The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"I'd like to take a walk, get some air. Brandon's little cigars are pleasantly aromatic, but a lot goes a long way."

"Tell him, he'll stop or cut down."

"Good heavens, no. In his way he's as obsessed as I am, and if puffing away helps him, so be it."

"Still, I gather you don't smoke," said Pryce aimlessly as they got out of their chairs.

"You'd be wrong. Jim and I both quit. We monitored each other, in fact, but when he was lost I'm afraid I took it up again. Not heavily and never in front of the troops-that's frowned upon-but there's something to be said for calming the nerves, no matter how dumb."

"Come on, let's go for that walk." They started toward the door.

"I forgot again," said Leslie as Cameron opened the steel-plated sterile-house door.

"We delicate females aren't supposed to walk around alone. We're to be accompanied by one of you big, strong men, or preferably a Gamma patrol."

"I have an idea that both you delicate females could nail our tails to a wall with one shot."

"How delicately spoken."

"Walk, smart-ass."

Montrose laughed, briefly to be sure, but it was a nice laugh, a genuine laugh.

They came to a fork in the mountain path, contrarily paved with white concrete, which was easier on elderly feet and golf carts. The left side descended gradually to a pond, a challenge on the course fronting the sixteenth tee, a scenic spray of water cascading from a pump in the center. The right path ascended more sharply toward a stretch of woods that separated the first nine holes from the second.

"The fountain of youth or the forest primeval?" said Pryce.

"Oh, the forest, to be sure. There's nothing that recycled grime could do for our youths, what we remember of them."

"Hey, neither was that long ago. I gave up my wheelchair, and I don't see any gray in your hair."

"There's a strand or ten, believe me. You haven't looked close enough."

"I won't follow that up-" "Thank you," interrupted Leslie, bearing right on the white concrete and immediately continuing.

"Have you changed your mind about Tom Cranston?"

"Not entirely," answered Cameron, catching up.

"He gets too apologetic, too humble too quickly. That's not normal for such a bright guy. Frankly, I'm not sure I trust him."

"Bunk!" said Montrose.

"He's smart enough to realize when he's wrong and to admit it. Like he did with the cell phone in the compound."

"Which phone?"

"The one he sent me on the Black Hawk, ostensibly a package from my son. The handwritten note inside, which I was ordered to burn, said-and I quote verbatim-"My God, I forgot the Agency can trace those phones of yours! Use this and I'm sorry."

" "Still, you switched phones with Bracket."

"The hell I did!"

"Frank traced the White House calls to his phone; there were none on yours."

"Then it must have happened at the beginning of our transfer to Chesapeake. Everett opened the carton with our two phones, checked the batteries and the backups, and simply handed me one."

"Didn't he know each was registered?"

"I don't think he gave a damn. Ev could be impatient with minor details. Anyway, what difference did it make?"

"Blind alleys."

"What?"

"We've got enough blind alleys in this so-called operation," said Pryce.

"We don't need false ones. But there's a real one left from the compound. Who's got Bracket's phone? It disappeared."

"I'm sure it's at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay," replied Leslie.

"Whoever stole it would get rid of it as soon as possible. It could be traced, even monitored, remember?"

"Why was it stolen in the first place?"

"Perhaps to be deprogrammed and sold, if it could be smuggled out.

Or by the mole who was told to steal it for intercepts. If that was the case, he probably got cold feet and deep-sixed it, since everyone's under scrutiny, even after they left the compound."

"If this, if that, and perhaps-blind alleys," he said again.

"To change the subject but not really, do you think Mr. Scofield Brandon-is on to something?"

"About that conglomerate, Atlantic something?"

"Atlantic Crown," said Montrose.

"You see its commercials on television all the time. They're usually very classy and on the better programs."

"They never seem to sell a product," agreed Pryce, "just low-key scientific processes, as I recall. But to answer your question, if Bray smells something, there's usually an odor."

Suddenly, from behind them, a man shouted; it was a Gamma patrol and he was running up the concrete path.

"Guests Three and Four!

Guest Number One has been trying to reach you on your phones!"

"Good Lord, I left my purse in the condo."

"And I left my phone on the table."

"He's mad as hell, folks," said the breathless soldier in camouflage fatigues as he approached.

"He says he wants you back at ... the base camp, he called it."

"A term from the past," clarified Cameron.

"I know what it means, sir, but this isn't a combat-incursion area."

"It is to him."

"Let's go!" said Leslie.

Scofield was pacing back and forth in front of the dark fireplace, Antonia in an easy chair patiently reading from a single fax sheet.

"The reason we have our telephones," said Brandon, abruptly stopping as Pryce and Montrose walked through the door, "is for immediate communication, or am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong and we're guilty of all charges," replied Cameron.

"Now let's forgo the Savonarola bullshit and tell us why you interrupted a very pleasant walk."

"Sorry, Brandon, we were simply careless," said Montrose.

"I hope not in all things-" "That is offensive!" protested Leslie.

"Shut up, my dear," said Antonia, glaring at Scofield, "and get on with it."

"All right, all right! .. . Last week at the compound I told you to forget the overseas connections and concentrate on what we've got here, correct?"

"That's what you said, but I never said I agreed. Only temporarily, along with Frank Shields."

"Well, I take it back, or as the colonel would say, I rescind the order."

"Why?"

"London's Mi-Five found a passel of notes in a locked drawer of that Englishwoman's husband, the one who killed her. They refused to fax them for security reasons, but the fax they did send is mighty interesting, whets the appetite.. .. Give it to him, Toni." She did and Cam read the thin, glossy sheet.

Papers found in a locked drawer indicate that Gerald Henshaw, vanished husband of the murdered lady Alicia Brewster, kept obscure records of his associates. According to Lady Alicia's children, a boy and a girl, bot

h in their teens, now alone and severely troubled, Henshaw was frequently inebriated and blurted out confused and contradictory statements while drunk. Suggest you fly over an experienced field officer as well as an American psychologist, a specialist in adolescent behavior, perhaps, to assist us. And to keep it out of London circles, as it were.

Pryce handed the fax to Leslie. She read it and stated simply, "They don't need a psychologist, they need a mother. And I'm it."

The U.S. diplomatic jet landed at Heathrow Airport and taxied to the restricted annex, where Pryce and Montrose were met by Sir Geoffrey Waters, chief of Internal Security, MI-5. The British intelligence officer was a thickset, broad-shouldered man of medium height and in his middle fifties, his full head of brown hair gray at the temples. There was about him an air of quiet humor, his light blue eyes bordering on the mischievous, as if to convey the silent message, Been there, seen that, so what? The Air Force crews unloaded their passengers' luggage, which was minimal, one suitcase apiece, and the MI-5 chief instructed the ground personnel to carry them to the open boot of his car, a large Austin.

"Sir Geoffrey Waters, I expect?" said Leslie, emerging from the plane first.

"Mrs. Montrose, welcome to the U.K.! Your luggage is being taken to the car."

"Thank you."

"Sir Geoffrey?" Cameron walked up to Leslie's side, his arm extended.

"The name's Pryce, Cameron Pryce." They shook hands.

"Really, old boy?" said Waters in mock surprise.

"I never would have guessed! Of course, we have a file on you at least a foot thick, but who counts inches, right?"

"Nothing's sacred.. .. Of course, our file on you is probably two feet long, but then we can't count very high."

"Ah, colonial exaggeration, it's why I adore Americans! However, one thing is sacred. Drop the "Sir," please. It's totally unwarranted and given only to make somebody else look good."

"You sound like someone I know-we both know."

"My, my, how is Beowulf Agate?"

"As wolflike as ever."

"Good, we need that.. .. Come along now, we've a ton of work to do, but you'll need the night off after your flight. It's almost six o'clock, barely noon your time; you'll have to adjust a bit. You'll be picked up at eight in the morning."

"From where?" Montrose asked pleasantly.

"The undeserved "Sir' does have its advantages. I wangled you a suite at the Connaught off Grosvenor Square. Top-drawer, in my judgment."