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A nineteen-year-old law student at the University of Utrecht had his name legally changed, or more precisely, altered, his true last name eliminated. From that date forward he was known as Jan van der Meer, no longer Jan van der Meer Matareisen.
Matareisen.
Dutch for Matarese.
The final piece of the maddening puzzle was in place.
Julian Guiderone registered under the name of Paravacini at London's Inn on the Park hotel. The better establishments knew the House of Paravacini to be among the wealthiest dynasties in Italy and worthy of their finest efforts. To fulfill the objective of his visit to Englandsimply put, the death of Brandon Alan Scofield, a.k.a. Beowulf Agate-Julian had to unearth the whereabouts of the Matarese's man in London, one Leonard Fredericks. Apparently, as their mole in Langley phrased it, "It's as though he's disappeared."
However, someone like Fredericks did not just disappear. He might create irrefutable explanations for temporary absences, but he would never vanish. Notwithstanding harsher realities, like his own execution, he was extraordinarily well paid for his services and, like many of his subterranean colleagues, maintained a covert lifestyle that might be the envy of a Saudi prince. Guiderone did not confine himself solely to Matarese conduits, though; he had his own sources and resources. One of these was Leonard Fredericks's wife, trapped in a dreadful marriage from which there was no escape. In the event she was being watched, they agreed to meet in the Islamic exhibition room at the Victoria and Albert Museum, the subject an established interest of hers.
"You know perfectly well that Leonard rarely tells me the details of his trips," said the matronly Marcia Fredericks as they sat on a marble bench in the museum. The exhibition room was half-filled with students and tourists, and Julian's eyes were on the entrance archway; he was prepared to get up and leave the woman at the first inkling of surveillance.
"I presume he flew over to his Paris fleshpots, listed, of course, as some trumped-up economic study."
"Did he say when he was coming back?"
"Oh, he was quite specific-tomorrow, to be exact. As usual, I'm on call, which was why he was specific. I'm cooking a roast for a couple from the office."
"Considering the state of your wedded non-bliss, I'd say you were very kind."
"I'm very curious. He's been sleeping with the wife for the last two years."
"He does have nerve, doesn't he?"
"That he does, dearie. If a woman's breath can fog a mirror, he'll nail her."
"Listen to me, Marcia," said Guiderone.
"I have to see Leonard, but he mustn't know that we met or that I'm even here in London."
"He won't hear it from me."
"Good. I'm staying at the Inn on the Park, under the name of Paravacini-" "Yes, you've used that before," interrupted Mrs. Fredericks.
"It's convenient. The family's prominent, and they are friends.
When Leonard returns, does he call you before coming home?"
"Of course. To give me orders."
"Reach me as soon as he does. He still drives from the office or the airport?"
"Naturally. He may find that he has detours to make, the horny bastard."
"I'll intercept him after your call. He may be late for dinner."
Marcia Fredericks turned slightly and looked imploringly at Julian.
"When can I get out, Mr. G.? I have no life. I'm in a preconceived hell!"
"You know the rules. Never.. .. I'll amend that-certainly not now."
"But I don't know the rules! I just know there are rules because Leonard says there are, but I don't know what they are or why."
"You certainly understand that they're related to the excessive money your husband brings home-" "Doesn't do a bloody thing for me!" interrupted the wife.
"And I haven't the foggiest what he does to earn it."
Guiderone returned Marcia's gaze, their eyes locked.
"No, I'm sure you don't, my dear," he said softly.
"Hang in a while longer.
Frequently things have a way of righting themselves. You'll do as I ask?"
"The Inn on the Park. Paravacini."
It was early evening on the outskirts of London; the street lamps in this residential section had been recently turned on. The row of neat, pleasant upper-middle-class homes was progressively distinguished by the succession of inside lights filling the windows. Darkness comes quickly in these quasi-suburban areas as the sun disappears rapidly, the close proximity of the houses prohibiting the dying rays from flooding the streets.
On this particular street a nondescript gray sedan was parked at the curb across from Leonard Fredericks's home. Inside, Julian Guiderone sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette, his left arm slung over the passenger seat, his eyes on the rearview mirror. There they were. The headlights of a slowly moving car angling to the right, sliding into the opposing curb. Leonard Fredericks.
On the oft-confirmed premise that a startled man was verbally careless, Julian turned on the ignition and, timing his move with precision, swung the wheel, lurching the gray sedan directly into the path of the approaching vehicle. Slamming to a stop inches from the car's bonnet, the tires screeching, Guiderone sat immobile, waiting for the reaction. It came instantly as Fredericks leaped out of the driver's side, yelling.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he roared.
"I think the question should be reversed, Leonard," replied Julian calmly, getting out of the gray car and staring at the Matarese's man-in London
"What the bloody hell have you done?"
"Mr. Guiderone? .. . Julian? .. . What in heaven's name are you doing here?"
"To repeat, what have you done wherever you were, Leonard? No one's been able to find you; you've answered no sterile calls or coded messages. As Eagle put it, it's as though you had disappeared. That's all very disconcerting."
"Good God, certainly you don't have to be told!"
"Told what?"
"It's why I went on a short holiday .. . until things were clarified."
"Told what, Leonard?" asked Guiderone sharply.
"Amsterdam's off-limits! Jordan passed the word to me-from you."
"From me? ..."
"Of course. He said you'd particularly appreciate my perceptions.
He as much as admitted that he was your messenger."
"He did?"
"Certainly. He knew everything. The K-Gracht, Atlantic Crown, Swanson and Schwartz, even that talkative attorney, Stuart Nichols, as well as Wahlburg and Jamieson Fowler. He knew everything!"
"Calm down, Leonard.. .. Now this Jordan-" "The American banker, Julian," interrupted the near-panicked Fredericks.
"Andrew Jordan. Naturally, I checked his cover out; it was authentic, although, as you know, the complaint he filed with our office wasn't really. And I did as you told me-through Jordan, I explained to the Americans that they were to stay away from Amsterdam."
"Your sources?"
"Anonymous, precisely as you instructed."
"This Andrew Jordan, Leonard, would you describe him to me?"
"Describe him to you?" Fredericks was stunned, slipping over the edge.
"Not to worry," reassured Guiderone.
"I just want to know if he did what I asked him to do, to change his appearance. After all, I was sending him into the enemy camp."
"Well, he was older than me, about your age, I'd judge. And yes, there was something odd about him. His clothes were a touch too casual for a prominent banker, if you know what I mean. But then, as you say, he was in the enemy camp-" "The pig of the world!" spat out the son of the Shepherd Boy under his breath, his suspicion confirmed, his fury absolute.
