The Matarese Countdown (48 page)

“May I ask a few questions?” said Waters, gently overlooking Clive’s protestations.

“Why not?” replied a confused, disconsolate Bentley-Smythe. “You’ve shut down the phone, chased away the reporters; you couldn’t do those things unless you were serious. Ask away.”

“These past few days, even weeks, did Amanda show any signs of strain or stress? What I mean to say is, did her behavior change? Was she abnormally upset, or touchy?”

“No more than usual. She was furious at the photographer over her last shoot, claiming he was dressing her in ‘matronly’ clothing. She acknowledged that she was no longer a twentyish model but she wasn’t ready for ‘dotty granny outfits’ was the way she put it. She did have a rather fierce ego, you know.”

“I mean beyond that, Clive, beyond the ego. Did she
receive any phone calls that obviously disturbed her, or visitors that she didn’t care to see?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m at the office during the day and she was usually out. She kept a flat in town for when her schedule was too full to make the trek out here.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Sir Geoffrey. “What’s the address?”

“Somewhere in Bayswater, in the two hundreds, I think.”

“You think? Haven’t you been there?”

“Frankly, no. But I have a telephone number. It’s not published, of course, quite private.”

“Give it to me, please.” Clive did so and Waters walked swiftly to a telephone on the desk. He dialed, listened intently with a frown, then hung up, looking over at Bentley-Smythe. “The number’s been disconnected,” he said.

“How could that
be?
” shouted Clive. “She wasn’t going anywhere and even if she was, she always kept her answering machine on. Good God, it was her secret lifeline!” Realizing that his words could be misinterpreted, the dead woman’s husband was abruptly silent.

“Why was it secret, old boy?”

“That’s probably not the right word,” replied the lawyer in Bentley-Smythe. “It’s just that when she went on her continental locations, I asked her several times if I might relay her messages—you see, she’d call me almost every day.”

“I thought you said you’d never been to her London flat.”

“I haven’t. She had one of those machines that gives you your messages whenever you call in. I suggested she give me the numerical code to collect her calls, but she refused—rather adamantly.… I understood.”

“
Most
remarkable,” mumbled the MI-5 chief, turning back to the telephone. He picked it up and called his office, giving an aide the phone number on Bayswater Road. “Use official channels, get the address, and send over a search team, including a forensic. Lift all the fingerprints you can find and call me back here.” He hung up.

“For Christ’s sake, Geof, what’s going
on?
You’re behaving as if this weren’t the horrible murder of my wife but some sort of international incident.”

“I couldn’t have said it better, Clive, because that’s what it well may be. Three other people were killed here in England within hours of Amanda’s murder, and each was suspected of being part of a financial conspiracy affecting many countries and millions upon millions of people.”

“Dear God, what are you
saying?
My wife had her weaknesses, I concede that, but what you’re suggesting is so far beyond her comprehension it’s ludicrous! I even convinced her to hire an accounting firm to handle the money she made. She couldn’t balance a checkbook! How could such a financially naive woman be part of a
financial
conspiracy?”

“One has nothing to do with the other, dear boy. Amanda loved the fast lane, the international jet-set circus with all its superficial trappings. Money was never a consideration, merely an inconvenience.”

“She loved
me!
” screamed an increasingly hysterical Bentley-Smythe. “She
needed
me—I was her home and hearth! She told me so over and over again.”

“I’m sure she did, and I’m sure she meant it, Clive, but celebrity can do strange things to people. They frequently become
two
people, the public and the private person, often so different.”

“What more do you want from me, Geof? I’m out of explanations.”

“Only what you can remember of the past few weeks. Start from perhaps a month ago, especially around the time that you were told you were being considered for the board of Sky Waverly.”

“Oh, that’s easy, I heard it first from Amanda. She returned from a photo session in Amsterdam—you know, grand ladies in gorgeous clothes touring the canals—and said she met a man involved with Sky Waverly who told her they were looking for a prestigious name for its board. She suggested me, and they jumped at it. Quite a marvelous extra income, I might add.”

Amsterdam
.

“Did she tell you who the man was?” asked Sir Geoffrey casually.

“She couldn’t remember his name, and I didn’t pursue it. When the call came from Paris, I was exhilarated and accepted, naturally.”

“Who called you?”

“A man called Monsieur Lacoste, I believe, like the sportswear.”

“Let’s return to the last weeks, Clive, your days with Amanda. I’ll ask questions and you simply answer with whatever comes to mind.”

“I’m rather used to this,” said Bentley-Smythe. “I’ve been in therapy, you know.”

They spoke for nearly two hours, Waters writing sporadic notes on his pad while prompting his brother-in-law to expand on certain memories, certain conversations. The scenario, as it evolved, described a most unusual marriage, indeed. There was complete trust on the part of the husband, along with total infidelity on the part of the wife. It was apparently a La Rochefoucauld union, one of absolute convenience, tilted extravagantly toward the woman. Amanda Reilly had married Clive Bentley-Smythe for what she and others could gain from the name, not the man. Further, considering her attributes of beauty and fame, she had been ordered to do so. By whom?

Amsterdam?

The telephone rang and Waters picked it up. “What have you got?” he asked.

“What you don’t want to hear, sir,” said an MI-5 subordinate. “The entire flat was stripped, the walls everywhere covered several times with new thick paint, all the furniture surfaces destroyed with acid. Nothing, Sir Geof.”

“The telephone records?”

“All erased.”

“Who the hell could manage
that?
”

“Roughly five hundred underground-line technicians who know how to do it.”

“So we’re back to square one—”

“Not necessarily, sir. While we were there our man in the street spotted a chap who approached the building, obviously saw several of our search team through the windows, and quickly turned and rushed away.”

“Did our man follow him, and if not,
why
not?”

“There wasn’t time, sir, the suspect disappeared around a corner and there was traffic in the street. However, he did the next-best thing. He grabbed his high-speed camera and took a series of rapid exposures. He told me that most were of the fellow’s back, but not all, as the man turned several times, apparently to see if anybody
was
following him.”

“Well done. Have the film developed immediately at our laboratory and bring the photos to my office under seal. No one is to see them until I do. It’ll take me roughly forty minutes to get back to London. I’ll expect them to be on my desk.”

John and Joan Brooks, brother and sister, stayed in adjoining suites at the famous and famously expensive Villa d’Este hotel on Lake Como. The normal credit search revealed that the siblings were wealthy Americans from the Midwest who had recently inherited additional millions as the only heirs of a childless uncle in Great Britain. Neither was currently married, he having divorced two wives, and she one husband. All the information was confirmed by the American State Department, the British authorities, and the law firm of Braintree and Ridge of Oxford Street, London.

Frank Shields, analyst extraordinaire, along with Sir Geoffrey Waters of MI-5, had done their jobs well. Cameron Pryce and Leslie Montrose could have entered into negotiations to buy Crédit Suisse and been taken seriously.

Rumors spread throughout the great houses on the shores of Como that brother and sister had furthered the careers of international celebrities—motion-picture and television stars, singers,
au courant
artists, and fledgling opera companies. It simply was their wont to do. How much money did one need? Spend a little!

Don Silvio Togazzi initiated the flotilla of misinformation
throughout the Bellagio community, knowing it would reach those who counted. And, indeed, it did. He chuckled when told invitations began to arrive at the Villa d’Este for the two Americans with such rapidity that the concierge exclaimed, “
Pazzo!
These people are more trouble than the Saudis and their dreadful rugs!” Finally, the one invitation that they were waiting for, hoping for, was delivered. It was to a midafternoon “Buffet and Croquet” with drinks on the yacht following the strenuous lawn exercises. The concierge himself brought up the invitation, delighted to see that since Miss Brooks was visiting her brother, he could express his approval to both at once.

“I urge you to accept,
signore
and
signora
. The Paravacini estate is the most glorious on the lake, and the family is so inventive, don’t you think?”

“In what way?” asked Cameron.

“Buffet and croquet,
signore!
No dull, boring dinner dances or crushing cocktail parties for the Paravacinis, no indeed. Exquisite food, laughter on the croquet course, drinks at sundown aboard the finest yacht on the lake, it’s so imaginative.”

“It sounds delightful!” exclaimed Lieutenant Colonel Montrose.

“It will be, but I warn you, the Paravacinis are masters with the mallet and the ball, especially the cardinal. Keep your wagers reasonable, for I assure you, you’ll lose.”

“They bet on croquet?”

“
Sì, signore
, everything for charity, of course. Cardinal Rudolfo, a most charming and erudite priest, frequently says he enlarges the Vatican’s coffers more from his mallet than from his sermons. He has a wonderful sense of humor, you’ll like him.”

“How formal is the dress,
monsieur le concierge?
Most of our luggage is still in London.”

“Oh, extremely
informal, signora
. The
padrone
, Don Carlo Paravacini, claims that starched shirts and tight clothing make for less amusement.”

“An unusual opinion for an old man,” said Pryce.

“Don Carlo is hardly old. He’s thirty-eight, I believe.”

“That’s pretty young for a ‘don,’ isn’t it?”

“It is the position, not the age,
signore
. Carlo Paravacini is an important financier with assets and properties throughout all Europe. He’s very … how do you say it?… 
astuto
.”

“In international finance, I gather.”

“
Sì
, but these things are beyond me. You will enjoy yourselves, and if it is not an inconvenience, do send my best regards to Don Carlo.”

“We certainly will,” said Leslie, nudging Cam. “Are your shops still open?”

“For guests of the Paravacinis, I will personally send up whatever you care to see.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll browse around myself.”

“Whatever you wish.
Arrivederci
, then.”

The concierge left and Montrose turned to Pryce. “How much money do you have?”

“Unlimited,” replied Cam. “Geof Waters gave me six credit cards, three for you and three for me. No limit on the charges.”

“That’s nice, but what about hard cash?”

“I’m not sure. About three or four thousand pounds—”

“Less than six thousand dollars, American. Suppose the Paravacinis gamble with real money, Italian-style?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Think about it now, Cam. Mr. and
Miss
Brooks can’t arrive with credit cards.”

“We don’t know how much they bet—”

“I was posted in Abu Dhabi once and ran up a tab of eight thousand dollars,” interrupted Montrose. “I had to wake up the embassy to get me out of there alive!”

“
Wow
, you’ve led a much more exciting life than I have, Colonel.”

“I doubt that, Officer Pryce, but get on the phone to London and have Geof wire Mr. Brooks at least twenty thousand, credited to the hotel by the Bank of England.”

“You’re very sharp, Colonel. This is my territory and you’re thinking ahead of me.”

“No, I’m not, my dear. I’m a woman, and women try to
predict when mad money may be required. It’s a universal conundrum.”

Cameron held her shoulders, their faces close, their lips inches apart. “You know what my conundrum is, don’t you?”

“I was waiting for you to wake up, you damn fool.”

“I was afraid—your son, your husband, Ev Bracket.… They were too much a part of you, and I wasn’t convinced I could break through all that.”

“You have, Cam, you have, although I never thought it was possible. Do you know why?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m almost afraid to tell you because you may not like it.”

“Now you have to tell me.”

“You read my dossier, and you must certainly understand that I got yours.”

“I suppose I’m flattered you wanted it but furious that it was given to you.”

“I, too, have friends in the bureaucracy.”

“Obviously. What’s your point?”

“Cutting through the nonsense, you’re basically a self-made man, no generals in your background like me, nor a great deal of money, again like me.”

“Hey, we weren’t on welfare, lady,” said Pryce, amused and releasing her shoulders, but not moving away from her. “My father and mother were teachers, and they both were damned good. They made sure I was able to go beyond a master’s, which they could never afford to do themselves.”

“When the CIA picked you out of Princeton,” completed Leslie, “why did you accept?”

“Frankly, I thought it was exciting … and I was running up so many student loans it would take half a professor’s career to pay them off.”

“You were also an athlete,” interjected Leslie, her face still close to his.