Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

strategists watched, an uneasy sense of relief apparent on both their

  faces.

  "Do you realize," said Miller, turning in his chair, "that for the first

  time in three years the phrase 'I can't support you' was used? Not 'I don't

  think so' or 'I disagree,' but 'I can't support you., "

  "Icouldn't," said Dawson. "Daniers a statistician. He sees

  numbers-fractions, equations, totals-and they spell out the odds for him.

  God knows he's brilliant at it; he's saved the lives of hundreds with those

  statistics. But rm a lawyer; I see complications, ramifications. Parties of

  the first part turning on parties of the second part. Prosecutors stymied

  because a point of law prohibits them from connecting one piece of evidence

  to another when it should be permitted. Criminals outraged over minor

  discrepancies of testimony when the only things outrageous were their

  crimes. I've seen it all, Paul, and there are times when the odds aren't

  found

  I

  152 RonERT LuDLum

  in numbers. They're found in things you can't perceive at the moment."

  "Strange, isn't it? The dffferences between us, I mean. Daniel sees

  numbers, you see complications, and I see-fullblown possibilities based on

  particles."

  "A book of matches?"

  "I guess so." The psychiatrist leveled his eyes at the attorney. "I believe

  in those matches. I believe in what they stand for."

  "So do 1. At least in the possibility they represent. That's the

  complication, Headman-as Ogilvie would have said. If there's a possibility

  that Havelock's sane, then everything he says is true. The girl-false guilt

  generated in our deepest laboratories-alive, running. Rostov in Atbens-bait

  not taken to the Lubyanka for reasons unknown, a Soviet mole at 1600

  Complications, Doctor. We need Michael Havelock to ~elp* us unravel a

  melted ball of wax. if it's happened-whatever it is-it's'frigbtening."

  Dawson abruptly pushed his chair back and stood up. "I've got to get back

  to the office. IT leave a message for Stem; be may want to come over and

  talk. How about you?"

  "What? Ob, no, thanks," answered Miller, preoccupied. "I've got a

  flve-thirty session at Bethesda, a marine from Teheran." He looked up. "It

  is frightening, isn't it?"

  "Yes, Paul. Very."

  "We did the right thing. No one in Matthias's section will put Mikhail

  Havli6ek'beyond salvage.'"

  "I know. I counted on it.-

  The director of Consular Operations came out of the office on the fifth

  floor, L Section, of State, closing the door quietly behind bim-closing,

  too, a part of the problem from his mind. It was shared now, the

  responsibility spread. The man he had shared it with-the man who would reach

  Rome under the code name Ambiguity and render the judgment-was chosen

  carefully. He was one of Anthony Matthias's inner circle, someone the

  Secretary of State trusted implicitly. He would consider all the options

  before making the decisionundoubtedly not alone.

  The issue was as clear as it could be. If Havelock was sane and telling the

  truth, be was capable of doing extraordinary damage because he had been

  betrayed. And if that was the

  THE PARSTITAL MOSAIC153

  case, there was treason here in Washington in inconceivable places. Related

  but separate crises. Should he then be placed immediately "beyond salvage,"

  so that his death would prevent the great harm he could inflict on

  intelligence operations throughout all Europe? Or should the order for his

  execution be delayed, in the hope that something might happen that would

  reconcile a man who was an innocent victim to those who would not betray

  him?

  In Col des Moulinets the only way was to find the woman and, if it was

  Jenna Karas, to bring her to Havelock, let them join forces and together

  rim down the second, potentially greater crisis here in Washington. But if

  it was not Jenna Karas, if it was a Soviet ploy, if she did not exist

  except as a deadly puppet hoax to drive a man mad and into treason, what

  then? Or if she was alive and they could not find her, would Havelock

  listen? Would Mikhail Havli6ek, victim, survivor of Lidice and Soviet

  Prague, listen? Or would he see betrayal where there was none, and in turn

  betray his own? Could the delay then be justified? God knew it could not be

  justified to dismantled networks or to undercover agents who found

  themselves in the Lubyanka. And if that was the answer, there was the

  possibility-tbe probability-that a man had to die because be was right.

  The only morality here is pragmatic reality, no philosophy but our own

  brand of utilitarianism: the greatest advantage for the many-over the few,

  over the individual.

  That was the real answer, the statistics proved it. But this was the inner

  territory of Anthony Matthias's domain. Would they see it here? In all

  likelihood they would not, Stem realized. Fear would compel the man he had

  talked with to reach Matthias, and the revered Secretary of State would

  delay.

  And a part of Daniel Stem-not the professional but the person inside-did

  not object. A man should not die because he is right, because be is sane.

  Yet Stem bad done his professional best to make the options clear, to

  justify that death if it came down to it. And he had been fortunate in one

  respect, he thought as he approached the door to the outer reception room.

  He could not have brought the problem to a fairer, more levelheaded man.

  Arthur Pierce's title-like that of so many other young middle-aged men in

  the department-was Undersecretary of State, but be was head and shoulders

  above the many others. There had been around

  154 ROBERT LUDLUM

  twenty senior personnel still in L Section when Stem reached the flfth floor

  but Pierce's name had stood out. To begin with, Pierce ~Ias not in

  Washington every day; he was assigned to the United Nations in New York as

  chief liaison between the ambassador and the State Department, a position

  decreed by Anthony Matthias, who knew what he was doing. Given a respectable

  amount of time, Arthur Pierce would be made the U.N. ambassador, and a good

  man, a decent man, would be rewarded not only for his high intelligence but

  for his decency.

  And God knew decency was needed now.... Or was it? wondered Stern,

  startling himself, his hand reaching for the knob of the reception-room

  door. The only morality here is pragmatic morality . . . There was decency

  in that for hundreds of potential victims in the field.

  No matter, it was out of his bands, Stem thought as he opened the door. The

  decision to be made and transmitted under the code name Ambiguity was on

  Pierce's conscience now. Quiet, bright, understanding Arthur Pierce-outside

  of Mikhail HavIi6ek, closest to Matthias-would ponder all sides of the

  question, then bring in others. The decision would be made by committee, if

  it was to be made. They were Ambiguity now.

  "Mr. Stem?" the receptionist called out as he passed her, heading for the

  elevator.

  "Yes?"

  "Message for you, sir."

  It said: "Daniel, III be at my office for
a while. If you're of a mind,

  come over for a drink. I'll drive you home, chicken."

  Dawson had not signed his name, nor was it necessary. The often aloof,

  circumspect attorney always seemed to know when quiet talk was called for;

  it was his warmer side. The two cold, analytical men every now and then

  needed the solace of each other's rarely seen lighter traits. Ile humorous

  offer to drive him home was a reference to Stem's distaste for Washington

  traffic. He took taxis everywhere, to the annoyance of his personal

  surveillance. Well, whatever team was on now, it could take a break and

  pick him up later at home in Virginia; Dawson's guards could serve them

  both until then.

  Ogilvie had been right, the whole business was foolish, a

  THE PARgiFAL MosAic155

  hangover from the Angleton days in Langley. Stem looked at his watch; it was

  twenty minutes past seven, but he knew the lawyer would still be at his

  office, still waiting for the quiet talk.

  They talked for over an hour before going down to Dawson's car, analyzing

  and reanalyzing the events at Costa Brava, re alizing there was no

  explanation, no answer within their grasp. Each bad called his wife; both

  women were inured to the interminable hours demanded at State, and claimed

  to understand. Each lied and both husbands understood; the clandestine

  regions of government placed too much strain on the marriage vows. This

  nether life would all come to an end one day. There was a far healthier

  world beyond the Potomac than either man bad known for too many years.

  "Pierce will go to Matthias, and Matthias won't consider it, you know that,

  don't you?" said Dawson, turning off the crowded highway onto the

  backeountry road in Virginia, passing luminous signs that read coNsTaucTioN

  mMAD. "He'll demand a review."

  "My conference with Pierce was one-on-one," said Stern, absently glancing

  at the rearview mirror outside the window, knowing that a pair of

  headlights would be there in moments. The watchdogs stayed on their

  leashes. "I was balanced but firm; either decision has merit, both have

  drawbacks. When be talks to his committee they may decide to go around

  Matthias because of the time factor. I emphasized it. In less than three

  hours our people will be in Col des Moulinets; so will Havelock. They have

  to know how to proceed."

  "Whatever comes down, they'll first try to take him alive."

  "That's the priority; no one here wants it otherwise." Stem looked through

  the flashing shadows at the attorney. "But I doet kid myself, you were

  right before. If it comes down 'beyond salvage,' he's dead. les a license

  to kill someone wbo'll kill you if be can."

  "Not necessarily. I may have overreacted. If the order's clear-dispatch the

  last resort-I could be wrong."

  "Yotere wrong now, I'm afraid. Do you think Havelock will-give them a

  choice? He survived the Palatine; he'll use every trick in his very thick

  book. No one'll get close enough

  156 RoBERT LUDLUM

  to take him. But getting him in a rifle sight is another matter. That can be

  done and no doubt will be."

  "rm not sure I agree."

  "That's better than not supporting me."

  "It's easier," said Dawson, smiling briefly. "But Havelock doesn , t know

  we found the man in Civitavecchia; he doesn't know we're on. him in Col des

  Moulinets."

  "He'll assume it. He told Baylor about the Karas woman getting out, how

  he's convinced she got out. Hell expect us to follow up. Well concentrate

  on her, of course. If it is jenna Karas, she's the answer to everything;

  we'd be home free without a shot. Then with Havelock we can go after the

  mess here. That's the optimum, and I hope to Christ it happens. But it may

  not."

  "And then we're left with a man in the cross hairs of a rifle scope," said

  Dawson with an edge to his voice, as be accelerated down the flat stretch

  of backeountry road. "if it is the Karas woman, we've got to find her. We

  have to."

  "No matter who it is, well do our damnedest," said Stem, his eyes again

  straying to the mirror outside the window. There were no headlights.

  "That's odd. The watchdogs strayed, or your foot's outracing them."

  "There was a lot of trafric on the highway. If they got in a slow lane,

  they could crack their butts breaking out. It's Friday in Virginia, swizzle

  time for the bunt-country diplomats. On nights like this, I begin to

  understand why you don't drive."

  "What team's on tonight, by the way?"

  The question was never answered. Instead, an ear-sbattering scream exploded

  from the attorney's throat as the deafening impact came, smashing the

  windshield into a thousand blades of flying glass, piercing flesh and eyes,

  severing veins and arteries. Metal shrieked against metal, twisting,

  breaking, curling, crushing against itself as the left side of the car rose

  off the ground, throwing the bodies into the well of deep-red rivulets

  below.

  The steel behemoth of yellow and black, its colors glistening in the

  reflection of its single front floodlight, vibrated thunderously; the giant

  treads of its spiked cables rolled through the huge wheel casings,

  relentlessly pressing the monster forward. This enormous machine that moved

  earth from mountains and forests now crawled ahead, crushing the

  TnE PARsiFAL Mosmc157

  demolished vehicle as it sent it over and beyond the road. The attorney's

  car plunged down the steep incline of a shallow ravine; the fuel tank

  exploded, and fire spread everywhere, consuming the bodies within the car.

  Then the brightly colored machine, its curved implement of destruction

  hydraulically raised in triumph, jerked back and forth, its massive gears

  remeshing, the pitch of the sound higher-an animal proclaiming its kill.

  And with sporadic but deliberate movements it retreated across the road

  into its lair at the edge of the woods.

  High in the darkness of the cab the unseen driver turned off the engine and

  raised a hand-held radio to his lips.

  "Ambiguity terminated," be said.

  "Get out of there," was the reply.

  The long gray sedan roared out of the highway exit into the backeountry

  road. As the license plates indicated, the vehicle was registered in the

  State of North Carolina, but a persistent investigator could learn that the

  individual in Raleigh listed as the owner was in reality one of twenty-four

  men stationed in Washington, D.C. They were a unit, each having had

  extensive experience in military police and counterintelligence; they were

  assigned to the Department of State. The car now racing down the dark

  country road in Virginia was one of a fleet of twelve; they, too, were

  assigned to State, Division of Consular Operations.

  "File a report with the insurance company in Raleigh," said the man sitting

  next to the driver, speaking into a microphone attached to a large radio

  console beneath the dashboard. "Some clown sideswiped us, and we plowed

  into a guy from Jersey. There was no damage to us, of course, but he

  doesn't have much of a trunk left. We wanted to get out of there, so we
/>
  told him-'

  "Grahand"

  "What?"

  "Up aheadl The firel"

  "Jesus Christl Movel-

  The gray sedan leaped forward, the sound of its powerful engine eeboing

  through the dark Virginia countryside. Nine seconds later it reached the

  steep incline that fronted the shallow ravine, and tires screeched as the

  brakes were applied. Both men leaped out and raced to the edge, the heat

  158 RoBERT LUDLUM

  of the flames directly below causing both to step back, with their bands

  shielding their eyes from the fire.

  "Ob, my Godl" cried the driver. "It's Dawson~s carl Maybe we can--"

  "Nol" shouted the man named Graham, stopping his associate from crawling

  down the flank of the ravine. His eyes were drawn to the yellow-and-black

  bulldozer standing motionless in its recess on the side of the road. Then

  . "Millerl" he screamed. "Where's Wer?"

  "The chart said Bethesda, I think."

  "Find himl" ordered Graham, running across the road, crouching, reaching

  behind for the weapon in his hip holster. "Get Bethesdal Raise himl-

  The bead nurse at the reception counter on the sixth floor of the Bethesda

  Naval Hospital was adamant. Neither did she appreciate the aggressive tone

  of voice used by the man on the telephone; it was a poor connection to begin

  with, and his shouting only made it worse.

  "I repeat, Dr. Miller is in psychiatric session and can't be disturbed.-

  "You get him on the line and you get him on now? This is a Four Zero

  emergency, Department of State, Consular Operations. This is a direct order

  routed and coded through State's switchboard. Confirm, please."

  "Confirmed," said a third voice flatly. "This is operator one-seven, State,

  for your recheck."

  "Very well, operator one-seven, and you may be sure we will check." The

  nurse jammed her forefinger on the hold button, cutting off further

  conversation, as she got out of her chair and walked around the counter. It

  was hysterical men hke the so-called special agent from Consular Operations

  that kept the psychiatric wards in full operation, she thought as she

  proceeded down the white corridor toward the row of therapy rooms. They

  screamed emergency for the flimsiest reason, more often than not trying to