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On a snowy night in northern Russia, balding and bedridden
Maria Yuriskaya prepares herself for the last rites of death.
When a priest approaches her bed and asks for a confession, she
unloads a whopper of a secret and sets off The Matarese
Countdown. Apparently, the accidental killing of her world-class
nuclear physicist husband by a wild bear was not an accident
after all. The death was a set up and Maria knows who did it. The
priest thinks she's having a senile fit, but she's serious. So
serious, that uttering the dreaded words, "The Matarese ... the
consummate evil" seems to vacuum the life right out of her. The
legendary Matarese, the planet-threatening dynasty of killers
from The Matarese Circle ( /exec/obidos/ISBN=0553258990/${0} ),
is back and up to their evil tricks. The grandson of The
Matarese, a laissez-faire fundamentalist with a bad case of
ancestor-worship plans to finish his grandher's wicked
designs. However, political-science prodigy and CIA rookie
Cameron Pryce is on the case. Armed with several languages and
even more degrees, Pryce races around the world and against the
clock to stop the deadly posse. Fast-paced and action-packed, The
Matarese Countdown is a must for Ludlum fans, but it's not for
sissies. Rugged, macho observations abound: "They waded into
shore as the clattering motors came to a stop, and as women tend
to do, Leslie and Toni embraced," and "Maybe the women would
change your mind. After all, it was the women, the mothers, who
got us all through the Ice Age. In the animal kingdom, the female
is the most vicious in protecting her young." In other words, if
a post Ice Age feminist read this book and ran into Ludlum, she
probably wouldn't embrace him. --Rebekah Warren
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From the Publisher
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Following his successes with The Apocalypse Watch and the
smashing return of the vintage Ludlum novel, The Cry of the
Halidon, the unsurpassed master of the international
superthriller, Robert Ludlum, has crafted another tale filled
with suspense, deception, serpentine plot twists, and explosive
revelations.
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From the Inside Flap
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tarese Circle, Robert Ludlum's multimillion-copy
spellbinder, introduced a treacherous international cabal of
powerbrokers and their hired assassins. More than twenty years
ago, the top CIA and KGB agents joined together to ensure that,
in an explosive act, the Matarese conspiracy went up in
flames. But now Robert Ludlum, the unsurpassed master of
suspense, returns with a stunning thriller for the twenty-first
century. . . and like a phoenix from the ashes, the terror has
reappeared.
Secret deals are in the making, massive mysterious transactions
steeped in corruption and murder. The players stand at the
highest pinnacles of global finance and government. It is an
unprecedented consolidation of money, power, and
ruthlessness. Their ultimate : worldwide economic domination
and all it entails. . . by whatever means necessary.
The Matarese dynasty is back in all its glory and evil. And the
one man with e
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About the Author
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Robert Ludlum is the author of twenty-one novels published
in thirty-two languages and forty countries, with worldwide sales
in excess of 200 million copies. His works include The latti
Inheritance, The Osterman Weekend, The Matlock Paper, The
Rhinemann Exchange, The Gemini Contenders, The Chancellor
Manuscript, The Road to Gandolfo, The Holcroft Covenant, The
Matarese Circle, The Bourne Identity, The Parsifal Mosaic, The
Aquitaine Progression, The Bourne Supremacy, The Icarus Agenda,
Trevayne, The Bourne Ultimatum, The Road to Omaha, The Scorpio
Illusion, The Apocalypse Watch, and The Cry of the Halidon. He
lives in Florida.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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The huge, glistening white yacht, its length over a hundred
fifty feet from bow to stern, slowly maneuvered its way into the
marina at Estepona, the northern point of Spain's opulent Costa
del Sol, a retirement haven for the wealthy of the world.
The gaunt old man in the luxurious master stateroom sat in a
velvet-covered chair, attended to by his personal valet of nearly
three decades. The aged owner of the ship was being groomed by
his servant and friend for the most important conference of his
long life, a life that spanned over ninety years, the precise age
kept secret, for much of that life was spent in the cutthroat
arenas of men much younger. Why give those avaricious turks the
advantage of his rumored senility, which in reality aed to
several generations of superior experience? Three cosmetic
operations on his features might have left his face partially
like, but that was merely superficial, a misleading image to
confuse the rtunists who would usurp his financial empire,
given half a chance.
An empire that meant nothing any longer. It was a paper colossus
worth over seven billion American dollars, seven thousand times a
million, built on the manipulations of a long-forgotten
entity. It began with a vision of revenge and turned ever more
violently satanic, further corrupted by underlings who had no
vision beyond themselves.
"How do I look, Antoine?"
"Splendid, monsieur," replied the valet, applying a mild
aftershave lotion and removing a lap cloth to reveal formal
clothes complete with a striped cravat.
"This isn't too much, is it?" asked the elegant employer,
gesturing at his finery.
"Not at all. You are the chairman, sir, and they must understand
that. You can brook no sition."
"Oh, my old friend, there'll be no sition. I plan to
instruct my various boards to prepare for destructurization. I
intend to give generous benefits to all who have devoted their
time and energy to enterprises they essentially knew nothing
about."
"There will be those who will find your instructions difficult to
accept, mon ami Rene."
"Good! You're dropping our pretenses, you're about to tell me
something." Both men laughed softly as the old man
continued. "If the truth were told, Antoine, I should have put
you on some executive committee. I can't remember when your
advice was in error."
"I only offered it when you asked and when I thought I understood
the circumstances. Never in the areas of business negotiations,
of which I understand nothing."
"Only of people, correct?"
"Let's say I'm protective, Rene. . . . Come, let me help you up
and put you in the wheelchair--"
"No, Antoine, no wheelchair! Take my arm and I'll walk into the
meeting. . . . By the way, what did you mean when you said
there'll be those who won't like my instructions? They'll get
their benefits. They'll all be more than comfortable."
"Security is not the same as active involvement, mon ami. The
workers will be grateful, indeed, but your executives may feel
otherwise. You are removing them from their fiefdoms of power,
of influence. Beware, Rene, several who'll be at this conference
are among that group."
The yacht's large dining room was a low-ceilinged replica of a
fashionable Paris restaurant, the impressionistic murals on the
walls depicting scenes of the Seine, the Arc de Triomphe, the
Eiffel Tower, and various other Parisian s. The circular
mahogany table held five chairs, four occupied, one
vacant. Seated were four men in severe business suits, bottles
of Evian water in front of each, ashtrays with boxes of Gauloises
s beside them. Only two ashtrays were in use, the
others firmly set aside.
The frail old man walked into the room, accompanied by his valet
of twenty-eight years, known by all around the table from
previous meetings. Salutations were exchanged; the ancient
"chairman" was lowered into a middle chair, as his servant sat
behind him against the wall. The procedure was accepted, none
objected, nor could they, for it was tradition.
"So here are all the attorneys. Mon avocat in Paris, ein
Rechtsanwalt in Berlin, mio avvocato in Rome, and, of course, our
corporate lawyer in Washington, D.C. It is good to see you
again." There were muted acceptances of the greeting; the old man
went on. "I can see by your eager reception that you are not
enthralled by our meeting. That's a pity, for my instructions
will be carried out, whether you like it or not."
"If you please, Herr Mouchistine," said the attorney from
Germany, "we have all received your coded instructions, now
locked away in our vaults, and, frankly, we are appalled! It's
not merely your intention to sell your companies and all their
assets--"
"Excluding rather extraordinary sums for your professional
services, of course," Rene Mouchistine abruptly, firmly, broke
in.
"We're most appreciative of your generosity, Rene, but that's not
our concern," said the lawyer from Washington, D.C. "It's what
follows. Certain markets will c, stocks plummet . . .
questions will be asked! There could be investigations . . . all
of us compromised."
"Nonsense. Each of you has been following the orders of the
elusive Rene Pierre Mouchistine, sole owner of my
enterprises. To do otherwise would result in your
dismissal. For once, tell the truth, gentlemen. With the truth,
no one can touch you."
"But, monsignore," excled the avvocato from Italy, "you are
selling assets far below market value! For what purpose? You
delegate millions upon millions to charities everywhere, to
nobodies who cannot tell a lira from a deutsche mark! What are
you, a sota who wants to reform the world while destroying
the thousands who believed in you, in us?"
"Not at all. You are all part of something that began years
before you were born, the vision of the great padrone, the Baron
of Matarese."
"Who?" asked the French attorney.
"I vaguely remember hearing the name, mein Herr," said the
German. "But it has no relevance for me."
"Why should it?" Rene Mouchistine glanced briefly over his
shoulder at his valet, Antoine. "You are all nothing but the
webs of spiders that spun out from the source, hired by the
source, making its operations appear legitimate, for you were
legitimate. You say I'm giving back millions to those who lost
the games--where do you suppose my riches came from? We became
greed gone berserk."
"You cannot do this, Mouchistine!" shouted the American,
springing to his feet. "I'll be hauled before Congress!"
"And I! The Bundestag will insist on investigating!" yelled the
Rechtsanwalt from Berlin.
"I will not subject myself to the Chamber of Deputies!" cried the
Parisian.
"I'll have our associates in Palermo convince you otherwise,"
said the man from Rome ominously. "You'll see the logic."
"Why not try it now yourself? Are you afraid of an old man?"
The Italian rose in fury to his feet, his hand reaching under his
tailored jacket. It was as far as he got. Kesitch! A silenced,
single blew his face apart, fired by Antoine, the
valet. The Roman lawyer fell, soiling the parquet floor.
"You're insane!" screamed the German. "He was merely showing you
a newspaper article in which several of your companies are linked
to the Mafia, which is true. You are a monster!"
"That's sheer irony coming from you, considering Auschwitz and
Dachau."
"I wasn't born then!"
"Read history. . . . What do you say, Antoine?"
"Self-defense, monsieur. As a senior informer to the
S&ucedil;rete, I will put it in my report. He reached for a
weapon."
"Shit!" yelled the lawyer from Washington. "You set us up here,
you son of a bitch!"
"Not really. I simply wanted to make sure you would carry out my
orders."
"We can't! For God's sake, don't you understand? It would be the
end of all of us--"
"One certainly, but we'll get rid of the body, fish for the fish
under the sea."
"You are insane!"
"We became insane. We were not at the beginning. . .
.Stop! Antoine! . . .The portholes!"
The yacht's small circular windows were suddenly filled with
faces covered with rubber s. One by one, each smashed the
glass with his weapon and began firing indiscriminately at every
corner and shadow of the room. The valet, Antoine, pulled
Mouchistine under a bulkhead armoire, his own shoulder blown
apart, his master punctured around the chest. His friend of
thirty years would not survive.
"RenÚ, RenÚ!" cried Antoine. "Take deep breaths, keep breathing!
They've gone! I'll get you to the hospital!"
"No, Antoine...
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