outside; everything is in motion now. Action and reaction has been tested at the highest levels, unknown men positioned at the centers of power. Soon it will happen, and when it does, we are consumed. We are destroyed, subjects of the Matarese." "Where is this man?" "Dead. The chemicals wore off; there was a cyanide pellet sewn into his skin. He tore his own flesh and reached it." "Assassination? Political maneuver, murder? You must be more specific." Krupskaya's breath came shorter as he again fell back on the pillow. But strangely, his voice grew firmer. "There is no time I do not have the time. My source is the most reliable in Moscow-in all the Soviet." "Forgive me, dear Aleksie, you were the best, but you do not exist anymore. Everyone knows that." "You must reach Beowulf Agate," said the old Istrebiteli, as though Vasili had not spoken. "You and he must find them. Stop them. Before one of us is taken, the other's destruction guaranteed. You and the man Scofield. You are best now, and the best are needed." Taleniekov looked impassively at the dying Krupskaya. "That is something no one can ask me to do. If Beowulf Agate were in my sight, I would kill him. As he would kill me, if he were capable." "You are insignificant!" The old man had to breathe slowly, in desperation, to get the air back in his lungs. "You have no time for yourselves, can't you understand that? They are in our clandestine services, in the most powerful circles of both governments. They used the two of you once; they will use you again, and again. They use only the best and they will kill only the bestl You are their diversions, you and men like youl" "Where is the proof?" "In the pattern," whispered Krupskaya. "I've studied iL I know it well." "What pattern?" "The Graz-Burya shells in New York; the seven millimeter casings of a Browning Magnum in Provasoto. Within hours Moscow and Washington were at each other's throats. This is the way of the Matarese. It never kills without leaving evidence-often the killers themselvesbut it is never the right evidence, never the true killers." "Men have been caught who pulled triggers, Aleksie." "For the wrong reasons. For reasons provided by the Matarese.... Now, it takes us to the edge of chaos and overthrow." "But why?" Krupskaya turned his head, his eyes in focus, pleading.
"I don't know. The pattern is there but not the reasons for it. That is what frightens me. One must go back to understand. The roots of the Matarese are in Corsica. The madman of Corsica; it started with him. The Corsicark fever. Guillaume de Matarese. He was the high priest." "When?" asked Taleniekov. "How long ago?" "During the early years of the century. Guillaume de Matarese and his council. The high priest and his ministers. They've come back. They must be stopped. You and the man Scofield!" "Who are they?" asked Vasili. "Where are they?" "No one knows." The old man's voice was failing now. He was failing. "The Corsican fever. It spreads." "Aleksie, listen to me," said Taleniekov, disturbed by a possibility that could not be overlooked: the fantasies of a dying man could not be taken seriously. "Who is this reliable source of yours? Who is the man so knowledgeable in Moscow-in all the Soviet? How did you get the infor- mation you've given me? About the killing of Blackburn, the VKR report on Yurievich? Above all, this unknown man who speaks of timetables?" Through the personal haze of his approaching death, Krupskaya understood.
A faint smile appeared on his thin, pale lips. "Every few days," he said, struggling to be heard, "a driver comes to see me, perhaps take me for a ride in the countryside. Sometimes to meet quietly with another. It's the State's kindness to a pensioned old soldier whose name was appropriated. I am kept informed." "I don't understand, Aleksie." "The Premier of Soviet Russia is my source." "The Premier! But why you?" "He is my son." Taleniekov felt a wave of cold rush through him. The revelation explained so much. Krupskaya had to be taken seriously; the old Istrebiteli had possessed the information-the ammunition-to eliminate all who stood in the way of his son's march to premiership of Soviet Russia.
"Would he see me?" "Never. At the first mention of the Matarese, he would have You shot. Try to understand, he would have no choice. But he knows I