to each other every day. Bray had not objected; he had come out of the earth and found something very precious to him, something he had thought he had lost permanently. He could love again; the excitement of anticipation had come back. The sound of a voice stirred him, the touch of a hand was meaningful. He had found Antonio Gravet at the most inopportune time of his life, yet finding her gave a significance to his life he had not felt for a number of years. He wanted to live and grow old with her, it was as simple as that. And remarkable. He had never thought about growing old before; it was time he did.
If the Matarese allowed it.
The Matarese. An international power without a profile, its leaders faceless men trying to achieve what?
Chaos? Why?
Chaos. Scofield was suddenly struck by the root meaning of the word. The state of formless matter, of clashing bodies in space, before the creation.
Before order was imposed on the universe.
The telephone rang; Bray picked it up quickly.
"Vasili's here," said Antonia.
"In Paris? When did he get in?" "This afternoon. He's hurt." "How badly?" "His neck. He should have stitches." There was a brief pause as the phone was being passed. Or taken.
"He should have sleep," said Taleniekov in English. "But I have things to tell you first, several warnings." "What about Voroshin?" "He kept the V for practical if foolish purposes. He became Essen's Verachten. Ansel Verachten." "The Verachlen Works?" "Yes" "Good Christl" "His son believed that." "What?" "It's irrelevant; there's too much to tell you. His granddaughter was the chosen one. She's dead, killed on Matarese orders." "As Scozzi was," said Scofield.
"Exactly," agreed the Soviet. "They were vessels; they carried the plans but were commandeered by others. It will be interesting to see what happens to the Verachten companies. They have no leadership now. We must watch and note who assumes control." "We've reached the same conclusion then," said Bray. "The Matarese work through large corporations." "It would appear so, but to what end I haven't the faintest idea. It's extremely contradictory." "Chaos...." Scofield spoke the word softly.
"I beg your pardon." "Nothing. You said you wanted to warn me." "Yes. They've studied our files under microscopes. It seems they know every drone we've ever used, every past friend, every contact, every...
teacher and lover. Be careful." "They can't know what was never entered; they can't cover everyone." "Don't bank on that. You received my cable about the body marks?" "It's crazy! Squads of killers identifying themselves? I'm not sure I believe it." "Believe it," said Taleniekov. "But there's something I wasn't able to explain. They're suicidal; they won't be taken. Which leads me to believe they're not as extensive in numbers as the leaders would like us to think.
They're some kind of 6lite soldiers sent out to the troubled areas, not to be confused with hired guns employed by second and third parties." Bray paused, remembering. "You know what you're describing, don't you?" "All too well," replied the Russian. "Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah. The Fida'is." "Cadres of assassins Ail death do us part from our pleasures. How is it modernized?" "I have a theory; it may be worthless. We'll discuss it when I see you." "When will that be?" "Tomorrow night-early the next morning probably. I can hire a pilot and a plane in the Cap Gris district; I've done it before. There's a private airfield between Hyth and Ashford. I should be in London by one o'clock, two or three at the latest. I know where you're staying, the girl told me." "Taleniekov."..Yes?" "Her name's Antonia." "I know that." "Let me speak to her." "Of course. Here she is."
He found the name in the London directory: R. Symonds, Brdbry Ln, Chelsea. He memorized the number and placed the first call at 7:30 from a booth in Piccadilly Circus. The woman who answered told him politely that Mr. Symonds was on his way home from the office.
"He should be here any mo' now. Shall I tell him who called?" "The name wouldn't mean anything. I'll call back in a while, thank you." "He's got a marvelous memory. You're sure you don't care to leave your name?" "I'm sure, thank you." "He's coming directly from the office." "Yes, I understand that." Scofield hung up, disturbed. He left the booth and walked down Piccadilly past Fortnum and Mason to St. James Street and beyond. There was another booth at the entrance to Green Park; slightly more than ten