An international circle of killers, the Matarese will undoubtedly take over the world within just two years. Only two rival spies have the power to stop them: Scofield, CIA, and Talaniekov, KGB. They share a genius for espionage and a life of explosive terror and violence. But though these sworn enemies once vowed to terminate each other, they must now become allies. Because only they possess the brutal skills and ice-cold nerves vital to their mission: destroy the Matarese.   Praise for Robert Ludlum and The Matarese Circle   “A blockbuster . . . Ludlum’s best.” — The Wall Street Journal   “A spellbinder.” — The Dallas Morning News   “Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.” — The New York Times   “Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.” — Chicago Sun-Times Praise for Robert Ludlum and The Matarese Circle   “A blockbuster . . . Ludlum’s best.” — The Wall Street Journal   “A spellbinder.” — The Dallas Morning News   “Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.” — The New York Times   “Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.” — Chicago Sun-Times Robert Ludlum was the author of twenty-one novels, each a New York Times bestseller. There are more than 210 million of his books in print, and they have been translated into thirty-two languages. In addition to the Jason Bourne series— The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, and The Bourne Ultimatum —he was the author of The Scarlatti Inheritance, The Chancellor Manuscript, and The Apocalypse Watch, among many others. Mr. Ludlum passed away in March 2001. 1     We three Kings of Orient are, Bearing gifts we traverse afar. . . .  The band of carolers huddled at the corner, stamping their feet and swinging their arms, their young voices penetrating the cold night air between the harsh sounds of automobile horns and police whistles and the metallic strains of Christmas music blaring from storefront speakers. The snowfall was dense, snarling traffic, causing the hordes of last-minute shoppers to shield their eyes. Nevertheless, they managed to sidestep each other, as well as the lurching automobiles, and the mounds of slush. Tires spun on the wet streets; buses inched in maddening starts and stops, and the bells of uniformed Santas kept up their incessant if futile clanging.   Field and fountain, Moor and mow-an-ten. . . .  A dark Cadillac sedan turned the corner and crept past the carolers. The lead singer, dressed in a costume that was somebody’s idea of Dickens’ Bob Cratchit, approached the right rear window, his gloved hand outstretched, his face contorted in song next to the glass.   Following ya-hon-der star. . . .  The angry driver blew his horn and waved the begging caroler away, but the middle-aged passenger in the backseat reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out several bills. He pressed a button; the rear window glided down and the gray-haired man thrust the money into the outstretched hand.   “God bless you, sir,” shouted the caroler. “The Boys Club of East Fiftieth Street thanks you. Merry Christmas, sir!”   The words would have been more effective had there not been a stench of whisky emanating from the mouth that yelled them.   “Merry Christmas,” said the passenger, pressing the window button to shut off further communication.   There was a momentary break in the traffic. The Cadillac shot forward only to be forced to an abrupt, sliding stop thirty feet down the street. The driver gripped the steering wheel; it was a gesture that took the place of cursing out loud.   “Take it easy, Major,” said the gray-haired passenger, his tone of voice at once sympathetic and commanding. “Getting upset won’t solve anything; it won’t get us where we’re going any faster.”   “You’re right, General,” answered the driver with a respect he did not feel. Normally, the respect was there, but not tonight, not on this particular trip. The general’s self-indulgence aside, he had one hell of a nerve requesting his aide to be available for duty on Christmas Eve. For driving a rented, civilian car to New York so the general could play games. The major could think of a dozen acceptable reasons for being on duty tonight, but this was not one of them.   A whorehouse. Stripped of its verbal frills, that’s what it was. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was going to a whorehouse on Christmas Eve! And because games were played, the general’s most confidential aide had to be there to pick up the mess when the games were over. Pick it up, put it together, nurse it through the next morning at some obscure motel, and make goddamn sure no one found out what the games were or who the mess was. And by noon tomorrow, the Chairman would resume his ramrod bearing, issue his orders, and the evening and the mess would be forgotten.   The major had made