The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

A sense of urgency grew quickly as the entire group worked furiously. It was heightened when at first two and three printers became operational, then a few more, and finally the majority were spewing out reams of paper. The hours passed and fatigue turned into euphoria. Had they unlocked the secrets of the Matarese?

At ten minutes past noon, Aaron Greenwald rose from the elevated console and spoke.

"Listen up, everybody-quiet, please, and listen. At this juncture, we have more material than we can possibly absorb, but we've got to begin absorbing a large portion of it. I suggest we gather up what we have, collate by source, remove our stiff, bent-over bodies from these savage chairs, and .. . start reading again!"

By three-thirty in the afternoon, nearly twelve hours after the initial breakthrough, the mountain of printouts had been perused, and the group of specialists gathered in the first-floor drawing room for their collective appraisal.

"It is both terrifying and yet tragically incomplete," began Pierre Campion.

"A catastrophic financial tidal wave will roll across the industrial nations. Literally millions upon millions of jobs will be lost as companies and corporations collapse."

"It'll make the depression of the late twenties and thirties look like a minor ripple," said an American specialist.

"The problem is that we have no hard specifics," added another.

"But we have hints, ladies and gentlemen," pressed Greenwald.

"They're in the words! Such as 'media'-newspapers, television;

'consolidating grids'-utilities, power companies; 'act. tables'-easily translated as actuarial tables: insurance companies and their derivatives in health care. There are others also, among them quite prominently 'transfers," 'rollovers."

"Transfers," boys and girls .. . banks. Any operation of this magnitude has to involve massive sums of capital unknown in the annals of economics."

"We know a number of the banks that have merged or consolidated," said Pryce.

"They're transnational."

"And we've all read about the health organizations that are gobbling up one another," offered Leslie.

"Profits first, patients somewhere down the road."

"Certainly, we're aware of many such events," added the Frenchman, Campion, "but our problem is that there are no specific identifications in the voluminous material we've read."

"We must bear in mind," said yet another American, "that the Matarese are not fools-avaricious psychopaths on a global scale, yes, but not fools. They've been at this for a long time, and on the surface we have to assume they have stayed within legal guidelines."

"Naturally," agreed Aaron, " 'on the surface' being the operative phrase. So we can't challenge the obvious because, as Pierre says, we don't have specifics-" "No, we don't," interrupted Cameron angrily, "but we have something else and it's enough to work on now! We know for certain that the four caballeros Frank Shields has under surveillance are Matarese down to their socks. We'll start with them, I'll start with them!"

"By yourself?" Leslie Montrose shot forward in her chair, glaring at Pryce.

"I've done it before. Penetrate and pit individuals against one another. Of all the dumb games in the stupid business, this one has the highest rate of success. Besides, we don't have time for anything else.

For Christ's sake, you heard Campion. Two weeks and five days!"

"But you alone?" protested Greenwald.

"Slight exaggeration," said Cam.

"I'll convince Shields to provide me with all the wizardry we've got, along with a couple of bodies."

"That means you'll be going to the States-" "As fast as I can, Aaron. Waters will get me there, and I want Luther with me in case there's some fast, quiet flying-no leak able personnel or official requisitions, please."

"I'm going with you, Officer Pryce," said Leslie.

"I figured I'd hear that."

"And we'll keep at it here," said Greenwald.

"Please set up instant communications between us so we can feed you whatever additional information we retrieve."

"It's as good as done." Pryce reached into his jacket and pulled out his radio.

"Luther, get the bird ready to go. We'll be down there in twenty minutes."

The R.A.F supersonic jet landed at Dulles International Airport at 7:05 P.M." eastern standard time. An unmarked CIA vehicle took Pryce, Montrose, and Considine to Langley where Frank Shields waited for them in his office. Greetings exchanged and Luther introduced, Frank outlined his proposed scenario.

"Commander Considine-" "You jumped me one, but Luther's fine, sir."

"Thank you. Luther, we've appropriated a Rockwell jet; it's on a private field in Virginia, less than forty minutes from Washington.

Does that meet with your approval?"

"Sure. It's good equipment, depending on the air miles required."

"At the moment, that's not a problem. Jamieson Fowler commutes between Boston, Maryland, and Florida; Stuart Nichols and Albert Whitehead are in New York; and Benjamin Wahlburg is in Philadelphia. No flight is over three and a half hours, including Florida."

"Then there's no problem. May I inspect the aircraft and its security in the morning?"

"We'll all inspect it, Luther. I want to get to New York," interrupted Cameron.

"What do you know, spook?"

"I know I want to get to New York."

"Then hear me out before you go off half-cocked," said Shields firmly.

"According to Geoffrey Waters, you want to corner Whitehead and the others on a one-to-one basis, correct?"

"Yes. One to one, and one by one."

"We've established that Whitehead leaves his office between five forty-five and six o'clock each evening, and employs a single limousine service. He makes one stop before going home to his apartment on Fifth Avenue. It's to a bar in Rockefeller Center called Templars. The management reserves a banquette for him. He has exactly two vodka martinis and returns to the waiting car."

"That's very precise."

"That's not all. We've recruited the limo service, very sub rosa, and the driver on the day you choose will be one of our people. Make your contact at the bar, doing whatever you have to do, and escort him back to the car. Can you do that?"

"In spades, aces high."

"I want to go with him," broke in Montrose.

"These people are killers and, as I'm sure you're aware, I'm an expert in weapons."

"That's not necessary, Leslie-" "Yes, it is! You made it necessary, my dear."

"No comment," said the deputy director.

"We'll position you in a nearby booth."

"What about me?" asked Considine.

"Someone should watch their flanks, that's what we do in the air."

"Come on, Luther! It'll look like I'm covered, and the driver's one of us."

"Your call, spook, but I'm from the streets, remember? Substitutes can be hired."

"You're over anticipating my man."

"I happen to agree with Cameron," said Shields.

"But if it'll make you feel better, you'll be across the room, all right?"

"I'll feel better," replied the pilot.

"So, Cam, when you're in the car you can talk as long as you like, order the driver to wherever you want to gain time. It'll unnerve our broker that you have control."

"So much for Whitehead. What about Nichols?"

"The next morning. He stops at his club for a thirty-minute workout. It's on Twenty-second Street, and he gets there around seven fifteen We've arranged for you to be in the steam room, which Nichols uses after his exercises-" "Nice touch," Pryce broke in.

"How can we be sure that I'll be alone with him?"

"A trainer will take care of that. At that hour it shouldn't be difficult. You'll be inside and once he admits Nichols, he'll stay by the door, telling anybody who shows up that the room is temporarily out of order."

"What explanation did you give him?" asked a concerned Leslie.

"None, Colonel. He's one of us.. .. Now, considering the time change you've experienced, the three of you better get some rest, preferably a good night's sleep. You're in a motel not far from here, it's nearest the private field. Our car will take you there and pick you up in the morning, say eight o'clock?"

"How about seven?" said Pryce.

"Whatever you say."

"I assume we'll be staying at your own private hotel in New York.

Bray said it was the Marble something-or-other."

"Wherever we can save the taxpayers' money, we do our best."

"Scofield told me the room service was outstanding."

"He would. He abused it."

The flight to New York was uneventful, the traffic in Manhattan horrendous. They had been met at La Guardia Airport by a CIA case officer who drove them to the Hotel Marblethorpe. They used the side entrance and settled into the same suite Scofield and Antonia had occupied when Brandon held his "interviews" with the possible conduits to the Matarese. Luther Considine went into the guest bedroom, Cameron and Leslie into the master; unpacking was rapid, and they emerged as the CIA agent came up for a planning session. His name was Scott Walker, and he looked more like a lean, erect military officer than a member of Central Intelligence. He spoke.