The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"But neither of us did. I didn't even think about it."

"Neither did I."

"So there's a loose phone around. Let it stay that way."

"Frank agrees. They're now monitored for conversations."

"So who were the calls to? Montrose's calls?"

"Surprise number three."

"What?"

"The White House. She was calling the White House."

One by one, at intervals of twenty minutes, seven private aircraft flew into Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport. The owners deplaned and one after the other were led to waiting limousines by muscular escorts last seen in the hills of Porto Vecchio above the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

They were driven to the elegant four-story house on the Keizers-gracht, the canal that flows through the wealthiest parts of the city. Finally, one by one, the seven descendants of the Baron of Matarese were shown up to the huge second-floor dining room.

The setting was remarkably similar to the great hall of the estate in Porto Vecchio. The table was long, the extravagant wood polished to a glistening hue, and the chairs were separated by several feet, as if to give each guest the space to think, to consider, to evaluate. Absent were the delicate crystal bowls of caviar; in their places were small notepads with silver ballpoint pens beside them. All notes were to remain at the table; after the meeting they would be burned.

Once the descendants of the Baron were seated, Jan van der Meer Matareisen entered and took his place at the head of the table.

"I'm glad to see that a degree of camaraderie is present at this our second conference." He paused.

"There should be. You've all done superb work."

"Good Lord, old chap, I dare say we've all profited enormously," said the Englishman.

"Our investments have gone through the roof!"

"My brokerage house, with our recent alliances across the country," said the blond woman from California, "hasn't seen such expansion since the eighties. It's terrific."

"It's also on paper," admonished Matareisen.

"We'll tell you when to sell. Do so immediately, for there will be a collapse."

"That's hard to imagine, little buddy," interrupted the American from New Orleans.

"My real estate and my casinos are on a thunder roll. Everybody wants in."

"And after all the mergers and downsizing, our bank is leaner-and meaner," added the attorney from the Boston bank.

"We're becoming a national, even international, economic force. We cannot be stopped."

"Oh, but you must be," Jan van der Meer broke in.

"It's part of the larger plan and there can be no deviations. We'll tell you to whom you sell your major assets; in the main, they will not be to the highest bidders."

"Do you presume to dictate to the Vatican Treasury?" asked the cardinal.

"We certainly do, Your Eminence. For you are in the core of the Matarese first, a priest second."

"Blasphemy," said the cardinal softly, his eyes riveted on Matareisen.

"Reality, priest, merely reality. Or would you rather the Vatican Treasury be informed of your financial peccadillos, the handsome estate at Lake Como, a mere drip in a full bucket, as they say."

"What is this foolishness-'not the highest bidders'? Do you take us for idiots?" the man from Portugal demanded.

"You all will have made considerable profits, perhaps not in the figures you anticipated, but it is necessary."

"You talk in circles, senhor!"

"But we are a circle, are we not? The Matarese circle."

"Please be clearer! What are you saying?"

"In specific terms, you will be instructed to sell your interests to the buyers who are least experienced, least equipped to manage them."

"Sacrebleu!" erupted the inheritor from Paris.

"You are talking nonsense! Why would such people be interested?"

"Ego, mon ami,"" replied the leader from Amsterdam.

"Such people overreach constantly, paying for a prize they covet but cannot control.

International finance is rife with examples; the giants in Tokyo first come to mind. They wanted the film industry in Los Angeles, so they paid and paid and paid until they were devoured by the studios because they were not equipped to run them."

"It sounds like mule shit to me!" raged the entrepreneur from New Orleans.

"No, he's right," said the cardinal, his eyes still leveled at the Hollander.

"It lends believability to the collapse. It invalidates the system, infuriating the masses who instantly begin looking for solutions, for change."

"Very good, priest. Strategically, you're perceptive."

"Reality, Dutchman, merely reality. Or should I say credibility?"

"They become interchangeable, don't they?"

"Ultimately, of course. The scholastic philosophers had their points.

So now that the seeds are sown, when do we harvest?"

"Everything must be coordinated everywhere. One event preceding another, each action leading to another, on the surface seemingly unrelated-except one. The American and the European economies are a catastrophe, and no amount of high technology can cure it, for the advances drastically reduce the labor force. Technology does not produce jobs, it eliminates them."

"Theoretically," asked the frowning Englishman, "what is your what is our-solution, if we have one, if only for public relations?"

"Benevolent consolidation, the ultimate authority given to those who can nurture the enterprises after replacing those who cannot. A meritocracy that will appeal to the rich, the educated, and the ambitious, as well as a controlled system of benefits for those of lesser abilities as long as they willingly, even enthusiastically, join the support substructure."

"What's next?" said the Bostonian.

"Four-day work weeks, a television in every house combined with a monitoring system?"

"Sophisticated technology does have its opportunities, doesn't it?

But such concepts are far in the future. First, we must come out of the financial chaos with an agenda of our own."

"Which brings me back to my question," the cardinal broke in.

"When do we harvest?"

"Less than three months, depending on updated progress reports.

And the harvest will take time before all its restricting ramifications are bluntly understood. I'd say eighty days.

"Around the world in eighty days." It has a nice ring to it."

"Pryce!" roared Scofield, racing across the lawn above the boathouse as fast as his aging legs would permit. Cameron turned; he had been walking around the compound ostensibly aimlessly, but his stroll was not aimless at all. He was looking for someone who might emerge from some concealed place, someone who might have on his person a missing cellular telephone.

"Hey, take it easy," said Pryce as a breathless Scofield approached.

"You're not exactly ready for a two-twenty sprint."

"I'm as ready as you are, kid!"

"Then why am I here?"

"Oh, shut up," ordered Bray, breathing deeply and wiping the sweat from his face.

"Listen, those magazines you brought back from Easton-I began going through them."

"I apologized for no comic books-" "Shut up! How long has this been going on?"

"How long has what been going on?"

"These mergers, the buy outs companies absorbing other companies, whole industries and utilities combining?"

"I'd say about twenty or thirty years, probably a lot longer."

"No, you idiot, I mean now! Within the past weeks or maybe months?"

"I've no idea," replied Cam.

"Those kinds of things aren't a high priority with me."

"Goddamn it, they should be! It's pure Matarese!"

"What?"

"The style, the strategy! It's Corsica, Rome, Paris, London, Amsterdam-and yes, by God, Moscow all over again! It's the trail, the trails, Taleniekov and I followed, right back to Boston, Massachusetts.

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nbsp; Down in the islands, I suggested that you go after the victims, their families, friends, lawyers, learning whatever you could-"