The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"Don't touch those, son!" said Scofield quickly.

Cam and Bray looked down at the broken plates, at the spilled food beside each. Both men had eaten eggs, either poached or lightly fried, since portions of soft, yellow yoke were apparent.

"Who knows you like eggs?" asked Pryce quietly.

"Hell, probably every one of the boys who've worked in here. Toni was pretty outspoken about my eggs, and most of the time I listened to her. Two months ago those medical idiots in Miami said my cholesterol was over three hundred."

"Did you order eggs this morning?"

"Order? This is a buffet, haven't you noticed? Those metal servers on the table hold scrambled with sausages, and the one next to it has poached floating in slow-boiling water."

"But you didn't have eggs today?"

"Had 'em yesterday .. . and I figured Toni might walk in."

"Seal off the kitchen," ordered Pryce to the RDF soldier.

"Seal off? I am the kitchen, sir. Everything comes in sealed, including the eggs, and whoever's on duty here follows the regs on how to make 'em."

"Regs?"

"Instructions, sir. By the numbers, although we sure don't need them. I mean, what can you do with eggs?"

"Kill people, my friend," said Scofield.

"Seal off the kitchen. Now!"

One of the normal two cartons of eggs was still in the mansion's walk-in refrigerator. Otherwise it was bare except for a few quarts of milk, several packages of cheese, and unopened cans of soft drinks.

"What do you make of it?" asked Cam.

"Maybe it wasn't the eggs."

"Maybe not," answered Bray, turning to the RDF patrol.

"Tell me, soldier, what about these instructions-for the eggs, I mean?"

"They're taped on the wall to the left of the first stove, sir, but I can detail 'em like the ABC's.. .. Mix six in a bowl with a little milk and whip them up in a skillet with some butter-those are the scrambled.

Then you break the other six in the big hot-water server over the Sterno on the table and sort of wing it."

"

"Wing it'?"

"Check 'em now and then depending on who shows up. If they get too hard, which is like when they're light yellow, you scoop them out and replace 'em."

"Do you do that often, soldier?"

"Not really, sir. Those who like them that way usually get down here early. Jesus, I don't understand!"

"But you understand that you're not to say anything, don't you?"

said Scofield pointedly.

"Sure, but that's crazy-I'm sorry but it's crazy! The word'll go out all over the compound, you can't stop it!"

"I know that, son, I just want to know who learns about it outside of this compound. So let's try a little containment."

"I still don't understand-sir."

"You don't have to. Now bring that carton of eggs over to the sink and mix up some liquid soap and warm water."

Using the soap sudsy solution, Bray shook each egg, dipped it into the water, and held it up to the light. Each displayed tiny bubbles at the apex of the shell, the opening too minuscule to be seen by the naked eye.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," said Pryce, studying one of the eggs.

"You'd be a dead one if you had eaten that," added Scofield.

"This method of killing was developed by the Borgias in the middle of the fifteenth century, only far less sophisticated. They used the hatpins of their ladies' finery and painstakingly allowed the poison to seep in.

They also injected tomatoes, squash, plums, and their most-favorite, punctured grapes left soaking for a few days."

"How civilized," said Cameron sardonically.

"These eggs were done by the most-modern, thinnest syringes available.

Same trick our lesser magicians employ when they inject supposedly fresh eggs with a substance that makes them instantly solid so they can be smashed without breaking. Amusing, in a horrible sort of way, isn't it?"

"No, not remotely," said Pryce.

"What do you want to do now, since you're the honcho of this operation?"

"The obvious. Quarantine the kitchens at Langley and place everyone who works there under total surveillance."

The computer in the Chesapeake compound clacked out the information:

The products in question were purchased from the Rockland Farms in Rockport, Maryland, under contract issued by the Central Intelligence Agency after a full investigation of the company's standards. The CIA personnel in the Langley kitchens are mostly long-term employees who were subjected to background checks. Reevaluation adds nothing.

Intensive scrutiny will continue.

THE BALTIMORE SUN

(Business Section, Page 3)

ROCK LAND FARMS SOLD

ROCKPORT, OCT. 10. Rockland Farms, one of the country's leading poultry producers and the largest in the eastern United States, has been purchased by Atlantic Crown, Limited, worldwide distributors of produce with offices around the globe.

Jeremy Carlton, spokesman for ACL, issued the following press release.

"With the absorption of Rockland Farms, Atlantic Crown vastly enlarges its markets so as to better serve our clients in many countries. The addition of poultry to our varied exports of produce from America's heartland has long been a dream of Atlantic Crown. The global expansion of fast-food franchises alone justifies the expenditure. With our network of international outlets, we can expedite our products across the world to everyone's benefit.

"This statement would not be complete without expressing our thanks to the Bledso family, the previous owners of Rock-land Farms, for its cooperation in negotiations and the wisdom it showed in selecting Atlantic Crown. In all things, we will endeavor to uphold the family's great tradition."

The press release did not disclose the terms of the sale and since both companies are privately held, neither is compelled by law to do so. However, it had to be immense, for the "absorption" of Rockland Farms makes Atlantic Crown the most profitable combine in the food-processing exporting industry, possibly in the world.

The dimly lit study in the large house on the outskirts of Rockport, Maryland, was not unlike other houses in the three-million-dollar range on the properties of mega million-dollar "farms" far from the odors of their businesses. Although the cold winds of autumn had barely arrived, the fireplace was roaring, the flames casting shadows that danced against the walls.

An angry man in his forties approached an elderly figure in a wheelchair.

"How could you do it, Grandfather? I've turned down Atlantic Crown for years! They're vultures, buying up every processing plant in sight until they own it all and can dictate the markets!"

"And own this company, you don't," wheezed the old man, bringing an oxygen mask to his mouth.

"When I'm dead, you can do what you want, but until then it's mine."

"But why?"

"You all got decent money, didn't you?"

"That's irrelevant and you know it. They're not our sort of people.

They're bloodsuckers."

"All too true, Grandson. But there was a time over fifty years ago when the money behind what's known now as Atlantic Crown backed a young visionary. With finances that could have come from moneylenders expunged from hell. How do you think a neophyte agronomist could have bought over ten thousand acres of fertile ground without them?

By God, they were the visionaries, not I."

"Are you saying you couldn't refuse them?"

"Nobody can."

The velour-draped boardroom of Atlantic Crown in the penthouse of the ACL building in Wichita, Kansas, was deserted except for two men.

The man at the head of the table, appropriately dressed in a subdued dark pin-striped suit, spoke.

"Next shot is the beef industry," he said.

"Orders from Amsterdam."

"We'll need an infusion of capital," said the subordinate executive in a navy blue blazer and French cuffs.

"I hope that's been made clear."

"We'll have it," answered the CEO of Atlantic Crown.

"Incidentally, that minor problem about the eggs in the Chesapeake complex, was it taken care of?"

"Our final investigating negotiators made sure of it. Right down to the sealed crates for the helicopter."

"That's good. We must be precise in all things."

The teeming streets of Cairo seemed awash with the odor of sweat as thousands rushed about in the harsh midday sun. The traffic was dense;

horns clashed in angry spurts as voices erupted in incessant conflict, pitting languages and dialects against one another. The mass of humanity was as diversified as the vocal tumult; Arabic robes co mingled with Western suits, jackets, and blue jeans, while the Muslim headdress vied with bowlers, Stetsons, and baseball caps. In a sense, it was a macrocosm of East and West, the numbers favoring the Arab, as it was his country, his city. Cairo, the font of legends, where myth and reality were inseparable, yet very separate in a land of contradictions.