The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

There was one addition to the hotel's staff, very much unappreciated by the management. However, since the request was routed through the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the correct authority, it amounted to a demand. On the day before the Matarese quartet arrived, a substitute operator appeared on the switchboard. All taps and calls from the four guests' accommodations were directed through her station, where a triple-layered taping device was kept operative. The woman was in her early forties, well-spoken and attractive, as befitted her environment, and her name was Mrs. Cordell.

She studied her equipment, checked every concealed tap, improving the locations where she felt improvement was needed, and went to bed early. There would be precious little sleep for the next two days, as the operation was considered so secret there could be no relief for Mrs.

Cordell. She was the sole CIA agent-technician with instant communication to Deputy Director Frank Shields.

Morning came in New Jersey's hunt country, the fairways and the pastures glistening with the sun and the early dew, and the quartet arrived approximately thirty minutes apart. Cordell had no idea what each man looked like, as there were no television cameras on the entrance; however, their appearances did not concern her. She simply wanted to hear their voices, which would be placed on isometric recorders, sonic ally identified. The calls began, the first from Jamieson Fowler to the attorney Stuart Nichols's room. "Stu, it's Fowler. Let's meet in my place, say in twenty minutes, all right?"

Kerwish. Voice recorded and identified.

"Certainly, Jim. I'll call the others. " Kerwish. Voice recorded and identified.

"Yes?" "Stuart here, Ben. Jamieson's room in twenty minutes, okay?"

"I may be a little late," replied the banker, Benjamin Wahlburg.

"There's a transfer glitch between L.A." London, and Brussels. Some idiot punched in a wrong access. We "II catch it soon."

"Hello?" said Albert Whitehead, CEO of Swanson and Schwartz.

"It's Stu, Al. Fowler wants us to get together at his place in about twenty minutes. I agreed. " "Don't be so quick to agree," interrupted the Wall Street broker harshly.

"Tell him I want an hour!"

"Why, Al?" "Let's say I don't trust any of these bastards.

"That's pretty severe, Al-" "Everything's severe, Counselor! Get your goddamned head out of the law books and look at reality. Several pressure points are eroding, and I don't like it. Como doesn't respond and now Amsterdam is off-limits. What the hell's going on?"

"We don't know, Al, but that's no reason to alienate Fowler and Wahlburg. "How do you know that, Stuart? We 've got millions-no, billions-riding on the enterprise. A breakdown could cost us every cent we have!

"Fowler and Wahlburg are on our side, Al. They're in as deep as we are. Don't antagonize them.

"All right, but don't give them the decision about timing. A specific time connotes authority, which I will not abdicate. Tell them I'll be there in forty-five minutes, more or less. " Kerwish.

Each voice was recorded on Mrs. Cordell's layered tapes. No matter who spoke on succeeding recordings, he would be instantly identified.

Mrs. Cordell was now ready for her electronic surveillance of the Matarese quartet.

The preamble began at precisely 11:02 A.M. in Jamieson Fowler's suite. It was a preamble because the initial dialogue was harsh and contentious between three, not four, men.

"Where the hell is Whitehead, Stuart?" Wahlburg said.

"He'll be here as soon as he can."

"What's keeping him?"

"A glitch, not unlike yours, Ben. Lack of communication over the final terms of a merger. He'll straighten it out soon."

"This is far, far more important than any goddamn merger!"

"He knows that as well as you do, Jamieson. However, losing your heads over a half hour won't solve anything. Nothing will be gained, only a loss of concentration where it's needed."

"Words! Fucking lawyer."

"Hey, Wahlburg, animus is not our friend right now."

"Sorry, Stu, but you know Whitehead better than any of us. Al plays his little games; he's a control freak."

"How can you leap from one telephone call to control freak?"

"Oh, shut up, both of you! Whitehead's a prick-always was, always will be."

"Now just hold it, Fowler," Stuart Nichols said.

"Al's not only my client, he's my friend."

And so it went, back and forth among the trio for twenty-two minutes until Albert Whitehead arrived. By the tone of his voice, he was all contrition.

"I'm terribly sorry, fellas, I really am. I had to get a neutral interpreter on my end of the call. Schweizerdeutsch is a hell of a language."

"Schweizerdeutsch," mumbled Fowler in disgust as he threw himself into an easy chair.

"You should try negotiating in it, Jamieson," said Whitehead, standing firm and looking down at the utilities executive.

"It's good exercise for the mind."

"I don't exercise my mind over things I can't understand, Al. It's not very good business."

"No, I guess you don't, that's why you need people like us. Men who do exercise their minds, so you can get the financing you need for your mergers and buy outs

"I'd get it with or without you-" "Not actually, Fowler," interrupted Whitehead sharply.

"Our organization, or enterprise, if you like-" "Call us who we are, Al," broke in Jamieson Fowler curtly, "or does the name frighten you?"

"Not at all, I use it proudly.. .. The Matarese has specific rules in the funding of capital. Where tracing is possible, only certain channels can be employed, channels that are within the laws of the country of receivership. In the case of a very large transfer, with a firm like mine-usually, only my firm, as you well know-" "Will you two stop playing 'who's king of the hill'?" An agitated Benjamin Wahlburg walked between Whitehead and Fowler, looking back and forth at each.

"Put your egos back in the stables, we've got much bigger problems!"

The conversation, though no less contentious, zeroed in immediately on the issues. It began with Albert Whitehead's earlier question to his attorney, Stuart Nichols.

"What the hell's going on?"

The answers came rapidly, on top of one another, and frequently in conflict. They ranged from blaming Amsterdam for a lack of controlling strength to possible defections of individual cells driven by greed and reluctant to give up their fiefdoms. They then considered the role Julian Guiderone was playing relative to the information Leonard Fredericks had supplied from London.

"Where is Guiderone now?" asked Albert Whitehead.

"He has a place

somewhere in the east Mediterranean, I'm told," said Wahlburg.

"It could be just a rumor, of course. No one seems to know where it is."

"I've a few connections in the intelligence community," added Nichols.

"I'll see if they can help."

"Help you find a man who supposedly died twenty or thirty years ago?" Fowler grunted a derisive laugh.

"Jamieson," interrupted Whitehead, "you'd be astonished at the number of false deaths that occur, only to be followed by resurrections years later. In point of fact, the recent gossip on the street was that you were Jimmy Hoffa."

"Funny man." Fowler turned to Wahlburg.

"Say Stu comes up with something, which isn't likely, what can Guiderone do?"

"The answer to that is, anything he likes. And I'd have no problem flying over and talking to Julian. Regardless of his legend, he's a civilized man, as long as you're honest with him. The Dutchman may talk reasonably, but underneath the gloss, he's pathological."

"But what can he do?" asked Whitehead.

"Jamieson's got a point, a valid one-" "Why thank you, Al."

"I never said you were stupid, Jamieson, just limited by choice. This time you're not." Whitehead looked at the banker.

"I repeat, Ben, what can Guiderone do, if he can even be found? He doesn't control Amsterdam."

"And Amsterdam's where the money comes from!" exclaimed the attorney, Nichols.

"Yes, of course, the money," agreed Wahlburg.

"And where did that money come from? .. . Never mind, I'll answer that. From his grandfather, the Baron of Matarese's vast fortunes-plural-all over the world. And who is Julian Guiderone? Where does he come from?

I'll answer that, too. He's the son of the Shepherd Boy, Nicholas Guiderone, anointed by the Baron to carry out his life's work, his dreams and ideals."

"What the hell are you driving at, Ben?" broke in Fowler.

"Get to the point!"

"The point's a subtle one, Jim, but as powerful as all the money the grandson can get his hands on."

"I think you'd better explain that," said Stuart Nichols.

"It's as eternal as the prophets of the Old Testament and their followers, who considered the prophets' words sacred, holy."

"We can do without a Talmudic exercise, Ben," protested Whitehead.