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"Company policy. Apparently whenever an important executive at Atlantic Crown dies suddenly, all his office effects are removed immediately."
"Why?" Scofield broke in, still yelling.
"Industrial espionage is rampant, it's common knowledge these days.. .. Heart attacks, seizures, unexpected tumors, they're also common. Highly competitive corporations try to protect themselves under those circumstances."
"That's crazy, Squinty! What about the police?"
"Where's the crime? It was a backcountry intersection, no witnesses, only imbedded fragments of metal indicating a possible collision. So far, it's listed as an accident."
"But you know and I know it wasn't."
"I agree with you completely," acknowledged the deputy director of the CIA, "especially considering the swiftness of the office cleansing One might even say the tragic event was anticipated."
"Of course it was, and even the suspicion of foul play gives the police the right to seal off all avenues potentially relevant to a crime."
"That's both the irony and our proof of premeditated homicide. Oh, was it premeditated?"" "What do you mean, Frank?" asked Toni.
"By the time the police and the paramedics at the scene of the 'accident' had finished their work, the contents of those two offices were history."
"
"Within an hour or so,"
" said Scofield, repeating Shields's earlier words.
"You're right. There's no way Atlantic Crown's directors could have learned so quickly."
"Age is addling your brain, Brandon. Of course we know how they knew."
"Oh, yes, we do, don't we? Then we have to find out where they took everything!"
"And who gave the order," suggested Antonia, "and who reached whoever it was that carried it out."
"Three excellent questions," agreed Shields.
"We'll start on each immediately."
"It should be interesting," said an angry Scofield.
Sir Geoffrey Waters, OBE, studied the information the American lieutenant Luther Considine had delivered on the secure phone from Scotland. An official fax, sterile transmission, would follow so the pilot could check his words, but as the equipment was temporarily down, the MI-5 officer decided not to wait for confirmation.
To say that the two Bahrainian estates had a convoluted history of ownership, both past and present, would be a gross understatement.
The names obtained were the names of attorneys, companies, and international corporations and conglomerates; no specific people were accountable for ownership. It was a maze of obfuscation; even the Middle East lawyers, who wanted to cooperate, could do nothing. Contracts were electronically transmitted, they reported, and the funds for purchase were wired incognito from such diverse cities as Madrid, London, Lisbon, and Bonn. Monies were transferred; there was nothing to question.
There was, however, one extraordinary exception, extraordinary insofar as the Bahrainian attorney brokering the purchase had received an additional one million dollars, American, beyond the purchase price.
An additional zero had been innocently punched into a coded financial transfer computer. The Bahrainian broker, aware of the strict territorial laws regarding fraud, dutifully reported the overcharge to the authorities, as well as to the sender. It was an obscure holding company in Amsterdam.
Amsterdam.
The slender, balding man in the data-processing complex of the Central Intelligence Agency rose from his desk in his assigned cubicle and brought both his hands to his temples. He walked out of his area and staggered to the next station, a cubicle adjacent to his own.
"Hey, Jackson," he said to the occupant.
"I've got one of my migraines again. Jesus, I can't stand it!"
"Go to the lounge, Bobby, I'll switch your machine over to mine and cover. You really ought to see a doctor about those."
"I have, Jackson. He says they're brought on by stress."
"Then get out of here, Bobby. You could grab a better-paying job anywhere."
"I like it here."
"That's bullshit. Go on, I'll cover your screen."
Bobby Lindstrom did not go to the employees' lounge, but instead walked outside to one of the pay phones on the concrete walk. He inserted four quarters, one after another, and dialed seven zeros. A series of bell tones sounded, five of them, and then he pressed eight zeros and waited.
"On tape," said the metallic voice over the line.
"Go ahead."
"Eagle reporting. Have unscrambled DD Two communications.
Targets are in North Carolina, the P.V. complex. Proceed according to Marseilles. Out."
It was night, a dark night, the rays of the moon blurred by the mountain mists that hovered over the ground everywhere. From the ascending approach road to the Peregrine View gatehouse, there came into gradual focus the dual beams of headlights. As it drove nearer to the steel barrier that fell across the road cut out of the forest, a brown sedan was revealed, a government vehicle with two military flags flanking the hood. The insignias proclaimed it to be a general's car, a two-star general officer.
The vehicle came to a stop as a guard emerged from the gatehouse.
He peered inside at the four uniformed officers-the driver a major, the general beside him in the front seat, and two captains in the rear.
"General Lawrence Swinborn, young fella," announced the general, holding papers in his hand, which he extended across the driver's chest to the open window.
"Here are my clearances from the CIA and the Department of the Army."
"I'm sorry, sir," said the Gamma Force sergeant, "we are to have those clearances at least twelve hours prior to a guest's arrival. No can do, sir. You'll have to turn around in our cul-de-sac to your rear."
"That's a pity, Sergeant," replied the general, angling his head slightly to the left and nodding once. At the signal, the captain in the left rear seat raised a silenced pistol and fired the deadly spit, shooting the man in the forehead. At the sight of his comrade falling, the second guard ran out of the windowed gatehouse only to be met by two rounds fired by the same captain, again head shots, cutting off all sound from the victims.
"Get out," ordered the general officer, "drag the bodies into the woods and raise the barrier."
"Yes, sir!"
"Major, extinguish the headlights."
"Right away!
"Lawrence'-nice ring to it."
"I trust you'll never have to remember it." In the darkness, the steel bar was raised, the captains returned to their seats, and the sedan slowly started up the road. A third guard appeared through the mist and the shadows; he was obviously bewildered and approached the car.
"What the hell is this?" he asked.
"Who are you people?"
"Pentagon security check, soldier," answered the general.
"I
presume you can see the flags."
"I can hardly see a damn thing, but this isn't in the regs."
"We're cleared, Corporal, we're here, and I'm General Lawrence Swinborn."
"General or not, sir, our instructions are to blow up any vehicle we haven't been told about."
"You obviously missed the roll call, soldier. Now, where are the others concentrated? I don't care to be stopped again."
The muscular, broad-shouldered Gamma Force corporal studied the car and its inhabitants. He slowly backed away, his right hand on his holster, unbuckling it, his left pulling a radio out of a strap on his field jacket. He could see a pistol through the open rear window.
"None of your damned business, mister." The guard spun and dove to his left, rolling over and over as the spit like bullets exploded the earth around him. He shouted into his radio.
"Hostile vehicle, Sector Three! Gunfire."
"Phase B!" commanded the man who called himself Swinborn, as all four jumped out of the left side of the sedan and began removing their uniforms while the corporal, now wounded in his right leg, struggled to his feet, ran into the cover of the woo
ds, and began returning fire. The four invaders used the protection of the sedan as they shed the last of their outerwear, revealing camouflage garb identical to that worn by the Gamma Force patrols.
"Spread out!" ordered the false general.
"He's in the first structure on the right, about two hundred yards up the road. Use the woods, we'll meet there!"
What followed was violence and chaos born of confusion. The beams of powerful flashlights cut through the ground and forest mist.
Uniforms-camouflage combat field jackets-were the first marks of identity, and weapons were lowered at the sight of them. Then those lowering their guns were killed in their legitimate mistakes.
At the sound of the erratic, guerrilla-like gunfire, Scofield turned off all the lights, convincing Antonia and Frank Shields to stay in the darkest shadows of the room. He grabbed two MAC-10 automatic weapons from their small arsenal and handed them to his wife and Frank, instructing them to go on rapid fire should anyone appear through the door or a shattered window.
"What are you going to do, Bray?" asked Toni.
"What I'm pretty good at, old girl," replied Scofield, heading for the kitchen and the back door, dressed in his combat fatigues and picking up a standard Colt .45 with six magazines of ammunition. He slipped outside and ran into the surrounding woods. Silently he crept through them, like an angry panther protecting its lair, instinct telling him that he was all-too-possibly the object of execution. His legs and arms ached with the prowling, his bones and muscles and lungs lacking the strength they had years ago. But his eyesight was decent, his hearing still acute, and the hearing was paramount.
He heard it! The crack of a dead branch under the weight of a foot.
And then the rustle of fallen branches as boots brushed them aside.
Beowulf Agate retreated into the underbrush, pulling the forest debris over him. What he saw through the leaves and the sparse particles of small limbs not only puzzled but infuriated him. Three figures, dressed in Gamma Force field jackets, berets, trousers, and boots, had made a mistake! To a man their hair was short, but not the usual crew-cut variety favored by the Gamma guards. Strands fell below their berets at the napes of their necks, unheard of for the patrols at Peregrine View.
