The Matarese Countdown (Matarese Dynasty 1)

"No, I'm a clone who needs a few hours' sleep."

"Not now, old friend, we have work to do. Word from the Milan post office is that another general delivery from Barcelona has arrived, this to a Signer Del Monte the Fourth, the "Del Monte' quite a common name in Italy, the "Fourth' an aberration, the identifying code for the receiver. The next general-delivery truck is due at three o'clock this afternoon. My associate will hold the material, claiming it to be on the last shipment. We must be there."

"I just got out of there! Don't you have shadows on your payroll who can follow whoever it is that picks it up?"

"The last communication from Barcelona was six days ago. When will another come?"

"Oh, Jesus, you're right! The Keizersgracht is shut down-" "What? Che cosa?"

"It's been a busy week, I'll fill you in later. But you're right, we won't get another chance to find the Milan connection. How will you pick me up?"

"Walk out the west entrance as if you're about to stroll around the gardens. Then take the path that bypasses the barricade on the road into the villa and start walking up the street to Bellagio. I'll meet you there."

"I'm not armed-goddamned metal detectors-and I want to be armed. Do you have any weapons?"

"Does our Ligurian Sea have water?"

"I figured. See you in fifteen or twenty minutes." Scofield hung up the phone and turned to Antonia.

"I guess you heard."

"You guess correctly, and I don't like the need for weapons."

"Probably no need at all, but I'd prefer to have some firepower, since we're behind enemy lines. You do remember the old days, don't you, girl?"

"Yes, dear. I also remember that you were far younger. And Togazzi's older than you. Two old men playing roles they long ago left behind them."

"Why don't you have us mummified while you're at it. Where are my rubber-soled shoes?"

"In the closet."

"Never go to work without rubber soles on your feet."

"You won't be alone, will you? Old men need younger men."

"I'm sure Silvio will find a body or three."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"We do."

The drive to Milan was made in record time, Scofield and Togazzi refining their tactics of rapid surveillance. Two of the don's guards were in the front seat, a second car with three others behind them; they would meet a block away from Milan's main post office. Togazzi's man inside had provided a floor plan of the general-delivery section; it was intrinsic to the strategy. The don's guards, all with lapel-attached walkie-talkies, would place themselves in receding positions from near the counter to the exit doors, the driver remaining outside, close to Togazzi's vehicle. The don's man would signal the nearest guard when the recipient picked up the Barcelona merchandise; he, in turn, would alert the others, describing the conduit.

Togazzi stayed in his automobile, a high-speed telescopic camera in his hand, while Scofield was a few feet away, watching the door and listening to the guards' transmissions. The words came over the wire.

"The man is in disheveled clothing, a torn jacket and unpressed trousers."

"Got him," said Bray, seeing the Matarese recipient, a short man, walking rapidly out the door of the post office.

"You see him, Silvio?"

"Of course. He's heading for the row of bicycles. Quickly, one of you! Get out here and take the motorbike from the trunk. Follow him!"

The swiftest of the guards did so, yanking the motorized bike out of its recess, starting the engine, climbing on, and zooming off in pursuit of the bicycling messenger. Minutes later, the pursuer spoke over the radio.

"He is in the worst part of the city, signore! The bike is new and very expensive. I fear for my life."

"You won't have one if you lose him, my friend," said Don Silvio Togazzi.

"Dio di Dio, he's passed it to another beggar!"

"Stay with him," ordered the don.

"He's running down the street to an old church, signore. A young priest has come out on the steps! He's giving the envelope to him. It is the Church of the Blessed Sacrament."

"Conceal your motorbike and stay there. If the priest leaves, follow him at a distance, capisce?"

"With all my heart and soul, Don Silvio."

"Grazie. You will be rewarded."

"Prego, my don.... He is leaving! He's walking up the pavement;

he has stopped at an automobile, a very old automobile with much damage on it."

"The safest car in that environment," noted Togazzi.

"What make of automobile is it?"

"I cannot tell. There are so many dents and scratches. It is small, the grill half torn off, perhaps a Fiat."

"The license plate?"

"It is too bent, and again the scratches.. .. The priest climbed in and is starting the engine."

"Stay with him as long as you can. The men are in the other car;

we'll be in this one. Let us know every turn he makes.. .. Brandon, come inside."

It came as an astonishing surprise, insofar as the Paravacini estate was virtually closed, maintained by a skeleton staff and with its dynastic flag at half-mast, signifying that no one of importance was in residence.

The savage and macabre death of Carlo Paravacini had both shocked and electrified the lake community. There were those who prayed for his soul, and those who condemned it to hell, few in between. Yet the small, shabby automobile quickly took the highway to Bellagio and veered off on the road thirty miles north that led to the Paravacini property. Someone was in residence, someone powerful enough to receive the material from Barcelona, a member of the Mata-rese hierarchy.

"Get back to the house as fast as you can!" ordered Togazzi, turning to Scofield.

"There are telescopes on my balcony, perhaps we'll learn something."

They did. The telescope focused

on the Paravacini compound revealed the imposing yacht at the dock, behind it deserted lawns with none of the myriad fountains operating. The estate appeared eerily deserted, as if the elegant grounds cried out for people in their finery, not cold, white statues. Suddenly, two people were there, two men rounding the brick path from the front of the mansion. One was elderly, far older than the younger man, both in dark trousers and loose-fitting sport shirts.

"Who are they?" asked Bray, stepping back from the telescope to permit Don Silvio to look.

"Do you know them?"

"One I know very well and he's the answer to the question, who's running the Matarese in Italy? The other I don't recognize, but I can suggest a probability; we only saw the back of his head from a distance."

"Who?"

"The driver of the small, shabby car we followed out here."

"The priest?"

"Both are. The older man is Cardinal Rudolfo Paravacini, a prelate with considerable influence in the Vatican."

"He's the head of the Italian Matarese?"

"He's the uncle of the late, unlamented Carlo Paravacini, he of the birds."

"But the Vatican?"

"I'd suggest that the blood between families is stronger than the blood of Christ. Certainly in this instance."

"Pryce mentioned him, Leslie, too. But there wasn't anything really concrete."

"There is now, Brandon. Here, look. They've walked up onto the yacht, to the aft veranda. Tell me what you see."

"Okay." Scofield returned to the telescope.

"Good God, the old guy's opening the stuff from Barcelona. You're right!"" "The question is," said Togazzi, "what do we do next?"

"The place doesn't look like it's exactly fortified. Why not move now, before he can relay whatever's in the package, or before he destroys it, which is a distinct possibility."

"I agree."

The guards were called out on the balcony, each taking a turn peering through the telescope. A strategy was rapidly devised and refined, Scofield and Togazzi going back years, recalling the days when together they penetrated hostile areas. Two of the guards left, their instructions understood, the remaining three staying with the don and Brandon.