The Matarese Circle (56 page)

She turned from him and shouted. “You men! Put up your guns! Hold your fire!”

A single flashlight beam shot out and Taleniekov saw what she did not see—and knew instantly what she did not know. The light was held by one man to free the other three; and although he was in the spill, the beam was not directed at him. It was directed at
her.
He dove to his left into the grass. A fusilade of bullets erupted from the rifles across the field.

Another order had been given. Odile Verachten screamed. She was blown off her feet, her body caved forward, then arched backward in midair under the force of the shells.

Other gunshots followed, digging up the earth to the right of Taleniekov as he lurched, scrambling through the grass away from the target ground. The shouts grew louder as the men attacked, converging on the site on which only seconds ago a living member of the Matarese council had stood—issuing an order that was not hers to give.

Vasili reached the relative safety of the woods. He rose and started running into the darkness, knowing that soon he would stop, and turn, and kill a man on his way back to the limousine. In other darkness.

But now he kept running.

The aging musician sat in the last row of the plane, a shabby violin case between his knees. Absently, he thanked the stewardess for the cup of hot tea; his thoughts consumed him.

He would be in Paris in an hour, meet with the Corsican girl, and set up direct communications with Scofield. It was imperative they work in concert now; things were
happening too rapidly. He had to join Beowulf Agate in England.

Two of the names on the guest list of Guillaume de Matarese seventy years ago were accounted for.

Scozzi. Dead.

Voroshin-Verachten. Dead.

Sacrificed.

The direct descendants were expendable, which meant they were not the true inheritors of the Corsican
padrone.
They had been merely messengers, bearing gifts for others far more powerful, far more capable of spreading the Corsican fever.

This world needs killers?

To save it from killers!
Odile Verachten had said.

Enigma.

David Waverly, Foreign Secretary, Great Britain.

Joshua Appleton, IV, Senator, United States Congress.

Were they, too, expendable messengers? Or were they something else? Did each carry the mark of the jagged blue circle on his chest? Had Scozzi? And if either did, or Scozzi had, was that unnatural blemish the mark of mystical distinction Odile Verachten had thought it was, or was it, too, something else? A symbol of expendability, perhaps. For it occurred to Vasili that wherever that mark appeared, death was a partner.

Scofield was searching in England now. The same Beowulf Agate that someone within the Matarese had reported killed in Rock Creek Park. Who was that someone, and why had the false report gone out? It was as though that person—or persons—wanted Scofield spared, beyond reach of the Matarese killers. But why?

You talk of the shepherd. He knows! Can you doubt it?

The shepherd. A shepherd boy.

Enigma.

Taleniekov put the tea down on the tray in front of him, his elbow jarred by his seat companion. The businessman from Essen had fallen asleep, his arm protruding over the divider. Vasili was about to remove it when his eyes fell on the folded newspaper spread out on the German’s lap.

The photograph stared up at him and he stopped breathing, sharp bolts of pain returning to his chest.

The smiling, gentle face was that of Heinrich Kassel. The bold print above the photograph screamed the information.

Taleniekov reached over and picked up the paper, the pain accelerating as he read.

Per nostro circolo.

Vasili closed his eyes. He had pronounced Kassel’s sentence of death with the name
Voroshin.

It had been carried out.

“
Scofield?
” The gray-faced man was astonished, the name uttered in shock.

Bray broke into a run through the crowds in the London underground, toward the Charing Cross exit. It had happened; it was bound to happen sooner or later. No brim of a hat could conceal a face if trained eyes saw that face, and no unusual clothing dissuaded a professional once the face had been marked.

He had just been marked, the man making the identification—and without question now racing to a phone—was a veteran agent for the Central Intelligence Agency stationed at the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square. Scofield knew him slightly; one or two lunches at The Guinea; two or three conferences, inevitably held prior to Consular Operations invading areas the Company considered possessively sacrosanct. Nothing close, only cold; the man was a fighter for CIA prerogatives and Beowulf Agate had transgressed too frequently.

Godamn it!
Within minutes the U.S. network in London would be put on alert, within hours every available man, woman, and paid informer would spread throughout the city looking for him. It was conceivable that even the British would be called in, but it was not likely. Those in Washington who wanted Brandon Alan Scofield wanted him dead, not questioned, and this was not the English style. No, the British would be avoided.

Bray counted on it. There was a man he had helped several years ago, under circumstances that had little to do with their allied professions, that had made it possible for the Englishman to remain in British Intelligence. Not only remain but advance to a position of considerable responsibility.

Roger Symonds had dropped £2,000 of MI-Six funds at
the tables of Les Ambassadeurs. Bray had replaced the sum from one of his accounts. The money had never been repaid—not by default, only because Scofield had not crossed Symonds’ path. In their work, one did not leave a forwarding address.

A form of repayment would be asked for now. That it would be offered, Scofield did not question, but whether it could be delivered was something else again. Yet it would be neither if Roger Symonds learned that he was on Washington’s terminal list. Debts aside, the Englishman took his work seriously; there’d be no Fuchs or Philbys on his conscience. Much less a former killer from Consular Operations conceivably turned paid assassin.

Bray wanted Symonds to arrange a private, isolated meeting between himself and England’s Foreign Secretary, David Waverly. The meeting, however, had to be negotiated without Scofield’s name being used—the British agent would balk at that, refuse entirely if he learned of Washington’s hunt for him. Scofield knew he had to come up with a credible motive: he had not thought of one yet.

He ran out of Charing Cross station and walked into the flow of pedestrians heading south on the Strand. At Trafalgar Square, he crossed the wide intersection, joining the early evening crowds. He looked at his watch. It was 6:15, 7:15 in Paris. In thirty minutes he was to start calling Toni at her flat in the rue de Bac; there was a telephone center a few blocks away on Haymarket. He would make his way there slowly, stopping to buy a new hat and jacket. The CIA man would give a precise description of his clothing; changing it was imperative.

He was wearing the same windbreaker he had worn in Corsica, the same visored fishing cap. He left them in a curtained dressing room at a branch of Dunns, buying a dark tweed Mackinaw jacket and an Irish walking hat, the soft brim falling around his head, a circle of narrow fabric throwing shadows downward across his face. He walked south again, more rapidly now, and cut through the winding back streets into Haymarket.

He paid one of the operators at the telephone center counter, was assigned a booth, went inside, and closed the glass door, wishing it were solid. It was ten minutes to seven. Antonia would be waiting by the phone. They always allowed a variable of a half-hour for channel telephone
traffic; if he did not reach her by 8:15, Paris time, she could expect his next call between 11:45 and 12:15. The one condition Toni had insisted upon was for them to talk to each other every day. Bray had not objected; he had come out of the earth and found something very precious to him, something he had thought he had lost permanently. He could love again; the excitement of anticipation had come back. The sound of a voice stirred him, the touch of a hand was meaningful. He had found Antonio Gravet at the most inopportune time of his life, yet finding her gave a significance to his life he had not felt for a number of years. He wanted to live and grow old with her, it was as simple as that. And remarkable. He had never thought about growing old before; it was time he did.

If the Matarese allowed it.

The
Matarese.
An international power without a profile, its leaders faceless men trying to achieve
what?

Chaos?
Why?

Chaos.
Scofield was suddenly struck by the root meaning of the word. The state of formless matter, of clashing bodies in space, before the creation. Before order was imposed on the universe.

The telephone rang; Bray picked it up quickly.

“Vasili’s here,” said Antonia.

“In
Paris?
When did he get in?”

“This afternoon. He’s hurt.”

“How badly?”

“His neck. He should have stitches.”

There was a brief pause as the phone was being passed. Or taken.

“He should have sleep,” said Taleniekov in English. “But I have things to tell you first, several warnings.”

“What about Voroshin?”

“He kept the V for practical if foolish purposes. He became Essen’s Verachten. Ansel Verachten.”

“The
Verachten
Works?”

“Yes”

“Good Christ!”

“His son believed that.”

“What?”

“It’s irrelevant; there’s too much to tell you. His granddaughter was the chosen one. She’s dead, killed on Matarese orders.”

“As Scozzi was,” said Scofield.

“Exactly,” agreed the Soviet. “They were vessels; they carried the plans but were commandeered by others. It will be interesting to see what happens to the Verachten companies. They have no leadership now. We must watch and note who assumes control.”

“We’ve reached the same conclusion then,” said Bray. “The Matarese work through large corporations.”

“It would appear so, but to what end I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s extremely contradictory.”

“Chaos.…” Scofield spoke the word softly.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Nothing. You said you wanted to warn me.”

“Yes. They’ve studied our files under microscopes. It seems they know every drone we’ve ever used, every past friend, every contact, every … teacher and lover. Be careful.”

“They can’t know what was never entered; they can’t cover everyone.”

“Don’t bank on that. You received my cable about the body marks?”

“It’s crazy! Squads of killers identifying themselves? I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Believe it,” said Taleniekov. “But there’s something I wasn’t able to explain. They’re suicidal; they won’t be taken. Which leads me to believe they’re not as extensive in numbers as the leaders would like us to think. They’re some kind of élite soldiers sent out to the troubled areas, not to be confused with hired guns employed by second and third parties.”

Bray paused, remembering. “You know what you’re describing, don’t you?”

“All too well,” replied the Russian. “Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah. The
Fida’is.
”

“Cadres of assassins … ’til death do us part from our pleasures. How is it modernized?”

“I have a theory; it may be worthless. We’ll discuss it when I see you.”

“When will that be?”

“Tomorrow night—early the next morning probably. I can hire a pilot and a plane in the Cap Gris district; I’ve done it before. There’s a private airfield between
Hyth and Ashford. I should be in London by one o’clock, two or three at the latest. I know where you’re staying, the girl told me.”

“Taleniekov.”

“Yes?”

“Her name’s Antonia.”

“I know that.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“Of course. Here she is.”

He found the name in the London directory:
R. Symonds, Brdbry Ln, Chelsea.
He memorized the number and placed the first call at 7:30 from a booth in Piccadilly Circus. The woman who answered told him politely that Mr. Symonds was on his way home from the office.

“He should be here any mo’ now. Shall I tell him who called?”

“The name wouldn’t mean anything. I’ll call back in a while, thank you.”

“He’s got a marvelous memory. You’re sure you don’t care to leave your name?”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

“He’s coming directly from the office.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

Scofield hung up, disturbed. He left the booth and walked down Piccadilly past Fortnum and Mason to St. James Street and beyond. There was another booth at the entrance to Green Park; slightly more than ten minutes had passed. He wanted to hear the woman’s voice again.

“Has you husband arrived?” he asked.

“He
just
called from the local, wouldn’t you know! The Brace and Bit on Old Church. He’s quite irritable, if I do say. Must have had a
dreadful
day.”

Bray hung up. He knew the number of MI-Six—London; it was one a member of the fraternity kept in mind. He dialed.

“Mr. Symonds, please. Priority.”

“Right away, sir.”

Roger Symonds was not on his way home, nor was he in a pub called The Brace and Bit. Was he playing a domestic game?

“Symonds here,” said the familiar English voice.

“Your wife just told me you were on your way home, but got detained at The Brace and Bit. Is that the best you could come up with?”