The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"Don't try to be a hero, youngster," said Scofield on the nearby telephone.

"They always end up with lots of medals, usually sealed in their coffins."

"All right, Brandon, how do you want to proceed," said Shields from Langley.

"Antonia and I intend to come back to this place if it doesn't get blown up, but in the meantime, I suppose we've got to get up to your territory."

"Whatever you want. Our budgets are loose in that department."

"Good Lord, you sound like the Matarese! They offered me a couple of million and a spread in the South Pacific."

"We can't go that far, but we'll give you some attractive options. All safe houses, of course."

"Then let's get to work, Squinty. Time's of the essence." "Goddamn it!" yelled Cameron Pryce, keeping the phone so close it orally assaulted the other two on the line.

"I may not be your old buddy, Squint Eyes, but this is still my operation! I found the son of a bitch, and I will not be excluded!"

"Surely you won't, young man," said Brandon Alan Scofield.

"You'll do all the things I should never try again, and they'll undoubtedly have to be done. You see, there's a factor in this equation that neither of you nor anybody in Washington understands.

The Shepherd Boy was removed from this earth, but the crown was passed. He's the key."

"The Shepherd Boy? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'll tell you when and if I think the time is right."

The four-story stone house above the waters of the Keizersgracht in Amsterdam was a monument to, if not a remembrance of, the splendor that was the port city's wealthiest years at the turn of the century. The Victorian furniture was sturdy yet delicate in design, heirlooms handed down through generations of a family born to riches. The walls of the high-ceilinged rooms were filled with priceless Flemish and French tapestries, the tall windows bordered by velour drapes, the sunlight filtered through the finest lace. A small brass-grilled mahogany elevator, self-operated, was centered at the far rear wall of the building; it was capable of carrying up to five occupants. However, to reach the fourth and top floor required the insertion of a specific code in the panel, a code that was altered daily, and programming an incorrect one would result in the elevator's instant cessation, along with the locking of the brass grill. Whoever attempted to reach the fourth floor without code clearance was trapped, to be dealt with according to the circumstances.

Further, the main area of each succeeding level had a general function. The first floor was essentially a large drawing room, complete with a Steinway grand piano; it was suitable for afternoon teas, cocktail parties, small recitals, and occasional lectures. The second level, easily reached by the staircase, held a grandiose dining room, seating sixteen comfortably, with a separate library-study, and at the rear, an immense kitchen. The third floor was basically designed for sleeping quarters. There was a master bedroom and bath, and three additional guest rooms, each good-sized and with all the amenities. The fourth level was off-limits. The staircase stopped at the third; the railing curved into the hallway with no evidence of another floor, only an exquisitely papered wall.

Should an occupant or a guest possess the elevator code, however, he would be astonished by what he observed when he emerged on the fourth floor. It was nothing short of a military war room. The entire front wall was a detailed map of the world, eerily illuminated from behind, tiny flashing lights of various colors pulsating in erratic rhythms. Facing this global display were six white computer stations, three on each side of an aisle that led to a huge elevated desk, the station-throne, as it were, for the monarch of the equipment.

Beyond this display of high technology, so anachronistic in contrast to the floors below, perhaps the oddest observable fact was the absence of windows. On the outside, they were there. On the inside, they did not exist. Like the staircase that abruptly ended on the third floor, the windows on the fourth had been sealed off, the only light emanating from the overwhelming map of the world and the halogen lamps at each computer station. Lastly, as if to finally compound the macabre atmosphere, the six males operating the computers were far from the image of bright young people with eager faces usually associated with such equipment. Instead, they were, to a man, middle-aged, neither slender nor corpulent, with stern features that bespoke successful business executives, prosperous but not given to frivolity.

It was late afternoon in Amsterdam, confirmed by one of the blue clocks on the map atop the Greenwich-mean-time zone containing the Netherlands. All six white computers on the floor level were quietly humming, the operators' fingers nimbly prancing over their keyboards, their eyes alternately on the global screen, on the small flashing lights, geographically ascertaining the information being sent and received.

From a thick side door, the figure of Jan van der Meer Matareisen emerged; he walked rapidly, purposefully to the elevated desk and sat down, instantly turning to his computer. He pressed a series of keys and studied the screen. Abruptly, he called out, his voice metallic, anxious.

"Number Five, what's the latest from the Caribbean?" he asked in Dutch.

"There's nothing, absolutely nothing that I can bring up!"

"I was about to transfer it, meneer," replied the nervous, balding man at Station Five.

"There's been considerable confusion and the decoding was laborious, as the message was sent hastily and incomplete."

"What was it? Quickly!"

"Our pilot is convinced he was picked up by AWACS radar out of Guantanamo. He took evasive action, shutting down all communications, and headed south."

"Destination?"

"Unknown, sir. He implied-for he was not very clear-that he would make 'unorthodox' contact when he was secure."

"Unorthodox," interrupted Station Six, nearest on the right below Matareisen, "which means he'll probably reach one of our branches and have it make contact with us."

"What are his choices?"

"The nearest is Barranquilla in Colombia," answered Station Two, punching his keys.

"Or Nicaragua, or possibly the Bahamas, although that's dangerous. Nassau is cooperating too freely with Washington."

"A moment, meneer!" cried Five.

"A transmission. From Caracas!"

"Good flying, good thinking," said the leader of the Matarese.

"We're entrenched in Venezuela." Entrenched indeed, thought Matareisen, they're on the boards of the major oil companies.

"The message, please."

"I'm decoding it, sir." "Quickly!

"Here it is.

"Argonaut with Neptune, no inheritors. Report to follow."

" "Excellent, excellent!" exclaimed Matareisen, getting up from his chair.

"Make a note that we must reward our pilot. He sank the trawler with no survivors.. .. And I must make my own report." With this last statement, van der Meer walked back to the heavy side door on the right wall. He pressed his palm against the recessed security pad; there was a click; he reached for the knob and opened the forbidding door, then closed it rapidly.

As one, the six operators appeared to heave sighs of relief.

"Do you think we'll ever find out what's in there?" whispered Station Three, smiling.

"We're extremely well paid to accept his explanation," replied One, also whispering.

"He says it's his private quarters with equipment superior even to ours, and we have the finest."

"Yet he answers to no one, he's also made that clear," said Two.

"Whom could he possibly report to?"

"Who knows?" continued Three.

"But if that's a communications annex, it must hold twenty or thirty machines. It may be somewhat narrower than this place, but it has to be every bit as long."

"Dwell not, my friends," said the submissive Station One.

"We're richer than we ever were; we believe, and we must accept our regulations. I, for one, would never care to return to my corporate position, for the salary, as extravaga

nt as it was, was no match for Heer van der Meer's generosity."

"Nor I," said Four.

"I have partnerships in several diamond exchanges, the costs excessive because I am a gentile. Entirely beyond my reach before I joined this firm."

"Then I repeat," said One.

"Don't speculate. Let us accept what we have and enjoy it. None of us is terribly young, and in a few years we'll all retire as millionaires several times over."

"I couldn't agree with you more," chimed in Station Five.

"A

moment! Another transmission. This on my Istanbul routing." All eyes turned, focused on the computer screen.

"Read it," said Four.

"We may have to interrupt van der Meer."

"It's from Eagle-" "That's Washington," Six broke in, "our contact at Langley."

"Read it!"

"Give me several minutes to decode; it's not that long." Ninetyseven seconds passed, the executives' eyes all on Station Five. Finally, he spoke.

"I've transposed the cipher eliminating the false names.

Thus, it reads as follows.

"Beowulf Agate survives. He and the Hawkread that as Cameron Pryce-in contact with D-Director Shields. Beowulf and the woman flying to U.S. under Agency protection. The wolf will assume operational command."