The Matarese Circle (57 page)

“I what?… Who’s this?”

“An old friend.”

“Not much of a one, I’m afraid. I’m not married. My friends know that.”

Bray paused, then spoke urgently. “Quickly. Give me a sterile number, or one on a scrambler.
Quickly!
”

“Who
is
this?”

“Two thousand pounds.”

It took Symonds less than a second to understand and adjust; he reeled off a number, repeated it once, then added, “The cellars. Forty-five stories high.”

There was a click; the line went dead. Forty-five stories high to the cellars meant halving the figure, minus one. He was to call the number in exactly twenty-two minutes—within the one-minute span—during which scrambling and jamming devices would be activated. He left the booth to find another as far away as time and rapid walking permitted. Telephone intercepts were potentially two-way traces; the booth at Green Park could be under observation in a matter of minutes.

He went up Old Bond Street into New until he reached Oxford, where he turned right and began running toward Wardour Street. At Wardour he slowed down, turned right again, and melted into the crowds of Soho.

Elapsed time: nineteen and a half minutes.

There was a booth at the corner of Shaftsbury Avenue; inside a callow young man wearing an electric-blue suit was screaming into the phone. Scofield waited by the door, looking at his watch.

Twenty-one minutes.

He could not take the chance. He took out a five-pound note and tapped on the glass. The young man turned; he saw the bill and held up his middle finger in a gesture that was not cooperative.

Bray opened the door, put his left hand on the electric-blue shoulder, tightened his grip, and as the offensive young man began screeching, pulled him out of the booth, tripping him with his left foot, dropping the fiver on top of him. It floated; the youth grabbed it and ran.

Twenty-one minutes, thirty seconds.

Scofield took several deep breaths, trying to slow the rapid pounding in his chest. Twenty-two minutes. He dialed.

“Don’t go home,” said Bray the instant Symonds was on the line.

“Don’t
you
stay in London!” was the reply “Grosvenor Square has an alert out for you.”

“You
know?
Washington called you
in?
”

“Hardly. They won’t say a word about you. You’re terminated personnel, an off-limits subject. We probed several weeks ago when we first got word.”

“Word from
where?
”

“Our sources in the Soviet. In KGB. They’re after you, too, but then they always have been.”

“What did Washington say when you probed?”

“Played it down. Failure to report whereabouts, something like that. They’re too embarrassed to put an official stamp on the nonsense. Are you authoring something? There’s a lot of that over there—”

“How did you know about the alert?” interrupted Scofield. “The one out for me now?”

“Oh, come now, we do keep tabs, you know. A number of people Grosvenor has on its payroll quite rightly have first loyalties to us.”

Bray paused briefly, bewildered. “Roger, why are you telling me this? I can’t believe two thousand pounds would make you do it.”

“That misappropriated sum has been sitting in a Chelsea bank drawing interest for you since the morning after you bailed me out.”

“Then why?”

Symonds cleared his throat, a proper Englishman facing the necessity of showing emotion. “I have no idea what your quarrel is over there and I’m not sure I care to—you have such puritanical outbursts—but I was appalled to learn that our prime source in Washington confirmed that the State Department subscribes to the Soviet ploy. As I said, it’s not only nonsense, I find it patently offensive.”

“A ploy? What ploy?”

“That you joined forces with the Serpent.”

“The ‘Serpent’?”

“It’s what we call Vasili Taleniekov, a name I’m sure you’ll recall. To repeat, I don’t know what your trouble is, but I
do
know a godamned lie, a macabre lie at that,
when I hear one.” Symonds cleared his throat again. “Some of us remember East Berlin. And I was here when you came back from Prague. How dare they … after what you’ve
done?
Churlish bastards!”

Scofield took a long, deep breath. “Roger, don’t go home.”

“Yes, you said that before.” Symonds was relieved they were back to practicality; it was his voice. “You say some-one’s there, claiming to be my wife?”

“Probably not inside, but nearby, with a clear view. They’ve tapped into your phone and the equipment’s good. No echoes, no static.”

“
My
phone? They’re trailing
me?
In
London?
”

“They’re covering you; they’re after me. They knew we were friends and thought I might try to reach you.”

“Godamned
cheek!
That embassy will get a bolt that’ll char the gold feathers off that fucking ridiculous eagle! They go too
far!
”

“It’s not the Americans.”

“
Not
the?… Bray, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

“That’s just it. We have to talk. But it’s got to be a very complicated route. Two networks are looking for me, and one of them has you under a glass. They’re good.”

“We’ll see about that,” snapped Symonds, annoyed, challenged and curious. “I daresay several vehicles, one or two decoys, and a healthy bit of official lying can do the trick. Where are you?”

“Soho. Wardour and Shaftsbury.”

“Good. Head over to Tottenham Court. In about twenty minutes, a gray Mini—rear license plate askew—will enter south from Oxford and stall at the curb. The driver’s black, a West Indian chap; he’s your contact. Get in with him; the engine will make a remarkable recovery.”

“Thank you, Roger.”

“Not at all. But don’t expect me to have the two thousand quid. The banks are closed, you know.”

Scofield got in the front seat of the Mini, the black driver looking at him closely, courteously, his right hand out of sight. The man had obviously been given a photograph to study. Bray removed the Irish hat.

“Thank you,” said the driver, his hand moving swiftly
to his jacket pocket, then to the wheel. The engine caught instantly and they sped out of Tottenham Court. “My name is Israel. You are Brandon Scofield—obviously. Good to make your acquaintance.”

“Israel?” he asked.

“That’s it, mon,” replied the driver, smiling, a pronounced West Indian lilt to his voice. “I don’t think my parents had in mind the cohesiveness of minorities when they gave it to me, but they were avid readers of the Bible. Israel Isles.”

“It’s a nice name.”

“My wife thinks they blew it, as you Americans say. She keeps telling me that if they had only used Ishmael instead, all my introductions would be memorable.”

“ ‘Call me Ishmael’ …” Bray laughed. “It’s close enough.”

“This banter covers a slight nervousness on my part, if I may say so,” said Isles.

“Why?”

“We studied a number of your accomplishments in training; it wasn’t that long ago. I’m chauffeuring a man we’d all like to emulate.”

The trace of laughter vanished from Scofield’s face. “That’s very flattering. I’m sure you will if you want to.”
And when you get to be my age, I hope you think it’s been worth it.

They drove south out of London on the road toward Heathrow, branching off the highway at Redhill, heading west into the countryside. Israel Isles was sufficiently perceptive to curtail the banter. He apparently understood that he was driving either a very preoccupied or exhausted American. Bray was grateful for the silence; he had to reach a difficult decision. The risks were enormous no matter what he decided.

Yet part of that decision had already been forced upon him, which meant he had to tell Symonds that Washington wasn’t the immediate issue. He could not permit Roger to vent his misplaced outrage on the American Embassy; it was not the embassy that had placed the intercept on his telephone. It was the Matarese.

Yet to tell the whole truth meant involving Symonds, who would not remain silent. He would go to others and those others to their superiors. It was not the time to speak
of conspiracy so massive and contradictory that it would be branded no more than the product of two terminated intelligence officers—both wanted for treason in their respective countries. The time
would
come, but it was not now. For the truth of the matter was that they did not possess a shred of hard evidence. Everything they knew to be true was so easily denied as the paranoid ramblings of lunatics and traitors. On the surface, the logic was their enemies’. Why would the leaders of mammoth corporations, conglomerates that depended on stability, finance chaos?

Chaos.
Formless matter, clashing bodies in space.…

“Another few minutes, we’ll reach our first destination,” said Israel Isles.

“First destination?”

“Yes, our trip’s in two stages. We change vehicles up ahead; this one is driven back to London—the driver black, his passenger white—and we proceed in another, quite different car. The next leg is less than a quarter of an hour. Mr. Symonds may be a little late, however. He had to make four changes of vehicles in city garages.”

“I see,” said Scofield, relieved. The West Indian had just provided Bray with his answer. As the rendezvous with Symonds was in stages, so, too, would be the explanation
to
Symonds. He would tell him part of the truth, but nothing that would implicate the Foreign Secretary, David Waverly. However, Waverly had to be given information on a most confidential basis; decisions of foreign policy could be affected by the news of massive shifts of capital being manipulated secretly.
This
was the information Scofield had come across and was tracing: massive shifts of capital. And although all clandestine economic maneuvers were subjects for intelligence scrutiny, these went beyond MI-Five and -Six, just as they superseded the interests of the FBI and the CIA.

In Washington, there were those who wanted to prevent him from disclosing what he knew, but could not prove. The surest way of doing so was to discredit him, kill him, if it came to that. Symonds would understand. Men killed facilely for money; no one knew it better than intelligence officers. So often it was the spine of their … accomplishments.

Isles slowed the Mini down and pulled to the side of the road. He made a U-turn, pointing the car in the direction from which they came.

Within thirty seconds another, larger automobile approached; it had picked them up along the way and had followed at a discreet distance. Bray knew what was expected; he got out, as did the West Indian. The Bentley came to a stop. A white driver opened the rear door for a black companion. No one spoke as the exchange was made, both cars now driven by blacks.

“May I ask you a question?” said Israel Isles hesitantly.

“Sure.”

“I’ve gone through all the training, but I’ve never had to kill a man. I worry about that sometimes. What’s it like?”

Scofield looked out the window at the shadows rushing past.
It’s like walking through a door into a place you’ve never been before. I hope you do not have to go there, for it’s filled with a thousand eyes—a few angry, more frightened, most pleasing … all wondering. Why me now?
“There’s not very much of that,” said Bray. “You never take a life unless it’s absolutely necessary, knowing that if you have to, you’re saving a lot many more. That’s the justification, the only one there should ever be. You put it out of your mind, lock it away behind a door somewhere in your head.”

“Yes, I think I understand. The justification is in the necessity. One has to accept that, doesn’t one?”

“That’s right. Necessity.”
Until you grow older and the door opens more and more frequently. Finally it will not close and you stand there, staring inside.

They drove into the deserted parking area of a picnic grounds in the Guildford countryside. Beyond the post-and-rail fence were swings and slides and seesaws, all silhouetted in the bright moonlight. Not too many weeks hence, spring would come and the playground would be filled with the shouts and laughter of children; now it echoed the roar of powerful engines and the quiet sounds of men talking.

A car was waiting for them, but Roger Symonds was not in it; he was expected momentarily. Two men had arrived
early to make certain there was no one else in the picnic grounds, no intercepts placed on phones considered sterile.

“Hello, Brandon,” said a short, stocky man in a bulky overcoat, extending his hand.

“Hi, how are you?” Scofield did not recall the agent’s name, but remembered the face, the red hair; he was one of the best men fielded by MI-Six.
Cons Op
had called him in—with British permission—when the Moscow-Paris-Cuba espionage ring was operating inside the Chamber of Deputies. Bray was impressed at seeing him now. Symonds was using a first team.

“It’s been eight or ten years, hasn’t it?”

“At least,” agreed Scofield. “How’ve you been?”

“Still here. I’ll be pensioned off before too long. Looking forward to that.”

“Enjoy it.”

The Englishman hesitated, then spoke with embarrassment. “Never did see you after that awful business in East Berlin. Not that we were such friends, but you know what I mean. Delayed condolences, chap. Rotten thing. Fucking animals, I say.”

“Thanks. It was a long time ago.”

“Never that long,” said the MI-Six man. “It was my source in Moscow that brought us that garbage about you and the Serpent. Beowulf and the Serpent! My God, how could those pricks in D.C. swallow such rot?”

“It’s complicated.”

He saw the headlights first, then heard the engine. A London taxi drove into the picnic grounds. The driver, however, was no London cabbie; it was Roger Symonds.

The middle-aged MI-Six officer climbed out and for a second or two blinked and stretched, as if to get his bearings. Bray watched him, noting that Roger had not changed during the years since they had known each other. The Englishman was still given to an excess pound or two, and his thatch of rumpled brown hair was still unmanageable. There was an air of disorientation about the veteran operative that masked a first-rate analytical mind. He was not an easy man to fool—with part of the truth or none of it.