Author: Robert Ludlum
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/17086_4
"Except a few," said the Matarese grandson.
"As I mentioned before, you were all chosen because I found vulnerabilities that served my purposes, the carrots and sticks, I believe I said. There were others I approached, perhaps giving away more than I should have. They were violently opposed to my supplications, stating that they would instantly expose any moves the inheritors of the Matarese might make.. .. They are three, two men and one woman, for the Baron had ten grandchildren outside of the Church. So we go from the abstract, the global, to the personal. To those three extremely influential individuals who would destroy us. Therefore, we must destroy them first. Here, you can all be of service.. .. Gentlemen and dear lady, they must be eliminated before we make our moves. But killed ingeniously, leaving no traces whatsoever to any of you. There was another, not of our bloodline, an old man but so powerful he could have crippled us the instant we started to rise. He is no longer an obstacle, the others are. They are the only ones left who stand in our way. Shall we get down to basics? Or are there any who care to leave now?"
"Why do I have the feeling that if we did, we'd never reach the road to Senetosa?" mused the woman.
"You ascribe to me more than I ascribe to myself, madam."
"Go ahead, Jan van der Meer Matareisen, visions are my business," said the cardinal.
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"Then envision this, Priest," said Matareisen.
"We have a schedule, a countdown, if you like. Only a few months away, the beginning of the New Year. That is our target for global control, Matarese control."
The Hamptons, New York. August 28.
The East End of Long Island is less than an hour from Manhattan, depending upon the type of private aircraft involved. The "Hamps" will forever remain the imaginary province of the novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald, at least certain sections where private aircraft are involved. It is rich and pampered, replete with grand mansions, manicured lawns, glittering blue pools, tennis courts, and serrated ranks of English gardens in stunning bloom under the summer sun. The exclusivity of decades past has been swept away by the wealth of the meritocracy.
Jews, Italians, idolized blacks and Hispanics-all previously excluded-are now the grandees of the East End, peacefully, even enthusiastically, coexisting with the still-shocked WASP inheritors of ancestral prosperity.
Money is a unique equalizer. The various clubs' dues are reduced by the influx of the pretenders, and their generous contributions to the improvements of the numerous premises gratefully, enthusiastically accepted.
Jay Gatsby forever lives, with or without Daisy-and Nick, the conscience of an era.
The polo match at the Green Meadow Hunt Club was in full fury, ponies and riders drenched in sweat as hooves pounded and mallets swung viciously at the elusive white ball that kept veering dangerously out of reach beneath the stampeding horses and across the flying turf.
Suddenly, there was an agonized scream from one of the riders. He had lost his helmet in the heat of the chase. His head was a mass of blood;
the skull itself appeared to be cracked open.
Everything came to a halt as the combatants sprang off their mounts and raced to the fallen rider. Among them was a doctor, an Argentinean surgeon who parted the bodies in front of him and knelt beside the unconscious figure. He looked up at the expectant faces.
"He's dead," the doctor said.
"How could it have happened?" cried the captain of the Red Team, the dead man's team.
"A wooden mallet might have knocked him out-we've all experienced that-but not crush his skull, for God's sake!"
"What struck him wasn't wood," said the Argentinean.
"I'd say it was far heavier-iron or lead, perhaps." They were in an alcove of the enormous stables, two uniformed patrolmen and the local Emergency Medical Services unit having been summoned.
"There should be an autopsy, specifically concentrating on the cranial impact," continued the doctor.
"Put that in your report, please."
"Yes, sir," answered one of the patrolmen.
"What are you suggesting, Luis?" asked another rider.
"It's pretty clear," answered a patrolman, writing in his notebook.
"He's suggesting that this may not be an accident, am I correct, sir?"
"That's not for me to say, Officer. I'm a doctor, not a policeman.
I'm only offering an observation."
"What's the deceased's name, and does he have a wife or relatives in the area?" interrupted the second patrolman, glancing at his companion and nodding at the notebook.
"Giancarlo Tremonte," replied a blond rider, his speech born of the old crowd.
"I've heard that name," said the first policeman.
"Quite possibly," continued the light-haired player.
"The Tremonte family of Lake Como and Milan are very well known. They have considerable interests in Italy and France, as well as over here, of course."
"No, I mean the Giancarlo part," broke in the patrolman with the notebook.
"He's frequently in the newspapers," said the captain of the Red Team.
"Not always in the more respectable ones, although his own reputation is splendid-was splendid."
"Then why was he in the papers so frequently?" asked the second policeman.
"I suppose because he was terribly wealthy, attended many social and charity events, and liked women." The leader of the Red Team looked pointedly at the patrolman.
"That's grist for third-rate journalists, Officer, but hardly a sin. After all, he didn't choose his parentage."
"I guess not, but I think you've answered one of my questions.
There's no wife around, and if there were any girlfriends, they got the hell out of here. To avoid those third-rate journalists, of course."
"You have no argument with me."
"I'm not looking for one, Mr.. .. Mr.? .. ."
"Albion, Geoffrey Albion. My summer house is in Gull Bay, on the beach. And to the best of my knowledge, Giancarlo has no relatives in the area. It's my understanding that he was here in the States to oversee the Tremonte family's American interests. When he leased the Wellstone estate, we were, of course, delighted to accept him into Green Meadow. He is-was-a very talented polo player.. .. May we please remove his remains?"
"We'll cover him, sir, but he has to stay here until our superiors and the medical examiner arrive. The less he's moved, the better."
"Are you implying that we should have left him out in the field in front of the crowds?" said Albion curtly.
"If so, you will have an argument with me. It's tasteless enough that you roped off the area where he fell."
"We're just doing our job, sir." The first police officer replaced the notebook in his pocket.
"Insurance companies are very demanding in these cases, especially cases where injury or death is the result. They want to examine everything."
"Speaking of which," added the second patrolman, "we'll need the mallets of both teams, of everyone who was in the match."
"They're all on the wall over there," said the blond player with the precise if slightly nasal speech. The wall referred to held dozens of two-pronged colored racks from which the polo mallets hung like wooden utensils.
"Today's players are in the red section, the farthest on the left," he continued.
"The grooms hose them down but they're all there."
" The first policeman took out his note' Hose them down?
book.
"Dirt and mud, old boy. It can get messy out there. See, some are still dripping."
"Yes, I can see that," said the second patrolman quietly.
"Just water from hoses? No dipping in cleaning solutions or anything like that?"
"No, but it sounds like a fine idea," said yet another rider, shaking, then nodding, his head.
"Just a minute," interrupted the patrolman, walking to the wall and studying the mallets.
"How many are supposed to be here in the red section?"
"It varies," replied Albion cond
escendingly.
"There are eight players, four to a team, along with replacements and reserve mallets. There's a movable yellow peg that separates the current match from the members not playing that day. The grooms take care of it all."
"Is this the yellow peg?" asked the patrolman, pointing to a bright, circular, snub-nosed piece of wood.
"It's not purple, is it?"
"No, it's not, Mr. Albion. And it hasn't been moved since the match began this afternoon?"
"Why should it be?"
"Maybe you should ask, why wasn't it? There are two mallets missing."
The celebrity tennis tournament in Monte Carlo drew dozens of recognizable performers from films and television. Most were American and British who played with and against the socialites of Europeminor royalty and wealthy Greeks, Germans, a few fading French writers, and several Spaniards who claimed long-forgotten titles but insisted that the word Don preceded their names. Nobody took much seriously, for the nightly festivities were extravagant, the participants gloried in their brief spotlights-televised, of course-and since everything was sponsored by Monaco's ruling house, a great deal of fun-and publicity- was had by all while charity thrived.