The Matarese Circle (25 page)

“What’s the ‘yes’?”

The old man chose his words carefully. “It’s obscure but it’s there. Before I decided to call the President, I reached five men who for years—decades;—have been involved in the most sensitive areas of intelligence and diplomacy. Of the five, three remembered the Matarese and were shocked. They offered to do whatever they could to help, the spectre of the Matarese’s return was quite terrifying to them.… Yet the other two—men, who if anything, are far more knowledgeable than their colleagues—claimed
never
to have heard of it. Their reactions made no sense; they
had
to have heard of it. Just as I had—my information minimal but certainly not forgotten. When I
said as much, when I pressed them, both behaved rather strangely, and considering our past associations, not without insult Each treated me as though I were some kind of senile patrician, given to senile fantasies. Really, it was astonishing.”

“Who were they?”

“Again, odd.…”

A flash of light in the distance; Scofield’s eyes were drawn to it. And another … and
another.
Matches were being struck in rapid succession.

Taleniekov.

The KGB man was cupping matches and lighting one after another furiously. It was a warning. Taleniekov was warning him that something had happened—
was happening.
Suddenly the distant flame was constant, but broken by a hand held in front of the flame—in rapid sequences, more light, less light. Basic Morse. Dots and dashes.

Three dots repeated twice.
S.
A long spill, repeated once. A single dash.
T.

S. T.

“What’s the matter?” asked Winthrop.

“Just a second,” replied Scofield.

Three dots, broken, then followed by a dash. The letters
S
and
T
were being repeated.
S. T.

Surveillance. Terminal.

The flame moved to the left, toward the road bordering the woods of the parking area, and was extinguished. The Soviet agent was repositioning himself. Bray turned back to the old man.

“How certain are you about your telephone?”

“Very. It’s never been tapped I have ways of knowing.”

“They may not be extensive enough.” Scofield touched the window button; the glass rolled down and he called to the chauffeur standing in front of the limousine. “Stan come here!” The driver did so. “When you drove through the park, did you check to see if anyone followed you?”

“Sure did and no way. I keep one eye on the rear view mirror. I always do, especially when we’re meeting someone at night.… Did you see the light up there? Was it your man?”

“Yes. He was telling me someone else was here.”

“Impossible,” said Winthrop emphatically. “If there is, it’s no concern of ours. This is, after all, a public park.”

“I don’t want to alarm you, sir, but Taleniekov’s experienced. There are no headlights, no cars in the road. Whoever’s out there doesn’t want us to know it, and it’s not a night for a casual walk. I’m afraid it does concern us.” Bray opened the door. “Stan, I’m going to grab my briefcase from my car. When I get back, drive out of here. Stop briefly at the north end of the lot by the road.”

“What about the Russian?” asked Winthrop.

“That’s why we’re stopping. He’ll know enough to jump in. He’d better.”

“
Wait
a minute,” said Stanley, no deference in his voice. “If there’s any trouble, I’m not stopping for anyone. I’ve only got one job. To get
him
out of here. Not you or anybody else.”

“We don’t have time to argue. Start the engine.” Bray ran to the rented car, the keys in his hand. He unlocked the door, removed his attaché case from the front seat, and started back toward the limousine.

He never reached it. A beam of powerful light pierced through the darkness, aimed at Robert Winthrop’s huge automobile. Stanley was behind the wheel, gunning the motor, prepared to bolt out of the area. Whoever held the light was not going to allow that to happen. He wanted that car … and whoever was in that car.

The limousine’s wheels spun, screeching on the pavement, as the huge car surged forward. A staccato spray of gunfire erupted; windows shattered, bullets crunched into metal. The limousine weaved back and forth in abrupt half-circles, seemingly out of control.

Two loud reports came from the woods beyond; the searchlight exploded, a scream of pain followed. Winthrop’s car straightened out briefly, then lurched into a sharp left turn. Caught in the headlights were two men, weapons drawn, a third on the ground.

Bray’s gun was in his hand; he dropped to the pavement and fired. One of the two men fell. The limousine completed the turn and roared out of the parking lot into the southbound road.

Scofield rolled to his right; two shots were fired, the bullets singing off the pavement where he had been seconds ago. Bray got to his feet and ran in the darkness toward the railing that fronted the ravine.

He lunged over the top rail, his attaché case slamming
into the wood post, the sound distinct. The next gunshot was expected; it came as he hugged the earth and the rocks.

Lights. Headlights! Two beams shooting overhead, accompanied by the sound of a racing car. The smashing of glass came hard upon tires screeching to a sudden stop. A shout—unclear, hysterical … cut off by a loud explosion—preceded silence.

The engine had stalled, the headlights still on, revealing curls of smoke and two immobile bodies on the ground, a third on his knees, looking around in panic. The man heard something: he spun and raised his gun.

A weapon was fired from the woods. It was final; the would-be killer fell.

“
Scofield!
” Taleniekov shouted.

“Over here!” Bray lunged up over the railing and ran toward the source of the Russian’s voice. Taleniekov walked out of the woods; he was no more than ten feet from the stalled automobile. Both men approached the car warily; the driver’s window had been shattered, blown apart by a single shot from the KGB man’s automatic. The head beyond the fragmented glass was bloodied but recognizable. The right hand was wrapped in a tight bandage—still wrapped from an injured thumb broken on a bridge in Amsterdam at three o’clock in the morning by an angry, tired older man.

It was the aggressive young agent, Harry, who had killed so needlessly in the rain that night.

“I don’t believe it,” said Scofield.

“You know him?” asked Taleniekov, a curious note in his voice.

“His name was Harry. He worked for me in Amsterdam.”

The Russian was silent for a moment, then spoke. “He was
with
you in Amsterdam, but he did not work for you, and his name was not ‘Harry.’ That young man is a Soviet intelligence officer, trained since the age of nine at the American Compound in Novgorod. He was a VKR agent.”

Bray studied Taleniekov’s face, then looked back through the shattered window at Harry. “Congratulations. Things fall into place more clearly now.”

“They don’t for me, I’m afraid,” said the KGB man.
“Believe me when I tell you that it is most unlikely that any order out of Moscow would include a direct attack on Robert Winthrop. We’re not fools. He’s above reprisals—a voice and a skill to be preserved, not struck down. And certainly not for such—personnel—as you and me.”

“What do you mean?”

“This was an execution team, as surely as those men at the hotel. You and I were not to be isolated, not to be taken separately. The kill was inclusive. Winthrop was to be executed as well, and for all we know he may have been. I submit that the order did not come from Moscow.”

“It didn’t come from the State Department, I’m damn sure of that.”

“Agreed. Neither Washington nor Moscow, but a source capable of issuing orders in the name of one, or the other, or both.”

“The Matarese?” said Scofield.

The Russian nodded. “The Matarese.”

Bray held his breath, trying to think, to absorb it all. “If Winthrop’s still alive, hell be caged, trapped, held under a microscope. I won’t be able to get near him. They’d kill me on sight.”

“Again, I agree. Are there others you trust that can be reached?”

“It’s crazy,” said Scofield, shivering in the cold—and at the thought that now struck him. “There should be, but I don’t know who they are. Whoever I went to would have to turn me over, the laws are clear about that. Police warrants aside, there’s a little matter of national security. The case against me will be built quickly, legally. Suspected of treason, internal espionage, delivering information to the enemy. No one will touch me.”

“Surely there are people who will
listen
to you.”

“Listen to what? What do I tell them? What have I got?
You?
You’d be thrown into a maximum security hospital before you could say your name. The words of a dying Istrebiteli? A Communist killer? Where’s the verification, even the logic? Godamn it, we’re cut off. All we’ve got are shadows!”

Taleniekov took a step forward, his conviction in his voice. “Perhaps old Krupskaya was right; perhaps the answer is in Corsica, after all.”

“Oh, Christ.…”

“Hear me out. You say we have only shadows. If so we need a great deal more. If we
had
more, traced even a few names, constructed a fabric of probability—built our own case, if you will. Then could you go to someone, force him to listen to you?”

“From a distance,” answered Bray slowly. “Only from a distance. Beyond reach.”

“Naturally.”

“The case would have to be more than probable, it’d have to be damned conclusive.”

“I could move men in Moscow if I had such proof. It was my hope that over here an inquiry might be made with less evidence. You’re notorious for your never-ending Senate inquiries. I merely assumed it could be done, that you could bring it about.”

“Not now. Not me.”

“Corsica, then?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to think about it. There’s still Winthrop.”

“You said yourself you could not reach him. If you tried to get near him, they’d kill you.”

“People have tried before. I’ll protect myself. I’ve got to find out what happened. He saw it for himself; if he’s alive and I can talk to him, he’ll know what to do.”

“And if he’s
not
alive, or you cannot reach him?”

Scofield looked at the dead men on the pavement. “Maybe the only thing that’s left. Corsica.”

The KGB man shook his head. “I look at odds more thoroughly than you, Beowulf. I won’t wait. I won’t risk that ‘hospital’ you speak of. I’ll go to Corsica now.”

“If you do, start on the southeast coast, north of Porto Vecchio.”

“Why?”

“It’s where it all began. It’s Matarese country.”

Taleniekov nodded. “Again, the schoolwork. Thank you. Perhaps we’ll meet in Corsica.”

“Can you get out of the country?” asked Bray.

“Getting in, getting out … easily managed. These are not obstacles. What about yourself? If you decide to join me.”

“I can buy my way to London, to Paris. I’ve got accounts there. If I do, count on three days, four at the
outside. There are small inns up in the hills. I’ll find you.…”

Scofield stopped. Both men turned swiftly at the sound of an approaching automobile. A sedan swung casually off the road into the parking area. In the front seat was a couple, the man’s arm draped over the woman’s shoulder. The headlights shone directly on the immobile bodies on the pavement, the spill illuminating the shattered window of the stalled car and the bloody head inside.

The driver whipped his arm off the woman’s shoulder, pushing her down on the seat, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He spun it violently to the right and sped back into the road, the roar of the motor echoing throughout the woods and the open space.

“They’ll reach the police,” said Bray. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I submit it would be best not to use that car,” replied the KGB man.

“Why not?”

“Winthrop’s chauffeur. You may trust him. I’m not sure I do.”

“That’s crazy! He was damn near killed!”

Taleniekov gestured at the dead men on the pavement. “These were marksmen, Russian or American, it makes no difference, they were experts—the Matarese would employ no less. The windshield of that limousine was at least five feet wide, the driver behind it an easy target for a novice. Why wasn’t he shot? Why wasn’t that car stopped? We look for traps, Beowulf. We were led into one and we didn’t see it. Perhaps even by Winthrop himself.”

Bray felt sick; he had no answer. “We’ll separate. It’s better for both of us.”

“Corsica, perhaps?”

“Maybe. You’ll know if I get there.”

“Very well.”

“Taleniekov?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for using the matches.”

“Under the circumstances, I believe you would have done the same for me.”

“Under the circumstances … yes, I would.”

“Has it struck you? We did not kill each other, Beowulf Agate. We talked.”

“We talked.”

A lone siren was carried on the cold night wind. Others would be heard soon; patrol cars would converge on the killing ground. Both men turned away from each other and ran, Scofield down the dark path into the woods beyond the rented car, Taleniekov toward the railing that fronted the ravine in Rock Creek Park.

The thick-beamed fishing boat plowed through the chopping swells like a heavy awkward animal dimly aware that the waters were unfriendly. Waves slapped against the bow and the sides sending cascading sprays over the gunnels, the tails of salt whipped by the early morning winds into the faces of men handling the nets.

One man, however, was not involved with the drudgery of the catch. He pulled at no rope and manipulated no hook, nor did he join in the cursing and laughter that were byproducts of making a living from the sea. Instead, he sat alone on the deck, a thermos of coffee in one hand, a cupped cigarette in the other. It was understood that should French or Italian patrol boats approach, he would become a fisherman, but if none did he was to be left by himself. No one objected to this strange man without a name, for each member of the crew was 100,000
lire
richer for his presence. The boat had picked him up on a pier in San Vincenzo. The vessel’s schedule had called for a dawn departure from the Italian coast, but the stranger had suggested that if the coast of Corsica were seen by dawn, captain and crew would have a far better catch for their labors. Rank had its privileges; the captain received 150,000
lire.
They had sailed out of San Vincenzo before midnight.