“ ‘We made him a god,’ ” said Michael, recalling Berquist’s words, “ ‘when we didn’t own the heavens.’ ”
“Well put.” The journalist nodded his head. “I wish I’d written it. But then, to borrow from Wilde, I probably will, if I ever get the chance.”
“This man, this Russian,” said Jenna, “told you that after-noon what was happening to Matthias?”
“Yes. He’d seen him, been with him, knew the signs. Sudden tirades, followed by weeping, constant self-justification, false humility that only served to point up his accomplishments … growing suspicions about everyone around him; yet in public there was always the façade of normalcy. Then there were the lapses of memory—in the main, concerning failures and, when prodded, the necessity to blame others for those failures.…. I came to see it all, write it all. I’d drive to the Shenandoah every week or so—”
“On Sundays?” broke in Havelock.
“Sundays, yes.”
“Decker?”
“Oh, yes, Commander Decker. By then, you see, the man you call Parsifal had convinced a deteriorating Anton that all his policies, all his visions would find their ultimate justification in total strength. The Master Plan, they called it … and they found the man who could provide them with what they needed.”
“For the ultimate chess game,” said Michael.
“Yes. Decker would use the back road and meet with Matthias in the cabin he used when he wanted to be alone.”
“The Woodshed,” said Havelock. “A voice-activated tape system.”
“It never failed,” agreed Alexander, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Never. Even afterwards, when Matthias and … Parsifal played their dreadful game, it was all the more terrifying because Matthias was one of the players. It was frightening in another aspect, too, for Anton would become the warlord statesman, the brilliant negotiator, not seeing the man you call Parsifal but seeing others, addressing others. Russian generals and scientists who weren’t there, Chinese army commanders and commissars halfway across the globe. During those moments he saw them, they were there. It was a running pattern of self-induced séances, therapy of the most destructive kind. And each time he came out of it he was a little bit worse, his eyes guarded by those tortoiseshell glasses a little less focused. He was a man who’d been on some sort of drus trip, his mind a touch less clear for it. It was progressive, but he could still function in both worlds.… I saw it all, wrote it all.”
“When did I come up?” asked Havelock. “Why me?”
“You were there all the time, photographs of you were on his desk, his bureau … in the Woodshed. An album of the two of you on a camping trip through the Canadian far west.”
“I’d forgotten,” said Michael. “It was so long ago. I was in graduate school, Anton was my adviser.”
“Far more than that You were the son he never had, speaking to him in his native language, recalling another place, another time.” Alexander raised his head from the cradle of his chest, riveting his eyes on Havelock. “Above all, you were the son who refused to believe that his visions, his solutions for the world, were the right ones. He couldn’t convince you. Your voice kept telling him he was wrong, and he couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t stand being told he was wrong, especially by you.”
“He was. He knew I’d tell him.”
“His eyes would stray to your pictures, and suddenly he would see you and be talking with you, tormented by your arguments, your anger. He was afraid of you, really … and the work would stop.”
“So I had to be put out of reach.”
“Where you could no longer judge him, I think. You were part of his everyday reality, the Department of State. You had to be separated from that reality. It began to consume him; he couldn’t tolerate your interference. You had to go; he wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“And Parsifal knew how to do it,” said Michael bitterly. “He knew the mole at State. He reached him and told him what to do.”
“I had no part of that. I knew it was being done, but I didn’t know how.… You had spoken to Anton about Miss Karas. About your devotion to her and how after the long years of your own inner turmoil—going back to your childhood—you were ready to come out. With her. Getting out was very important to you. Your decision had been made.”
“You thought I’d come out without her? Why?”
“Because Parsifal was experienced in such matters,” said Jenna. She selected one of the photographs and handed it to Michael. “A clinical psychologist attached to the KGB. A man named Alexei Kalyazin—the face that struck a chord with you.”
“I don’t know him!” shouted Havelock, getting out of the chair and turning to Raymond Alexander. “Who is he?”
“Don’t ask me to say the name,” whispered the journalist, shaking his head and pulling back into the chair. “Don’t ask me. I can’t be involved.”
“Goddamn you, you are involved!” yelled Michael, throwing the photograph on Alexander’s lap. “You’re the Boswell! … Wait a minute!” Michael looked at Jenna and said, “He was a defector. Forget the fact that he was a plant, he was a defector. He had to be listed!”
“All references to the defection of Alexei Kalyazin were expurgated,” said Alexander quietly. “All files were removed; a man with another name simply disappeared.”
“Naturally. So the great man couldn’t possibly be tarnished!” Havelock approached Alexander’s chair; he reached down and, gripping the lapels of the journalist’s jacket, yanked him up. “Who is he? Tell me!”
“Look at the photograph.” Alexander’s body was trembling. “Look at it. Remove much of the hair, the eyebrows as well. Give him many lines around his face, his eyes … a small white beard, speckled with gray.”
Michael grabbed the photograph and stared at it “Zelienski—Leon Zelienski!”
“I thought you’d see, I thought you’d understand. Without me. The ultimate chess game … the finest chess player Anton knew.”
“He isn’t Russian, he’s a Pole! A retired professor of history from Berkeley … brought over here years ago from the University of Warsaw!”
“A new identity, a new life, papers in place and locations obscured. Living on a backoountry road less than two miles from Matthias. Anton always knew where he was.”
Havelock brought his hands to his temples, trying to contain the racking pain in his head. “You … you and Zelienski. Two demented old mern! Do you know what you’ve done?”
“It’ s out of control Everything’s out of control.”
“You never had it in control! The instant Zelienski reached the mole, you lost! We all lost! Couldn’t you see what was happening? Did you think it would end with a goddamn message? Couldn’t you stop him? You knew Matthias was at Poole’s Island … how did you know?”
“A source. One of the doctors—he’s frightened.”
“Then you knew he’d been diagnosed insane! How could you let it go on?”
“You just said it. I couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t listen to me—he won’t listen to me. I can’t stop him! He’s as crazed as Anton now. He has a Christ complex—his is the only light, the only way.”
“And you traded your holy name in print so he could have it! What the hell are you made of?”
“Leave me something, Michael. He had me caged. Zelien-ski told me that if I went to anyone, if anyone came for him, a telephone call that he made daily from various phone booths would not be made, and those so-called nuclear agreements—signed by Anthony Matthias—would be on their way to Moscow and Peking.”
Havelock watched the uneasy green eyes of the old journalist, and looked at the bloated hands gripping the arms of the chair. “No, Raymond, that’s only part of it. You couldn’t stand being exposed, being wrong. You’re like Anton—frightened by the truth of your own mistakes. The blind but omniscient Tiresias, seeing things others can’t see, the myth to be sustained whatever the cost.”
“Look at me!” shouted Alexander suddenly, his
whole body shaking. “I’ve lived with this-through this—for nearly a year! What would you have done?”
“God help me, I don’t know. I can only hope better than you … but I don’t know. Pour yourself a lot of brandy, Raymond. Maintain the myth; keep saying to yourself over and over again that you’re infallible. It may help. It also may not make any difference anymore. Go out with a grin on that pompous face of yours. Just go.” Michael turned to Jenna. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We’ve got a long drive.”
“South to North, come in.”
“North in touch. What is it?”
“Get to a phone and call Victor. There’s movement. Our people came out fast and spoke with the escort; they were on the grounds. Both cars raced out of here a few moments ago, heading west, pedals to the floor.”
“Don’t lose them.”
“No chance. The escort left the Lincoln up on the road and we placed a directional homer under the trunk. An earthquake couldn’t move it. We’ve got them tracked up to twenty miles and down to a hundred yards. We’ve got them.”
39
The night sky was oddly divided—clear moonlight behind, a ceiling of darkness ahead. The two automobiles raced over the country roads, the men in the Lincoln committed to protection without understanding, and Michael and Jenna understanding too well and afraid.
“There are no rules now,” said Michael. “The book hasn’t been written.”
“He’s capable of change, that’s all you really know. He was sent here for one purpose and walked over to the other side.”
“Or did he stumble? Alexander and Zelienski—Kalyazin—told them he felt old and worn—out, the pressures too great. Maybe he just gave up and walked into sanctuary.”
“Until he found another commitment and accepted an entirely different set of pressures,” said Jenna. “Exhilarating pressures for a man of his age, I imagine. He’s over seventy, isn’t he?”
“Around there, I’d guess.”
“Think of it. The end may not come for a long time but, still, it’s in sight. And as you approach it you suddenly find you’ve discovered an extraordinary solution you believe the world needs desperately, a lesson it has to be taught. What do you do?”
Havelock glanced at her. “That’s what frightens me. Why should you move off center? How can I make him move?”
“I wish I could answer that.” Jenna looked up at the windshield—at the myriad globules of water forming over the glass. “We’re heading into the rain,” she said.
“Unless there’s another solution,” said Michael quietly, switching on the wipers. “Exchange one lesson for another.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure, I don’t know. There aren’t any rules.” Havelock reached for the microphone and pulled it to his lips. “Escort, are you with me?”
“About four hundred feet behind, Sterile Five.”
“Slow down and make it at least a mile and a half. We’re getting into the area, and to a lot of people you’re an obvious government vehicle. I don’t want any connection between us or any startled eyes. If the man I’m making contact with gets even a hint of you, I don’t want to think about the consequences.”
“We don’t like the distance,” said the escort.
“Sorry to offend, but it’s an order. Stay out of sight. You know the destination; just take the mountain road as I described it. Seneca something or other. Go up about half a mile. We’ll be there.”
“Would you mind repeating the order, sir?”
Michael did so. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sterile Five. It’s also on tape.”
The dirt-layered car met the blanket of rain, dust and mud dissolving under the downpour. The driver swung into a long curve as the red signal tight on the powerful radio amplifier suddenly glowed.
“We’re on a different frequency,” said the man in the passenger seat as he reached for the microphone. He pressed the scanner for contact. “Yes?” he said.
“South?”
“We’re here.”
“It’s Victor. I’m approaching Warrenton on Sixty-six. Where are you?”
The man with the microphone studied the map on his lap with a pencil light. “North on Seventeen, heading into Marshall. You can pick it up in Warrenton.”
“Status?”
“Normal. We figure once they reach Marshall, they’ll either continue north on Seventeen or head west on the Front Royal Road. The turns are getting hairy; we’re going into the mountains.”
“We’ve got men covering both routes up there. I want to know which road they take and the distance between Sterile Five and his escort. Use this channel. I should catch up with you in ten to fifteen minutes.”
“What flight plan?”
“My own.”
The blond man sitting in the brown sedan in front of the Blue Ridge Diner slumped back in the seat, the microphone in his hand, his eyes on the road. He depressed the button. “It’s the Front Royal Road,” he said as the Buick coupe rushed by in the rain. “Right on time and in a hurry.”
“How far behind is the Lincoln?” asked the voice from the speaker.
“No sign of it yet.”
“You’re surer?”
“No headlights, and anyone damn fool enough to drive up here in this mess isn’t going to roll in the dark.”
“It’s not normal. I’ll be right back.”
“It’s your equipment.”
The blond man lowered the microphone and reached for the cigarettes on the seat beside him. He jerked one out of the pack, put it to his lips, and snapped his butane lighter. Thirty seconds went by and still the Lincoln Continental had not come into view; nothing was in view but sheets of rain. Forty-five seconds. Nothing. A minute, and the voice, accompanied by static, burst out of the speaker. “Front Royal, where are you?”
“Here and waiting. You said you’d be right back, remember?”
“The escort. Has it gone by?”
“Nope. If it had, I would have rung you up, pal.… Wait. Stay there. We may have it.” A stream of light came out of the curve, and seconds later the long, dark car roared by in the downpour. “He just went by, old buddy. I’ll roll now.” The blond man sat up and eased the sedan out into the road.
“I’ll be right back,” said the voice.
“You keep repeating yourself, pal,” said the blond man, stopping on the accelerator. Gathering speed while watching the rain-soaked road closely, he saw the red taillights of the Lincoln flickering in the distance through the downpour. He breathed easier.
“Front Royal,” erupted the voice from the speaker.
“Right here, li’l darlin’.”
“Scan to seventeen-twenty megahertz for separate instructions.”
“Scanning now.” The blond man reached down and pressed the metal button; the digital readouts appeared on the narrow horizontal strip above the radio’s dials. “Front Royal in position,” he said.
“This is the man you don’t know, Front Royal.”
“Nice not to know you, old buddy.”
“How much are you being paid for tonight?” asked the new voice.
“Since you’re the man I don’t know, I figure you ought to know how much.”
“How good are you?”
“Very. How good’s your money?”
“You’ve been paid.”
“Not for what you want now.”
“You’re perceptive.”
“You’re kind of obvious.”
“That big fellow up ahead. He knows where the little fellow’s going, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Sure would. There’s a lot of space between them, ’specially for a night like this.”
“Do you think you could get between them?”
“Can do. Then what?”
“A bonus.”
“For what?”
“The little fellow’s going to stop somewhere. After he does, I don’t want the big fellow around him any longer.”
“You�
��re talking about a pretty big bonus, Mr. No-Name. That car’s an Abraham.”
“Six figures,” said the voice. “A reckless driver. Very feckless and very accurate.”
“You’re on, li’l darlin’.”
* * *
Arthur Pierce nodded through the window and the rain as he passed the old car four miles down the Front Royal Road. He lifted the microphone and spoke on the 1720 frequency.
“All right, South, here’s the manual. You stay with me, everyone else is dismissed. Thank them all for their time and say we’ll be in touch.”
“What about North? They travel.”
“I want them back with the naval contingent. It’s theirs now; they can alternate. Sooner or later—tonight, tomorrow, the next day—they’ll let him out. When they do, terminate. We don’t want to hear his voice.”
Havelock stopped the car and lowered the window; he peered through the rain at the sign nailed to the tree, feeling certain it was the one. It was:
SENECA’S NOTCH
DEAD END
He had driven Leon Zelienski home twice, once in the afternoon when the old man’s car would not start, and then several years later on a night like tonight when Matthias was worried that Leon might get stuck in the mud. Zelienski had not gotten stuck, but Michael had; it had been a long, wet walk back to Anton’s house. He remembered the roads.
He had taken Leon Zelienski home; he was coming after Alexei Kalyazin. Parsifal.
“Here we go,” said Havelock, turning up into the rock-hewn road with only remnants of long-eroded tarring on its surface. “If we stay in the center we should make it.”
“Stay in the center,” said Jenna.
They lurched and skidded up the narrow road, drenched darkness all around them, tires spinning, hurling loose rock behind and up into the metal fenders. The jarring ride did nothing to steady their nerves or set the tone for awesome negotiations. Michael had been brutal with Raymond Alexander, knowing he was right, but only partly right. He began to understand the other aspect of the journalist’s profound fear, fear that was driving him to the edge of hysteria. Zelienski’s threat was clear and terrifying! should Alexander betray the Russian or interfere in any way, the daily telephone call that Zelienski placed from various booths would not be made. The silence would be the signal for the nuclear agreements to be sent to Moscow and Peking.
The Parsifal Mosaic Page 74