Free The Matarese Circle by Robert Ludlum

refined, more professional.”
    “You’re describing the work of terrorists, Aleksie. Terrorism has no central apparatus.”
    Once again the old Istrebiteli struggled to raise his head. “It does
now.
It has for the past several years. Baader-Meinhoff, the Red Brigades, the Palestinians, the African maniacs—they all gravitate to the Matarese. It kills with impunity. And now it is throwing the two superpowers into chaos before it makes its boldest move. And that is to assume control of one or the other. Ultimately, both.”
    “How can you be certain?”
    “A man was caught, a blemish on his chest, a soldier of the Matarese. Chemicals were administered, everyone ordered from the room but my source. I had warned him.”
    “
You?
”
    “Hear me out. There is a timetable, but to speak of it would be to acknowledge the past; none dare do that! Moscow by assassination, Washington by political maneuver, murder if necessary. Two months, three at the outside; everything is in motion now. Action and reaction has been tested at the highest levels, unknown men positioned at the centers of power. Soon it will happen, and when it does, we are consumed. We are destroyed, subjects of the Matarese.”
    “Where is this man?”
    “Dead. The chemicals wore off; there was a cyanidepellet sewn into his skin. He tore his own flesh and reached it.”
    “Assassination? Political maneuver, murder? You must be more specific.”
    Krupskaya’s breath came shorter as he again fell back on the pillow. But strangely, his voice grew firmer. “There is no time—I do not
have
the time. My source is the most reliable in Moscow—in all the Soviet.”
    “Forgive me, dear Aleksie, you were the best, but you do not exist anymore. Everyone knows that.”
    “You must reach Beowulf Agate,” said the old Istrebiteli, as though Vasili had not spoken. “You and he must find them. Stop them. Before one of us is taken, the other’s destruction guaranteed. You and the man Scofield. You are best now, and the best are needed.”
    Taleniekov looked impassively at the dying Krupskaya. “That is something no one can ask me to do. If Beowulf Agate were in my sight, I would kill him. As he would kill me, if he were capable.”
    “You are
insignificant!
” The old man had to breathe slowly, in desperation, to get the air back in his lungs. “You have no time for yourselves, can’t you understand that? They are in our clandestine services, in the most powerful circles of both governments. They used the two of you once; they will use you again, and
again.
They use only the best and they will kill only the best! You are their diversions, you and men like you!”
    “Where is the proof?”
    “In the pattern,” whispered Krupskaya. “I’ve studied it. I know it well.”
    “What pattern?”
    “The Graz-Burya shells in New York; the seven millimeter casings of a Browning Magnum in Provasoto. Within hours Moscow and Washington were at each other’s throats. This is the way of the Matarese. It never kills without leaving evidence—often the killers themselves—but it is never the right evidence, never the true killers.”
    “Men have been caught who pulled triggers, Aleksie.”
    “For the wrong reasons. For reasons provided by the Matarese.… Now, it takes us to the edge of chaos and overthrow.”
    “But
why?
”
    Krupskaya turned his head, his eyes in focus, pleading,“I don’t
know.
The pattern is there but not the
reasons
for it. That is what frightens me. One must go back to understand. The roots of the Matarese are in Corsica. The madman of Corsica; it started with him. The Corsican fever. Guillaume de Matarese. He was the high priest.”
    “When?” asked Taleniekov. “How long ago?”
    “During the early years of the century. Guillaume de Matarese and his council. The high priest and his ministers. They’ve come back. They must be stopped. You and the man Scofield!”
    “Who are they?” asked Vasili. “Where are they?”
    “No one