The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"Hardly, but your casino interests along the Mississippi River might suggest that you are."

"My operations are as clean as they have to be, buddy-boy!"

"I relish your modifier-" "What destiny?" broke in another American.

"The name Matarese never appeared in any legal documentation relative to the real-estate interests bequeathed to my family."

"I'd be appalled if it had, sir. You're the leading attorney at a major bank in Boston, Massachusetts. Harvard Law School, magna cum laude .. . and part of the most bribery-prone institution that ever sucked money by way of compromising state and federal officials, both elected and appointed. I commend your talents."

"You can't prove any such thing."

"Don't tempt me, Counselor-you'd lose. However, I did not bring all of you to Porto Vecchio merely to parade the thoroughness of my inquiries, although I concede they're a part of the whole. The carrot and the stick, as it were.. .. First let me introduce myself. I am Jan van der Meer Matareisen, and I'm sure the last name has meaning for you. I am a direct descendant of the Baron of Matarese; he was, in fact, my grandfather. As you may or may not know, the Baron's liaisons were held secret, and whatever offspring resulted were also kept secret.

However, the great man in no way abandoned his responsibilities. His issue was sent to the finest families throughout Italy, France, England, Portugal, America, and, as I can attest, the Netherlands."

The visitors were again dumbstruck. Slowly, gradually, their eyes strayed around the table. All stared at one another briefly, penetratingly, as if some extraordinary secret was about to be revealed.

"What the hell are you getting' at?" said the large, coarse American from Louisiana.

"Spell it out, boy!"

"I agree," added the man from London, "what's your point, old man?"

"I believe several of you are already ahead of me," said Jan van der Meer Matareisen, permitting himself the trace of a smile.

"Then say it, Dutchman!" demanded the entrepreneur from Lisbon.

"Very well, I shall. Like myself, you are all children of those children. We are the products of the same loins, as the English hard might have phrased it. Each and every one of you is a blood descendant of the Baron of Matarese."

The audience exploded as one with phrases such as "We've heard of the Matarese, but nothing like this!" and "That's preposterous! My family was wealthy in its own right!" and "Look at me! I'm a natural blond, not a trace of the Mediterranean in me!" The protestations grew in volume until the protestors ran out of breath, finally subsiding as Jan Matareisen raised his hands under the shaft of light.

"I can answer your assaults specifically," he said calmly, "if you will but listen.. .. The Baron's appetites were fierce and varied, as he was. Your grandmothers were brought to him as if they were the whims of an Arabian sheikh; none, however, was defiled, for all accepted him for the extraordinary man he was. But I, and only I, was the legitimate child in the eyes of the Church. He married my grandmother."

"What the hell are we?" yelled the American from New Orleans.

"Bastards goin' back two generations?"

"Have you ever lacked for funds, sir? For education or investment."

"No .. . can't say that I have."

"And your grandmother was, and is still, an extremely beautiful woman, a model whose face and figure graced such publications as Vogue and Vanity Fair, is that not so?"

"I reckon, although she doesn't talk about it much."

"She didn't have to. She quickly married an insurance executive whose company expanded to the point where he was made president."

"You're not only suggesting, but you're also actually stating, that we're all related!" cried the attorney from Boston.

"What proof do you have?"

"Buried six feet in the earth on the northeast acreage of this property was a small vault, an oilcloth packet inside. It took me five months to find it. In the oilcloth were the names of the Baron's children and their new homelands. He was, if nothing else, precise in all things.. .. Yes, my Bostonian guest, we are all related. We are cousins, whether we like it or not. Collectively, we are the inheritors of the Matarese."

"Incredible, " said the Englishman, his breath suspended.

"My Gawd!" said the American from the Deep South.

"It's ridiculous!" shouted the blond woman from Los Angeles.

"Actually, it's rather comical," said a man from Rome in the clerical garb of the Vatican. A cardinal.

"Yes," agreed Matareisen, "I thought you might appreciate the sublime humor. You are a rogue priest, in favor with His Holiness but loathed by the Collegium."

"We must move the Church into the twenty-first century. I make no apologies."

"But you make a great deal of money from banks controlled by the Holy See, is that not so?"

"I recommend, I do not profit personally."

"According to my sources, that's debatable. I refer, of course, to a mansion on the banks of Lake Como."

"It is my nephew's."

"From his second marriage, the first having been illegally annulled by you, but let us move on. I really don't care to embarrass anyone.

After all, we are family.. .. You are all here because you are vulnerable, as I am most certainly vulnerable. If I can uncover your various enterprises, so can others. It's merely a question of provocation, time, and curiosity, isn't it?"

"You talk too damned much without sayin' a damn thing," said the agitated American from the South.

"What's your agenda, buddy-boy?"

"

"Agenda," I like that. It tallies with your background, a Ph.D. in business management, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're not. You can call me a redneck and you wouldn't be far wrong, but I'm not a stupid

one. Go on."

"Very well. The agenda-our agenda-is to bring to fruition the cause of the Matarese, the vision of our grandfather, Guillaume de Matarese."

All eyes were riveted on the Dutchman. It was apparent that despite reservations, the seven inheritors were intrigued-cautiously.

"Since you're far more familiar with this 'vision' than we are, might you be clearer?" asked the subdued, fashionably dressed woman.

"As you're all aware, international finance is now globally integrated. What happens to the American dollar affects the German deutsche mark, the English pound, the Japanese yen, and all the world's currencies, as well as each in turn affecting the others."

"We are well aware," said the Portuguese.

"I suspect that many of us profit considerably from the fluctuating exchange rates."

"You've suffered losses, too, haven't you?"

"Minor compared to our winnings, as my 'cousin," the American, might say of his casinos' profits, as opposed to his players' losses."

"You've got that right, Cousin-" "I believe we stray," interrupted the Englishman.

"The agenda, if you please?"

"To control the global markets, to infuse discipline on international finance-that was the cause of the visionary known as the Baron of Matarese. Put money in the hands of those who know how to use it, not governments, who know only how to waste it, pitting one nation against another. The world is already at war, a continuing economic war, yet who are the victors? Remember, whoever controls a nation's economy controls its government."

"And you're saying? ..." The Portuguese sat forward.

"Yes, I am," the Hollander broke in.

"We can do it. Our collective assets are over a trillion dollars, sufficiently excessive seed money and spread out geographically to influence the power centers we represent.

Influence that will spread across the world as rapidly as the hourly transfers of millions from one financial market to another. Acting in concert, we have the power to create economic chaos, all to our individual and collective benefit."

"That's wild," cried the entrepreneur from New Orleans.

"We can't lose 'cause we hold the cards!"