The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"

"Fires all over,"

" said Bray haltingly. "

"The devil takes over the world." From Oman to Israel to North Africa."

"The Mediterranean fires," said Cameron.

"Matareisen's sent it out. It's the signal!"

"Let's go!" cried Scofield.

"I'm coming with you," said Luther Considine.

"My people came from Africa, and nobody burns our ocean."

It was shortly past eleven o'clock, the moon bright, alive in the sky, as Scofield, Pryce, and Considine crawled through the barbed wire into the Matarese compound.

"Luther, you're our rear point," whispered Brandon.

"If anyone comes up the road, or even if you see headlights, get on the radio and tell us."

"Gotcha, elder spook. Do you guys do this sort of thing on a regular basis?"

"No," replied Cameron, "usually we're announced."

"Funny man."

"Not at the moment," said Pryce, following Scofield up the steep, wooded incline. They reached the border of the circular drive; the mansion was dark except for a single window on the top floor.

Suddenly a figure appeared behind the glass.

"You wanted confirmation?" asked Bray.

"I've got it. It's he."

"

"It's he'? It's him."

"Case closed on Harvard. Get back! He's looking down here."

"Then stay still, your face down!" Scofield clamped his hand on Pryce's neck.

"He's moving away."

"Let's run to the side of the house," whispered Cam.

"Wo, he's come back! He's on the phone."

Matareisen's face in the window appeared angry; he seemed to be shouting. He then walked away again only to reappear, holding what looked like a long computer printout, his face still twisted in a grimace.

Once more he left the window in apparent fury. "Now!" said Brandon, getting up and racing across the drive to the side of the house, Cameron close behind him.

"He's pissed off about something," added Scofield.

"We're okay for a couple of moments."

"Then what?"

"I want to look around, study the alarm setup, if I can find it."

"You screw with it, you'll set it off!"

"Maybe, maybe not. Weapons at the ready, as Geof would say, and check your silencer."

"Checked."

"Cover the front door. If I blow it with the alarm, I'll get back as soon as I can, but you be ready. Shoot anyone who comes out-" "Hey, spooks!" It was Luther's whispered voice over both their radios.

"Headlights heading straight for that medieval iron gate."

"Let's get out of sight in the back," said Scofield.

' Wo," countered Pryce firmly.

"This could be our way in. No mess, no fuss, no alarms."

"No heartbeats, either!"

"Come on, Bray, we're better than that, aren't we?"

"Explain how."

"Out of sight, yes, but not in the back. Did you see the front door?"

"Three brick steps, a thick, heavy door, carriage lanterns on the right and left," answered the observant Scofield.

"And?"

"And what? .. . The bushes, tall bushes flanking the porch!

Whoever it is goes inside while the alarm is off and we-" "We're wasting time. I'll take the far side, you take this one."

"Spooks!" Considine again.

"The gate opened and they're driving through."

"They?"

"Two gorillas, I'd say."

"Get off the radio," ordered Cameron, turning to Brandon.

"Hurry up. Get in there and crouch!"

"Easy for you."

The large black sedan, its headlights blinding, rounded the curving drive and stopped in front of the wide brick porch. Two men got out, the driver medium-sized with long, light brown hair, the other much larger, barrel-chested, his head topped by a receding crew cut. Instead of walking up the steps to the entrance, they opened the rear doors and began carrying out grocery bags and small cartons, the labels and logos indicating that they had been purchased in the port city of Bonifacio.

They piled the merchandise on the porch, speaking in the patois of Corsica, an odd mix of French and Italian.

"In the name of God, such delicacies!" said the driver.

"The padrone must be planning a celebration."

"For whom? Us and the three servants? I doubt it."

"Certainly for the whore. He likes her, you know."

"I'm not sure she's a whore, I think she's a nymphomaniac. As for his liking her, wait'll he finds out she's slept with all of us! It would offend his aristocratic dignity. He looks down on us, I trust you know that."

"I know that, and I don't give a shit if he considers us worms. The pay is good-more than good-far better than the Sicilians."

"Same rotten jobs, my friend. Frankly, I cannot go to the confessional any longer."

"Do not worry. Our God sent us here to do what we do. Everything is preordained."

"Ring the chimes, tell the idiots to shut off the alarm and open the door."

The driver did as the larger man told him. Moments later there were lights in the downstairs windows and a female voice over the porch intercom.

"Yes, who is it?" she asked in the Corsican dialect.

"Two of your most experienced lovers, Rosa."

"You're certainly the heaviest!"

"Open up," said the driver.

"We need help out here. Quickly!"

"Not until I turn off the alarm, unless you care to be blown out of the hills."

The two Corsicans looked at each other, their expressions conveying weary disgust.

"Loud bells would have been sufficient," muttered the large, heavyset man.

"Why the explosives? A true idiot inside could blow us to hell, along with the porch."

"The padrone takes no risks. He's safe and we take our chances."

The door opened and the voluptuous maid, who had previously strolled in the driveway with a guard, appeared. Her revealing negligee emphasized the swells of her generous breasts and the curvature of her hips.

"Mother of God!" cried the woman.

"What are all these?"

"The padrone must be having a party," replied the driver.

"That explains things," said the scantily clad maid.

"What things?"

"We're running around like headless chickens! The rooms must be spotless, the sheets washed and softened, the silver polished, the banquet hall set up, and the cook is going crazy. The butcher and the greengrocer were here this afternoon delivering enough meat and produce to feed a houseful of Sicilian mamas!"

"What does the padrone say?"

"Nothing himself. He's locked on the top floor and sends down messages in the air tube. Besides the ones I just told you, he tells us that guests will be arriving shortly past dawn. Shortly past dawn! Can you imagine?"

"With the padrone I can imagine most anything," said the large man, picking up a case of wine.

"I'll take this into the kitchen."

"I'll follow with two of these cartons. They're too heavy for our delicate Rosa."

"Delicate, my ass!"

"That isn't, Rosa."

The two Corsicans disappeared into the house as the maid bent over, sorting through the packages. Suddenly, Pryce broke through the bushes and leaped up on the porch, grabbing the woman by the neck, yanking her head back, his left hand clamped over her mouth.

"Your gas!" he whispered to Scofield, who was climbing up the front steps, the low brick side too difficult for him to negotiate. Swiftly, he reached into the pocket of his camouflage fatigues and pulled out his canister of aero soled chloroform. He rapidly administered two sprays into her face, concentrating on her nostrils; she collapsed instantly. Cameron dragged her off the porch and placed her unconscious body to the right of the foliage, out of sight. Both men raced back behind the bushes.

The two

Corsicans returned, confused by the absence of the maid.

"Rosa, where the hell are you?" called out the driver, walking down the brick steps. This time it was Scofield who walked out of the thick foliage, his silenced pistol in the porch's light.

"You raise your voice, young man, you won't have any vocal cords.

I'll blow them out of your throat."