The Matarese Countdown by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online

seaplane landed in the mild waters of the Charlotte Amalie harbor in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. It taxied to the Coast Guard patrol station on the left bank of the waterfront, where Cameron Pryce climbed down the unstable steps to the dock. He was met by the young white-uniformed commander of station. “Welcome to Charlotte
Ah-ma-lee
,” said the naval officer, shaking his hand, “and if you want to fit in, that’s the way it’s pronounced.”
    “I’m on your side, Lieutenant. Where do I start?”
    “First, you have a reservation at the Eighteen Sixty-nine House, right up on the hill. Damn good restaurant, and the fellow who owns it was once part of your kind of operations, so he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
    “
Once
doesn’t fill me with confidence—”
    “Count on it, sir. He was AID in Vientiane and the Agency dumped a pile of aircraft on him. How do you think he bought the hotel?”
    “He’s golden. Do you have anything for me?”
    “Scofield folded up his charter service here several years ago and moved it to British Tortola. He closed that down, too, but still keeps a post office box there.”
    “Which means he comes back to pick up his mail.”
    “Or sends someone with a key. He gets his pension check every month and, presumably, whatever inquiries there are for his charters.”
    “He’s still sailing then?”
    “Under a new name. ‘Tortola Caribbean,’ a tax dodge, if you want my opinion, which is kind of stupid since he hasn’t paid any taxes for over twenty-five years.”
    “Some deep-cover boys never change. Where is he now?”
    “Who knows?”
    “Nobody’s seen him?”
    “Not for the record, and we’ve asked around. Discreetly, of course.”
    “Someone’s got to pick up his mail—”
    “Look, sir, we just got this inquiry eight days ago, and we have friends in Tortola,” said the Coast Guard lieutenant. “They don’t have a clue. Tortola is roughly twenty square miles of island with about ten thousand residents, mostly native and British. Its main post office is in Road Town, where mail comes in erratically and most of the time the clerks are asleep. I can’t change the habits of a subtropic environment.”
    “Don’t get irritated, I’m merely asking questions.”
    “I’m not irritated, I’m frustrated. If I could really help you, it would look good on my record and I might get out of this goddamned place. I simply can’t. For all intents and purposes, that son of a bitch Scofield has disappeared.”
    “Not when he has a mailbox, Lieutenant. It’s just a question of watching it.”
    “You’ll forgive me, Mr. Pryce, but I’m not permitted to leave my station and sit on my ass in Tortola.”
    “Spoken like an officer and a gentleman, young man. But you can hire someone to do just that.”
    “With
what?
The budget’s so tight here I have to rely on volunteer help when lousy catamarans can’t get into shore!”
    “Sorry, I forgot. Bureaucrats in suits make those decisions. They probably think St. Thomas is a Catholic territory in the Pacific.… Cool off, Lieutenant, I’m wired into the suits. You help me, I’ll help you.”
    “How?”
    “Get me an interisland flight to Tortola with no identification.”
    “That’s too easy.”
    “I’m not finished. Send one of your cutters to the harbor in Road Town under my command.”
    “That’s too hard.”
    “I’ll clear it It’ll look good on your record.”
    “I’ll be damned—”
    “You will be if you refuse me. Let’s go, Lieutenant, let’sset up shop. Instant communications and all the rest of that horseshit.”
    “You’re for real, aren’t you?”
    “Reality is my middle name, youngster. Don’t you forget it, especially not now.”
    “What are you after?”
    “Someone who knows the truth about an old story with numerous dimensions, and that’s all
you
have to know.”
    “That doesn’t tell me a hell of a lot.”
    “And I don’t know much more, Lieutenant. I won’t until I find