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"You say a great deal with but a few bromides," said the Hollander, laughing softly.
"You are quite the politician, meneer."
"A vocation pressed upon me by others, great minds, to be sure, but not a direction of my own choosing."
"Better yet, monsieur," observed the Parisian, "you are the outsider on the inside. Tres bien" "And you are, each one of you, extraordinarily talented and convincing journalists. Whatever your past indiscretions-and they will never be exploited by me-they pale beside your abilities.. ..
Now to our fourth and final row, perhaps the most unique for our purposes. The editorial staffs of the four major publications in the world, and through their chains of ownerships, the editorial flagships for over two hundred important international newspapers in Europe and the Americas Your influence is vast, gentlemen. You mold opinions throughout the industrial nations, endorsements by you, or the lack of same, can make or break candidates."
"You're too flattering," broke in a corpulent, white-haired German, his heavy legs dwarfing his chair, his lined, splotched face betraying a sedentary existence.
"That was before the television," he continued.
"Today the challengers and the incumbents buy the television! That is where opinions are formed."
"Only to a degree, mein Herr," objected the son of the Shepherd Boy.
"You put a lightweight cart before a strong horse. When you speak, television reflects on your words and always has. It must, for you have the time for reflection, it doesn't; everything is immediate, instantly processed. The majority of television executives, if only to avoid embarrassment, go back and heed your opinions, even to the extent of distancing themselves from political advertisements."
"He has a point, Gunther," said another American, in counterpoint to his cynical reporter-compatriot, dressed in a conservative business suit.
"More and more we hear the words "The following is a paid commercial' or, conversely, "That was a political advertisement paid for by the committee for Senator so-and-so, or candidate such-and-such."
" "Ach, so what does it mean? It's all so fast."
"It means we still and will always carry weight," answered a third editor, British, by his accent.
"I trust it will always be so," added the last of the men in the fourth row, an Italian wearing a tailored pin-striped suit.
"I reiterate what I mentioned to our second section, those members of the four boards of directors," said Guiderone, his eyes focusing briefly, staring, at each man in the last row.
"I-we-realize that you are currently at the lower ends of your editorial staffs, but that will change.
Through procedures you need know nothing about, you will be elevated to positions of leadership, your judgments accepted as writ."
"Which means," said the fastidious American in the dark suit and regimental tie, "that we editorially endorse what you suggest we endorse throughout our chains of newspapers."
"
"Suggest' is such a flexible verb, isn't it?" asked the son of the Shepherd Boy.
"It's so subject to interpretation. I prefer the word 'advise," for it limits alternatives, doesn't it?"
There was a momentary silence, far beyond a pause, until the Italian spoke.
"Done," he said, nearly choking on the affirmative.
"Or we all lose everything."
"I do not make threats. I merely open the windows of possibility. I believe our meeting is over."
It was.
All together, as if to rid themselves of the stench of a communicable disease, the congregation summoned by the Matarese left the room.
One of the last to depart was the enthusiastic Canadian.
"Oh, Mac Andrew said Guiderone, his hand touching the young man's elbow.
"Now that this dreary business is over, why don't we have a drink in the lounge downstairs? I believe we have mutual acquaintances in Toronto. I'd like to catch up." He mentioned several names.
"Certainly, sir! A pleasure."
"Good. I'll meet you there in five minutes. I've got a phone call to make. Grab a table in the rear, if you can."
"I'll be waiting .. . sir."
The "acquaintances" were, except one, only vaguely remembered names to the young Mac Andrew but the fact that they were in Guiderone's memory elated him, especially the one he did recall vividly.
His ex-wife.
"I was so sorry to hear of that," said Julian.
"It was probably my fault, sir. I admit I was terribly ambitious, and treated her rather badly where business was concerned. You see, after getting my doctorate in managerial finance from McGill University, I was filled with myself. So many offers coming in, none that well paying although prestigious, until out of the blue came a position with a Montreal investments firm at a salary I truly believed I wouldn't reach for a decade!"
"I understand. And then one thing led to another."
"Oh, boy, did it! I then-" "Excuse me, young man," interrupted Guiderone.
"I'm out of Cuban cigars. Would you please buy me several at the counter in the lobby? Here's a ten-thousand-lira note."
"Of course, sir. A pleasure, sir!"
The ambitious Canadian promptly rose from the table and walked rapidly out of the bar. The son of the Shepherd Boy withdrew a small packet from his pocket and emptied its contents into the young man's drink; he gestured for a waiter.
"Tell my friend I had to make a telephone call. I'll be back shortly." "Si, signore.
Julian Guiderone did not return, but the young Canadian did. His head turning right and left, anticipating the sight of the most important man in his life, Mac Andrew drank from his glass. Thirty-four seconds later he fell across the table, his eyes wide in death.
The son of the Shepherd Boy walked down the Spanish Steps into the Via Due Macelli, and turned right to the American Express office. His coded communique to Amsterdam would be deciphered quickly and acted upon. Decoded, it read:
Our Canadian was a
threat. In his enthusiasm, he talked too much.
Problem solved. Search for another.
Guiderone walked back to the intersection of the Via Condotti, one of the shopping meccas of the world. He would not buy; however, he would stop at a coffee shop and have a slow cappuccino or two, summarizing his thoughts.
He-they-the Matarese! had accomplished more than any other elite organization on earth ever had. They controlled industries, utilities, global suppliers, motion pictures and television, and finally newspapers the world over. Nothing could stop them! Soon they would control the planet, and it was all so simple.
Greed.
Infiltrate and promise, or blackmail, and who could resist? The bottom line keeps rising until it's out of sight, profits are extraordinary, the lower classes stand in line for their share-better the devil you can live with than one you don't know. And what of the underclass, the indigent and the uneducated parasites on society? Do what they did in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries! Force them to better themselves! It could be done. It's what made America!
Was it really? Or was it something else?
The blinds were drawn in the neon-lit room of British intelligence, MI-5. There was no need to block out the bright light of the London day, for it was past ten in the evening. It was merely a precaution held over from the Cold War when telescopic cameras were found in buildings across the wide street.
Pryce and Montrose had been picked up at the Connaught at seven thirty they arrived at MI-5 headquarters well before eight o'clock.
Coffees in hand, provided by Geoffrey Waters, without-the-Sir, the three of them had pored over the notes found in Gerald Henshaw's locked drawer in the Brewster house on Belgrave Square. In the main they were scraps of paper torn from loose-leaf pads and filled with hastily scribbled, barely legible handwriting. Then, in contradiction, the majority had been neatly folded two and three times over, as if they were secret clues in a treasure hunt, to be shoved under rocks or into the bark of trees.
"What do you make of it all?" asked Waters, returning to the hot plate after refilling Cameron's cup of coffee.
