The Matarese Circle (23 page)

Inside, the decor was properly rustic; heavy beams and Spartan furniture relieved by a profusion of quilted cushions, white walls and red-checked curtains. Flanking the stone fireplace were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled to capacity, the varied bindings lending additional color and warmth.

“He is an educated man,” said Taleniekov, his eyes scanning the titles.

“Very,” replied Bray, lighting a gas-fed Franklin stove. “There are matches on the mantel, the kindling stacked and ready to light.”

“How convenient,” said the KGB man, taking a wooden match from a small glass on the mantel, kneeling down and striking it.

“It’s part of the rent. Whoever uses the cabin cleans the fireplace and stacks it.”

“Part of the rent? What are the other arrangements?”

“There’s only one. Say nothing. About the place or the owner.”

“Again, convenient.” Taleniekov pulled his hand back as the fire leapt up from the dry wood.

“Very,” repeated Scofield, adjusting the heater, satisfied it was functioning. He stood up and faced the Russian. “I don’t want to discuss anything until I’ve had some sleep. You may not agree, but that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“I have no objection. I’m not sure I’m capable of being lucid right now, and I must be when we talk. If it’s possible, I’ve had less sleep than you.”

“Two hours ago we could have killed each other,” said Bray, standing motionless. “Neither of us did.”

“Quite the reverse,” agreed the KGB man. “We prevented others from doing so.”

“Which cancels any obligation between us.”

“No such obligations exist, of course. However, I submit you may find a larger one when we talk.”

“You could be right, but I doubt it. You may have to live with Moscow, but I don’t have to live with what happened here in Washington today. I can do something about it. Maybe that’s the difference between us.”

“For both our sakes—for all our sakes—I fervently hope you’re right.”

“I am. I’m also going to get some sleep.” Scofield pointed to a couch against the wall. “That pulls out into a bed; there are blankets in the closet over there. I’ll use the bedroom.” He started for the door, then stopped and turned to the Russian. “Incidentally, the room will be locked, and I’m a very light sleeper.”

“A condition that afflicts us both, I’m sure,” said Taleniekov. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I never did,” Bray said.

Scofield heard faint, sharp crackling sounds and spun under the sheets, his hand gripping the Browning automatic
by his knees. He raised it beneath the covers as his feet shot out over the side of the bed; he was prepared to crouch and fire.

There was no one in the room. Moonlight streamed through the north window, shafts of colorless white light separated by the thick panes into single streaks of suspended, eerie illumination. For a moment he was not sure where he was, so complete had been his exhaustion, so deep his sleep. He knew by the time his feet touched the floor; his enemy was in the next room. A very strange enemy who had saved his life, and whose life he had saved minutes later.

Bray looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was quarter past four in the morning. He had slept nearly thirteen hours, the heavy weight of his arms and legs, the adhesive moisture in his eyes, and the dryness of his throat evidence of his having moved very little during that time. He sat for a while on the side of the bed, breathing the cold air deeply, putting the gun down and shaking his hands, slapping his fingers together. He looked over at the locked door of the bedroom.

Taleniekov was up and had started a fire, the sharp crackling now the unmistakable sound of burning wood. Scofield decided to put off seeing the Russian for a few more minutes. His face itched, the growth of his beard so uncomfortable it had caused the beginning of a rash on his neck. There was always shaving equipment in the bathroom; he would afford himself the luxury of a shave and change the bandages he had placed on his neck and skull fourteen hours ago. It would postpone for a bit longer his talk with the former—defected?—KGB man. Whatever it concerned, Bray wanted no part of it, yet the unexpected events and decisions of the past twenty-four hours told him he was already involved.

It was 4:37 when he unlocked the door and opened it. Taleniekov was standing in front of the fire, sipping from a cup in his hand.

“I apologize if the fire awakened you,” the Russian said. “Or the sound of the front door—if you heard it.”

“The heater went out,” said Scofield, looking down at the flameless Franklin.

“I think the propane tank is empty.”

“Is that why you went outside?”

“No. I went outside to relieve myself; there’s no toilet here.”

“I forgot.”

“Did you hear me leave? Or return?”

“Is that coffee?”

“Yes,” answered Taleniekov. “A bad habit I picked up from the West. Your tea has no character. The pot’s on the burner.” The KGB man gestured beyond a room divider where stove, sink and refrigerator were lined up against the wall. “I’m surprised you did not smell it boiling.”

“I thought I did,” lied Scofield, crossing to the stove and the pot. “But it was weak.”

“And now we’ve both made our childish points.”

“Childishly,” added Bray, pouring coffee. “You keep saying you have something to tell me. Go ahead.”

“First, I shall ask you a question. Have you ever heard of an organization called the Matarese?”

Scofield paused, remembering; he nodded. “Political killers for hire, run by a council in Corsica. It started well over a half-century ago and died out in the middle forties, after the war. What about it?”

“It never died out. It went further underground—became dormant, if you like—but it returned in a far more dangerous form. It’s been operating since the early fifties. It operates now. It has infiltrated the most sensitive and powerful areas of both our governments. Its objective is the control over both our countries. The Matarese was responsible for the murders of General Blackburn here and Dimitri Yurievich in my country.”

Bray sipped his coffee, studying the Russian’s face over the rim of the cup. “How do you know that? Why do you believe it?”

“An old man who saw more in his lifetime than you and I combined, made the identification. He was not wrong; he was one of the few who admitted—or will ever admit—having dealt with the Matarese.”

“
Saw? Was?
Past tenses.”

“He died. He called for me while he was dying; he wanted me to know. He had access to information neither you nor I would be given under any circumstances.”

“Who was he?”

“Aleksie Krupskaya. The name is meaningless, I realize, so I’ll explain.”

“Meaningless?” interrupted Scofield, crossing to an armchair in front of the fire, and sitting down. “Not entirely. Krupskaya, the white cat of Krivoi Rog. Istrebiteli. The last of the exterminators from Section Nine, KGB. The original Nine, of course.”

“You do your schoolwork well, but then, as they say, you’re a Harvard man.”

“That kind of schoolwork can be helpful. Krupskaya was banished twenty years ago. He became a nonperson. If he were alive, I figured he was vegetating in Grasnov, not a consultant being fed information by people in the Kremlin. I don’t believe your story.”

“Believe it now,” said Taleniekov, sitting down opposite Bray. “Because it was not ‘people’ in the Kremlin, just one man. His son. For thirty years one of the highest-ranking survivors of the Politburo. For the past six, Premier of Soviet Russia.”

Scofield put his cup down on the floor and again studied the KGB man’s face. It was the face of a practiced liar, a professional liar, but not a liar by nature. He was not lying now. “Krupskaya’s son the Premier? That’s … a shock.”

“As it was to me, but not so shocking when you think about it. Guided at every turn, protected by his father’s extensive collection of … shall we say memorabilia. Hypothetically, it could have happened here. Suppose your late John Edgar Hoover had a politically ambitious son. Who could have stood in his way? Hoover’s secret files would have paved any road, even the one leading to the Oval Office. The landscape is different, but the trees are the same genus. They haven’t varied much since the senators gave Rome to Caligula.”

“What did Krupskaya tell you?”

“The past first. There were things I could not believe, until I spoke of them to several retired leaders of the Politburo. One frightened old man confirmed them, the others caused a plan to be mounted that called for my execution.”

“Your … ?”

“Yes. Vasili Vasilivitch Taleniekov, master strategist, KGB. An irascible man who may have seen his best years, but whose knowledge could be called upon for several decades perhaps—from a farm in Grasnov. We are a
practical people; that would have been the practical solution. In spite of the minor doubts we all have, I believe that, I knew it was my future. But not after I mentioned the Matarese. Abruptly, everything changed. I, who have served my country well, was suddenly the enemy.”

“What specifically did Krupskaya say? What—in your judgment—was confirmed?”

Taleniekov recounted the dying Istrebiteli’s words, missions that traced scores of assassinations to the Matarese, including Stalin, Beria and Roosevelt. How the Corsican organization had been used by all the major governments, both within their borders and outside of them. None were exempt from the stain. Soviet Russia, England, France, Germany, Italy … the United States; the leaders of each, at one time or another, had made contracts with the Matarese.

“That’s all been speculated upon before,” said Bray. “Quietly, I grant you, but nothing concrete ever came of the investigations.”

“Because no one of substance ever dared testify. In Krupskaya’s words, the revelations would be catastrophic for governments everywhere. Now, there are new tactics being employed, all for the purpose of creating instability in the power centers.”

“What are they?”

“Acts of terrorism. Bombings, kidnappings, the hijackings of aircraft; ultimatums issued by bands of fanatics, wholesale slaughter promised if they are not met. They grow in numbers every month and the vast majority are funded by the Matarese.”

“How?”

“I can only surmise. The Matarese council studies the objectives of the parties involved, sends in the experts, and provides covert financing. Fanatics do not labor over the sources of funds, only their availability. I submit that you and I have used such men and women more often than we can count”

“For distinctly accountable purposes,” said Bray, picking up his cup from the floor. “What about Blackburn and Yurievich? What did the Matarese accomplish by killing them?”

“Krupskaya believed it was to test the leaders, to see if their own men could control each government’s reactions.
I’m not so sure now. I think perhaps there was something else. Frankly, because of what you’ve told me.”

“What’s that?”

“Yurievich. You said he was your operation. Is that true?”

Bray frowned. “True, but not that simple. Yurievich was gray; he wasn’t going to defect in any normal sense. He was a scientist, convinced both sides had gone too far. He didn’t trust the maniacs. It was a probe; we weren’t sure where we were going.”

“Are you aware that General Blackburn, who was nearly destroyed by the war in Vietnam did what no Chairman of the Joint Chiefs has ever done in your history? He met secretly with your potential enemies. In Sweden, in the city of Skelleftea on the Gulf of Bothnia, traveling undercover as a tourist. It was our judgment that he would go to any lengths to avoid the repetition of pointless slaughter. He abhorred conventional warfare, and he did not believe nuclear weapons would ever be used.” The Russian stopped and leaned forward. “Two men who believed deeply, passionately, in the rejection of human sacrifice, who sought accommodation—both killed by the Matarese. So perhaps testing was only a part of the exercise. There could well have been another: eliminate powerful men who believed in stability.”

At first Scofield did not reply; the information about Blackburn was astonishing. “In the testing then, they pointed at me with Yurievich …”

“And at me with Blackburn,” completed Taleniekov. “A Browning Magnum, Grade Four, was used to kill Yurievich; a Graz-Burya for Blackburn.”

“And both of us set up for execution.”

“Exactly,” said the Soviet. “Because above all men in either country’s intelligence service, we cannot be permitted to live. That will never change because we cannot change. Krupskaya was right: we are diversions; we will be used and killed. We are too dangerous.”

“Why do they think so?”

“They’ve studied us. They know we could no more accept the Matarese than we do the maniacs within our own branches. We are dead men, Scofield.”

“Speak for yourself!” Bray was suddenly angry. “I’m out, terminated,
finished!
I don’t give a godamn what
happens out there! Don’t you make judgments about me!”

“They’ve already been made. By others.”

“Because
you
say so?” Scofield got up, putting the coffee down, his hand not far from the Browning in his belt.

“Because I
believed
the man who told me. It’s why I’m
here,
why I
saved
your life and did not take it myself.”

“I have to wonder about that, don’t I?”

“What?”

“Everything timed, even to your knowing where Prague was on the staircase.”

“I killed a man who had you under his gun!”

“
Prague?
A minor sacrifice. I’m a terminated encyclopedia. I have no proof my government reached Moscow, only possible conclusions based on what
you
told me. Maybe I’m missing the obvious, maybe the great Taleniekov is eating a little temporary crow to bring in Beowulf Agate.”

“
Damn
you, Scofield!” roared the KGB man, springing up from the chair. “I should have let you die! Hear me clearly. What you suggest is unthinkable and the KGB knows it. My feelings run too deep. I’d never bring you in. I’d kill you first.”

Bray stared at the Russian, the honesty of Taleniekov’s statement obvious. “I believe you,” said Scofield, nodding, his anger diminishing in weariness. “But it doesn’t change anything. I don’t care. I really don’t give a godamn.… I’m not even sure I want to kill you anymore. I just want to be left alone.” Bray turned away. “Take the keys to the car and get out of here. Consider yourself … alive.”