A prolonged, belching sound came from the distance, followed by four hysterically pitched screeches. The Teresa was about to slip away from its berth! Michael felt a sickening sense of futility sweeping over him as he ran breathlessly down the wide avenue, his legs barely able to carry him, his feet swerving, slapping the pavement. When he reached the Teresa’s pier, the guard—the same guard—was inside his glass booth, once again on the telephone, nodding his outsized head, his dull eyes accepting other lies.
There was now a chain stretched across the open gate—only an official hindrance, not a prohibition. Havelock grabbed the hook and yanked it out of its cemented base; the chain curled snakelike into the air and clattered to the ground.
“Che cosa? Fermati!”
Michael raced—his legs in agony—down the long stretch of the pier, through the circular pools of floodlights, past immobile machinery, toward the freighter outlined in the swirling mists at the end of the dock. His right leg collapsed; his hands broke the fall but not the impact, his right shoulder sliding across the moist surface. He grabbed his leg, forcing himself up, and propelled himself along the planks until he could work up the momentum to run again.
Gasping for air as he ran, he finally reached the end of the pier.
The futility was complete: the freighter Santa Teresa was floating thirty feet beyond the pilings; the giant hawsers slithered over the dark waters as they were hauled in by men who looked down at him through the shadows.
“Jenna!” he screamed. “Jenna! Jenna!”
He fell to the wet wood of the pier, arms and legs throbbing, chest in spasms, his head splitting as if cracked open with an ax. He … had … lost her.… A small boat could drop her off at any of a thousand unpatrolled stretches of coastline in the Mediterranean; she was gone. The only person on earth he cared about was gone forever. Nothing was his, and he was nothing.
He heard the shouts behind him, then the hammering of racing feet. And as he heard the sounds he was reminded of other sounds, other feet … another pier. From where the Cristóvão had sailed!
There was a man in an overcoat who had ordered other men to come after him; they, too, had run across a deserted pier through shimmering pools of floodlights and the mist. If he could find that man! If he found him he would peel the suntanned flesh from the face until he was told what he had to know.
He got to his feet and began limping rapidly toward the guard who was running at him, weapon extended.
“Fermati! Alza le mani!”
“Un errore!” Havelock shouted back, his voice both aggressive and apologetic; he had to get by the man, not be detained. He took several bills from his pocket, holding them in front of him so they could be seen in the spill of the floodlights. “What can I tell you?” he continued in Italian. “I made a mistake—which benefits you, doesn’t it? You and I, we spoke before, remember?” He pressed the money into the guard’s hand while slapping him on the back. “Come on, put that thing away. I’m your friend, remember? What harm is there? Except I’m a little poorer and you’re a little richer. Also, I’ve had too much wine.”
“I thought it was you!” said the guard grudgingly, taking the bills and ramming them into his pocket, his eyes darting about. “You’re crazy in the head! You could have been shot. For what?”
“You told me the Teresa wasn’t sailing for hours.”
“It’s what I was told! They’re bastards, all bastards! They’re crazy too! They don’t know what they’re doing.”
“They know exactly what they’re doing,” said Michael quietly. “I’ve got to get along now. Thanks for your help.” Before the angry guard could answer, Havelock started forward rapidly, wincing in pain as he tried to control his throbbing legs and aching chest. For God’s sake, hurry!
He reached the stretch of fence that enclosed the Cristóvão’s pier, his hand now in his pocket, grateful for the weapon. The unconscious guard was still on the ground in the lower shadows of the glass booth. He had neither moved nor been moved in the five minutes, perhaps six, that he had lain there. Was the man in the overcoat still on the pier? The odds favored it; logic dictated that he would have looked for the guard because he did not see him in the booth and, when he found him, would have questioned the fallen man. In doing so, some part of the unconscious body would have been moved; it had not been.
But why would the capo regime remain on the pier for so long? The answer came from the sea through the fog and the wind. Shouts, questions, followed by commands and further questions. The man in the overcoat was still on the pier, his gorillas screaming from the waters below.
Michael clenched his teeth, forcing the pain from his mind. He slid along the side wall of the warehouse, past the door from which the blond decoy had emerged, to the corner of the building. The morning light was growing brighter, the mists rising, the absence of the freighter permitting the early rays of the sun to spread over the dock. In the distance, on the water, another ship was steaming slowly toward the harbor of Civitavecchia; it might well be heading for the berth recently vacated by the Cristóvão. If so, there was very little time remaining before the shape-up crews arrived. He had to move swiftly, act effectively, and he was not at all sure he was capable of doing either.
A stretch of unpatrolled coastline. Did the man only yards away from him now know which? He must find out. He had to be capable.
He rounded the corner, holding the weapon against the cloth of his jacket. He could not use it, he understood that; it would serve no purpose because it would only eliminate his source and draw attention to the pier. But the threat had to be conveyed as genuine; his anger had to seem desperate. He was capable of that.
He stared through the rising mist. The man in the overcoat was at the edge of the dock, excitedly barking instructions in a low voice; he, too, was obviously afraid of drawing attention from stray crewmen who might be loitering on the adjacent pier. The effect was comic. From what Michael could gather, one of the men below was hanging on to a piling strut, reluctant to let go because he apparently couldn’t swim. The negotiator was ordering the second man to support his companion and the man was apparently refusing, concerned that he might be pulled under by his incompetent associate.
“Don’t talk anymore!” Havelock said sharply in Italian, the words clear if not precise, his voice commanding though not loud.
The startled man spun around, his right hand reaching under his overcoat.
“If I see a gun,” continued Michael, moving closer, “you’ll be dead and in the water before you can raise it. Move away from there. Walk toward me. Now to your left. Over to the wall. Move! Don’t stop!”
The man lurched forward. “I could have had you killed, signore. I did not Surely, that is worth something to you.”
“It is—obviously. I thank you.”
“Nor was anything on your person taken, I assume you are aware of that. My orders were clear.”
“I’m aware. Now tell me why. On both counts.”
“I am neither a killer nor a thief, signore.”
“Not good enough. Raise your hands! Lean against the wall and spread your legs!” The Italian complied; it was not the first time such orders had been given him. Havelock came up behind him, kicking the man’s right calf as he whipped his hand around the capo regime’s waist, pulling the gun from the Italian’s belt. He glanced at it, impressed. The weapon was a Spanish automatic, a Llama .38 caliber, with grip and manual safeties. A quality gun, undoubtedly less expensive on the waterfront. He shoved it into his own belt “Tell me about the girl. Quickly!”
“I was paid. What more can I tell you?”
“A great deal.” Michael reached up and grabbed the man’s left hand; it was soft. The negotiator was not a violent man, the term capo regime, which the guard had used, was misapplied. This Italian was no part of the Mafia; a mafioso at his age would have come up through violent ranks and would not have soft hands.
A sudden cacophony of ship’s whistles erupted from the harbor. Th
ey were joined by panicked shouts from the lone man in the slapping waters below the pier. Taking advantage of the sounds, Michael rammed the pistol into the negotiator’s kidney. The man screamed. Then Havelock crashed the handle into the side of the Italian’s neck and there was another scream, which was followed by a series of whimpering pleas. “Signore … signore! You are American; we speak American! Do not do this to me! I saved your life-my word on it!”
“We’ll get to that. The girl! Tell me about the girl! Quickly!”
“I do favors around the docks. Everyone knows that! She needed a favor. She paid!”
“To get out of Italy?”
“What else?”
“She paid for a lot more than that! How many did you pay? For the setup.”
“Che cosa vuol dire? Set … up?”
“That show you put on! The pig who walked out of that door over there!” Havelock gripped the Italian by the shoulder and spun him around, slamming him back into the wall. “Right around that corner,” he added, gesturing. “What was that all about? Tell me! She paid for that, too. Why?”
“As you say, signore. She paid. Spiegazioni … explanations … were not required.”
Michael jammed the barrel of the pistol deep into the man’s stomach. “Not good enough. Tell me!”
“She said she had to know,” the negotiator spat out, doubling over.
“Know what?” Havelock slapped the man’s hat off and, grabbing him by the hair, crashed his head into the wall. “Know what?”
“What you would do!”
“How did she know I’d follow her here?”
“She did not!”
“Then why?”.
“She said you might do so! You were … ingegnoso … a resourceful man. You’ve hunted other men; you have means at your disposal. Contacts, sources.”
“That’s too loose! How?” Michael bunched the Italian’s hair in his fist, pulling it half out of its roots.
“Signore … she said she spoke to three drivers on the piattaforma before she found a taxi to take her to Civitavecchia! She was afraid!”
It made sense. It had not occurred to him to look for a taxi ramp at the Ostia; taxis were not in oversupply in Rome. In truth, he had simply not been thinking; he had been bent only on moving.
“Per favore! Aiuto! Mio Dio!” The screams came from the water below.
The ships in the harbor were beginning to fill the air with whistles and vapor. There was so little time left; soon the crews would come, men and machinery crawling all over the pier. He had to learn exactly what the negotiator had sold; he gripped the man’s throat with his left hand.
“She’s on the Teresa, isn’t she?”
“Sì!”
Havelock recalled the words of Il Tritone’s owner: the Teresa sailed to Marseilles. “How is she to be taken off the ship?”
The Italian did not answer; Michael plunged his fingers deeper into the man’s throat, choking him. He went on: “Understand me, and understand me well. If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you now. And if you lie, and she gets past me in Marseilles, I’ll come back for you. She was right, I’m resourceful and I’ve hunted a great many men. I’ll find you.”
The negotiator went into a spasm, his mouth gaping as he tried to speak. Havelock reduced the pressure on the man’s neck. The Italian coughed violently, grabbing his throat, and said, “What’s it to me, anyway, so I’ll tell you. I don’t want afflizione with the likes of you, signore! I should have known better. I should have listened better!”
“Go on.”
“Not Marseilles. San Remo. The Teresa stops at San Remo. How or where she is to be brought ashore, I do not know—my word on it! She buys her way to Paris. She’s to be taken across the border at Col des Moulinets. When, I do not know—my word! From there to Paris. I swear on the blood of Christ!”
The negotiator did not have to swear he was telling the truth; his terrified eyes proved it. He was being honest out of fear, extraordinary fear. What had Jenna told him? Why hadn’t the man ordered him killed? Also, why had nothing been stolen? Michael released his grip on the Italian’s neck.
He spoke quietly. “You said you could have had me killed, but you didn’t. Now tell me why.”
“No, signore, I will not say it,” whispered the man. “In the name of God, you’ll never see me again! I say nothing, know nothing!”
Havelock raised the pistol slowly, resting the point of the barrel on the man’s left eye. “Say it,” he said.
“Signore, I have a small, profitable business here, but I have never once—never—involved myself with political activities! Or anything remotely connected to such things. I swear on the tears of the Madonna! I thought she was lying, appealing to me with lies! I never once believed her!”
“But I wasn’t killed, nothing on my person taken, I think you said.” Michael paused, then shouted as he jammed the barrel into the Italian’s eye. “Why?”
The man screamed, spitting out the words. “She said you were an American working with the comunisti! With the Soviets. I did not believe her! I know nothing of such things! But caution would naturally call for—caution. In Civitavecchia we are outside of such wars. They are too … internazionali for people like us who make our few unimportant lire on the docks. These things mean nothing to us—my word on it! We wish no trouble from you, any of you! … Signore, you can understand. You attacked a woman—a puttana, to be certain, but a woman—on the pier. Men stopped you, pulled you away, but when I saw, I stopped them! I told them we should be cautious. We had to think …”
The frightened man continued to babble, but Havelock was not listening. What he had heard stunned him beyond anything he imagined he might hear. An American working with the Soviets. Jenna had said this? It was insane!
Had she tried to appeal to the man with a lie, only to instill a very real fear in the small-time operator after the fact, after the trap? The Italian had not equivocated; he had repeated her story out of fear. He had not lied.
Did she believe it? Was that what he had seen in her eyes on the platform at the Ostia station? Did she really believe it—just as he had believed beyond any doubt in his mind that she was a deep-cover officer for the Voennaya?
Oh, Christ! Each turned against the other with the same maneuver! Had the evidence against him been as airtight as the evidence against her? It had to have been; that was also in her eyes. Fear, hurt … pain. There was no one she could trust, not now, not for a while, perhaps not ever. She could only run—as he had kept running. God! What had they done?
Why?
She was on her way to Paris. He would find her in Paris. Or fly to San Remo or Col des Moulinets and intercept her at one or the other. He had the advantage of fast transport; she was on an old freighter plodding across the water and he would be flying. He had time.
He would use that time. There was an intelligence officer at the embassy in Rome who was about to know the depth of his anger. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence Baylor Brown was going to supply answers or all the exposés of Washington’s clandestine activities would be seen as mere footnotes compared with what he would reveal: the incompetences, the illegalities, the miscalculations and errors costing the lives of thousands the world over every year.
He would start with a blade diplomat in Rome who funneled secret orders to American agents throughout Italy and the western Mediterranean.
“Capisce? You do understand, signore?” The Italian was pleading, buying time, his eyes glancing furtively to the right. Across on the second pier three men were walking through the early light toward the far pilings; two blasts of a ship’s whistle told why. The freighter steaming into port was to be tied up at the Elba’s berth. In moments additional crews would arrive. “We are cautious … naturalmente, but we know nothing of such things! We are men of the docks, nothing more.”
“I understand,” said Michael, touching the man’s shoulder and turning him around. “Walk to the edge,” he ordered quietly.
“Signore, plea
se! I beg you!”
“Just do as I say. Now.”
“I swear on the patron saint of mercy Himself! On the blood of Christ, on the tears of the Holy Mother!” The Italian was weeping, his voice rising. “I am an insignificant merchant, signore! I know nothing! Say nothing!”
As they reached the edge of the pier, Havelock said, “Jump,” and pushed the negotiator over the side.
“Mio Dio! Aiuto!” screamed the henchman below as his employer joined him in the water.
Michael tamed and hobbled back to the corner of the warehouse wall. The dock was still deserted, but the guard was beginning to move, shaking his head, trying to pull himself up in the shadows of the booth. Havelock slapped open the cylinder of the pistol and shook the bullets out of their tracks; they clattered onto the dock. He hurried toward the gate, and when he reached the door of the glass booth, he threw the weapon inside. He ran as fast as he was capable of running through the gate, toward the rented car.
Rome. There would be answers in Rome.
7
The four men around the table in the white-walled room on the third floor of the State Department building were youngish by upper-echelon Washington standards. Their ages ranged from the mid-thirties to the late forties, but their lined faces and hollow look made them old beyond their years. The work they did led to sleepless nights and prolonged periods of anxiety, made worse by their insular life: none of them could discuss the crises they faced in that room with anyone outside it. These were the strategists of covert operations, the air traffic controllers of clandestine activities; roving condors could be shot down on their slightest miscalculation. Others above them might request the broad objectives; others below might design the specific assignments. But only these men were aware of every conceivable variation, every likely consequence of a given operation; they were the clearinghouse. Each was a specialist, each an authority. Only they could give the final nod for the condors to fly.
The Parsifal Mosaic Page 10