Free The Matarese Circle by Robert Ludlum Page A

knows.” The old man’s voice was failing now. He was failing. “The Corsican fever. It spreads.”
    “Aleksie,
listen
to me,” said Taleniekov, disturbed by a possibility that could not be overlooked: the fantasies of a dying man could not be taken seriously. “Who is this reliable source of yours? Who is the man so knowledgeable in Moscow—in all the Soviet? How did you get the information you’ve given me? About the killing of Blackburn, the VKR report on Yurievich? Above all, this unknown man who speaks of timetables?”
    Through the personal haze of his approaching death, Krupskaya understood. A faint smile appeared on his thin, pale lips. “Every few days,” he said, struggling to be heard, “a driver comes to see me, perhaps take me for a ride in the countryside. Sometimes to meet quietly with another. It’s the State’s kindness to a pensioned old soldier whose name was appropriated. I am kept informed.”
    “I don’t understand, Aleksie.”
    “The Premier of Soviet Russia is my source.”
    “The Premier! But why you?”
    “He is my son.”
    Taleniekov felt a wave of cold rush through him. The revelation explained so much. Krupskaya had to be taken seriously; the old Istrebiteli had possessed the information—the ammunition—to eliminate all who stood in the way of his son’s march to premiership of Soviet Russia.
    “Would he see me?”
    “Never. At the first mention of the Matarese, he would have you shot. Try to understand, he would have no choice. But he knows I am right. He agrees, but will never acknowledge it; he cannot afford to. He simply wonderswhether it is he or the American President who will be in the gunsight.”
    “I understand.”
    “Leave me now,” said the dying Krupskaya. “Do what you must do, Taleniekov. I have no more breath. Reach Beowulf Agate, find the Matarese. It must be stopped. The Corsican fever can spread no further.”
    “The Corsican fever?… In
Corsica?
”
    “The answer may be there. It is the only place to start. Names. The first council! Many years ago.”

5
    A coronary inefficiency had made it necessary for Robert Winthrop to use a wheelchair, but in no way did it impair the alertness of his mind, nor did he dwell on the infirmity. He had spent his life in the service of his government; there was never any lack of problems he considered more important than himself.
    Guests at his Georgetown home soon forgot the wheelchair. The slender figure with the graceful gestures and the intensely interested face reminded them of the man he was: an energetic aristocrat who had used his private fortune to free himself from the marketplace and pursue a life of public advocacy. Instead of an infirm elder statesman with thinning gray hair and the still perfectly clipped moustache, one thought of Yalta and Potsdam and an aggressive younger man from the State Department forever leaning over Roosevelt’s chair or Truman’s shoulder to clarify this point or suggest that objection.
    There were many in Washington—and in London and Moscow as well—who thought the world would be a better place had Robert Winthrop been made Secretary of State by Eisenhower, but the political winds had shifted and he was not a feasible choice. And later, Winthrop could not be considered; he had become involved in another area of government that required his full concentration. He had been quietly retained as Senior Consultant, Diplomatic Relations, Department of State.
    Twenty-six years ago Robert Winthrop had organized a select division within State called Consular Operations. And after sixteen years of commitment he had resigned—some said because he was appalled at what his creation had become, while others claimed he was only too aware of the necessary directions it had taken, but could not bring himself to make certain decisions. Nevertheless, during the ten years since his departure, he had been consistently sought out for advice and counsel. As he was tonight.
    Consular