her around after all these years? A woman who calls you ‘my darling’ for a quarter of a century is a girl you keep.”
chapter 4
W e have to go back to the turn of the century, actually before that to be accurate,” began Scofield, rocking in his chair on the screened-in, candlelit veranda of the isolated cottage on the presumably deserted island named Outer Brass 26. “The dates are imprecise, as the records were lost, or destroyed, but it can be estimated that Guillaume, Baron of Matarese, was born around 1830. The family was rich by Corsican standards, mostly in property, the baronage and the land being a gift of Napoleon, although that’s questionable.”
“Why?” asked Pryce, in shorts and a T-shirt, mesmerized by the gray-haired, white-bearded former intelligence officer whose eyes seemed to dance impudently behind the steel-rimmed glasses. “There had to be documents of possession, of inheritance.”
“As I mentioned, the original records were lost, new ones found and registered. There were those who claimed they were counterfeits, forgeries commissioned by a very young Guillaume, that the Matarese never even knew a Bonaparte, Third or Second, and certainly not the First. Nevertheless, by the time those doubts arose, the family was too powerful to be questioned.”
“How so?”
“Guillaume was a financial genius, nothing less, and like most of that ilk, he knew when and how to cut corners while staying marginally within the laws. Before he was thirty years of age, he was the richest, most powerful landowner in Corsica. The family literally ran the island, and the French government couldn’t do anything about it. The Matarese were a law unto themselves, drawing revenues from the major ports, tributes and bribes from the growing industries of agriculture and resort developers who had to use their docking facilities and their roads. It was said that Guillaume was the first Corso, that’s the Corsican equivalent of the Black Hand, the Mafia. He made the later godfathers look like wimps, the Capones misguided children. Although there was violence, brutal violence, it was kept to a minimum and used to great effect. The Baron ruled by fear, not unbridled punishment.”
“Couldn’t Paris simply shut him down or throw him out?” interrupted Pryce.
“What they did was worse than that. They ruined two of the Baron’s sons—destroyed them. Both died violently, and after that the Baron was never the same. It was soon after this that Guillaume conceived his so-called vision. An international cartel the likes of which the Rothschilds never dreamed of. Whereas the Rothschilds were an established banking family throughout Europe, Guillaume went in the opposite direction. He recruited powerful men and women to be his satellites. They were people who once possessed enormous wealth—inherited or accumulated—and like him had a taste for revenge. Those initial members stayed out of the spotlight, avoiding all forms of public scrutiny, preferring to handle or manipulate their riches from a distance. They employed fronts, such as lawyers, and speaking of the Bonapartes, they used a tactic proclaimed by Napoleon the First. He said, ‘Give me enough medals and I’ll win you any war.’ So these original Mataresans gave out titles, large offices, and extravagant salaries as if they were Rockefeller dimes. All for a single purpose: They wanted to remain as anonymous as possible. You see, Guillaume understood that his design for a global financial network could only comeabout if the key players appeared completely clean, above suspicion of corrupt practices.”
“I’m afraid that’s not consistent with my briefing,” said the CIA field officer. “Frankly, it’s contradictory.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, sir. The two sources that revived our interest in the Matarese—the reason I’m here—described it as evil. The first called it consummate evil; the second, evil incarnate. Since these statements were
chapter 4
W e have to go back to the turn of the century, actually before that to be accurate,” began Scofield, rocking in his chair on the screened-in, candlelit veranda of the isolated cottage on the presumably deserted island named Outer Brass 26. “The dates are imprecise, as the records were lost, or destroyed, but it can be estimated that Guillaume, Baron of Matarese, was born around 1830. The family was rich by Corsican standards, mostly in property, the baronage and the land being a gift of Napoleon, although that’s questionable.”
“Why?” asked Pryce, in shorts and a T-shirt, mesmerized by the gray-haired, white-bearded former intelligence officer whose eyes seemed to dance impudently behind the steel-rimmed glasses. “There had to be documents of possession, of inheritance.”
“As I mentioned, the original records were lost, new ones found and registered. There were those who claimed they were counterfeits, forgeries commissioned by a very young Guillaume, that the Matarese never even knew a Bonaparte, Third or Second, and certainly not the First. Nevertheless, by the time those doubts arose, the family was too powerful to be questioned.”
“How so?”
“Guillaume was a financial genius, nothing less, and like most of that ilk, he knew when and how to cut corners while staying marginally within the laws. Before he was thirty years of age, he was the richest, most powerful landowner in Corsica. The family literally ran the island, and the French government couldn’t do anything about it. The Matarese were a law unto themselves, drawing revenues from the major ports, tributes and bribes from the growing industries of agriculture and resort developers who had to use their docking facilities and their roads. It was said that Guillaume was the first Corso, that’s the Corsican equivalent of the Black Hand, the Mafia. He made the later godfathers look like wimps, the Capones misguided children. Although there was violence, brutal violence, it was kept to a minimum and used to great effect. The Baron ruled by fear, not unbridled punishment.”
“Couldn’t Paris simply shut him down or throw him out?” interrupted Pryce.
“What they did was worse than that. They ruined two of the Baron’s sons—destroyed them. Both died violently, and after that the Baron was never the same. It was soon after this that Guillaume conceived his so-called vision. An international cartel the likes of which the Rothschilds never dreamed of. Whereas the Rothschilds were an established banking family throughout Europe, Guillaume went in the opposite direction. He recruited powerful men and women to be his satellites. They were people who once possessed enormous wealth—inherited or accumulated—and like him had a taste for revenge. Those initial members stayed out of the spotlight, avoiding all forms of public scrutiny, preferring to handle or manipulate their riches from a distance. They employed fronts, such as lawyers, and speaking of the Bonapartes, they used a tactic proclaimed by Napoleon the First. He said, ‘Give me enough medals and I’ll win you any war.’ So these original Mataresans gave out titles, large offices, and extravagant salaries as if they were Rockefeller dimes. All for a single purpose: They wanted to remain as anonymous as possible. You see, Guillaume understood that his design for a global financial network could only comeabout if the key players appeared completely clean, above suspicion of corrupt practices.”
“I’m afraid that’s not consistent with my briefing,” said the CIA field officer. “Frankly, it’s contradictory.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, sir. The two sources that revived our interest in the Matarese—the reason I’m here—described it as evil. The first called it consummate evil; the second, evil incarnate. Since these statements were
Similar Books
