The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Jamie," said Cam, walking forward out of the shadows.

"I should say honor," he continued.

"What you did was extraordinary, and I mean that." They shook hands-cautiously, gently.

"It wasn't really that tough, sir, not after I got over the wall. The top was filled with broken glass and coiled barbed wire."

Leslie Montrose gasped.

"That's where you got the hands?" Cameron said.

"Yes, sir. They're healing pretty well now. Those Navy doctors know their stuff.... By the way, where's Luther?"

"In the other room, on the sterile phone with our associates in Mi Five and Mi-Six."

"Okay, Mr. Pryce." The teenager hesitated, then the words rushed forward in growing anger.

"Will somebody tell me what the hell's going on? Why have all these things happened? The lies, my being kidnapped, not being able to talk to Mom, telephone numbers suddenly not there or changed and unpublished, all that crap! But especially the lies. Why

"Your mother and I will tell you everything we can. God knows you deserve it."

"Well, I guess the first question I want answered," said Jamie, "no disrespect intended, sir, but where is Uncle Ev-Colonel Everett Bracket?"

"Dear," interrupted Leslie, walking to her son.

"I've been trying to think of a way to tell you this, but I honestly don't know how."

"What do you mean, Mom?"

"Everett was part of this operation. Army intelligence was recruited by the CIA for military protection. He wanted me to operate his security computers, he could never get the hang of them. And the phone calls had started. Horrible calls, terrifying calls, from all over the place. You had been kidnapped, and if I didn't do as I was ordered, you would be tortured and then executed. Uncle Ev was sure it was all tied up together."

"Holy shit!" exclaimed Jamie under his breath.

"What did you do, Mom?"

"Controlled myself in ways I never thought I was capable of. Everett was great. He went to Tom Cranston, an old friend in the White House.

Cranston's instructions were explicit. We weren't to say anything to anyone, Tom was going to handle everything at the highest level. Then Chesapeake became a series of horrible incidents, finally a battleground. Everett was killed, how doesn't matter."

"Jesus Christ, no!"

"I'm afraid so," said Cameron softly.

"Oh, shit, shit, shit! Uncle Ev!"

"That was my second exercise in control, Jamie. I couldn't even let Mr. Pryce know how devastated I was. I had to submerge my feelings and deal only through Tom."

"Your mother was very successful," said Cameron, a slight edge in his voice.

"If she had been clearer with me sooner, perhaps we might have made more progress."

"About what?" shouted Montrose junior.

"That'll be my job to explain," replied Pryce, "and it will take a long time. So I suggest we tackle it in the morning. All of us, especially you, young man, have had a harrowing few days. Let's get some rest, okay?"

"I am tired, but I've got so many questions!"

"You haven't gotten any answers for nearly three weeks, Jamie, so what's a few more hours? You need some sleep."

"What do you say, Mom?"

"I think Cam's right, son. We're all so stressed, so exhausted, I'm not sure any of us can think straight."

"

"Cam," Mother?"

At Peregrine View, Scofield, Frank Shields, and Antonia stood around the condominium's dining-room table, which was littered with photographs. The rolls of film Bray had taken in Wichita had been processed locally on an emergency basis, a Gamma patrol in attendance during the developing and enlarging procedures.

"This batch," said Brandon, pointing to several rows of photographs showing pages of handwritten names and dates, "I took from Alistair McDowell's appointments book."

"I'll photo fax them up to my secretary so she can run an in-depth check on everyone. Maybe we'll find a pattern, or a few surprises."

"What are these, Bray?" asked Toni.

"They look like formulas.. . Mathematics or physics, scientific things."

"Damned if I know," answered Scofield.

"They were in folders marked "Quotient Group Equations." I've always figured that when someone goes to the trouble to dig up obscure, ambiguous words, then writes out even more inscrutable letters and numbers, that means he's trying to hide something-something that he has to have access to, but is afraid to put in a computer."

"Because computers can be permanent," said Shields, picking up several of the quotient photographs.

"Even deletions have a nasty way of returning, in the hands of an expert."

"That's exactly the way I figured it," agreed Bray.

"You can burn papers, but it's tough to torch a machine."

"These aren't math or physics," continued Deputy Director Shields, "they're chemical formulas, which are in line with McDowell's dossier."

"I think that calls for an explanation, Squinty."

"Alistair McDowell's a chemical engineer, top of his class at MIT, right through to his doctorate. By his middle twenties, his brilliance in the laboratory was nearly legend and Atlantic Crown snapped him up, promising to fund all the research he could handle."

"It's rather a leap from the laboratory to the head of a food company, isn't it, Frank?" posed Toni.

"Certainly, but there was a damn good reason for his fast climb up the ladder. His smarts were matched by his organizational skills. Given virtually unlimited financing, he reorganized all the research divisions-apparently he was a virtual dictator in the laboratories until they were more profitable than they had ever been. He was a natural for lop management."

"There's information in those letters and numbers and fractions, Squinty. I feel it, I know it."

"I think you're right, Brandon. I'll send this off to our chemanalysis unit and see what they come up with."

"There've got to be variations of codes that lead to names, organizations, countries-" "If they don't," said Shields flatly, "they're the newest products or the latest preservatives. But for the moment, I happen to think you're right."

"What about these pictures?" asked Antonia, gesturing at seven photographs of technical equipment.

"Four are of a decoding machine that was concealed in a music box, and the other three are of the computer. I thought we might find out who the manufacturers are and go from there."

"I'll tell you right now that the computer

is from Electro-Serve, who have a covert arrangement with us. If the computer is similar, the company is in violation of our contract. It could cost Electro millions."

"In court, Squinty, but you know damn well your people can't go into court."

"There's a degree of truth in that," said Shields disconsolately.

"You know it better than most of us. So where do we go?"

"Down and dirty, Mr. Deputy Director," replied Beowulf Agate.

"No hearings, no courts, no congressional interference from either the House or the Senate. Just down and dirty, way down and dirty. We get the names, the regions, the corporations. We learn who the Medusa is, the cranial temple that produces the snakes. Then we cut off their heads, one by one."

"That's abstract, Brandon."

"No, it isn't, Frank. They're people, just as they were people a quarter of a century ago. Taleniekov and I broke them then, and Pryce and I will break them now.. .. So go to work, and give us everything you can get."

"You'll do nothing without our approval, first get that straight."

"That's not our agreement, Frank. Remember, you came to me, I didn't show up on your doorstep. You mentioned deniability before.

Believe me, I'll give you plenty of it."

The secure red telephone rang; it was on a table nearest Shields. He walked over and picked it up.

"Yes?" he said, then fell silent and listened. Thirty seconds later, saying only "Thank you," he hung up and turned to Scofield.

"If assumptions can be made, and I think they can be, you have two less snake heads to sever. Alistair McDowell and Spiro Karastos were killed in an automobile accident when they drove home together last night, Karastos at the wheel. They must have been side winded by a huge semi because the car was totaled."

"Must have been?" exclaimed Brandon.

"Don't they know?"

"It was a hit-and-run. The police are-" "Close their offices!" shouted Scofield.

"Shut 'em down and put guards in the hallway. We've got to tear apart that equipment!"

"Too late, Brandon," said Shields quietly.

"Within an hour or so after the accident, both offices were stripped clean."

"On whose authority!" screamed Bray.