The Matarese Circle (77 page)

“The car over there. It’s mine; it’s our chance.”

“They’ll shoot at us!”

“The odds are better than running. There are patrols up and down the hill. On foot, they’d cut us down.”

They raced along the wall. The ninth charge of dynamite lit up the sky at the northwest base of the hill. Automatic guns and single-shot weapons erupted. Suddenly, from within the growing fires of Appleton Hall a massive explosion blew out a section of the front wall. Men fell from windows, fragments of stone and steel burst into
the night as half the floodlights disappeared. Scofield understood. The seat of the Matarese had its arsenals; the fires had found one.

“Let’s
go!
” he yelled, pushing Antonia toward the car. She threw herself inside as he ran around the trunk toward the driver’s side.

The concrete exploded all around him; from somewhere on the remaining roof a man with a submachine gun had spotted them. Bray crouched below the car, and saw the source of fire; he leveled his weapon and held the trigger steady in a prolonged burst. A scream preceded a body plummeting toward the ground. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

“There’s no
key!
” cried Toni. “They’ve taken the
key!
”

“Here,” said Scofield, handing her the gun, as he reached for the plastic shell of the roof light. He yanked it off; a key fell into his hand. He started the engine. “Get in the back!” he yelled. She obeyed, climbing over the seat. “Push that gun through the left window and when I spin out of here hold the trigger down! Aim high and keep firing; spray everything until I reach the first curve, but keep your head back! Can you do that?”

“I can do it!”

Bray spun the car into a U-turn, and sped across the parking area. Antonia did as she was told, the rapid explosions of the machine gun filling the car. They reached the curve of the drive, the first descent on the hill.

“Get over to the
right
window!” he ordered, careening the automobile around the curve, holding onto the wheel with such pressure that he was conscious of the ache in his arms. “In a few seconds we’ll pass the carriage house; there’s a garage there, men inside. If they’ve got guns, open fire the
same way
. Keep your head back and the trigger tight. Have you
got
that?”

“I’ve got that.”

There
were
men; they had weapons and they were using them. The glass of the windshield shattered as a fusillade of bullets came from the open garage doors.

Antonia had rolled down the window; she now pushed the gun through the frame, held the trigger against its rim and the explosions once again vibrated through the racing
automobile. Bodies lurched; screams and the shattering of glass and the screeching ricochets of bullets filled the cavernous garage of the carriage house. The last clip of ammunition was exhausted as Scofield, his face cut from the windshield fragments, came to the final two hundred yards toward the gates of Appleton Hall. There were men below, armed men, uniformed men, but they were not soldiers of the Matarese. Bray thrust his hand down to the knob of the light switch and repeatedly pushed it in and pulled it out. The headlights flickered on and off—in sequence,
always
sequence.

The gates had been forced open; he slammed his foot on the brake. The automobile skidded to a stop, tires screeching.

The police converged. Then more than police; black-suited men in paramilitary gear, men trained for a specialized warfare, the battlegrounds defined by momentary bursts of armed fanaticism. Their commander approached the car.

“Take it
easy
,” he said to Bray. “You’re out. Who are you?”

“Vickery. B. A. Vickery. I had business with Nicholas Guiderone. As you say … we got out! When that hell broke loose, I grabbed my wife and we hid in a closet. They smashed into the house, in teams, I think. Our car was outside. It was the only chance we had.”

“Now calmly, Mr. Vickery, but quickly. What’s happening up there?”

The tenth charge detonated from the other side of the hill, but its light was lost in the flames that were spreading across the crest of the hill.

Appleton Hall was being consumed by fire, the explosions more frequent now as more arsenals were opened, more ignited. The Shepherd Boy was fulfilling his destiny. He had found his Villa Matarese, and as his
padrone
seventy years ago, his remains would perish in its skeleton.

“What’s
happening
, Mr. Vickery?”

“They’re killers. They’ve killed everyone inside; they’ll kill every one of you they can. You won’t take them alive.”

“Then we’ll take them
dead
,” said the commander, his voice filled with emotion. “They’ve come over here now, they’ve
really
come over. Italy, Germany, Mexico … 
Lebanon, Israel, Buenos Aires. Whatever made us think we were immune?… Pull your car out of here, Mr. Vickery. Head down the road about a quarter of a mile. There are ambulances down there. We’ll get your statement later.”

“Yes, sir,” said Scofield, starting the engine.

They passed the ambulances at the base of Appleton Drive and turned left into the road for Boston. Soon they would cross the Longfellow Bridge into Cambridge. There was a locker on the MPTA subway platform in Harvard Square; in that locker was his attaché case.

They were free. The Serpent had died at Appleton Hall, but they were free, their freedom his gift.

Beowulf Agate had disappeared at last.

Men and women were taken into custody swiftly, quietly, no charges processed through the courts, for their crimes were beyond the sanity of the courts, beyond the tolerance of the nation. Of all nations. Each dealt with the Matarese in its own way. Where it could find them.

Heads of state across the world conferred by telephone, the normal interpreters replaced by ranking government personnel fluent in the necessary languages. The leaders professed astonishment and shock, tacitly acknowledging both the inadequacy and the infiltration of their intelligence communities. They tested one another with subtle shades of accusation, knowing the attempts were futile; they were not idiots. They probed for vulnerabilities; they all had them. Finally—tacitly—a single conclusion was agreed upon. It was the only one that made sense in these insane times.

Silence.

Each to be responsible for his own deception, none to implicate the others beyond the normal levels of suspicion and hostility. For to admit the massive global conspiracy
was to admit the existence of the fundamental proposition: governments were obsolete.

They were not idiots. They were afraid.

In Washington, rapid decisions were made secretly by a handful of men.

Senator Joshua Appleton IV, died as he had come into being. Burned to death in an automobile accident on a dark highway at night. There was a state funeral, the casket mounted in splendor in the Rotunda where another vigil took place. The words intoned befitted a man everyone knew would have occupied the White House but for the tragedy that had cut him down.

A government-owned Lockheed Tristar was sacrificed in the Colorado mountains north of Poudre Canyon, a dual engine malfunction causing the aircraft to lose altitude while crossing that dangerous range. The pilot and crew were mourned, full pensions granted their families regardless of their service longevities. But the true mourning was accompanied by a tragic lesson never to be forgotten. For it was revealed that on board the plane were three of the nation’s most distinguished men, killed in the service of their country while on an inspection tour of military installations. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had requested his counterparts at the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Council to accompany him on the tour. Along with a message of presidential sorrow, an executive order was issued from the Oval Office. Never again were such ranking government personnel permitted to fly together in a single aircraft; the nation could not sustain such a grievous loss twice.

As the weeks went by, upper echelon employees of the State Department as well as numerous reporters who covered its day-to-day operations were gradually aware of an oddity. The Secretary of State had not been in evidence for a very long time. There was a growing concern as schedules were altered, trips abandoned, conferences postponed or canceled. Rumors spread throughout the capital, some quarters insisting the Secretary was involved with prolonged, secret negotiations in Peking, while others claimed he was in Moscow, close to a breakthrough on arms control. Then the rumors took on less attractive
colorations; something was wrong; an explanation was required.

The President gave it on a warm afternoon in spring. He went on radio and television from a medical retreat in Moorefield, West Virginia.

“In this year of tragedy, it is my burden to bring you further sorrow. I have just said goodbye to a dear friend. A great and courageous man who understood the delicate balance required in our negotiations with our adversaries, who would not permit those adversaries to learn of his rapidly ebbing life. That extraordinary life ended only hours ago, succumbing at last to the ravages of disease. I have today ordered the flags of the capitol …”

And so it went. All over the world.

The President sat back in his chair as Undersecretary Daniel Congdon walked into the Oval Office. The commander-in-chief did not like Congdon; there was a ferret-like quality about him, his overly sincere eyes concealing a dreadful ambition. But the man did his job well and that was all that mattered. Especially now, especially this job.

“What’s the resolution?”

“As expected, Mr. President. Beowulf Agate rarely did the normal thing.”

“He didn’t lead much of a normal life, did he? I mean you people didn’t expect him to, did you?”

“No, sir. He was—”

“Tell me, Congdon,” interrupted the President. “Did you really try to have him killed?”

“It was a mandatory execution, sir. We considered him beyond salvage, dangerous to our men everywhere. To a degree, I still believe that.”

“You’d better. He is. So that’s why he insisted on negotiating with you. I’d advise you—no, I
order
you—to put such
mandatory
actions out of your mind. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I hope so. Because if it isn’t, I might have to issue a mandatory sentence of my own. Now that I know how it’s done.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. The resolution?”

“Beyond the initial demand, Scofield wants nothing further to do with us.”

“But you know where he is.”

“Yes, sir. The Caribbean. However, we don’t know where the documents are.”

“Don’t bother to look for them; he’s better than you. And leave him alone; never give him the slightest reason to think you have any interest in him. Because if you do, those documents will surface in a hundred different places at once. This government—this nation—cannot handle the repercussions. Perhaps in a few years, but not now.”

“I accept that judgment, Mr. President.”

“You damn well better. What did the resolution cost us and where is it buried?”

“One hundred and seventy-six thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars and eighteen cents. It was attached to a cost overrun for naval training equipment, the payment made by a CIA proprietary directly to the shipyard in Mystic, Connecticut.”

The President looked out the window at the White House lawn; the blossoms on the cherry trees were dying, curling up and withering away. “He could have asked for the sky and we would have given it to him; he could have taken us for millions. Instead, all he wants is a boat and to be left alone.”

March, 198—.

The fifty-eight-foot charter yawl,
Serpent
, its mainsail luffing in the island breezes, glided into its slip, the woman jumping onto the pier, rope in hand. She looped it around the forward post, securing the bow. At the stern, the bearded skipper tied off the wheel, stepped up on the gunnel and over to the dock, swinging the aft rope around the nearest post, pulling it taut, knotting it when all slack had vanished.

At midships, a pleasant-looking, middle-aged couple stepped cautiously onto the pier. It was obvious they had said their goodbyes, and those goodbyes had been just a little bit painful.

“Well, vacation’s over,” said the man, sighing, holding his wife’s arm. “We’ll be back next year, Captain Vickery.
You’re the best charter in the islands. And thank you again, Mrs. Vickery. As always, the galley was terrific.”

The couple walked up the dock.

“I’ll stow the gear while you check on the supplies, okay?” said Scofield.

“All right, darling. We’ve got ten days before the couple from New Orleans arrive.”

“Let’s take a sail by ourselves,” said the captain, smiling, jumping back on board the
Serpent
.

An hour and twenty minutes passed; the supplies were loaded, the weather bulletins logged and the coastal charts studied. The
Seprent
was ready for departure.

“Let’s get a drink,” Bray said, taking Toni’s hand, walking up the sandy path into the hot St. Kitts’ street. Across the way was a cafe, a shack with ancient wicker tables and chairs and a bar that had not changed in thirty years. It was a gathering place for charter boat skippers and their crews.

Antonia sat down, greeting friends, laughing with her eyes and spontaneous voice; she was liked by the rough, capable runaways of the Caribbean. She was a lady and they knew it. Scofield watched her from the bar as he ordered their drinks, remembering another water-front cafe in Corsica. It was only a few years ago—another lifetime, really—but she had not changed. There was still the easy grace, the sense of presence and gentle, open humor. She was liked because she was immensely likeable; it was as simple as that.

He carried their drinks to the table and sat down. Antonia reached over to an adjacent table, borrowing a week-old Barbados newspaper. An article had caught her attention.

“Darling, look at this,” she said, turning the paper and pushing it toward him, her index finger marking the column.