Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  backup. If his tactic failed, be would kill the woman hired to make certain

  he died on the Palatine. But it was a backup, merely an option to make sure

  be stayed alive. He wanted to keep his rendezvous in Domitian's arbor.

  He brought his legs slowly into a crouch and, extending a knee, prepared to

  spring. The woman was less than four feet away, directly above him. He

  raised his rigbt arm, the heavy, jagged fragment in his band, and lunged as

  be burled the heavy piece of marble at the wide expanse of gabardine be-

  tween her shoulders, whipping his arm with all the force he could muster,

  sending the rock at enormous speed over the short distance.

  Sound triggered instinct. The woman started to turn, but

  THE PARsrFAL MosAic129

  the impact came. The jagged fragment crashed into her neck at the base of

  her skull, blood matting her dark hair instantly. Havelock surged up the

  steps and, grabbing her coat at the waist, pulled her down over the small

  iron fence while jamming his forearm against her mouth and choking off the

  scream. The two of them plunged down into the marble well, Michael twisting

  the woman's body as they fell. They hit the bard surface; be rammed his knee

  into her cbest between her breasts and thrust the barrel of the Llama deep

  against her throat.

  "You listen to met" be whispered harshly, knowing that neither the embassy

  nor Ogilvie would employ a backup who was not fluent in English and might

  misinterpret orders. "Get on your radio and tell your friend to come over

  here as fast as be cant Say it's an emergency. Tell him to use the woods

  below the archway. You don't want the American to see him."

  "Cosa dici?"

  "You beard me and you understand met Do as I sayl Tell him you think yoifve

  both been betrayed. Frudentel lo parlo italianol CapisciP" added Havelock,

  applying further pressure both with his knee and the barrel of the gun.

  "Prestol"

  The woman grimaced, sucking her breath between her clenched teeth, her

  broad masculine face stretched like that of a striking cobra cauihi in a

  snake fork. Haltingly, as Michael removed his knee, she raised her right

  hand to her lapel and folded it back, revealing a transistorized microphone

  in the shape of a thick button, attached to the cloth. In the center was a

  small, flat transmission switch; she pressed it. There was a brief bum, the

  signal traveling three hundred feet due west on the Palatine; she spoke.

  "TiifogUo, trifoglio," she said rapidly for identification. "Ascoltal C'~

  un' emergenza ... I" She carried out Michaers orders, the whispered urgency

  of her voice conveying the panic she felt as the Llama was shoved deeper

  into her throat. The response came in the sound of startled, metallic

  Italian.

  "Che aveteP"

  Osbrigatevd"

  "AMvor

  Havelock spun off the woman and pulled her to her knees, ripping her coat

  apart as he did so. Held in place above her

  130 ROBERT LuDLum

  waist by a wide strap was an elongated bolster; protruding from it was the

  handle of a powerful magnum automatic. The outsized leather case

  accommodated an added appendage attached to the barrel: a perforated

  cylinder-a silencer, permanently secured and zeroed for accuracy. The woman

  was, indeed, a professional. Michael quickly removed the weapon and shoved

  it under his belt. He yanked the woman to her feet and pushing her violently

  into the curving stairs, forcing her up to the second step so both of them

  could see-between the spikes of the small iron fence-over the top of the

  ancient bath. He was behind her, his body pressed into hers locking her in

  place, the Llama at her right temple, his left arm around her neck. In

  seconds he saw her companion, crouching as be raced through the foliage

  below the arbor; it was all he bad to see. Without warning, be snapped his

  left arm back, choking the breath out of the woman~s throat and forcing her

  bead forward into the crushing vise. Her body went limp; she would remain

  unconscious until it was dark on the Palatine. He did not want to kill her,

  he wanted her to tell her story to the patriots who had hired her. He moved

  to the side,'and she slid down the cracked marble to the weed-infested well

  below. He waited.

  The man emerged cautiously on the sloping field, his hand beneath his tweed

  jacket. Too many minutes; time was passing too swiftly, the span half over.

  Much longer, and the assassin sent by Washington would become alarmed. If

  he walked outside the arbor he would know that his guards were not in

  place, that his control was lost; be would run. It must not bappenl The

  answers Havelock sought were fifty yards away inside a remnant of

  antiquity. Once the control was shifted-only if it was shifted-could those

  answers be learned. Make your move, employee, thought Havelock, as the

  Italian approached.

  "Trifoglio, trifoglio!" said Michael in a sharp whisper as be grabbed

  debris from the steps and threw it over the top of the marble casement to

  his right, at the opposite end of the circular enclosure.

  The man broke into a run toward the sound of the voice repeating the code

  and the sight of flying dirt. Havelock moved to his left and crouched on

  the third step, his hand on a spoke of the fence, his feet constantly

  testing the stone beneath; it had to hold him.

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  It did. Michael lurched over the top as the Italian reached the marble rim,

  so startling the man that he gasped in shock, his panic immobilizing him.

  Havelock lunged, swinging the Llama into the Italian's face, shattering

  bone and teeth; blood burst from his mouth and splattered his shirt and

  jacket. The man started to collapse; Havelock rushed forward to grab him,

  then turned and propelled him over the side of the marble bath. The Italian

  plummeted, arms and legs flailing; at the bottom he lay motionless,

  sprawled over the body of the woman, his bloody bead on her stomach. He,

  too, would have a story to tell, thoughf Michael. It was important that the

  strategists in Washington hear it, for if the answers were not forthcoming

  during the next few minutes, the Palatine was only the beginning.

  Havelock forced the Llama into the inside pocket of his jacket and felt the

  uncomfortable pressure of the outsized magnum automatic beneath his belt.

  He would keep both weapons; the Llama was a short piece and easily

  concealed, while the magnum with its permanently attached silencer could be

  advantageous in circumstances demanding the absence of sound. Suddenly a

  cold wind of depression swept through him. Twenty-four hours ago he bad

  thought that he would never again bold a gun in his hand for the rest of

  his life-his new life. In truth, he loathed weapons, feared and hated them,

  and for this reason he had learned to master them so that be could go on

  living and use them to still other weapons-the guns of his childhood. The

  early days, the terrible days; in a way they were what his whole life bad

  been about, the life he had thought be had put finally to rest. Root out

  the abusers, permit life to the living-destroy the killers of Lidice in
any

  form. He had left that life, but the killers were still there, in another

  form. And now be was back again. He buttoned his jacket and started toward

  the entrance of the arbor, and the man who had come to kill him.

  As he approached the decrepit marble archway his eyes instinctively scanned

  the ground, his feet avoiding stray branches that could snap underfoot,

  announcing his presence. He reached the jagged wall of the arch and

  silently sidestepped his way to the opening. Gently he pushed away the

  cascading vines and looked inside. Ogilvie was at the far end of the stone

  path by the pedestaled bust of Domitian. He was

  139. ROBERT LuDLum

  smoking a cigarette, studying the hill above the arbor to his right, the

  same bill-tbe same area with the cluster of wild bushes-wbere Michael had

  concealed himself nineteen minutes before. The Apache had made his own

  assessment, the accuracy of his analysis apparent.

  There was a slight chill in the air, and Havelock noted that Ogilvie's

  wrinkled, ill-fitting jacket was buttoned. But he also saw that this did

  not prevent swift access to a gun. Then Michael focused on the strategist's

  face; the change was startling. It was paler than Havelock could remember

  ever bavhig seen it. The lines that bad been there before were chiseled

  deeper now and drawn longer, like the ridges of decay in the faded marble

  of the ancient arbor. One did not have to be a doctor to know that Ogilvie

  was a sick man and that his illness was severe. If there was a great deal

  of strength left in him, it was as concealed as the weapons he carried.

  Michael stepped inside, watching intently for any sudden movement on the

  part of the former field man. "Hello, Red," he said.

  Ogilvie's head turned only slightly, conveying the fact that he bad seen

  Havelock out of the comer of his eye before the greeting. "Good to see you,

  Navajo," answered the strategist.

  "Drop the 'Navajo.' This isn't Istanbul."

  "No, it isn't, but I saved your ass there, didn't 1?"

  "You saved it after you damn near got me killed. I told you the bridge was

  a trap, but you, my so-called superior-a label you overworked,

  incidentally-insisted otherwise. You came back for me because I told you it

  was a trap in front of our control in the Mesrutiyet. He would have racked

  you in his briefing report."

  "Still, I came back," pressed Ogilvie quickly, angrily, color spreading

  across his pallid face. Then be checked himself, smiled wanly and shrugged.

  "What the hell, it doesn't matter."

  "No, it doesn't. I think you'd risk blowing yourself and all your kids

  apart to justify yourself, but as you say, you did come back. Thanks for

  that. It was quicker, if not necessarily safer, than jumping into the

  Bosporus."

  "You never would have made it."

  "Maybe, maybe not."

  Ogilvie threw his cigarette on the ground, crushed it un- THE PAIISIFAL MOSAIC133

  derfoot, and stepped forward. "Not the kids, Havelock. Me, yes. Not the

  kids."

  "All right, not the kids." At the reference to children-his unthinking

  reference-Michael felt momentary embarrassment. He recalled that Ogilvie's

  children had been taken away from him. This suddenly old man was alone in

  his shadow world with his personal furies.

  "Let's talk," said the man from Washington, walking toward a marble bench

  on the border of the stone path. "Sit down ... Michael. Or is it Mike? I

  don't remember."

  "Whatever you like. I'll stand."

  "III sit. I don't mind telling you, I'm beat. It's a long way from D.C., a

  lot of flying time. I don't sleep well on planes."

  "You look tired."

  At the remark, Ogilvie stopped and glanced at Havelock. "Cute," be said,

  and then sat down. "Tell me something, Michael. Are you tired?"

  "Yes," said Havelock. "Of the whole goddamned lie. Of everything that's

  happened. To her. To me. To all of you in your sterile white offices, with

  your filthy minds-God help me, I was part of you. What did you think you

  were doing? Why did you do it?"

  "Thaes a large indictment, Navajo."

  "I told you. Drop that fucking name."

  "Like from a cereal box, hub?"

  "Worse. For your enlightenment, the Navajos were related to the Apaches,

  but unlike the Apaches, the tribe was essentially peaceful, defensive. The

  name didn't fit in Istanbul, and it doesn't fit now."

  "That's interesting; I didn't know that. But then, I suppose ies the sort

  of thing someone not born in a country-brought over after a pretty

  harrowing childhood somewhere elsewould find out about. I mean, studying

  that kind of history is a way of saying 'Thanks,' isnt it?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Sure, you do. A kid lives through wholesale slaughter, sees friends and

  neighbors machine-gunned down in a field and thrown into ditches, his own

  mother sent away to God knows what, knowing he'll never see her again. This

  kid is something. He bides in the woods with nothing to eat except what be

  can trap or steal, afraid to come out. Then be's found and spends the next

  few years running through the

  134 ROBERT LuDLum

  streets with explosives strapped to his back, the enemy everywhere, any one

  of them his potential executioner. All this before he's ten years old, and

  by the time he's twelve, his father's killed by the Soviets. . . . Christ,

  a kid like that, when he finally gets to a safe harbor, he's going to learn

  everything he can about the place. He's really saying 'Thanks for letting me

  come here! Wouldn't you agree

  HavliVek?"

  So the inviolate was not impenetrable by the strategists. Of course they

  knew, he should have realized that; his own actions had brought it about.

  The sole guarantee he had been given was that his true file would be

  provided only on a need-to-know basis to the highest levels of personnel

  screening. Those below would be shown the British M.I.6 addendum. A Slovak

  orphan, parents killed in a Brighton bombing raid, cleared for adoption and

  immigration. it was all they had to know, all they should know. Before. Not

  now.

  "It's not pertinent."

  "Well, maybe it is," said the former fleld man, shifting his position on

  the bench, his hand casually moving toward his jacket pocket.

  "Don't do that."

  "What?"

  "Your hand. Keep it out of there."

  "Oh, sorry . . . As I was saying, all that early stuff could be pertinent.

  A man can take just so much over the years; it accumulates, you know what

  I mean? Then one day something snaps, and without his realizing it, his

  head plays tricks on him. He goes back-way back-to when things happened to

  him-terrible things-and the years and the motives of people he knew then

  get mixed up with the years and the people he knows now. He begins to blame

  the present for all the lousy things that happened in the past. It happens

  a lot to men who live the way you and I have lived. Ifs not even unusual."

  "Are you finished?" asked Havelock harshly. "Because if you are-"

  "Come on back with me, Michael," interrupted the man from Washington. "You


  need help. We can help you."

  "You traveled flve thousand miles to tell me that?" shouted Havelock.

  "That's the data, your explanation?'

  "Take it easy. Cool it."

  THE PAnsiFAL MosmC135

  "No, you take it easyl You cool it, because yoere going to need every cold

  nerve you've gotl All of youl I'll start here in Rome and work my way up

  and over, through Switzerland, Germany . . . Prague, Krakow, Warsaw . . .

  right up into Moscow, if I have tot And the more I talk, the more of a mess

  yoell be in, every one of you. Who the hell are you to explain what or

  where my bead is? I saw that woman. She's alivel I followed her to

  Civitavecchia, where she faded, but I found out what you said to her, what

  you did to berl I'm going after her, but every day it takes will cost yout

  I'll start the minute I get out of here and you won't be able to stop me.

  Listen to the news tonight and read the morning papers. There's a conduit

  here in Rome, a respected first-level attach6, a member of a minolity-one

  hell of a screen. Only, he's going to lose his value and his network before

  the sun goes down. You bastardsl Who do you think you are?"

  "All right, all rightl" pleaded Ogilvie, both bands in the air, pressing

  the space in front of him. "You've got it all, but you can't blame me for

  trying. Those were the orders. 'Get him back so we can tell him over here,'

  that's what they said. 'Try anything, but don't say anything, not while

  he's out of the country! I told them it wouldn't work, not with you. I made

  them give me the disclosure option; they didn't want to, but I hammered it

  out of them."

  "Then talkl"

  "Okay, okay, you I ve got it." The man from Washington ex-

  pelled his breath, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

  "Jesus, things get screwed up."

  "Unscrew theml"

  Ogilvie looked up at Michael, raising his hand to the upper left area of

  his rumpled jacket. "A smoke, do you mind?"

  "Pull it back."

  The strategist peeled back his lapel, revealing a pack of cigarettes in his

  shirt pocket. Havelock nodded; Ogilvie took out the cigarettes and a book

  of matches behind the pack. He shook a cigarette into his right band and

  flipped open the matcbbook cover; the book was empty. "Shit," be muttered.