The Matarese Countdown (52 page)

“I’ll bear it in mind. What’s the second problem?”

“The Brewster kid. He flew the coop.”

“Good God!
How?… Why?
”

“Over the wall when it was dark. His sister says he’s going after Gerald Henshaw, the once and former stepfather who killed their mother.”

“What does that cheeky whippersnapper think he can do
that all of us haven’t
done?
Henshaw’s disappeared from the face of the earth. He’s either somewhere in an African or Asian city, living well but isolated, or more likely, as I understand the Matarese, at the bottom of the Channel in a weighted body bag.”

“I agree with you, but we’re not him.”

“Where would he go? Where would he
start?
An angry teenager asking foolish questions in the shabbier parts of the city is a target with or without the Matarese.”

“He’s angry, sure, but he’s not stupid, Geof. He’s smart enough to know he needs help. He won’t go to you because he figures you’d pull him in and lock him up someplace—”

“It’s what we should have done with all three of them,” interrupted Waters.

“It’s what you thought you
did
do, only none of us factored in the rage of a youngster who lost a father he worshiped and saw the murder of a mother he deeply loved.”

“
So
?” asked the MI-5 chief defensively.

“I think he’ll go straight to a man he trusts, a sergeant major who was so devoted to his brigadier that he’d follow him to hell and back, as you people say.”

“
Coleman
,” exclaimed Waters. “Sergeant Major Coleman!… Only I believe the expression originated in the States, not the U.K. It’s not our style, old chap.”

“Whatever. If I were you, I’d check him out. By the way, the kid has money on him. A thousand pounds.”

“It’s certainly enough to get him here anonymously, if he’s as smart as you believe.”

“He is.”

“I’m on my way to see our sergeant major. I won’t bother to call.”

Roger Brewster boarded the train at Valence. He had planned everything out, down to the last detail except one. He had pored over maps, centering on locations within hours north of where he assumed they were, and as he spoke French fluently, he had narrowed down the area reasonably
well from the Deuxième guards. He had gone over the wall much in the way his new friend, Jamie Montrose, had described his own escape from Bahrain. Searchlights were in constant use; one had to wait for the absence of the light. One also had to elude the guards, who were positioned to protect their “guests” from external assault. It was a simple matter to convince a Deuxième patrol that his sister, in the room next to his, complained incessantly when he had a cigarette. She had the nostrils of a wolf.

The patrol was a smoker; he laughingly understood. Once over the wall in relative darkness, Roger ran through the fields to what appeared to be a main road. He waited on the side, using the normally accepted raised hand and thumb, as cars and trucks went by. Finally, a produce truck stopped; he explained in French that he was a student who had to return to his
pensionnat
before daylight or he might be expelled. He had spent the night with his girlfriend.

Toujours l’amour
. The driver understood, displaying a degree of envy, and drove the student to the train station.

Roger had learned from his maps and various other pamphlets that there was a flying school in Villeurbanne. As Jamie Montrose had done, he had to find a pilot, but unlike Jamie, his could not be an accident in the street. Since there was such a school, there were pilots, and if there were pilots, one could be bought, and if he could find that one, he had a thousand pounds.
England
. London and Belgravia. And the one detail he left to last. Old
Coley
. He would call him from the airfield.

Former Sergeant Major Oliver Coleman disabled the alarm and opened the heavy door of the Brewster house in Belgravia. “Good morning, Sir Geoffrey,” he said, admitting the MI-5 officer.

“You knew it was I?”

“I’ve installed microcameras in the two pillars, sir. It seemed to be the proper thing to do for the children when they return. You see, there’s the camera mounted on the wall above the door.”

“Rather costly, I’d say,” mumbled Waters.

“Not at all, sir. I made clear to the security firm that my concern over their gross negligence in permitting their own personnel to install bugs in the house could well lead to the courts—and a great deal of publicity. They were happy to oblige me at no cost.”

“May we talk, Mr. Coleman?”

“Of course, Sir Geoffrey. I was just having some mid-morning tea. Would you care to join me?”

“No, thank you. I have to get back to the office, and we can speak right here.”

“Very well. What should we speak about?”

“Roger Brewster broke out of the hideaway where we placed him, his sister, and the Montrose boy—”

“Bloody-good show,” interrupted Coleman, “he’s a fine lad and you can’t confine him.”

“For
God’s
sake, Sergeant Major! We’re
protecting
him, can’t you understand that?”

“Surely, I do, sir. But the boy has other things on his mind. As
I
do. Where is that fiend, Gerald Henshaw? We’ve heard nothing from you people.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that he was undoubtedly killed?”

“If so, we’d like proof of that.”

“There are so many ways, Coleman. We may not learn for months, even years.”

“But you don’t know now, do you? Roger’s as obsessed as I am with finding that bastard. If I get to him first, I’ll end his miserable life in ways no barbarian ever thought of.”

“Listen to me, Coleman. Alone, searching blind, the boy’s a goner. If he contacts you, for heaven’s sake,
call
me!”

“He’s not a goner if I’m around,” said the former sergeant major. “His father risked his life for me, and I’d willingly give my life for his son.”

“
Goddamn it
, you can’t do what
we
can do! If he reaches you, call me. If you don’t, his death could be on your head.”

•  •  •

Roger Brewster got off the train at Villeurbanne. The early-morning light began to emerge, too early to head for the airfield. He walked from the station into the streets; he realized he was terribly tired and the wrestler in him told him that his body needed fuel. Food. He found a bakery, walked inside, and spoke with the sleepy owner in French.

“
Bonjour
. I’m supposed to meet my father at your airport, but the only train from Valence was at this hour. Your bread smells great.”

“It should. It’s the best in the province. What would you like?”

“Whatever you suggest that comes out of your oven. And milk, if you have some, and a mug of coffee perhaps.”

“I can do all that. Can you pay?”

“Certainly. I would not ask if I couldn’t.” Refueled and enlivened by the strong coffee, Roger paid, including an impressive tip, and asked, “Where exactly is the airfield?”

“A mile or so north, but there are no taxis available at this hour.”

“That’s all right. North, you say? Any particular road?”

“Four streets down,” replied the baker, pointing to his right, “turn left into the highway. It leads directly to the airfield and that terrible flying academy.”

“You don’t like it, the flying school?”

“You wouldn’t either if you lived here. Crazy students buzzing all over the place. You watch, one day there’ll be a horrible crash, followed by more crashes and citizens killed! Then
poof
, the stupid academy will be gone. Good riddance!”

“I hope that doesn’t happen, the crashes, I mean. Well, I’ll be off. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re a nice young fellow. Good luck … and your French is very understandable, if perhaps too Parisian.” Both laughed, and Roger headed for the door.

The trek to the airport was relieved by the sounds of engines, then the sight of small planes pitching up into the early-morning sky. These reminded the Brewster son that
when he was a tyke he would frequently accompany his father, who was determined to earn his pilot’s license, to the practice field in Cheltenham. Daniel Brewster claimed there was nothing so exhilarating as flying with the first light of day. He would often wake up Roger to make the trip, stopping for breakfast only after their forty-five minutes in the air. Those were the good days; they would never be again.

The telephone rang in Belgravia and Oliver Coleman picked it up from his chair in the huge Brewster library. He dramatically altered his voice, as he had done scores of times in the Arab Emirates over the headquarters radio, speaking in a tight, high register very unlike a sergeant major’s. (Orders for the British forces from various emirs and Emirates leaders were often best lost in the pipeline.)

“Good morning, this is the housekeeper. To whom do you wish to speak?”

“Oh, perhaps I have the wrong number—”

“
Ahem!
” Coleman coughed loudly, clearing his throat. “Sorry, sir, a horse in the gullet, if you know what I mean. But I recognize your voice, young man, you’re the Aldrich lad, Nicholas Aldrich, a school chum of Master Roger’s.”

“That’s right,” said Roger Brewster from a pay phone in Villeurbanne, France, instantly understanding. “And you must be Coleman,
Mister
Coleman, sorry.”

“Quite all right, lad. I’m afraid Roger’s not here. He and Angela are off visiting relatives somewhere in Scotland—or is it Dublin, I’m not really sure.”

“Do you know when Rog will be back, Mr. Coleman?” asked young Brewster, listening carefully.

“Quite soon, I imagine. He called the other night from a boring, overly jovial cousin’s house, where all they talked about was grouse hunting, and said he’d trade the
full moon
outside his window for a pint in Windsor. He hoped to be home this afternoon around three o’clock, but he couldn’t promise. Why don’t you call around then?”

“All right, sir, I shall. And thank you
very
much.”

•  •  •

Brewster hung up the pay phone in Villeurbanne knowing the information he needed was to be found in old Coley’s words and phrases. The “full moon” was first; it was familiar but he couldn’t place it. Then there was “a pint,” and that did not make sense, therefore there was meaning in it. Roger wasn’t a drinker; he did not disapprove, he simply didn’t like the taste. And then “Windsor” and an “overly jovial cousin”—what did they mean? Also, the “shooting of grouse,” where did it fit?

He went inside to the airfield’s waiting room, where there was a coffee machine. He poured himself a cup, sat at a table, and from a notepad, the flying school’s logo on top, tore off a page and wrote out Coleman’s words. It took him a while, but finally it came together.

The “full moon” and the “overly jovial cousin” were matched with “Windsor.” And it wasn’t “shooting of grouse,” it was “grouse hunting.” And “a pint” meant where a pint could be purchased. The Jolly Hunter’s Moon in Windsor! It was a pub roughly a half hour from Belgravia that catered in great measure to veterans of the armed forces, mainly commandos and airmen, therefore the “hunter’s moon.” Every month or so Coley and Roger’s father had gone there to see old comrades. Several times, when their mother was on a Wildlife trip, they took young Roger and Angela with them, seated in a separate room with games to play. On the condition, of course, that they never tell their mother. That was
it!
The Jolly Hunter’s Moon at three o’clock in the afternoon!

The recruiting of a pilot and a plane to England, a negotiation Roger was totally unprepared for, proved to be easier than deciphering Coley’s code. The pilot, a major in France’s
armée de l’aire
, who made extra money teaching students at the flying school, was more than happy to oblige. When the Brewster son opened with an offer of five hundred English pounds, the man’s eyes widened above his moustache and slightly reddish nose, and when Roger consented to a body search for drugs, as well as agreeing to pay fuel
costs and any landing fees required, the major said, “
Monsieur
, you shall have a most pleasant flight! And the fields near Windsor are familiar to me.”

In the communications room at MI-5 headquarters, the woman in the telephone complex covering the Brewster phone in Belgravia removed her earphones and turned to an associate in the adjacent station. “That sergeant major at the Brewster house could have been trained by us.”

“How so?” asked the man next to her.

“The way he handles inquiries. He invents ambiguous locations, details fictitious circumstances, and implies a quick return without any guarantees.”

“Very professional,” agreed the associate tapper. “He allays any suspicions with the expectation of a relatively soon contact. Excellent. There’s nothing, then?”

“Nothing at all. I’ll send the tape upstairs, but on a low priority.”

Oliver Coleman needed the hours to make sure Sir Geoffrey had not put him under surveillance, which, naturally, he had. The former sergeant major picked up the MI-5 vehicle less than a mile from Belgravia, a shabby Austin sedan that turned corners too rapidly. He drove around London, traversing the city from Knightsbridge to Kensington Gardens, from Soho to Regent’s Park and Hampstead, finally losing the MI-5 surveillance in the traffic of Piccadilly Circus.

He sped out of London on the north road to Windsor, hoping all his racing around made sense. Had Roger figured out his message? Would he show up around three o’clock at The Jolly Hunter’s Moon? Or had everything been for naught? Coley was cautiously optimistic, however, insofar as young Brewster had so quickly understood their charade on the telephone, instantly assuming the role of Nicholas Aldrich, actually the name of a school friend he had brought home on several occasions. Roger was a bright lad with a quick mind and a sense of purpose very much like his
father’s. A sense of purpose that carried a great deal of impatience. But what was his purpose
now?
Was it really to hunt down Gerald Henshaw? Coleman knew that Roger had continuously badgered Sir Geoffrey, trying to learn what progress had been made in unearthing Henshaw; there had been none. Had the legendary Brewster impatience surfaced, overriding reason?