The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"So summarize what we've got," said Scofield harshly, glancing painfully at Leslie, then turning to the White House man.

"You're pretty fond of summaries, so summarize."

"The instructions were scripted, written out for the messengers to use regardless of where they were calling from. Leslie described the voices as being diverse, the accents varied, which is perfectly natural.

What isn't natural is the consistent use of the terms 'with precision," and the variations on 'cool."

" "I think we'd all agree with that, Tom," said Shields.

"What's your point?"

"Would you also agree that the word 'cool' is American-oriented?"

"Of course," interrupted an impatient Brandon.

"So what?"

"Designed for an American ear, for vernacular emphasis-" "It would seem so," agreed Pryce.

"What else are you suggesting?"

"The obvious," replied Cranston.

"The instructions were written by an American, someone in the upper ranks of the Matarese."

Lieutenant Colonel Montrose bolted forward in her chair.

"The who?" she asked.

"That's their name, Leslie," said the undersecretary of state.

"The people who kidnapped your boy are called the Matarese. I've prepared a file for you, everything we have on record, in the main supplied by Mr.

Scofield here, known to the Matarese as Beowulf Agate."

Montrose snapped her head toward Bray and started to speak when she was cut off by Frank Shields.

"I see where you're going, Tom," he said, oblivious to Leslie's consternation.

"The upper ranks, the hierarchy."

"Nobody below that level would be permitted the information, or even know who our colonel is."

"And if Brandon's right, somewhere in the Matarese group over here, probably a company or a conglomerate marching to its drum, is a heavy corporate type who wrote out those instructions.. .. Besides Chicago, where was the other call from?"

"Sedgwick, Kansas."

"I'll have the research unit that's compiling all the materials for Bray concentrate on Illinois and Kansas." The CIA deputy director got out of his chair and walked across the room to a telephone.

"It may not lead anywhere but it's a start, Frank," said Cranston, nodding.

"Will somebody tell me what's going OH?" cried Montrose, standing up defiantly.

"What materials? And what is this Matarese?"

"Read the file, Colonel," replied Scofield, slightly, purposely emphasizing her rank as opposed to the demeaning little girl.

"When you're finished, Toni and I will add whatever we can, which will be considerable."

"Thank you, but what does it all have to do with my son?"

"Everything," said Beowulf Agate.

The formerly bankrupt resort known as Peregrine View at the base of the Great Smoky Mountains was as visually different from the Chesapeake compound as its security personnel were from the RDF and CIA patrols; instead of the latter, there was an elite Special Forces undercover Gamma unit from Fort Benning, recently returned from Bosnia. The soldiers were told only that the guests of the government sequestered there were selected embassy officials brought back for debriefing, and since their posts had been sensitive-read borderline dangerous-they were to be guarded from any external interferences read physical threats. It was enough; these were professional military men used to understanding the unspoken. It was the nature of their Gamma operations: infiltrate and perform, the orders indirect and obfuscated.

Since everything was drastically altered in this area, and everyone in the Chesapeake compound gone but still under surveillance, provisions were brought in from the town of Cherokee, a welcome relief from the twice-daily thunder of the helicopters. However, small planes regularly flew into the Cherokee airstrip carrying the materials requested by Scofield and were driven up to the restricted mountain complex. These ranged from financial reports to all manner of correspondence, from executive speeches to interoffice memoranda where they could be secretly unearthed, whether by expert thieves or bribery. Within a few days the cartons filled the living room of Brandon and Antonia's bilevel condominium, known as Estate 6. Flanking this dwelling were

Estates 5 and 7, respectively occupied by Pryce and Lieutenant Colonel Montrose.

Frank Shields and Thomas Cranston had returned to their posts at Langley and the White House, staying in constant touch over sterile telephones and confidential-mode fax machines. The work was laborious, the four of them poring over the materials for hours at a time until spines were stiff and eyes exhausted. The financial reports were the worst:

myriad columns of figures followed by addenda of projections and analyses of assets procured or on the table. For instance, "Project M113" would be briefly described as "undervalued. See Section 17 in this report, then cross-check with Sections 28 and 36 for clarification." To make matters worse, the language was out of a textbook for advanced economics-theoretical and pragmatic, definitely on the doctoral level and the proverbial "Greek" for the layman. But one thing was clear to Brandon Scofield. These abstruse insertions were designed to mystify to the point of unintelligibility, going to the precipice of illegality, but not over the edge.

"M-One Thirteen is never spelled out!" yelled a frustrated Bray.

"And the lousy thing is, it doesn't have to be."

"I couldn't get through that stuff," said Cameron, "but what do you mean?"

"The precepts of laissez-faire, which beat the hell out of the Malthusian laws of economics."

"Come again?" asked Leslie.

"Competition," answered Scofield.

"Until a bid is actually made, opposing interests have no right to know one is projected or even thought about."

"What's that got to do with the Malthusian thing?"

"Iron, bronze, and gold, youngster. Iron wants to become bronze, and bronze would prefer being gold, and gold wants the whole kit and caboodle. Guess who's gold?"

"The Matarese," said Pryce.

"Sweet Jesus, you're filling the hole in your head.. .. Mark this one down. It's a possible Matarese."

"What's the company?" asked Antonia, paper and pencil in hand.

"A global conglomerate all the way. Atlantic Crown, headquarters Wichita, Kansas."

"We need more than a corporate report, Bray," said Cameron.

"This is just the beginning, son. Once we've found a pattern-if we found the pattern-we know what to go for. I'm surprised I have to tell you that."

"Forgive me, darling," Antonia sat forward in her chair, "but I think we should take some time off. We've been at this for hours, and I, for one, am losing my concentration."

"I hate to stop," said Leslie, a sheaf of papers in her hand, "but I agree. I have to continuously reread so the words mean something."

"Wimps," mumbled Scofield, yawning.

"Although you may have a point. I could use a drink."

"You could use a nap, my darling. Come, let me take you upstairs."

"An animal," said Bray, winking at Pryce and Montrose.

"She's sheer animal. Can't wait to get me into a bedroom."

"Very refreshing," Leslie noted.

"It's usually the other way around, isn't it?"

"That's a myth, dear," replied Antonia.

"Dogs chase cars, but they can't drive."

"I'm surrounded by pharisees." Scofield rose from the chair, once again yawning as he and Toni walked to the staircase.

"Perhaps I'll scare the hell out of him," said Antonia, wiggling her hips.

"You could be sorry, luv-I think." The couple started up the steps, disappearing behind the staircase wall.

"They're really adorable," said Montrose.

"Love her, hate him," said Cameron quietly.

"You don't mean that for a minute."

"No, I don't," admitted Pryce.

"He's got more in two brain cells than I have in my whole head. He's been where few of u

s will ever go."

"He's also a very troubled man."

"Over events he could never control," added Cam.

"He finds guilt where there shouldn't be any."

"That's up to each of us to discover, isn't it? Guilt's intrinsic to all of us, according to certain beliefs."

"None that I subscribe to, Colonel. Doubts, yes, not guilt, unless you're guilty of something rotten you can control."

"That's quite philosophical, Mr. Pryce-" "Cam or Cameron, remember?" he interrupted.

"We agreed on that . Leslie."

"Sometimes I choose to forget."

"Why?"

"Frankly, I'm uncomfortable. You're a very nice guy, Cam, and I have other things on my mind-one other thing, to be exact."

"Your son, of course."

"Of course."

"He's on my mind, too, believe that."

Montrose looked at him from the adjacent chair.

"I do," she said finally, their eyes locked.

"It can't be the same, however, can it?"

"Of course not," agreed Pryce, "but that doesn't lessen my concern. So where are we?"