THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC
BY
ROBERT LUDLUM
Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum
Ask your book seller for the books you have missed
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION
THE BOURNE IDENTITY
THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT
THE HOLCROFT COVENANT
THE MATARESE CIRCLE
THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND
THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC
THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO
THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE
BANTAM BOOKS
TORONTO- NEWYORK - LA)NDON -SYDNEY* AUCKLANI)
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with
the Author
PRINTING HISTORY
Random House edition fublished March 1982
A Selection of iterary Guild
Bantam Export edition / April 1982
Bantam edition / March 1983
12 printings through June 1985
All rights reserved.
Copyright 0 1982 by Robert Ludlum.
Cover art copyright (D 1983 by Mara McAlfee.
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mimeograph or any other Means, without permission.
For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.
ISBN Oj553-25270-4
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PRUfM IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERIC&
H21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13
For Dolores and Charles Ryducha, two of the finest people I have ever
knownfrom a grateful brother Na zdrowiel
THE
PARSIFAL
MOSAIC
BOOK
- ONE,
1
The cold rays of the moon streaked down from the night sky and bounced off
the rolling surf ' which burst into suspen ed sprays of white where isolated
waves crashed into the rocks of the shoreline. The stretch of beach between
the towering boulders of the Costa Brava was the execution ground. It had to
be. May God damn this goddamned world-it had to bel
He could see her now. And hear her through the sounds of the sea and the
breaking surf. She was running wildly, screaming hysterically: "Pro boha
iiv6hol ProN Co to d6WI Pfestafil ProN ProN
Her blond hair was caught in the moonlight, her racing silhouette given
substance by the beam of a powerful flashlight fifty yards behind her. She
fell; the gap closed and a staccato burst of gunfire abruptly, insolently
split the night air, bullets exploding the sand and the wild grass all
around her. She would be dead in a matter of seconds.
His love would be gone.
They were high on the hill overlooking the Moldau, the boats on the -river
plowing the waters north and south, their wakes furrows. The curling sinoke
from the factories below diffused in the bright afternoon sky, obscuring the
mountains in the distance, and Michael watched, wondering # the
8
4RoBERT LUDLUM
winds above Prague would come along and blow th.6 smoke away so the
mountains could be seen again. His head was on Jenna's lap, his long legs
stretched out, touching the wicker basket she had packed with sandwiches and
iced wine. She sat on the grass, her back against the smooth bark of a birch
tree, she stroked his hair, her fingers circling his face, gently outlining
his lips and cheekbones.
'Mikhail, my darling, I was thinking. Those tweed jackets
and dark trousers you wear, and that very proper English which must come
from your very proper university, will never remove the Havlibek from
Havelock."
"I don't think they were meant to. One~'s a uniform of sods, and the other
you kind of learn in self-defense." He smiled, touching her hand. "Besides,
that university was a long time ago."
"So much was a long time ago, wasWt it? Right down there."
"It happened."
'You were there, my poor darling."
'It's history. I survived.'
"Many did not."
The blond woman rose, spinning in the sand, pulling at the wild grass,
plunging to her right, for several seconds eluding the beam of light. She
beaded toward the dirt road above the beach, staying in darkness, crouching,
lunging, using the cover of night and the patches of tall grass to conceal
her body.
It would not do her any good, thought the tall man in the black sweater at
his post between two trees above the road, above the terrible violence that
was taking place below, above the panicked woman who would be dead in
moments. He bad looked down at her once before, not so very long ago. She
had not been panicked then; she had been magnificent.
He folded the curtain back slowly, carefully in the dark office, his back
pressed against the wall, his face inching toward the window. He could see
her below, crossing the floodlit courtyard, the tattoo of her high heels
against the cobblestones echoing martially up between the surrounding
buildings. The guards were recessed in shadows--outlines of sullen mario-
THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC5
nettes in their Soviet-style uniforms. Heads turned, signifying
appreciative glances directed at the figure striding confi-
='y to7h ;dstttiron gate in the center of the iron fence
ngcompound that was the core of Prague's
secret police. The thoughts behind the glances were clear:
this was no mere secretary working overtime, this was a pnv
ileged kurva who took dictation on a commissar`8 couch till all
hours of the night.
But others, too, were watching-from other darkened windows. One break in
her confident stride, one instant of hesitation, and a phone would be
picked up and orders of detention issued to the gate. Embarrassments, of
course, were to be avoided where commissars were concerned, but not if
there appeared to be substance behind suspicions. Everything was
appearance.
There was no break, no hesitation. She was carrying it ofiF
. carrying it outl They had done itt Suddenly he felt a folt Of pain in his
chest, he knew what it was. Fear. Pure, raw, sickening fear. He was
remembering-memories within memories. As he watched her his mind went back
to a city In rubble, to the terrible sounds of mass execution. Lidice. And
a child-one of many children-scurrying through the billowIng gray smoke of
burning debris, carrying messages and pockets full of plastic explosives.
One break, one hesitation, then ... history.
She reached the gate. An obsequious guard was permitted to leer. She was
magnificent. God, he loved hert
She had reached the shoulder of the road, legs and arms working furiously,
digging into the s
and and the dirt, clawing for survival. With no wild grass
to conceal her, she would be seen; the beam of light would find her, and the
end would come quickly.
He watched, suspending emotion, erasing pain, a human litmus accepting
impressions without comment. He had toprofessionally. He had learned the
truth, the stretch of beach on the Costa Brava w confirmation of her guilt,
proof of her crimes. The hysterical woman below was a killer, an agent for
the infamous Voennaya Kontra Razvedka, the savage branch Qf the Soviet KGB
that spawned terrorism everywhere. That was the truth; it was undeniable.
He had seen it all, talked with Washington from Madrid. The rendezvous
6ROBERT LUDLUM
that night had been ordered by Moscow, the purpose being the delivery by VKR
Field Officer Jenna Karas of a schedule of assassinations to a faction of
the Baader-Meinhof at an isolated beach called Montebello, north of the town
of Blanes. That was the truth.
It did not set him free. Instead, it bound him to another truth, an
obligation of his profession. Those who betrayed the living and brokered
death had to die. No matter who, no matter ... Michael Havelock had made
the decision, and it was irrevocable. He had set the last phase of the trap
himself, for the death of the woman who briefly bad given him more
happiness than tiny other person on earth. His love was a killer; to permit
her to live would mean the killing of hundreds, perhaps thousands.
What Moscow did not know was that Langley had broken the VKR codes. He
himself had sent the last transmission to a boat a half-mfle off the Costa
Brava shoreline. KGB confirmation. Officer contact compromised by U.S.
Intelligence. Schedules false. Eliminate. The codes were among the most
unbreakable; they would guarantee elimination.
. She was rising now. Her slender body rose above the shoulder of sand and
dirt. It was going to happen! The woman about to die was his love: they had
held each other and there had been quiet talk of a lifetime together, of
children, of peace and the splendid comfort of being one-together. Once he
had believed it all, but it was not to be.
They were in bed, her head on his chest, her soft blond hair falling across
her face. He brushed it aside, lifting up the strands that concealed her
eyes, and laughed.
You~re hiding," he said.
"It seem we're always hiding," she replied, smiling sadly. 'Except when we
wish to he seen by people who should see us. We do nothing that we simply
want to. Everything is calculated, Mikhail. Regimented. We live in a
movable prison."
"It hasret been that long, and it won't last forever."
'I suppose not. One day they'll find they doret need us, don!t want us any
longer, perhaps. Will they let us go, do you thinkP Or will we disappear?*
"Washington's not Prague. Or Moscow. We'll walk out of our movable prison,
me with a gold watch, you with some kind of sileW decoration with your
papers "
THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC7
"Are you sure? We know a great deal. Too much, perhaps."
Our protection lies in what we do know. What I know. They'll always wonder:
Did he unite it down somewhereP Take care, watch him, be good to him ...
les not unusual, really. We'll walk out."
'Always protection," she said, tracing his eyebrows. "You never forget, do
youP The early days, the terrible days."
'History. Irue forgottm'
~What will we do?"
'Live. I love you."
Do you think we'll have children? Watch them going off to school, hold
them, scold them. Go to hockey-ball games."
"Footballor baseball . Not hockey-ball. Yes, I hope 80 .
'What will you do, Mikhail?"
"Teach, I suppose. At a college somewhere. rve a couple of starched degrees
that say rm qualified. Well be happy, I know that. Fm counting on it."
~What will you teach?"
He looked at her, touching her face, then his eyes wan dered up to the
shabby ceiling in the -run-down hotel room.
History," he said. And then he reached for her, taking her in his arms.
The beam of light swung across the darkness. It caught her, a bird on fire,
trying to rise, trapped by the light that was her darkness. The gunshots
followed-terrorists' gunfire for a terrorist. The woman arched backward, the
first bullets penetrating the base of her spine, her blond hair cascading
behind her. Three shots then came separately, with finality-a marksmaes eye
delivering a marksman's score; they entered the back of her neck'and her
skull, propelling her forward over the mound of dirt and sand, her fingers
clawing the earth, her blood-streaked face mercifully concealed. A final
spasm,and all movement stopped.
His love was dead-for some part of love was a part of whatever they were.
He had done what he had to do, just as she bad done the same. Each was
right, each wrong, ultimately so terribly wrong. He closed his eyes,
feeling the unwanted dampness.
Why did it have to be? We are fools. Worse, we are stu- 8 RoBLmT LuDLUM
pid. We do not talk; we die. So men with fluld tongues and facile minds can
tell us what is right and wrong-geopolitically, you understand, which means
that whatever they say is beyond our puerile understanding.
What will you do, MikhailP
Teach, I suppose. At a college somewhere
What will you teach?
History ...
It was all history now. Remembrances of things too painful. Let it be cold
history, as the early days were history. They cannot be a part of me any
longer. She cannot be a part of me, it she ever was, even in her pretense.
Yet I will keep a promise, not to her but to myself. I am finished. I will
disappear into another lite, a new lite. I will go somewhere, teach
somewhere. Illuminate the lessons of futility.
He heard the voices and opened his eyes. Below, the killers of the
Baader-Meinhof had reached the condemned woman, sprawled out in death,
clutching the ground that was her execution place-geopolitically
preordained. Had she really been so magnificent a liar? Yes, she had been,
for he had seen the truth. Even in her eyes he had seen it.
The two executioners bent down to grab the corpse and drag it away-her once
graceful body to be consigned to fire or chained for the deep. He would not
interfere; the evidence had to be felt, touched, reflected upon later when
the trap was revealed, another lesson taught. Futility-geopolitically
required.
A gust of wind suddenly whipped across the open beach-, the killers braced
themselves, their feet slipping in the sand. The man on the left raised his
right hand in an unsuccessful attempt to keep the visored fishing cap on
his head; it blew away, rolling toward the dune that was the shoulder of
the road. He released his hold on the corpse and ran after it Havelock
watched as the man came closer. There was something about him- About the
face? No, it was the hair, seen clearly in the moonlight. It was wavy and
dark, but not completely dark; there was a streak of white above his
forehead, a sudden intrusion that was startling. He had seen that he
ad of
hair, seen that face somewhere before. But where? There were so many
memories. Files analyzed, photographs
THE PARsiFAL MosAic9
studied-contracts, sources, enemies. Where was this man from? KGB? The
dreaded Voennaya? A splinter faction paid by Moscow when not drawing
contingency funds from a CIA station chief in Usbon?
It did not matter. The deadly puppets and the vulnerable pawns no longer
concerned Michael Havelock-or Mikhail Havlf&-k, for that matter. He would
route a cable to Washington through the embassy in Madrid in the morning.
He was finished, he had nothing more to give. Whatever his superiors wanted
in the way of debriefing he would permit. Even going to a clinic; he simply
did not care. But they would have no more of his life.
That was history. It had ended on an isolated beach called Montebello on
the Costa Brava.
2
Time was the true narcotic for pain. Either the pain disappeared when it ran
its course or a person learned to live with it. Havelock understood this '
knowing that at this moment in time something of both was applicable. The
pain had not disappeared but there was less of it; there were periods when
the memories were dulled, the sear tissue sensitive only when prodded. And
traveling helped; be had forgotten what it was like to cope with the
compleidties facing the tourist.
"If youT note' sir, it's printed here on your ticket. 'Subject to, change
without notice.'
"Where?"
"Down here."
"I can't read it'
"I can."
"You've memorized it."
"I'M familiar with it sir."
And the imn-dgration lines. Followed by customs inspections. The
Intolerable preceded by the impossible; men and women who countered their
own boredom by slamming rubber stamps and savagely attacking defenseless
zippers whose manufacturers believed in planned obsolescence.
There was no question about it, he was spoiled. His previous life bad had
its difficulties and its risks. but they had not included the perils that
confronted the iWeier at every turn.
Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt Page 1