The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  “How can I?”

  “Because you know!”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Betrayer! Betrayer of your countrymen! Your father! Betrayer of the world!”

  “Then why not kill me!” roared Michael, knowing there was nothing left, nowhere else to go with Anton Matthias. “Why didn’t you have me killed?”

  “Havelock, cut it out!” shouted the young doctor from the doorway.

  “Not now!” yelled Michael in English.

  “Yes, goddamn it!”

  “Já slyším!” screamed Havelock into Matthias’s face, returning to Czech. “You could have killed me but you didn’t! Why not? I’m nothing compared to the world, to your solutions for the world! What stopped you?”

  “That’s it, mister!”

  “Let me alone! He’s got to tell me!”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Ted’ starý pane?” Michael gripped the arms of Matthias’s chair, locking him into it. “What stopped you?”

  The hollow whisper returned, the wild eyes now clear of uncertainty. “You left the conference and we did not see you, we could not find you. We had to know what you had done, whom you had told.”

  Madness.

  “You’re finished here, Havelock!” said the psychiatrist, gripping Michael’s arm and pulling him away from the chair. “What were you two talking about? I know it’s Czech, but that’s all I know. What did he tell you? I want it verbatim!”

  Havelock tried to shake the numbness from his mind, the utter sense of futility. He looked at the doctor, remembering his use of the word; he would not corrupt it as the young man had. “It wouldn’t do you any good. He was back in his childhood; it was meaningless rambling … an angry, frightened child. I thought he was going to tell me something. He didn’t.”

  The doctor nodded, his eyes those of a learned, older man. “He does that a lot,” said the psychiatrist, voice and face relaxing. “It’s a degenerative syndrome in old people born in another country, with a different language. It doesn’t make much difference whether they’re sane or insane; they go back. And why not? They’re entitled to the comfort.… Sorry, Nice try. Come on, I have to get you out of here. There’s a chopper waiting for you at the pad.”

  “Thanks.” Michael backed away on the slate path, and looked, he knew, for the last time at Anton Matthias … přítel, mentor, father. The once great man was cowering again, seeking sanctuary in the shadows of the palm tree.

  Madness. Or was it?

  Was it possible? Did he—Mikhail Havlíček—know the answer? Did he know Parsifal?

  28

  It was called Sterile House Five—Sterile Five for short—and was ten miles south of Alexandria in the Fairfax countryside. Once the estate of a horse breeder, it had been purchased by an elderly, apparently wealthy, retired couple who were in fact buyers of record for the United States government. They were appropriate “owners” because they had spent their adult lives in the foreign service; they had been attached to various embassies and given various titles, but in reality they were two of the most proficient cryptanalysts in U.S. intelligence. Their cover was simple; he had been an investment banker living in Europe for several decades. It was eminently acceptable to the distant, affluent neighbors and accounted for the frequent sight of limousines turning off the country road into the half-mile drive that led to the house. Once a visitor arrived, the “owners” were rarely visible—unless visibility was prearranged—for their quarters were in the north wing, a separate section of the house, with a separate entrance and independent facilities.

  Sterile Five was another form of halfway house, serving clients who had far more to offer the United States government than the castaway inmates of Mason Falls, Pennsylvania. Over the years it had seen a procession of high-level defectors pass through its doors for periods of interrogation and debriefing. Scientists, diplomats, espionage agents, military men—all had been residents at one time or another. Sterile Five was reserved for those people Washington felt were vital to the immediate interests of the country at given moments of crisis. Havelock and Jenna Karas arrived in an unmarked government vehicle at twenty minutes past four. Undersecretary of State Emory Bradford was waiting for them.

  The recriminations were brief; there was no point in going over past errors. Bradford had spoken with the President and understood that there would be “two new chairs at the table.” At Sterile Five, however, they sat in the “owner’s study,” a small room outfitted for a country squire: a couch and thick armchairs; leather, brass and expensive wood in harmony; mementos signifying little of substance on the walls. There was a heavy pine table behind the single couch, and on it was a silver tray with glasses, ice and bottles. Havelock made himself and Jenna drinks; Bradford declined.

  “What have you told Miss Karas?” asked the undersecretary.

  “Everything I learned at Poole’s Island.”

  “It’s difficult to know what to say—what to think,” said Jenna. “I suppose I’m awestruck and terrified at the same time.”

  “It’s a good combination,” agreed Bradford.

  “What I want from you,” Havelock said to Bradford as he went around the couch with the drinks and sat down beside Jenna, “is everything you have, the names of everyone involved—no matter how remotely—from the beginning. I don’t care how long it takes; we can be here all night. As you go along I’ll ask questions, make notes, and when you’re finished “I’ll give you a list of what I need.”

  It took less than four minutes for Michael’s first question: “MacKenzie? CIA? Black operations. One of the best out of Langley.”

  “I was told the best,” Bradford said.

  “He set up Costa Brava, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was the second sighting, the one who brought back the bloodstained clothing for forensic?”

  “I was about to—”

  “Tell me,” interrupted Havelock. “Did he die of a stroke—a coronary—on the Chesapeake?”

  “In his boat, yes.”

  “Was there an inquest? An autopsy?”

  “Not formally, but, again, the answer is yes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “With a man like that, you don’t promote speculation. The doctor was cooperative and thoroughly questioned; he’s a very respected physician. X-rays were examined by him and our own people, the conclusion was unanimous. A massive aortal hemorrhage.” Bradford lowered his voice. “It was the first thought we had when we heard the news. We didn’t overlook a thing.”

  “Thanks,” said Havelock, writing a note to himself. “Go on.”

  Jenna placed her drink on the coffee table. “Was he the man with you in the lobby of the hotel in Barcelona?”

  “Yes, it was his operation.”

  “He was an angry man. His eyes were angry, not concerned, just angry.”

  “He was in an angry occupation.”

  “He crashed my door in; he had a gun in his hand.”

  “He was worried, we both were. Miss Karas, if you’d come downstairs or even stayed in your room—”

  “Please, go on,” Michael broke in.

  The undersecretary continued as Havelock and Jenna listened intently, interrupting whenever either had a question or felt details should be clarified. Within the hour it was apparent to Bradford that Jenna Karas had a mind to contend with and the experience to match. She asked nearly as many questions as Michael, frequently pursuing specifics until possibilities not previously considered were suddenly brought to light.

  Bradford reached the night when the three strategists were killed, when the unknown Ambiguity routed the call to Rome placing Havelock “beyond salvage.” The undersecretary of State was thorough, detailing the checks he had made on the personnel in the L Section of the fifth floor during the hours of question. None, he was certain, could be Ambiguity.

  “Because the conferences and briefings they held were … how do you say it?” Jenna looked at Michael. “Potvrd
it?”

  “Confirmed,” said Havelock, watching her. “Logged in the official records.”

  “Yes, official.” She turned back to Bradford. “Is this the reason you rule out these people?”

  “None left their meetings long enough to have reached Rome on a code circuit.”

  “Forgive me,” continued Jenna, “but do you exclude the possibility that this Ambiguity might have associates? Persons who would lie for him?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” said the undersecretary. “But considering the diversity of those who were there, I do think it’s mathematically impossible. I know too many of those people, have known them for years, some for nearly two decades.”

  “Still …”

  “Paminyatchiki?” asked Havelock, his eyes on Jenna.

  “Proč ne? To je možné.”

  “Nemluv o tom.”

  “Vy nemáte pravdu.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Bradford.

  “We’re being rude,” said Jenna. “Sorry. I thought—”

  “She thought it was something to think about,” interrupted Michael. “I explained that the numbers didn’t add up. Go on, please.”

  Jenna looked at Havelock and reached for her drink.

  The undersecretary of State spoke for nearly four hours, half the time answering questions and refining countless details until the elegant den came to seem like a quietly charged courtroom. Bradford was the reluctant hostile witness facing two agile and relentless prosecuting attorneys.

  “How are you dealing with Jacob Handelman?”

  “Unsolved. The President read me what you wrote over the phone. It’s incredible … about Handelman, I mean. Are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”

  “It was his gun, his knife. There was no mistake.”

  “Berquist said you had to have had an extraordinary reason to kill him.”

  “Oddly enough, I didn’t. I wanted him to sweat—for years, if I could. He came after me. Are you going to tell the truth about him?”

  “The President says no. What purpose would it serve? He says the Jews have been through enough; let it be.”

  “Another necessary lie?”

  “Not necessary, but compassionate, I think.”

  “Kohoutek? That farm in Mason Falls?”

  “He’s being taken now.”

  “His clients?”

  “Each case will be studied individually and determinations made, again compassionately.”

  Havelock leafed through the pages of his notebook, then put it down on the coffee table and reached for his empty glass. He glanced at Jenna; she shook her head. He got up and walked around the couch to pour himself a drink. “Let me try to put this together,” he began quietly. “Ambiguity’s somewhere on the fifth floor of the State Department and he’s probably been there for years, feeding Moscow everything he gets his hands on.” Michael paused and walked aimlessly to the thick-paned window; outside, the floodlights illuminated the landscaped grounds. “Matthias meets this Parsifal and together they create these incredible—no, not in-credible-unthinkable agreements.” Havelock stopped, turning suddenly from the window and looking hard at Bradford. “How could it have happened? For Christ’s sake, where were all of you? You saw him every day, talked to him, watched him! Couldn’t you see what was happening to him?”

  “We never knew what role he was playing,” said the undersecretary of State, returning the stare, slow anger finally surfacing. “Charisma has many facets, like a diamond seen in different lights, different turns. Was he Dean Matthias sitting in academic judgment, or Dr. Matthias at a lectern, holding forth for an enraptured convocation? Or was he the European Mr. Chips, over sherry, with Handel in the background, enlightening his favorite idolaters of the moment? He did that very well. Then there was the bon vivant, the darling of Georgetown, Chevy Chase and the Eastern Shore. My God, what a coup for a hostess! And how magnificently he performed … what charm! What wit! The sheer force of his personality, a paunchy little man who suddenly emanated power! If he’d been capable, he could have had any woman he wanted. Then, of course, there was the office tyrant. Demanding, petulant, self-seeking, jealous—so conscious of his image he scoured the papers for the most minor mention, swelling up with the headlines, furious at the slightest criticism. And speaking of criticism, what did he do last year when a lowly senator questioned his motives at the Geneva conference? He went on television, voice choking, close to tears, and said he would remove himself from public life. Jesus, what an uproar! That senator’s a pariah today!” Bradford paused, shaking his head, embarrassed at his outburst. He continued, lowering his voice. “Then there was Anthony Matthias, the most brilliant Secretary of State in this nation’s history.… No, Mr. Havelock, we saw him but we didn’t see him. We didn’t know him because he was too many people.”

  “You’re nit-picking a man’s vanity,” said Michael, walking toward the couch. “They’re called shortcomings; you may not have any, the rest of us do. He was many people; he had to be. Your problem is that you hated him.”

  “No, you’re wrong.” Again Bradford shook his head. “You don’t hate a man like Matthias,” he continued, glancing at Jenna. “You may be awestruck, or frightened, or mesmerized—but you don’t hate.”

  “Let’s get back to Parsifal,” said Havelock, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Where do you think he came from?”

  “He came from nowhere and he disappeared into nowhere.”

  “The second he may have done, the first he couldn’t have. He came from somewhere. He met with Matthias time after time, certainly for weeks, possibly months.”

  “We’ve checked Matthias’s calendars over and over again. Also his logs, his telephone records, his classified appointments, his every travel itinerary—where he went, whom he met, from diplomats to doormen. There were no consistent repeats. Nothing.”

  “I’ll want them all. Can you arrange it?”

  “It’s arranged.”

  “Anything on a time span?”

  “Yes, spectroanalysis of the copy-page type indicates recent impressions. Within six months.”

  “Very good.”

  “We could have assumed it.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Michael as he sat down and reached for his notebook.

  “What’s that?” asked the undersecretary.

  “Never assume.” Havelock wrote on the pad, and added, “Which is exactly what I’m going to do right now. Parsifal’s a Russian. Most likely an untouched, unlisted defector.”

  “We’ve … assumed that. Someone with extraordinary knowledge of the Soviet Union’s strategic-arms capabilities.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Jenna Karas.

  “The agreements. They contain offensive and defensive nuclear-strike data that match our deepest and most accurate penetrations of their systems.”

  Michael wrote another note for himself. “Just as important,” he said, looking at Jenna, “Parsifal knew where to find Ambiguity. The connection is made, the mole reaches Moscow and the evidence against you is provided—for my benefit. Then Ambiguity moves into Costa Brava, rewriting the scenario on the beach.” Michael turned back to the undersecretary of State. “It’s here you think the break came, isn’t it?”

  “I do, and I agree with you. I think it was Ambiguity on that beach, not Parsifal. I believe further that Ambiguity returned to Washington and found he’d lost Parsifal. He’d been used, then discarded, a situation that must have panicked him.”

  “Because in order to get the KGB to cooperate he obviously had to promise something extraordinary?” asked Havelock.

  “Yes, but then, there’s Rostov’s cable and it’s a snag. He as much as told us that if there was a connection, it wasn’t sanctioned, or even controllable.”

  “He was right. I explained it to Berquist, and it fits … from the beginning. It’s the answer to Athens. Rostov was referring to a branch of the KGB, a descendant of the old OGPU slaughterhouse maniacs, a pack o
f wolves.”

  “Voennaya Kontra Razvedka,” said Jenna, adding quietly, “VKR.”

  “Ambiguity isn’t just a major or a colonel in the KGB, he’s a member of the wolf pack. Those are the men he’s dealing with, and that, Mr. Bradford, is about the worst news you could hear. The KGB with all its paranoia is a stable intelligence—gathering organization compared with the fanatics of the Voennaya.”

  “Fanatics and anything nuclear are a combination this world can’t afford.”

  “If the Voennaya readies Parsifal first, that’s precisely the combination the world is stuck with.” Michael drank, swallowing more than he intended to, fear enveloping him. He picked up the notebook. “So we have a mole called Ambiguity who cooperated with a fellow Russian we’ve labeled Parsifal, Matthias’s partner in creating these insane agreements that could blow up the globe. Matthias virtually collapses, is taken into custody—and therapy—at Poole’s Island, and Parsifal goes on alone. But now really alone because he’s dropped the mole.”

  “You agree with me, then,” said Bradford.

  Havelock looked up from the pad. “If you were wrong, we’d know it. Or maybe we wouldn’t; maybe we’d be a pile of ashes.… Or from a less melodramatic, though hardly less tragic, point of view in my judgment, the Soviet Union would be running this country with the blessings of the rest of the world. “The giant ran amok; for God’s sake, chain him. Moscow might even get a vote of confidence from our own citizens. ‘Better dead than Red’ is not a euphemism I care to test. When push comes to shove, people opt for living.”

  “But you and I know what that living is, Mikhail,” broke in Jenna. “Would you opt for it?”

  “Of course,” said the undersecretary of State, mildly surprising the other two. “You can’t change anything by dying—unless you’re a martyr—or by taking yourself out. Especially when you’ve seen the worst.”

  Havelock looked again at Bradford, now studying him. “I think the jury just came back in for you, Mr. Undersecretary. That’s why you stayed in this city, isn’t it? You saw the worst.”