The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"What is this?" roared the huge man, lunging across the porch.

"Who are you?"

Again, Cameron ran out, his pistol in hand.

"Silenzio!" he said in his limited Italian.

"One move and you are mo rto

"I understand English, signore, and I do not care to die." The large Corsican backed up the steps.

"We are merely servants of the house, our possessions are insignificant."

"We're not interested in your possessions," said Pryce, "only information. We know the owner of this house, as you call it, is upstairs. How do you reach the top floor?"

"The stairs, signore, how else?"

"The front stairs and the back stairs?"

"Both. You know the house?"

"I'm trying to. Where are the back stairs?"

"In the kitchen. The staff must use them."

"How many floors?"

"Four, signore" "Are there any exits to the outside from the back stairs?"

"Not directly."

"Fire escapes, where and how many?"

"Che?"

"I know that one," interrupted Scofield.

"Scala di sicurezza. " "Ah, si," acknowledged the Corsican.

"There are two, signore.

West and east sides, the first for guests, the second for the staff."

"How are they reached?"

"Each floor has a locked emergency door in the corridor that opens on the scala. It is released by a concealed button in the wall or by a master switch in the kitchen."

"Besides the owner, your padrone, who else is inside and where are they?"

"The cook and a second maid-where is Rosa?"

"She's resting."

"YouMWher?"

"I said resting, not dead. Now where are the cook and the second maid?"

"The cook has a bedroom on the second floor above the kitchen, the girl on the third."

"I think that does it, don't you, Bray?"

"Short, sweet, and complete," agreed Scofield.

"Now!" cried Pryce. Operating in tandem, the Americans shoved their weapons into the stomachs of the two Corsicans while yanking out their gas canisters. Holding their breaths, they sprayed each at close range and, as each started to collapse, they propelled the body into the interior lawn of the circular drive. The men would be unconscious for at least an hour, and maybe as long as three hours.

"Use the radio and get Luther up here," continued Cameron.

"The second fire escape, right, youngster?" Scofield pulled out his radio and spoke into it.

"You've got it. When Luther gets here, you two cover the fire escapes, and I'll go in for the cook and the maid."

"Here I am, spooks." Considine raced out of the Porto Vecchio woods.

"What do I do?"

"Come over here," said Pryce as the pilot ran to his side.

"Around the corner of the house, on the west side, there's a fire escape. If anyone tries to come down, fire your gun, but away from the body. We don't want anyone wounded, much less dead."

"Gotcha, brother," whispered Luther.

"So do I," said Brandon, removing his weapon. He turned, walking rapidly to the east side of the estate.

"Unless there are interruptions, we'll meet back here in ten minutes," was Cameron's last instruction before heading into the house.

Inside, he bore to the left, the east section, where the Corsicans had carried the cartons from Bonifacio. The kitchen was immense, worthy of any upscale restaurant, the back staircase narrow and poorly lighted, as apparently befitted the staff, in their employer's view. Pryce crept up to the second floor, his body nearly prone, his camouflage fatigues giving rise to the image of a giant lizard approaching its prey. He stood up in the hallway, judging which door on the right was above the kitchen. It was obvious, so he sidestepped toward it, his gun and the gas canister in his hands. Awkwardly, he shoved the canister under his left arm and silently tried to twist the doorknob; it did not move, it was locked.

He studied the door, stepped back across the hallway, shifted the canister to his right hand, and bolted forward with all his weight and strength. With an enormous crack, the door burst open, and Cam rushed in, holding his breath and spraying the bed with the immobilizing gas. The slender, stunned chef opened his eyes in panic, started to scream, then collapsed back into the pillows.

Pryce returned to the back stairs, checking his watch; he had four minutes to go. He climbed to the third floor and rounded the corner into the narrow, dark corridor. The first thing that caught his eye was the strip of light at the bottom of the second door on the right. Shoving his weapon into his belt, the canister in his left hand, he reached for the knob. The door opened and Cam quickly stepped inside. The room was deserted but on the wall above the bed was a small glass panel, a red light blinking in the center accompanied by a low humming sound akin to a soft but constantly ringing alarm clock. Apparently the room belonged to the arousable Rosa. Obviously, it was her night to cover the doors and the alarms.

He had barely two minutes left, not that the time was written in cement, but time spans were important and he did not want Scofield and Considine to think that something had gone wrong and do something foolish like rushing in to search for him. He returned to the dark, narrow hallway, looking to the right and the left. There were three more doors, four in all. A modicum of propriety would dictate that the floors be divided by gender, the proper way for servants' quarters regardless of improper visiting rights.

Taking his chances, based only on a vague perception that Rosa was the sturdier of the women, Pryce crossed to the first door nearest the staircase and the emergency exit. Oddly enough-and something he had not noticed in the very dim light-the door was open, only an inch perhaps, but definitely open. He slowly pushed it back when he heard the words spoken from within the darkness.

"Padrone? Mi amore?"

One did not have to be a linguist to catch the lady's meaning.

"Si, " replied Cameron, approaching the bed. The rest took less than fifteen seconds and Pryce was back by the front porch with twenty-odd seconds to spare.

"I gather your incursion was not only successful but silent," said Beowulf Agate, his voice low.

"It was," answered Cam.

"Now comes the delicate part."

"Time for the Gallic commandos, right, fellas?" said Luther.

"Not right," replied Scofield.

"A jet landing-very cautiously, I might add-on that not exactly state-of-the-art airstrip, and word goes out about how crazy it is. The same jet unloading a commando unit, and emergency sirens aren't out of the question."

"However," interrupted the pilot, "not any telephone calls."

"What do you mean?" asked Pryce.

"Well, before we left Senetosa, I took a pair of pliers out of the nets on the plane, ran into that so-called tower, and cut the telephone wire that came down from the roof."

"This young man really has possibilities," said Bray.

"You should recruit him."

"No thanks, elder spook. I like it in the sky."

"Don't minimize your contribution, Luther," Pryce broke in firmly.

"You may have given us the few extra moments we need."

"Why? Because of the telephone?"

"Exactly."

"But if that controller was going to call here, why didn't he call before?"

"Good question," said Scofield, "and I'll answer it. Because the French authorities told Senetosa that we're gathering evidence of drug couriers sailing in to the port of Solenzara. This is the nearest airfield, and no French officials will interfere with drug interdicti

ons. They could spend twenty to thirty years in prison if they did."

"So they don't know anything about this place?"

"That's the way it's been planned, Lieutenant."

"What do you suggest, Bray? You've been here before, we haven't," Cameron said.

"Matareisen's isolated, no guards, no servants, right?"

"Right."

"Total surprise, shock. The fire escape on the top floor has a short lateral walk that passes the right window. One of us breaks through the door from the front stairs, the other stays by the side of the window and crashes the glass. Timed right, he's cornered."

"I can climb on your shoulders, Cam," said Luther.

"I'll be able to reach the bottom rung of the ladder."

"You could also be in the first line of fire."

"I can't support you, you big white gorilla, so in for a dime, in for a dollar."

"Remind me to call a naval commander in Pensacola."

"Not with my obituary, you dirty dog."

"I hope not, but I want you to know what you're doing."

"I want to do it. Enough said."

"Enough said."

"Let's synchronize our watches, as all those dumb movies say," said Scofield.

"What do you figure, Pryce?"

"Give us three minutes to get Luther on the ladder, another one for me to rejoin you, and thirty seconds for you to go out and cover our pilot on the fire escape. If Matareisen walks to a window, he could spot him. Then allowing for me to find out where I'm going and how to get there without any noise, add five minutes. Altogether that's nine minutes thirty. It's now midnight plus seven. Mark.. .. Let's go, Luther."

The pilot climbed to the lowest tier and sat motionless, his eyes on his watch. He would creep up to the top floor during the last thirty seconds of the time span. Cameron slid along the side of the house, judging the line of sight that would be the most feasible for Scofield to protect Considine. Once that was determined, he ran back to Brandon.

"Take your position at the edge of the woods, Bray."

"Why so far?"

"It'll have the best sight line to the window. The other angles would either show you on the lawn or are too tough to shoot from."

"Thanks, kid, I might have recruited you myself."

"Gosh, thank you, Mother."

"You've got roughly five minutes."

Pryce ran up the porch steps and into the house. The front staircase was at the end of the long foyer of rose marble, the railings gold-plated and glistening under the dim glow of a distant chandelier. He approached the steps, looking for concealed wire trips. His fingers caressed the underside of the railing that curved around to the first landing leading to the second floor; there were none that he could find.