The Matarese Countdown by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page A

Scofield. Help me.”
    “Sure, of course. I can ferry you over to Tortola on our second cutter, if you like.”
    “No thanks. Marinas are watched, the immigration procedures are pretty thorough—those tax dodges you mentioned. I’m sure you can find me an airstrip or a water touchdown that’s off the usual routes.”
    “As a matter of fact, I can. We both use it to interdict drug smugglers.”
    “Use it now, please.”
    It was sundown, the third day of surveillance, and Pryce was in a hammock strung between two sturdy palms on the island beach. Dressed in tropic clothes—docksiders, shorts, and a light guayabera—he was basically indistinguishable from the dozen or so other male tourists lolling about in the early-evening sand. The difference was in the contents of his “beach bag.” Whereas others were filled with sunscreen lotion, crumpled magazines, and forgettable paperbacks, his bag held, first, a portable phone, calibrated to put him in immediate contact with St. Thomas as well as the Coast Guard cutter moored in the Tortola harbor and capable of sending and receiving less esoteric communications via satellite. In addition to this vital link, there was a holstered weapon—a .45 Star PD auto pistol with five clips of ammunition—a belt-scabbarded hunting knife, a flashlight, a pair of night-vision binoculars, charts of Tortola and the nearby islands, a first-aid kit, a bottle of flesh antiseptic, and twoflasks—one filled with spring water, the other with McKenna sour-mash bourbon. Experience had taught him that each item had its place in the scheme of unpredictable things.
    He was about to doze off in the debilitating heat when the low hum of the phone penetrated the lining of his waterproof flight bag. He reached down, unzipped the thin nylon strip, and pulled out the state-of-the-art instrument. “Yes?” he said quietly.
    “Finally pay dirt,
mon!
” replied one of the black Tortolans recruited by the lieutenant in St. Thomas for the surveillance team; he was calling from the Road Town post office.
    “The mailbox?”
    “Not much in it, but she got it all.”
    “She?”
    “A white lady, mon. Middle-aged, mebbe forties or fifties, difficult to tell ’cause she damn near as dark as us from the sun.”
    “Hair? Height?”
    “Half gray, half brown. Pretty tall, mebbe three, four flat hands above five feet.”
    “It was his wife. Where did she go?”
    “She got into a Jeep, mon, no license plate. She’s heading toward the Point, I think.”
    “What
Point?
”
    “Got lots of names, only one road. I’ll follow her on my moped. Gotta hurry, mon.”
    “For God’s sake, keep in touch!”
    “You get to cut-boat. Tell ’em to cruise east to Heavy Rock, they know it.”
    Cameron Pryce switched channels and spoke to the skipper of the Coast Guard cutter. “Pull into the dock and I’ll get on board. Do you know a place, a point, called Heavy Rock?”
    “Or ‘Lotsa Rock,’ or ‘Big Stone Point,’ or ‘Black Rock Angel’?… Sure, it depends where you live on Tortola. At night it’s a favorite landing site for the
contrabandistas.
The older natives say it’s haunted with obeah, that’s like voodoo.”
    “That’s where we’re going.”
    The long shadows, created by the orange sun disappearing over the horizon, fell across the Caribbean waters as the cutter slowly, lazily, rounded the coastline. “There it is, sir,” said the naval officer, a lieutenant j.g. even younger than the commander of station in St. Thomas. “That’s ‘Big Stone Mother,’ ” he added, pointing to an enormous cliff-like rock that seemingly had lurched out of the sea.
    “Another name, Lieutenant? ‘Big Stone Mother’?”
    “We gave it that one, I’m afraid. We don’t like to come out here, too many shoals.”
    “Then stay pretty far from shore. If a boat comes out, we’ll spot it.”
    “
A Cigarette on starboard northwest
,” said the sudden voice over the intercom.
    “Shit!” exclaimed the young