The Matarese Countdown (16 page)

“Don’t get me wrong, Pryce, it’s not that she’s a female,” Bracket had said while Montrose was outside giving orders to the Army unit. “I like her—hell, my wife likes her—but I just don’t think that women should be part of the RDF.”

“What does your wife think?”

“Let’s just say she doesn’t totally agree. And my seventeen-year-old daughter’s worse. But they haven’t been in combat when things get rough. I
have
, and it’s no place for a woman! Prisoners are taken, it’s a realistic aspect of war, and I can’t help thinking of my wife and daughter in those circumstances.”

“A lot of men agree with you, Colonel.”

“Don’t
you?
”

“Of course I do, but we’ve never been attacked on our own ground, our own mainland. The Israelis have and there are a great many women in their military—so have the Arabs, and women are in their active and reserve combat
forces, even more prominent in their terrorist cadres. We both might feel differently if the beaches of California or Long Island were invaded.”

“I don’t think
I
would,” said Bracket firmly.

“Maybe the women would change your mind. After all, it was the women, the mothers, who got us all through the Ice Age. In the animal kingdom, the female is the most vicious in protecting her young.”

“Boy, you’re weird! How’d you figure that?”

“Rudimentary anthropology, Colonel.… Tell me, your lieutenant colonel wears the same kind of cap that you do, but the insignia’s different. How come?”

“We allow it, that’s why.”

“I don’t understand. A Yankee baseball player doesn’t put on a Boston Red Sox cap.”

“It’s her husband’s squadron. Was her husband’s squadron.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Her husband was a fighter pilot in the Air Force. He was shot down in Desert Storm over Basra. They say he ejected, but he was never heard from after the cessation of hostilities—which there
never
should have been!”

“That was years ago,” said Pryce reflectively. “And she stayed in the Army?”

“She certainly did, and aggressively so, I might add. My wife and I tried to talk her out of it—find a new life, we told her. With her training there are dozens of companies that would take her in a minute. She’s management-trained, computer-smart, all those things the television commercials say about the Army, plus the fact that she was a fast-rising officer—a major at the time. She wouldn’t have it.”

“That seems strange to me,” said Cameron. “She could probably make more in the private sector.”

“Try ten, maybe twenty times more. In addition, she’d be in a workplace where there were a lot of civilian guys, and with her class probably rich. She could mix with them, you know what I mean?”

“It’s not hard to follow. She rejected the suggestion?”

“Like a shot. Probably because of the kid.”

“The kid?”

“She and Jim had a son, exactly eight months and twenty days after they both graduated from West Point, a fact she always referred to, laughing like hell. He’s fourteen or fifteen now, and worshiped his father. Our guess is that if she left the Army, she thinks her son would resent her.”

“Since she’s here—incommunicado—where’s the boy?”

“In one of those prep schools in New England—Jim wasn’t poor and neither is the general’s daughter. And the kid understands the phrase ‘Your mother’s away on assignment.’ ”

“A normal military brat.”

“I guess so. My kids wouldn’t take that, but I suppose he does.”

“You’re not a dead hero,” said Pryce, “so they don’t have to worship you.”

“Thanks for nothing, spook. You’re probably right though.”

“Still, she’s never found someone here in the military that she might find even passably acceptable? After all, she’s a relatively young woman.”

“You think my wife and I haven’t tried? If you could see all the guys we’ve paraded.… She always says good night,
in
our house, with a firm, polite handshake—no chance for any action with anybody.… And if you’re sniffing around, Mr. Secret Agent, forget it. She’s strictly male-free.”

“I wasn’t sniffing around, Colonel. I simply have to know the personnel I’m involved with. It’s my job to do just that.”

“You’ve got the dossiers of every person on this detail, twenty-seven to be exact.”

“Forgive me, but I’ve just spent five days in the Caribbean without much sleep, and the last two without any. I haven’t gotten to your dossiers.”

“You’ll find them quite acceptable.”

“I’m sure I will.”

The kitchen door had opened, breaking off the conversation
between Pryce and Colonel Bracket as Lieutenant Colonel Montrose walked in. “Everything is secure and I’ve shifted additional patrols to the waterfront,” she stated.

“Why?” asked Cameron.

“Because it was his logical way out, for the killer, I mean.”

“Why do you assume that?” continued Cameron pleasantly but firmly.

“Because it’s his most logical means of egress from the property.”

“ ‘Egress’? I gather you mean escape.”

“Certainly. The marshes would be on total watch.”

“I disagree. You said before that the beach was lined with trip lights for a thousand yards, laterally and inland, electronically fencing off the property. Do you honestly believe that an assassin wouldn’t know that?”

“What’s your point, Mr. Pryce?” asked an angry Leslie Montrose. “What other escape could he have?”

“The same way he got in, Colonel. Except that Scofield’s wife found the scuba gear. I’d suggest you send a patrol west to the nearest road heading north and south. Keep the vehicle as quiet as possible, and see who’s waiting there. Naturally, there’ll be no headlights, so we shouldn’t have them either.”

“That strikes me as ludicrous! The killer can’t come out. He’s dead.”

“He certainly is, Colonel Montrose,” agreed Cameron. “But unless we have a traitor here with a radio we don’t know about—”

“
Impossible!
” cried Bracket.

“I trust we don’t,” continued Pryce. “And if we don’t, whoever’s waiting for our assassin doesn’t know he’s dead.… Get on it, Colonel Montrose, that’s an
order.
”

Nearly an hour passed. Bracket, his head on his folded arms, slept at the table. Barely awake, Cameron frequently went to the kitchen sink and doused his face with water until his neck and shirt were drenched. The door opened slowly
and Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Montrose walked inside, as exhausted as the man she faced.

“The car was there,” she said quietly, “and I wish to God it hadn’t been.”

“Why?” asked a heavy-lidded Pryce, getting to his feet.

“They killed one of my men—”

“Oh, Christ, no!” Cam’s voice jolted Bracket awake.

“Yes. They would have killed me, but my corporal shoved me off the road, exposing himself, and in doing so took the bullets. He was just a boy, the youngest soldier in the detail. He gave his life for me.”

“I’m sorry,
so
sorry!”

“Who
are
these people, Mr.
Pryce?
” Leslie Montrose demanded, a frantic edge in her voice.

“Someone called them the evil of the world,” replied Cam softly, going to her and briefly, tentatively holding her shoulders as she wept.

“They must be
stopped!
” cried Montrose sharply, her head abruptly straight, erect, her eyes focused, furious as the tears fell down her cheeks.

“I know,” said Pryce, releasing her and stepping away as a stunned Colonel Bracket slowly sank back in his chair.

I
t was midmorning on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, the blazing autumn sun halfway to its noon apex, its rays shimmering across the waters of Chesapeake Bay. Pryce joined Scofield and Antonia on the huge screened-in porch overlooking the shoreline; a breakfast buffet had been set up for those staying at the mansion, the remaining personnel billeted in the three more-than-ample guesthouses.

“Sit down, Cameron,” said Scofield’s wife. “May I pour you some coffee?”

“No thanks,” Pryce replied pleasantly, veering toward the buffet with the coffee urns. “I’ll get it.”

“Poor move,” grumbled Bray. “Don’t lead her into bad habits.”

“You’re not real, you know that?” said Cameron, sleep, or the lack thereof, in his speech. “It’s too early for you to be real.”

“It’s not early at all,” protested Scofield, “it’s damn near ten o’clock. Where the hell are the others?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know who they are.”

“The two colonels, major and minor, the CIA fella who went with Toni last night—this morning, and Frank Shields’s liaison, who looks at me like I’m diseased.”

“Frank no doubt told him all about you.” Pryce filled his
coffee cup, walked to the table, and sat down. Antonia spoke.

“Colonel Bracket and Lieutenant Colonel Montrose are in rooms in the west wing along with Eugene Denny, Director Shields’s man. And my ‘fella,’ as you call him, darling, is down the hall from us.… He and I don’t have to travel very far to get together while you’re snoring away.”

“Hah!” cried Bray, grinning. “Cradles are for snatching whatever’s in them, Cam, the younger the better!”

“For that you can get your own eggs, my dear.”

“Don’t want eggs. You keep saying they’re bad for me.”

“Who fixed all this stuff?” interrupted Pryce.

“Why, you figure it’s poisoned?”

“Not specifically, but geometrically along those lines of possibility.”

“You speak funny, youngster.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Antonia, once again with the information. “All food is prepared in the kitchens at Langley, hermetically sealed, wired, and tagged, then flown here by helicopter every morning and evening at six o’clock.”

“I’ve heard the noise,” Cam broke in, “but I thought it was airborne surveillance or visiting honchos.… How did you find out, Toni? I mean, the food, where people sleep—”

“I ask questions.”

“You’re very good at it.”

“Bray taught me. Once in a seemingly passive situation, a refuge or a sanctuary, you should always ask questions—nicely, innocently, as though you’re really curious. He claims women are better at that than men, so I do it.”

“He’s all heart. It also means you’re more likely to get shot.”

Scofield chortled. “You must have to think before you chew,” he said, then abruptly turned serious. “We heard about the RDF corporal who bought it last night. The bastards!”

“Who’d you hear it from?”

“By way of Colonel Bracket. He came up to give Denny
the news and there was a fair amount of confusion—accusations, if you like. Toni and I got up and joined the fray.”

“What accusations?”

“Just horseshit, that’s all.”

“No, it’s not all.”

“Leave it alone, Cam,” said Antonia. “Mr. Denny was ‘out of line,’ as you Americans say.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to know on whose authority Montrose left the compound with a vehicle,” replied Scofield. “Bracket told him that as second in command of the RDF unit, she didn’t need any authority.”

“Essentially, he was saying that she had
his
authority,” added Bray’s wife. “The colonel’s.”

“That’s not true,” said Pryce. “I gave her the order on my own authority as an experienced field officer who had made a logical field analysis. Regretfully, I happened to be right.… What was Denny
doing?
Who the
hell
does he think he is?”

“I am the compound’s liaison to Deputy Director Shields, and in his absence have full responsibility for everything that takes place here.” The words came from the figure in the doorway, a medium-sized, slender man with a balding head, a pleasant, youthful face that seemed to contradict his loss of hair, and a voice that might be described as a soft monotone. “With that responsibility,” he continued, “comes authority.”

“You’re not just out of line, Denny,” said Cameron, standing up and facing the liaison, “you’re way the goddamned hell out of line! You listen to me, hot dog. I didn’t hear you make any
authoritative
pronouncements last night when a dead killer was dropped down a wall beside the two guards whose necks he sliced from ear to ear. I don’t even remember your
being
there!”

“I was there, Mr. Pryce, although briefly—there was nothing I could add to the current circumstances. Instead, I felt it was necessary to reach Director Shields immediately. We were quite some time on the phone, going over all the
possible leaks, including the helicopter crews.… He’ll be here by noon.”

“Researching the chopper crews?” asked Brandon.

“Yes, sir.”