The Matarese Countdown (27 page)

“Sir Geoffrey Waters, I expect?” said Leslie, emerging from the plane first.

“Mrs. Montrose, welcome to the U.K.! Your luggage is being taken to the car.”

“Thank you.”

“Sir Geoffrey?” Cameron walked up to Leslie’s side, his arm extended. “The name’s Pryce, Cameron Pryce.” They shook hands.

“
Really
, old boy?” said Waters in mock surprise. “I
never would have guessed! Of course, we have a file on you at least a foot thick, but who counts inches, right?”

“Nothing’s sacred.… Of course, our file on you is probably two feet long, but then we can’t count very high.”

“Ah, colonial exaggeration, it’s why I adore Americans! However, one thing
is
sacred. Drop the ‘Sir,’ please. It’s totally unwarranted and given only to make somebody else look good.”

“You sound like someone I know—we both know.”

“My, my, how
is
Beowulf Agate?”

“As wolflike as ever.”

“Good, we need that.… Come along now, we’ve a ton of work to do, but you’ll need the night off after your flight. It’s almost six o’clock, barely noon your time; you’ll have to adjust a bit. You’ll be picked up at eight in the morning.”

“From where?” Montrose asked pleasantly.

“The undeserved ‘Sir’ does have its advantages. I wangled you a suite at the Connaught off Grosvenor Square. Top-drawer, in my judgment.”

“Top contingency funds,” added Pryce.

“A
suite?
…” Leslie looked pointedly at Waters.

“Oh, not to be concerned, my dear. Separate rooms, naturally. The reservations are in the names of Mr. John Brooks and Miss Joan Brooks, brother and sister. If anyone should inquire, which is highly unlikely, you’re over here to settle an inheritance from a British uncle.”

“Who’s the attorney?” asked Cameron. “The solicitor, I mean.”

“Braintree and Ridge, Oxford Street. We’ve used them before.”

“You’re smooth, Geof, I’ll say that.”

“I should hope, after all these years, the rough edges have been ground down a touch.… Come now, into the car.”

“May I say something?” Montrose’s immobility stopped both men.

“Of course, what is it?”

“The suite’s fine, Geoffrey, but our flight was west to
east, not the reverse. As you mentioned, it’s still around noon for us. I’m not at all tired—”

“It will catch up with you, my dear,” interrupted the MI-5 chief.

“Probably, but I
am
extremely anxious to get to work. I think you know why.”

“I certainly do. Your child.”

“Can’t we take an hour to freshen up and start?”

“I have no problem with that,” said Pryce.

“Your suggestion is music to my suddenly undeaf ears! Tell you what, chaps, since we can’t remove any papers from the office, a car will pick you up, say around seven-thirty. If you’re hungry, you’ll have time for room service, not the dining room, however.”

“Great contingency funds,” mumbled Cameron. “Wish you’d talk to a guy named Shields in Washington.”

“
Frank
Shields? Old
Squint Eyes?
Is he still around?”

“I think I’m hearing a broken record,” said Pryce.

Julian Guiderone, in a dark silk suit from the Via Condotti, walked down the cobblestoned Due Macelli and up the Spanish Steps toward the canopied entrance of the celebrated Hassler-Villa Medici hotel. As he had done in Cairo’s Al Barrani Boulevard, he paused in the narrow cul-de-sac and lit a cigarette with his gold Dunhill, his eyes straying to the top of the famous stone steps glorified by Byron. He stood still and watched for a man or a woman who might quickly emerge, his or her own eyes darting about. None appeared. He could proceed.

Guiderone crossed under the scarlet canopy; the automatic glass doors opened and he entered the opulent marble lobby, immediately heading to the left and the bank of glistening brass elevators. He was aware that several hotel guests, also waiting, glanced at him. It did not concern him; he was used to the attention. He realized that when he cared to, he radiated natural authority, a superiority born of features,
breeding, height, and tailoring; it was ever thus, and he knew it, he welcomed it.

The elevator doors opened; he walked in last and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Two stops later he was there, emerging into the heavily carpeted hallway, studying the brass plaque that directed him to the suite he sought. It was at the far end of the corridor, on the right, a small blue circle affixed to the doorknob. He knocked on the center panel four times, a pause of one second between raps; he heard a click and walked inside.

The room was large and ornate, the walls covered with pastel scenes of ancient Rome, the soft velour colors varied but predominantly gold, white, red, and blue. The events depicted ranged from chariot races in the Colosseum to erupting fountains to the more famous statuary from the chisels of Michelangelo and his contemporaries. The central area of the room was filled with four rows of four chairs, all facing a lectern, and all were occupied, the occupants exclusively men. Their ages were as diversified as their nationalities, from early thirties through the forties, the fifties, and the sixties. Their origins covered all of Europe, the United States, and Canada.

Everyone in attendance, in one form or another, was in the profession of journalism. Some were recognized reporters, others editors of repute; a number were controllers or financial consultants, and the remainder were on the boards of several major newspapers.

And each—in one form or another—had been compromised by the son of the Shepherd Boy, the ultimate leader of the Matarese.

Julian Guiderone walked slowly, deliberately to the lectern as the room became silent. He smiled benevolently, then began.

“I fully understand that there are those of you here unwillingly, not of your own volition or commitment, but under duress. I sincerely hope to change your minds so you will come to understand the progressive enlightenment of our objectives. I am no monster, gentlemen. Rather, I am a man extraordinarily blessed with vast wealth, and I can assure
you, I’d much prefer tending to my widespread interests—my investments, my horses, my athletic teams, my hotels—than leading what amounts to an economic revolution for the good of us all. But I cannot.… Let me ask you a rhetorical question. Who but a man with unlimited resources, a man beholden to no one for his survival or lifestyle, with no responsibility to special interests whatsoever, can objectively discern the financial sickness that pervades our civilized nations? I submit that only such a man
can
, for he has nothing to
gain
. Conversely, he could lose a great deal, but even that would be insignificant in the long run.… What I am, gentlemen, is the unfettered, completely neutral referee, an arbiter, if you like. But to fulfill that vision and my destiny, I need your support. I trust I have it, so let me hear your reports. No names are necessary, only your publications. We’ll start with the first row on my left.”

“I am the principal investments adviser for the Manchester
Guardian
,” said the Englishman, his reluctance evident in his low, hesitant voice. “As scheduled, I’ve delivered the long-term economic projections relative to the paper’s anticipated accelerating losses over the next decade. They call for supplemental capital far beyond anything envisioned by the
Guardian
’s directors. There’s no alternative but to seek a massive infusion of external funds … or an affiliation with other journalistic publications.” The man from the
Guardian
paused, adding quietly, “I’ve had highly confidential meetings with my counterparts at the
Independent
, the
Daily Express, The Irish Times
, and the Edinburgh
Evening News.
” He abruptly stopped. He was finished, his face set in disgust and defeat.

“
Le Monde
, Paris, Marseilles, Lyon,
et tout de France
,” spoke the Frenchman sitting beside the Britisher. “As our section—this first row—is primarily concerned with structured finance, I echo my English colleague’s calculations and have acted accordingly. The projections are self-evident. Along with normal inflation, the dwindling resources of paper accompanied by soaring prices demand economic reassessments, basically consolidation. In this pursuit, I,
too, have held very discreet talks with select executives of
France Soir, Le Figaro
, and the Paris
Herald
. They will bear fruit.”

“There’s no doubt of that,” said a balding American in his middle fifties. “The technological advances in computerized, multifeed print operations make it irresistible; one plant can service a minimum of six newspapers, tomorrow a dozen, with totally diversified copy. My contacts at
The New York Times, The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times
, and
The Wall Street Journal
are merely waiting for the first shoe to drop. They call it survival.”

“You can add the Toronto
Globe and Mail
and the
Edmonton Journal
to the list,” completed the fourth member of the row, a youngish Canadian, his eyes alive with the realization that he was among the elite of his profession. “When I return, I’m heading west to initiate preliminary negotiations with the
Winnipeg Free Press
and the
Vancouver Sun
!”

“Your enthusiasm is to be applauded,” said the son of the Shepherd Boy, “but keep in mind the walls of utter secrecy within which you must operate.”

“Naturally! Of
course!
”

“Now to our second row,” continued Guiderone, “our section devoted to the boards of our leading international publications, namely, again,
The New York Times
and the
Guardian
, as well as Rome’s
Il Giornale
, and Germany’s
Die Welt
. I understand, gentlemen, that you are all currently subordinate—dare I say lesser?—members of your respective boards, but please accept my word—your statuses will change, both by mortality and forced attrition. Each of you will soon become a major factor, a voice with control. How say you?”

There was not even a murmur of dissent. When in position, they would act in concert. For practical survival.

“Our third row, the basic engines that drive your endeavors, the guts, as we Americans say, of your newspapers—the journalists themselves. These are the men in the streets, in the states, the provinces, and national capitals, those on
the front lines who daily report the events enlightening readers across the world.”

“You can ease off on the hype,” said an elderly American with a husky voice, his creased features bespeaking years of endless nights and too much whiskey. “We’ve got the message. You issue the ‘events,’ we’ll write ’em up. We haven’t got much of a choice, do we, since we prefer our status quos to the alternatives?”

“I agree,
meneer
,” added a Dutch reporter. “As the
English
say, you are too clever by half.”

“
C’est vrai
,” said a journalist from Paris.

“All too true—
das stimmt!
” joined in a German reporter.

“Come now, gentlemen, that’s such a negative approach,” said Guiderone, slowly, charmingly shaking his head. “I know only two of you personally, but all four by reputation. You are the leaders in your fields; your words cross oceans and continents with electronic speed, and when you appear on television screens you are accepted authorities, honored men of the fourth estate.”

“I hope to hell we can keep that one,” interrupted the cynical American.

“You will, of course, for you will accurately report events as they take place … naturally emphasizing the positive aspects and minimizing whatever negative reactions there may be under the blanket of the new century. After all, we must be realistic; we must advance our civilized countries, not let them erode.”

“You say a great deal with but a few bromides,” said the Hollander, laughing softly. “You are quite the politician,
meneer.
”

“A vocation pressed upon me by others, great minds, to be sure, but not a direction of my own choosing.”

“Better yet,
monsieur
,” observed the Parisian, “you are the outsider on the inside.
Très bien.
”

“And you are, each one of you, extraordinarily talented and convincing journalists. Whatever your past indiscretions—and they will never be exploited by me—they pale beside your abilities.… Now to our fourth and final row,
perhaps the most unique for our purposes. The editorial staffs of the four major publications in the world, and through their chains of ownerships, the editorial flagships for over two hundred important international newspapers in Europe and the Americas. Your influence is vast, gentlemen. You mold opinions throughout the industrial nations, endorsements by you, or the lack of same, can make or break candidates.”

“You’re too flattering,” broke in a corpulent, white-haired German, his heavy legs dwarfing his chair, his lined, splotched face betraying a sedentary existence. “That was before the television,” he continued. “Today the challengers and the incumbents
buy
the television!
That
is where opinions are formed.”

“Only to a degree,
mein Herr
,” objected the son of the Shepherd Boy. “You put a lightweight cart before a strong horse. When you speak, television reflects on your words and always has. It must, for you have the time for reflection, it doesn’t; everything is immediate, instantly processed. The majority of television executives, if only to avoid embarrassment, go back and heed your opinions, even to the extent of distancing themselves from political advertisements.”

“He has a point, Gunther,” said another American, in counterpoint to his cynical reporter-compatriot, dressed in a conservative business suit. “More and more we hear the words ‘The following is a paid commercial’ or, conversely, ‘That was a political advertisement paid for by the committee for Senator so-and-so, or candidate such-and-such.’ ”

“
Ach
, so what does it mean? It’s all so fast.”