The Matarese Circle (8 page)

“A brutal gun,” said Taleniekov, nodding. “Very reliable. And the last weapon that would be used by someone sent from Washington.”

The old man did not seem to hear. “The gun used to kill General Blackburn was a Graz-Burya.”

Vasili raised his eyebrows. “A prized weapon when obtainable.” He paused and added quietly. “I favor mine.”

“Exactly. As the Magnum, Grade Four, is a favored weapon of another.”

Taleniekov stiffened. “Oh?”

“Yes, Vasili. VKR came up with several names it thinks could be responsible for Yurievich’s death. The leading contender was a man you despise: ‘Beowulf Agate.’ ”

Taleniekov spoke in a monotone. “Brandon Scofield, Consular Operations. Code name, Prague—Beowulf Agate.”

“Yes.”

“Was he?”

“No.” The old man struggled to raise his head on the pillow. “No more than you were involved with Blackburn’s death. Don’t you see? They know everything; even of operatives whose skills are proven, but whose minds are tired. Who, perhaps, need a significant kill. They are testing the highest levels of power before they make their move.”

“Who? Who are
they?
”

“The Matarese. The Corsican fever—”

“What does that
mean?
”

“It spreads. It has changed, far more deadly in its new form.” The old Istrebiteli fell back on the pillow.

“You must be clearer, Aleksie. I can see nothing. What is this Corsican fever, this … Matarese?”

Krupskaya’s eyes were wide, now staring at the ceiling; he whispered. “No one speaks; no one dares to speak. Our own Presidium; England’s Foreign Office, its MI-Six board room; the French Societe Diable d’Etat. And the Americans. Oh, never forget the Americans!… No one speaks. We all used it! We are stained by the Matarese.”

“
Stained?
How? What are you trying to say? What in heaven’s name
is
the Matarese?”

The old man turned his head slowly; his lips trembled. “Some say it goes back as far as Sarajevo. Others swear it claims Dollfuss, Bernadotte … even Trotsky on its list. We know about Stalin; we contracted for his death.”

“Stalin? It’s true then what was said?”

“Oh, yes. Beria, too; we paid.” The Istrebiteli’s eyes seemed now to float out of focus. “In forty-five … the world thought Roosevelt succumbed to a massive stroke.” Krupskaya shook his head slowly, saliva at the corners of his mouth. “There were financial interests who believed his policies with the Soviet were economically disastrous. They could not permit any further decisions on his part. They paid, and an injection was administered.”

Taleniekov was stunned. “Are you telling me that Roosevelt was
killed?
By this
Matarese?
”

“Assassinated, Vasili Vasilivich Taleniekov. That is the word, and that is one of the truths no one will speak of. So many … for so many years. None dare talk of the contracts, the payments. The admissions would be catastrophic … for governments everywhere.”

“But
why?
Why was it used, this Matarese?”

“Because it was available. And it removed the client from the scene.”

“It’s preposterous! Assassins have been
caught.
There’s been no such name ever mentioned!”

“You should know better than that, Vasili Vasilivich. You’ve used the same tactics yourself; no different from the Matarese.”

“What do you mean?”

“You both kill … and program killers.” The old man acknowledged Taleniekov’s nod. “The Matarese was dormant for years. Then it came back, but it was not the same. Killings took place without clients, without payments. Senseless butchery without a pattern. Men of value kidnapped and slain; aircraft stolen or blown up in mid-air, governments paralyzed—payments demanded or wholesale slaughter the result. The incidents have become more refined, more professional.”

“You’re describing the work of terrorists, Aleksie. Terrorism has no central apparatus.”

Once again the old Istrebiteli struggled to raise his head. “It does
now.
It has for the past several years. Baader-Meinhoff, the Red Brigades, the Palestinians, the African maniacs—they all gravitate to the Matarese. It kills with impunity. And now it is throwing the two superpowers into chaos before it makes its boldest move. And that is to assume control of one or the other. Ultimately, both.”

“How can you be certain?”

“A man was caught, a blemish on his chest, a soldier of the Matarese. Chemicals were administered, everyone ordered from the room but my source. I had warned him.”

“
You?
”

“Hear me out. There is a timetable, but to speak of it would be to acknowledge the past; none dare do that! Moscow by assassination, Washington by political maneuver, murder if necessary. Two months, three at the outside; everything is in motion now. Action and reaction has been tested at the highest levels, unknown men positioned at the centers of power. Soon it will happen, and when it does, we are consumed. We are destroyed, subjects of the Matarese.”

“Where is this man?”

“Dead. The chemicals wore off; there was a cyanide
pellet sewn into his skin. He tore his own flesh and reached it.”

“Assassination? Political maneuver, murder? You must be more specific.”

Krupskaya’s breath came shorter as he again fell back on the pillow. But strangely, his voice grew firmer. “There is no time—I do not
have
the time. My source is the most reliable in Moscow—in all the Soviet.”

“Forgive me, dear Aleksie, you were the best, but you do not exist anymore. Everyone knows that.”

“You must reach Beowulf Agate,” said the old Istrebiteli, as though Vasili had not spoken. “You and he must find them. Stop them. Before one of us is taken, the other’s destruction guaranteed. You and the man Scofield. You are best now, and the best are needed.”

Taleniekov looked impassively at the dying Krupskaya. “That is something no one can ask me to do. If Beowulf Agate were in my sight, I would kill him. As he would kill me, if he were capable.”

“You are
insignificant!
” The old man had to breathe slowly, in desperation, to get the air back in his lungs. “You have no time for yourselves, can’t you understand that? They are in our clandestine services, in the most powerful circles of both governments. They used the two of you once; they will use you again, and
again.
They use only the best and they will kill only the best! You are their diversions, you and men like you!”

“Where is the proof?”

“In the pattern,” whispered Krupskaya. “I’ve studied it. I know it well.”

“What pattern?”

“The Graz-Burya shells in New York; the seven millimeter casings of a Browning Magnum in Provasoto. Within hours Moscow and Washington were at each other’s throats. This is the way of the Matarese. It never kills without leaving evidence—often the killers themselves—but it is never the right evidence, never the true killers.”

“Men have been caught who pulled triggers, Aleksie.”

“For the wrong reasons. For reasons provided by the Matarese.… Now, it takes us to the edge of chaos and overthrow.”

“But
why?
”

Krupskaya turned his head, his eyes in focus, pleading,
“I don’t
know.
The pattern is there but not the
reasons
for it. That is what frightens me. One must go back to understand. The roots of the Matarese are in Corsica. The madman of Corsica; it started with him. The Corsican fever. Guillaume de Matarese. He was the high priest.”

“When?” asked Taleniekov. “How long ago?”

“During the early years of the century. Guillaume de Matarese and his council. The high priest and his ministers. They’ve come back. They must be stopped. You and the man Scofield!”

“Who are they?” asked Vasili. “Where are they?”

“No one knows.” The old man’s voice was failing now. He was failing. “The Corsican fever. It spreads.”

“Aleksie,
listen
to me,” said Taleniekov, disturbed by a possibility that could not be overlooked: the fantasies of a dying man could not be taken seriously. “Who is this reliable source of yours? Who is the man so knowledgeable in Moscow—in all the Soviet? How did you get the information you’ve given me? About the killing of Blackburn, the VKR report on Yurievich? Above all, this unknown man who speaks of timetables?”

Through the personal haze of his approaching death, Krupskaya understood. A faint smile appeared on his thin, pale lips. “Every few days,” he said, struggling to be heard, “a driver comes to see me, perhaps take me for a ride in the countryside. Sometimes to meet quietly with another. It’s the State’s kindness to a pensioned old soldier whose name was appropriated. I am kept informed.”

“I don’t understand, Aleksie.”

“The Premier of Soviet Russia is my source.”

“The Premier! But why you?”

“He is my son.”

Taleniekov felt a wave of cold rush through him. The revelation explained so much. Krupskaya had to be taken seriously; the old Istrebiteli had possessed the information—the ammunition—to eliminate all who stood in the way of his son’s march to premiership of Soviet Russia.

“Would he see me?”

“Never. At the first mention of the Matarese, he would have you shot. Try to understand, he would have no choice. But he knows I am right. He agrees, but will never acknowledge it; he cannot afford to. He simply wonders
whether it is he or the American President who will be in the gunsight.”

“I understand.”

“Leave me now,” said the dying Krupskaya. “Do what you must do, Taleniekov. I have no more breath. Reach Beowulf Agate, find the Matarese. It must be stopped. The Corsican fever can spread no further.”

“The Corsican fever?… In
Corsica?
”

“The answer may be there. It is the only place to start. Names. The first council! Many years ago.”

A coronary inefficiency had made it necessary for Robert Winthrop to use a wheelchair, but in no way did it impair the alertness of his mind, nor did he dwell on the infirmity. He had spent his life in the service of his government; there was never any lack of problems he considered more important than himself.

Guests at his Georgetown home soon forgot the wheelchair. The slender figure with the graceful gestures and the intensely interested face reminded them of the man he was: an energetic aristocrat who had used his private fortune to free himself from the marketplace and pursue a life of public advocacy. Instead of an infirm elder statesman with thinning gray hair and the still perfectly clipped moustache, one thought of Yalta and Potsdam and an aggressive younger man from the State Department forever leaning over Roosevelt’s chair or Truman’s shoulder to clarify this point or suggest that objection.

There were many in Washington—and in London and Moscow as well—who thought the world would be a better place had Robert Winthrop been made Secretary of State by Eisenhower, but the political winds had shifted and he was not a feasible choice. And later, Winthrop could not be considered; he had become involved in another area of government that required his full concentration. He had been quietly retained as Senior Consultant, Diplomatic Relations, Department of State.

Twenty-six years ago Robert Winthrop had organized a select division within State called Consular Operations. And after sixteen years of commitment he had resigned—some said because he was appalled at what his creation had become, while others claimed he was only too aware of the necessary directions it had taken, but could not bring himself to make certain decisions. Nevertheless, during the ten years since his departure, he had been consistently sought out for advice and counsel. As he was tonight.

Consular Operations had a new director. A career intelligence officer named Daniel Congdon had been shifted from a ranking position at the National Security Agency to the clandestine chair at State. He had replaced Winthrop’s successor and was finely attuned to the harsh decisions required by
Cons Op.
But he was new; he had questions. He also had a problem with a man named Scofield and was not sure how to handle it. He knew only that he wanted Brandon Alan Scofield terminated, removed from the State Department for good. His actions in Amsterdam could not be tolerated; they revealed a dangerous and unstable man. How much more dangerous would he be removed from the controls of Consular Operations? It was a serious question; the man with the code name, Beowulf Agate knew more about the State Department’s clandestine networks than any other man alive. And since Scofield had initially been brought to Washington years ago by Ambassador Robert Winthrop, Congdon went to the source.

Winthrop had readily agreed to make himself available to Congdon but not in an impersonal office or an operations room. Over the years, the Ambassador had learned that men involved with covert operations too instinctively reflected their surroundings. Short, cryptic sentences took the place of freer, rambling conversations wherein a great deal more could be revealed and learned. Therefore, he had invited the new director over for dinner.

The meal was finished, nothing of substance discussed. Congdon understood: the Ambassador was probing the surface before delving deeper. But now the moment had come.

“Let’s go into the library, shall we?” said Winthrop wheeling himself away from the table.

Once inside the book-lined room, the Ambassador wasted no time. “So you want to talk about Brandon.”

“Very much so,” replied the new director of
Cons Op.

“How do we thank such men for what they’ve done?” asked Winthrop. “For what they’ve lost? The field extracts a terrible price.”

“They wouldn’t be there if they didn’t want to be,” said Congdon. “If, for some reason, they didn’t need it. But once having been out there and survived, there’s another question. What do we do with them? They’re walking explosives.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Winthrop. I want to know more about him. Who is he? What is he? Where did he come from?”

“The child being the father of the man?”

“Something like that. I’ve read his file—a number of times, in fact—but I’ve yet to speak to anyone who really knows him.”