before the killings began. The killers would never be found, of course, for the Paravacinis had great influence in Milan and Rome, as well as the Vatican. Because my mother despised and feared them, I was sent to Sicily, to the home of a cugino of my mother's, for my own protection. In the early years I was tutored, then sent to Rome for advanced education, using the cugino's name, Togazzi, again for my protection."

"Is that where you met Mr. Scofield?" said Montrose.

"My dear Colonel, you reveal your youth!" Don Silvio chuckled as he slapped the telescope.

"That was many years later, after my universitario days."

"By then you were with Italian intelligence?" asked Pryce.

"Yes, the Servizio Segreto. I was accepted as soon as my studies were complete, courtesy of a few well-connected friends in Palermo.

Outside of my normal duties, I entered the Servizio with only one thought in mind, one obsession. To bore into the Paravacini interests, the whole sordid landscape, which led, naturally, to the Mataresa. That is when I encountered Scofield and Taleniekov. Our concerns were the same, but to gain their confidence, I told them my story, as I tell it to you now. You may, of course, confirm everything with Brandon, but you'll have to do it elsewhere. There is no equipment here that would guarantee confidentiality."

"It won't be necessary," said Cameron.

"I agree," added Montrose.

"And no one here in Bellagio knows who you are?"

"Mio Dio, no. I'm an immensely wealthy siciliano, whose once blond hair and riches buy him respectability in the northern provinces." Again, the old man touched-caressed-the red telescope.

"Here, I want to show you something. Come, come, both of you look through this."

Leslie and Cam did so, marveling at the magnification. What each saw was a mansion on the banks of Lake Como, complete with manicured lawns, a pier, an immense yacht moored in the water, and fountains everywhere. Figures of men and women strolled around the grounds, so enlarged in the lens they could be thirty yards away, not several miles.

"Nice spread," said Pryce, backing away and turning to Togazzi.

"Whose is it?"

"It is the Paravacini estate, and even the harshest mountain winds will not move this telescope. It is bolted in place. I can see, and if need be, photograph, everyone who comes and goes."

"You're a special piece of work, Don Silvio," added Cameron.

"By the way, can your new name be traced?"

"Silvio Togazzi is

duly registered-or should I say inserted-in the proper records of birth in Palermo, as is his baptism at the Church of the Blessed Savior, a country church south of Cafala. These documents are beautifully executed, as 'authentic' as any in the ledgers."

"Who bestowed the title of 'don'?" asked a bemused Pryce.

"When one hires scores of men to clear the land and build, is extremely generous with the local families, pays for several festivals, and funds a new church or two or three, the 'don' comes naturally.

Enough, however, about me. Come inside and I shall deliver everything we've put together for you. I think you'll be pleased."

"Forgive my curiosity," said Colonel Montrose, "but you mentioned that the injury to your spine was a result of Agent Scofield's failure to break your fall from a balcony. Was the incident related to your combined hunt for the Matarese?"

"Hardly, my dear Colonel, although my escape was mandatory. The woman in question was married to a fanatic comunista, such a slave to his work that he paid little attention to his wife. I merely tried to fill a void.. .. Come now, to the information we have compiled for you."

t was a drenching rain in New York City, both cleansing and an inconvenience for the noonday traffic. On a busy street that intersected Madison Avenue, three police officers removed the temporary No Parking signs. The instant they were taken away, cars swung into the spaces, the first a limousine within feet of a pale green door belonging to the Hotel Marblethorpe, the other two across the street directly opposite the luxury vehicle. Inside the three automobiles were armed men, their concentration on the man who emerged from the car near the pale green door, accompanied by an apparent bodyguard who kept his right hand under his raincoat. As if timed down to seconds, the hotel door was opened by another police officer; he nodded and the two hotel guests were admitted. The New York police, under orders from command, knew who the V.I.P's were, if not by name, by connections.

The man under protection was of medium height, in his late forties, and when he removed his canvas hat and raincoat in the short hallway, he appeared to be an expensively dressed business executive. His face was pale, his eyes darting back and forth in fear.