The Matarese Circle Read Online Free PDF Page B

There was a stubble of a beard on his frightened face; he was a man on the run and for the American watching him through the binoculars, there was nothing so terrible, or haunting, as an old man on the run. Except, perhaps, an old woman. He had seen both. Far more often than he cared to think about.
    Scofield glanced at his watch. “Go ahead,” he said to the technician at the table. Then he turned to the younger man who stood beside him. “You ready?”
    “Yes,” was the curt reply. “I’ve got the son of a bitch centered. Washington was right; you proved it.”
    “I’m not sure what I’ve proved yet. I wish I was. When he’s in the booth, get his lips.”
    “Right.”
    The technician dialed the pre-arranged numbers and punched the buttons of the tape machine. He rose quickly from his chair and handed Scofield a semicircular headset with a mouthpiece and single earphone. “It’s ringing,” he said.
    “I know. He’s staring through the glass. He’s not sure he wants to hear it. That bothers me.”
    “
Move,
you son of a bitch!” said the young man with the camera.
    “He will,” said Scofield, the binoculars and headset held firmly in his hands. “He’s frightened. Each half-second is a long time for him and I don’t know why.… There he goes; he’s opening the door. Everybody quiet.” Scofield continued to stare through the binoculars, listened, and then spoke quietly into the mouthpiece. “
Dobri dyen, priyatyel
.…”
    The conversation, spoken entirely in Russian, lasted for eighteen seconds.
    “
Dosvidaniya
,” said Scofield, adding, “
zavtra nochyn.
Na mostye.
” He continued to hold the headset to his ear and watched the frightened man below. The target disappeared into the crowds; the camera’s motor stopped, and the attaché-at-large put down the binoculars, handing the headset to the technician. “Were you able to get it all?” he asked.
    “Clear enough for a voice print,” said the balding operator, checking his dials.
    “You?” Scofield turned to the young man by the camera.
    “If I understood the language better, even I could read his lips.”
    “Good. Others will; they’ll understand it very well.” Scofield reached into his pocket, took out a small leather notebook, and began writing. “I want you to take the tape and the film to the embassy. Get the film developed right away and have duplicates made of both. I want miniatures; here are the specifications.”
    “Sorry, Bray,” said the technician, glancing at Scofield as he wound a coil of telephone wire. “I’m not allowed within five blocks of the territory; you know that.”
    “I’m talking to Harry,” replied Scofield, angling his head toward the younger man. He tore out the page from his notebook. “When the reductions are made, have them inserted in a single watertight flatcase. I want it coated, good enough for a week in the water.”
    “Bray,” said the young man, taking the page of paper. “I picked up about every third word you said on the phone.”
    “You’re improving,” interrupted Scofield, walking back to the window and the binoculars. “When you get to every other one, we’ll recommend an upgrade.”
    “That man wanted to meet tonight,” continued Harry. “You turned him down.”
    “That’s right,” said Scofield, raising the binoculars to his eyes, focusing out the window.
    “Our instructions were to take him as soon as we could. The cipher plaintext was clear about that. No time lost.”
    “Time’s relative, isn’t it? When that old man heard the telephone ring, every second was an agonizing minute for him. For us, an hour can be a day. In Washington, for Christ’s sake, a day is normally measured by a calendar year.”
    “That’s no answer,” pressed Harry, looking at the note. “We can get this stuff reduced and packed in forty-five minutes. We could make the contact tonight. Why don’t we?”
    “The weather’s rotten,” said Scofield, the binoculars at his