The Matarese Circle (76 page)

“Send the guard in from the conference room.” The words were rushed, but the fear was not audible. “The one with the submachine gun.”

Scofield viced his left arm around Guiderone’s neck, dragged him over to the drapes, and pulled them open. Through the glass, across the conference room, a man could be seen approaching the guard. The guard nodded, angled his weapon to the floor, and walked rapidly across the room toward the archway exit.

“
Per nostro circolo
,” whispered Bray. He yanked up with all his strength, the vise around Guiderone’s throat clamping shut, crushing bone and cartilage. There was a snap, an expulsion of breath. The old man’s eyes protruded from their sockets, his neck broken. The Shepherd Boy was dead.

Scofield ran across the room to the door, pressing his back against the wall by the hinges. The door opened; he saw the angled weapon first, the figure of the guard a split second later. Bray kicked the door closed, both his hands surging forward toward the man’s throat.

The harassed desk sergeant at the precinct on Boylston Street looked down at the thin, prim-looking woman whose mouth was pursed, eyes narrowed in disapproval. He held the envelope in his hands.

“
Okay
, lady, you’ve delivered it and I’ve got it. Okay? The phones are a little busy tonight, okay? I’ll get to it soon’s I can, okay?”

“Not ‘okay,’ Sergeant … Witkowski,” said the woman, reading the name on the desk sign. “The citizens of Boston will not stand idly by while their rights are being abridged by criminal elements. We are rising up in justifiable outrage, and our cries have not gone unheeded. You are being watched, Sergeant! There are those who understand our distress and they are testing you. I’d advise you not to be so cavalier—”

“Okay,
okay
.” The sergeant tore open the envelope, and pulled out a sheet of yellow paper. He unfolded it and read
the words printed in large blue letters. “Jesus Christ on a fuckin’
raft
,” he said quietly, his eyes suddenly widening in astonishment. He looked down at the disapproving woman as if he were seeing her for the first time. As he stared, he reached over to a button on the desk; he pressed it repeatedly.

“Sergeant, I strenuously object to your profanity.…”

Above every visible door in the precinct house, red lights began flashing on and off; from deep within, the sound of an alarm bell echoed off the walls of unseen rooms and corridors. In seconds, doors began opening and helmeted men came out, hastily donned two-inch shields of canvas and steel strapped over their chests.

“
Grab her!
” shouted the sergeant. “Pin her arms! Throw her into the bomb room!”

Seven police officers converged on the woman. A precinct lieutenant came running out of his office. “What the hell is it, Sergeant?”

“Look at this!”

The lieutenant read the words on the yellow paper. “Oh, my
Jesus!
”

The lieutenant issued his instructions. “Guiderone’s got guards all around that place; reach the house! Then call Brookline, tell them what’s going down, and raise every patrol car we’ve got in the vicinity of Jamaica Way; send them over.” The officer paused, peering at the yellow page with the precise blue letters printed on it, then added harshly, “
Godamn
it! Get Central Headquarters on the line. I want their best SWAT team dispatched to Appleton Hall.” He started back to his office, pausing again to
look in disgust at the woman being propelled through a door, arms pulled, stretched away from her sides, prodded by men with padded shields and helmets. “Third World Army of Liberation and Justice! Freaked-out bastards!
Book her!
” he roared.

Scofield dragged the guard’s body across the room, concealing it behind Guiderone’s desk. He raced over to the dead Shepherd Boy, and for the briefest of moments, just stared at the arrogant face. If it were possible to kill beyond killing, Bray would do so now. He pulled Guiderone to the far corner, throwing his body in a crumpled heap. He then stopped at Winthrop’s corpse, wishing there was time to somehow say goodbye.

He grabbed the guard’s submachine gun off the floor and ran over to the drapes. He pulled them open and looked at his watch. Fifty seconds to go until the explosions would begin. He checked the weapon in his hands; all clips were full. He looked through the window into the conference room, seeing what he had not seen before because the man had not been there before.

The Senator had arrived. All eyes were now on him, the magnetic presence mesmerizing the entire room; the easy grace, the worn, still-handsome face giving each man his attention, if only for an instant—telling that man he was special. And each man was seduced by the raw power of power; this was the next President of the United States and he was one of
them
.

For the first time in all the years Scofield had seen that face, he saw what a destroyed, alcoholic mother saw: it was a mask. A brilliantly conceived, ingeniously programmed mask … and mind.

Twelve seconds
.

There was a burst of static from a speaker on the desk. A voice erupted.

“Mr. Guiderone, we must interrupt! We’ve had calls from the Boston and Brookline police! There are reports of an armed attack on Appleton Hall. Men calling themselves the Third World Army of Liberation and Justice. We have no such organization on any list, sir. Our patrols are alerted. The police want everyone to stay.…”

Two seconds
.

The news had been relayed to the conference room. Men
leaped up from chairs, gathering papers. Their own particular panic was breaking out: how would the presence of such men be explained? Who would explain it?

One second
.

Bray heard the first explosion beyond the walls of Appleton Hall. It was in the distance, far down the hill, but unmistakable. The sound of rapid-fire weapons followed; men were shooting at the source of the first explosions.

Inside the conference room, the panic mounted. The
consiglieri
of the Matarese were rushing around, a single guard at the archway exit poised with his submachine gun leveled through the arch. Suddenly Scofield realized what the powerful men were doing: they were throwing papers and pads and maps into the fire at the end of the room.

It was his moment; the guard would be first, but merely the first.

Bray smashed the window with the barrel of his automatic weapon and opened fire. The guard spun as the bullets caught him. His submachine gun was on rapid-repeat; the death-pressure of his trigger finger caused the gun to erupt wildly, the spray of .30 caliber shells flying out of the ejector, walls and chandeliers and men bursting, exploding, collapsing under their impacts. Screams of death and shrieks of horror filled the room.

Scofield knew his targets, his eye rehearsed over a lifetime of violence. He smashed the jagged fragments of glass and raised the weapon to his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger in rapidly defined, reasonably aimed sequences. One step—one death—at a time.

The bursts of gunfire exploded through the window frame. The general fell, the pointer in his hand lacerating his face as he collapsed. The Secretary of State cowered at the side of the table; Scofield blew his head off. The director of the Central Intelligence Agency raced his counterpart from the National Security Council toward the arch, leaping over bodies in their hysteria. Bray caught them both. The director’s throat was a mass of blood; the NSC chairman raised his hands to a forehead that was no longer there.

Where was he? He of all men had to be found!

There he was!

The Senator was crouched below the conference table
in front of the roaring fire. Scofield took the aim of his life and squeezed the trigger. The spray of bullets exploded the wood, some
had
to penetrate. They did! The Senator fell back, then rose to his feet. Bray fired another burst; the Senator spun into the fireplace, then sprang back out, fire and blood covering his body. He raced blindly forward, then to his left, grabbing the tapestry on the wall as he fell.

The tapestry caught fire; the Senator in his collapse of death pulled it off the wall. The huge cloth arced down in flames over the conference table. The fire spread, flames leaping to every corner of the enormous room.

Fire!

After the explosions. Fire!

Taleniekov.

Scofield ran from the window. He had done what he had to do; it was the moment to do what he so desperately
wanted
to do. If it were possible; if there was any hope at
all
. He stopped in front of the door, checking the remaining ammunition; he had conserved it well. The third and fourth charges had detonated at the base of the hill. The fifth and sixth were timed to explode within seconds.

The fifth came; he yanked the door back, lunging through, weapon leveled. He heard the sixth explosion. Two guards at the cathedral-like entrance doors sprang from the outside path into view. Bray fired two bursts; the guards of the Matarese fell.

He raced to the door of the room that held Antonia and Taleniekov. It was locked.

“Stand way back! It’s me!” He fired five rounds into the wood around the lock casing; it splintered. He kicked the heavy door open; it crashed back against the wall. He ran in.

Taleniekov was out of the chair kneeling by the couch at the far end of the room, Toni beside him. Both were working furiously, tearing pillows out of slipcovers. Tearing … 
pillows?
What were they
doing?
Antonia looked up and shouted.

“Quickly! Help us!”

“What?” He raced over”

“
Pazhar!
” The Russian had to force the voice; it emerged now as a whispered roar.

Six pillows were free of their cases. Toni got to her feet, throwing five of the pillows around the room.

“Now!” said Taleniekov, handing her the matches he had taken from Bray earlier. She ran to the farthest pillow, struck a match and held it to the soft fabric. It caught fire instantly. The Russian held out his hand for Scofield. “Help me … get
up!
”

Bray pulled him off the floor; Taleniekov clutched the last pillow to his chest. They heard the seventh explosion in the distance; staccato gunfire followed, piercing the screams from inside the house.

“Come on!” yelled Scofield, putting his arm around the Russian’s waist. He looked over at Toni; she had set fire to the fourth pillow. Flames and smoke were filling the room. “Come
on!
We’re getting out!”

“
No!
” whispered Taleniekov. “You! She! Get me to the
door!
” The Russian held the pillow and lurched forward.

The great hall of the house was dense with smoke, flames from the inner conference room surging beneath doors and through archways, as men raced up the staircase to windows, vantage points—high ground—to aim their weapons at invaders.

A guard spotted them; he raised his submachine gun.

Scofield fired first; the man arched backward, blown off his feet.

“Listen to me!” gasped Taleniekov. “Always
pazhar!
With you it is sequence, with me it is fire!” He held up the soft pillow. “Light this! I will have the race of my life!”

“Don’t be a fool.” Bray tried to take the pillow away; the Russian would not permit it.

“
Nyet!
” Taleniekov stared at Scofield; a final plea was in his eyes. “If I could, I would not care to live like this. Neither would you. Do this for me, Beowulf. I would do it for you.”

Bray returned the Russian’s look. “We’ve worked together,” he said simply. “I’m proud of that.”

“We were the best there were.” Taleniekov smiled and raised his hand to Scofield’s cheek. “Now, my friend. Do what I would do for you.”

Bray nodded and turned to Antonia; there were tears in her eyes. He took the book of matches from her hand, struck one, and held it beneath the pillow.

The flames lept up. The Russian spun in place, clutching
the fire to his chest. And with the roar of a wounded animal suddenly set free from the jaws of a lethal trap, Taleniekov lunged, propelling himself into a limping run, careening off the walls and chairs, pressing the flaming pillow and himself into everything he touched—and everything he touched caught fire. Two guards raced down the staircase, seeing the three of them; before they or Scofield could fire, the Russian was on them hurling the flames and himself at them, throwing the fire into their faces.

“
Skaryei!
” screamed Taleniekov. “Run, Beowulf!” A burst of gunfire came upon the command, smothered by the flaming body of the Serpent; he fell, pulling both the Matarese guards with him down the staircase.

Bray grabbed Antonia by the arm and ran out to the stone path bordered by the lines of heavy, black chain. They raced through the opening in the wall into the concrete parking area; beams of floodlights shot down from the roof of Appleton Hall; men were at windows, weapons in their hands.

The eighth explosion came from below, at the base of the hill, the charge so filled with heat that the surrounding foliage burst into flames. Men at the windows smashed panes of glass and fired at the dancing light. Scofield saw that three of the other detonations had caused small brush fires. They were gifts he was grateful for; he and Taleniekov were both right. Sequence and fire, fire and sequence. Each was a diversion that could save one’s life. There were no guarantees—ever—but there
was
hope.

The rented car was parked at the side of the wall about fifty yards to their right. It was in shadows, an isolated vehicle that was meant to stay there. Bray pulled Toni against the wall.