The Matarese Circle

Scofield froze. His eyes ached; blood rushed to his head. His whole body trembled, and what remained of his mind tried desperately to control the rage and anguish that welled up and swept through him.

The face belonged to the KGB. To KGB-East Berlin!

It was a face on one of the half-dozen photographs he had studied—studied until he knew every blemish, every strand of hair—in Berlin ten years ago.

Death on the Unter den Linden. His beautiful Karine, his adorable Karine. Trapped by a team across the checkpoint, a unit set up by the filthiest killer in the Soviet. V. Taleniekov. Animal.

He would trap the killer from the KGB.

He would kill him.

THE MATARESE CIRCLE

The band of carolers huddled at the corner, stamping their feet and swinging their arms, their young voices penetrating the cold night air between the harsh sounds of automobile horns and police whistles and the metallic strains of Christmas music blaring from storefront speakers. The snowfall was dense, snarling traffic, causing the hordes of last-minute shoppers to shield their eyes. Nevertheless, they managed to sidestep each other, as well as the lurching automobiles, and the mounds of slush. Tires spun on the wet streets; buses inched in maddening starts and stops, and the bells of uniformed Santas kept up their incessant if futile clanging.

A dark Cadillac sedan turned the corner and crept past the carolers. The lead singer, dressed in a costume that was somebody’s idea of Dickens’ Bob Cratchit, approached the right rear window, his gloved hand outstretched, his face contorted in song next to the glass.

The angry driver blew his horn and waved the begging caroler away, but the middle-aged passenger in the back seat reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out several bills. He pressed a button; the rear window glided down and the gray-haired man thrust the money into the outstretched hand.

“God bless you, sir,” shouted the caroler. “The Boys Club of East Fiftieth Street thanks you. Merry Christmas, sir!”

The words would have been more effective had there not been a stench of whisky emanating from the mouth that yelled them.

“Merry Christmas,” said the passenger, pressing the window button to shut off further communication.

There was a momentary break in the traffic. The Cadillac shot forward only to be forced to an abrupt, sliding stop thirty feet down the street. The driver gripped the steering wheel; it was a gesture that took the place of cursing out loud.

“Take it easy, Major,” said the gray-haired passenger, his tone of voice at once sympathetic and commanding. “Getting upset won’t solve anything; it won’t get us where we’re going any faster.”

“You’re right, General,” answered the driver with a respect he did not feel. Normally, the respect was there, but not tonight, not on this particular trip. The general’s self-indulgence aside, he had one hell of a nerve requesting his aide to be available for duty on Christmas Eve. For driving a rented,
civilian
car to New York so the general could play games. The major could think of a dozen acceptable reasons for being on duty tonight, but this was not one of them.

A whorehouse. Stripped of its verbal frills, that’s what it was. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was going to a
whorehouse
on Christmas Eve! And because games were played, the general’s most confidential aide had to be there to pick up the mess when the games were over. Pick it up, put it together, nurse it through the next morning at some obscure motel, and make godamn sure no one found out what the games were or who the mess was. And by noon tomorrow, the Chairman would resume his ramrod bearing, issue his orders, and the evening and the mess would be forgotten.

The major had made these trips many times during the past three years—since the day after the general had assumed his awesome position—but the trips always followed periods of intense activity at the Pentagon, or moments of national crisis, when the general had shown his professional mettle. But never on such a night as this.
Never on Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake! If the general were anyone but Anthony Blackburn, the major might have objected on the grounds that even a subordinate officer’s family had certain holiday priorities.

But the major would never offer the slightest objection about anything where the general was concerned. “Mad Anthony” Blackburn had carried a broken young lieutenant out of a North Vietnamese prison camp, away from torture and starvation, and brought him through the jungles back to American lines. That was years ago; the lieutenant was a major now, the senior aide to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Military men often spoke bromidically of certain officers they’d follow to hell and back. Well, the major had been to hell with Mad Anthony Blackburn and he’d return to hell in a shot with a snap of the general’s fingers.

They reached Park Avenue and turned north. The traffic was less snarled than on the crosstown route, as befitted the better section of the city. Fifteen more blocks to go; the brownstone was on Seventy-first Street between Park and Madison.

The senior aide to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff would park the Cadillac in a prearranged space in front of the building and watch the general get out of the car and walk up the steps to the bolted entrance door. He would not say anything, but a feeling of sadness would sweep over the major as he waited.

Until a slender woman—dressed in a dark silk gown with a diamond choker at her throat—reopened the door in three and a half or four hours and flicked the front lights. It would be the major’s signal to come up and collect his passenger.

“Hello, Tony!” The woman swept across the dimly lit hallway and kissed the general’s cheek. “How are you, darling?” she said, fingering her choker as she leaned toward him.

“Tense,” replied Blackburn, slipping his arms out of his civilian overcoat, held by a uniformed maid. He looked at the girl; she was new and lovely.

The woman saw his glance. “She’s not ready for you, darling,” she commented, taking his arm. “Perhaps in a
month or two. Come along now, we’ll see what we can do about that tension. We’ve got everything you need. The best hashish from Ankara, absinthe from the finest still in Marseilles, and precisely what the doctor ordered from our own special catalogue. Incidentally, how’s your wife?”

“Tense,” said the general quietly. “She sends you her best.”

“Do give her my love, darling.”

They walked through an archway into a large room with soft, multi-colored lights that came from unseen sources; circles of blue and magenta and amber revolving slowly across the ceiling and the walls. The woman spoke again.

“There’s a girl I want to have join you and your regular. Her background is simply tailor-made, darling. I couldn’t believe it when I interviewed her; it’s incredible. I just got her from Athens. You’ll adore her.”

Anthony Blackburn lay naked on the king-sized bed, tiny spotlights shooting down from the mirrored ceiling of blue glass. Aromatic layers of hashish smoke were suspended in the still air of the dark room; three glasses of clear absinthe stood on the bedside table. The general’s body was covered with streaks and circles of waterpaint, fingermarks everywhere, phallic arrows pointing to his groin, his testicles and erect penis coated in red, his breasts black, matching the matted hair of his chest, the nipples blue and joined by a straight fingerline of flesh-white. He moaned and whipped his head back and forth in sexual oblivion as his companions did their work.

The two naked women alternately massaged and spread thick globules of paint on his writhing body. As one revolved her breasts about his moaning, moving face, the other cupped his genitalia, groaning sensually with each stroke, uttering false, muted screams of climax as the general approached orgasm—halted by the professional who knew her business.

The auburn-haired girl by his face kept whispering breathless, incomprehensible phrases in Greek. She removed herself briefly to reach for a glass on the table; she held Blackburn’s head and poured the thick liquid onto his lips. She smiled at her companion, who winked back, Blackburn’s red-coated organ in her hand.

Then the Greek girl slid off the bed, gesturing toward the bathroom door. Her associate nodded, extending her left hand up toward the general’s head, inserting her fingers into his lips to cover for her companion’s brief indisposition. The auburn-haired woman walked across the black carpet and went into the bathroom. The room resounded with the groans of the general’s writhing euphoria.

Thirty seconds later, the Greek girl emerged, but she was no longer naked. She was dressed now in a dark tweed coat with a hood that covered her hair. She stood momentarily in the shadows, then stepped to the nearest window and gently pulled back the heavy drapes.

The sound of shattering glass filled the room as a rush of wind billowed the curtains. The figure of a broad-shouldered, stocky man loomed in the window; he had kicked in the panes, and now leaped through the frame, his head encased in a ski-mask, a gun in his hand.

The girl on the bed swung around and screamed in terror as the killer leveled his weapon and pulled the trigger. The explosion was muted by a silencer; the girl slumped over the obscenely painted body of Anthony Blackburn. The man approached the bed; the general raised his head, trying to focus through the mists of narcotics, his eyes floating, guttural sounds coming from his throat. The killer fired again. And again, and again, the bullets entering Blackburn’s neck and chest and groin, the eruptions of blood mingling with the glistening colors of the paint.