The Matarese Circle by Robert Ludlum Page B

ago, during his last weeks as director, KGB-Southwest Soviet Sectors. During the days when he found himself in continuous confrontation with hot-headed fools at the military bases and asinine edicts from Moscow itself.
    At the time, he was not sure why he held back exposure: for a while he had convinced himself that by leaving it open and watching it closely, it could lead to a larger network. Yet in the back of his mind, he knew that was not true.
    His time was coming; he was making too many enemies in too many places. There could be those who felt that a quiet retirement north of Grasnov was not for a man who held the secrets of the KGB in his head. Now he possessed another secret, more frightening than anything conceived of by Soviet intelligence. The Matarese. And that secret was driving him out of Russia.
    It had happened so fast, thought Taleniekov, sipping the hot tea provided by the steward.
Everything
had happened so fast. The bedside—deathbed—talk with old Aleksie Krupskaya and the astonishing things the dying man had said. Assassins sent forth to kill the élite of the nation—both nations. Pitting the Soviet and the United States against one another, until it controlled one or the other. A Premier and a President, one or both to be in a gunsight. Who were they? What
was
it, this fever that had begun in the first decades of the century in Corsica? The Corsican fever. The Matarese.
    But it existed; it was functioning—alive and deadly. He knew that now. He had spoken its name and for speaking it, a plan had been put in motion that called for his arrest; the sentence of execution would follow shortly.
    Krupskaya had told him that going to the Premier was out of the question so he had sought out four once-powerful leaders of the Kremlin, now generously retired, which meant that none dared touch them. With each he had spoken of the strange phenomenon called the Matarese, repeated the words whispered by the dying Istrebiteli.
    One man obviously knew nothing; he was as stunned asTaleniekov had been. Two
said
nothing, but the acknowledgement was in their eyes, and in their frightened voices when they protested. Neither would be a party to the spreading of such insanity; each had ordered Vasili from his house.
    The last man, a Georgian, was the oldest—older than the dead Krupskaya—and in spite of an upright posture had little time left to enjoy a straight spine. He was ninety-six, his mind alert but given swiftly to an old man’s fear. At the mention of the name Matarese, his thin, veined hands had trembled, then tiny muscular spasms seemed to spread across his ancient, withered face. His throat became suddenly dry; his voice cracked, his words barely audible.
    It was a name from long ago in the past, the old Georgian had whispered, a name no one should hear. He had survived the early purges, survived the mad Stalin, the insidious Beria, but no one could survive the Matarese. In the name of all things sacred to Russia, the terrified man pleaded, walk
away
from the Matarese!
    “We were fools, but we were not the only ones. Powerful men everywhere were seduced by the sweet convenience of having enemies and obstacles eliminated. The guarantee was absolute: the eliminations would never be traced to those who required them. Agreements were made through parties four and five times removed, dealing in fictitious purchases, unaware of what they were buying. Krupskaya saw the danger; he knew. He warned us in ’forty-eight never to make contact again.”
    “Why did he do that?” Vasili had asked. “If the guarantee was proven true. I speak professionally.”
    “Because the Matarese added a condition: the council of the Matarese demanded the right of approval. That’s what I was told.”
    “The prerogative of killers-for-hire, I’d think,” Taleniekov had interjected. “Some targets simply aren’t feasible.”
    “Such approval was never sought in the past. Krupskaya did not think it was based on