connected to such things. I swear on the tears of the Madonnal I thought
she was lying, appealing to me with liesl I never once believed herl"
"But I wasn't killed, nothing on my person taken, I think you said."
Michael paused, then shouted as he jammed the barrel into the Italian~s
eye. "Why?"
The man screamed, spitting out the words. "She said you were an American
working with the comunistil With the Soviets. I did not believe herl I know
nothing of such thingsl But caution would naturally call for-caution. In
Civitavecchia we are outside of such wars. They are too ... internazionali
for people like us who make our few unimportant lire on the docks. These
things mean nothing to us-my word on itl We wish no trouble from you, any
of youl . . . Signore, you can understand. You attacked a woman-a puttana,
to be certain, but a woman-on the pier. Men stopped you, pulled you away,
but when I saw, I stopped theml I told them we should be cautious. We had
to think. . :'
The frightened man continued to babble, but Havelock was not listening.
What he had heard stunned him beyond anything he imagined he might hear. An
American working with the Soviets. Jenna had said this? It was insanel
Had she tried to appeal to the man with a lie, only to instill a very real
fear in the small-time operator after the fact, after the trap? The Italian
had not equivocated; he had repeated her story out of fear. He had not
lied.
Did she believe it? Was that what he bad seen in her eyes on the platform
at the Ostia station? Did she really believe it-just as he had believed
beyond any doubt in his mind that she was a deep-cover officer for the
Voennaya?
Oh, ChrW1 Each turned against the other with the same maneuverl Had the
evidence against him been as airtight as the evidence against her? It had
to have been; that was also
90 RoBEnT LuDLux
in her eyes. Fear, hurt . . . pain. There was no one she could trust, not
now, not for a while, perhaps not ever. She could only run-as he had kept
running. Godl What had they dm?
Why?
She was on her way to Paris. He would find her in Paris. Or fly to San Remo
or Col des Moulinets and intercept her at one or the other. He had the
advantage of fast transport; she was on an old freighter plodding across
the water and he would be flying. He had time.
He would use that time. There was an intelligence oflicer at the embassy in
Rome who was about to know the depth of his anger. Lieutenant Colonel
Lawrence Baylor Brown was going to supply answers or all the expos6s of,
Washington's clandestine activities would be seen as mere footnotes com-
pared with what he would reveal: the incompetences, the illegalities, the
miscalculations and errors costing the lives of thousands the world over
every year.
He would start with a black diplomat in Rome who funneled secret orders to
American agents throughout Italy and the western Mediterranean.
'Capisce? You do understand, signore?" The Italian was pleading, buying
time, his eyes glancing furtively to the right. Across on the second pier
three men were walking through the early light toward the far pilings; two
blasts of a ship's whistle told why. The freighter steaming into port was
to be tied up at the Elbds berth. In moments additional crews would arrive.
"We are cautious . . . naturalmente, but we know nothing of such thingsl We
are men of the docks, nothing more."
"I understand," said Michael, touching the man's shoulder and turning him
around. "Walk to the edge," be ordered quietly.
"Signore, pleasel I beg youl"
"Just do as I say. Now."
"I swear on the patron saint of mercy Himselfl On the blood of Christ, on
the tears of the Holy Motherl" The Italfan was weeping, his voice rising.
"I am an insignificant merchant, signorel I know nothingl Say nothingf"
As they reached the edge of the pier~ Havelock said, "Jump," and pushed the
negotiator over the side.
THE PmisiFAL Mosmc91
"Mio Diol Aiutol" screamed the henchman below as his employer joined him in
the water.
Michael turned and hobbled back to the comer of the warehouse wall. The
dock was still deserted, but the guard was beginning to move, shaking his
head, trying to pull himself up in the shadows of the booth. Havelock
slapped open the cylinder of the pistol and shook the bullets out of their
tracks; they clattered onto the dock. He hurried toward the gate, and when
he reached the door of the glass booth, he threw the weapon inside. He ran
as fast as he was capable of running through the gate, toward the rented
car.
Rome. There would be answers in Rome.
7
The four men around the table in the white-walled room on the third floor of
the State Department building were youngish by upper-echelon Washington
standards. Their ages ranged from the mid-thirties to the late forties, but
their lined faces and hollow look made them old beyond their years. The work
they did led to sleepless nights and prolonged periods of anxiety, made
worse by their insular life: none of them could discuss the crises they
faced in that room with anyone outside it. These were the strategists of
covert operations, the air traffic controllers of clandestine activities;
roving condors could be shot down on their slightest miscalculation. Others
above them might request the broad objectives; others below might design the
specific assignments. But only these men were aware of every conceivable
variation, every likely consequence of a given operation; they were the
clearinghouse. Each was a specialist, each an authority. Only they could
give the final nod for the condors to fly.
Yet they had no radar grids or circling antennae to aid them; they had only
the projections of human behavior to guide them. They had to examine
actions and reactions, not simply those of the enemy but those of their own
people in the field as well. Evaluation was a never-ending struggle, which
was rarely resolved to everyone's satisfaction. The
92
THE PAWIFAL MOSAIC93
"what if" probabilities were geometrically compounded with each new twist of
events, each human reaction to abruptly altered circumstances. They were
psychoanalysts in an endless labyrinth of abnormality, their patients the
products of that disorder. They were specialists in a macabre way of life
where the truth was usually a lie and lies too often were the only means of
survival. Stress was the factor that frightened them most, for under maximum
or prolonged stress both one!s enemies and one~s own people saw things and
did things they might not do otherwise. The totally unpredictable added to
the abnormal became dangerous territory.
This was the conclusion the four men had reached regarding the crisis late
that night. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence Baylor Brown in Rome had sent his
cable on priority cipher; its contents required the opening of a dead Me so
that each strategist could study the facts.
They were beyond dispute. The events at that isolated beach on th
e Costa
Brava had been verified by two on-site confirmations, one of them Foreign
Service Officer Havelock himself, the other a man unknown to Havelock named
Steven MacKenzie, one of the most experienced undercover operatives working
in Europe for the Central Intelligence Agency. He had risked his life to
bring back proof: torn garments stained with blood. Everything had been
microscopically examined, the results positive: jenna Karas. The reasons
for a backup confirmation had not been made explicit, nor was that
necessary. The relationship between Havelock and the Karas woman was known
to those who had to know; a man under maximum stress might fall apart, be
incapable of carrying out what had to be done. Washington had to know.
Agent MacKenzie had been positioned two hundred feet north of Havelock; his
view was clear, his confirmation absolute, his proof incontrovertible. The
Karas woman had been killed that night. The fact that Steven MacKenzie had
died of a heart seizure three weeks after he returned from Barcelona, while
sailing in Chesapeake Bay, in no way diminished his contribution. The
doctor who had been suram ned by the Coast Guard patrol was a well-es-
tablished physician on the Eastern Shore, a surgeon named Randolph with
impeccable credentials. A thorough postmor-
9 4 ROBERT LTJDLUM
tem. was conclusive: MacKenzie's death was from natural causes.
Beyond Costa Brava itself, the evidence against Jenna Karas had been
subjected to the most exhaustive scrutiny. Secretary of State Anthony
Matthias had demanded it, and the strategists knew why. There was another
relationship to take into consideration: one that had existed between Mat-
thias and Michael Havelock for nearly twenty years since student had met
teacher in the graduate program at Princeton University. Fellow Czechs by
birth, one had established himself as perhaps the most brilliant
geopolitical mind in the academic world, while the other, a young, haunted
expatriate, was desperately searching for his own identity. The differences
were considerable, but the friendship was strong.
Anton Matthias had come to America over forty years ago, the son of a
prominent doctor from Prague who had hurried his family out of
Czechoslovakia under the shadow of the Nazis and was welcomed by the
medical community. Havelock's immigration, on the other hand, was managed
covertly as a joint exercise of American and British intelligence; his
origins were obscured, initially for the chfl&s own safety. And where
MatthiaYs meteoric rise in government was sparked by a succession of
influential political figures who openly sought his counsel and publicly
extolled his brilliance, the much younger man from Prague proceeded to
establish his own worth through clandestine accomplishments that would
never see the light of day. Yet in spite of the dissimilarities of age and
reputation, intellect and temperament, there existed a bond between them,
held firm by the elder, never taken advantage of by the younger.
Those who confirmed the evidence against the Karas woman understood that
there was no room for error, just as the strategists understood now that
the cable from Rome had to be studied carefully, handled delicately. Above
all, for the time being, it had to be kept from Anthony Matthias. For
though the media had announced that the Secretary of State was off on a
weIl-deserved holiday, the truth was something else. Matthias was ill-some,
in whispers, said gravely ill-and although he was in constant touch with
State through his subordinates, be had not been in Washington for nearly
five weeks. Even those perceptive men and women of the press corps who
suspected another explanation beneath the vaca-
THE PARsrFAL Mosmc95
tion ploy said nothing and printed nothing. No one really wanted to think
about it; the world could not afford it.
And Rome could not become an additional burden for Anthony Matthias.
"He7s hallucinating, of course," said the balding man named Miller, putting
his copy of the cable down on, the table in front of him. Paul Miller,
M.D., was a psychiatrist, an authority on diagnosing erratic behavior.
"Is there anything in his record that might have warned us?" asked a
red-haired, stocky man in a rumpled suit and an open collar, his tie
unknotted. His name was Ogilvie; he was a former field agent.
"Nothing you would have read," replied Daniel Stem, the strategist on
Miller's left. His title was Director of Consular Operations, which was a
euphemism for section chief of State's clandestine activities.
"Why not?" asked the fourth strategist, a conservatively dressed man who
might have stepped out of an advertisement in the WaU Street Jourml for
IBM. He was seated next to Ogilvie. His name was Dawson; he was an attorney
and a specialist in international law. He pressed his point. "Are you
saying there were-are-omissions in his service file?"
"Yes. A security holdover from years ago. No one ever bothered to reassess,
so the Me remained incomplete. But the answer to Ogilvie's question might
be found there. The warning we missed."
"How so?" asked Miller, peering over his glasses, his fingers spread across
his balding hairline.
"He could be finally burned out. Over the edge."
"What do you mean?" Ogilvie leaned forward, his expression none too
pleasant. 'Tvaluation depends on available data, goddamn it."
. "I don~t think anyone thought it was necessary. His record's superior.
Except for an outburst or two, he's been extremely productive, reasonable
under very adverse conditions.-
"Only, now hes seeing dead people in railroad stations," Interrupted
Dawson. -Wby?"
"Do you know Havelock?" asked Stem.
"Only from a field personnel interview," answered the attorney. "Eight or
nine months ago; he flew back for it. He seemed efficient."
"He was," agreed the director of Cons Op. "Efficient, pro- 96ROBFJtT LTJDLUrM
ductive, reasonable-very tough, very cold, very bright. But then he was
trained at an early age under rather extraordinary circumstances. Maybe
that's what we should have looked at." Stem paused, picked up a large manila
envelope, and removed a red-bordered file folder, sliding it out carefully.
"Here's the complete background dossier on Havelock. What we had before was
basic and acceptable. A graduate student from Princeton with a Ph.D. in
European history and a minor in Slavic languages. Home: Greenwich,
Connecticut. A war orphan brought over from England and adopted by a couple
named Webster, both cleared. What we all looked at, of course, was the
recommendation from Matthias, someone even then to be reckoned with. And
what the recruiters here at State saw sixteen years ago was fairly obvious.
A highly Intelligent Ph.D. from Princeton willing to work for bureaucratic
spit, even willing to perfect his linguistic dialects and go into deep-cover
work. But that wasn't necessary-the language part. Czech was his native
tongue; he knew it better than we thought he did. Thairs what's here; ies
the rest of his story and could be the reason for the breakdown
were
witnessing now."
'Ibaes a hell of a leap backward," said Ogilvie. "Can you sketch it for us?
I donI like surprises; retired paranoids we don!t need.*
Apparently, weve got one," Interjected Miller, picking up the cable. "ff
Baylor's judgment means anything---r
It does,- Stern broke in. -He's one of the best we've got In Europe."
Still, he's Pentagon," added Dawson. "Judgment's not a strong point."
'It is with him," corrected the Cons Op director. "He!s black and had to be
good."
"As I was about to say," continued Miller, "Baylor includes a strong
recommendation that we take Havelock seriously. He saw what he saw."
'Which is impossible," said Ogilvie. "Which means we~ve got a whacko.
What's in there, DanP"
'An ugly early life," replied Stem, lifting the cover of the file and
turning several pages. "We knew be was Czech, but thaes all we knew. There
were several thousand Czechoslovakian refugees in England during the war,
and that was the explanation given for his being there. But It
THE PAnsnrAL MosAic97
wasn7t true. There were two stories: one real, the other a cover. He wasn't
in England during the war, nor were his parents. He spent those years in and
around Prague. It was a long nightmare and very real for him. It started
when he was old enough to know it, see it. Unfortunately, we can't get in-
side his head, and that could be vital now." The director tamed to Miller.
'Youll have to advise us here, Paul. He could be extremely dangerous."
"Then you'd better clarify," said the doctor. "How far back do we go? And
why?"
"Lees take the 'why first," said Stem, removing a number of pages from the
dossier. "He's lived with the specter of betrayal since be was a child.
There was a period during adolescence and early adulthood-the high school
and college years-when the pressures were absent, but the memories must
have been pretty horrible for him. Then for the next sixteen years-these
past sixteen years-he's been back in that some kind of world. Perhaps Vs
seen too many ghosts."
"Be specific, Daniel," pressed the psychiatrist.
'To do that," said the director, his eyes scanning the top page in his
hand, "we have to go back to June of 1942, the war in Czechoslovakia. You
Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt Page 12