The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"No surprise," interrupted Cameron.

"Have they got him in tow?"

"No, he killed himself, shot himself in the head when they spelled out his involvement."

"They gave him a gun?"

"He grabbed it out of old Togazzi's hand. The point is that the cardinal received a multicouriered package sent by Matareisen before you fellows took him. It's all in computer-speak so it's been flown to the Keizersgracht. In essence, the Matarese schedule has been moved up-" "Moved up," yelled Pryce.

"There aren't that many days left!"

"That's why Scofield wants you back. He won't even tell me or Geoffrey Waters why. Just that it's a job for you two."

"The elliptical son of a bitch!"

"You're all booked on the Concorde's morning flight at nine-forty-five out of Kennedy. Captain Terence Henderson is the pilot and a good friend of Mi-Five. He'll meet you in the lounge and escort you on board."

"That doesn't give us much time."

"A helicopter will pick you up in a field west of the hotel's parking lot and fly you there. We've cleared it; the chopper will arrive in roughly fifty minutes."

"We're going to be jet-lagged out."

"You've only begun. A plane will be ready for you at Heathrow.

Lieutenant Considine will fly you directly to Milan, to Brandon and Togazzi."

"As I believe I said once before, you're all heart, Squinty."

"Never pretended to be otherwise, Camshaft. Start packing."

The flight to London was uneventful. Captain Henderson the perfect British officer, in the military or out, his modulated speech the essence of understated authority; one did not cross him.

"When we land," said Henderson, "please stay on board until everyone else leaves the cabin. I'll escort you past customs."

"Boy, you're really into this stuff, aren't you, Captain?" said Luther, in the aisle seat across from Pryce and Montrose.

"Are you a James Bond type, or something?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, sir." Henderson smiled; it was a genuine smile, laced with humor. He leaned down and whispered, "But don't pursue it, or I'll switch on the afterburners and blow you out of your seat."

"Hey, man, I'm a flyboy, too-" "I know that, Commander-" "Everybody jumps me a grade."

"Why not come up to the flight deck? You might enjoy it."

"I think I will-and watch your moves."

"Be my guest, old chap. Come along now." Luther got out of his seat and followed the captain up the aisle.

Leslie turned to Pryce.

"I want to go with you to Milan."

"Not this time," said Cameron.

"I called Geof Waters from the Concorde lounge, and he told me that Scofield was sending Antonia back to London."

"That's Antonia, not me," interrupted Lieutenant Colonel Montrose firmly.

"Easy, Army, I haven't finished. Geof also said that Bray requested a truckload of crazy equipment-'positively insane' was the way Waters described it-to be flown to a destination he would name later."

"And Geoffrey agreed?"

"He said a funny thing. He said that when Beowulf Agate behaves this way, he's usually on to something."

"Then I'd say he damn well better share it."

"I said pretty much the same thing; at least he should offer a justification. But Geof disagreed. He wants to give Scofield a day or two to confirm whatever it is he's zeroed in on."

"Shouldn't it be the other way around, confirm first?"

"Maybe not. The Matarese's schedule has been moved up, as I told you, so we could be looking at a week or less. Bray must be damn sure of himself, and if he proves out, we have to move fast."

"It doesn't appear to be sound field strategy to me."

"You mean military strategy, only we're not military and the fields are different."

"I'd still rather go with you."

"Not until I find out what Scofield's got in mind. You have a child, I don't."

The next eight hours were a nonstop whirl of activity. Captain Henderson broke his own record by crossing the Atlantic in two hours and fifty-one minutes. At Heathrow Airport, after being escorted off the plane by the captain, they met Sir Geoffrey Waters, who carried two suitcases, one for Cam, the other for Luther.

"Since we obtained the lieutenant's uniform measurements from the U.S. Navy, and we had a number of Cameron's clothes from the last hotel, we ordered new clothing for each of you. It's in this luggage."

"Why did you do that?" asked Pryce.

"Just a precaution, old man. There are no labels, no common fabrics favored by specific clothiers-in other words, no way to trace your identities through the purchases."

"Holy shit!" exclaimed Luther.

"What did this cat figure we'd be doing?"

"He didn't say, Lieutenant. But I go back a long time with the man we call Beowulf Agate, much of it at a distance, I grant you. However, I'm aware of his, shall we say, outre machinations. Therefore, we must protect the Service."

"What about protecting us?" said Considine.

"If it comes down to your clothing, chap, you'll be beyond protection."

"Thanks a lot! I'm a super qualified pilot. Can't NASA send me to the moon or to Mars?"

"Remember Pensacola, Luther," said Pryce.

"There's a commander who's waiting for you-Commander."

"That isn't much good if it comes down to the clothing."

"You still have a couple of hours of light, Lieutenant," remarked Waters, "and your Bristol Freighter is on a nearby runway. Your copilot-one of our fellows who only knows he's accompanying you to Milan-has the approved flight plan. You and Cameron had better get started."

"Why can't I fly solo?"

"Two reasons. One, this isn't a small rural airport or a foreign one with which we negotiate, but Heathrow, where the regulations are extraordinarily strict. To disregard them would call attention to your flight, which we don't want. Two, you've just crossed five time zones;

that has an effect on your system. Caution dictates a backup."

"Tell that to a couple of thousand fighter pilots from World War Two through Desert Storm."

"Yes, well, that would be rather difficult, wouldn't it?"

"Yassuh, massa."

They landed past nightfall, and Cameron was taken to Togazzi's car while Luther was driven to a preselected hotel, and the MI-5 copilot made arrangements in the terminal to fly back to London.

Inside the familiar vehicle with the distressed exterior and luxurious interior, Pryce found himself of two minds. The first was that he missed Leslie enormously, missed her not being beside him, missed her quick mind and their conversations .. . and, of course, her sexual appetite. He had to face the truth: Cameron Pryce, he of the single persuasion and, except for his job, free of long-range entanglements and the responsibilities therein, was deeply in love. He had come close two or three times since college, but his obsession with academics and later his fascination with the extensive training at the Agency precluded deeper relationships. Those obstacles were eliminated; the fascination would always be there and he understood that with every operation he could learn something, but there was space now and time, as much as there would ever be. And he had found someone he wanted to share those moments with for the rest of his life. It was as simple as that, and he recognized it. Temporary liaisons were simple and gratifying, love was crazy, a topsy-turvy world of longing, exuberance, and impatience.

The other part of Cameron's reflections dwelt on Scofield. What had the legend that was Beowulf Agate uncovered and why was he so secretive? It was no time for grandstanding and Brandon's reality check would tell him that. So what prompted his odd behavior? He would find out within the hour.

They reached Togazzi's wooded sanctuary in the forest above Bellagio, and Pryce was led out to the also-familiar narrow balcony with the row of telescopes overlooking Lake Como. The greetings were brief, as Scofield was anxious to tell his story, anxious and intense.

He described the strange telephone call to the yacht, and the woman who said they would pay for Cardinal Paravacini's death.

"That call could only have come from the house, so while Togazzi here was making arrangements to get rid of the corpse and clean things up, I ran to the house and began searching. There was nobody, at least I couldn't find anyone, but I did find a pair of binoculars near a telephone in the library. The sight line was perfect, direct to the yacht.

Whoever she was called from there."

"But you couldn't find her?"

"No, but I was curious about that library. It was like no other library

I'd ever seen. Oh, there were the usual leather-bound volumes, which meant they were probably never read, and hundreds of regular books, but there was something else. A whole section of what looked like archives. Huge scrapbooks, many with old, thick, yellowed paper, held together with heavy string. I pulled several out and began studying them. That's when I called one of the guards and told him to go down to the yacht and explain to Silvio that I'd be there for a while."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing short of a pictorial history of the Matarese family as far back as the turn of the century. Photographs, daguerreotypes, old newspaper clippings, and maps with specific markings. Not many words, no text as such, only captions in Italian, some short, others longer."

"I translated them for him," Togazzi broke in.

"He speaks a little of our language but his reading is practically illiterate."

"I speak French better than you do!"

"A diseased language."

"Did you learn anything new?" asked an exasperated Pryce.

"No, something old, very old, and it started me thinking. We've been looking in the wrong direction, trying to anticipate the crises, when and where they'll take place and what they'll be."

"How can we short-circuit them if we don't look for them?"