The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"He saw the light?"

"Maybe, or maybe he looked for another way, a more realistic way to implement the reforms he sought when he was younger."

"The Matarese?" said Leslie, astonished.

"How could that be?

They're monopolistic, fascist, they want to control everything!"

"The flip side of socialism," interrupted Cam.

"An equal playing field for the rich and the poor, which is total bananas because there's no such thing. Kennedy was right when he said it was an unfair world.

It is, and the Matarese will make it far worse. Maybe Wahlburg is beginning to understand that."

"What are you going to do?"

"Give him a day to reach me. If he doesn't, I'll reach him."

Scofield and Antonia walked the streets of London in their newfound freedom. Well, not complete freedom, as Geoffrey Waters insisted on a two-man protection unit, one several feet in front, the other behind them. It was early morning and they were strolling down the Mall in St.

James's Park when a racing car screeched to a stop at the curb.

Instantly, the two MI-5 guards ran toward the street, weapons drawn, placing themselves between the vehicle and the Scofields. Just as quickly, they concealed their guns; they recognized the driver, a colleague.

"Emergency, chaps! Get them in here."

Once hustled into the car, the first guard sitting in the back with Bray and Toni, the second beside the driver, an angry Scofield spoke.

"What the hell's going on? Where did this come from?"

"You've never been out of my line of sight, sir," answered the driver.

"Sir Geoffrey's orders."

"He's kinda overdoing it, isn't he? These two fellas plus an automobile."

"This car is bulletproof, sir."

"That's a happy thought. Who's going to shoot me?"

"Chief Waters is very methodical. He considers everything."

"Where are we going?"

"To Mi-Five headquarters."

"Why?"

"I have no idea, sir."

"Golly gee, that's just swell."

"Behave, Bray," said Antonia.

Geoffrey Waters was as upset as anyone could remember during his long years of service. Apoplectic would be a more appropriate description.

Scofield and Antonia were ushered into his office, the door firmly closed, while Waters paced furiously behind his desk.

"What's eating you?"

asked Brandon.

"The last thing you want to hear, old friend. Let's all sit down, I believe it would be easier." They did so, the Scofields in two chairs facing the desk.

"What is it, Geof?" said Toni.

"The unbelievable as well as the unacceptable. Matareisen has escaped."

"What?" roared Brandon, leaping up from his chair.

"If this is a bad joke, it's really lousy!"

"It's no joke, I only wish to God it were."

"How the hell could it have happened? You had him practically in a glass cage, the guards constant!"

"He wasn't here, Bray."

"Jesus, you gave him a night out on the town?"

"Let Geof explain, Brandon."

"Thank you, my dear, this isn't easy for me. At three-forty-five this morning, I received a call from the Matareisen watch. He was coughing up blood; it was literally streaming out of his mouth, according to the doctor, and he was unconscious. Fearing for his life, I ordered him taken to the hospital, the detail to accompany him. Somewhere between here and the emergency entrance, no more than twelve minutes, he regained consciousness, and to my utter astonishment, he overcame two strapping young officers, killing one of them and removing the clothes of the chap nearest his size. He then must have taken billfolds, cash, and ID cards, for there was nothing left, broke open the rear door, and ran into the traffic."

"Who were your agents, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Pollyanna?"

"Really, Bray!" said Antonia angrily.

"One of those young men was killed."

"Sorry, but-it's nuts!"

"Cameron Pryce can tell you about Matareisen's extraordinary martial arts technique-like nothing he'd ever seen. Naturally, we're combing the city for him, using the London police as well, without explanations."

"You won't find him," said Scofield.

"He's got to have contacts who'll hide him and get him out of the country."

"So we assume, but that's not my primary concern. You and Antonia are. As we speak, you're being moved from the Savoy to the Ritz."

"Why?" protested Bray.

"Van der Meer's not going to stick around London, and Guiderone's dead. I'm not a target."

"We don't know that," insisted the MI-5 chief of security.

"We have no idea whether Guiderone was in touch with Matareisen, or if he was, what he told the Dutchman. Guiderone was going for his final, most important kill. Perhaps he took out insurance with van der Meer, as you call him."

"Highly unlikely, if not impossible," retorted Scofield.

"If I did my job, as I usually do, I split Guiderone from the Keizersgracht."

"In all due respect, old chap, none of us knows what others will do under extreme stress. It's an unpredictable area."

"All right, we're moving to the Ritz."

"Thank you, Bray," said Antonia.

The telephone rang on Waters's desk.

"Yes?" he said, quickly picking it up. He listened for a moment or two, hung up, and looked at the Scofields.

"A patrol car believes it just spotted Matareisen. They pulled up and he saw the vehicle, then dashed into the underground. They're in full chase now."

"Why do they think it was him?"

"The clothes at first, they were ill-fitting, then the general description based on the photographs we took when we brought him from Amsterdam. We've circulated them."

"Speaking of Amsterdam, could those computers have any data on London? Any references to contacts or conduits?"

"Nothing," replied Sir Geoffrey.

"I checked with Greenwald in the Keizersgracht. All he found were vague references to streets and monuments going back months. Meeting grounds long gone." The telephone rang aga

in and Sir Geoffrey pounced on it.

"Yes?" He stared at a glass paperweight as he listened. Finally, the caller finished, he briefly closed his eyes and without a word hung up.

"They lost him," he said, sitting down.

"Alert all the private airfields," said Bray, "one of them will be his exit."

"Where will he go?" asked Antonia.

"Amsterdam's out. Does he own other property, other places than in Holland?"

"If he does, they'd be impossible to find. He operates through holding companies and dummy corporations, like the limousine service and that Argus group. Knowing his resources, he undoubtedly has many other places, but we need a paper trail and we don't have one."

"Does he have any attorneys?" Toni again.

"He must use the services of a law firm."

"Probably dozens in as many countries. We traced the Argus group to Marseilles. The offices consist of two rooms, a toilet, and one secretary whose only job is to forward mail and cables to Barcelona, which relays them to a general delivery station in Milan. Are you getting the picture, chaps?"

"In three dimensions," acknowledged Scofield.

"Obfuscation, un traceability and evasion. What's surprising is the Milan relay. It suggests that someone has taken over the Paravacini cell, a very major player."

"I was wondering about that myself," said Waters.

"If true, they certainly rebounded in a hurry."

"Too much of a hurry," Brandon interrupted, "which means that somebody was in place to assume the authority." Scofield turned to Antonia.

"How'd you like a short vacation to Lake Como, luv? Better grab it now 'cause Sir Hog's Butt's paying, I can't afford it."

"I think we've already paid for Como," said Waters.

"This includes the services of the incomparable Don Silvio Togazzi, who probably owns most of Milano by now, and certainly the postal unions. An upstanding mafioso would never neglect them, unseen communications are too important."

"The general-delivery station?"

"Exactly. I'm sure the transfers are done in relays, one poor soul is paid a few thousand lire to deliver to another poor soul, and then another, until it reaches our major player. We'll be there when the event takes place, and I don't think you care to hear the tactics we intend to employ. They might offend your sensibilities, but we'll bring you a trophy, count on it."

"In this situation, my sensibilities cannot possibly be offended. Just don't bring me a corpse. A corpse can't speak."