The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  “I’m not the issue.”

  “You were for us for a while. It’s nice to know the terrain’s firmer. Call me Havelock, or Michael, or whatever you like, but why not drop the ‘Mr.’?”

  “Thanks. I’m Emory—or whatever you like.”

  “I’m Jenna, and I’m starved.”

  “There’s a fully stocked kitchen with a cook in residence. He’s also one of the guards. When we’re finished, I’ll introduce you.”

  “Just a few more minutes.” Havelock tore off a page from his notebook. “You said you were checking the whereabouts of everyone on the fifth floor at the time of Costa Brava.”

  “Rechecking,” interrupted Bradford. “The first check was negative all the way. Everyone was accounted for.”

  “But we know someone wasn’t,” said Michael. “He was at Costa Brava. One of those checks of yours ran into a smoke screen, the man Inside leaving and returning while supposedly he had stayed in place.”

  “Oh?” It was the undersecretary’s turn to write a note, which he did on the back of one of his countless pages. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I was looking for an absence where the explanation might not hold up. You’re saying something quite different.”

  “Yes, I am. Our man’s better than that; there won’t be any explanation. Don’t look for someone missing; look for someone who wasn’t there, who wasn’t where he was supposed to be.”

  “Someone on assignment, then.”

  “It’s a place to start,” agreed Havelock, tearing off a second page. “The higher the profile, the better, Incidentally. Remember, we’re looking for a man who’s got maximum clearance, and the more prominent the man the better the smoke screens work. Don’t forget Kissinger’s diarrhea in Tokyo; he was really in Peking.”

  “I’m beginning to understand your accomplishments.”

  “Considering the mistakes I’ve made,” replied Michael, writing on the page he had just torn out of the notebook, “I wouldn’t qualify for a code ring on the back of a cereal box.” He got up, stepped around the coffee table to where Bradford was sitting, and held out the two pages. “This is the list. Do you want to look it over and see if there are any problems?”

  “Sure.” The undersecretary of State took the papers and settled back into the chair. “By the way, I’ll have that drink now, if you don’t mind. Bourbon on the rocks, please.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Havelock looked at Jenna; she nodded. He took her glass from the coffee table and walked around the couch as Bradford spoke. “There are a couple of surprises here,” he said, glancing up and frowning. “There’s no problem with the Matthias material—the appointments, logs, itineraries—but why do you need all this stuff on the doctor in Maryland? Background, financial statements, employees, laboratories. We were thorough, believe me.”

  “I do believe you. Call it a throwback. I know a doctor in the South of France, and he’s one hell of a surgeon. But he gets brain fever when he’s near the tables; he’s crashed a couple of times and had to get bailed out.”

  “There’s no parallel here. Randolph hasn’t had to work since his mother first saw him in the hospital. His family owns half the Eastern Shore, the richer half.”

  “But not the people who work for him,” said Michael, pouring drinks. “They may not even own a sailboat.”

  Bradford’s gaze again dropped to the page. “I see,” he said, more bewilderment in his voice than conviction. “I’m not sure I understand this. You want the names of people in the Pentagon who form the Nuclear Contingency Committees.”

  “I read somewhere that there are three,” added Havelock, carrying the drinks back. “They play war games, changing sides and cross-checking their strategies.” He handed Bradford his bourbon, then sat down next to Jenna; she took her drink, her eyes on Michael.

  “You think Matthias used them?” asked the undersecretary.

  “I don’t know. He had to use somebody.”

  “For what purpose? There’s nothing in our arsenals he didn’t know about, or have on file somewhere. He had to know; he negotiated.”

  “I just want to be thorough.”

  Bradford nodded with an embarrassed smile. “I’ve heard that before. Okay.” He went back to the page, reading aloud. “ ‘List of negative-possibles going back ten years. Follow-ups on each. Sources: CIA, Cons Op, Army intelligence.’ I don’t know what this means.”

  “They will. There’ll be dozens of them.”

  “What are ‘they’?”

  “Men and women who were priority targets for defection, but never came over.”

  “Well, if they didn’t come over—”

  “Moscow doesn’t announce those who got out themselves,” interrupted Havelock. “The computer follow-ups will clarify current statuses.”

  Bradford paused, then nodded again, reading silently.

  Jenna touched Michael’s arm; he looked at her. She spoke softly, her eyes questioning. “Proč ne paminyatchik?”

  “No Ted.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The undersecretary glanced up as he shifted the pages in his hands.

  “Nothing,” said Havelock. “She’s hungry.”

  “I’ll be finished in a minute, get back to Washington and leave you alone; the rest of this is routine. The D.C. psychiatrists’ reports on Matthias will have to be signed over by the President and additional security put on here, but it can be done. I’m seeing him when I get back tonight.”

  “Why don’t you just take me over to Bethesda?”

  “Those records aren’t there. They’re down at Poole’s Island locked away with the other psychiatric probings and very special. They’re in a steel container and can’t be removed without presidential clearance. I’ll have to get them. I’ll fly down tomorrow.”

  Bradford stopped reading and looked up, startled. “This last item … Are you sure? What can they tell you? They couldn’t tell us anything.”

  “Put it down as my own personal Freedom of Information Act.”

  “It could be very painful for you.”

  “What is it?” asked Jenna.

  “He wants the results of his own twelve days in therapy,” Bradford said.

  They ate by candlelight in the country-elegant dining room, the scene somehow shifting from the deadly sublime to the faintly ridiculous. Adding to the contrast was a large, reticent man who was a surprisingly accomplished cook, but the bulge of a weapon beneath his white jacket did little to emphasize his talents in the kitchen. There was, however, nothing humorous about his eyes; he was a military guard and as accomplished with a gun as he was at preparing beef Wellington. Yet whenever he left the room after serving or clearing, Jenna and Michael looked across the table at each other, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. But even these brief moments of laughter did not last; the unthinkable never left them.

  “You trust Bradford,” said Jenna, over coffee. “I know you do. I can tell when you trust a person.”

  “You’re right, I do. He has a conscience, and I think he’s paid for it. You can trust a man like that.”

  “Then why did you stop me from bringing up the paminyatchiki—the travelers?”

  “Because he couldn’t handle it and it can’t help him. You heard him; he’s the methodical man, one step at a time, each step exhaustingly analyzed. That’s his value. With the paminyatchiki he’s suddenly asked to question everything geometrically.”

  “I don’t understand. Geometrically?”

  “In a dozen different directions at once. Everyone’s immediately suspect; he wouldn’t be looking for one man, he’d be studying whole groups. I want him to concentrate on smoke screens, bore into every assignment on the fifth floor, whether eight blocks or eight hundred miles away from the State Department, until he finds someone who might not have been where he was supposed to be.”

  “You explained it very well.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You might have added the use of a puppet, however.”

  Have
lock looked at her through the glow of the candles, a half-smile coming to his lips. She leveled her eyes with his, smiling also. “Damn it, you know you’re absolutely right,” he said, laughing softly.

  “I wasn’t making a list, you were. You can’t be expected to think of everything.”

  “Thanks for the kindness. I’ll bring it up in the morning. Incidentally, why didn’t you? You weren’t shy in there.”

  “That was asking questions, not giving orders or advice. There’s a difference. I wouldn’t care to give orders or advice to Bradford until he accepts me. And if I were forced to, it would be in the form of questions, leading to a suggestion.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say. You’re accepted; Bradford heard it from Berquist. There’s no higher authority.”

  “I don’t mean in that sense. I mean him. He’s uncomfortable with women; impatient, perhaps. I don’t envy his wife or his women; he’s a deeply troubled man.”

  “He couldn’t have more to be troubled about.”

  “Long before this, Mikhail He reminds me of a brilliant, talented man whose brilliance and talent don’t mix very well. I think he feels impotent, and that touches his women … all women, really.”

  “Am I with Sigmund again?”

  “Limburský sýr!” Jenna laughed. “I watch people, you know I do. Do you remember the jeweler in Trieste, the bald-headed man whose shop was an M.I. Six drop? You said he was—What’s the peculiar word you have? Like houkačka?”

  “Horny. I said he was horny, that he walked around the women in his store with a spike in the middle of his trousers.”

  “And I said he was gay.”

  “And you were right, because you unbuttoned your blouse a few inches and the son of a bitch kept following me.”

  They both laughed, the laughter echoing off the veloured walls. Jenna reached over and touched his hand.

  “It’s good to laugh again, Mikhail.”

  “It’s good to laugh with you. I don’t know how often we’ll be able to.”

  “We must make time for it I think it’s terribly important.”

  “I love you, Jenna.”

  “Then why don’t we ask our gun-bearing Escoffier where we sleep? I don’t want to appear nevysponý, my darling, but I love you, too. I want to be close to you, not with a table between us.”

  “You figured I wasn’t gay.”

  “Latent, perhaps. I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Direct. I always said you were direct.”

  The gun-bearing Escoffier walked in. “More coffee?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” said Havelock.

  “Some brandy?”

  “I think not,” said Jenna.

  “How about television?”

  “How about the sleeping quarters?”

  “The reception’s lousy up there.”

  “We’ll manage,” said Michael.

  He sat on the antique deacon’s bench in front of the dying fire in the bedroom, stretching his neck and moving his shoulder in circles. He was sitting there under orders, Jenna’s favors to be withheld far seven years or some such nonsense if he disobeyed. She had gone downstairs to find bandages, antiseptic and no doubt whatever else she could lay her hands on in pursuit of her immediate medical aims.

  Ten minutes ago they had walked into the room together, hands clasped, bodies touching, both laughing softly. When she leaned into him, Michael had suddenly winced from the pain in his shoulder, and she had looked into his eyes. She had then unbuttoned his shirt and studied the dressing underneath on his shoulder in the light of a table lamp. An accommodating guard had started the fire over an hour before; it was nearly out, but the coals were glowing, the stone hearth throwing off heat.

  “Sit down here and stay warm,” Jenna had said, leading him to the bench. “We never did pick up a Red Cross kit. They must have something downstairs.”

  “You’d better call it ‘first-aid’ or they’ll think you’re taking up a collection.”

  “Just be still, my darling. That shoulder’s raw.”

  “I haven’t thought about it, I haven’t felt it,” said Havelock, watching her go to the door and let herself out.

  It was true; he had neither thought about the wound from Col des Moulinets nor, except for mild spasms, been aware of the pain. There had been no time. It hadn’t been important enough to think about. Too much had been too overwhelming too quickly. He looked over at the large bedroom window, a window with the same thick beveled glass as the one below in the study. He could see the wash of floodlights beyond—distorted by the glass—and wondered briefly how many men prowled the grounds protecting the sanctity of Sterile Five. Then his eyes wandered back to the burning coals that were the end of the fire. So much … so overwhelming … so quickly. The mind had to catch up before it was drowned in the onrushing revelations released by floodgates no longer holding back unthinkable—unbearable—truths. If he was going to keep his sanity, he had to find time to think.

  It’s good to laugh with you. I don’t know how often we’ll be able to.

  We must make the time for it. I think it’s terribly important.

  Jenna was right. Laughter was not inconsequential. Her laugh was not; he suddenly wanted desperately to hear it. Where was she? How long did it take to find a roll of tape and a couple of bandages? Every sterile house was fully equipped with all manner of medical supplies; they went with the territory. Where was, she?

  He got up from the antique bench, suddenly alarmed. Perhaps other men—men not assigned to Sterile Five—were prowling the grounds outside. He had a certain expertise in such matters. Infiltration was made easier by a profusion of woods and underbrush, and Sterile Five was a country house, surrounded by trees and foliage—natural cover for unnatural experts bent on penetration. He could intrude, invade, undoubtedly take out opposition silently, and if he could, others could. Where was she?

  Havlock walked rapidly to the window, realizing as he approached it that the thick glass which was impervious to bullets would also distort movement outside. It did; he turned swiftly and started for the door. Then he realized something else: he had no weapon!

  The door opened before he reached it. He stopped, his breath cut short, relief sweeping through him as Jenna stood there with one hand on the knob and the other holding a plastic tray filled with bandages, scissors, tape and alcohol.

  “Mikhail, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I … I felt like getting up.”

  “Darling, you’re perspiring,” said Jenna, closing the door and coming to him; she touched his forehead, then his right temple. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry. My imagination went a little off the track. I … I thought you were gone longer than … I expected. I’m sorry.”

  “I was gone longer than I expected.” Jenna took his arm and led him to the bench. “Let’s get the shirt off,” she said, placing the tray down and helping him.

  “Just that?” asked Havelock, sitting down and looking at her while removing his arms from his sleeves. “Just longer than you expected? That’s it?”

  “Well, outside of two brief affairs under the staircase and a mild flirtation with the cook, I’d say it was sufficient … Now, hold still while I take this off.” Jenna carefully, expertly sliced through the borders of the dressing on his shoulder and peeled it back, then removed the bandage. “Actually, it’s healing quite well, considering what you’ve put it through,” she said as the stripped the tape and reached for the alcohol and cotton. “More irritation than anything else. The salt water probably prevented infection.… This will sting a bit.”

  “It does,“said Michael, wincing, as Jenna swabbed the flesh around the wound, then stroked the residue of tape away. “Outside of that activity under the staircase, what the hell were you doing?” he asked while she placed squares of gauze over his skin.

  “Concentrating on the mild flirtation,” she replied, reeling out the surgical tape and strapping the clean dressing in place
. “There. You won’t feel any better, but you look better.”

  “And you’re avoiding me.”

  “Don’t you like surprises?”

  “Never did.”

  “Koláče!” she said, drawing out the word, while laughing and pouring alcohol over his exposed skin. “In the morning we’ll have koláče,” she added, massaging his back.

  “Sweet rolls? … You’re crazy. You’re positively out of your mind. We’ve spent twenty-four hours in a goddamned hell and you’re talking about hot cross buns!”

  “We must live, Mikhail,” said Jenna, her voice suddenly soft beside him, the movement of her hands slowing to a halt. “I did speak with our armed-to-the-teeth cook, and I’m sure I flirted. In the morning he’ll make sure we have apricots and dry yeast; nutmeg he has-and ground mace. He’ll order it all tonight. In the morning, koláče.”

  “I don’t believe you—”

  “Try and you’ll see.” She laughed again, and held his face in her hands. “In Prague you found a bakery that made koláče. You loved it and asked me to bake some for you.”

  “In Prague there was another set of problems, not what’s facing us now.”

  “But it is us, Mikhail. Us once more, and we must have our moments. I lost you once, and now you’re here, with me again. Let me have these moments, let us have them … even knowing what we know.”

  He reached for her, pulling her to him. “You have them. We have them.”

  “Thank you, my darling.”

  “I love to hear you laugh, have I told you that?”

  “A number of times. You said I laughed like a small child watching a marionette show. Do you remember saying that?”

  “I do, and I was right.” Michael tilted her head back. “It fits, a child and sudden laughter … a nervous child sometimes. Broussac saw it too. She told me what happened in Milan, how you stripped that poor bastard, colored him red, and stole his clothes.”

  “As well as an enormous sum of money!” interrupted Jenna. “He was a dreadful man.”

  “Régine said you laughed about it like a small child remembering a joke or a prank or something like that.”