Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  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