The Matarese Circle (61 page)

Bray put the whisky down, and walked to the hotel window overlooking Carlos Place. “A little while ago you
said you had two choices. To go out after her, or wait in the rue de Bac. It seems to me there was a third but you didn’t take it. You could have gotten out of Paris yourself right away.”

Taleniekov closed his eyes. “That was the one choice I didn’t have. It was in her voice, in every reference she made to you. I thought I saw it in Corsica, that first night in the cave above Porto Vecchio when you looked at her. I thought then, how
insane
, how perfectly.…” The Russian shook his head.

“Unreasonable?” asked Bray.

Taleniekov opened his eyes. “Yes. Unreasonable … as in unnecessary, uncalled for.” The KGB man raised his glass and drank the remaining whisky in one swallow. “The slate from East Berlin is as clean as it will ever be; there’ll be no more cleansing.”

“None will be asked for. Or expected.”

“Good. I presume you’ve seen the newspapers.”

“Trans-Communications? Its holdings in Verachten?”

“Ownership would be more like it. I trust you noted the location of the corporate headquarters. Boston, Massachusetts. A city quite familiar to you, I think.”

“What’s more to the point, it’s the city—and state—of Joshua Appleton, the Fourth, patrician and Senator, whose grandfather was the guest of Guillaume de Matarese. It’ll be interesting to see what—if any—his connections are to Trans-Comm.”

“Can you doubt they exist?”

“At this point I doubt everything,” said Scofield. “Maybe I’ll think differently after we’ve put together those facts you say we now have. Let’s start with when we left Corsica.”

Taleniekov nodded. “Rome came first. Tell me about Scozzi.”

Bray did, taking the time to explain the role Antonia had been forced to play in the Red Brigades.

“That’s why she was in Corsica, then?” asked Vasili. “Running from the Brigades?”

“Yes. Everything she told me about their financing spells Matarese.…” Scofield clarified his theories, moving swiftly on to the events at Villa d’Este and the murder of Guillamo Scozzi, ordered by a man named Paravacini. “It was the first time I heard that I was dead. They
thought I was you.… Now Leningrad. What happened there?”

Taleniekov breathed deeply before answering. “They killed in Leningrad, in Essen,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Oh, how they kill, these twentieth-century
Fida’is
, these contemporary mutants of Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah. I should tell you, the soldier I pushed from the car in the Place de la Concorde had more than a blemish on his chest. His clothes were stained by a gunshot that left another mark. I told his associate it was for Leningrad, for Essen.”

The Russian told his story quietly, the depth of his feelings apparent when he spoke of Lodzia Kronescha, the scholar Mikovsky, and Heinrich Kassel. Especially Lodzia; it was necessary for him to stop for a while and pour more whisky in his glass. Scofield remained silent; there was nothing he could say. The Russian finished with the field at night in Stadtwald and the death of Odile Verachten.

“Prince Andrei Voroshin became Ansel Verachten, founder of the Verachten Works, next to Krupp the largest company in Germany, now one of the most sprawling in all Europe. The granddaughter was his chosen successor in the Matarese.”

“And Scozzi,” said Bray, “joined Paravacini through a marriage of convenience. Bloodlines, a certain talent, and charm in exchange for a seat in the board room. But the chair was a prop; it’s all it ever was. The count was expendable, killed because he made a mistake.”

“As was Odile Verachten. Also expendable.”

“And the name Scozzi-Paravacini is misleading. The control lies with Paravacini.”

“Add to that Trans-Communication’s ownership of Verachten. So two descendants of the
padrone
’s guest list are accounted for, both a part of Matarese, yet neither significant. What do we have?”

“What we suspected, what old Krupskaya told you in Moscow. The Matarese was taken over, obviously in part, possibly in whole. Scozzi and Voroshin were useful for what they brought or what they knew or what they owned. They were tolerated—even made to feel important—as long as they
were
useful, eliminated the moment they were not.”

“But useful for
what?
That’s the question!” Taleniekov
banged his glass down in frustration. “What does the Matarese want? They finance intimidation and murder through huge corporate structures; they spread panic, but
why?
This world is going mad with terror, bought and paid for by men who lose the most by it. Their investment is in total
disorder!
It makes no sense!”

Scofield heard the sound—the moan—and sprang out of the chair. He walked quickly to the bedroom door; Toni had changed her position, twisting to her left, the covers bunched around her shoulders. But she was still asleep; the cry had come from her unconscious. He went back to the chair and stood behind it.

“Total disorder,” he said softly. “Chaos. The clashing of bodies in space. Creation.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Taleniekov.

“I’m not sure,” replied Scofield. “I keep going back to the word ‘chaos’ but I’m not sure why.”

“We’re not sure of
anything
. We have four names—but two didn’t amount to much—and they’re dead. We see an alignment of companies who are the superstructure—the
essential superstructure
—behind terrorism everywhere, but we cannot prove the alignment and don’t know why they’re sponsoring it. Scozzi-Paravacini finances the Red Brigades, Verachten no doubt Baader-Meinhof, God only knows what Trans-Communications pays for—and these may be only a few of the many involved. We have
found
the Matarese, but still we don’t see them! Whatever charges we leveled against such conglomerates would be called the ravings of madmen, or worse.”

“Much worse,” said Bray, remembering the voice over the restaurant’s telephone. “Traitors. We’d be shot.”

“Your words have the ring of prophecy. I don’t like them.”

“Neither do I, but I like being executed less.”

“A
non sequitur
.”

“Not when coupled with what you just said. ‘We’ve found the Matarese, but still we don’t see them,’ wasn’t that it?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose we not only found one, but had him. In our hands.”

“A
hostage?
”

“That’s right.”

“That’s insane.”

“Why? You had the Verachten woman.”

“In a car. In a farmer’s field. At night. I had no delusions of taking her into Essen and setting up a base of operations.”

Scofield sat down. “The Red Brigades held Aldo Moro eight blocks away from a police headquarters in Rome. Although that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

Taleniekov leaned forward. “Waverly?”

“Yes.”

“
How?
The American network is after you, the Matarese nearly trapped you; what did
you
have in mind? Dropping into the Foreign Office and proffering an invitation for tea?”

“Waverly’s to be brought here—to this room—at eight o’clock tonight.”

The Russian whistled. “May I ask how you managed it?”

Bray told him about Symonds. “He’s doing it because he thinks whatever convinced me to work with you must be strong enough to get me an interview with Waverly.”

“They have a name for me. Did he tell you?”

“Yes. The Serpent.”

“I suppose I should be flattered, but I’m not. I find it ugly. Does Symonds have any idea that this meeting has a hostile basis? That you suspect Waverly of being something more than England’s Foreign Secretary?”

“No, the reverse, in fact. When he objected, the last thing I said to him was that I might be trying to save Waverly’s life.”

“Very good,” said Taleniekov. “Very frightening. Assassination, like acts of terror, is a spreading commodity. They’ll be alone then?”

“Yes, I made a point of it. A room at the Connaught; there’d be no reason for Roger to think anything’s wrong. And we know the Matarese haven’t made the connection between me and the man Waverly is supposedly meeting at the MI-Six offices.”

“You’re certain of that? It strikes me as the weakest part of the strategy. They’ve got you in London, they know you have the four names from Corsica. Suddenly, from nowhere, Waverly, the
consigliere
, is asked to meet secretly with a man at the office of a British intelligence
agent known to have been a friend of Beowulf Agate. The equation seems obvious to me; why would it elude the Matarese?”

“A very specific reason. They don’t think I ever made contact with Symonds.”

“They can’t be sure you didn’t.”

“The odds are against it. Roger’s an experienced field man; he covered himself. He was logged in at the Admiralty and later returned a blind inquiry. I wasn’t picked up in the streets and we used a sterile phone. We met an hour outside of London, two changes of vehicle for me, at least four for him. No one followed.”

“Impressive. Not conclusive.”

“It’s the best I can do. Except for a final qualification.”

“Qualification?”

“Yes. There isn’t going to be a meeting tonight. They’ll never reach this room.”

“No
meeting?
Then what’s the purpose of their coming here?”

“So we can grab Waverly downstairs before Symonds knows what’s happened. Roger’ll be driving; when he gets here, he won’t go through the lobby, he’ll use a side entrance, I’ll find out which one. In the event—and I agree it’s possible—that Waverly is followed, you’ll be down in the street. You’ll know it; you’ll see them. Take them out. I’ll be right inside that entrance.”

“Where they least expect you,” broke in the Russian.

“That’s right. I’m counting on it. I can take Roger by surprise, hammer lock him and force a pill down his throat. He won’t wake up for hours.”

“It’s not enough,” said Taleniekov, lowering his voice. “You’ll have to kill him. Sacrifices inevitably must be made. Churchill understood that with Coventry and the Ultra; this is no less, Scofield. British Intelligence will mount the most extensive manhunt in England’s history. We’ve got to get Waverly out of the country. If the death of one man can buy us time—a day perhaps—I submit it’s worth it.”

Bray looked at the Russian, studying him. “You submit too godamn much.”

“You know I’m right.”

Silence. Suddenly Scofield hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the wall. “Go
damn
it!”

Taleniekov bolted forward, his right hand under his coat. “What is it?”

“You’re right and I
do
know it. He trusts me and I’ve got to kill him. It’ll be days before the British will know where to start Neither MI-Six nor the Foreign Office knows anything about the Connaught.”

The KGB man removed his hand, sliding it on to the arm of the chair. “We need the time. I don’t think there’s any other way.”

“If there is, I hope to God it comes to me.” Bray shook his head. “I’m sick to death of necessity.” He looked over at the bedroom door. “But then she told me that.”

“The rest is detail,” continued Taleniekov, rushing the moment. “I’ll have an automobile on the street outside the entrance. The moment I’m finished—if, indeed, there’s anything for me to do—I’ll come inside and help you. It will be necessary, of course, to take the dead man along with Waverly. Remove him.”

“The dead man has no name,” said Scofield quietly. He got out of the chair and walked to the window. “Has it occurred to you that the closer we get, the more like them we become?”

“What occurs to me,” replied the Russian, “is that your strategy is nothing short of extraordinary. Not only will we have a
consigliere
of the Matarese, but
what a consigliere!
The Foreign Secretary of England! Have you any idea what that means? We’ll break that man wide open, and the world will listen. It will be
forced
to listen!” Taleniekov paused, then added softly, “What you’ve done lives up to the stories of Beowulf Agate.”

“Bullshit,” said Bray. “I hate that name.”

The moan was sudden, bursting into a prolonged sob, followed by a cry of pain, muffled, uncertain, desperate. Scofield raced into the bedroom. Toni was writhing on the bed, her hands clawing her face, her legs kicking viciously at imaginary demons that surrounded her. Bray sat down and pulled her hands from her face, gently, firmly, bending each finger so that the nails would not puncture her skin. He pinned her arms and held her, cradling her as he had cradled her in Rome. Her cries subsided, replaced once more by sobs; she shivered, her breathing erratic, slowly returning to normal as her rigid body went limp. The first hysterics brought about by the dissipation of
scopolamine had passed. Scofield heard footsteps in the doorway; he angled his head to signify that he was listening.

“It will keep up until morning, you know,” said the KGB man. “It leaves the body slowly, with a great deal of pain. As much from the images in the mind as anything else. There’s nothing you can do. Just hold her.”

“I know. I will.”

There was a moment of silence; Bray could feel the Russian’s eyes on him, on Antonia. “I’ll leave now,” Taleniekov said. “I’ll call you here at noon, come up later in the day. We can refine the details then, coordinate signals, that kind of thing.”

“Sure. That kind of thing. Where’ll you go? You can stay here, if you like.”

“I think not. As in Paris, there are dozens of places here. I know them as well as you do. Besides, I must find a car, study the streets. Nothing takes the place of preparation, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Good night. Take care of her.”

“I’ll try.” Footsteps again; the Russian walked out of the room. Scofield spoke. “Taleniekov.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about Leningrad.”

“Yes.” Again there was silence; then the words were spoken quietly. “Thank you.”

The outside door closed; he was alone with his love. He lowered her to the pillow and touched her face. So illogical, so unreasonable.
Why did I find you? Why did you find me? You should have left me where I was—deep in the earth. It isn’t the time for either of us, can’t you understand that? It’s all so … uncalled for
.