The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

Philadelphia brought Scott Walker back into Pryce's and Leslie's lives, as sharp and as precise as ever. He met them at a private field on the outskirts of Chestnut Hill, handed Shields's sealed instructions to Cameron, and drove them to a small hotel in Bala-Cynwyd, twenty-five minutes from the city. Again registered under false names, Luther Considine joined Pryce and Montrose to hear Cam read Frank Shields's pages.

Wahlburg was a philanthropist, especially where the arts were concerned. He and his banks contributed heavily to the symphony, the opera, and the nonprofit theaters. A side privilege for the few largest contributors was to attend the final dress rehearsal before a specific cultural event took place. Tomorrow evening he was scheduled to attend the rehearsal of the Philadelphia Orchestra, where he was to deliver a speech thanking and encouraging his fellow contributors. He would be alone, as his wife had died four years ago and he had never remarried.

Shields had arranged for the head usher-a CIA officer-to lead Wahlburg to an aisle seat in the sixteenth row, behind the sparse audience; the adjacent seat was to be occupied by Cameron. Once again, the target and Pryce would be alone.

Tomorrow evening came, Leslie and Luther in the back row, and after Wahlburg's speech he sat next to Pryce, as the orchestra swung into the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth, the orchestral and choral rendition of the master's "Ode to Joy."

"Your speech was wonderful, Mr. Wahlburg," said Cameron, whispering.

"SM, shh, this is far more wonderful."

"I'm afraid we have to talk-" "We don't talk, we listen."

"I have it on good authority that you were willing to fly to the eastern Mediterranean to meet with Julian Guiderone if you could locate him. Why not listen to his words? I'm his messenger."

"What?" Benjamin Wahlburg snapped his head toward Pryce, his face creased in fear and anxiety.

"How could you possibly know such a thing?"

"Mr. Guiderone has sources beyond any we both possess."

"Dear God in heaven!"

"Perhaps we should move to the rear of the theater."

"You're from Guiderone?"

"Shall we?" Cam nodded at the aisle on Wahlburg's left.

"Yes, yes, of course."

At the back of the concert hall, while the symphony orchestra segued into the soaring chorale of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," Benjamin Wahlburg heard the words that would change his life and his world, leaving him to wonder whether his life had been worth living or his world worth saving.

"There's a severe crisis in Amsterdam," began Pryce.

"We assumed something had drastically changed," interrupted the banker.

"We were told not to contact the Keizersgracht!"

"There'd be no point if you tried. Van der Meer has disappeared.

Guiderone is trying to hold things together."

"This is insane! Where did van der Meer go? Why?"

"We can only speculate. Perhaps he learned that we'd been penetrated, that countermeasures were rapidly being mounted and deployed against us. Who knows? We only know he's vanished."

"My God ..." Wahlburg's hands began to tremble; he brought them to his temples, his face now ashen as the chorus onstage swelled, the myriad voices filling the large concert hall with the intoxicating music of the Ninth Symphony.

"The work, the years .. . and now- what have we done?"

"If Guiderone has his way, nothing will change."

"Everything's changed! Everything came from the Keizersgracht.

We're rudderless."

"Julian accepts his responsibilities," said Cameron firmly, with sudden authority.

"All instructions will come from him, through me.

The schedules remain in force."

"But we don't know what they are. Amsterdam hasn't told us."

"You'll know," continued Pryce, trying to recall fragments of the printouts as well as Scofield's summary of his talk with Leonard Fredericks in London.

"The Mediterranean, the fires. It will start in the Middle East, and as the sun moves west, so will the chaos. Slowly at first, then gathering momentum, until within a few weeks or months there'll be economic paralysis. Everywhere."

"That's our cue to begin offering solutions. Everywhere. Whitehead, Fowler, Nichols, and I understand that, but we don't have the specifics!

Van der Meer told us that our moves would be calculated, who to reach in the Senate and the House, even the White House. We don't have those instructions!"

"You don't have Jamieson Fowler either."

"What?"

"He's retrenched, if that's the word. Without telling you, he's alerted his associates in the utilities industries to contemplate alternative plans-" "I don't believe that!" Wahlburg broke in.

"It happens to be true."

"What alternative plans?"

"As near as we can gather, a slowdown, a wait-and-see strategy."

"Preposterous! The electric companies all along the eastern seaboard are prepared to lock into one another, proving the economic feasibility."

"Along with thousands upon thousands of lost jobs," noted Cameron.

"Devoutly to be wished."

"A temporary condition, to be eventually rectified."

"Neither will take place if Fowler delays. Everything must be coordinated for maximum effect."

"Why would he delay?"

"You tell me, but that's what he's set in motion. Cold feet maybe, last-minute jitters, wanting to see for himself that all the others will participate, and he won't be left holding the bag.. .. Remember, there are still laws; in his mind he could become a pariah, facing years in prison."

"You're wrong, wrong. He's as committed as I am, for completely different reasons, I grant you, but he will not turn back!"

"We certainly hope you're right. However, until Mr. Guiderone hears more from his sources, try to avoid Fowler. If he reaches you, we never spoke; and if he acts strangely, saying odd things, leave a message at this number." Pryce reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

"It's a drop. Just tell me to call my bank, I'm overdrawn."

Cameron turned and walked toward the doors of the hall as the symphony orchestra and the chorus reached the soaring dramatic climax of Beethoven's Ninth. Benjamin Wahlburg stood immobile, trancelike, hearing nothing and seeing nothing, staring only at a dark red velour wall.

He was a broken man, filled with great sadness, and he knew why.

He had listened to the siren's song, a false siren, rationalizing the unpardonable, the ungodly. Yet, in the name of God, for the right reasons! Did they still apply? He would go to temple hoping to find solace, perhaps direction.

Back at the small hotel in Bala-Cynwyd, Cam, Leslie, and Luther Considine convened in the couple's suite.

"Man," said Luther.

"That cat was on a hot tin roof! He just gazed at the wall like the air had been sucked out of him."

"I think our leader did something akin to that," said Montrose.

"Am I right, Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

"Who?"

"I forgot, you don't go to the movies."

"Yes, I rolled over him, but he was different from the others. Hell, he was frightened, but if I read him right, there was something else.

There were a few flashes of remorse, genuine remorse. When I told him that the utilities mega boss Fowler, might be holding back, not ready to deliver-" "A good tactic," broke in the lieutenant colonel.

"Divide, then wait for the panic."

"I think I said as much at the Keizersgracht. The success record is better than most strategies."

"What about the remorse?" asked the pilot.

"How could you tell?"

"What he said, just a few words, but also the way he said them.

About van der Meer's disappearance, he sort of whispered, "The years, the work, what have we done?" as if what they'd done wasn't kosher.

Then later, regarding Fowler, he said, "He's as committed as I am, for completely different reasons, I gr

ant you that." .. . "Completely different reasons," where does that take us?"

"Different ways of reaching their goals?" offered Leslie.

"I don't think so. The goals themselves, maybe, I just don't know.

But I do know that he didn't sound self-serving-trying to protect himself. The others did."

"What do you want to do?"

"Pull rank, as you would say, Colonel. Since I'm in the field, I'm calling Frank Shields and giving him orders. I want an in-depth dossier on one Benjamin Wahlburg, and I want it tomorrow morning."

Morning came and the sealed dossier was delivered by Scott Walker at seven-fifteen.

"This was flown up at five A.M. You're not the most popular guy in Langley, sir."

"That breaks my heart, Scotty, but I'll just have to live with the pain."

"You look like it. I think you're salivating."

"You've got it, Officer Walker. I am."

"Should I wait for a reply? The pilot's still in town."

"No need to. This is all I need."

"You know where to reach me, sir. I can be here in twenty minutes."

Pryce, in his shorts, tore open the sealed envelope and began reading.

Leslie was still asleep; his concentration was absolute. Thirty-six minutes later, when she emerged, yawning, he announced, "Colonel Montrose, we may have found the link in the chain that can be broken."

"What? ..." She sat down next to him on the couch.

"Wahlburg's dossier. It's a beaut. Our all-powerful banker is a refugee from the radical left. In the late forties, he was on Hoover's un-American list, very vocal and close to the communist fringe.

Then he disappeared for a few years and emerged as a bona fide believer of the capitalist system, an advocate of everything he previously denounced."