The Matarese Circle (72 page)

He placed the clock mechanisms in a box given him by the supermarket clerk five hours ago, sealed the top, and carried it outside to his car. He opened the trunk, wedged the box into the corner, and returned to the hotel lobby.

“I find that I’ll be leaving shortly,” he said to the young man behind the front desk. “I paid for a week, but my plans have changed.”

“You also had a lot of phone calls billed to your room.”

“True,” agreed Scofield, wondering how many people in Salem were also aware of it. Did witches still burn in Salem? “If you’d have the balance ready for me, I’ll be down in about a half-hour. Add these papers to my bill, please.” He took two newspapers from the stacks on the
counter, the morning
Examiner
and a local weekly. He walked back up the staircase to his room.

He made instant coffee, carried the cup to the table, and sat down with the newspapers and the Salem telephone book. It was 8:25. Paul Bergeron had been in the air thirty minutes, weather at Logan Airport permitting. It was something he would check when he started his calls.

He opened the
Examiner
, turning to the classified section. There were two openings for construction workers, the first in Newton, the second in Braintree. He wrote down the addresses hoping to find a third or a fourth nearer by.

He did. In the Salem weekly, there was a photograph taken five days ago showing Senator Joshua Appleton at a groundbreaking ceremony in Swampscott. It was a federal project coordinated with the state of Massachusetts, a middle-income housing development being built on the rocky land north of Phillips Beach. The caption read B
LASTING AND
E
XCAVATION TO
C
OMMENCE
.…

The irony was splendid.

He opened the telephone book, and found a gunsmith in Salem; he had no reason to look further. He wrote down the address.

It was 8:37. Time to call the lie that went under the name of Joshua Appleton. He got up and went to the bed, deciding impulsively to phone Logan Airport first. He did, and the words he heard were the words he wanted to hear.

“Seven-fifty-five to Washington? That would be Eastern Flight Six-two. Let me check, sir.… There was a twelve-minute delay, but the plane’s airborne. No change in the E.T.A.”

Paul Bergeron was on his way to Washington and Robert Winthrop. There would be no delays now, no crisis-conferences, no hastily summoned meetings between arrogant men trying to decide how and when to proceed. Winthrop would call the Oval Office; an immediate audience would be granted and the full might of government would be pitted against the Matarese. And tomorrow morning—Winthrop had agreed to that—the Senator would be picked up by Secret Service and taken directly to Walter Reed Hospital where he would be subjected to intensive examinations. A twenty-five-year fraud would be exposed, the son destroyed with the Shepherd Boy.

Bray lit a cigarette, sipped his coffee, and picked up the phone. He was in full command; he would concentrate totally on his negotiations, on the exchange that would be meaningless to the Matarese.

The Senator’s voice was tense, exhaustion in his tight delivery. “Nicholas Guiderone wants to see you.”

“The Shepherd Boy himself,” said Scofield. “You know my conditions. Does he? Is he prepared to meet them?”

“Yes,” whispered the son. “A telephone number he agrees to. He’s not sure what you mean by a ‘sighting.’ ”

“Then there’s nothing further to talk about. I’ll hang up.”

“
Wait!
”

“Why? It’s a simple word; I told you I had binoculars. What else is there to say? He’s refused, Goodbye, Senator.”

“
No!
” Appleton’s breathing was audible. “All right, all right. You’ll be told a time and a location when you call the number I give you.”

“I’ll be
what?
You’re a dead man, Senator. If they want to sacrifice you, that’s their business—and yours. I suppose, but not mine.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

“It’s unacceptable. I’m not
told
a time and a location, I tell
you
and you tell them. Specifically, I give you a location and a time
span
, Senator. Between three and five o’clock this afternoon, at the north windows of Appleton Hall, the ones looking out over Jamaica Pond. Have you got that? Appleton Hall.”

“That
is
the telephone number!”

“You don’t say. Have the windows lighted, the woman in one room, the Russian in another. I want mobility, conversation; I want to see them walking, talking, reacting. Is that clear?”

“Yes. Walking … reacting.”

“And, Senator, tell your people not to bother looking for me. I won’t have the X-rays on me; they’ll be with someone else who’s been told where to send them if I’m not back at a specific bus stop by five-thirty.”

“A
bus
stop?”

“The north road below Appleton Hall is a public bus route. Those buses are always crowded and the long curve
around Jamaica Pond makes them slow down. If the rain keeps up they’ll be slower than usual, won’t they. I’ll have plenty of time to see what I want to see.”

“Will you
see
Nicholas
Guiderone?
” The question was rushed, on the edge of hysteria.

“If I’m satisfied,” said Scofield coldly. “I’ll call you from a phone booth around five-thirty.”

“He wants to talk with you
now!
”

“Mr. Vickery doesn’t talk to anyone until he checks into the Ritz Carlton Hotel. I thought that was clear.”

“He’s concerned you may have duplicates made; he’s very concerned about that.”

“These are twenty-five and thirty-eight-year-old negatives. Any exposure to photographic light would show up on a spectrograph instantly. I won’t get killed for that.”

“He insists you reach him
now!
He says it’s vital!”

“Everything’s vital.”

“He says to tell you you’re wrong.
Very
wrong.”

“If I’m satisfied this afternoon he’ll have a chance to prove it later. And you’ll have the presidency. Or will he?” Bray hung up and crushed out his cigarette. As he had thought, Appleton Hall was the most logical place for Guiderone to hold his hostages. He had tried
not
to think about it when he had driven around the massive estate—the nearness of Toni was an obstruction he could barely surmount—but instinctively he had known it. And because he knew it, his eyes had reacted like the rapid shutters of a dozen cameras clicking off a hundred images. The grounds had space; acres filled with dense trees and thick shrubbery and guards in lean- to shelters positioned around the hill. Such a fortress was a likely target for an invasion—indeed the possibility was obviously never far from Guiderone’s mind—and Scofield intended to capitalize on that fear. He would mount an imaginary invasion, its roots in the sort of army the Shepherd Boy understood as well as anyone on earth.

He made a last call before leaving Salem; to Robert Winthrop in Washington. The Ambassador might well be tied up for hours at the White House—his advice intrinsic to any decision made by the President—and Scofield wanted his first line of protection. It was his only protection, really; imaginary invasions had no invaders.

“
Brandon?
I haven’t slept all night.”

“Neither did a lot of other people, sir. Is this line sterile?”

“I had it electronically checked early this morning. What’s happening? Did you see Bergeron?”

“He’s on his way. Eastern Flight Six-two. He’s got the envelope and will be in Washington by ten.”

“I’ll send Stanley to meet him at the airport. I spoke to the President fifteen minutes ago. He’s clearing his calendar and will see me at two o’clock this afternoon. I expect it will be a very long meeting. I’m sure he’ll want to bring in others.”

“That’s why I’m calling now; I thought as much. I’ve got the exchange ground. Have you a pencil?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“It’s a place called Appleton Hall in Brookline.”

“Appleton?
Senator
Appleton?”

“You’ll understand when you get the envelope from Bergeron.”

“My
God!
”

“The estate’s above Jamaica Pond, on a hill called Appleton Hill; it’s well known. I’ll set the meeting for eleven-thirty tonight; I’ll time my arrival exactly. Tell whoever’s in charge to start surrounding the hill at eleven-forty-five. Block off the roads a half-mile in all directions, using detour signs, and approach carefully. There are guards inside the fence every two or three hundred feet. Station the command post on the dirt road across from the front gate; there’s a large white house there, if I remember correctly. Take it and sever the telephone wires; it may belong to the Matarese.”

“Just a minute, Brandon,” interrupted Winthrop. “I’m writing all this and my hands and eyes aren’t what they once were.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll slow down.”

“It’s all right. ‘Sever telephone wires.’ Go on.”

“My strategy’s right out of the book. They may expect it, but they can’t stop it. I’ll say my deadline’s fifteen minutes past midnight. That’s when I’m to go out the front door with the hostages to my car and strike two matches one after the other; they’ll recognize a pattern. I’ll tell them a drone is outside the gate with an envelope containing the X-rays.”

“Drone?
X-rays?
”

“The first is only a name for someone I hire. The second is the proof they expect me to deliver.”

“But you
can’t
deliver it!”

“It wouldn’t make any difference if I did. You’ll have enough in the envelope Bergeron’s bringing you.”

“Of course. What else?”

“When I strike the second match, tell the C.P. to give me corresponding signals.”

“Corresponding?…”

“Strike two matches.”

“Of course. Sorry. Then?”

“Wait for me to drive down to the gate. I’ll time everything as close to twelve-twenty as I can. As soon as the gate’s opened, the troops move in. They’ll be covered by diversionary static—tell them it’s just that. Static.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“They will. I’ve got to leave now, Mr. Ambassador. There’s still a lot to do.”

“Brandon!”

“Yes, sir?”

“There’s one thing you do
not
have to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Worry about vindication. I promise you. You were always the best there was.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything. I just want to be free.”

The gunsmith on Salem’s Hawthorne Boulevard was both amused and pleased that the stranger purchased two grosses of
Ought-Four
shotgun shells during off-season. Tourists were damn fools anyway, but this one compounded the damn-foolery of paying good money not only for the shells, but for ten plastic display tubes that the manufacturers supplied for nothing. He spoke with one of those smooth, kinda’ oily voices. Probably a New York lawyer who never had a gun in his hand. Damn fools.

The rain hammered down, forming pools in the mud as disgruntled crews of construction workers sat in cars waiting for a break in the weather so they could sign in; four hours meant a day’s pay, but without signing in there was nothing.

Scofield approached the door of a prefabricated shack, stepping on a plank sinking into the mud in front of the rain-splashed window. Inside he could see the foreman sitting behind a table talking into a telephone. Ten yards to the left was a concrete bunker, a heavy padlock on the steel door, the red-lettered sign stenciled across is explicit.

Bray rapped first on the window, distracting the man on the phone inside the shack, then stepped off the plank and opened the door.

“Yeah, what is it?” yelled the foreman.

“I’ll wait till you’re finished,” said Scofield, closing the door. A sign on the table gave the man’s name.
A. Patelli.

“That could be a while, pal! I got a thief on the phone. A fucking thief who says his fucking pansy drivers can’t roll because it’s wet out!”

“Don’t make it too long, please.” Bray removed his ID case. He flipped it open. “You are Mr. Patelli, aren’t you?”

The foreman stared at the identification card. “Yeah.” He turned back to the phone. “I’ll call you back, thief!” He got out of the chair. “You government?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell’s the matter
now?
”

“Something we don’t think you’re aware of, Mr. Patelli. My unit’s working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation—”

“The FBI?”

“That’s right. You’ve had several shipments of explosive materials delivered to the site here.”

“Locked up tight and accounted for,” interrupted the foreman. “Every fucking stick.”

“We don’t think so. That’s why I’m here.”

“
What?
”

“There was a bombing two days ago in New York, maybe you read about it. A bank in Wall Street. Oxidation raised several numbers on the serial imprint that blew with the detonating cap; we think it may be traced to one of your shipments.”

“That’s fuckin’-a-nuts!”

“Why don’t we check?”

The explosives inside the concrete bunker were not sticks, they were solid blocks roughly five inches long, three high and two thick, packaged in cartons of twenty-four.

“Prepare a statement of consignment, please,” said Scofield, studying the surface of a brick. “We were right. These are the ones.”

“A statement?”

“I’m taking a carton for evidenciary analysis.”

“
What?
”

“Look, Mr. Patelli, your ass may be in a very tight sling. You signed for these shipments and I don’t think you counted. I’d advise you to cooperate fully. Any indication of resistance could be misinterpreted; after all, it’s your responsibility. Frankly, I don’t think you’re involved, but I’m only the field investigator. On the other hand, my word counts.”

“I’ll sign any fucking thing you want. What do I write?”

At a hardware store, Bray bought ten dry-cell batteries, ten five-quart plastic containers, a roll of bell wire and a can of black spray paint. He asked for a very large box to carry everything in through the rain.