The visitor to Appleton Hall had been searched thoroughly for weapons, none found, yet one provided by his old enemy. The decision to make a final gesture was clinical; there was no hope after all. But before he tried to kill and was killed, he would see Guiderone’s face when he told him. “You said before that I was a liar, but you have no idea how extensive my lies were. You think you have the X-rays, don!t you?” “We know we have them.” “So do others.” “Really?” “Yes, really. Have you ever heard of an Alpha Twelve duplicating machine?

  It’s one of the finest pieces of equipment ever designed. It’s the only copier made that can take an X-ray negative and turn out a positive print.

  A print so defined it’s acceptable as evidence in a court of law. I separated the four top X-rays off both the master sheets from Andover, made copies, and sent them to five different men in Washingtonl You’re finished, you’re through! They’ll see to it.” “And this has gone on long enough.” Guiderone came around his desk.

  “We’re in the middle of a conference and you’ve taken up enough time.” “I think you’d better listen!” “And I think you should walk over to that drape, and pull the cord. You will see our conference room, but those inside will not see you…. I’m sure I don’t have to explain the technology. You’ve been so anxious to meet the Council of the Matarese, do so now. Not all are in attendance tonight, and not all are equal, but there’s a fair gathering. Help yourself. Please.” Bray crossed to the drapery, felt the cord, and pulled it downward. The curtains parted, showing a huge room with a long oval conference table around which were seated twenty-odd men. There were decanters of brandy in front of each place setting along with pads, pencils, and pitchers of water. The lighting came from crystal chandeliers, swelled by a yellowish glow from the far end of the room where a fire was blazing. It could have been the enormous dining hall of the Villa Matarese, described in such detail by a blind woman in the mountains above Porto Vecchio. Scofield nearly found himself looking for a balcony and a frightened girl of seventeen hiding in the shadows.

  But his eyes were drawn to the forty-foot wall behind the table. Between two enormous tapestries linked at the top border, was a map of the world.

  A man with a pointer in his hand was addressing the others from a small platform; all eyes were on him.

  Tbe man was in the uniform of the United States Army. He was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “I see you recognize the general in front of the map.” The Shepherd Boy’s voice once more proved the blind woman’s words: crueler than the wind.

  “His presence I believe explains the death of Anthony Blackburn. Perhaps I should introduce you to a few of the others, in absentia…. In the center of the table, directly below the platform is the Secretary of State, next to him the Soviet Ambassador. Across from the Ambassador is the director of the Central Intelligence Agency; he seems to be having a side conversation with the Soviet Commissar for Planning and Development. One man you might be interested in is missing. He didn’t belong, you see, but he telephoned the CIA after receiving a very strange telephone call routed through Lisbon. The President’s chief advisor on foreign affairs. He’s had an accident; his mail is being intercepted, the last X-rays no doubt in our hands by now…. Need I go on?” Guiderone started to pull the cord, shutting out the window.

  Scofield put up his hand; the curtain arced before closing. He was not looking at the men at the table; the message was clear. He was looking at a guard stationed at a small recessed door to the right of the fireplace. The man stood at attention, his eyes forward. In his hand was a 30 caliber, magazine-loaded submachine gun.

  Taleniekov had known about these betrayals at the highest levels. He had heard the words spoken by others as they had inserted the needles that further ebbed his life away.

  His former enemy had tried to give him his last chance to live. His last chance.What were the words?

  Pazhar… sigda pazhar! Zizhiganiye pazharl When the explosions begin, fire will follow.

  He was not sure what be meant, but he knew it was the path he had to follow. They were the best there were. One trusted the only professional on earth who was one’s equal.

  And that meant exercising the control his equal would demand. No false moves now. Stanley stood by Winthrop’s wheelchair, his gun leveled at Bray. If somehow he could turn, twist, get the weapon from under his raincoat…. He looked down at Winthrop, his attention caught by the old man’s eyes. Winthrop was trying to tell him something, just as Talenickov had tried to tell him something. It was in the eyes; the old man kept shifting them to his right. That was it! Stanley was by the wheelchair now, not behind it. In tiny, imperceptible movements, Winthrop was edging his chair around; he was going to go after Stanley’s gun! His eyes were telling him that. They were also telling him to keep talking.

  Scofield glanced unobtrusively at his watch. There were six minutes left before the sequence of explosions began. He needed three for preparation; that left three minutes to take out Stanley and bring in another. One hundred and eighty seconds. Keep talking!

  He turned to the monster at his side. “Do you remember when you killed him?

  When you pulled the trigger that night at Villa Matarese?” Guiderone stared at him. “It was not a moment to be forgotten. It was my destiny. So the whore of ViUa Matarese is alive.” “Not any longer.” “No? That was not in the pages you sent to Winthrop. She was killed then?” “By the legend. Per nostro circolo.” The old man nodded. “Words that long ago meant one thing, now something else entirely. They guard the grave still.” “They still fear it. That grave’s going to kiU them all one of these days.” “The warning of Guillaume de Matarese.” Guiderone started back to his desk.

  Keep talking. Winthrop was pressing the wheels of the chair, each press an inch.

  “Warning or prophecy?” asked Bray quickly.

  “They’re often interchangeable, aren’t theyr, “They called you the Shepherd Boy.” Guiderone turned. “Yes, I know. It was only partially true. As a child I took my turn herding the flocks, but the occasions diminished. The priests demanded it; they had other plans for me.” “The priests?” Winthrop moved again.

  “I had astonished them. By the time I was seven years of age I knew and understood the catechism better than they did. By eight years I could read and write in Latin; before I was ten I could debate the most complex issues of theology and dogma. The priests saw me as the first Corsican to be sent to the Vatican, to achieve high office… perhaps the highest. I would bring great honor to their parishes. Those simple priests in the hills of Porto Vecchio perceived my genius before I did. They spoke to the padrone, petitioning him to sponsor my studies…. Guillaume de Matarese did so in ways far beyond their comprehension.” Forty seconds. Winthrop was within two feet of the gun. Keep talking!

  “Matarese made his arrangements with Appleton then? Joshua Appleton, the Second.” “America’s industrial expansion was extraordinary. It was the logical place for a gifted young man with a fortune at his disposal.” “You were married? You had a son.” “I bought a vessel, the most perfectly formed female through which to bear children. The design was always there.” “Including the death of young Joshua Appleton?” “An accident of war and destiny. The decision was a result of the captain’s own exploits, not part of the original design. It was, instead, an unparalleled opportunity to be seized upon. I think we’ve said enough.” Now! Winthrop lunged out of the chair, his hands gripping Stanley’s gun, pulling it to him, every ounce of his strength clawing at the weapon, refusing to let it go.

  It fired. Bray pulled out his own gun, aiming it at the chauffeur.

  Winthrop’s body arched in the air, his throat blown away. Scofield squeezed the trigger once; it was all he needed. Stanley fell.

  “Stay away from that desk!” yelled Bray.

  “You were searched! It’s not possible. Where?

  “From a better man than any computer of yours could ever find!” said Scofield, looking briefly in anguish at the dead Winthrop. “Just as he was.” “You’ll never get out!” Bray sprang forward, grabbing Nicholas Guiderone by the throat, pushing him against the desk. “You’re going to do what I tell you to do or I’ll blow your eyes out!” He shoved the pistol up into the hollow of Guiderone’s right eye.

  “Do not kill me!” commanded the overlord of the Matarese. “The value of my life is too extraordinary! My work is not finished; it must be finished before I die!” “You’re everything in this world I hate,” said Scofield, jamming the gun into the old man’s skull. “I don’t have to tell you the odds. Every second you go on living means you might get another. Do as I say. I’m going to press the button-the same button you pressed before. You’re going to give the following order. Say it right or you won’t ever say anything more. You tell whoever answers: ‘Send in the guard from the conference room, the one with the submachine gun.’ Have you got that?” He shoved Guiderone’s head down over the console and pressed the button.

  “Send the guard in from the conference room.” The words were rushed, but the fear was not audible. “The one with the submachine gun.” Scofield viced his left arm around Guiderone’s neck, dragged him over to the drapes, and pulled them open. Through the glass, across the conference room, a man could be seen approaching the guard. The guard nodded, angled his weapon to the floor, and walked rapidly across the room toward the archway exit.

  “Per nostro circolo,” whispered Bray. He yanked up with all his strength, the vise around Guiderone’s throat clamping shut, crushing bone and cartilage. There was a snap, an expulsion of breath. The old man’s eyes protruded from their sockets, his neck broken. The Shepherd Boy was dead.

  Scofield ran across the room to the door, pressing his back against the wall by the hinges. The door opened; he saw the angled weapon first, the figure of the guard a split second later. Bray kicked the door closed, both his hands surging forward toward the man’s throat.

  The harassed desk sergeant at the precinct on Boylston Street looked down at the thin, prim-looking woman whose mouth was pursed, eyes narrowed in disapproval. He held the envelope in his hands.

  “Okay, lady, you’ve delivered it and I’ve got it. Okay? The phones are a little busy tonight, okay? I’ll get to it soon’s I can, okay?” “Not ‘okay,’ Sergeant… Witkowski,” said the woman, reading the name on the desk sign. “The citizens of Boston will not stand idly by while their rights are being abridged by criminal elements. We are rising up in justifiable outrage, and our cries have not gone unheeded. You are being watched, Sergeant! There are those who understand our distress and they are testing you. I’d advise you not to be so cavalier—’ “Okay, okay.” The sergeant tore open the envelope, and pulled out a sheet of yellow paper. He unfolded it and read the words printed in large blue letters. “Jesus Christ on a fuckin’ raft,” he said quietly, his eyes suddenly widening in astonishment. He looked down at the disapproving woman as if he were seeing her for the first time. As he stared, he reached over to a button on the desk; he pressed it repeatedly.

  “Sergeant, I strenuously object to your profanity.

  Above every visible door in the precinct house, red lights began flashing on and off; from deep within, the sound of an alarm bell echoed off the walls of unseen rooms and corridors. In seconds, doors began opening and helmeted men came out, hastily donned two-inch shields of canvas and steel strapped over their chests.

  “Grab her!” shouted the sergeant. “Pin her armst Throw her into the bomb room!” Seven police officers converged on the woman. A precinct lieutenant came running out of his office. “Mat the hell is it, Sergeant?” “Look at thisl” The lieutenant read the words on the Yellow paper. “Oh, my Jesusl”

  To the Fascist Pigs of Boston, Protectors of the Alabaster Bride.

  Death to the Economic Tyrants! Death to Appleton Halll As Pigs Read This Our Bombs Will Do What Our Pleas Cannot. Our Suicide Brigades Are Positioned To Kill All Who Flee The Righteous Holocaust. Death to Appleton Haill Signed: The Third World Army of Liberation and Justice

  The lieutenant issued his instructions. “Guiderone’s got guards all around that place; reach the housel Then call Brookline, tell them what’s going down, and raise every patrol car we’ve got in the vicinity of Jamaica Way; send them over.” The officer paused, peering at the yellow page with the precise blue letters printed on it, then added harshly, “Godamn it! Get Central Headquarters on the line. I want their best SWAT team dispatched to Appleton Hall.” He started back to his office, pausing again to look in disgust at the woman being propelled through a door, arms pulled, stretched away from her sides, prodded by men with padded shields and helmets. “Third World Army of Liberation and Justicel Freaked-out bastar” Book herl” he roared.

  Scofield dragged the guard’s body across the room, concealing it behind Guiderone’s desk. He raced over to the dead Shepherd Boy, and for the briefest of moments, just stared at the arrogant face. If it were possible to kill beyond killing, Bray would do so now. He pulled Guiderone to the far comer, throwing his body in a crumpled heap. He then stopped at Winthrop’s corpse, wishing there was time to somehow say goodbye.

  He grabbed the guard’s submachine gun off the floor and ran over to the drapes. He pulled them open and looked at his watch. Fifty seconds to go until the explosions would begin. He checked the weapon in his hands; all clips were full. He looked through the window into the conference room, seeing what he had not seen before because the man had not been there before.

  The Senator had arrived. All eyes were now on him, the magnetic presence mesmerizing the entire room; the easy grace, the wom, still-handsome face giving each man his attention, if only for an instant-telling that man he was special. And each man was seduced by the raw power of power; this was the next President of the United States and he was one of them.

  For the first time in all the years Scofield had seen that face, he saw what a destroyed, alcoholic mother saw: it was a mask. A brilliantly conceived, ingeniously programmed mask… and mind.

  Twelve seconds.

  There was a burst of static from a speaker on the desk. A voice erupted.

  “Mr. Guiderone, we must interruptl We’ve had calls from the Boston and Brookline policel There are reports of an armed attack on Appleton Hall.

  Men calling themselves the Third World Army of Liberation and Justice. We have no such organization on any list, sir. Our patrols are alerted. The police want everyone to stay.

  Two seconds.

  The news had been relayed to the conference room. Men leaped up from chairs, gathering papers. Their own particular panic was breaking out: how would the presence of such men be explained? Who would explain it?

  One second.

  Bray heard the first explosion beyond the walls of Appleton Hall. It was in the distance, far down the hill, but unmistakable. The sound of rapid-fire weapons followed; men were shooting at the source of the first explosions.

  Inside the conference room, the panic mounted. The consiglieri of the Matarese were rushing around, a single guard at the archway exit poised with his submachine gun leveled through the arch. Suddenly Scofield realized what the powerful men were doing: they were throwing papers and pads and maps into the fire at the end of the room.

  It was his moment; the guard would be first, but merely the first.

  Bray smashed the window with the barrel of his automatic weapon and opened fire. The guard spun as the bullets caught him. His submachine gun was on rapid-repeat; the death-pressure of his trigger finger caused the gun to erupt wildly, the spray of.30 caliber shells flying out of the ejector, walls and chandeliers and men bursting, exploding, collapsing under their impacts. Screams of death and shrieks of horror filled the room.

  Scofield knew his targets, his eye rehearsed over a lifetime of violence.

  He smashed the jagged fragments of glass and raised the weapon to his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger in rapidly defined, reasonably aimed sequences. One step-one death-at a time.

  The bursts of gunfire exploded through the window frame. The general fell, the pointer in his hand lacerating his face as he collapsed. The Secretary of State cowered at the side of the table; Scofield blew his head off. The director of the Central Intelligence Agency raced his counterpart from the National Security Council toward the arch, leaping over bodies in their hysteria. Bray caught them both. The director’s throat was a mass of blood; the NSC chairman raised his hands to a forehead that was no longer there.

  Where was he? He of all men had to be foundl There he was!

  The Senator was crouched below the conference table in front of the roaring fire. Scofield took the aim of his life and squeezed the trigger. The spray of bullets exploded the wood, some had to penetrate.

  They did! The Senator fell back, then rose to his feet. Bray fired another burst; the Senator spun into the fireplace, then sprang back out, fire and blood covering his body. He raced blindly forward, then to his left, grabbing the tapestry on the wall as he fell.

  The tapestry caught fire; the Senator in his collapse of death pulled it off the wall. The huge cloth arced down in flames over the conference table. The fire spread, flames leaping to every comer of the enormous room Firel After the explosions. Firel Taleniekov.

  Scofield ran from the window. He had done what he had to do; it was the moment to do what he so desperately wanted to do. If it were possible; if there was any hope at all. He stopped in front of the door, checking the remaining ammunition; he had conserved it well. The third and fourth charges had detonated at the base of the hill. The fifth and sixth were timed to explode within seconds.