Matarese circle, p.29
Matarese Circle, page 29
Something disturbed him; he was not sure what it was. Something was missing, a quantum jump had been made, a step omitted. “I know it’s not fair to ask you to talk about it, but I’m confused. These drug runs.
how are they mounted? You say a courier is chosen, a woman assigned to travel with him, both to meet a contact at some given location?” “Yes. A specific article of clothing is worn by the woman and the contact approaches her first. He pays for an hour of her time and they go off together, the courier following. If anything happens, anything like police interception, the courier claims he is the girl’s mezzano…
pimp.” “So the contact and the courier rendezvous through the woman. Is the narcotics delivery made then?” “I don’t think so. Remember, I never actually made a run, but I believe the contact only sets up the distribution schedules. Where the drugs are to be taken and who is to receive them. After that, he sends the courier to a source, again using the whore as his protection.” “So if there are any arrests, the… whore… takes the fall?” “Yes. Drug authorities do not pay much attention to such women; they’re let out quickly.” “But the source is now known, the schedules in hand and the courier protected….” What was it? Bray stared at the wall, trying to sort out the facts, trying to spot the omission that bothered him so. Was it in the pattern?
“Most of the risks are reduced to the minimum,” said Antonia. “Even the delivery runs are made in such a way that the merchandise can be abandoned at a moment’s notice. At least, that’s what I gathered from the other girls.,, “‘Most of the risks…”’ repeated Scofield. “‘Reduced to a minimum?”’ “Not all, of course, but a great many. It is very well organized. Each step has a means to escape built in.” “Organized? Escape?…” Organized! That was It. Minimum risks, maximum returnsl It was the pattern, the entire pattern. It went back to the beginning… to the concept itself. “Antonia, tell me, where did the contacts come from? How did they reach the Brigades in the first place?” “The Brigades make a great deal of money from narcotics. The drug market is its main source of income.” “But how did it start? When?” “A few years ago, when the Brigades began to expand.” “It didn’t just happen. How did it happen?” “I can only tell you what I heard. A man came to the leaders-several were in jail. He told them to find him when they got out on the streets again.
He could lead them to large sources of money that could be made without the. heavy risks involved in robbery and kidnapping.” “In other words,” said Scofield, thinking rapidly as he spoke, “he offered to finance them in a major way with minor effort. Teams of two people going out for three or four weeks-and returning with something like nine million lire. Seventy thousand dollars for a month’s work. Minimum risk, maximum return. Very few personnel involved.” “Yes. In the beginning, the contacts came from him, that man. They in turn led to others. As you say, it does not take many people and they bring in large amounts of money.’ “So the Brigades can concentrate on their true calling,” completed Bray sardonically. “The disruption of the social order. In a single word, terrorism.” He got up from the bed. “T’liat man who came to see the leaders in jail. Did he stay in touch with them?” She frowned. “Again, I can only tell you what I heard. He w;is never seen after the second meeting.” “I’ll bet he wasn’t. Every negotiation always five times removed from the course…. A geometric progression, no single line to retrace. That’s how they do it.” “Who?” “Me Matarese.” Antonia stared at him. ‘TVhy do you say thatT’ “Because it’s the only explanation. Serious dealers in narcotics wouldn’t touch maniacs like the Brigades. It’s a controlled situation, a charade mounted to finance terrorism, so the Matarese can continue to finance the guns and the killing. In Italy it’s the Red Brigades; in Germany, Baader-Mcinhof; in Lebanon, the PLO; in my country, the Minutemen and the Weathermen, the Ku Klux Klan and the JDL and all the godamn fools who blew up banks and laboratories and embassies. Each financed differently, secretly. All pawns for the Matarese-maniacal pawns, and that’s the scary thing. The longer they’re fed the bigger they grow, and the bigger they grow the more damage they do.” He reached for her hand, aware that he had done so only after they had touched.
“You are convinced, aren’t you? That it’s happening.” “Now more than ever. You just showed me how one small part of the whole is manipulated. I knew-or thought I knew-it was being manipulated but I didn’t know how. Now I do and it doesn’t take much imagination to think of variations. It’s a guerrilla war with a thousand battlegrounds, none of them defined.” Antonia lifted his hand, as though reassuring herself it was there, freely given; and then her dark brown eyes shifted to his, suddenly questioning. “You talk as if it were new to you, this war. Surely that’s not so. You’re an intelligence officer….” “I was,” corrected Bray. “Not anymore.” “That doesn’t change what you know. You said to me only a moment ago that certain things must be accepted, that courts and avvocati had no place, that one killed in order not to be killed oneself. Is this war so different now?” “More than I can explain,” answered Scofield, glancing up at the white wall. “We were professionals and there were rules-most of them our own, most harsh, but there were rules and we abided by them. We knew what we were doing, nothing was pointless. I guess you could say we knew when to stop.” He turned back to her. “These are wild animals, let loose in the streets. They have no rules. They don’t know when to stop, and those who are financing them never want them to learn. Don’t fool yourself, they’re capable of paralyzing governments….” Bray caught himself, his voice trailing off. He heard his own words and they astonished him. He had said it. In a single phrase he had said it!
It was there all the time and neither he nor Taleniekov had seen it! They had approached it, circled it, used words that came close to defining it, but they had never clearly faced it.
… they’re capable of paralyzing governments.
When paralysis spreads, control is lost, all functions stop. A vacuum is created for a force not paralyzed to move into the host and assume control.
You will inherit the earth. You will have your own again. Other words, spoken by a madman seventy years ago. Yet those words were not political; they were, in fact, apolitical. Nor did they apply to given borders, no single nation rising to ascendency. Instead, they were directed to a council, a group of men bound together by a common bond.
But those men were dead; who were they now? And what bound them together?
Now. Today.
“What is it?” asked Antonia, seeing the strained expression on his face.
“There is a timetable,” said Bray, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s being orchestrated. The terrorism escalates every month, as if on schedule. Blackburn, Yurievich… they were tests, probes for reaction at the highest levels. Winthrop raised alarms in those circles; he had to be silenced. It all fits.” “And you’re talking to yourself. You hold my hand, but you’re talking to yourself.” Scofield looked at her, struck by another thought. He had heard two remarkable stories from two remarkable women, both tales rooted in violence as both women were tied to the violent world of Guillaume de Matarese. The dying Istrebiteli had said in Moscow that the answer might lie in Corsica. The answer did not, but the first clues to that answer did.
Without Sophia Pastorine and Antonia Gravet, mistress and descendant, there was nothing; each in her own way had provided startling revelations. The enigma that was the Matarese remained still an enigma, but it was no longer inexplicable. It had form; it had purpose. Men bound together by some common cause, whose objective was to paralyze governments and assume control…
to inherit the earth.
Therein lay the possibility of catastrophe: that same earth could be blown up in the process of being inherited.
“I’m talking to myself,” agreed Bray, “because I’ve changed my mind. I said I wanted you to help me, but you’ve gone through enough. There are others, I’ll find them.,, “I see.” Antonia pressed her elbows into the bed, raising herself. “Just like that, I’m no longer needed?” “No.
“Why was I considered at all?” Scofield paused before replying; he wondered how she would accept the truth. “You were right before; it was one or the other. Enlisting you or killing you.” Antonia winced. “But that is no longer true? It’s not necessary to kill me?” “No. It’d be pointless. You won’t say anything. You weren’t lying; I know what you’ve lived through. You don’t want to go back; you were going to kill yourself rather than land in Marseilles. I believe you would have.” ‘q7hen what’s to become of me?” “I found you in hiding, I’ll send you back in hiding. I’ll give you money, and in the morning get you papers and a flight out of Rome to someplace very far away. I’ll write a couple of letters; you’ll give them to the people I tell you to. You’ll be fine.” Bray stopped for a moment. He could not help himself; he touched her swollen cheek and brushed aside a strand of hair. “You may even find another valley in a mountain, Antonia. As beautiful as the one you left, but with a difference. You won’t be a prisonerlthere. No one from this life will ever bother you again.” “Including you, Brandon Scofield?” “Yes.,, “Then I think you had better kill me.” “What?” “I will not leavel You cannot force me to, you cannot send me away because it is convenient… or worse, because you pity mel” Antonia’s dark Corsican eyes glistened again. “What right have you? Where were you when the terrible things were done? To me, not to you. Don’t make such decisions for mel Kill me first!” “I don’t want to kill you-I don’t have to. You wanted to be free, Antonia. Take it. Don’t be a damn fool.” “You’re the fooll I can help you in ways no one else could!” “How? The courier’s whore?” “If need be, yes! Why not?” “For Christ’s sake, why?” The girl was rigid; her answer was spoken quietly. “Because of things you said—’ “I know,” interrupted Scofield. “I told you to get angry. , “There’s something else. You said that all around the world, people who believe in causes-many not wisely, many with anger and defiance are being manipulated by others, encouraged to violence and murder. Well, I’ve seen something of causes. Not all are unwise, and not all believers are animals. There are those of us who want to change this unfair world, and it is our right to try! And no one has the right to turn us into whores and killers. You call these manipulators the Matarese. I say they are richer, more powerful, but no better than the Brigades, who kill children and make liars and murderers out of people like me! I will help you. I will not be sent awayl” Bray studied her face. “You’re all alike,” he said. “You can’t stop making speeches.” Antonia smiled; it was a wry smile, engaging yet shy. “Most of the time, they’re all we have.” The 9mile disappeared, replaced by a sadness Scofield was not sure he understood. “There’s another thing.” “What’s that?” “You. I’ve watched you. You are a man with so much sorrow. It’s as clear on your face as the marks on my body. But I can remember when I was happy. Can you?” “The question’s not relevant.” “It is to me.” A.Why?” “I could say you saved my life and that would be enough, but that life wasn’t worth much. You’ve given me something else: a reason to leave the hills. I never thought anyone could ever do that for me. You offered me freedom just now but you’re too late. I already have it, you gave it to me.
I am breathing again. So you’re important to me. I would like you to remember when you were happy-” “Is this the couriees. woman speaking?” “She is not a whore. She never was.” I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. It is permitted. And if that is the gift you want, take it. I would like to think there are others.” Bray suddenly ached. The ingenuousness of her offer moved him, pained him.
She was hurt and he had hurt her again and he knew why. He was afraid; he preferred whores; he did not want to go to bed with anyone he cared about-it was better not to remember a face or recall a voice. It was far better to remain deep within the earth; he had been there so long. And now this woman wanted to pull him out and he was afraid.
“You learn the things I teach you, that’ll be gift enough.” “Then you’ll let me stay?” “You just said there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
“I meant that.” “I know you did. If I thought otherwise I’d be on the telephone to one of the best counterfeiters in Rome.” “Why are we in Rome? Will you tell me now?” Bray did not answer for a moment; then he nodded. “Why not? To find what’s left of a family named ScozzL” “Is it one of the names my grandmother gave youT’ “The first. They were from Rome.” “They’re still from Rome,” said Antonia, as if commenting on the weather.
“At least a branch of the family, and not far outside of Rome.” Amazed, Scofield looked at her. “How do you know?” “The Red Brigades. They kidnapped a nephew of the Scozzi-Paravacinis from an estate near Tivoli. His index finger was cut off and sent to the family along with the ransom demand.” Scofield remembered the newspaper stories; the young man had been released, but Bray did not recall the name Scozzi, only Paravacini. However, he recalled something else: no ransom had ever been paid. The negotiations had been intense, a young life in balance. But there’d been a breakdown, a defection, a nephew released by a frightened kidnapper, several Brigatisti subsequently killed, led into an ambush by the defector.
Had the Red Brigades been taught a lesson by one of their unseen sponsors?
“Were you involved?” he asked. “In any way” “No. I was at the camp in Medicina.” “Did you overhear anything?” “A great deal. The talk was mainly about traitors and how to kill them in brutal ways to make examples of them. The leaders always talked like that.
With the Scozzi-Paravacini kidnapping it was very important to them. The traitor had been bribed by the Fascists.” “What do you mean by ‘Fascists’?” “A banker who represented the Scozzis years ago. The Paravacini interests authorized payment” “How did he reach him?” “With a large sum of money there are ways. Nobody really knows.” Bray got up from the bed. “I won’t ask you how you’re feeling, but are you up to getting out of here?” “Of course,” she replied, wincing as she swung her long legs over the side of the bed. The pain struck her; a sharp intake of breath followed. She remained still for a moment; Scofield held her shoulders.
Again he could not help himself; he touched her face. “The forty-eight.
hours are over,” he said softly. “I’ll cable Taleniekov in Helsinki.” “What does that mean?” “It means you’re alive and well and living in Rome. Come on, I’ll help you dress.” She brought her fingers up to his hand. “If you had suggested that yesterday I am not sure what I’d have said.” “What do you say now?” “Help me.” 0
There was an expensive restaurant on the Via Frascati owned by the three Crispi brothers, the oldest of whom ran the establishment with the perceptions of an accomplished thief and the eyes of a hungry jackal, both masked by a cherubic face, and a sweeping ebullience. Most who inhabited the velvet lairs of Rome’s dolce vita adored Crispi, for hemas always understanding and discreet, the discretion more valuable than the sympathy.
Messages left with him were passed between men and their mistresses, wives and their lovers, the makers and the made. He was a rock in the sea of frivolity, and the frivolous children of all ages loved him.
Scofield used him. Five years ago when NATO’s problems had reached into Italy, Bray had put his clamp on Crispi. The restaurateur had been a willing drone.
Crispi was one of the men Bray had wanted to see before Antonia had told him about the Scozzi-Paravacinis; now it was imperative. If anyone in Rome could shed light on an aristocratic family like the Scozzi-Paravacinis, it was the effusive crown prince of foolishness that was Crispi. They would have lunch at the restaurant on the Via Frascati.
An early lunch for Rome, considered Scofield, putting down his coffee and looking at his watch. It was barely noon, the sun outside the window warming the sitting room of the hotel suite, the sounds of traffic floating up from the Via Veneto below. The doctor had called the Excelsior and made the arrangements shortly past midnight, explaining confidentially to the manager that a wealthy patient was in sudden need of quarters-confiden- tially. Bray and Antonia had been met at the delivery entrance and taken up the service elevator to a suite on the eighth floor.
He had ordered a bottle of brandy and poured three successive drinks for Antonia. The cumulative effects of the alcohol, the medication, the pain, and the tension had brought about the state he knew was best: sleep. He had carried her into the bedroom, undressed her, and put her to bed, covering her, touching her face, resisting the ache that would have placed him beside her.
On his way back to the couch in the sitting room he had remembered the clothes from the Via Condotti; he had stuffed them in his duffle bag before leaving the pensione. The white hat was the worse for the packing, but the silk dress was less wrinkled than he had thought it would be. He had hung them up before sleeping himself.
He had gotten up at ten and gone down to the shops in the lobby to buy a flesh-colored makeup base that would cover Antonia’s bruises, and a pair of Gucci sunglasses that looked remarkably like the eyes of a grass-hopper. He had left them along with the clothes on the chair next to the bed.
