The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

He then tested the staircase runner for slight bulges that could indicate alarms; again there were none that he could feel. He found the rheostat for the chandelier and turned up the lights.

Silently, he began climbing, reaching the second floor, his eyes searching every inch below him, looking for the abnormal, a trap. Cam glanced at his watch; his caution was costing him time. He had ninety eight seconds left and two more floors to go; he hastened his pace.

Stop! On the steps to the fourth floor, there was a slight discoloration in the runner caused by a minuscule elevation. Pryce took out his knife and swiftly carved around one-half of the circular bulge. Carefully, he peeled the carpeting back. Beneath was a flat metal disc with two wires leading up the staircase. It was either an alarm trip or a land mine, and considering the monstrous agenda of Matareisen, the mine was a distinct possibility. What's a servant or two?

Sixty-one seconds!

Cameron took the steps two at a time, his eyes now red with strain, knowing that each planted foot could cost him his life. Thirty-nine seconds! And he had to be ready, weapon in place, his concentration absolute, his breathing steady,. He had been in too many similar situations where a calm, still attitude was as vital as firepower. Without it, operations could easily fail or be aborted. No more time!

Breathing deeply, Pryce stood five feet from the door, his arm outstretched, his gun aimed at the wood around the knob. Several shots would weaken the lock, his shoulder doing the rest. Four seconds, three, two, one-now! He fired three bullets, splintering the wood, simultaneously hearing the loud crash of shattered glass from within. He rushed forward, and with all his strength crashed through the door, instantly lunging to the floor, rolling away from his point of impact.

Jan van der Meer Matareisen, in shock, recovered enough to race to a stack of computer printouts. He picked it up and dashed to a shredder clamped over a large iron receptacle, the glow from which indicated burning coals at the bottom.

"Don't do it!" roared Pryce, his weapon aimed.

"There's no way you can stop me!" screamed Matareisen.

"You can't kill me, I'm worthless to you dead!"

"You've got a point," agreed Cameron, firing. Not, however, into any life-threatening part of his body; instead, at his legs, specifically his kneecaps. Shrieks of agony filled the room as the Baron of Matarese's descendant fell to the floor, the printouts flying everywhere but into the shredder.

"Break the rest of the window and get in here, Luther!" yelled Pryce, taking out his canister and going over to the writhing, screaming Matareisen.

"I'm going to do you a favor, you bastard," said Cam, bending over and spraying the wounded monster's face.

"Unpleasant dreams," he added.

Considine leaped through the destroyed window and rushed over to Pryce.

"Piece of cake, spook," noted the pilot.

"You know, I'm getting to be pretty good at this sort of thing. I mean, when you consider the nets on the plane, the Senetosa telephone, and now this, well, I'm not too shabby."

"You're a goddamned hero, Luther."

"Why, thank you, Cam."

"I haven't finished. I agree with Scofield, I hate heroes. They get people killed."

"Hey, what kind of remark is that?"

"An extremely truthful one. Come on, we're not finished."

"What's to do?"

"First, go downstairs to the kitchen, it's on the ground floor to the right. Tear the place apart and try to find a first-aid kit. There should be one; people cut themselves in kitchens. We have to bind and tourniquet Matareisen's legs."

"Why so kind?"

"Because he was right. He's no good to us dead. On the staircase, stay off the carpet, the runner, it's tripped."

"It's what?"

"Never mind, just stay on the marble. Hurry up, get going!" Luther ran out, leaping over the fallen door as Cameron scooped up the computer printouts, shuffling them, and staring at the contents. Two sheets appeared to be some sort of key codes in columns, but they were beyond his expertise. The rest, twenty-odd pages, were again coded, perhaps decipherable with the columned two sheets. Pryce walked rapidly to the damaged window and shouted, "Bray, are you down there?"

Silence. A disturbing silence.

Suddenly, an ear-shattering bell echoed throughout the entire mansion, so loud and startling that it produced instant paralysis.

Putting down the printouts, Cameron raced over the demolished door into the hallway. Below on the staircase stood a bewildered Scofield;

he had stepped on the alarm trip. Pryce ran down the steps, pulling out his knife and shoving the vaunted Beowulf Agate aside. He knelt down, lifted the cut circle of carpeting, and severed the wires. The deafening bell stopped.

"You're lucky it wasn't a bomb," said Cam.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about it?"

"I thought you were still outside. Come on, I want to show you what we've got up here." They returned to Matareisen's lair.

"His legs are bleeding," observed Scofield, seeing the unconscious figure of the Matarese leader.

"It's his knees, actually. Luther's looking for some bandages."

"Bandages, hell. Put a bullet in his head."

"Counterproductive," said Pryce, picking up the printouts.

"He tried to get rid of these."

"What are they?"

"Unless I'm grossly mistaken, they're the signals he was sending out. They're coded and I'm not that much of a computer whiz."

"Send them to Amsterdam. With all this equipment, there must be a fax machine."

"There's one over there, but I don't know the fax number at the Keizersgracht."

"I have it," said Beowulf Agate, reaching for an inside pocket.

"You should learn to be prepared, youngster."

While the fax did its work, Cameron phoned Greenwald in Amsterdam, explaining the circumstances and the material he was sending to the Keizersgracht. The computer scientist made it clear that all other work would cease, the unit's concentration fixed solely on the pages from Corsica.

"Do you have a number where I can call you back?"

"Whatever you learn, call Waters in London and Frank Shields at Langley. I can't do anything here and we'll be damn busy. I'll reach you later this morning." Pryce hung up and turned to Scofield.

"You've got the Comsat mobile-link phone on you?"

"Of course. Direct to Mi-Five on scrambler."

"Call Geof. Tell him to reach the Deuxieme in Marseilles and fly those commandos here."

"Here? Now? What in God's name for?"

"We're going to a banquet."

It was shortly past dawn and one by one the six limousines arrived at the estate in the hills of Porto Vecchio above the waters of the Ligurian Sea. A seventh vehicle was missing, for no one could locate the final guest, a Cardinal Paravacini of Rome. Under threats of exposure and severe punishment, the two revived Corsicans met each car and escorted each guest to the banquet hall. Upon entering, the guests were met by the armed Pryce and Considine, who proceeded to strap them to the chairs and gag them with silver duct tape, the ropes and the tape found in the gardener's shack. Once everyone-five well-attired men and one fashionably dressed woman-was in place, Cameron and Luther briefly disappeared through a door in the left wall only to return moments later. Between them they carried a dining-room chair; in it sat the wounded Jan van der Meer Matareisen, his legs bulging from the bandages under his trousers. Like the guests, ropes bound him to the chair and two layers of tightly wound duct tape secured his mouth.

The leader of the Matarese was placed at the head of the table, his maniacal gaze darting back and forth at the others in fury. Suddenly, Scofield, in civilian clothes, walked through the door and stood behind Matareisen.

"Gentlemen," he began, "and, of course, the lady, I'm here because I probably know more about your organization than anyone else alive. To call it a monstrous horror would be a vast understatement.

The good s

ide is that it's finished, you 're finished. Your brilliant gaucho here blew it. He was caught with the whole computerized ball of wax right in his avaricious little hands. Some brilliance, huh? Fortunately for our side, we put together a team of the best brains in the world and broke his computer codes.... As I stand here, government agents, the police, and military personnel in several dozen cities in the industrial nations are fanning out, taking people into custody, including an Eagle at Langley, caught dialing too many numbers for a call made from a pay phone. It's called sterile access; he's toast. Also, not incidentally, courts and legislatures everywhere are being convened in emergency sessions to take measures against a potentially destructive global economic virus. As for the fires in the Mediterranean, the maestro in this chair has managed to do what few diplomats and statesmen have been able to accomplish. Hostile countries and warring factions have come together to put those fires out.

"Speaking of chairs, you'll note that your seating arrangements are identical to those of your mentor. That's not merely to provide you a level playing field with the man who has destroyed you, it's for your own safety. You see, some men have arrived to escort you away from Corsica, away from the land of the Matarese. Should any of you have been tempted to run or display firearms, you would have been shot. We wanted to spare you that embarrassing and egregious possibility."

"Egregious?" mumbled Pryce to Considine.

"Harvard lace."

"Tuskegee bullshit," whispered Luther.

"Gentlemen!" called out Beowulf Agate in a loud voice.

"You may come in now."

The double doors in the north wall opened and the squad of uniformed French commandos walked in in single file. They took up their positions surrounding the enormous banquet table as the bound and gagged guests writhed in their chairs, their heads whipping back and forth, their eyes fired in panic.

"I declare this conference closed," said Scofield in exaggerated formality.

"Gentlemen, untie your prisoners and take them to your plane. If any offers you a bribe, I'd suggest you whack 'em!"

It was ten o'clock in the morning, the sky dark, heavy rain imminent.

The two Corsican servants had been promised leniency in return for their cooperation and were led away by the Bonifacio police. It remained for the three Americans, the two maids, and the chef to com Iplete the task insisted upon oddly enough by Scofield. All portable valuables in the mansion, along with the cartons of food, many packed in ice, were to be placed in the gardener's large shack. It took nearly four hours and enough sweat to fill up a small pool.

"Okay, Bray," said a perspiring Pryce.

"Now what the hell is this all about?"

"Closure, my young friend, simply closure," replied Scofield, picking up a five-gallon can as he ran into the mansion.

Three minutes later the fires started, instantly billowing up from the drapes and the furniture. Within five minutes the flames began enveloping the house, accentuated by the progressively blackening sky. Cameron was alarmed-where 'A5

Suddenly, there was an enormous explosion. Pryce and Considine threw themselves on the ground as the entire front porch was blown away, fragmented marble, concrete, and glass flying in all directions.

The rains then came, torrential, unrelenting, but still the flames continued to erupt as if challenging the storm, nature against nature, fire and water in combat.

"Scofield!" roared Cameron, getting up unsteadily, as did Luther.

"Where did the son of a bitch go?" screamed Considine.