You know, I’ve never been able to figure out where that place ly. Why would a city be called the anything?” “It’s confusing.” “I gather our son was very confused that night; which is a mother’s way of saying he was plastered.” She gestured toward a squared-off, double doorway so common to old New England houses. “Theo’s on the telephone and trying to mix his stinger at the same time; it’s making him frantic. He hates the telephone and loves his evening drink.” Theodore Goldman was not much taller than his wife, but there was an expansiveness about him that made him appear much larger than he was. His intellect could not be concealed, so he took refuge in humor, putting guests -and, no doubt, associates-at ease.

  They sat in three leather armchairs that faced the fire, the Goldmans with their stingers, Bray drinking Scotch. The rain outside was heavy, drumming on the windows. The recapping of their son’s escapade in The Hague was over quickly, Scofield dismissing it as a minor night out on the town.

  “With major consequences, I suspect,” said Goldman, “if an unknown intelligence officer hadn’t been in the vicinity.” “Your son’s a good pilot.” “He’d better be; he’s not much of a drinker.” Goldman sat back in his chair. “But now, since we’ve met this unknown gentleman who’s been kind enough to give us his name, what can we do for himT’ “To begin with, please don’t tell anyone I came to see you.,, “That sounds ominous, Mr. Vickery. I’m not sure I approve of Washington’s tactics in these areas.” “I’m no longer attached to the government; the request is personal.

  Frankly, the government doesn’t approve of me any longer, because in my former capacity, I think I uncovered information Washington-especially the Department of Justice-doesn’t want exposed. I believe it should be; that’s as plain as I can put it.” Goldman rose to the occasion. “That’s plain enough.” “In all honesty, I used my brief meeting with your son as an excuse to talk to you. It’s not admirable, but it’s the truth.” “I admire the truth. Why did you want to see me?”

  Scofield put his glass down. “There’s a company here in Boston, at least the corporate headquarters are here. It’s a conglomerate called TransCommunications.” “It certainly is.” Goldman chuckled. “The Alabaster Bride of Boston. The Queen of Congress Street.” “I don’t understand,” said Bray.

  “The TransComm Tower,” explained Anne Goldman. “It’s a white stone building thirty or forty stories high, with rows of tinted blue glass on every floor.” “The ivory tower with a thousand eyes staring down at you,” added Goldman, still amused. “Depending on the angle of the sun, some seem to be open, some closed, while others appear to be winking.” “Winking? Closed?” “Eyes,” pressed Anne, blinking her own. “The horizontal Unes of tinted glass are huge windows, rows and rows of large bluish circles.” Scofield caught his breath. Per nostro circolo. “It sounds strange,” he said without emphasis.

  “Actually, it’s quite imposing,” replied Goldman. “A bit outre for my taste, but I gather that’s the point. There’s a kind of outraged purity about it, a white shaft set down in the middle of the dark concrete jungle of a financial district. ” “That’s interesting.” Bray could not help himself; he found an obscure analogy in Goldman’s words. The white shaft became a beam of light; the jungle was chaos.

  “So much for the Alabaster Bride,” said the lawyerprofessor. “What did you want to know about TransComm?” “Everything you can tell me,” answered Scofield.

  Goldman was mildly startled. “Everything?… I’m not sure I know that much. It’s your classic multinational conglomerate, I can tell you that.

  Extraordinarily diversified, brilliantly managed.” “I read the other day that a lot of financial people were stunned by the extent of its holdings in Verachten.” “Yes,” agreed Goldman, nodding his head in that exaggerated way a man does when he hears a foolish point being repeated. “A lot of people were stunned, but I wasn’t. Of course, TransComm owns a great deal of Verachten. I daresay I could name four or five other countries where its holdings would stun these same people.

  The philosophy of a conglomerate is to buy as far and as wide as possible and diversify its markets. It both uses and refutes the Malthusian laws of economics. It creates aggressive competition within its own ranks, but does its best to remove all outside competitors. That’s what multinationals are all about, and TransComm’s one of the most successful anywhere in the world.” Bray watched the lawyer as he spoke. Goldman was a born teacher-infectious in delivery, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “I understand what you’re saying, but you lost me with one statement. You said you could name four or five other countries where TransComm has heavy investments. How can you do thatT’ “Not just me,” objected Goldman. “Anybody can. All he has to do is read and use a little imagination. The laws, Mr. Vickery. The laws of the host country.” “The laws?” “They’re the only things that can’t be avoided, the only protection buyers and sellers have. In the international financial community they take the place of armies. Every conglomerate must adhere to the laws of the country in which its divisions operate. Now, these same laws often insure confidentiality; they’re the frameworks within which the multinationals have to function—corrupting and altering them when they can, of course. And since they do, they must seek intermediaries to represent them. Legally. A Boston attorney practicing. before the Massachusetts bar would be of little value in Hong Kong. Or Essen.” “What are you driving at?” Bray asked.

  “You study the law firms.” Goldman leaned forward again. “You match the firms and their locations with the general level of their clients and the services for which they’re most recognized. When you find one that’s known for negotiating stock purchases and exchanges, you look around to see what companies in the area might be ripe for invading.” The legal academician was enjoying himself, “It’s really quite simple,” he continued, “and a bell of an amusing game to play. I’ve scared the be-jesus out of more than one corporate flunkie in those summer seminars by telling him where I thought his company’s money men were heading. I’ve got a little index file-three by five cards -where I jot down my goodies.” Scofield spoke; he had to know. “What about TransComm? Did you ever do a file card on it?” “Oh, sure. That’s what I meant about the other countries.” “What are they?” Goldman stood up in front of the fire, frowning in recollection. “Let’s start with the Verachten Works. TransComm’s overseas reports included sizeable payments to the Gebmeinhoff-Salenger firm in Essen. Geluneinhoff’s a direct legal liaison to Verachten. And they’re not interested in nickel-and-dime transactions; TransComm had to be going after a big chunk of the complex. Although I admit; even I didn’t think it was as much as the rumors indicate. Probably isn’t.” “What about the othersT’ “Let’s see…. Japan. Kyoto. T-C uses the firm of Aikawa-Onmura-and-something. My guess would be Yakashubi Electronics.” “That’s pretty substantial, isn’t it?” “Panasonic can’t compare.” “What about Europe?” “Well, we know about Verachten.” Goldman pursed his lips. “Then, of course, there’s Amsterdam; the law firm there is Hainaut and Sons, which leads me to think that TransComm’s bought into Netherlands Textiles, which is an umbrella for a score of companies ranging from Scandinavia to Lisbon.

  From here we can head over to Lyon….” The lawyer stopped, and shook his head. “No, that probably tied in with Turin.” “Turin?” Bray sat forward.

  “Yes, they’re so close together, the interests so compatible, there’s no doubt prior ownership buried in Turin.” “Who in Turin?” “The law firm’s Palladino-e-LaTona, which can only mean one company-or companies. Scozzi-Paravacini.” Scofield went rigid. “They’re a cartel, aren’t they?” “My God, yes. They-it-certainly is. Agnelli and Fiat get all the publicity, but Scozzi-Paravacini runs the Colosseum and all the lions. When you combine it with Verachten and Netherlands Textiles, throw in Yakashubi, addSingapore, and Perth, and a dozen other names in England, Spain, and South Africa I haven’t mentioned, the Alabaster Bride of Boston has put together a global fedemtion.” “You sound as if you approve.” “No, actually I don’t. I don’t think anyone can when so much economic power is so centralized. It’s a corruption of the Malthusian law; the competition is false. But I respect the reality of genius when its accomplishments ‘ are so obviously staggering. TransCommunications was an idea bom and developed in the mind of one man. Nicholas Guiderone.” “I’ve heard of him. A modem day Camegie or Rockefeller, isn’t he?” “More. Much more. The Geneens, the Lucases, the Bluedhorns, the wonderboys of Detroit and Wall Street, none of them can touch Guiderone. He’s the last of the vanishing giants, a really benign monarch of industry and finance.

  He’s been honored by most of the major govemments of the West, and not a few in the Eastern bloc, including Moscow.” “Moscow?” “Certainly,” said Goldman, nodding thanks to his wife, who was pouring a second stinger into his glass. “No one’s done more to open up East-West trade than Nicholas Guiderone. As a matter of fact I can’t think of anyone who’s done more for world trade in general. He’s over eighty now, but I understand he’s still filled with as much pee and vinegar as he was the day he walked out of Boston Latin.” “‘He’s from Boston?” “Yes, a remarkable story. He came to this country as a boy. An immigrant boy of ten or eleven, without a mother, traveling with a barely literate father in the hold of a ship. I suppose you could call it the definitive story of the American dream.” Involuntarily, Scofield gripped the arm of the chair. He could feel the pressure on his chest, the tightening in his throat. “Where did that ship come from?” “Italy,” said Goldman, sipping his drink. “Southern part. Sicily, or one of the islands.” Bray was almost afraid to ask the question. “Would you by any chance know whether Nicholas Guiderone ever knew a member of the Appleton family?” Goldman looked over the rim of his glass. “I know it, and so does most everyone in Boston. Guiderone’s father worked for the Appletons. For the Senator’s grandfather at Appleton Hall. It was old Appleton who spotted the boy’s promise, gave him the backing, and persuaded the schools to take him. It wasn’t so easy in those days, the early nineteen hundreds. The two-toilet Irish had barely gotten their gecond john, and there weren’t too many of them. An Italian kid-excuse me, Eyetalian-was nowhere. Gutter meat.” Bray’s words floated; he could hardly hear them himself. “That was Joshua Appleton, the second, wasn’t it?” “Yes.,, “He did all that for this child.” “Hell of a thing, wasn’t it? And the Appletons had enough troubles then.

  They’d lost damn near everything in the market fluctuations. They were hanging on by the skin of their teeth. It was almost as if old Joshua had seen a message on some mystical wall.” “What do you mean?” “Guiderone paid everything back several thousand fold. Before Appleton was in his grave he saw his companies back on top, making money in areas he’d never dreamed of, the capital flowing out of the banks owned by the Italian kid he’d found in his carriage house.” “Oh, my God.

  “I told you,” said Goldman. “It’s one hell of a story. It’s all there to be read.” “If you know where to look. And why.” “I beg your pardon?” “Guiderone….” Scofield felt as though he were walking through swirling circles of mist toward some eerie light. He put his head back and stared at the ceiling, at the dancing shadows thrown up by the fire.

  “Guiderone. It’s a derivative of the Italian ‘guida.’ A guide.” “Or shepherd,” said Goldman.

  Bray snapped his head down, his eyes wide, riveted on the lawyer. “What did you say?” Goldman was puzzled. “I didn’t say it, he did. About seven or eight months ago at the U.N.” “The United Nations?” “Yes. Guiderone was invited to address the General Assembly; the invitation was unanimous, incidentally. Didn’t you hear it? It was broadcast all over the world.

  He even taped it in French and Italian for Radio-International.” “I didn’t hear it.” “The U.N.‘s perennial problem. Nobody listens.” “What did he sayT’ “Pretty much what you jut said. That his name had its roots in the word ‘guida,’ or guide. And that was the way he’d always thought of himself.

  As a simple shepherd, guiding his flocks, aware of the rocky slopes and uncrossable streams… that sort of thing. His plea was f or international relationships based on the mutuality of material need, which he claimed would lead to the higher morality. It was a little strange philosophically, but it was damned effective. So effective, in fact, that there’s a resolution on this session’s agenda that’ll make him a full-fledged member of the U.N.‘s Economic Council. That’s not just a title, by the way. With his expertise and resources, there’s not a government in the world which won’t listen very hard when he talks. HeT be one damned powerful arnicus curiae.” “Did you hear him give that speech?” “Sure,” laughed the lawyer. “It was mandatory in Boston; you were cut off the Globe’s subscription list if you missed it. We saw the whole thing on Public Television.” “What did he sound like?” Goldman looked at his wife. “Well, he’s a very old man. Still vigorous, but nevertheless old. How would you describe him, darling?” “Just as you do,” said Anne. “An old man. Not large, but quite striking, with that look of a man who’s so used to being listened to. I do remember one thing, thoughabout the voice. It was high-pitched and maybe a little breathless, but he spoke extremely clearly, every phrase very precise, very penetrating. Quite cold, in fact. You couldn’t miss a word he said.” Scofield closed his eyes and thought of a blind woman in the mountains above Corsica’s Porto Vecchio, twisting the dials of a radio and hearing a voice crueler than the wind.

  He had found the shepherd boy.

  He had found himl Toni, I’ve found him! Stay alive! Don’t let them destroy you. They won’t kill your body; instead, they’ll try to kill your mind. Don’t let them do it. They will go after your thoughts and the way you think. They will try to change you, alter the processes that make you what you are. They have no choice, my darling. A hostage must be programmed even after the trap is closed; professionals understand that. No extremity is beyond consideration. Find something within yourself-for my sake. You see, my dearest love, I’ve found something. I’ve found him. The shepherd boy! It is a weapon. I need time to use it. Stay alive. Keep your mind!

  Taleniekov, the enemy I can’t bring myself to hate anymore. If you’re dead there’s nothing I can do but turn away, knowing that I’m alone. If you’re alive, keep breathing. I promise nothing, there is no hope, not really. But we have something we never had before. We have him. We know who the shepherd boy is. The web is defined now and it circles the world.

  Scozzi-Paravacini, Verachten, TransCommunications… and a hundred diflerent companies between each one. All put together by the shepherd boy, all run from an alabaster tower that looks over the city with a thousand eyes…. And yet there’s something else. I know it, I feel it!

  Something else that’s in the middle of the web. We who’ve ‘abused this world so well for so long’ develop instincts, don’t we? Mine is strong.

  It’s out there. I just need time. Keep breathing… my friend.

  I can’t think about them any longer. I’ve got to put them out of my mind; they intrude, they interfere, they are barriers. They do not exist; she does not exist and I have lost her. We will not grow old together; there is no hope…. Now, move. For Christ’s sake, move!

  He had left the Goldmans quickly, thanking them, bewildering them by his abrupt departure. He had asked only a few more questions-about the Appleton family—questions any knowledgeable person in Boston could answer. Having the information was all he needed; there was no point in staying longer. He walked now in the rain, smoking a cigarette, his thoughts on the missing fragment his instinct told him was a greater weapon than the shepherd boy, yet somehow part of the shepherd boy, intrinsic to the deceits of Nicholas Guiderone. What was it? Where was the false note he heard so clearly?

  He knew one thing, however, and it was more than instinct. He had enough to panic Senator Joshua Appleton, IV. He would telephone the Senator in Washington and quietly recite a bill-of-particulars that began seventy years ago, on the date of April 4, 1911, in the hills of Porto Vecchio. Did the Senator have anything to say? Could he shed any light on an organization known as the Matarese which began its activities in the second decade of the century-at Sarajevo, perhaps-by selling political murder? An organization the Appleton family had never left, for it could be traced to a white skyscraper in Boston, a company honored by the Senator’s presence on its board of directors. The age of Aquarius had turned into the age of conspiracy. A man on his march to the White House would have to panic, and in panic mistakes were made.

  But panic could be controlled. The Matarese would mount the Senator’s defenses swiftly, the presidency was too great a prize to lose. And charges leveled by a traitor were no charges at all; they were merely words spoken by a man who had betrayed his country.

  Instinct. Look at the man-the man-more closely.

  Joshua Appleton was not as he was perceived to be by the nation. The paternal figure whose appeal ran across the spectrum. Then what about the day-to-day individual? Was it possible that the everyday man had weaknesses he’d find infinitely more difficult to deny than a grand conspiracy leveled by a traitor? Was it conceivable and the more Bray thought about it, the more logical it seemed-that the entire Korean experience had been a hoax? Had commanders been bought and medals paid for, a hundred men convinced by money to keep a vigil none gave a da= about? It would not have been the first time war had been used as a springboard for a celebrated civilian life. It was a natural, the perfect ploy, if the scenario could be executed with precision-and what scenario could not be with the resources controlled by the Matarese?

  Look at the man. The man.

  Goldman had brought the Appleton family up to date for Bray. The Senator’s official residence was a house in Concord where he and his family stayed only during the summer months. His father had died several years ago; Nicholas Guiderone had paid his last respects to the son of his mentor by purchasing the outsized Appleton Hall from the widow at a price far above the market, promising to keep the name in perpetuity. Old Mrs. Appleton currently lived on Beacon Hill, in a brownstone on Louisburg Square.