A weapon was fired from the woods. It was final; the would-be killer fell.

  “Scofield!” Taleniekov shouted.

  “Over here!” Bray lunged up over the railing and ran toward the source of the Russian’s voice. Taleniekov walked out of the woods; he was no more than ten feet from the stalled automobile. Both men approached the car warily; the driver’s window had been shattered, blown apart by a single shot from the KGB man’s automatic. The head beyond the fragmented glass was, bloodied but recognizable. The right hand was wrapped in a tight bandage-still wrapped from an injured thumb broken on a bridge in Amsterdam at three o’clock in the morning by an angry, tired older man.

  It was the aggressive young agent, Harry, who had killed so needlessly in the rain that night.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Scofield.

  “You know him?” asked Taleniekov, a curious note in his voice.

  “His name was Harry. He worked for me in Amsterdam.” The Russian was silent for a moment, then spoke. “He was with you in Amsterdam, but he did not work for you, and his name was not ‘Harry.’ That young man is a Soviet intelligence officer, trained since the age of nine at the American Compound in Novgorod. He was a VKR agent.” Bray studied Taleniekov’s face, then looked back through the shattered window at Harry. “Congratulations. Things fall into place more clearly now.” “They don’t for me, I’m afraid,” said the KGB man.

  “Believe me when I tell you that it is most unlikely that any order out of Moscow would include a direct attack on Robert Winthrop. We’re not fools. He’s above reprisals-a voice and a skill to be preserved, not struck down. And certainly not for such-personnel-as you and me.,,

  “What do you mean?” “This was an execution team, as surely as those men at the hotel. You and I were not to be isolated, not to be taken separately. The kill was inclusive. Winthrop was to be executed as well, and for all we know he may have been. I submit that the order did not come from Moscow.” “It didn’t come from the State Department, I’m damn sure of that.” “Agreed. Neither Washington nor Moscow, but a source capable of issuing orders in the name of one, or the other, or both.” “The Matarese?” said Scofield.

  The Russian nodded. “The Matarese.” Bray held his breath, trying to think, to absorb it all. “If Winthrop’s still alive, he’ll be caged, trapped, held under a microscope. I won’t be able to get near him. They’d kill me on sight.” “Again, I agree. Are there others you trust that can be reached?” “It’s crazy,” said Scofield, shivering in the cold-and at the thought that now struck him “There should be, but I don’t know who they are.

  Whoever I went to would have to turn me over, the laws are clear about that. Police warrants aside, there’s a little matter of national security. The case against me will be built quickly, legally. Suspected of treason, internal espionage, delivering information to the enemy. No one will touch me.” “Surely there are people who will listen to you.” “Listen to what? What do I tell them? What have I got? You? You’d be thrown into a maximum security hospital before you could say your name.

  The words of a dying Istrebiteli? A Communist killer? Where’s the verification, even the logic? Godarnn it, we’re cut off. All we’ve got are shadows!” Taleniekov took a step forward, his conviction in his voice. “Perhaps old Krupskaya was right-, perhaps the answer is in Corsica, after all.” “Oh, Christ…. ” “Hear me out. You say we have only shadows. If so we need a great deal more. If we had more, traced even a few names, constructed a fabric of probability-built our own case, if you will. Then could you go to someone, force him to listen to you?” “From a distance,” answered Bray slowly. “Only from a distance. Beyond reach.” “Naturally.” “The case would have to be more than probable, if d have to be damned conclusive.” “I could move men in Moscow if I had such proof. It was my hope that over here an inquiry might be made with less evidence. You’re notorious for your never-ending Senate inquiries. I merely assumed it could be done, that you could bring it about.” “Not now. Not me.” “Corsica, then?” “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it. There’s still Winthrop.” “You said yourself you could not reach him. If you tried to get near him, they’d kill you.” “People have tried before. I’ll protect myself. I’ve got to find out what happened. He saw it for himself; if he’s alive and I can talk to him, he’ll know what to do.” “And if he’s not alive, or you cannot reach him?” Scofield looked at the dead men on the pavement “Maybe the only thing that’s left. Corsica.” The KGB man shook his head. “I look at odds more thoroughly than you, Beowulf. I won’t wait. I won’t risk that ‘hospital’ you speak of. I’ll go to Corsica now.” “If you do, start on the southeast coast, north of Porto Vecchio.” “Why?” “It’s where it all began. It’s Matarese country.” Taleniekov nodded. “Again, the schoolwork. Thank you. Perhaps we’ll meet in Corsica.” “Can you get out of the country?” asked Bray.

  “Getting in, getting out… easily managed. These are not obstacles.

  What about yourself? If you decide to join me.” “I can buy my way to London, to Paris. I’ve got accounts there. If I do, count on three days, four at the outside. There are small inns up in the hills. I’ll find you.

  Scofield stopped. Both men turned swiftly at the sound of an approaching automobile. A sedan swung casuafly off the road into the parking area. In the front seat was a couple, the man’s arm draped over the woman’s shoulder. The headlights shone directly on the immobile bodies on the pavement, the spill illuminating the shattered window of the stalled car and the bloody head inside.

  The driver whipped his arm off the woman’s shoulder, pushing her down on the seat, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He spun it violently to the right and sped back into the road, the roar of the motor echoing throughout the woods and the open space.

  “They’ll reach the police,” said Bray. “Let’s get out of here.” “I submit it would be best not to use that car,” replied the KGB man.

  “Why not?” “Winthrop’s chauffeur. You may trust him. I’m not sure I do.” “That’s crazyl He was damn near killedl” Taleniekov gestured at the dead men on the pavement. “These were marksmen, Russian or American, it makes no difference, they were experts-the Matarese would employ no less. The windshield of that limousine was at least five feet wide, the driver behind it an easy target for a novice. Why wasn’t he shot? Why wasn’t that car stopped? We look for traps, Beowulf. We were led into one and we didn’t see it. Perhaps even by Winthrop himself.” Bray felt sick; he had no answer. “We’ll separate. It’s better for both of us.” “Corsica, perhaps?” “Maybe. You’ll know if I get there.” “Very well.” “Taleniekov?”.‘Yes?” “Thanks for using the matches.” “Under the circumstances, I believe you would have done the same for me.” “Under the circumstances… yes, I would.” “Has it struck you? We did not kiH each other, Beowulf Agate. We talked.” “We talked.” A ]one siren was carried on the cold night wind. Others would be heard soon; patrol cars would converge on the killing ground. Both men turned away from each other and ran, Scofield down the dark path into the woods beyond the rented car, Taleniekov toward the railing that fronted the ravine in Rock Creek Park.

  Matarese Circle

  PART II

  The thick-beamed fishing boat plowed through the chopping swells like a heavy awkward animal dimly aware that the waters were unfriendly. Waves slapped against the bow and the sides sending cascading sprays over the gunnels, the tails of salt whipped by the early morning winds into the faces of men handling the nets.

  One man, however, was not involved with the drudgery of the catch. He pulled at no rope and manipulated no hook, nor did he join in the cursing and laughter that were byproducts of making a living from the sea. Instead, he sat alone on the deck, a thermos of coffee in one hand, a cupped cigarette in the other. It was understood that should French or Italian patrol boats approach, he would become a fisherman, but if none did he was to be left by himself. No one objected to this strange man without a name, for each member of the crew was 100,000 lire richer for his presence. The boat had picked him up on a pier in San Vincenzo. The vessel’s schedule had called for a dawn departure from the Italian coast, but the stranger bad suggested that if the coast of Corsica were seen by dawn, captain and crew would have a far better catch for their labors. Rank had its privileges; the captain received 150,000 lire. They had sailed out of San Vincenzo before midnight.

  Scofield twisted the top back onto the thermos and threw his cigarette over the side. He stood up and stretched, peering through the mists at the coastline.

  They had made good time. According to the captain they would be in sight of Solenzara within minutes; and within an hour they would drop off their esteemed pas senger between Sainte-Lucie and Porto Vecchio. No prob lems were anticipated; there were scores of deserted in lets on the rocky shoreline for a temporarily disabled fishing boat.

  Bray yanked on the cord looped around the handle of his attach6 case and strapped it to his wrist; it was firmand wet. The string burn on his wrist was irritated by the salt water, but it would heal quickly, actually aided by the salt. The precaution might seem unwarranted, but the appearance of it was as valuable as the attachment. One could doze, and Corsos were known to be quick to relieve travelers of valuables-especially travelers who journeyed without identification, but with money.

  “Signore!” The captain approached, his wide smile revealing an absence of key teeth. ‘Ecco Solenzara! Ci arriveremo subito-trenta minuti. E nord di Porto Vecchio!” “Benissimo, grazie.

  .‘Prego!1.

  In a half-hour he’d be on land, in Corsica, in the bills where the Matarese was born. That it had been bom was not disputed, that it had provided assassins-for-hire until the mid-thirties was accepted as a firm probability. But so little was known about it that no one really knew how much of its story was myth and how much based in reality. ne legend was both encouraged and scorned at the same time; it was basically an enigma because no one understood its origins. Only that a madman named Guillaume de Matarese had summoned a council-frorn where was never recorded-and given birth to a band of assassins, based, some said, on the killer-society of Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah in the eleventh century.

  Yet this smacked of cult-orientation, thus feeding the myth and diminishing the reality. No court testimony was ever given, no assassin ever caught who could be traced to an organization called the Matarese; if there were confessions, none were ever made public. Still the rumors persisted. Stories were circulated in high places; articles appeared in responsible newspapers, only to be denied editorial substance in later editions. Several independent studies were begun; if any were completed, no one knew about them. And through it all governments made no comment.

  Ever. They were silent.

  And for a young intelligence officer studying the history of assassination years ago, it was this silence that lent a certain credibility to the Matarese.

  Just as another silence, suddenly imposed three days ago, convinced him that the rendezvous in Corsica was no proposal made in the heat of violence, but the only thing that was left. The Matarese remained an enigma, but it was no myth. It was a reality. A powerful man had gone to other powerful men and spoken the name in alarm; it was not to be tolerated.

  Robert Winthrop had disappeared.

  Bray had run from Rock Creek Park three nights ago and made his way to a motel on the outskirts of Fredericksburg. For six hours he had traveled up and down the highway calling Winthrop from a series of telephone booths, never the same one twice, hitching rides on the pretext of a disabled car to put distance between them. He had talked to Winthrop’s wife, alarming her he was sure, but saying nothing of substance, only that he had to speak with the Ambassador. Until it was dawn, and there was no answer on the phone, just interminable rings spaced farther and farther apart-or so it seemed -and no one at all on the line.

  There had been nowhere to turn, no one to go to; the networks were spreading out for him. If they found him, his termination would be complete; he understood that. If he was permitted to live, it would be within the four walls of a cell, or worse, as a vegetable. But he did not think he would be permitted to live. Taleniekov was right: they were both marked.

  If there was an answer, it was four thousand miles away in the Mediterranean. In his attach6 case were a dozen false passports, five bank books under assumed names, and a list of men and women who could find him all manner of transportation. He had left Fredericksburg at dawn two days ago, had stopped at banks in London and Paris, and late last night had reached a fishing pier in San Vincenzo.

  And now he was within minutes of setting foot on Corsica. The long stretches of immobility in the air and over the water had given him time to think or at least the time to organize his thoughts. He had to start with the incontrovertible; there were two established facts: Guillaume de Matarese had existed and there’d been a group of men who had called themselves the Council of the Matarese, dedicated to the insane theories of its sponsor. The world moved forward by constant, violent changes of power.

  Shock and sudden death were intrinsic to the evolution of history. Someone had to provide the means. Governments everywhere would pay for political murder. Assassination-carried out under the most controlled methods untraceable to those contracting for itcould become a global resource with riches and influence beyond imagination. This was the theory of Guillaume de Matarese.

  Among the international intelligence community, a minority maintained that the Matarese had been responsible for scores of political killings from the second decade of the century through the mid-thirties, from Sarajevo to Mexico City, from Tokyo to Berlin. In their view, the collapse of the Matarese was attributed to the explosion of World War II with its growth of covert services where such murders were legitimized, or the council’s absorption by the Sicilian Mafia, now entrenched everywhere, but centralized in the United States.

  But this positive judgment was decidedly a minority viewpoint. The vast majority of professionals held with Interpol, Britain’s MI-Six, and the American Central Intelligence Agency who claimed that the power of the Matarese was exaggerated. It undoubtedly had killed a number of minor political figures in the maze of passionately ineffective French and Italian politics, but there was no hard evidence of anything beyond this.

  It was essentially a collection of paranoiacs led by a wealthy eccentric who was as misinformed about philosophy as he was about governments accepting his outrageous contracts. If it were anything else, these professionals claimed further, why had not they ever been contacted?

  Because, Bray had believed years ago, as he believed now, you were-we were-the last people on earth the Matarese wanted to do business with.

  From the beginning we were the competition-in one form or another.

  “Ancora quindici minuti,” bellowed the captain from the open wheelhouse “la costa ~ motto vicina.” “Grazie tante, capitano.” “Prego.” The Matarese. Was it possible? A group of men selecting and controlling global assassinations, providing structure to terrorism, spawning chaos everywhere?

  For Bray the answer was yes. The words of a dying Istrebiteli, the sentence of death imposed by the Soviets on Vasili Taleniekov, his own execution team recruited from Marseilles, Amsterdam and Prague… all were a prelude to the disappearance of Robert Winthrop. All were tied to this modern Council of the Matarese. It was the unseen, unknown mover.

  Who were they, these hidden men who had the resources to reach into the highest places of governments as readily as they financed wild-eyed terrorists and selected celebrated men for murder? The larger question was why. Why? For what purpose or purposes did they exist?

  The who was the riddle that had to be unraveled first… and whoever they were, there had to be a connection between them and those fanatics initially summoned by Guillaume de Matarese; where else could they have come from, how else could they have known? Those early men had come to the hills of Porto Vecchio; they had names. The past was the only point of departure he had.

  There’d been another, he reflected, but the flare of a match in the woods of Rock Creek Park had erased it. Robert Winthrop had been about to name two powerful men in Washington who had vehemently denied any knowledge of the Matarese. In their denials was their complicity; they had to have heard of the Matarese–one way or the other. But Winthrop had not said those names; the violence had interfered. Now he might never say them.

  Names past could lead to names present; in this case, they had to. Men left their works, their imprints on their times… their money. All could be traced and lead somewhere. If there were keys to unlock the vaults that held the answers to the Matarese, they would be found in the hills of Porto Vecchio. He had to find them… as his enemy, Vasili Taleniekov, had to find them. Neither would survive unless they did.

  There’d be no farm in Grasnov for the Russian, no new life for Beowulf Agate, until they found the answers.

  “La costa si avvicina!” roared the captain, spinning the wheel. He turned, grinning at his passenger through the wind-blown spray. “Ancora cinque minuti, signore, e poi la Corsica.” “Grazie, capitano.” “Prego.” Corsica.

  Taleniekov raced up the rocky hill in the moonlight, ducking into the patches of tall grass to obscure his movements, but not the path he was breaking. He did not want those following him to give up the hunt, merely to be slowed down, separated if possible; if he could trap one, that would be ideal.

  Old Krupskaya had been right about Corsica, Scofield accurate about the hills north of Porto Vecchio. There were secrets here; it had taken him less than two days to learn that. Men now chased him through the hills in the darkness to prevent him from learning anything further.

  Four nights ago Corsica had been a wildly speculative source, an alternative to capture, Porto Vecchio merely a town on the southeast coast of the island, the hills beyond unknown.