The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"About what? Spit it out, Matareisen!"

"I'm trying to choose my words carefully-" "Try quickly!"

"Apparently, unknown to us, Dr. Guaiardo and the Brewster woman, both of whom violently opposed us, were close cousins, much closer than we knew."

"So the Armada achieved at least something. So what?"

"Dr. Guaiardo, a research scientist, put his medical skills to other endeavors. He was building no less than a genealogical chart of the Matarese organization dating back to the Baron, naming families, companies, corporations, and alliances. It's like a genealogical tree, each entity a marriage or birth that evolves into another entity, until it has to finalize into our major cartels."

"Oh, my Christ!" whispered the son of the Shepherd Boy, his fingers harshly massaging his lined forehead.

"You say has to finalize has it? Is the chart complete?"

"We can't be sure. As I said, our inheritor made clear-" "Even if it were," interrupted Guiderone, breathing deeply, defensively, "such evidence would take months, perhaps years, the complexities overwhelming, each conclusion legally challenged."

"You're too brilliant to know that's not feasible, sir. Even the specter, the perception, that such a global enterprise as ours is linked to the economic crises that are spreading across national borders is a blueprint for disaster. Our disaster, Mr. Guiderone."

"The pig of the world!" said the son of the Shepherd Boy quietly, leaning back on the black leather couch.

"He killed his assassins and found Wichita. Christ, how? He's behind everything. Again!"

The Marblethorpe was a small, elegant hotel on New York's Upper East Side, a temporary residence for the movers and shakers of the international scene. These included diplomats, giants of transnational finance, emerging and receding statesmen of consequence, all usually in negotiations best not conducted where the parties might be observed. The Marblethorpe was ideal for such occasions; it had been designed along those general lines, built by a multimillionaire who sought confidentiality as well as comfort above the crowded streets of Manhattan. There were no advertisements beyond the required line in the telephone book's white pages, and no single or double rooms, only suites. Each floor was divided into two large areas across from each other. Eight stories high, sixteen suites; none was ever available, all perpetually "leased."

"There's a side entrance with very little light and a green door," said Frank Shields, sitting in an overstuffed pale red easy chair, as Scofield walked around a Queen Anne desk with a white telephone console on top. Antonia emerged from one of the bedrooms.

"It's all really quite beautiful, Frank," she said, smiling.

"When it's midnight, will it turn into a hovel?"

"I hope not. A number of guests might have heart attacks-or their guests would."

"Oh, a house of assignations?"

"I'm sure there are and have been, my dear, but that's not its primary function. In truth, the board of directors frowns on that sort of thing."

"Then what?"

"You might say conferences between people who for one reason or another shouldn't be conferring. The security here is the best in the private sector. You don't make a reservation at the front desk, you have to be referred."

"How did you get in, Squinty?"

"We're on the board of directors."

"Good work. Still, it strikes me that these digs are out of your league, unless you've become careless with contingency funds."

"We have an arrangement. As part of the board, we research in depth the referrals."

"So you don't pay."

"We also learn who's meeting with whom. It's a splendid quid pro quo and since our service is often invaluable, we couldn't allow the taxpayers to absorb these costs."

"You're a beaut, Frank."

"But why in New York?" asked Toni, interrupting.

"If people need secrecy, I'd think there are better places than one of the most famous cities in the world. The countryside, islands like ours, hundreds of places."

"I'm afraid you'd be wrong, Toni. It's easier to be hidden in a bustling, overcrowded city than it is in the boondocks. Ask the mob boys who were in Appalachia-or ourselves in Chesapeake and Peregrine, or even you two on Brass Twenty-six. Pryce found you because there was a trail to follow. Trails can get lost in a frenzied city, and God knows New York is that."

"I'll have to think about it," said the now and always Mrs. Scofield.

"But why are we here, Frank?"

"Hasn't Brandon told you?"

"Told me what? ..."

"It struck me as an excellent idea, and knowing that I could commandeer a place here, I went along with him."

"Told me what?" Toni demanded.

"I was getting around to it last night at Peregrine, but if you recall, you slept in the other bedroom."

"Because I was furious! An overage fool approaching seventy goes out at night into a shooting gallery. You could have been killed."" "I wasn't, now, was I?"

"Please, you two, cut it out."

"I want an explanation! Why are we here, Bray?"

"If you'll calm down, I'll explain, old 'girl.. .. New York's a major hub of international finance, I think you'll agree with that."

"So?"

"International finance is essential to the Matarese, that's what they're aiming to control, if they haven't already. Now, there's another 'essential' in their operations, and I know it because Taleniekov and I saw it, lived through it, and damned near got killed because we learned "I was there, too, my husband."

"Thank God you were, old girl. We'd both be dead if you weren't.

But this was before we found you, how we traced the Matarese to Corsica in the first place."

"What in heaven's name is it, Brandon?" exploded Shields.

"Hell, Squinty, I told you."

"Oh, yes, yes, now I recall. It's why we're here. Sorry, Toni, it's just that he's so ... melodramatic, and I'm so tired."

"Tell me!" shouted Antonia.

"The Matarese hierarchy never fully reveals to its branches-its disciples, if you like-the negative things that happen. It's as if they can't admit they're vulnerable in any way, for if they do, fear of exposure might spread."

"And?"

"Well, you see, girl, Wichita is finished, gone, history, a blip on a radar screen. But I'll bet my

offshore accounts that the disciples don't know about it."

"Your what'l ..."

"Shut up, Squinty. You're so much older than I am you can't remember what I told you yesterday."

"I never heard your last statement. Offshore-oh, Jesus! ..."

"So you see, Toni-mine, I'm going to make like I'm a high mucketymuck in the Matarese-recently from Amsterdam, which apparently plays a large role in the organization. I'm going to tell each and every one I secretly confer with that Wichita is finished, out, finito."

"Who are they? Who are you going to 'confer' with?"

"A few dozen goddamned presidents, CEO's, treasurers, and chairmen of the boards of all those mother-loving companies and corporations that have engineered mergers, buy outs and all kinds of funny business.

We've got a list of thirty-eight possibles here and in Europe. Someone will blink."

"If you're right, Brandon," Shields broke in, "suppose they reach Amsterdam?"

"That's the squeegee on the glass, Squint Eyes. I'll tell 'em that Amsterdam may be the next Wichita and my advice, as the emerging major player, is to stay the hell away from Amsterdam, they've screwed up enough."

"But will they believe you, Bray?"

"M'love, Taleniekov and I spent years honing our malignant skills for just such times as this. The words will come from both of us. By Christ, they'll come!"

It was morning in Loch Torridon, Scotland; the multi paned window of the inn's small dining room overlooked the dew-drenched fields that led to the Highland hills. The breakfast dishes had been cleared away, two large pots of coffee and tea left for the occupants of the table. They were Leslie Montrose and her son; Cameron Pryce; and Luther Considine, lieutenant senior grade, U.S. Navy. Explanations, as complete as they could be, had been delivered.

"It's wild!" said the pilot.

"It's what's happening," countered Pryce.

"Are you sure I should be in the loop on this?" asked Considine.

"Probably not. However, your somewhat unorthodox clearance comes from someone nobody's going to argue with-" "Oh, I see," the pilot broke in.

"That deputy director at the CIA I spoke to. A Mr. Shields, I think."

"No, he's small potatoes."

"Then who?"

"Your young friend here, Montrose junior, whom you ran into in Manama."