Free The Matarese Countdown by Robert Ludlum Page B

House and Senate. Since they’re now so obviously international, suppose they controlled Britain’s Foreign Office, France’s Quai d’Orsay, Rome, Ottawa, and Bonn, it’s a nice unhealthy picture, isn’t it? Good heavens, in a few years, with politicians in their pockets, a couple of Matarese-rigged summits and we’re all marching to their drums, happy as mindless clams—until we understand that when the drumrolls stop, so do our alternatives. We buy what they want to sell us, we take what they want to give us … we believe what they tell us to believe … or else.”
    “ ‘Boardroom terrorism,’ that’s a hell of a term.”
    “And as lethal as any other, Cam. Because once they get their footholds, a monopoly here, a megamerger there, interrelated conglomerates here
and
there, they won’t accept any opposition.”
    “They’re apparently not accepting any now,” said Pryce. He told Scofield about the four kills: the French financier, the Spanish doctor, the Englishwoman, and the Italian polo player on Long Island.
    “We know the Frenchman’s connected to the Matarese,” Pryce went on. “It’s on record, his own words, presumably. Also the financial histories of the others are filled with confusing gaps regarding their money, according to Frank Shields’s latest information.”
    “ ‘Squint Eyes’ would be accurate in that department,”conceded Beowulf Agate. “He was always very astute where gaps were concerned. He looked for patterns, and when they weren’t there, he looked for something else.”
    “The something else here is the Matarese. The murders took place within forty-eight hours, the killers disappeared, no traces, no tracks—”
    “That’s consistent,” Scofield interrupted.
    “And why is the trail of their wealth so complex?” continued Cameron. “ ‘Amorphous’ was the word Frank used; undefined, I guess he meant.”
    “I’m sure he did.” The retired, gray-haired former intelligence officer once more laughed softly, more to himself. “How many millionaires do you know who willingly share their portfolios, especially if their sources of income may have questionable aspects, no matter how long ago?”
    “I don’t know that many millionaires, not personally.”
    “You know me now.”
    “Are
you
—”
    “Enough on the subject, not another word. See what I mean?”
    “I’d rather not, but in light of your service record, I’ll consider it a separation bonus.… Where do we start? Where do
I
start?”
    “You said it yourself, the money trail,” replied Scofield. “Frank Shields is good, but he’s an analyst. He crunches numbers, works with paper, with computerized printouts of charts and graphs and dossiers written by both responsible, and irresponsible, and usually untraceable authors of same. You’ve got to deal with
people
, not electronic reproductions.”
    “I’ve done that before,” said Pryce, “and I firmly believe in doing it. The new technology can span borders and watch and listen, but it can’t talk with the men and the women we have to confront. There’s no substitute for that. But this money trail, where do I begin?”
    “I’d say,” said Beowulf Agate thoughtfully, “since you can’t find the killers, you start with the victims themselves. Their families, their attorneys, their bankers, perhaps even their close friends or neighbors. Anyone who might knowsomething of their attitudes, of what they may have mentioned about themselves. It’s damnably boring—which is part of your job—but you may find another door to open in the maze.”
    “Why would any of them talk to me?”
    “Hell, that’s easy. The Company has connections,
Frank
has connections. They’ll get you credentials—good God, we’ve given
them
enough over here. You’re the good guy; you’re trying to find out who killed their loved ones, and the combined intelligence communities have given you an open road.”
    “An ‘open road’? What does that