Matarese circle, p.53
Matarese Circle, page 53
He picked up the phone; thirty seconds later he heard the famous voice laced with the pronounced Boston accent that reminded so many so often of a young President cut down in Dallas.
“Hello? Hello?” The Senator had been roused from his sleep; it was in the clearing of his throat. “Who’s there, for God’s sake?” “‘There is a grave in the Swiss village of Col du Pillon. If there’s a body in the coffin below it’s not the man whose name is on the stone.” The gasp on the line was electrifying, the silence that followed a scream suspended in the grip of fear. “Who?…” The man was in shock, unable to form the question.
“There’s no reason for you to say anything, Julian—’ “Stop it!” The scream was released.
“All right, no names. You know who I am-if you don’t, the Shepherd Boy hasn’t kept his son informed.” “I won’t listen!” “Yes you will, Senator. Right now that phone is part of your hand; you won’t let it go. You can’t. So just listen, On November 11, 1943, you and a close friend of yours went to the same dentist on Main Street in Andover, Massachusetts. You had X-rays taken that day.” Scofield paused for precisely one second. “I have them, Senator. Your office can confirm it in the morning. Your office also can confirm the fact that yesterday a messenger from the General Accounting Office picked up a set of more recent X-rays from your current dentist in Washington. And finally, if you’re so inclined, your office might check the X-ray Depository of the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. They’ll find that a single plate, frontal X-ray taken twentyfive years ago is missing from the Appleton file. As of an hour ago all are in my possession.” There was a quiet, plaintive cry on the line, a moan without words.
“Keep listening, Senator,” continued Bray. “You’ve got a chance. If the girl’s alive you’ve got a chance, if she’s not you don’t. Regarding the Russian, if he’s going to die, I’ll be the one who kills him. I think you know why. You see, accommodations can be made. What I know I don’t want to know. What you do is no concern of mine, not any longer. What you want, you’ve already won, and men like me simply end up working for people like you, that’s all that ever happens.
Ultimately, there’s not much difference between any of you. Anywhere.” Scofield paused again, the bait was glaring; would he take it?
He did, the whisper hoarse, the statement tentative. “There are.
people who want to talk with you.” “I’ll listen. But only after the girl is free, the Russian turned over to me.” “The X-rays?…” The words were rushed, cut off; a man was drowning.
“Mat’s the exchange.” “How?” “We’ll negotiate it. You’ve got to understand, Senator, the only thing that matters to me now is me. The girl and 1, we just want to get away.” “What?. Again the man was incapable of forming the question.
“Do I want?” completed Scofield. “Proof that shes alive, that she can still walk.” “I don’t understand.” “You don’t know much about exchanges, either. A package that’s immobile isn’t any package at all; it voids the exchange. I want proof and I’ve got a very powerful pair of binoculars.” “Binoculars?” “Your people will understand. I want a telephone number and a sighting.
Obviously, I’m in the Boston vicinity. I’ll call you in the morning. At this number.” “There’s a debate on the Senate floor, a quorum-” “You’ll miss it,” said Bray, hanging up.
The first move had been made; telephones would be in use all night between Washington and Boston. Move and countermove, thrust and parry, press and check; the negotiations had begun. He looked at the manila envelopes on the table. Between calls he had sealed all of them, weighed and stamped them; they were ready to go.
Except one, and there was no reason to believe he would mail it, the tragedy found in the disappearance of the man and what he might have done. It was time to call his old friend from Paris back. He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Bray, thank Godl We’ve been waiting for hoursl”.‘We?” “Ambassador Winthrop.” “He’s there?” “It’s all right. It was handled extremely well. His man, Stanley, assured me that no one could possibly have followed them and for all purposes, the ambassador is in Alexandria.” “Stanley’s good!” Scofieldfelt like yelling to the skies in sheer relief, sheer joy. Winthrop was alive! The flanks were covered, the Matarese destroyed. He was free to negotiate as he had never negotiated in his life before, and he was the best there was. “Let me talk to Winthrop.” “Brandon, I’m on the line. I’m afraid I took the phone from your friend quite rudely. Forgive me, my dear.” “What happened? I tried calling you-” “I was hurt-not seriously-but enough to require treatment. I went to a doctor I knew in Fredericksburg; he has a private clinic. It wouldn’t do for the eldest of socalled statesmen to show up at a Washington hospital with a bullet in his arm. I mean, can you imagine Harriman turning up in a Harlem emergency ward with a gunshot wound? I couldn’t involve you any further, Brandon.” “Jesus. I should have considered that.” “You had enough to consider. Where are you?” “Outside of Boston. There’s so much to tell you, but not on the phone.
It’s all in an envelope, along with four strips of X-rays. I’ve got to get it to you right away, and you’ve got to get it to the President.” “The Matarese?” “More than either of us could imagine. I have the proof.” “Take the first plane to Washington. I’ll reach the President now and get you full protection, a military escort, if need be. The search will be called off.” “I can’t do that, sir.” “V~%y not?” The Ambassador was incredulous.
“rbere are… hostages involved. I need time. They’ll be killed unless I negotiate.” “Negotiate? You don’t have to negotiate. If you have what you say you have, let the government do it.” “It takes roughly one pound of pressure and less than a fifth of a second to pull a trigger,” said Scofield. “I’ve got to negotiate…. But you see, I can now. I’ll stay in touch, pinpoint the exchange ground. You ran cover me.” “Ibose words again,” said Winthrop. “They never leave your vocabulary, do they?” “I’ve never been so grateful for them.” “How much time?” “It depends; it’s delicate. Twentyfour, possibly thirty hours. It has to be less than forty-eight; that’s the deadline.” “Get the proof to me, Brandon. There’s an attorney, his firm’s in Boston but he lives in Waltham. He’s a good friend. Do you have a car?” “Yes. I can get to Waltham in about forty minutes.” “Good. I’ll call him; he’ll be on the first plane to Washington in the morning. His name is Paul Bergeron; you’ll have to get his address from the phone book.” “No problem.”
It was 1:45 A.M. when Bray rang the bell of the fieldstone house in Waltham. The door was opened by Paul Bergeron, dressed in a bathrobe, creases of concern on his aging, Intelligent face.
“I know I’m not to ask your name, but would you care to come in? From what I gather, I’m sure you can use a drink.” ‘q7hanks just the same, but I still have work to do. Here’s the envelope, and thanks again.” “Another time, perhaps.” The attorney looked at the thick manila envelope in his hand. “You know, I feel the way Jim St. Clair must have felt when he got that last call from Al Haig. Is this some kind of smoking-gun?” “It’s on fire, Mr. Bergeron.” “I called the airline an hour ago; I’m on the 7:55 to Washington. Winthrop will have this by ten in the morning.” “Thanks. Good night.- 49 THE MATARESE CIRCLE Scofield drove back toward Salem, scanning the roads instinctively for signs of anyone following him; there were none, nor did he expect to see any. He was also looking for an all-night supermarket. Their wares were rarely, if ever, restricted to foodstuffs.
He found one on the outskirts of Medford, set back from the highway. He parked in front, walked inside, and saw what he was looking for in the second aisle. A display of inexpensive Big Ben alarm clocks. He bought ten of them.
It was 3:18 when he walked into his room. He took the alarm clocks from their boxes, lined them up on the table, and opened his attachi case, taking out a small leather case containing miniature hand tools. He would buy bell wire and batteries first thing in the morning, the explosives later in the day. The charges might be a problem, but it was not insurmountable; he needed more show than power-and in all likelihood he would need nothing at all. The years, however, had taught him caution; an exchange was like the workings of a giant aircraft. Each system had a backup system, each back-up an alternative.
He had six hours to prepare his alternatives. It was good he had something to do; sleep now was out of the question.
The shift from dawn to daybreak was barely discernible; winter rain was promised again. By eight o’clock it had arrived. Bray stood, his hands on the windowsill, looking out at the ocean, thinking about calmer, warmer seas, wondering if he and Toni would ever sail them. Yesterday there was no hope; today there was and he was primed to function as he had never functioned before. All that was Beowulf Agate would be seen and heard from this day. He had spent his life preparing for the few brief hours that would prolong it the only way that was acceptable to him. He would bring her out or he would die; that had not changed. The fact that he had effectively destroyed the Matarese was almost incidental now. That was a professional objective and he was the best… he and the Russian were the best.
He turned from the window and went to the table, surveying his work of the last few hours. It had taken less time than he had projected, so total was his concentration. Each clock was dismantled, every main wheel spring drilled at the spindle, new pinion screws inserted in the ratchet mechanisms, the miniature bolts balanced. Each was now prepared to accept the insertion of bell wires leading to battery terminals that would throw thirty seconds of sparks into exposed powder. These sparks would, in turn, burn and ignite explosives over a span of fifteen minutes. Each alarm had been set and reset a dozen times, infinitesimal grooves filed across the gears insuring sequence; all worked a dozen times in sequence. Professional tools, no particular significance attached to his knowing them. The designer was also a mechanic, the architect a builder, the critic a practitioner of the craft. It was essential.
Powder could be obtained at any gunsmith’s with the purchase of shells. As for explosives, a simple visit to a demolition or excavation site, armed with the proper government identification, was all that it took for an on-the-spot inventory. The rest was a matter of having large pockets in a raincoat. He had done it all before; lay mentality was the same everywhere.
Beware the man bearing a black plastic ID case who spoke softly. He was dangerous. Cooperate; Oo not allow your name to get on a list.
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 veekly. He walked back up the staircase to his room.
He made instant coffee, carried the cup to the table, aud sat down with the newspapers and the Salem telephone book. It was 8:5. 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, BLASTING AND ExcAVATION TO COMMENCE.
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 twelveminute 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 crisisconferences, 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 fun might of government would be pitted against the Matarese. And tomorrow moming-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 twentyfive-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.,$ ‘Vait!#$ “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, coversation; 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 Fm satisfied,” said Scofield coldly. “I’ll call you from a phone booth around five-thirty.” “He wants to talk with you nowl” “Mr. Vickery doesn7t 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 twentyfive 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 nowl He says ifs vitall” “Everything’s vital.” “He says to tell you you’re wrong. Very wrong.” ‘W 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 estatethe 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 bill called Appleton Hill; it’s well known. I’ll set the meeting for eleventhirty 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 itl” “It wouldn’t make any difference if I did. Youll 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.
