The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing! Where was it? Where was it?

  A flicker of light Movement—at the far end of the field, beyond the glowing yellow lines of the north runway, slightly above the farthest ground row. The cabin of a plane had been opened, an interior light snapped briefly on, then instantly turned off. He whipped the wheel to the right-blood from his wrenched wounded shoulder spreading through his shirt—and raced diagonally across the enormous compound; heavy, weatherproof bulbs exploded under the tires as he sped toward the now darkened area where seconds ago there had been the dim flash of light.

  There it was! Not a jet, but a twin-engine, single-wing, its propellers suddenly revving furiously, flames belching from its exhausts. It was not on the runway but beyond the glow of the parallel lines of yellow lights; the pilot was about to taxi into the takeoff position. But he was not moving now; he was holding!

  The Lancia. It was behind and to the right of the plane. Again, a light! Not from the aircraft now, but from the Lancia itself. Doors opened; figures leaped out, dashing for the plane. The cabin door, another light! For an instant Michael considered ramming the fuselage or crashing into the nearest wing, but it could be a tragic error. If he struck a fuel tank, the aircraft would blow up in seconds. He swerved the heavy truck to the right, then to the left, and screeching to a stop yards in front of the plane, he leaped out.

  “Jenna! Jenna! Poslouchám iá! Stůil! Listen to me!”

  She was climbing on board, pushed up the steps by the driver of the Lancia, who followed her inside and closed the door. He ran, oblivious to everything but her; he had to stop her! The plane spun in place like a grotesque, dark cormorant. Its path was free of the Lancia!

  The blow came out of the shadows, muffled and at the same time magnified by the furious winds of the propeller’s wash. His head snapped back as his legs buckled, blood matting the hair above his right temple. He was on his knees, supporting himself with his hands, staring up at the plane, at the window of the moving plane, and he could not move! The cabin lights remained on for several seconds and he saw her face in the glass, her eyes staring back at him. It was a sight he would remember for as long as he lived … if he lived. A second blow with a blunt instrument was delivered to the back of his neck.

  He could not think about the terrible sight now, about her now! He could hear the sirens screaming across the field, see the glare of searchlights shooting over the runway, catching the glistening metal of the plane as it sped down between the yellow lights. The man who had struck him twice was running toward the Lancia; he had to move! He had to move now, or he would not be permitted to live, permitted ever to see her again. He struggled to his feet as he pulled the Llama automatic from under his jacket.

  He fired twice above the roof of the sedan; the man leaping into the seat could have killed him moments ago; he would not kill that man now. His hands were too unsteady, the flashing, sweeping lights too bewildering to ensure inflicting only a wound. But he had to have the car. He fired again, the bullet ricocheting off the metal as he approached the window.

  “Get out or you’re dead!” he shouted, gripping the door handle. “You heard what I said! Get out!” Havelock yanked the man by the cloth of his coat and pulled him, propelling him onto the grass. There was no time for a dozen questions he wanted to ask. He had to escape! He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut; the motor was running.

  For the next forty-five seconds he crisscrossed the airfield at enormous speeds, evading the airfield’s security police by weaving in and out of searchlight beams. A dozen times he nearly crashed into stationary aircraft before reaching the demolished gate. He raced through, not seeing the road, functioning only on nerves and instinct.

  He could not shut out the terrible sight of Jenna’s face in the window of the moving plane. In Rome her face had shown raw fear and confusion. Moments ago there had been something else; it was in her eyes.

  Cold, immaculate hatred.

  13

  He drove southwest to Provence, then due south toward the coast, to the small city of Cagnes-sur-Mer. He had worked the northern Mediterranean for years and knew a doctor between Cagnes and Antibes; he needed help. He had ripped the sleeve of his shirt and tied a knot around the wound in his shoulder, but it did not prevent the loss of blood. His entire chest was soaked, the cloth sticking to his skin, and there was the sweet-acrid odor that he knew only too well. His neck was merely bruised—a paramedical opinion that in no way diminished the pain—but the blow to his head required stitches; the slightest graze would reopen the laceration that was sealed with barely coagulated blood.

  He needed other help, too, and Dr. Henri Salanne would provide it. He had to reach Matthias; to delay any longer was asinine. Specific identities could be traced from orders, from a code name, Ambiguity; there was enough information. Surface evidence of the massive conspiracy was clear from Jenna’s having survived Costa Brava—when she had been officially recorded as dead—and his own condemnation as “beyond salvage.” The first Matthias would accept from his přítele, the second could be confirmed from sealed black-bordered directives in the files of Consular Operations. Granted the whys were beyond Havelock’s reach, but not the facts—they existed, and Matthias could act on them. And while the Secretary of State acted, Michael had to get to Paris as quickly as possible. It would not be simple; every airport, highway and train station in Provence and the Mari-times would be watched, and Matthias could do nothing about it. Time and communications were on the side of the liars. Issuing covert orders was far easier then rescinding them; they spread like a darkening web of ink on soft paper, as the recipients disappeared, each wanting credit for the kill.

  Within an hour—if it had not happened by now—Rome would be apprised of the events at Col des Moulinets. Telephones and little-used radio frequencies would be employed to send out the word: The man “beyond salvage” is loose; he can cost us too much that’s valuable, including time and our lives. All network personnel are on alert; use every source, every weapon available. Zero area: Col des Moulinets. Radius: Maximum two hours’ travel, reported to be wounded. Last known vehicles: A nondescript farm truck with a power-ful engine, and a Lancia sedan. Find him. kill him.

  No doubt the liars on the Potomac had already reached Salanne but as with so many in the shadow world, there were hidden confidences—things in and of his past—that those who cleared payrolls in Washington or Rome or Paris knew nothing about And for drones such as Dr. Henri Salanne, only certain men In the field who had been on a given scene at a given time knew them, and stored away their names for future personal use should the necessity ever arise. There was even a vague morality about this practice, for more often than not the incriminating information or the events themselves were the result of a temporary crisis or a weakness that did not require that the man or the woman be destroyed—or killed.

  With Salanne, Havelock had been there when it happened—to be precise, eleven hours after the act took place, time enough to altar the consequences. The doctor had sold out an American agent in Cannes who coordinated a small fleet of oceangoing pleasure craft for the purpose of monitoring Soviet naval positions in the sector. Salanne had sold him for money to a KGB informant, and Michael had not understood; neither money nor betrayal was a motive that made sense where the doctor was concerned. It took only one low—key confrontation to learn the truth, and it was a truth—or a juxtaposition of truths—as old as the grotesque world in which they all lived. The gentle if somewhat cynical middle-aged doctor was a compulsive gambler; it was the primary reason why years ago a brilliant young surgeon from L’Hôpital de Paris had sought out a practice in the Monte Carlo triangle. His credentials and references were honored in Monaco, which was a good thing, but his losses at the casino were not.

  Enter the American, whose cover was that of a yacht-owning jet-setter, and who spent the taxpayers’ money cautiously but obnoxiously at the tables. His obnoxiousness, however, did not end at chemin de fer; he was a
womanizer with a preference for young girls, an image, he rationalized, that did nothing to harm his cover. One of the girls he brought to his busy bed was Salanne’s daughter, Claudie, an impressionable child who suffered a severe depression when nothing further came of the relationship.

  The Soviets were in the market; the doctor’s losses could be covered, and a preying coureur removed from the scene. Pourqnoi pas? The act had taken place.

  Enter Havelock, who had traced the betrayal, got the American out before the boats were identified, and confronted Henri Salanne. He never reported his findings; there was no point, and the doctor understood the conditions of his “pardon.” Never again … and an obligation was assumed.

  Michael found a telephone booth at a deserted corner in the downtown district of Cagnes-sur-Mer. He braced himself with difficulty, and got out of the car, clutching his Jacket around him as he stood up; he was cold, bleeding still. Inside the booth, he pulled out the Llama from his holster, smashed the overhead light, and studied the dial in the shadows. After what seemed like an interminable wait, he was given Salanne’s number by Antibes information.

  “Votre fille, Claudie, comment va-t-elle?” he asked quietly.

  There was dead silence. Finally the doctor spoke, his use of English deliberate. “I wondered if I’d hear from you. If it is you, they say you may be hurt.”

  “I am.”

  “How badly?”

  “I need cleaning up and a few sutures. That’s all, I think.”

  “Nothing internal?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “I hope you’re right. A hospital would be in questionable taste right now. I suspect all emergency rooms in the area are being watched.”

  Michael was suddenly alarmed. “What about you?”

  “There’s only so much manpower. They won’t waste it on someone they assume would rather see ten patients the on an operating table than be cut off from their generosity.”

  “Would you?”

  “Let’s halve it,” said Salanne, laughing softly. “In spite of my habits, my conscience couldn’t take more than five.” The doctor paused but not long enough for Havelock to speak. “However, there could be a problem. They say you’re driving a medium-sized truck-”

  “I’m not.”

  “Or possibly a dark gray Lancia sedan,” continued Salanne.

  “l am.”

  “Get rid of it, or get away from it.”

  Michael looked at the large automobile outside the booth. The engine had overheated; steam was escaping from the radiator, vapor rising and diffusing under the light of the streetlamp. All this was calling attention to the car. “I’m not sure how far I can walk,” he said to the doctor.

  “Loss of blood?”

  “Enough so I can feel it.”

  “Merde! Where are you?”

  Havelock told him. “I’ve been here before, but I can’t remember much.”

  “Disorientation or absence of impressions?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Blood.”

  “I feel dizzy, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It is. I think I know the corner. Is there a bijouterie on the other side? Called something and Son?”

  Michael squinted through glass beyond the Lancia. “Ariale et Fils?” he said, reading the raised white letters of a sign above a dark storefront across the street “Fine Jewelry, Watches, Diamonds.’ Is that it?”

  “Ariale, of course. I’ve had good nights, too, you know. They’re much more rèasonable than the thieves in the Spélugues. Now then, several shops north of Ariale is an alley that leads to a small parking lot behind the stores. I’ll get there as fast as I can, twenty minutes at the outside. I don’t care to race through the streets under the circumstances.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Nor should you. Walk slowly, and if there are automobiles parked there, crawl under one and lie flat on your back. When you see me arrive, strike a match. As little movement as possible, is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Havelock left the booth, but before crossing the street, he opened his jacket, pulled the blood-soaked shirt out of his belt and squeezed it until drops of dark red appeared on the pavement. Leaning over, he took a dozen rapid steps straight ahead past the corner building into the shadows, scuffing the blood with the soles of his shoes, streaking it backwards; anyone studying the Lancia and the immediate area would assume he had run down the intersecting street. He then stopped, awkwardly removed both shoes, and sidestepped carefully to the curb, pulling his jacket around him. He reversed direction and hobbled across the intersection to the side of the street that housed Ariale et Fils.

  He lay on his back, matches in his hand, staring up at the black grease-laden underside of a Peugeot facing the parking-lot wall, keeping his mind alert with an exercise in the improbable. Proposition: The owner returned with a companion, and both got into the car. What should Michael do and how would he do it without being seen? The answer to the first was to roll out—obviously—but on which side?

  Twin headlight beams pierced the entrance of the parking lot, cutting short his ruminations. The headlights were turned off ten feet inside the unmanned gate; the car stopped, the motor still running. It was Salanne, telling him he had arrived. Havelock crawled to the edge of the Peugeot’s chassis and struck a match. Seconds later the doctor was above him, and within minutes they were driving south on the road toward Antibes, Michael in the back seat, angled in the corner, legs stretched, out of sight.

  “If you recall,” said Salanne, “there is a side entrance to my house, reached by the driveway. It leads directly to my office and the examining room.”

  “I remember. I’ve used it.”

  “I’ll go inside first, just to make certain.”

  “What are you going to do if there are cars in front?”

  “I’d rather not think about it.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Actually, I have. There’s a colleague of mine in Villefran-che, an elderly man, above reproach. I’d prefer not to involve him, of course.”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing,” said Havelock, looking at the back of the doctor’s head in the coruscating light, noting that the hair touched with gray only a year or so ago was practically white now.

  “I appreciate what you did for me,” replied Salanne softly. “I assumed a debt I never thought otherwise.”

  “I know. That’s pretty cold, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. You asked how Claudie was, so let me tell you. She is happy and with child and married to a young intern at the hospital in Nice. Two years ago she nearly took her own life. How much is that worth to me, my friend?”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Besides, what they say about you is preposterous.”

  “What do they say?”

  “That you are insane, a dangerous psychopath who threatens us all with exposure—certain death from roving jackals of the KGB—if you are allowed to live.”

  “And that’s preposterous to you?”

  “As of an hour ago, mon ami méchant. You remember the man in Cannes who was involved with my indiscretion?”

  “The KGB informant?”

  “Yes. Would you say he’s knowledgeable?”

  “As any in the sector,” replied Havelock. “To the point where we left him alone and tried to feed him disinformation. What about him?”

  “When the word came through about you, I rang him up—from a public booth, of course. I wanted confirmation of this new, incredible judgment, so I asked him how soft the market was, how flexible in terms of price for the American consular attaché whose origins were in Prague. What be told me was both startling and specific.”

  “Which was?” asked Michael, leaning forward in pain.

  “There is no market for you, no price—high, low or otherwise. You are a leper and Moscow wants no part of your disease. You are not to be touched, even acknowledged. So w
hom could you expose in this manner?” The doctor shook his head. “Rome lied, which means that someone in Washington lied to Rome. ‘Beyond salvage’? Beyond belief.”

  “Would you repeat those words to someone?”

  “And by doing so, call for my own execution? There are limits to my gratitude.”

  “You won’t be identified, my word on it.”

  “Who would believe you without naming a source he could check?”

  “Anthony Matthias.”

  “Matthias?” cried Salanne, whipping his head to the side, gripping the wheel, his eyes straining to stay on the road. “Why would he …?”

  “Because you’re with me. Again, my word on it.”

  “A man like Matthias is beyond one’s well-intentioned word, my friend. He asks and you must tell him.”

  “Only if you cleared it.”

  “Why would he believe you? Believe me?”

  “You Just said it. The attaché whose origins were in Prague. So were his.”

  “I see,” said the doctor pensively, his head turned front again. “I never made the connection, never even thought about it.”

  “It’s complicated, and I don’t talk about it. We go back a long time, our families go back.”

  “I must think. To deal with such a man puts everything in another perspective, doesn’t it? We are ordinary men doing our foolish things; he is not ordinary. He lives on another plane. The Americans have a phrase for what you ask.”

  “A different ballgame?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It’s not. It’s the same game, and it’s rigged against him. Against all of us.”

  There were no strange automobiles within a four-block radius of Salanne’s house, no need to travel to Villefranche and an elderly physician above reproach. Inside the examining room, Havelock’s clothes were removed, his body sponged, and the wounds sutured, the doctor’s petite, somewhat uncommunicative wife assisting Salanne.