Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  trains kept running until midnight out of Rome. Why not a train? The lazy,

  circuitous trip from Brindisi by rail, passing through countrysides that

  bad not changed in centuries, had been startlingly beautiful. He could pack

  his single suitcase in minutes, walk to the train station in twenty. Surely

  the money he was willing to pay would get him accommodations; if not, he

  could always return to the Via Due Macelli. He had paid for a week in

  advance.

  Forty-five minutes later Havelock passed through the huge portals of the

  massive Ostia Railroad station, built by Mussolini in the halcyon days of

  trumpets and dnuns and marching boots and trains that ran on time.

  42 ROBERT LuDLum

  Italian was not Michael's best language, but he could read It well enough:

  Biglietto per Venezia. Prima classe. The line was short and his luck held.

  The famed Freccia della Laguna was leaving in eight minutes, and if the

  signore wished to pay the premium scale, he could have the finest

  accommodations by way of his own compartment. He so wished, and as the

  clerk stamped his ornate ticket, be was told that the Freccia was leaving

  from binario trentasei, a dual platform several football fields away from

  the counter.

  "Fate presto, signorel Non perdete tempol Fate in ftettal"

  Michael walked rapidly into the mass of rushing humanity, threading his way

  as fast as possible toward dual Track 36. As usual-as be recalled from

  memories past-the giant dome was filled with crowds. Screeching arrivals

  and wailing departures were joined in counterpoint; screamed epithets

  punctuated the deafening roar, because the porters, too, were obviously on

  strike. It took nearly five hectic minutes to shoulder his way through the

  huge stone arch and emerge on the double-track platform. It was, if

  possible, more chaotic than the station itself. A crowded train had arrived

  from the north as the Freccia della Laguna was about to depart. Freight

  dollies collided with hordes of embarking and disembarking passengers. It

  was a scene from a lower circle of Dante, screaming pandemonium.

  Suddenly, across the platform, through the milling crowds, he caught sigbt

  of the back of a wornan~s head, the brim of a soft hat shadowing her face.

  She was stepping out of the incoming train from the north, and had turned

  to talk to a conductor. It had happened before: the same color or cut of

  the hair, the shape of a neck. A scarf, or a hat or a raincoat like those

  she bad wom. It bad happened before. Too often.

  Then the woman turned; pain seared Havelock's eyes and temples and surged

  downward-hot knives stabbing his cbest. The face across the platform, seen

  sporadically through the weaving, colliding crowds, was no illusion. It was

  she.

  Their eyes locked. Hers widened in raw fear; her face froze. Then she

  whipped her head away and plunged into the crowds in front of her.

  Michael pressed his eyelids shut, then opened them, trying to rid himself

  of the pain and the shock and the sudden trembling that immobilized him. He

  dropped his suitcase; he had to move, rtm, race after this living corpse

  from the Costa

  THE PARsYFAL MosAic43

  Braval She was alivel This woman he had loved, this apparition who had

  betrayed that love and had died for it, was alivel

  Like a crazed animal, he parted the bodies in his path, screaming her name,

  ordering ber'to stop, commanding the crowds to stop her. He raced up the

  ramp and through the massive stone archway cblivious to the shrieking,

  furious passengers he pummeled and left in his wake, unaware of the slaps

  and punches and body blocks burled at him, unconscious of the hands that

  ripped his clothing.

  She was nowhere to be seen in the station crowds.

  What in the name of God had happened?

  Jenna Karas was alivel

  4

  With the terrifying impact of a bolt of lightning the sight of jenna Karas

  had thrown him back into the shadow world he had left behind. She was alivel

  He had to keep moving; he had to find her. He ran blindly through the

  crowds, separating arms and gesturing hands and protesting shoulders. First

  to one exit, then to another, and a third and a fourth. He stopped to

  question what few police he found, picking the words from a blurred Italian

  lexicon somewhere in his mind. He shouted her description, ending each

  distorted phrase with "Aiutol'~-only to be met with shrugs and looks of

  disapproval.

  He kept running. A staircase-a door-an elevator. He thrust 2,000 lire on a

  woman heading into the ladies' room; 5,000 to a freight hand. He pleaded

  with three conductors leaving the station carrying satchels, which meant

  they were going home.

  Nothing. She was nowbere.

  Havelock leaned over a trash can, the sweat rolling down his face and neck,

  his hands scraped and bleeding. He thought for a moment that he would vomit

  into the garbage; he had passed over the edge of hysteria. He bad to pull

  himself back; he had to get hold of himself. And. the only way to do so was

  to keep moving, slower and slower, but to keep

  44

  Tim PARsrFAL MosAic45

  moving, let the pounding in his chest decelerate, find a part of his mind so

  he could think. He vaguely remembered his suitcase; the possibility that it

  was still there was remote, but looking for it was something to do. He

  started back through the crowds, body aching, perceptions numbed, buffeted

  by the gesticulating bordes around him, as if be were in a dark tunnel

  filled with shadows and swirling winds. He had no idea how long it took for

  him to pass through the arch and walk down the ramp to the near-deserted

  platform. The Freccid had left, and the clean-up crews were invading the

  cars of the stationary train from the north-the train that had carried Jenna

  Karas.

  I There it was, crushed but still intact, straps broken, clothes

  protruding, yet oddly whole. His suitcase was wedged in the narrow space

  between the edge of the platform and the filthy, flat side of the third

  car. He knelt down and pulled it out of its jammed recess, sliding up first

  one side and then the other as the leather squeaked abrasively. The

  suitcase was suddenly freed; be lost his balance and fell on the concrete,

  still holding on to the half-destroyed handle. A man in overalls pushing a

  wide broom approached. Michael got to his feet awkwardly, aware that the

  maintenance crewman had stopped, his broom motionless, his eyes conveying

  both amusement and disgust. The man thought be was drunk.

  The handle broke; held by a single clasp, the suitcase abruptly tilted

  downward. Havelock yanked it up and clutched it in his arms; he started

  down the platform toward the ramp, knowing his walk was trancelike.

  How many minutes later, or which particular exit he used, he would never

  know, but he was out on the street, the suitcase held against his chest,

  walking unsteadily past a row of lighted storefronts. He was conscious of

  the fact that people kept glancing at him, at his tom clothes and the

  crushed suitcase, its contents spilling out. The swirling mists were
>
  beginning to break up, the cold night air diffusing them. He bad to find

  his sanity by concentrating on the little things: he would wash his face,

  change his clothes, have a cigarette, replace the suitcase.

  F. MARTn-MLLI Valigeria. The neon letters glowed impressively in deep red

  above the wide storefront window filled with accessories for the traveler.

  It was one of those shops near the Ostia Station that cater to the wealthy

  foreigner and

  46 RoBERT LuDLum

  the self-indulgent Italian. The merchandise was expensive replicas of

  ordinary objects turned into luxuries by way of sterling silver and polished

  brass.

  Havelock stood for a moment, breathing deeply, holding on to the suitcase

  as if it were somehow an object that would carry him, a plank in a wild

  sea-without it he would drown. He walked inside; mercifully, it was near

  closing time, and the shop was devoid of customers.

  The manager emerged from behind the middle counter, looking alarmed. He

  hesitated, then stepped back as if to retreat quickly. Havelock spoke

  rapidly in barely passable Italian. "I was caught in an insane crowd on the

  platform. rm afraid I fell. I'll need to buy a few things-a number of

  things, actually. I'm expected at the Hassler fairly soon."

  At the mention of Romes most exclusive hotel, the manager at once turned

  sympathetic, even brotherly.

  'Animalir he exclaimed, gesturing to his God. "How perfectly dreadful for

  you, signorel Here, let me help you-7

  "I'll need a new piece of luggage. Soft, very good leather, if yDu have

  it."

  "Naturalmente."

  "I realize its an imposition, but could I possibly wash up somewhere? I'd

  bate to greet the Contessa the way I look now.

  "This way, signorel A thousand apologiesl I speak for all Romel This way-"

  While Michael washed and changed clothes in the back room, be focused his

  thougbts-as they came to him-on the brief visits he and Jenna Karas bad

  made to Rome. There had been two. On the first they bad passed through for

  a single night; the second was much longer, very official-three or four

  days, if he remembered correctly. They had been awaiting orders from

  Washington, having traveled as a YugDslav couple through the Balkan

  countries in order to gather information on the sudden expansion in border

  defenses. There had been a man, an army intelligence officer not easily

  forgotten; he had been Havelocles D.C. conduit What made the man memorable

  was his cover; be was posing as the only first-level black attach6 at the

  embassy.

  Their first conference had not been without humor-black humor. Michael and

  Jenna were to meet the attach6 at an out-of-the-way restaurant west of the

  Palatine. They had

  THE PAmsiFAL MosAic47

  waited in the crowded stand-up bar, preferring that the conduit select- a

  table, and were oblivious to the tall black soldier ordering a vodka martini

  on their right. After several minutes the man smiled and said, "I'm jes'

  Rastus in the catasta di legna, Massa Havelock. Do you think we niight sit

  down?"

  His name was Lawrence Brown. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence B. Brown-the

  middle initial was for his real name, Baylor.

  "So help me God," the colonel had told them over afterdinner drinks that

  night, "the fellows in G-two felt there was more 'concrete

  association~-thaes what they called it-by using Brown in the cover. It went

  under the heading of 'psy-acceptance,' can you believe it? Hell, I suppose

  it's better than Attach6 Coffee-Face."

  Baylor was a man he could talk to . . . if Baylor would agree to talk to

  him. And where? It would not be anywhere near the embassy; the United

  States government had several terrible things to explain to a retired field

  agent

  It took over twenty minutes on the manager's phonewhile the manager

  repacked Michaers clothing in an outrageously priced new suitcase-before

  Havelock reached the embassy switchboard. Senior Attach6 Brown was cur-

  rently attending a reception on the first floor.

  'rell him its urgent," said Michael. "My name is Baylor."

  Lawrence Baylor was reluctant to the point of turning Havelock down.

  Anything a retired intelligence officer had to say would best be said at

  the embassy. For any number of reasons.

  'Suppose I told you I just came out of retirement. I may not be on your

  payroll-or anyone else's-but I'm very much back in. I'd suggest you don't

  blow this, Colonel."

  'Mere's a caf6 on the Via Pancra2io, La Ruota del Pavone. Do you know it?"

  -ni find it."

  "Forty-five minutes."

  "III be there. Waiting."

  Havelock watched from a table In the darkest corner of the caf6 as the army

  officer ordered a carafe of wine from the bar and began walking across the

  dimly lit room. Bayloes

  48 RoBERT LuDLum

  mahogany face was taut, stem; be was not comfortable, and when he reached

  the table, be did not offer his hand. He sat down opposite Michael, exhaled

  slowly, and attempted a grim smile.

  "Nice to see you," he said with little conviction.

  'Thank you."

  'And unless you've got something to say we want to hear, yo-dre putting me

  in a pretty rough spot, buddy. I hope you know that."

  "I've got something that'll blow your mind," said Havelock, his voice

  involuntarily a whisper. The trembling had returned; he gripped his wrist

  to control it. "Ies blown mine."

  The colonel studied Michael, his eyes dropping to Havelocles hands. "You're

  stretched, I can see that. What is it?"

  "She's alive. I saw herl"

  Baylor was silent, immobile. His eyes roamed Miebaers face, noting the

  marks of recent scrapes and bruises on Havelodes skin. It was obvious that

  be had made the connection. "Are you referring to the Costa Brava?" he

  asked flnally.

  "You know damn well I aml" said Michael angrily. "My abrupt retirement and

  the circumstances thereof have been flashed to every goddamned station and

  post we've got. les why you just said what you did. 'Beware the screwed-up

  talent,' Washington tells you. 'He might do anything, say any.. thing,

  think be has scores to settle.'"

  "It's happened."

  "Nat to me. I don't have any scores to think about because rm not

  interested in the ballgame. rm rational. I saw what I saw. And she saw met

  She acknowledged met She ranl"

  "Emotional stress is first cousin to hysteria," said the colonel quietly.

  "A man can see a lot of things that aren't there in that condition. And you

  bad a jolt."

  "Past tense, not currently applicable. I was out. I accepted the fact and

  the reasons-"

  "Come on, buddy," insisted the soldier. "You doet throw away sixteen years

  of involvement"

  01 did."

  "You were bere in Rome with her. Memories get activated, twisted. As I

  said, it happens."

  "Again, negative. Nothing was activated, nothing twisted.

  "You even called me,' Interrupted Baylor sharply. "Ile

  THE PAPMFAL MOSAjc49

  three of us spent a couple of evenings together. A few drhiks, a few la
ughs.

  Association; you reached me."

  'Ilere was no one else. My cover was D-squared: you were my only contact

  here in Romel I can walk into the embassy now, I couldn't then."

  'Men lees go," said the colonel quickly.

  'No wayl Besides, thaes not the point. You are. You fielded orders to me

  from Washington seven months ago, and now yoere going to send an emergency

  flag back to those same people. Tell them what rve told you, what I saw.

  You haven!t got a choice."

  "I've got an opinion. rm relaying what a former talent said while in a

  state of extreme anxiety."

  "Finel Goodl Then try this. Five days ago in Athens I nearly killed a man

  we both know from the Dzerzhinsky files for telling me Costa Brava wasn't

  a Soviet exercise. That she wasn't any part of the KGB, much less the VKR.

  I didn't kill him because I thought it was a probe, a blind probe-that man

  was telling the mah, as he knew the truth. I sent a message back to Moscow.

  The bait was too obvious, the smell too rotten."

  "I suppose that was charitable of you, considering your recorV

  "Oh, no, the charity started with him. You see, be could have taken me. I

  could have found myself in Sevastopol on my way to Dzerzhinsky Square

  without even knowing rd left Athens."

  "He was that good? That well connected?"

  "So much so, he was self-effacing. But be didn't take me. I wasn't booked

  on the Dardanelles airlift. He didjA want me.0

  "Why not?"

  'Because he was convinced I was the bait. Pretty fair irony, isn't it?

  There was no room at the Lubyanka. I was turned out. Instead, be gave me

  his own message for Washington: Dzerzbinsky wouldn't touch me." Havelock

  paused. "And now this."

  The colonel narrowed his e-yes pensively, and, with both hands, turned his

  glass on the table. "I don't have your expertise, but say you actually did

  see what you say you saw."

  "I did. Accept it."

  "No concessions, but say it's possible. It could still be a

  50 ROBERT LUDLUM

  lure. They've got you under a glass, know your plans, your itinerary. Their

  computers pick up a woman reasonably similar in appearance, and with a

  little cosmetic surgery they've got a double sufficient for short distances.

  'Beware the screwed-up talent.' You never know when he thinks he has I