The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  “Thanks, Now the halfway man. Who is he?”

  “I’ll get word to him, but he may choose to tell you nothing.”

  “Get word to him. Who is he?”

  “A man named Handelman. Jacob Handelman. Columbia University.”

  17

  The man with a single strip of tape on each cheek sat at the small table below the curved dais in the underground strategy room of the White House. The flesh on his square face was taut, held in place by the sutures beneath the brown adhesive; the effect was robotlike, macabre. His replies in a subdued monotone to the questions put to him heightened the image of a man not totally whole, yet over-controlled. In truth, he was afraid; the agent of record from Col des Moulinets would have been more afraid thirty-five minutes before, when the panel of men facing him was complete. There had been four men then; now there were only three. The President had removed himself. He was observing the proceedings from an unseen cubicle behind the platform, through a pane of coated glass that was part of the inner wall and indistinguishable from it. Words were being said in the room that could not be said in his presence; he could not bear witness to orders of dispatch at an Alpine pass, and prior communications that included the phrase “beyond salvage.”

  The interrogation was at midpoint, Undersecretary of State Emory Bradford probing the salient points while Ambassador Brooks and General Halyard made notes on their pads under the harsh glare of the Tensor lamps.

  “Let me get this clear,” said Bradford. “You were the field officer of record and the only one in contact with Rome. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain no other member of the unit was in touch with the embassy?”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir. I was the only channel. It’s standard, not only for the security blackout, but to make sure there’s no foul-up in the orders. One man transmits them, one man receives them.”

  “Yet you say Havelock referred to two of the unit’s personnel as explosives specialists, a fact you were not aware of.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “But as the field officer of record—”

  “Agent of record, sir.”

  “Sorry. As the agent of record, shouldn’t you have known?”

  “Normally, I would have.”

  “But you weren’t and the only explanation you can give us is that this new recruit, a Corsican named Ricci, hired the two men in question.”

  “It’s the only reason I can think of. If Havelock was right; if he wasn’t lying.”

  “The reports from Col des Moulinets stated that there were numerous explosions in the vicinity of the bridge’s entrance at the time.” Bradford scanned a typewritten page in front of him. “Including a massive detonation in the road that occurred approximately twelve minutes after the confrontation, killing three Italian soldiers and four civilians. Obviously, Havelock knew what he was talking about; he wasn’t lying to you.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. I was unconscious … bleeding. The son of—Havelock cut me up.”

  “You’re getting proper medical attention?” interrupted Ambassador Brooks, looking up from the yellow pad under the Tensor lamp.

  “I guess so,” replied the agent, his right hand slipping over his left wrist, his fingers massaging the glistening stainless-steel case of his chronometer. “Except the doctors aren’t sure the wounds’ll require plastic surgery. I think I should have it.”

  “That’s their province, of course,” said the statesman.

  “I’m … valuable, sir. Without that surgery I’m marked—sir.”

  “I’m sure Undersecretary Bradford will convey your feelings to Walter Reed,” said the general, reading his notes.

  “You say you never saw this man Ricci,” continued Bradford, “prior to the briefing in Rome, just before the unit flew to Col des Moulinets. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir. I never saw him. He was new.”

  “And you didn’t see him when you regained consciousness after the events at the bridge?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You don’t know where he went?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Neither does Rome,” added the undersecretary quietly, pointedly.

  “I learned that an Italian soldier was hit by a truck and was pretty badly mangled, screaming his head off. Someone said he had blond hair, so I figured it was Ricci.”

  “And?”

  “A man came out of the woods—someone with a gash in his head—put the soldier in a car, and drove him away.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “I asked questions, a lot of questions … after I got first aid. That was my Job, sir. It was a madhouse up there, Italians and French yelling all over the place. But I didn’t leave until I found out everything I could—without permitting anyone to ask me questions.”

  “You’re to be commended,” said the ambassador.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Let’s assume you’re right.” Bradford leaned forward. “The blond man was Ricci, and someone with a head wound got him out of there. Have you any idea who that someone might be?”

  “I think so. One of the men he brought with him. The other was killed.”

  “So Ricci and this other man got away. But Rome hasn’t heard from Ricci. Would you say that’s normal?”

  “No way, sir. It’s not normal at all. Whenever any of those people are damaged, they bleed us for everything they can get, and they don’t waste time about it. Our policy in black operations is clear. If we can’t evacuate the wounded—”

  “I think we understand,” interrupted Halyard, an old soldier’s antennae picking up a signal couched in a soldier’s vocabulary.

  “Then it’s your opinion that if Ricci and this demolitions expert got away intact, they’d have reached our embassy in Rome as quickly as they could.”

  “Yes, sir. With their hands out and shouting all the way. They would have expected attention pronto and threatened us with the kind we don’t want if they didn’t get it.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I’d say it’s pretty obvious. They didn’t make it.”

  “What was that?” asked Brooks.

  “There isn’t any other explanation. I know those people, sir. They’re garbage; they’d kill their mothers if the price was right. They would have been in touch with Rome, believe me.”

  “ ‘Didn’t make it’?” repeated Halyard, staring at the man from Col des Moulinets. “What do you mean?”

  “The roads, sir. They wind up and down those mountains like corkscrews, sometimes without lights for miles at a time. A wounded man driving, the other one banged up and screaming; that vehicle’s a candidate for a long fall up there.”

  “Head wounds can be deceptive,” Halyard commented. “A bloody nose looks a hell of a lot worse than it is.”

  “It strikes me,” said Brooks, “that same man acted with considerable presence of mind amid the chaos. He functioned—”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Ambassador,” interrupted Bradford, his voice rising slightly but deferentially. The intrusion was not a breach of manners but a signal. “I think the field officer’s point is well taken. A thorough search of those roads will undoubtedly reveal a car somewhere at the bottom of a precipice.”

  Brooks exchanged looks with the man from State; the signal was acknowledged. “Yes, of course. Realistically, there is no other explanation.”

  “Just one or two more points and we’re finished,” said Bradford, rearranging his papers. “As you know, whatever is said here is confidential. There are no hidden microphones, no recording devices; the words spoken here are stored only in our memories. This is for the protection of all of us—not just you—so feel perfectly free to speak candidly. Don’t try to soften the truth; we’re in the same boat.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Your orders with regard to Havelock were unequivocal He was officially classified ‘beyond salvage’ and
the word from Rome was to terminate with ‘extreme prejudice.’ Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In other words, he was to be executed. killed at Col des Moulinets.”

  “That’s what it meant.”

  “And you received those instructions from the senior attaché, Consular Operations, Roma. A man named Warren. Harry Warren.”

  “Yes, sir. I was in constant touch with him, waiting for the determination … waiting for Washington to give it to him.”

  “How could you be certain the man you spoke with was Harry Warren?”

  The agent seemed perplexed, as if the question were foolish, though the man who asked it was not foolish at all. “Among other things, I worked with Harry for over two years. I knew his voice.”

  “Just his voice?”

  “And the number in Rome. It was a direct line to the embassy’s radio room, unlisted and very classified. I knew that, too.”

  “Did it occur to you that when he gave you your final instructions he might have been doing so under duress? Against his will?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “It never crossed your mind?”

  “If that had been the case, he would have told me.”

  “With a gun at his head?” said Halyard. “How?”

  “The code had been established and he used it He wouldn’t have if there’d been anything wrong.”

  “Explain that, please,” said Brooks. “What code?”

  “A word or a couple of words that originate in Washington. They’re referred to when decisions are transmitted; that way you know the authorization’s there without naming names. If anything had been wrong, Harry wouldn’t have used the code, and I would have known something wasn’t right. I’d have asked for it and he would have given me a different one. He didn’t and I didn’t He used the correct one up front.”

  “What was the code for Col des Moulinets?” asked Emory Bradford.

  “Ambiguity, sir. It came direct from Cons Op, Washington, and will be listed in the embassy telephone logs, classified files.”

  “Which is proof of authorization,” said Bradford, making a statement.

  “Yes, sir. Dates, times and origins of clearance are in those logs.”

  Bradford held up an eight-by-ten-inch photograph of a man’s face, adjusting the Tensor lamp so it could be seen clearly. “Is this Harry Warren?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s Harry.”

  “Thank you.” The undersecretary put down the photograph and made a check mark on the border of his notes. “Let me go back a bit; there’s something I’m not sure is clear. Regarding the woman, she was to be sent across the border unharmed, if possible. Is that correct?”

  “The operative words were ‘if possible.’ Nobody was going to risk anything for her. She was just a needle.”

  “A needle?”

  “To stick into the Soviets. Let Moscow know we didn’t buy the plant.”

  “Meaning she was a Russian device. A woman similar in appearance—perhaps someone who had undergone cosmetic surgery—whom the Soviets surfaced repeatedly at selected locations for Havelock’s benefit, letting him get close, but never close enough to take her. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The purpose being to shock Havelock into a state of mental instability, to the point of defection?”

  “To drive him nuts, yes, sir. I guess it worked; the ‘beyond salvage’ came from Washington.”

  “From Ambiguity.”

  “Ambiguity, sir.”

  “Whose identity can be traced in the embassy’s telephone logs.”

  “Yes, sir. The logs.”

  “So it was established beyond doubt that the woman at the bridge was not Jenna Karas.”

  “Beyond doubt. She was killed at Costa Brava, everyone knew that. Havelock himself was the agent of record at that beach. He went crazy.”

  Ambassador Brooks slapped down his pencil and leaned forward, studying the man from Col des Moulinets. The sharp, echoing crack of the pencil, and the movement itself, were more than an interruption; they combined to indicate an objection. “This entire operation, didn’t it strike you as … well, bizarre, to say the least? To be quite candid, was execution the only solution? Knowing what you all knew—presumed you knew—couldn’t you have tried to take the man, spare his life, get him back here for treatment?”

  “With respect, sir, that’s a lot easier said than done. Jack Ogilvie tried in Rome and never left the Palatine. Havelock killed three men on that bridge that we know of; another two may be dead by now and probably are. He dug a knife into my face—He’s a psycho.” The agent paused, not finished. “Yes, sir. All things considered, we kill him. That’s ‘beyond salvage,’ and has nothing to do with me. I follow orders.”

  “An all too familiar phrase, sir,” said Brooks.

  “But justified under the circumstances,” Bradford broke in quickly, writing out the word Ambiguity on the page in front of him and continuing before anyone else could speak, or object. “What happened to Havelock? Did you learn?”

  “They said an assassino pazzo—crazy man, killer—drove the truck hellbent across the bridge and out of sight. It had to be Havelock. There are alerts out all through the provinces—the towns and cities and up and down the Mediterranean coast. He worked the coast; he’ll get in touch with someone and they’ll find him. They said he was wounded; he won’t get far. My guess is a couple of days at the outside, and I wish I was there to take him myself.”

  “Again quite justified,” said Bradford “And we want to thank you for your cooperation this evening. You’ve been very concise and helpful. You may leave now, and good luck to you.”

  The man got out of the chair, nodded awkwardly and walked to the door. He stopped, touching his left cheek and the tape as he turned to face the powerful men on the dais. “I’m worth the surgery,” he said.

  “I’m sure you are,” replied the undersecretary.

  The agent of record from Col des Moulinets opened the door and stepped out into the white-walled corridor. The instant the door was shut, Halyard turned to Bradford and shouted, “Get hold of Rome! Get those logs and find this Ambiguity! It’s what you were trying to tell us, isn’t it? This is the link to Parsifal!”

  “Yes, General,” answered Bradford. “The Ambiguity code was established by the director of Consular Operations, Daniel Stern, whose name appears in the embassy logs, entered by the Cons Op senior attaché, Harry Warren. Warren was clear in his entry; the transcript was read to me. He wrote the following”—the undersecretary picked up a note on top of his papers—“ ‘Code: Ambiguity. Subject: M. Havelock. Decision pending.’ ”

  “ ’Pending?” asked Brooks. “When was it made?”

  “According to the embassy logs, it wasn’t. There were no further entries that night making any reference whatsoever to Ambiguity, Havelock, or the unit at Col des Moulinets.”

  “Impossible,” protested the general. “You heard that man. The go-ahead was given, the authorization code was delivered. He didn’t mince words. That call had to have come through.”

  “It did.”

  “Are you saying that the entry was deleted?” asked Brooks.

  “It was never made,” said Bradford. “Warren never made it.”

  “Then get him,” said Halyard. “Nail him. He knows who he talked to. Goddamn it, Emory, get on that phone. This is Parsifal!” He turned in his chair, addressing the wall. “Mr. President?”

  There was no reply.

  The undersecretary separated the papers in front of him and removed a thin manila envelope from the rest. He opened it, took out a second photograph and handed it to the former ambassador. Brooks studied it, a sharp intake of breath accompanying his first glance. Silently he passed it to Halyard.

  “Jesus …” Halyard placed the photograph under the beam of the Tensor. The surface was grainy, the infinitesimal lines the result of a transmitting machine, but the image was clear. It was a photograp
h of a corpse stretched out on a white table, the clothes torn and bloody, the face bruised terribly but wiped clean for identification. The face of the dead man was the same as that in the first photograph Bradford had shown the agent from Col des Moulinets only minutes before. It belonged to Harry Warren, senior attaché, Cons Op, Rome.

  “That was telexed to us at one o’clock this afternoon. It’s Warren. He was run down on the Via Frascatti in the early hours of the morning two days ago. There were witnesses, but they couldn’t help much, except to tell our people the car was a large sedan with a powerful engine; it roared down the street, apparently gathering speed just before impact. Whoever drove it wasn’t taking any chances of missing; he caught Warren stepping onto the curb and hammered him into the pole of a streetlight, doing considerable damage to the automobile. The police are searching for it, but there’s not much hope. It’s probably at the bottom of a river in the hills.”

  “So the link is gone.” Halyard pushed the photograph toward Brooks.

  “I mourn the man,” said the undersecretary, “but I’m not sure how much of a link he was.”

  “Someone thought so,” said the soldier.

  “Or was covering a flank.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Brooks.

  “Whoever made that final call authorizing ‘beyond salvage’ couldn’t know what Stern told Warren. All we know is that the decision hadn’t been made.”

  “Please be clearer,” the statesman insisted.

  “Suppose the strategists of Consular Operations decided they couldn’t reach a decision. On the surface, it wouldn’t appear that difficult—a psychopath, a rogue agent capable of causing extraordinary damage, a potential defector, a killer—the decision wasn’t one that stretched their consciences. But suppose they learned something, or suspected something, that called everything into question.”

  “The Karas woman,” said Halyard.

  “Perhaps. Or maybe a communication, or a signal from Havelock that contradicted the assumption that he was a maniac. That he was as sane as they were; a sane man caught in a terrible dilemma not of his own making.”