The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

An enormous buffet was held under the stars in the huge courtyard of the palace overlooking the harbor. A talented orchestra held sway, playing in a variety of musical styles, from opera to nostalgic pop, as internationally known singers took turns entertaining the crowd, each receiving an ovation as the elegant audience rose from their elegantly dressed tables under the spill of roving spotlights.

"Manny, I want my gig on Sixty Minutes, you got that?"

"Got it, babe, it's a natural!"

"Cyril, why am I here? I don't play tennis!"

"Because there are studio heads here! Go up and recite something in your dulcet tones, and keep turning right and left. Your pro feel chap!"

"That fucking bitch stole my song!"

"You didn't copyright it, darling. Do "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes' or something!"

"I don't know all the words!"

"Then hum and push your tits into their faces. The record boys are here!" And so it went; altruism will out.

Among the congregation of great, near-great, non-great, and never great was a quiet man, a modest man of wealth with little or no pretense. He was a research fellow, a scholar committed to the study of cancers, and was in Monte Carlo as one of the contributing sponsors. He had requested anonymity, but his largess prohibited it in the eyes of the Grand Committee. He had agreed, in the name of his Spanish family, to give a very short speech welcoming the guests.

He stood behind a courtyard screen, prepared to walk out to the podium when his name was called.

"I'm quite nervous," he said to a stagehand who stood beside him, ready to tap him on the shoulder when it was his time.

"I'm not very good at speaking in public."

"Make it short and thank them, that's all you have to do.... Here, have a glass of water, it'll clear your throat."

"Gracias," said the genuinely titled Juan Garcia Guaiardo. He drank, and on his way to the podium he collapsed. By the time he was dead, the stagehand had disappeared.

Alicia Brewster, Dame of the Realm by decree of the Queen, emerged from her Bentley in front of the family residence in London's Belgravia. She was a medium-sized, compact woman, but her stride and the energy it implied made her appear much larger, a force to be reckoned with. She let herself into the colonnaded entrance of the Edwardian house, only to be greeted by her two children, who had been summoned from their respective boarding schools and were waiting for her in the large, polished hall. They were a tall, clean-cut, muscular young man and a shorter, equally attractive girl, he in his late teens, she a little younger, both anxious, concerned, even frightened.

"I'm sorry to have called you home," said the mother after briefly embracing each child.

"I simply thought it was better this way."

"It's that serious, then?" asked the older brother.

"That serious, Roger."

"I'd say it's long overdue," said the girl.

"I never liked him, you know."

"Oh, I did, very much, Angela." Alicia Brewster smiled sadly while nodding her head.

"Also, I felt you needed a man around the house-" "He was hardly tops in that department, Mother," interrupted the boy.

"Well, he had a tough act to follow, as they say. Your father was rather overwhelming, wasn't he? Successful, famous, certainly dynamic."

"You had a lot to do with it, Mum," said the daughter.

"Far less than you think, my dear. Daniel was his own man. I depended a great deal more on him than he depended on me. The saddest part of his passing, I always think, is that it was so prosaic, so banal, really. Dying in his sleep from a stroke. Merely the thought of it would have driven him to his gym, swearing."

"What do you want us to do, Mother?" asked Roger quickly, as if to stem the flow of painful memories.

"I'm not sure. Moral support, I guess. Like most weak men, your stepfather has a vicious temper-" "He'd better not show it," the strapping young man broke in.

"If he even raises his voice, I'll break his neck."

"And Rog can do it, Mum. He won't tell you, but he's the Midlands interscholastic wrestling champ."

"Oh, shut up, Angie, there wasn't any competition."

"I hardly meant in the physical sense," interrupted Alicia.

"Gerald's not the sort. It's all just screaming tantrums with him. It'll simply be unpleasant."

"Then why not have your solicitor take care of it, Mother?"

"Because I have to know why."

"Why what?" asked Angela.

"To keep him more occupied and, I suppose, to enhance his selfesteem, I put him on the finance committee of our Wildlife Association, made him chairman, in fact. Irregularities began to appear, allocations to nonexistent entities, that sort of thing.. .. The bottom line is that Gerald stole over a million pounds from the association."

"Jesus Christ!" exclaimed the son.

"But why? He's never been stony since you married him! Why did you marry him?"

"He was so charming, so alive-on the surface in many ways like your father, but only on the surface. And, let's face it, I was terribly depressed. I thought he had strength until I learned it was only false bravado.. .. Where is he?"

"In the upstairs library, Mother. I'm afraid he's drunk."

"Yes, I assumed as much. You see, I did use my solicitor, after a fashion. I'll make up the money, but I can't press charges or anything like that-the publicity could harm the association. He was told to pack his bags and be ready to leave at once after confronting me. I demanded that. I'll go up now."

"I'll go with you."

"No, dear, it's not necessary. When he comes downstairs, put him in his car. If he's too drunk to get behind the wheel, call Coleman and have him drive Gerald wherever he wishes to go. I suspect to his new girl in High Holborn. They're quite thick."

Alicia climbed the circular staircase rapidly, purposefully, a vengeful Valkyrie wanting answers. She approached the door of the upstairs library, Daniel Brewster's defiled personal study, and flung it open.

"Well, well!" cried the apparently inebriated Gerald, slumped in a dark leather armchair, a bottle of whiskey on the table beside him, his half-empty glass weaving below his lips.

"Lady rich-bitch detective arrives. Sorry about everything, old girl, but you see, you are getting old, and you're not terribly inviting any longer."

"Why, Gerry, why? I've never denied you a shilling when you asked for it! Why did you do this?"

"Have you ever lived as nothing more than a useless appendage of a rich bitch who wouldn't even assume my name? No, of course not, because you're that rich bitch!"

"I explained why I kept the name Brewster and you agreed," said Lady Alicia, walking over to the chair.

"Not only for the children's sake, but I was honored in that name. Also, I never treated you shabbily, and y

ou know it. You're a sick man, Gerald, but I'm still prepared to help you, if you'll seek help. Perhaps it is my fault, for you were once so much fun to be with, so concerned with my grief, I can't forget that. You helped me when I needed help, Gerry, and I'll help you now, if you'll let me."

"Jesus, I can't stand saints. What can you do for me now? I'll spend years in prison, and then what?"

"No, you won't. I'll replace the money and you'll leave England.

Canada or America, perhaps, where you can get counseling, but you cannot stay in this house any longer. Take my offer, Gerald, it's the last I'll give."

Alicia stood over her husband, her eyes pleading, when suddenly he lurched out of the chair, grabbing her skirt and yanking it above her hips. A syringe appeared from beneath his trousers, as he clasped his hand over her mouth, and plunged the needle into her hosed thigh. He held his hand brutally in place until she collapsed. She was dead.

A totally sober killer walked over to the telephone on the library desk. He dialed a coded number in France, which was rerouted to Istanbul, then Switzerland, and finally-lost in the computers-to the Netherlands.

"Yes?" answered the man in Amsterdam.

"It's done."

"Good. Now play the distraught husband, the anguished guilty man, and get out of there. Remember, do not use your Jaguar. A perfectly normal London taxi is waiting for you. You'll know it by the driver holding a yellow handkerchief out the window."

"You'll protect me? You promised me that!"

"You will live in luxury for the rest of your life. Beyond the reach of any laws."

"God knows I deserve it, after living with that bitch!"

"You certainly do. Hurry up now."

Lady Alicia's second husband raced out of the library, weeping copiously. He plunged down the circular staircase, nearly losing his footing, his tears apparently blinding him, as he kept wailing, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I should never have done it!" He reached the huge polished hall, rushing past the Brewster children, to the front door. He crashed the door open and ran outside.

"Mother must have read him the riot act," said Roger Brewster.

"Mum told you to check on his getting into the Jag. Make sure it's safe for him to drive."

"Fuck him, little sister, I've got the keys. That bastard's out of here."