The Matarese Circle (75 page)

Bray sat forward. The Shepherd Boy was a maniac; it was in the maniacal eyes set in the hollows of his pale, gaunt skull. He was a man capable of quiet, seemingly logical discourse, but irrationality ruled him. He was a bomb; a bomb had to be controlled. “I wouldn’t forget the purpose of my coming here, if I were you.”

“Your
purpose?
By all means it will be achieved. You want the woman? You want Taleniekov? They’re yours! You’ll be together, I assure you. You will be taken from this house and driven far away, never to be heard from again.”

“Let’s deal, Guiderone. Don’t make any foolish mistakes. You have a son who can be the next President of the United States—as long as he’s Joshua Appleton. But he’s not, and I have the X-rays to prove it.”

“The
X-rays!
” roared Guiderone. “You
ass!
” He pressed a button on his desk console and spoke. “Bring him in,” he said. “Bring in our esteemed guest.” The Shepherd Boy sat back in his chair. The door behind Scofield opened.

Bray turned, mind and body suspended in pain at what he saw.

Seated in a wheelchair, his eyes glazed, his gentle face
bruised, Robert Winthrop was brought through the door by his chauffeur of twenty years. Stanley smiled, his expression arrogant. Scofield sprang up; the chauffeur raised his hand from behind the wheelchair. In it was a gun.

“Years ago,” said Guiderone, “a marine combat sergeant was sentenced to spend the greater part of his life in prison. We found more productive work for a man of his skills. It was necessary that the benign elder statesman whom everyone in Washington sought out for comfort and advice be watched very thoroughly. We learned a great deal.”

Bray looked away from the battered Winthrop and stared at Stanley. “Congratulations, you … 
bastard!
What did you do? Pistol whip him?”

“He didn’t want to come,” Stanley said, his smile vanishing. “He fell.”

Scofield started forward; the chauffeur raised the gun higher, aiming at Bray’s head. “I’m going to talk to him,” said Scofield, disregarding the weapon, kneeling at Winthrop’s feet. Stanley glanced at the Shepherd Boy; Bray could see Guiderone nod consent. “Mr. Ambassador?”

“Brandon.…” Winthrop’s voice was weak, his tired eyes sad. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help. They told the President I was ill. There are no soldiers outside, no command post, no one waiting for you to strike a match and drive to the gate. I failed you.”

“The envelope?”

“Bergeron thinks I have it; he knows Stanley, you see. He took the next plane back to Boston. I’m sorry, Brandon. I’m very, very sorry. About so many things.” The old man glanced up at the ex-marine he had befriended for so many years, then back at Scofield. “I’ve heard the gospel of trash, according to Nicholas Guiderone. Do you know what they’ve done? My
God
, do you know what they’ve
done?
”

“They haven’t done it yet,” said Bray.

“Next January they’ll have the White House! The administration will be
their
administration!”

“It won’t happen.”

“It
will
happen!” shouted Guiderone. “And the world will be a better place.
Everywhere!
The period of violence will stop—a thousand years of productive tranquility will take its place!”

“A
thousand years …?
” Scofield got to his feet. “Another maniac said that once. Is it going to be your own personal thousand-year Reich?”

“Parallels are meaningless, labels irrelevant! There’s no connection.” The Shepherd Boy rose behind his desk, his eyes again on fire. “In our world, nations can keep their leaders, people their identities. But governments will be controlled by the
companies. Everywhere
. The values of the marketplace will link the peoples of the world!”

Bray caught the word and it revolted him. “
Identities?
In your world there
are
no identities! We’re numbers and symbols on computers! Circles and squares.”

“We must forfeit degrees of self for the continuity of peace.”

“Then we are
robots!
”

“But alive. Functioning!”

“How? Tell me
how?
‘You, there! you’re not a person any more; you’re a
factor
. You’re
X
or
Y
or
Z
, and whatever you do is measured and stored on wheels of tape by experts trained to evaluate
factors
. Go on,
factor!
Be productive or the experts will take your loaf of bread away … or the shiny new car!’ ” Scofield paused in a fever. “You’re wrong, Guiderone.
So
wrong. Give me an imperfect place where I know who I am.”

“Find it in the next world!” screamed the Shepherd Boy. “You’ll be there soon enough!”

Bray felt the weight in his belt—the gun supplied by the dying Taleniekov. The visitor to Appleton Hall had been searched thoroughly for weapons, none found, yet one provided by his old enemy. The decision to make a final gesture was clinical; there was no hope after all. But before he tried to kill and was killed, he would see Guiderone’s face when he told him. “You said before that I was a liar, but you have no idea how extensive my lies were. You think you have the X-rays, don’t you?”

“We know we have them.”

“So do others.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Have you ever heard of an Alpha Twelve duplicating machine? It’s one of the finest pieces of equipment ever designed. It’s the only copier made that can take an X-ray negative and turn out a positive print. A print so defined it’s acceptable as evidence in a court of
law. I separated the four top X-rays off both the master sheets from Andover, made copies, and sent them to five different men in Washington! You’re finished, you’re through! They’ll see to it.”

“And this has gone on long enough.” Guiderone came around his desk. “We’re in the middle of a conference and you’ve taken up enough time.”

“I think you’d better listen!”

“And I think you should walk over to that drape, and pull the cord. You will see our conference room, but those inside will not see you.… I’m sure I don’t have to explain the technology. You’ve been so anxious to meet the Council of the Matarese, do so now. Not all are in attendance tonight, and not all are equal, but there’s a fair gathering. Help yourself. Please.”

Bray crossed to the drapery, felt the cord, and pulled it downward. The curtains parted, showing a huge room with a long oval conference table around which were seated twenty-odd men. There were decanters of brandy in front of each place setting along with pads, pencils, and pitchers of water. The lighting came from crystal chandeliers, swelled by a yellowish glow from the far end of the room where a fire was blazing. It could have been the enormous dining hall of the Villa Matarese, described in such detail by a blind woman in the mountains above Porto Vecchio. Scofield nearly found himself looking for a balcony and a frightened girl of seventeen hiding in the shadows.

But his eyes were drawn to the forty-foot wall behind the table. Between two enormous tapestries linked at the top border, was a map of the world. A man with a pointer in his hand was addressing the others from a small platform; all eyes were on him.

The man was in the uniform of the United States Army. He was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“I see you recognize the general in front of the map.” The Shepherd Boy’s voice once more proved the blind woman’s words: crueler than the wind. “His presence I believe explains the death of Anthony Blackburn. Perhaps I should introduce you to a few of the others, in
absentia
.… In the center of the table, directly below the platform is the Secretary of State, next to him the Soviet Ambassador. Across from the Ambassador is the director of the Central Intelligence Agency; he seems to be having a side
conversation with the Soviet Commissar for Planning and Development. One man you might be interested in is missing. He didn’t belong, you see, but he telephoned the CIA after receiving a very strange telephone call routed through Lisbon. The President’s chief advisor on foreign affairs. He’s had an accident; his mail is being intercepted, the last X-rays no doubt in our hands by now.… Need I go on?” Guiderone started to pull the cord, shutting out the window.

Scofield put up his hand; the curtain arced before closing. He was not looking at the men at the table; the message was clear. He was looking at a guard stationed at a small recessed door to the right of the fireplace. The man stood at attention, his eyes forward. In his hand was a 30 caliber, magazine-loaded submachine gun.

Taleniekov had known about these betrayals at the highest levels. He had heard the words spoken by others as they had inserted the needles that further ebbed his life away
.

His former enemy had tried to give him his last chance to live.
His last chance
. What were the words?

Pazhar
 … 
sigda pazhar! Zizhiganiye pazhar!

When the explosions begin, fire will follow.

He was not sure what he meant, but he knew it was the path he had to follow. They were the best there were. One trusted the only professional on earth who was one’s equal.

And that meant exercising the control his equal would demand. No false moves now. Stanley stood by Winthrop’s wheelchair, his gun leveled at Bray. If somehow he could turn, twist, get the weapon from under his raincoat.… He looked down at Winthrop, his attention caught by the old man’s eyes. Winthrop was trying to tell him something, just as Taleniekov had tried to tell him something. It was in the eyes; the old man kept shifting them to his right. That was it! Stanley was
by
the wheelchair now, not
behind
it. In tiny, imperceptible movements, Winthrop was edging his chair around; he was going to go after Stanley’s gun! His eyes were telling him that. They were also telling him to
keep talking
.

Scofield glanced unobtrusively at his watch. There were six minutes left before the sequence of explosions began. He needed three for preparation; that left three minutes to
take out Stanley and bring in another. One hundred and eighty seconds.
Keep talking!

He turned to the monster at his side. “Do you remember when you killed him? When you pulled the trigger that night at Villa Matarese?”

Guiderone stared at him. “It was not a moment to be forgotten. It was my destiny. So the whore of Villa Matarese is alive.”

“Not any longer.”

“No? That was not in the pages you sent to Winthrop. She was killed then?”

“By the legend.
Per nostro circolo
.”

The old man nodded. “Words that long ago meant one thing, now something else entirely. They guard the grave still.”

“They still fear it. That grave’s going to kill them all one of these days.”

“The warning of Guillaume de Matarese.” Guiderone started back to his desk.

Keep talking. Winthrop was pressing the wheels of the chair, each press an inch
.

“Warning or prophecy?” asked Bray quickly.

“They’re often interchangeable, aren’t they?”

“They called you the Shepherd Boy.”

Guiderone turned. “Yes, I know. It was only partially true. As a child I took my turn herding the flocks, but the occasions diminished. The priests demanded it; they had other plans for me.”

“The priests?”

Winthrop moved again
.

“I had astonished them. By the time I was seven years of age I knew and understood the catechism better than they did. By eight years I could read and write in Latin; before I was ten I could debate the most complex issues of theology and dogma. The priests saw me as the first Corsican to be sent to the Vatican, to achieve high office … perhaps the highest. I would bring great honor to their parishes. Those simple priests in the hills of Porto Vecchio perceived my genius before I did. They spoke to the
padrone
, petitioning him to sponsor my studies.… Guillaume de Matarese did so in ways far beyond their comprehension.”

Forty seconds. Winthrop was within two feet of the gun. Keep talking!

“Matarese made his arrangements with Appleton then? Joshua Appleton, the Second.”

“America’s industrial expansion was extraordinary. It was the logical place for a gifted young man with a fortune at his disposal.”

“You were married? You had a son.”

“I bought a vessel, the most perfectly formed female through which to bear children. The design was always there.”

“Including the death of young Joshua Appleton?”

“An accident of war and destiny. The decision was a result of the captain’s own exploits, not part of the original design. It was, instead, an unparalleled opportunity to be seized upon. I think we’ve said enough.”

Now!
Winthrop lunged out of the chair, his hands gripping Stanley’s gun, pulling it to him, every ounce of his strength clawing at the weapon, refusing to let it go.

It fired. Bray pulled out his own gun, aiming it at the chauffeur. Winthrop’s body arched in the air, his throat blown away. Scofield squeezed the trigger once; it was all he needed. Stanley fell.

“Stay away from that desk!” yelled Bray.

“You were
searched!
It’s not possible.
Where?
…”

“From a better man than any computer of yours could ever find!” said Scofield, looking briefly in anguish at the dead Winthrop. “Just as he was.”

“You’ll never get out!”

Bray sprang forward, grabbing Nicholas Guiderone by the throat, pushing him against the desk. “You’re going to do what I tell you to do or I’ll blow your eyes out!” He shoved the pistol up into the hollow of Guiderone’s right eye.

“Do
not
kill me!” commanded the overlord of the Matarese. “The value of my life is too extraordinary! My work is not
finished;
it must be finished before I die!”

“You’re everything in this world I hate,” said Scofield, jamming the gun into the old man’s skull. “I don’t have to tell you the odds. Every second you go on living means you might get another. Do as I say. I’m going to press the button—the same button you pressed before. You’re going to give the following order. Say it right or you won’t ever
say anything more. You tell whoever answers: ‘Send in the guard from the conference room, the one with the submachine gun.’ Have you got that?” He shoved Guiderone’s head down over the console and pressed the button.