The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  As for Bradford, he had no choice. If summoned by the redoubtable journalist, he would comply. Other things—such as Costa Brava—might be paramount, but he still had to maintain his low profile at all costs, and one way to lose it was to refuse to be interviewed by Raymond Alexander. And when he came into the house in Fox Hollow, with his guards remaining outside in a limousine, Michael would take him. His disappearance would baffle the liars and the guards hired by the liars. The journalist’s large, rambling house was surrounded by miles of dense woods, overgrown fields and steep ravines. No one knew forests the way Mikhail Havlíček knew them; he would take Bradford through them until they came to a backcountry road somewhere, and a car, and the woman that Bradford had used in Barcelona. After his meeting with Alexander, they would have all night to study the map and travel the roads, watching for the Fox Hollow police, explanations at the ready if they were stopped. They could do it. They had to do it.

  “It’s lovely!” cried Jenna, charmed by the gas-lit streets and the small alabaster columns of the storefronts.

  “It’s wired,” said Michael, spotting a blue-and-white patrol car at the curb in the middle of the block.

  “Get down!” he ordered. “Stay out of sight.”

  “What?”

  “Please.”

  Jenna did as she was told, curling up on the floor. He slowed down, pulling alongside the police car; he saw the officer in the window, then eased to his right, and parked directly in front.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Jenna, bewildered.

  “Showing my credentials before anyone asks for them.”

  “That’s very good, Mikhail.”

  Havelock got out of the coupe and walked back to the patrol car. The police officer rolled down the window, first studying the license plate on Michael’s rented car. It was precisely what Michael wanted him to see; it could be of value later that night if a “suspicious vehicle” was reported.

  “Officer, could you tell me where there’s a pay phone around here? I thought there was one on the corner, but then I haven’t been back here in a couple of years.”

  “You’ve been here before?” asked the policeman, his voice friendly, his eyes not.

  “Oh, sure. Used to spend weekends out here a lot.”

  “You have business in Fox Hollow, sir?”

  “Well …” Havelock paused, as if the question bordered on impertinence. Then he shrugged, as if to say, After all the police have a job to do. He spoke in a slightly lower tone. “All right, I understand. My business is with an old friend, Raymond Alexander. I want to call and tell him I’m here.… Just in case someone’s dropped in on him he’d prefer I not meet. It’s standard procedure with Mr. Alexander, Officer, but you probably know that. I could drive around for a while. I’ll probably have to later on anyway.”

  The policeman’s posture had visibly improved at the mention of Alexander’s name. Limousines and military staff cars were common sights on the road to the venerated political commentator’s retreat. There was no such vehicle in front of him now, but the operative phrases were printed in the officer’s eyes: “An old friend”; “Used to spend weekends …”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. There’s a restaurant five blocks up with a phone in the lobby.”

  “The Lamplighter?” said Havelock, remembering.

  “That’s it.”

  “I don’t think so, Officer. It could be a busy night. Isn’t there a booth on the street?”

  “There’s one over on Acacia.”

  “If you’ll tell me how to get there, both R.A. and I would appreciate it.”

  “You can follow me, sir.”

  “Thanks very much.” Michael started for his car, then stopped and returned to the window. “I know this sounds silly, but I was usually driven out here. I think I know the way to his home. I take a left on Webster to Underhill Road, then straight out for two or three miles, isn’t that it?”

  “It’s nearer six miles, sir.”

  “Oh? Thanks.”

  “After you make your call, I could lead you out, sir. It’s quiet in town tonight.”

  “That’s very kind of you. But really, I couldn’t ask you.”

  “No problem. That’s what we’re here for.”

  “Well, thanks again. I appreciate it.”

  The call to Raymond Alexander brought forth the response Havelock expected. Nothing would do but that he drop in and see the journalist if only for a drink. Michael said he was glad Raymond was free, not only to renew an old friendship but because he had learned something in London that Alexander might want to know about. It might even make up partially for a great many expensive dinners Havelock had enjoyed at Raymond’s expense.

  On the way back to his car from the booth, Michael stopped at the police officer’s window. “Mr. Alexander wanted me to get your name. He’s very grateful to you.”

  “It’s nothing, sir. My name’s Lewis. Officer Lewis; there’s only one.”

  Lewis, he thought. Harry Lewis, professor of political science, Concord University. He could not think about Harry now, but he would have to think about him soon. Lewis must be convinced he had dropped out of civilization. He had, and to reenter it, liars would have to be found and exposed.

  “Is something the matter, sir?”

  “No, nothing at all. I know a man named Lewis. I remembered I was to call him. Thanks once again. I’ll follow you.”

  Havelock climbed behind the wheel of the rented car and looked at Jenna. “How are you doing?”

  “Uncomfortable and frightened out of my mind! Suppose that man had come over?”

  “I would have stopped him, called to him from the booth, but I didn’t think it was likely. The police in Fox Hollow stay close to their radios. I just don’t want you seen, if we can help it. Not around here, not with me.”

  The drive out to Alexander’s house took less than twelve minutes. The white post-and-rail fence marking the journalist’s property shone in the glare of the headlights of both cars. The home itself was set far back from the road. It was a tasteful combination of stone and wood, with floodlights shining down on the circular drive in front of wide slate steps that led to the heavy oak entrance door. The grounds were cleared in the front and on the sides of the house; thick, tall trees shot up at random about the close-cropped lawn. But where the lawn ended, on either side the dense woods abruptly began. From memory, Michael pictured the rear of the house; the woods were no farther away from the large back patio than they were from the sides of the building. He would use those woods and Bradford would enter them with him.

  “When you hear the police car leave,” he said to Jenna, “get up and stretch, but don’t get out. I don’t know what kind of alarms Alexander has around here.”

  “It’s been a strange introduction to this free country of yours, Mikhail.”

  “Also, don’t smoke.”

  “Děkuji.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Havelock purposely touched the rim of the horn as he got out of the car; the sound was abrupt and short, easily explained. There were no dogs. He walked toward the patrol car in front, hoping the horn would serve its function before he reached the window. It did; the front door opened and a uniformed maid stood in the frame, looking out.

  “Hello, Margaret!” yelled Michael over the hood of the police car. “Be right there.” He looked down at the police officer, who had glanced at the door, the scene not lost on him. “Thanks again, Officer Lewis,” he said, taking a bill from his pocket. “I’d like to—”

  “Oh, no, sir, thanks just the same. Have a good evening, sir.” The officer nodded with a smile, pulled the gear in place, and drove off.

  Havelock waved; no police, no dogs, only unseen alarms. As long as Jenna stayed in the car, she was safe. He walked up the slate steps to the door and the maid.

  “Good evening, sir,” said the woman in a distinct Irish brogue. “My name is Enid, not Margaret.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.” />
  “Mr. Alexander is expecting you. I never heard of a Margaret; the girl before me was Gretchen. She lasted four years, may the Lord rest her soul.”

  Raymond Alexander got up from the soft easy chair in his book—lined, wood-paneled library and walked toward Michael, his hand outstretched. His gait was more lively than one might have expected from his portly figure; his cherubic face with the clear green eyes was topped by a mass of disheveled hair that managed to stay darker than the years normally permitted. In keeping with his anachronistic lifestyle, he wore a deep red velvet smoking jacket, something Havelock had not seen since his adolescent days in Greenwich, Connecticut.

  “Michael, how are you? My God, it’s been four, five years now!” cried the journalist in his clipped, high-pitched voice.

  “They’ve served you well, Raymond. You look great.”

  “You don’t! Forgive me, young man, but you look like something one of my cats would have left outside. I don’t think retirement agrees with you.” Alexander released Havelock’s hand and quickly raised both of his own. “Yes, I know all about it. I keep track when friends answer questions. Pour yourself a drink; you know the rules here and you look like you need one.”

  “I will, thanks,” said Michael, heading for the familiar copper dry-bar against the wall.”

  “I suppose you’d look better with some sleep.…”

  It was the opportune opening. Havelock sat down opposite the journalist and told him the story of the killing in New York and State’s flying him back from London at 4:00 A.M., U.K. time.

  “I read about that this morning,” said Alexander, shaking his head. “Naturally, I thought of you—the name, of course—but knew right away it was ridiculous. You, of all people, with your background? Did someone steal an old identification of yours?”

  “No, it was mocked, that’s what we think. At any rate, it’s been a long two days. For a while I thought I was a prisoner.”

  “Well, they never would have brought you over this way if Anton had been apprised, I can tell you that.”

  Only Matthias’s closest friends called him by his Czech first name, and because Michael knew it, the statement alarmed him. By necessity, it reversed the sequence that Havelock had intended, but it would have been unnatural not to inquire. The Bradford ploy would come last; Matthias now.

  “I wondered about that,” said Havelock, revolving the glass in his hand, his voice casual. “I simply figured he was too damned busy. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if he was in Washington. I’d like to drop in and see him, but my time’s limited. I have to get back to London, and if I call him myself … well, you know Anton. He’d insist I spend a couple of days.”

  Alexander leaned forward in the heavily cushioned chair, his intelligent face expressing concern. “You don’t know, then?”

  “Know what?”

  “Damn it, that’s when government paranoia goes too far! He’s the closest thing you have to a father and you’re the closest thing he has to a son! You who’ve kept the secrets of a thousand operations and they haven’t told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Anton’s ill. I’m sorry you have to hear it from me, Michael.”

  “How ill?”

  “The rumors range from serious to fatal. Apparently he’s aware of whichever it is, and, true to form, thinks of himself last. When State learned that I’d found out, he sent me a personal note swearing me to secrecy.”

  “How did you learn of it?”

  “One of those odd things you don’t really think about … until you think about it. I was inveigled into going to a party in Arlington several weeks ago—you know how I detest those exhausting exercises in verbal endurance, but the hostess was a close friend of my late wife.”

  “I’m sony,” interrupted Havelock, only vaguely remembering the journalist’s wife, a willowy thing who had opted for gardens and flower arrangements. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s all right. It’s been over two years now.”

  “The party in Arlington?”

  “Yes, well to my embarrassment a youngish woman who was quite drunk virtually assaulted me. Now, if she’d been a predatory female intent on a sexual liaison, I could have understood her being drawn to the most desirable man on the premises, but I’m afraid it wasn’t the case. Apparently, she had marital difficulties of a most unusual nature. Her husband was an army officer absent from the household—read ‘connubial bed’—for nearly three months, and no one at the Pentagon would tell her where he was. She feigned illness, which I doubt took a great deal of self-persuasion, and he was brought back on emergency leave. When she got him in her net, she demanded to know where he’d been, what he was doing—read ‘other woman.’ He refused to tell her, so when soldier-boy was asleep she went through his clothes and found a security pass for a post she’d never heard of; I hadn’t either, as a matter of fact. I gather she battered him awake and confronted him, and this time in self-defense he blurted out that it was the highest-priority classification. It was where a very important man was being treated, and he couldn’t say any more.”

  “Anton?” broke in Michael.

  “I didn’t piece it together until the next morning. The last thing she said to me—before some charitable or oversexed guest drove her home—was that the country should be told about such things, that the government was behaving like Mother Russia. That morning she phoned me, quite sober and in serious panic. She apologized for what she described as her ‘ghastly behavior’ and pleaded with me to forget everything she’d told me. I was entirely sympathetic, but added that perhaps her instincts were right, although I wasn’t the person she should appeal to; there were others who would serve her better. She replied something to the effect that her husband could be ruined, a brilliant military career destroyed. So that was that.”

  “That was what? How did you find out it was Matthias?”

  “Because that same morning I read in the Washington Post that Anton was prolonging a brief vacation and would not appear before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. I kept thinking about the woman and what she’d said … and the fact that Anton rarely gave up a chance to perform for the Senate newsreels. And then I thought, Why not? Like you, I know where he spends every free moment he has—”

  “The Shenandoah lodge,” interrupted Havelock, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

  “Exactly. I reasoned that if the story was true and he was taking an extra few days, we might get together for some valley fishing or his beloved chess. Like you, again, I have the telephone number, so I called him.”

  “He wasn’t there,” said Michael.

  “They didn’t say that,” corrected the journalist. “They said he couldn’t come to the phone.”

  “That phone?”

  “Yes … that phone. It was the private line.”

  “The one that goes unanswered unless he’s there.”

  “Yes.” Alexander raised his brandy glass and drank.

  Havelock was close to screaming. He wanted to rush over to the portly writer and shake him: Go on! Go on, tell me! Instead, he said quietly, “That must have been a shock.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been to you?”

  “Certainly.” It was. Cant you see it in my eyes? “What did you do?”

  “The first thing was to call Zelienski. You remember old Leon, don’t you? Whenever Matthias drove or flew out to the lodge it was standard procedure for Zehenski to be summoned for dinner—has been standard for years now.” “Did you reach him?”

  “Yes, and he told me a very odd thing. He said he hadn’t seen Anton in months, that Matthias never answered his calls anymore—not personally—and that he didn’t think our great man had time for the valley these days.”

  The déjà vu was complete for Michael. Then he remembered. “You’re a friend of Zelienski’s, aren’t you?”

  “Through Anton, mainly. Very much the way we met. He comes up now and then for lunch and chess. Never for dinner, though; he won’t dr
ive at night. But my point is that the one place where Matthias should have been for a holiday he wasn’t. I really can’t imagine his not seeing old Leon, can you? After all, Zelienski lets him win.”

  “I can’t imagine your letting the issue drop, either.”

  “You’re quite right, I didn’t. I called Anton’s office and asked to speak with his first assistant I emphasized that I expected someone who represented the Secretary of State in his absence, and I considered my inquiry to be that substantive. Of all people, guess who was put on to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Emory Bradford. Do you remember him? Bradford the ‘boomerang,’ scourge of the warlords where once he’d been their spokesman. I was fascinated because actually I admire him for having had the courage to reverse himself, but I always thought Matthias detested the whole flock. If anything, he was more sympathetic to those who went down in flames because they didn’t change their minds.”

  “What did Bradford tell you?” Michael gripped the glass in his hand, suddenly terrified that he might break it.

  “You mean, what did he tell me after I told him what I thought had happened? Naturally, I never mentioned the woman and, God knows, it wasn’t necessary. Bradford was in shock. He begged me not to say anything or write anything, that Matthias himself would be in touch with me. I agreed, and by midafternoon, I received Anton’s note by messenger. I’ve abided by his request—until now. I can’t for a minute believe he’d want you excluded.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Havelock lessened the pressure on the glass, breathing deeply, the moment to be interpreted in any way the journalist wished. But for Michael it was the prelude to the most important question he might ever have asked in his life. “Do you remember the name of the post where the woman’s husband was stationed? The one you’d never heard of before?”