.com Review

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, 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 grandfather'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

From the Publisher

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.

From the Inside Flap

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 aim: 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

About the Author

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 Scarlatti 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.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

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 amounted to several generations of superior experience?  Three cosmetic operations on his features might have left his face partially masklike, but that was merely superficial, a misleading image to confuse the opportunists 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 opposition."

"Oh, my old friend, there'll be no opposition.  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 sights.  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 cigarettes 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 crash, 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," exclaimed 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 socialista 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 gunshot 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 masks.  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...