The Matarese Circle (11 page)

Through the right-angled glass he had a clear view of the corner. The man following him would have to come into the overlapping circles of light now; they could not be avoided. A quarry was getting away; there was no time to look for shadows.

It happened. The overcoated figure came dashing across the avenue. His face came into the light.

His face came into the light.

Scofield froze. His eyes ached; blood rushed to his head. His whole body trembled, and what remained of his mind tried desperately to control the rage and the anguish that welled up and swept through him. The man at the corner was not from the State Department, the face under the light did not belong to anyone remotely connected to American intelligence.

It belonged to the KGB. To KGB-East Berlin!

It was a face on one of the half-dozen photographs he had studied—studied until he knew every blemish, every strand of hair—in Berlin ten years ago.

Death on the Unter den Linden. His beautiful Karine. his adorable Karine. Trapped by a team across the checkpoint, a unit set up by the filthiest killer in the Soviet. V. Taleniekov. Animal.

This was one of those men. That unit. One of Taleniekov’s hangmen.

Here! In Washington! Within minutes after his termination from State!

So KGB had found out. And someone in Moscow had decided to bring a stunning conclusion to the finish of Beowulf Agate. Only one man could think with such dramatic precision. V. Taleniekov. Animal.

As Bray stared through the glass, he knew what he was going to do, what he had to do. He would send a last message to Moscow; it would be a fitting capstone, a final gesture to mark the end of one life and the beginning of another—whatever it might be.

He would trap the killer from KGB. He would kill him.

Scofield stepped out of the doorway and ran down the sidewalk, racing in a zigzag pattern across the deserted street. He could hear running footsteps behind him.

Aeroflot’s night flight from Moscow approached the sea of Azov northeast of Crimea. It would arrive in Sevastopol by one o’clock in the morning, something over an hour. The aircraft was crowded, the passengers by and large jubilant, on winter holiday leaves from their offices and factories. A scattering of military personnel—soldiers and sailors—were less exuberant; for them the Black Sea signified not a vacation, but a return to work at the naval and air bases. They’d had their leaves in Moscow.

In one of the rear seats sat a man with a dark leather violin case held firmly between his knees. His clothes were rumpled, undistinguished, somehow in conflict with the strong face and the sharp, clear eyes that seemed to belong above other apparel. His papers identified him as Pietre Rydukov, musician. His flight pass explained curtly that he was on his way to join the Sevastopol Symphony as third-chair violinist.

Both items were false. The man was Vasili Taleniekov, master strategist, Soviet Intelligence.

Former master strategist. Former director of KOB operations—East Berlin, Warsaw, Prague, Riga and the Southwest Sectors, which consisted of Sevastopol, the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles. It was this last post that dictated the papers that put him on board the Sevastopol plane. It was the beginning of his flight from Russia.

There were scores of escape routes out of the Soviet Union, and in his professional capacity he had exposed them as he had found them. Ruthlessly, more often than not killing the agents of the West who kept them open, enticing malcontents to betray Russia with lies and promises of money. Always money. He had never wavered in his opposition to the liars and the proselytizers of greed; no
escape route was too insignificant to warrant his ention.

Except one. A minor network-route through the Bosporus and the Sea of Marmara into the Dardanelles. He had uncovered it several months ago, during his last weeks as director, KGB-Southwest Soviet Sectors. During the days when he found himself in continuous confrontation with hot-headed fools at the military bases and asinine edicts from Moscow itself.

At the time, he was not sure why he held back exposure: for a while he had convinced himself that by leaving it open and watching it closely, it could lead to a larger network. Yet in the back of his mind, he knew that was not true.

His time was coming; he was making too many enemies in too many places. There could be those who felt that a quiet retirement north of Grasnov was not for a man who held the secrets of the KGB in his head. Now he possessed another secret, more frightening than anything conceived of by Soviet intelligence. The Matarese. And that secret was driving him out of Russia.

It had happened so fast, thought Taleniekov, sipping the hot tea provided by the steward.
Everything
had happened so fast. The bedside—deathbed—talk with old Aleksie Krupskaya and the astonishing things the dying man had said. Assassins sent forth to kill the élite of the nation—both nations. Pitting the Soviet and the United States against one another, until it controlled one or the other. A Premier and a President, one or both to be in a gunsight. Who were they? What
was
it, this fever that had begun in the first decades of the century in Corsica? The Corsican fever. The Matarese.

But it existed; it was functioning—alive and deadly. He knew that now. He had spoken its name and for speaking it, a plan had been put in motion that called for his arrest; the sentence of execution would follow shortly.

Krupskaya had told him that going to the Premier was out of the question so he had sought out four once-powerful leaders of the Kremlin, now generously retired, which meant that none dared touch them. With each he had spoken of the strange phenomenon called the Matarese, repeated the words whispered by the dying Istrebiteli.

One man obviously knew nothing; he was as stunned as
Taleniekov had been. Two
said
nothing, but the acknowledgement was in their eyes, and in their frightened voices when they protested. Neither would be a party to the spreading of such insanity; each had ordered Vasili from his house.

The last man, a Georgian, was the oldest—older than the dead Krupskaya—and in spite of an upright posture had little time left to enjoy a straight spine. He was ninety-six, his mind alert but given swiftly to an old man’s fear. At the mention of the name Matarese, his thin, veined hands had trembled, then tiny muscular spasms seemed to spread across his ancient, withered face. His throat became suddenly dry; his voice cracked, his words barely audible.

It was a name from long ago in the past, the old Georgian had whispered, a name no one should hear. He had survived the early purges, survived the mad Stalin, the insidious Beria, but no one could survive the Matarese. In the name of all things sacred to Russia, the terrified man pleaded, walk
away
from the Matarese!

“We were fools, but we were not the only ones. Powerful men everywhere were seduced by the sweet convenience of having enemies and obstacles eliminated. The guarantee was absolute: the eliminations would never be traced to those who required them. Agreements were made through parties four and five times removed, dealing in fictitious purchases, unaware of what they were buying. Krupskaya saw the danger; he knew. He warned us in ’forty-eight never to make contact again.”

“Why did he do that?” Vasili had asked. “If the guarantee was proven true. I speak professionally.”

“Because the Matarese added a condition: the council of the Matarese demanded the right of approval. That’s what I was told.”

“The prerogative of killers-for-hire, I’d think,” Taleniekov had interjected. “Some targets simply aren’t feasible.”

“Such approval was never sought in the past. Krupskaya did not think it was based on feasibility.”

“On what, then?”

“Ultimate extortion.”

“How were the contacts made with this council?”

“I never knew. Neither did Aleksie.”

“
Someone
had to make them.”

“If they are alive, they will not speak, Krupskaya was right about that.”

“He called it the Corsican fever. He said the answers might be in Corsica.”

“It’s possible. It’s where it began, with the maniac of Corsica. Guillaume de Matarese.”

“You still have influence with the party leaders, sir. Will you help me? Krupskaya told me this Matarese must be—”

“
No!
” the old man had screamed. “Leave me in peace! I’ve said more than I should, admitted more than I had a right to. But only to warn you, to
stop
you! The Matarese can do no good for Russia! Turn your back on it!”

“You’ve misunderstood me. It is
I
who want to stop
it. Them.
This Matarese council. I gave my word to Aleksie that—”

“But you’ve had no words with
me!
” the withered, once-powerful leader had shouted, his voice childlike in its panic. “I will deny you ever came here, deny anything you say! You are a stranger, and I do not know you!”

Vasili had left, disturbed, perplexed. He had returned to his flat expecting to spend the night analyzing the enigma that was the Matarese, trying to decide what to do next. As usual he had glanced at the mailslot in the wall; he had actually taken a step away before he realized there
was
something inside.

It was a note from his contact at the VKR, written in one of the eliptical codes they had arranged between them. The words were innocuous: an agreement to have a late dinner at 11:30 and signed with a girl’s first name. The very blandness of the note concealed its meaning. There was a problem of magnitude; the use of
eleven
meant emergency. No time was to be lost making contact; his friend would be waiting for him at the usual place.

He had been there. At a
piva kafe
near the Lomonosov State University. It was a raucous drinking establishment in tune with the new student permissiveness. They had moved to the rear of the hall; his contact had wasted no seconds getting to the point.

“Make plans, Vasili, you’re on their list. I don’t understand it but that’s the word.”

“Because of the Jew?”

“Yes, and it doesn’t make sense! When that idiotic news conference was held in New York, we division men laughed. We called it ‘Taleniekov’s surprise.’ Even a section chief from Group Nine said he admired what you did; that you taught a lesson to impetuous potato-heads. Then yesterday everything changed. What you did was no longer a joke, but rather a serious interference with basic policy.”

“Yesterday?” Vasili had asked his friend.

“Late afternoon. Past four o’clock. That bitch director marched through the offices like a gorilla in heat. She smelted a gang rape and she loved it. She told each division man to be at her office at five o’clock. When we got there and listened, it was unbelievable. It was as if you were personally responsible for every setback we’ve sustained for the past two years. Those maniacs from Group Nine were there, but not the section chief.”

“How long have I got?”

“Three or four days at the outside. Incriminating evidence against you is being compiled. But silently, no one is to say anything.”

“Yesterday?…”

“What happened, Vasili? This isn’t a VKR operation. It’s something else.”

It
was
something else and Taleniekov had recognized it instantly. The yesterday in question had been the day he had seen the two former Kremlin officials who had ordered him from their homes. The something else was the Matarese.

“One day I’ll tell you, my friend,” Vasili had answered. “Trust me.”

“Of course. You’re the best we have. The best we’ve ever had.”

“Right now I need thirty-six, perhaps forty-eight hours. Do I have them?”

“I think so. They want your head, but they’ll be careful. They’ll document as much as they can.”

I’m sure they will. One needs words to read over the corpse. Thank you. You’ll hear from me.”

Vasili had not returned to his flat, but instead to his office. He had sat in the darkness for hours, arriving at his extraordinary decision. Hours before it would have
been unthinkable, but not now. If the Matarese could corrupt the highest levels of the KGB it could do the same in Washington. If the mere mention of its name called for the death of a master strategist of his rank—and there was no mistaking it: death was the objective—then the power it possessed was unthinkable. If, in truth, it was responsible for the murders of Blackburn and Yurievich, then Krupskaya was right. There was a timetable. The Matarese were closing in, the Premier or the President moving into the gunsight.

He had to reach a man he loathed. He had to reach Brandon Alan Scofield, American killer.

In the morning, Taleniekov had put several wheels in motion, one after the other. With his customary—if curtailed—freedom of decision, he let it be known quietly that he was traveling under cover to the Baltic Sea for a conference. He then scoured the rolls of the Musicians Protective and found the name of a violinist who had retired five years ago to the Ural Mountains; he would do. Lastly, he had put the computers to work looking for a clue to the whereabouts of Brandon Scofield. The American had disappeared in Marseilles, but an incident had taken place in Amsterdam that bore the unmistakable mark of Scofield’s expertise. Vasili had sent a cipher to an agent in Brussels, a man he could trust for he had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Approach Scofield, white status. Amsterdam. Contact must be made. Imperative. Stay with him. Apprise situation Southwest Sector codes.

Everything had happened rapidly, and Taleniekov was grateful for the years that made it possible for him to arrive at swift decisions. Sevastopol was less than an hour away. In Sevastopol—and beyond—those years of hard experience would be put to the test.

He took a room at a small hotel on the boulevard Chersonesus and called a number at the KGB headquarters that was not attached to a recorder; he had installed it himself.

VKR-Moscow had not as yet put out an alarm for him, that much could be ascertained from headquarters’ warm greeting. An old friend had returned; it gave Vasili the latitude he needed.