Do you need more than that? The shepherd boyl” “The Lord is my shepherd-” “Stop it, you sanctimonious liarl” The priest stood up. “You stop it, whoever you arel This good and decent man has lived his life in atonement for sins that were never his! Since a child he wanted to be a man of God, but it was not permitted. Instead, he has become a man with God. Yes, with God.” “He is a Matarese!” “I don’t know what that is, but I know what he is. Millions dispensed every year to the starving, to the deprived. All he asks in return is our presence to see him through his devotions. It is all he has ever asked.” “You’re a fooll Those funds are Matarese fundsl They buy death!” “They buy hope. You’re the liar!” The door of the chapel burst open. Vasili spun around. A man in a dark business suit stood inside the frame, legs apart, arms outstretched, a gun in his right hand, steadied by his left. “Don’t move!” The language was German.

  Through the door came two women. One was tall and slender, dressed in an ankle-length blue velvet gown, a fur stole around her shoulders, her face white, angular, beautiful. The coarse-looking woman at her side was short, in a cloth overcoat, her face puffy, her narrow eyes wary. He had seen her only hours ago; a guard had said she would be accommodating, should Heinrich Kassel need duplicates.

  “That’s the man,” said the receptionist who had sat behind the desk at the Records of Property.

  “Thank you,” replied Odile Verachten. “You may go now, the chauffeur will drive you back into the city.” “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much.” “You’re most welcome. The chauffeur’s in the hallway. Good night.” “Good night, ma’am.” The woman left.

  “Odile!” cried her father, struggling to his feet. “This man came in-” “I’m sorry, father,” interrupted his daughter. “Putting off unpleasantries only compounds them; it’s something you never understood. I’m sure this.

  .. man… said things you shouldn’t have heard.” With those few words, Odile Verachten nodded at her escort. He shifted the weapon to his left and fired. The explosion was deafening; the old man fell. The killer raised his gun and fired again; the priest spun, the top of his head a sudden mass of dark red.

  Silence.

  “That was one of the most brutal acts I’ve ever seen,” said Taleniekov. He would kill… somehow.

  “From Vasili Vasilovich Taleniekov, that’s quite a statement,” said the Verachten woman, taking a step forward. “Did you really believe that this ineffectual old man-this would-be priest—could be a part of us?” “My erroY was in the man, not in the name. Voroshin is Matarese.” “Correction. Verachten. We are not merely born, we are chosen.” Odile gestured at her dead father. “He never was. When his brother was killed during the war, Ansel chose mel” She glared at him. “We wondered what you had learned in Leningrad.” “Would you really like to know?” “A name,” answered the woman. “A name from a chaotic period in recent history. Voroshin. But it hardly matters that you know. There is nothing you could say, no accusation you could make, that the Verachtens could not deny.” “You don’t know that.” “We know enough, don’t we?” said Odile, glancing at the man with the gun.

  “We know enough,” repeated the killer. “I missed you in Leningrad. But I did not miss the woman, Kronescha, did I? If you know what I mean.” “You!” Taleniekov started forward; the man clicked the gun’s hammer back with his thumb.

  Vasili held his place, body and mind aching. He would kill; to do so control had to be found. And shock. Lodzia, my Lodzia! Help me.

  He stared at Odile Verachten, and spoke softly, slowly, giving each word equal emphasis. “Per… nostro… circolo!” The smile faded from her lips, her white skin grew paler. “Again from the past. From a primitive people Who don’t know what they’re saying. We should have known you might learn it.” “You believe that? You think they don’t know what they’re saying?” ‘Yes.

  It was now, or it was not, thought Taleniekov. He took a deliberate step toward the woman. The killer’s gun inched out, only feet away, aimed directly at his skull. “Then why do they talk of the shepherd boy?” He took another step; the killer breathed abruptly, audibly through his nostrils-prelude to fire the trigger was being squeezed.

  “Stop!” screamed the Verachten woman.

  The explosion came as Vasili dropped to a crouch. Odile Verachten had thrust her arm out in a sudden command to prevent the gunshot, and in that instant, Taleniekov sprang, eye and mind and body on a single object. The gun, the barrel of the gun.

  He reached it, his fingers gripping the warm steel, hand and wrist twisting counterclockwise, pulling downward to inflict the greatest pain. He threw his right hand-fingers curled and rigid-into the man’s stomach, tearing at the muscles, feeling the protrusion of the rib cage.

  He yanked up with all his strength; the killer screamed, and fell.

  Vasili spun and lunged at Odile. In the brief moment of violence, she had hesitated; now she reacted with precision, her hand underneath her fur stole pulling out a gun. Taleniekov tore at that hand, that gun, throwing her to the chapel floor, his knee hammering into her chest. The handle of her own gun pressed across her throat.

  “There’ll be no mistake this time!” he said. “No capsules in the mouth.” “You’ll be killed!” she whispered.

  “Probably,” agreed Vasili. “But you’ll go with me, and you don’t want that. I was wrong. You’re not one of your soldiers; the chosen don’t take their own lives.” “I’m the only one who can save yours.” She choked under the pressure of the steel, but went on. “The shepherd.

  . Where? How?” “You want information. Good! So do L” Taleniekov removed the gun from her throat, clamping his left hand where it had been, the fingers of his right hand entering her mouth, depressing the tongue, digging through the soft tissue downward. She coughed again, only mucus and spit rolling down her chin; there were no lethal pills in her mouth. He had been right; the chosen did not commit suicide. He then spread the stole and ran his hand over her body, pulling her off the floor, and reaching around her back, pushing her down again and plunging his hand between her legs, ankles to pelvis, feeling for a gun or a knife. There was nothing. “Get up!” he ordered.

  She rose only partially, her knees pulled up under her, holding her neck.

  “You must tell me!” she whispered. “You know you can’t get out. Don’t be a fool, Russianl Save your life! What do you know of the shepherd?” “What am I offered to tell you?” “What do you want?” “What does the Matarese wardir, The woman paused. “Order.”

  “Through chaos?” “Yes! The shepherd? In the name of God, tell mel” “I’ll tell you when we’re out of the compound.” “No! Now.” “Do you think I’d trade that off?” He pulled her to her feet. “We’re leaving now. Your friend here will wake up before too long, and a part of me would give my life to take his. Slowly, in great pain as he took another’s. But I will not do that; he must report to faceless men and they must make their moves-and we must watch. For Verachten is suddenly headless; you’ll be far away from Essen.” “NO!” “Then you’ll die,” said Taleniekov simply. “I got in, I’ll get out.” “I gave orders! No one’s to leavel” “Who’s leaving? A uniformed guard returns to his post. Those aren’t Matarese out there. They’re exactly what they’re supposed to be: former kommandos hired to protect wealthy executives.” Vasili jammed the gun into her throat. “Your choice? It doesn’t matter to me.” She flinched; he grabbed her neck, pulling it into the barrel. She nodded.

  “We will talk in my father’s car,” she whispered. “We’re both civilized people. You have information I need, and I have a revelation for you. You have nowhere to turn but to us now. It could be far worse for you.,,

  He sat next to her in the front seat of Walther Verachten’s limousine. He had taken off the uniform, and was now no more than another stud in Odile Verachten’s stable. She was behind the wheel, his arm around her shoulders, his automatic again jammed into her, out of sight. As the guard at the gatehouse nodded and turned to press the release button, he leaned into her; one uncalled for move, one gesture, and she was dead. She knew it; none came.

  She sped through the open gate, turning the wheel to the left. He grabbed it, his foot reaching across hers to the brake, and spun the wheel to the right. The car skidded into a half spin; he steadied it and slammed his foot over hers on the accelerator.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “Avoiding any prearranged rendezvous.” It was in her eyes; another car had been waiting on the road to Essen. For the third time, Odile Verachten was genuinely frightened.

  They sped down the country road; several hundred yards ahead he could see a fork clearly in the headlights. He waited; instinctively she bore to the right. The fork was reached, the turn began; he moved his hand swiftly to the rim of the wheel and pushed it up, sending them into the left road.

  “You’ll kill us I” screamed the Verachten woman.

  “Then both of us will go,” said Taleniekov. The surrounding woods diminished; there were open spaces ahead. “That field on the right. Pull over.” “What?” He raised the gun and put it against her temple. “Stop the car,” he repeated.

  They got out. Vasili took the keys from the ignition and put them in his pocket. He pushed her forward, into the grass, and they walked toward the middle of the field. In the distance was a farmhouse, beyond it a barn.

  There were no lights; the farmers of Stadtwald were asleep. But the winter moon was brighter now than it was in the Gildenplatz.

  “What are you going to doT’ asked Odile.

  “Find out if you have the courage you demand of your soldiers.” “Taleniekov, listen to mel No matter what you do to me, you won’t change anything. We’re too far along. The world needs us too desperatelyl” “This world needs killers?” “To save it from killersl You talk of the shepherd. He knows. Can you doubt it? Join us. Come with us.” “Perhaps I will. But I have to know where you’re going.,, “Do we trade?” “Again, perhaps.” “Where did you hear of the shepherdT’ Vasili shook his head. “Sorry, you first. Who are the Matarese? What are they? What are they doing?” “Your first answer,” said Odile, parting her stole, her hands on the neckline of her gown. She ripped it downward, the white buttons breaking from the threads, exposing her breasts.

  “It’s one we know you’ve found,” she added.

  In the moonlight Taleniekov saw it. Larger than he had seen before, a jagged circle that was part of the breast, part of the body. The mark of the Matarese. “The grave in the hills of Corsica,” he said. “Per nostro cirColo.,, “It can be yours,” said Odile, reaching out to him. “How many lovers have lain across these breasts and admired my very distinctive birthmark. You are the best, Taleniekov. Join the best! Let me bring you over!” “A little while ago, you said I had no choice. That you would reveal something to me, force me to turn to you. What is it?” Odile pulled the top of her gown together. “The American is dead. You are alone.” “What?” “Scofield was killed.” “Where?” “In Washington.

  The sound of an engine interrupted her words. Headlights pierced the darkness of the road that wound out of the woods from the south; a car came into view. Then suddenly, as if suspended in a black void, it stopped on the shoulder behind the limousine. Before the headlights could be extinguished, he could see three men leaping out, the driver following. All were armed; two carried rifles. AD were predators.

  “They’ve found me,” cried Odile Verachten. “Your answer, Taleniekovl You really have no choice, you see that, don’t you? Give me the gun. An order from me can change your life. Without it, you’re dead.” Stunned, Vasili looked behind him; the fields stretched into pastures, the pastures into darkness. Escape was not a problem-perhaps not even the right decision. Scofield dead? In Washington? He had been on his way to England; what had sent him prematurely to Washington? But Odile was not lying; he would bank his life on itl She had spoken the truth as she knew the truth-just as her offer was made in trutIL The Matarese would make good use of one Vasil! Taleniekov.

  Was it the way? The only way?

  “Your answerl” Odile stood motionless, her hand outstretched.

  “Before I give it, tell me. When was Scofield killed? How?” “He was shot two weeks ago in a place called Rock Creek Park.” A fie. A calculated lie! She had been lied to! Did they have an ally deep within the Matarese? If so, he had to reach that man. Vasili spun the automatic in his hand, offering it to Odile. “There’s nowhere else to turn. I’m with you. Give your order.” She turned from him and shouted. “You men! Put up your guns! Hold your fire!” A single flashlight beam shot out and Taleniekov saw what she did not see-and knew instantly what she did not know. ‘Me light was held by one man to free the other three; and although he was in the spill, the beam was not directed at him. It was directed at her. He dove to his left into the grass. A fusilade of bullets erupted from the rifles across the field.

  Another order had been given. Odile Verachten screamed. She was blown off her feet, her body caved forward, then arched backward in midair under the force of the shells.

  Other gunshots followed, digging up the earth to the right of Taleniekov as he lurched, scrambling through the grass away from the target ground.

  The shouts grew louder as the men attacked, converging on the site on which only seconds ago a living member of the Matarese council had stood-issuing an order that was not hers to give.

  Vasili reached the relative safety of the woods. He rose and started running into the darkness, knowing that soon he would stop, and turn, and kill a man on his way back to the limousine. In other darkness.

  But now he kept running.

  The aging musician sat in the last row of the plane, a shabby violin case between his knees. Absently, he thanked the stewardess for the cup of hot tea; his thoughts consumed him.

  He would be in Paris in an hour, meet with the Corsican girl, and set up direct communications with Scofield. It was imperative they work in concert now; things were happening too rapidly. He had to join Beowulf Agate in England.

  Two of the names on the guest list of Guillaume de Matarese seventy years ago were accounted for.

  Scozzi. Dead.

  Voroshin-Verachten. Dead.

  Sacrificed.

  The direct descendants were expendable, which meant they were not the true inheritors of the Corsican padrone. They had been merely messengers, bearing gifts for others far more powerful, far more capable of spreading the Corsican fever.

  This world needs killers?

  To save it from killers! Odile Verachten had said.

  Enigma.

  David Waverly, Foreign Secretary, Great Britain.

  Joshua Appleton, IV, Senator, United States Congress.

  Were they, too, expendable messengers? Or were they something else? Did each carry the mark of the jagged blue circle on his chest? Had Scozzi?

  And if either did, or Scozzi had, was that unnatural blemish the mark of mystical distinction Odde Verachten had thought it was, or was it, too, something else? A symbol of expendability, perhaps. For it occurred to Vasili that wherever that mark appeared, death was a partner.

  Scofield was searching in England now. The same Beowulf Agate that someone within the Matarese had reported killed in Rock Creek Park. Who was that someone, and why had the false report gone out? It was as though that person-or persons-wanted Scofield spared, beyond reach of the Matarese killers. But why?

  You talk of the shepherd. He knowsl Can you doubt It?

  The shepherd. A shepherd boy.

  Enigma.

  Taleniekov put the tea down on the tray in front of him, his elbow jarred by his seat companion. The businessman from Essen had fallen asleep, his arm protruding over the divider. Vasili was about to remove it when his eyes fell on the folded newspaper spread out on the German’s lap.

  The photograph stared up at him and he stopped breathing, sharp bolts of pain returning to his chest.

  The smiling, gentle face was that of Heinrich Kassel. The bold print above the photograph screamed the information.

  Advokat Mord

  Taleniekov reached over and picked up the paper, the pain accelerating as he read.

  Heinrich Kassel, one of Essen’s most prominent attorneys, was found murdered in his car outside his residence last evening. The authorities have called the killing bizarre and brutal. Kassel was found garroted, with multiple head injuries and lacerations of the face and body. An odd aspect of the killing was the tearing of the victim’s upper clothing, exposing the chest area on which was a circle of dark blue. The paint was still wet when the body was discovered shortly past midnight…

  Per nostro circolo.

  Vasili closed his eyes. He had pronounced Kassel’s sentence of death with the name Voroshin. It had been carried out.

  Matarese Circle

  PART III

  “Scofield?” The gray-faced man was astonished, the name uttered in shock.

  Bray broke into a run through the crowds in the London underground, toward the Charing Cross exit. It had happened; it was bound to happen sooner or later. No brim of a hat could conceal a face if trained eyes saw that face, and no unusual clothing dissuaded a professional once the face had been marked.

  He had just been marked, the man making the identification-and without question now racing to a phone-was a veteran agent for the Central Intelligence Agency stationed at the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square. Scofield knew him slightly; one or two lunches at The Guinea; two or three conferences, inevitably held prior to Consular Operations invading areas the Company considered possessively sacrosanct. Nothing close, only cold; the man was a fighter for CIA prerogatives and Beowulf Agate had transgressed too frequently.

  Godamn it! Within minutes the U.S. network in London would be put on alert, within hours every available man, woman, and paid informer would spread throughout the city looking for him. It was conceivable that even the British would be called in, but it was not likely. Those in Washington who wanted Brandon Alan Scofield wanted him dead, not questioned, and this was not the English style. No, the British would be avoided.