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It was detrimental to U.S. investment and the realization of profits thereof.
It was as foolish an accusation as cows producing bourbon, but couched in pseudo academic babble, it was acceptable to the bureaucracy.
"Accommodate me, old chap."
"Just how am I to do that, Geoffrey?"
"Send memoranda all over the place. The banker's name is Andrew Jordan, our target is one Leonard Fredericks. Assign him to Jordan."
"May I ask a question or two?"
"Sorry, it's a major operation."
"A sting then?"
"I told you, no questions."
"I'll have to log this, you understand. We can't be compromised, you know."
"Log whatever you like, just do it, my old friend."
"You wouldn't ask if it weren't major. It's done, Geof."
"Andrew Jordan," a.k.a. Beowulf Agate, was shown into Leonard Fredericks's office by a secretary. The tall, lean occupant rose from his chair, walked around his desk, and enthusiastically greeted the reputedly prominent American banker.
"I'm not sure I like meeting here," said the man called Jordan.
"I
know all about offices, I have twenty-six in various cities in the
U.S.
There's a bar, what you call a pub, two blocks from here, the "Lion' something."
"The Lion of St. George," broke in Leonard Fredericks.
"Would you rather we talk there?"
"Yes, I would, if you don't mind," said Jordan-Scofield.
"Then we'll do it," agreed the bureaucrat.
"Whatever makes you comfortable. You go on ahead of me, and after I tidy up a few things, I'll meet you there in half an hour."
The Lion of St. George was a typical London pub: thick wood, heavy stools and chairs and tables, with a minimum of light and a maximum of smoke, in short words, an outstanding watering hole for the likes of Brandon Alan Scofield. He sat at a table in the front, nearest the entrance, nursing a draft, and waiting for Fredericks. The Foreign Office's second director arrived carrying an attache case. He glanced around impatiently in the dim light until he saw the strange American who did not care to talk in the office. He walked between the few tables and sat down opposite Andrew Jordan. He spoke while opening his attache case.
"I've studied your complaint, Mr. Jordan, and although I find merit in your argument, I'm not sure what we can do."
"Why don't I get you a drink? You're going to need one."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know the way we work," said Beowulf Agate, signaling a waiter.
"What do you drink?"
"A small gin and bitters will be fine, thank you." Scofield gave the order, and Fredericks continued.
"What do you mean-the way who works?"
"In circuitous ways is the best answer. The complaint is horse shit, I'm bringing you orders from Amsterdam."
"What?"
"Come off it, Leonard, we're on the same side. How do you think I reached you if Amsterdam hadn't set it up?" The waiter returned with Fredericks's drink. The timing was perfect. The Matarese's eyes were wide with doubt and fear. The waiter left, and before the mole could speak, Scofield did.
"Damned ingenious, I call it. That complaint may be horse shit, but a lot of bankers across the pond believe it, and I am a banker, check your computers. But I'm also something else. I take my instructions from the K-Gracht in Amsterdam."
"The AT-Gracht? ..." Fredericks's mouth dropped, the fear overcoming the doubt in his eyes.
"Where else?" said Beowulf Agate casually.
"I'm the one who tore apart everything in Atlantic Crown's top offices-our offices-and had it flown to the Netherlands-" The Matarese mole looked close to panic, his doubt erased, his fear paramount.
"What orders do you bring from Amsterdam-from the KGracht?"
"To begin with, make no contact whatsoever. I'm your only courier, trust no one else. We've created this Foreign Office problem to last a number of days, each day bringing us closer to our objective-" "Which isn't that far away," interrupted Fredericks, as if to emphasize his own importance.
"Now it's my turn to question you, Leonard," said Jordan-Scofield quietly, ominously.
"How do you know the date of our objective? It's completely secret, only a very few of us know."
"I've heard-rumors out of Amsterdam, passed to its most-trusted agents."
"What rumors?"
"The fires, the fires in the Mediterranean."
"Who told you this?"
"Guiderone, of course! I walked him through the London labyrinths, showed him everything!"
"Julian Guiderone?" Now it was Scofield who was stunned.
"He really is alive," whispered Brandon, barely audible.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing.. .. What gave you the right to seek out Guiderone?"
"I didn't seek him, he found me through Amsterdam! How could I question him? He's the son of the Shepherd Boy, the leader of our movement!"
"Do you honestly believe he could override Amsterdam with all its resources?"
"Resources? Money is a necessary lubricant, a vital one, but commitment comes first. Guiderone could strip Amsterdam of its authority with only a few words, he made that very clear.. .. My God, it's what's happening now, isn't it? If I'
m not to make contact, that tells me something."
"Julian will be pleased at your perception," said Scofield quietly, locking eyes with Fredericks.
"He told me you were good, very good, and very trustworthy."
"My word!" The Matarese mole chucked down his gin and bitters, then leaned forward, his voice low, intense, confidential.
"I believe I understand," he began, "Mr. Guiderone frequently mentioned that Amsterdam was becoming too self-inflated. He acknowledged its vast wealth, based on the fortunes of the Baron of Matarese, but claimed it was irrelevant without a sound world strategy, workable tactics, and most important, global contacts."
"As usual, Julian was right."
"So, Andrew Jordan, you're not a courier from Amsterdam, you're the messenger from Mr. Guiderone."
"To repeat, you're perceptive, Leonard." Now Scofield leaned forward.
"Do you know Swanson and Schwartz?"
"In New York? Certainly, it's Albert Whitehead's brokerage firm.
I've traveled there often-for Amsterdam."
"Then you know the attorney Stuart Nichols?"
"He does most of the talking."
"What about Ben Wahlburg and Jamieson Fowler?"
"Banking and utilities-" "Good," interrupted Scofield.
"So you can understand the scope of events. Reach them and tell them what I've told you, but don't mention me. Julian would go through the roof, if you did. Explain that through an anonymous source you were instructed to stay away from Amsterdam.
Ask if they know anything about it."
Albert Whitehead, chief executive officer of Swanson and Schwartz, hung up the telephone and turned to Stuart Nichols, the brokerage firm's attorney, who simultaneously replaced an extension phone.
"What's going on, Stu? What the hell is going on?"
"God knows you tried to probe, Al, I couldn't have done it better myself. Leonard wouldn't move an inch, just simple facts, nothing else."
"One thing more, Stuart. He wasn't lying." The buzzer on Whitehead's console sounded; he touched a button and spoke.
"Yes, Janet?"
"It's time for your conference call, sir."
"Oh, yes, I remember, it was scheduled earlier today. Who am I conferring with? I don't think you told me."
"You were late for lunch, I didn't get a chance."
