The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  And he had chosen to meet on a runway.

  The driver swung left into an intersecting road that ran the distance of a huge maintenance hangar, then turned right onto the border of a deserted airstrip. In the distance, silhouetted in the glare of the headlights, was the figure of a man standing alone. Behind him, perhaps five hundred feet beyond and off the strip, was a small propjet with interior and exterior lights on and a fuel truck alongside it.

  “There’s the man,” said the sergeant, slowing down. “I’ll drop you off and wait back by the junk shop.”

  “The what?”

  “The maintenance hangar. Just shout when you want me.”

  The jeep came to a stop thirty feet from Arthur Pierce. Havelock got out and saw the undersecretary of State starting toward him—a tall, slender man in a dark overcoat and hat, his stride long and energetic. Protocol was obviously unimportant to Pierce; there were too many with his title in the State Department who, regardless of the crisis, would expect a mere foreign service officer to approach them. Michael began walking, noticing that Pierce was removing the glove from his right hand.

  “Mr. Havelock?” said the diplomat, hand extended, as the jeep sped away.

  “Mr. Undersecretary?”

  “But of course it’s you,” continued Pierce, his grip firm and genuine. “I’ve seen your photograph. Frankly, I’ve read everything I could get my hands on about you. Now, I suppose I should get this over with.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I guess I’m a little awestruck, which is a pretty silly thing for a grown man to say. But your accomplishments in a world I don’t claim to understand are very impressive.” The undersecretary paused, looking embarrassed. “I imagine the exotic nature of your work evokes this kind of reaction quite a lot.”

  “I wish it would; you make me feel terrific. Especially considering the mistakes I’ve made—especially during the last few months.”

  “The mistakes weren’t yours.”

  “I should also tell you,” Michael went on, overlooking the comment, “I’ve read a great deal about you, too. There aren’t many people in your league at State. Anthony Matthias knew what he was doing—when he knew what he was doing—when he pulled you out of the pack and put you where you are.”

  “That’s one thing we have in common, isn’t it? Anthony Matthias. You far more than me in depth, and I’d never pretend otherwise. But the privilege, the goddamn privilege— there’s no other way I can put it—of having known him the way I knew him makes the years, the tensions, the sweat worthwhile. It was a time of my life when everything jelled for me; he made it come together.”

  “I think we both feel the same way.”

  “When I read the material on you, you have no idea how I envied you. I was close to him, but I could never be what you were to him. What an extraordinary experience those years must have been.”

  “It was—they were. But nothing’s there for either of us any longer.”

  “I know. It’s unbelievable.”

  “Believe. I saw him.”

  “I wonder if they’ll let me see him. I’m on my way to Poole’s Island, you know.”

  “Do yourself a favor. Don’t. It sounds trite, but remember him—especially him—the way he was, not the way he is.”

  “Which brings us to now.” Pierce shook his head while staring at Havelock in the chiaroscuro of the runway. “It’s not good. I don’t think I really described to the President how close we are to the edge.”

  “He understood. He told me what they said to you when you warned them. ‘Look to yourselves,’ wasn’t that it?”

  “Yes. When they get that simple, that direct, I shake. They’ll strike out at shadows; one violent shove and we’re over. I’m a fair debater and not bad at negotiations, but you know the Soviets better than I do. How do you read it?”

  “The same as you. Understatement isn’t their way, bombast is. When they don’t bother to threaten, they’re threatening. Moves will take the place of words.”

  “That’s what frightens me. The only thing I cling to is that I really don’t believe they’ve brought in the men who push the buttons. Not yet. They know they have to be absolutely accurate. If they have concrete proof, not just hints, that Matthias entered into nuclear aggression pacts against the U.S.S.R. and if they even smell China, they won’t hesitate to push the decision up where it won’t be theirs any longer. That’s when we can all start digging into the ground.”

  “Nudear aggression …?” Havelock paused, alarmed more than he would have thought possible. “You think they’ve assumed that much?”

  “They’re close to it. It’s what’s working them up into a frenzy. Pacts negotiated by a maniac—with other maniacs.”

  “And now the frenzy’s gone. They keep quiet and show you the door. You warn them and they tell you we should look to ourselves. I’m frightened too, Mr. Undersecretary.”

  “You know what I’m thinking, then?”

  “Parsifal.”

  “Yes.”

  “Berquist said you thought the Soviets had learned something during the past eighteen hours. Is this it?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Pierce. “I’m not even sure I’m working the right side of the street, but something’s happened. It’s why I wanted to see you. You’re the only one who knows what’s going on hour by hour. If I could pick something out, piece it together with something they said or reacted to, I might find a connection. What I’m looking for is a person or an event, anything that I can use to interdict them, to bring up before they do, and deflect them. Anything to keep them from alarming the warlords in the Presidium.”

  “They’re not fools, they know those men. They’d know what they were delivering.”

  “I don’t think that would stop them.” Pierce hesitated, as if debating with himself whether or not to cite an example, then decided to speak. “You know General Halyard?”

  “I’ve never met him. Or Ambassador Brooks. I was supposed to meet them both this afternoon. What about him?”

  “I consider him one of the most thoughtful, skeptical military men in this country.”

  “Agreed. Not only from his reputation; I was given his dossier. And?”

  “I asked him this afternoon what he thought the reaction would be—his included—if our clandestine services unearthed a Sino-Soviet pact against us, one that projected attack dates within forty-five days, and contained the kind of information found in those documents on Poole’s Island. His reply was one word: ‘Launch.’ If he can say that, what about lesser, far more insecure men?”

  Arthur Pierce did not dramatize the question but asked it calmly, and the chill Michael felt was now only partially due to the damp, cold air. Forces were closing in; time was running out. “The President said to help you,” he began. “I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try. You say you’re looking for something to deflect them; I may have it. There’s a longstanding KGB operation that goes back to the days of the NKVD—to the thirties. It’s called Operatsiya Paminyatchik-”

  “Sorry,” interrupted the man from State. “My Russian’s not very good without an interpreter.”

  “It doesn’t matter; an interpreter wouldn’t know it. It’s a code name. It stands for a strategy that calls for young children, even infants, selected by doctors and brought over here. They’re placed with specific families—deep-cover Marxists—and grow up as Americans, in every superficial way normal, the more successful the better. But all through the years they’re being trained—programmed, if you like—for their adult assignments, which are dependent on their given skills and development. It comes down to infiltration—again, the higher the better.”

  “Good Lord,” said Pierce quietly. “I’d think there’d be enormous risks in such a strategy. Such people have to be instilled with extraordinary belief.”

  “Oh, they believe, it’s the essential part of their programming. They’re also monitored; the slightest deviation, and they’re either eliminated or brought back
to Mother Russia, where they’re reeducated while training others at the American compounds in the Urals and in Novgorod. The main point is that we’ve never really been able to crack the operation; the few we’ve taken are the least competent and so low on the ladder they haven’t been able to shed any light. But we may have cracked it now. We’ve got ourselves an honest-to-God paminyatchik who’s sanctioned for killing, as part of an execution unit. His kind has access—must have access—to clearance centers and source controls. There’s too much risk in killing, too many possibilities for overreaction, to say nothing of being caught. Orders have to be rechecked, authorization confirmed.”

  “You’ve got such a man? My God, where?”

  “He’s being flown now to Bethesda—he’s wounded—and, later tonight, will be transferred to a clinic in Virginia.”

  “Don’t lose him! Is there a doctor with him? A good one?”

  “I think so. He’s a clinic specialist named Taylor; he’ll stay with him.”

  “Then by morning you think you’ll be able to give me something I can use with the Soviets? This could be the deflection I need. I counter their attacks with an attack of my own. I accuse-”

  “I can give it to you now,” interrupted Havelock, “but you can’t use it until I tell you. Tomorrow night at the earliest. Can you stall that long?”

  “I think so. What is it?”

  “We put him under chemicals an hour ago. I don’t know how the right people are reached, but I know the cover identity of their clearing center. Also the code name for the paminyatchik source control for this area—which I have to assume includes the Washington operation, the most vital in the U.S.”

  Arthur Pierce shook his head in astonishment and admiration. “You floor me,” he said, with respect in his quiet voice. “I told you I was a little awestruck. Well, I take it back, I’m a lot awestruck. What can I use?”

  “Whatever you have to. After tomorrow I’ll trade off the whole Operatsiya Paminyatchik for another few days.”

  “The President told me a few minutes ago—he called after reaching you. You think you’re that close to Parsifal?”

  “We’ll be closer still when we get Taylor’s patient down to the clinic. With a few words he can put us within arm’s reach of the man we call Ambiguity. And unless everything that we’ve projected—that Bradford projected—is wrong—and I don’t think it is, it can’t be—once we have Ambiguity we’ll know who Parsifal is. I’ll know.”

  “Christ, how?”

  “Matthias as much as told me I know him. Are you familiar with a company, a chain of stores, called the Voyagers Emporium?”

  “Most of my luggage is, I regret to say. At least, my bank account regrets it.”

  “Somewhere inside, in a department or a section, that’s the KGB clearing center. Ambiguity has to stay in touch; it’s where he gets his orders, transmits information. We’ll break it quietly—very quietly—tear it apart and find him. We don’t need much; we know where he’s located.”

  “Right where you see him every day,” said Pierce, nodding. “What about the code name for the source control?”

  “Hammer-zero-two. It doesn’t mean anything to us, and it can be changed by the network overnight, but the fact that we broke it, broke the paminyatchik circle so decisively, has got to make someone sweat inside the Kremlin.” Michael paused, then added, “When I give you the go-ahead, use what you need, all of it or any part. It’s basically a diversion, what you call deflection, but I think it’s a strong one. Create a diplomatic rhubarb, cause a storm of cables between Moscow and New York. Just buy us time.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure we don’t have a choice. We need time.”

  “You could lose the source control.”

  “Then we’ll lose him. We can live with a source control—we’ve all got them in more than sixty countries. We can’t live with Parsifal. Any of us.”

  “I’ll wait for your call.” The undersecretary of State glanced at his watch, squinting in the dim light to read the radium dial. “I still have a few minutes before we leave. The vault specialist had to be flown in from Los Alamos; he’s meeting with one of the men from his company who brought him the internal diagrams.… There’re so many things I want to ask, so much I need to know.”

  “I’m here as long as you are; when you leave, I leave. I heard it from the President.”

  “I like him. I haven’t always liked presidents.”

  “Because you know he doesn’t give a damn whether you do or not—not while he’s in the Oval Office. That’s the way I read him. I like him too, and I have every reason in the book not to.”

  “Costa Brava? They told me everything.”

  “It’s history. Let’s get current What else can I tell you that may help?”

  “The obvious,” said Fierce, bis voice descending to a hollow sound. “If Parsifal has reached the Soviets, what can I say—if I’m given the chance to say it? If he’s hinted at the China factor, or at the vulnerabilities in their own counter—strike capabilities, how can I explain it? Where did he get it all? Exposing Matthias is only part of the answer. Frankly, it’s not enough, and I think you know that.”

  “I know it.” Havelock tried to collect bis thoughts, to be as dear and concise as possible. “What’s in those so—called agreements is a mix of a thousand moves in a triple—sided chess game, the anchor player being us. Our penetration of the Russian and Chinese systems is far deeper than we’ve ever hinted at, and there are strategy committees set up to study and evaluate every conceivable option in the event some goddamn fool—on any side—gives the order to launch.”

  “Such committees, I’m sure, exist in Moscow and Peking.”

  “But neither Moscow nor Peking could produce an Anthony Matthias, the man with geopolitical panaceas, respected, even worshiped—no one on either side of the world like him.”

  Pierce nodded. “The Soviets treat him as a valued go-between, not as an adversary. The Chinese throw banquets for him and call him a visionary.”

  “And when he began to fall apart, he still had the imagination to conceive of the ultimate nuclear chess game.”

  “But how?”

  “He found a zealot. A naval officer on one of the Pentagon committees who’s up to his eyeballs in overkill theories. He gave Matthias everything. He made copies of all the strategies and counterstrategies the three committees exchanged with one another. They contained authentic data—they had to contain it; those war games are very real on paper. Everything can be checked by computers—the extent of megaton damage inflicted, damage sustained, the limits of punishment before the ground is useless. It was all there, and Matthias put it together. Matthias and the man who’s got us by the throat. Parsifal.”

  “I’d say that naval officer is scheduled to begin a long period of confinement.”

  “I’m not sure what that would accomplish. At any rate, I’m not finished with him; he’s still got more to give—may have given it by now.”

  “Just a minute,” said the undersecretary of State, his face suddenly alive. “Could he be Parsifal?”

  “No, not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because in his own misguided way he believed in what he was doing. He has a permanent love affair with his uniform and his country; he’d neither allow the possibility of compromise nor give the Russians an ounce of ammunition. Decker’s not an original, but he’s genuine. I doubt the Lubyanka could break him.”

  “Decker … You’ve got him put away, don’t you?”

  “He’s not going anywhere. He’s at home with an escort unit outside.”

  Pierce shook his head while reaching into his pocket. “It’s all so insane!” he said as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and matches. “Care for one?” he asked, preferring the pack.

  “No, thanks. I’ve had my quota of five hundred for the day.”

  The man from State stuck a match, holding the flame under the cigarette. Without the protect
ion of a second hand, it was extinguished by the wind. He struck another, left palm up, and inhaled, the smoke from his mouth mingling with the vapor of his breath. “At the meeting this afternoon, Ambassador Brooks brought up something I didn’t understand. Ha said an intelligence officer from the KGB had made contact with you and speculated on the identity of the faction in Moscow who’d worked with Matthias at Costa Brava.”

  “He meant with Parsifal; Matthias was being led by then. And Rostov—his name’s Rostov—didn’t speculate. He knew. They’re a collection of fanatics in a branch called the VKR, the Voennaya. They make even our Deckers look like flower children. He’s trying to break it open and I wish him luck. It’s crazy, but a dedicated enemy may be one of our hopes.”

  “What do you mean, ‘break it open’?”

  “Get names, find out who did what and let the saner people deal with them. Rostov’s good; he may do it, and if he does, he’ll somehow get word to me.”

  “He will?”

  “He’s already offered me a white contact. It happened at Kennedy Airport what I flew in from Paris.”

  There was the sound of a gunning engine in the distance. Pierce threw down his cigarette and crushed it under his foot as he spoke. “What more do you think this Decker can give you?”