The Matarese Circle (24 page)

“Thank you for your generosity, Beowulf, but I’m afraid it’s too late.”

“What?” Scofield turned back to the Soviet.

“I did not finish. A man was caught, chemicals administered. There is a timetable, two months, three at the outside. The words were: ‘Moscow by assassination; Washington by political maneuver—murder, if necessary.’ When it happens, neither you nor I will survive. They’ll track us to the ends of the earth.”

“Wait a minute,” said Bray, furious. “Are you telling me that your people
have
a man?”

“Had,” corrected Taleniekov. “Cyanide was implanted under his skin; he reached it.”

“But he was
heard.
He was taped, recorded. His words were there!”

“Heard. Not taped, not recorded. And only by one man—who was warned by his father not to permit anyone else to listen.”

“The
Premier?
”

“Yes.”

“Then he knows!”

“Yes, he knows. And all he can do is try to protect himself—nothing particularly new in his position—but he can’t speak of it. For to speak of it, as Krupskaya said, is to acknowledge the past. This is the age of conspiracy, Scofield. Who cares to bring up past contracts? In my country there are a number of unexplained corpses; you’re not so different over here. The Kennedys, Martin Luther King; perhaps most stunning, Franklin Roosevelt. We could all be at each others’ throats—more precisely on the nuclear buttons—if our combined pasts were revealed. What would you do, if you were the Premier?”

“Protect myself,” said Bray softly. “Oh, my God.…”

“Now do you see?”

“I don’t want to. I
really
don’t
want
to. I’m out!”

“I submit that you cannot be. Nor I. The proof was yesterday on Nebraska Avenue. We’re marked; they want us. They convinced others to have us killed—for the wrong reasons—but they were behind the strategy. Can you doubt it?”

“I wish I could. The manipulators are always easiest to manipulate, con-men the biggest suckers.
Jesus.
” Scofield walked to the stove to pour himself more coffee. Suddenly, he was struck by something not said, unclear. “I don’t understand. From what little’s known about the Matarese, it started as a cult and evolved into a business. It accepted contracts—or
supposedly
accepted contracts—on the basis of feasibility and price. It killed for money; it was never interested in power,
per se.
Why is it interested now?”

“I don’t know,” said the KGB man. “Neither did Krupskaya. He was dying and not very lucid, but he said the answer might be in Corsica.”

“Corsica? Why?”

“It’s where it all began.”

“Not where it is.
If
it is. The word was that the Matarese moved out of Corsica in the mid-thirties. Contracts were negotiated as far away as London, New York … even Berlin. Centers of international traffic.”

“Then perhaps clues to an answer are more appropriate. The council of the Matarese was formed in Corsica, only one name ever revealed. Guillaume de Matarese. Who were the others? Where did they go? Who are they
now?
”

“Thre’s a quicker way of finding out than going to Corsica. If the Matarese is even a whisper in Washington, there’s one person who can track it down. He’s the one I was going to call anyway. I wanted my life straightened out”

“Who is he?”

“Robert Winthrop,” said Bray.

“The creator of Consular Operations.” The Russian nodded. “A good man who had no stomach for what he built.”

“The
Cons Op
you’re referring to isn’t the one he began. He’s still the only man I’ve heard of who can call up to the White House and see the President in twenty minutes. Very little goes on that he doesn’t know about. Or can’t find out about.” Scofield glanced over at the fire, remembering. “It’s strange. In a way, he’s responsible for everything I am, and he doesn’t approve of me. But I think he’ll listen.”

The nearest telephone booth was three miles down the highway beyond the dirt road to the cabin. It was ten past eight when Bray stepped in, shielding his eyes from the glare of the morning sun, and pulled the glass door shut. He had found Winthrop’s private number in his attaché case; he had not called it in years. He dialed, hoping it was still the same.

It was. The cultivated voice on the line brought back many memories. Possibilities missed, many others taken.

“Scofield! Where
are
you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Please try to understand.”

“I understand you’re in a great deal of trouble, and nothing will be served by running
away.
Congdon called. The man killed in the hotel was shot with a Russian gun.…”

“I know. The Russian who killed him saved my life. That man was
sent
by Congdon; so were the other two. They were my execution team. From Prague, Marseilles and Amsterdam.”

“Oh, my
God
.…” The elder statesman was silent for a moment and Bray did not interrupt that silence. “Do you know what you’re saying?” asked Winthrop.

“Yes, sir. You know me well enough to know I
wouldn’t
say it unless I were sure. I’m not mistaken. I spoke to the man from Prague before he died.”

“He
confirmed
it?”

“In oblique words, yes. But then, that’s how those cables are sent; the words are always oblique.”

Again there was a moment of silence before the old man spoke. “I can’t believe it, Bray. For a reason you couldn’t know. Congdon came to see me a week ago. He was concerned how you’d take retirement. He had the usual worries: a highly knowledgeable agent terminated against his will with too much time on his hands, perhaps too much to drink. He’s a cold fellow, that Congdon, and I’m afraid he angered me. After all you’ve been through to have so little trust.… I rather sardonically mentioned what you’ve just described—not that I ever dreamed he would consider such a thing, just that I was appalled at his attitude. So I
can’t
believe it. Don’t you see? He’d know I’d recognize it. He wouldn’t take that risk.”

“Then someone gave him the order, sir. That’s what we have to talk about. Those three men knew where to find me, and there was only one way they could’ve learned. It was a KGB drop and they were
Cons Op
personnel. Moscow gave it to Congdon; he relayed it.”

“Congdon reached the
Soviets?
That’s not plausible. Even if he tried, why would they cooperate? Why would they reveal a drop?”

“Their own man was part of the negotiation; they wanted him killed. He was trying to contact me. We’d exchanged cables.”

“Taleniekov?”

It was Scofield’s moment to pause. He answered quietly. “Yes, sir.”

“A
white
contact?”

“Yes. I misread it, but that’s what it was. I’m convinced now.”

“
You
 … and Taleniekov?
Extraordinary
.…”

“The circumstances are extraordinary. Do you remember an organization from the forties that went by the name of the Matarese?…”

They agreed to meet at nine o’clock that evening, a mile north of the Missouri Avenue exit of Rock Creek Park on the eastern side. There was an indented stretch of pavement off the road where automobiles could park and strollers could enter the various paths that overlooked a scenic ravine. Winthrop intended to cancel the day’s appointments and concentrate on learning whatever there was to learn about Bray’s astonishing—if fragmentary—information.

“He’ll convene the Forty Committee, if he has to,” said Scofield to Taleniekov on the way back to the cabin.

“Can he do that?” asked the Russian.

“The President can,” answered Bray.

The two men talked little during the day, the strain of proximity uncomfortable for each. Taleniekov read from the extensive bookshelves, glancing at Scofield now and then, the look in his eyes a mixture of remembered fury and curiosity.

Bray felt the glances; he refused to acknowledge them. He listened to the radio for news reports about the carnage at the hotel on Nebraska Avenue, and the death of a Russian attaché in the adjacent building. They were played down, de-emphasized, no mention made of the dead embassy official. The hotel killings were theorized to be foreign in origin—that much was allowed—and no doubt criminally oriented, probably related to upper-level narcotics. The suppressants had been applied; the Department of State had moved swiftly, with sure-footed censorship.

And with each progressively fading report Scofield felt progressively trapped. He was becoming intrinsic to something he wanted no part of; his new life was not around the corner any longer. He began to wonder where it was, or if it would be. He was being inexorably drawn into an enigma called the Matarese.

At four o’clock he went for a walk in the fields and along the banks of the Patuxent. As he left the cabin, he made sure the Russian saw him slip the Browning automatic into his holster. The KGB man did see; he placed his Graz-Burya on the table next to the chair.

At five o’clock, Taleniekov made an observation. “I think we should position ourselves a good hour before the appointment.”

“I trust Winthrop,” replied Bray.

“With good reason, I’m sure. But can you trust those he’ll be contacting?”

“He won’t tell anyone he’s meeting us. He wants to talk to you at length. He’ll have questions. Names, past positions, military ranks.”

“I’ll try to provide answers where they are relative to the Matarese. I will not be compromised in other areas.”

“Bully for you”

“Nevertheless. I still think—”

“We’ll leave in fifteen minutes,” interrupted Scofield. “There’s a diner on the way; we’ll eat separately.”

At 7:35, Bray drove the rented car into the south end of the parking area on the border of Rock Creek Park. He and the KGB man made four penetrations into the woods, sweeping in arcs off the paths, checking the trees and the rocks and the ravine below for signs of intruders. The night was bitterly cold; there were no strollers, no one anywhere. They met at a pre-arranged spot on the edge of the small gorge. Taleniekov spoke first.

“I saw nothing; the area is secure.”

Scofield looked at his watch in the darkness. “It’s nearly eight-thirty. I’ll wait by the car; you stay up here at this end. I’ll meet with him first and then signal you.”

“How? It’s several hundred yards.”

“I’ll strike a match.”

“Very appropriate.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s unimportant.”

At two minutes to nine, Winthrop’s limousine came out of the Rock Creek exit drove into the parking area, and stopped within twenty feet of the rented car. The sight of the chauffeur disturbed Bray, but only momentarily. Scofield recognized the huge man almost instantly; he had been with Robert Winthrop for more than two decades. Rumors about a checkered Marine Corps career cut short by several courts-martial followed the chauffeur, but Winthrop never discussed him other than to call him “my friend Stanley.” No one ever pressed.

Bray walked out of the shadows toward the limousine.
Stanley opened the door and was on the pavement in one motion, his right hand in his pocket, in his left a flashlight. He turned it on. Scofield shut his eyes. It went off in seconds.

“Hello, Stanley?” said Bray.

“It’s been a long time, Mr. Scofield,” replied the chauffeur “Nice to see you.”

“Thanks. Good to see you.”

“The Ambassador’s waiting,” continued the driver, reaching down and snapping the lock release. “The door’s open now.”

“Fine. By the way, in a couple of minutes I’m going to get out of the car and strike a match. It’s the signal for a man to come and join us. He’s up at the other end; he’ll walk out of one of the paths.”

“I gotcha’. The Ambassador said there’d be two of you. Okay.”

“What I’m trying to say is, if you still smoke those thin cigars of yours, wait till I get out before you light up. I’d like a few moments alone with Mr. Winthrop.”

“You’ve got a hell of a memory,” said Stanley, tapping his jacket pocket with the flashlight. “I was about to have one.”

Bray got into the back seat of the car and faced the man who was responsible for his life. Winthrop had grown old, but in the dim light his eyes were still electric, still filled with concern. They shook hands, the elder statesman prolonging the grip.

“I’ve thought about you often,” he said softly, his eyes searching Scofield’s, then noting the bandages and wincing. “I have mixed feelings, but I don’t think I have to tell you that.”

“No, sir, you don’t.”

“So many things changed, didn’t they, Bray? The ideals, the opportunities to do so much for so many. We were crusaders, really. At the beginning.” The old man released Scofield’s hand and smiled. “Do you remember? You came up with a processing plan that was to be crosscollateralized with lend-lease. Debts in occupied territories for multiple immigration. A brilliant concept in economic diplomacy, I’ve always said that. Human lives for monies that were never going to be repaid anyway.”

“It would have been rejected.”

“Probably, but in the arena of world opinion it would have pushed the Soviets to the wall. I recall your words. You said ‘if we’re supposed to be a capitalistic government, don’t walk away from it Use it. define it. American citizens paid for half the Russian Army. Stress the psychological obligation. Get something, get
people.
’ Those were your words.”

“That was a graduate student expounding on naive theoretical geopolitics.”

“There’s often a great deal of truth in such naivete. You know, I can still see that graduate student. I wonder about him—”

“There’s no time now, sir,” interrupted Scofield. “Taleniekov’s waiting. Incidentally, we checked the area; it’s clear.”

The old man’s eyes blinked. “Did you think it would be otherwise?”

“I was worried about a tap on your phone.”

“No need for that,” said Winthrop “Such devices have to be listed somewhere, recorded somewhere. I wouldn’t care to be the person who did such a thing. Too many private conversations take place on my telephone. It’s my best protection.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“About the Matarese? No … and
yes.
No, in the sense that even the most rarefied intelligence data contained no mention of it whatsoever, hasn’t for the past forty-three years. The President assured me of this and I trust him. He was appalled; he leapt at the possibility and put men on the alert. He was furious, and frightened, I think.”