threatened to expose mewhich is meaningless. I’ve let him know that
through the messengers. He’s said that hell destroy the whole Carlyle
campus, but if he does that hell destroy himself as well. The rumor Is
that hes calling together a conference. An important meeting of powerful
men…. My house is now watched-as Nimrod said it would bearound the
clock. By the Carlyle police’, of course. Nimrod’s private armyl
April 22, 1972. Nimrod has wonl Ws horrifying, but he!s wonl He sent me
two newspaper clippings. In each a student was kiUed by an overdose. The
first a girl in Cambridge, the second a boy from Trinity. He says that
hell keep adding
THE MATLOCK PAPER 323
to the list for every week I withhold the records. . . . Hostages are
executedl-Hes got to be stopped[ But how? What can I do? … Ive got a plan
but’l don’t know if I can do it-Im going to try to nwnufacture records.
Leave them intact. It will be difficult-my hands shake so sometimesl Can I
possibly get through it?I have to. I said I’d deliver a few at a time. For
my own protection. I wonder if he!U agree to that?
April 24, z972. Nimrods unbelievably evil, but hes a realist. He knows he
can do nothing elsel We both are racing against the time of my death.
Stalematel I’m alternating between a typewriter and different fountain pens
and various types of paper. The killings are suspended but Im told they
will resume if I miss one deliveryl Nimrod!s hostages are in my handsl
Their executions can be prevented only by mel
April 27, 1972. Something strange is happeningl The Beeson boy phoned our
contact at Admissions. Jim Matlock was there and Beeson suspects him. He
asked questions, made an ass of himself with Beeson!s wife…. Matlock
isn’t on any listl He’s no part of Nimrod—on either side. He!s never
purchased a thing, never sold. . . . The Carlyle patrol cars are always
outside now. Nimro&s army is alerted. What is it?
April 27, z972–P.m. The messengers came-two of them-and what they led me
to believe is so incredible I cannot write it here…. Ive never asked the
identity of Nimrod, I never wanted to know. But panic’s rampant now,
something is happening beyond even Nimrod!s control. And
324 Robert Ludlum
the messengers told me who Nimrod is…. They liel I cannot, will not
believe it/ If it is true we are all in hdU
Matlock stared at the last entry helplessly. The handwriting was hardly
readable; most of the words were connected with one another as if the
writer could not stop the pencil from racing ahead.
April 28. Matlock was here. He knowsl Others knowl He says the government
men are involved now…. Its overl But what they can1 understand is what
will happen-a bloodbath, killings –executionsl Nimrod can do no lessf
There will be so much pain. There will be mass killing and it will be
provoked by an insignificant teacher of the Elizabethans…. A messenger
called. Nimrod hi7welf is coming out It is a confrontation. Now I’ll know
the truth-who he really is…. If hes who rve been led to believe-somehow
III get this record out-somehow. It’s all that’s left. It’s my turn to
threaten …. It!s over now. The pain will soon be over, too …. Tberes
been so much pain … IT make one final entry when Fm sure. . . .
Matlock closed the notebook. What had the girl named Jeannie said? They
have the courts, the police, the doctors. And Alan Pace. He’d added the
major university administrations-all over the Northeast Whole academic
policies; employments, deployments, curriculums–sources of enormous
financing. They have it all.
But Matlock had the indictment.
TBE MATLOCK PAMM 325
It was enough. Enough to stop Nimrod-whoever he was. Enough to stop the
bloodbath, the executions. Now he had to reach Jason Greenberg. Alone.
31
Carrying the oilcloth packet, he began walking toward the town of Carlyle,
traveling the back roads on which there was rarely any night traffic. He
knew it would be too dangerous to drive. The man in the field had probably
recovered sufficiently to reach someone -reach Nimrod. An alarm would be
sent out for him. The unseen armies would be after him now. His only chance
was to reach Greenberg. Jason Greenberg would tell him what to do.
There was blood on his shirt, mud caked on his trousers and jacket. His
appearance brought to mind the outcasts of Bill’s Bar & Grill by the
railroad freight yards. It was nearly two thirty in the morning, but
such places stayed open most of the night. The blue laws were only
conveniences for them, not edicts. He reached College Parkway and descended
the hill to the yards.
He brushed his damp clothes as best be could and covered the bloodstained
shirt with his jacket. He walked into the filthy bar; the layers of cheap
smoke were suspended above the disheveled customers. A jukebox was playing
some Slovak music, men were yelling, a stand-up shuffleboard was being
abused. Matlock knew he melted into the atmosphere. He would find a few
precious moments of relief.
THE MATLOCK PAPER 327
He sat down at a back booth.
“What the hell happened to you?*
It was the bartender, the same suspicious bartender whom he’d finally
befriended several days ago. Years … ages ago.
“Caught in the rainstorm. Fell a couple of times. Lousy whisky…. Have you
got anything to eat?”
“Cheese sandwiches. The meat I wouldn7t give you. Bread7s not too fresh
either.”
“I doet care. Bring me a couple of sandwiches. And a glass of beer. Would
you do that?”
‘Sure. Sure, mister…. You sure you want to eat here?. I mean, I can tell,
this aiet your kind of place, you know what I mean?”
There it was again. The incessant, irrelevant question; the dangling
interrogative. You know what i I nwan … P Not a question at all. Even in
his few moments of relief he had to hear it once more.
“I know what you mean … but I’m sure.”
‘It’s your stomach.” The bartender trudged back to his station.
Matlock found Greenberg’s number and went to the foul-smelling pay phone on
the wall. He inserted a coin and dialed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the operator said, “the telephone is disconnected. Do you
have another number where the party can be reached?”
“Try it againl I’m sure you7re wrong.”
She, did and she wasn’t. The supervisor in Wheeling, West Virginia, finally
informed the operator in Carlyle, Connecticut that any calls to a Mr.
Greenberg were to be routed to Washington, D.C. It was assumed that whoever
was calling would know where in Washington.
But Mr. Greenberg isn’t expected at the Washing- 328 Robert Ludlum
ton number until early A.M..” she said. “Please inform the party on the
line.”
He tried to think. Could he trust calling Washington, the Department of
justice, Narcotics Division? Under the circumstances, might not
Washington-for the sake of speed-alert someone in the Hartford vicinity to
get to him? And Greenberg had made it clear -he didn~t trust the Hartford
office, the Hartford agents.
He understood Greenberg’s concern far better now. He had only to think of
the Carlyle pohce-Nimro&s private army.
No, he wouldn’t call Washington. He’d call Sealfont. His last hope was the
university president. He dialed Sealfones number.
“Jamesl Good Lord, jamesl Are you all right?l Where in heaven’s name have
you been?F
“To places I never knew were there. Never knew existed.”
“But you~re all right? Thats all that mattersl Are YOU all right?1”
. “Yes, sir. And Ive got everything. I’ve got it all. Herron wrote
everything down. les a record of twenty-three years.”
“Then he was part of 0′
“Very much so.’
“Poor, sick man… I don’t understand. However, that’s not important now.
That’s for the authorities. Where are you? I’ll send a car…. No, Ill come
myself. We’ve all been so worried. Ive been in constant touch with the men
at the justice Department”
“Stay where you are,” Matlock said quickly. ‘111 get to you myself-everyone
knows your car. It’ll be less dangerous this way. I know theyre looking for
TM MATLOCK P”ER 329
me. IT have a man here call me a taxi. I just wanted to make sure you were
home.”
“Whatever you say. I must tell you I’m relieved. IT call Kressel. Whatever
you have to say, he should know about it. That’s the way its to be.”
“I agree, sir. See you shortly.”
He went back to the booth and began to eat the unappetizing sandwiches. He
bad swallowed half the beer when from inside his damp jacket, the short,
hysterical beeps of Blackstone’s Tel-electronic seared into his ears. He
pulled out the machine and pressed the button. Without thinking of anything
but the number 555-6868 he jumped up from the seat and walked rapidly back
to the telephone. His hand trembling, he awkwardly manipulated the coin and