Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  penalize her."

  "The answer to the first is yes. The second, no."

  "Then I will tell you. She asked me if I knew the airfield near Col des

  Moulinets. I did not. I never heard of it."

  "An airfield?" Michael understood. It was added information he would not

  have been given ten seconds ago. "A bridge over a mountain river, and an

  airfield. Tonight."

  "That is all I can tell you."

  The mountain road leading out of Monesi toward the French border was wide

  enough, but the profusion of rock and boulder and bordering overgrowth made

  it appear narrow, more suited to heavy-wheeled trucks and rugged jeeps than

  to any normal automobile. It was the excuse that Michael used to travel the

  last balf-mile on foot, to the relief of the taxi driver from Monesi.

  He had learned there was a country inn just before the bridge, a watering

  spot for the Italian and French patrols, where both languages were

  sufficiently understood by the small garrisons on either side, as well as

  by the few nationals and fewer tourists who occasionally passed back and

  forth. From what little Havelock had seen and had been told, the captain of

  the Santa Teresa was right. The border checkpoint of Col des Moulinets was

  at a minor pass in the lower Alps, not easily accessible and poorly

  staffed, manned no doubt because it was there-had been for decades-and no

  bureaucratic legislation had bothered to remove it. The general flow of

  traffic between the two countries used either the wide

  168 RoBEr-tT LunLum

  coast roads of the Mediterranean fifteen miles south or the larger, more

  accommodating passes in the north, such as Col de Larche or Col de la

  Madeleine, west of Turin.

  The late-afternoon sun was now a fan-shaped are of deep orange and yellows,

  spraying up from behind the higher mountains, filling the sky above the

  Maritimes with receding echoes of light. The shadows on the primitive road

  were growing longer, sharper; in minutes their outlines would fade and they

  would become obscure shapes, indistinguishable in the gray darkness of

  early evening. Michael walked along the edge of the woods, prepared to

  spring into the underbrush at the first sounds not part of the forest. He

  knew that every move he made had to be prejudged on the assumption that

  Rome had learned about Col des Moulinets. He had not lied to the captain of

  the Santa Teresa, there could be any number of reasons why those working

  for the embassy would stay away from a ship in international waters. The

  slow freighter could be tracked and watched-very likely had been-but it was

  another matter to board her in a legitimate official capacity. It was a

  high-risk tactic; inquiries too easily could be raised with a commissione.

  Had Rome found the man in Civitavecchia? He could only presume that others

  could do what he had done; no one was that exceptional or that lucky. He

  had in his anger-no, his outrage-shouted the name of the port city into the

  phone and Baylor had repeated it. If the wounded intelligence officer was

  capable of functioning after the Palatine, he would order his people to

  prowl the Civitavecchia waterfront and find a broker of illegal passage.

  Yet there were always gaps, spaces that could not be filled.

  Would the man in Civitavecchia name the specific ship,

  knowing that if he did so, he'd never again be trusted on the

  waterfront? Trusted, hell; he could be killed in any one of a

  dozen mist-filled back streets. Or might he plead ignorance

  to that phase of the escape-sold by others unknown to him

  but reveal Col des Moulinets so as to,curry favor with pow

  erful Americans in Rome, who everyone knew were

  inordinately generous with those they favored . . . . . One

  more refugee from the Balkans, where was the sin, signori?"

  So many gaps, so little that was concrete . . . so little time to think, so

  many inconsistencies. Who would have thought there'd be a tired, aging

  captain opposed to trafficking in the

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAJC109

  profitable world of narcotics and contraband but perfectly willing to

  smuggle refugees out of Italy-no less a risk no less a cause for

  imprisonment?

  Or blunt Red Ogilvie, a violent man who never stopped trying to justify

  violence. There was ambivalence in that strange justification. What had

  driven John Philip Ogilvie? Why does a man strain all his life to break out

  of self-imposed chains? Who really was the Apache? The Gunslinger? Whoever

  and whatever, he had died violently at the very moment he had understood a

  violent truth. The liars were in control in Washington.

  Above all, Jenna. His love who had not betrayed that love but, instead, had

  been betrayed., How could she have believed the liars? What could they have

  said to her, what irrefutable proof could they have presented that she

  would accept? Most important of all, who were the liars? What were their

  names and where had they come from?

  He was so close now that he could sense it, feel it with every step he took

  on the darkening mountain road. Before the disappearing sun came up on the

  other side of the world, he would have the answers, have his love back. If

  his enemies had come from Rome, they were not a match for him; he knew

  that. His belief in himself swelled within him; it was unjustified all too

  often, but it was necessary. One did not come out of the early days, the

  terrible days, and survive without it. Each step and he was nearer.

  And when he had the answers, and his love, the call would be made to a

  cabin in another range of mountains thousands of miles away. To the Blue

  Ridge and the Sbenandoah, U.S.A. His mentor, his pfitel, Anton Matthias,

  would be presented with a conspiracy that reached into the bowels of

  clandestine operations, its existence incontrovertible, its purpose

  unknown.

  Suddenly he saw a small circle of light up ahead, shining through the

  foliage on the left-hand side of the road. He crouched and studied it,

  trying to define it. It did not move; it was merely there, where no light

  had been before. He crept forward, mesmerized, frightened; what was it?

  Then he stood up, relieved, breathing again. There was a bend in the road,

  and in its cradle were the outlines of a building; it was the country inn.

  Someone had just turned on an outside post lamp; other lights would follow

  shortly. The

  170 ROBERT LUDLVM

  darkness had come abruptly, as if the sun bad dropped into a chasm; the tall

  pines and the massive boulders blocked the shafts of orange and yellow that

  could still be seen in the sky. Ught now appeared in windows, three on the

  nearest side, more in front-bow many be could not tell, but at least six,

  judging from the spin that washed over the grass and graveled entrance of

  the building.

  Michael stepped into the woods to check the underbrush and foliage. Both

  were manageable, so be made his way toward the three lighted windows. There

  was no point in staying on the road any longer; if there were surprises in

  store, he did not care to be on the receiving end.

  He reached the border of the woods, where
the thick trunk of a pine tree

  stood between him and a deeply rutted driveway of bard mud. The drive

  extended along the side of the inn and curved behind it into some kind of

  parking area next to what appeared to be a delivery entrance. The distance

  to the window directly across was about twenty-five feet; be stepped out

  from behind the tree.

  Instantly be was blinded by headlights. The truck tbundered out of the

  primitive road thirty yards to his right, careening into the narrow

  driveway of ridged mud. Havelock spun back into the foliage, behind the

  trunk of the pine tree, and reached for the Spanish automatic strapped to

  his chest. The truck bounced past, pitching and rolling over the hardened

  ruts of the drive like a small barge in choppy water. From inside the van

  could be beard the angry shouts of men objecting to the discomfort of their

  ride.

  Havelock could not tell whether he bad been seen or not; again he crouched

  for protective cover and watched. The truck lurched to a stop at the

  entrance of the wide, flat parking area; the driver opened his door and

  jumped to the ground. Prepared to race into the woods, Michael crept back

  several feet. It was not necessary; the driver stretched while swearing in

  Italian, his figure suddenly caught in the spin of a floodlight someone had

  switched on from inside the buildIng. What the light revealed was

  bewildering: the driver was In the uniform of the Italian army, the

  insignia that of a border guard. He walked to the back of the truck and

  opened the large double doors.

  "Cit ou4 you bastardsl" he shouted in Italian. "You~ve got

  THE PAwiFAL MosAic171

  about an hour to fill your kidneys before you go on duty. I'll walk up to

  the bridge and tell the others we're here."

  "The way you drive, Sergeant," said a soldier, grimacing as be stepped out,

  "they heard you halfway back to Monesi.'

  "Up yoursl"

  Three other men got out, stamping their feet, and stretching; all were

  guards.

  The sergeant continued, "Paolo, you take the new man. Teach him the rules."

  As the noncommissioned officer lumbered up the driveway past Havelock, he

  scratched his groin and pulled down the underwear beneath his

  trousers-signs of a long, uncomfortable trip.

  "You, Riccil" shouted a soldier at the rear of the truck looking up into

  the van. "Your name's Ricci, right?"

  "Yes," said the voice from inside, and a fifth figure emerged from the

  shadows.

  "Yoifve got the best duty you'll find in the army, paesanol The quarters

  are up at the bridge, but we have an arrangement: we damn near live here.

  We don~t go up there until we go on. Once you walk in, you sign in,

  understand?"

  "I understand," said the soldier named Ricci.

  But his name was not Ricci, thought Michael, staring at the blond man

  slapping his barracks hat against his left hand. Havelock's mind raced back

  over a dozen photographs; his mind's eye selected one. The man was not a

  soldier in the Italian army-certainly no border guard. He was a Corsican,

  a very proficient drone with a rifle or a handgun, a string of wire or a

  knife. His real name was irrelevant; be used too many to count. He was a

  "specialist" used only in "extreme prejudice" situations, a reliable

  executioner who knew his way around the western Mediterranean better than

  most such men, as much at home in the Balearic Islands as he was in the

  forests of Sicily. His photograph and a file of his known accomplishments

  had been provided Michael several years ago by a CIA agent in a sealed-off

  room at Palombara. Havelock had tracked a Brigate Rosse unit and was moving

  in for a nonattributable kill; be had rejected the blond an now standing

  thirty feet away from him in the floodlit driveway. He bad not cared to

  trust him then, but Rome did now.

  Rome did know. The embassy bad found a man in Civitavecchia, and Rome had

  sent an executioner-for a nonattributable kill. Something or someone had

  convinced the hars

  172 RoBERT LuDLum

  in Washington that a former field officer was now a threat only if he lived,

  so they had put out the word that he was "beyond salvage," his immediate

  dispatch the highest priority. Nonattributable, of course.

  The liars could not let him reach Jenna Karas, for she was part of their

  lie, her mock death on the Spanish coast intrinsic to it. Yet Jenna was

  running too; somehow, some way after Costa Brava she bad escaped. Was she

  now included in the execution order? It was inevitable; the bait could not

  be permitted to live, and therefore the blond assassin was not the only

  killer on the bridge at Col des Moulinets. On, or near it.

  The four soldiers and the new recruit started toward the rear entrance of

  the country inn. The door beneath the floodlight was opened, and a heavyset

  man spoke in a loud voice. "If you pigs spent all your money in Monesi,

  stay the bell out of berel"

  "Ab, Gianni, then we'd have to close you up for selling French girls higher

  than oursf"

  "You payl"

  "Ricci," one of the soldiers said, "this is Gianni the thief. He owns this

  dung heap. Be careful what you eat."

  "I have to use the bathroom,' said the new recruit. He had just looked at

  his watch; it was an odd thing to do.

  "Who doesn't?" shouted another soldier as all five went inside.

  The instant the door closed, Havelock ran across the drive to the first

  window. It looked in on a dining room. The tables were covered with

  red-checked cloths, with cheap silver and glassware in place, but there

  were no diners; either it was too early for the kitchen or there were no

  takers that afternoon. Beyond, separated only by a wide archway that ex-

  tended the length of the wall, was the larger central barroom. From what he

  could see, there were a number of people seated at small round

  tables-between ten and fifteen would be his estimate, nearly all men. The

  two women in his sigbt lines were in their sixties, one fat, one gaunt,

  sitting at adjacent tables with mustachioed men; they were both talking and

  drinking beer. Teatime in the Ligurian Alps. He wondered if there were any

  other women in that room; be wondered-bis chest aching-if Jenna was huddled

  at a corner table he could not see. If that was the case, he had to be

  .1;i1E pAWMAL MOSAIc173

  able to watch a door from the rear quarters-from the kitchen, perhaps-from

  which the five soldiers had to emerge into the barroom. He had to be able to

  see. The next few minutes could tell him what he needed to know: who among

  the clientele in that barroom would the blond killer recognize, if only with

  a glance, a twitch of his lips, or an almost imperceptible nod?

  Michael crouched and ran to the second window along the drive; the angle of

  vision was still too restricting. He raced to the third, appraised the view

  and rejected it, then rounded the comer of the building to the first window

  in front. He could see the door nOW-CUCINA, the lettering said; the five

  soldiers would walk out of that door any second, but he could not see all

  the tables. There were
two windows remaining that faced the stone path

  leading to the entrance. The second window was too close to the door for

  reasonable cover, but he held his breath and crawled swiftly to it, then

  stood up in the shadow of a spreading pine. He inched his face to the

  glass, and what he saw allowed him to let out the breath he had held. Jenna

  Karas was not an ambushed target sitting in a comer. The window was beyond

  the inside archway; he could see not only the kitchen entrance but every

  table, every person in the room. Jenna was not there. And then his eyes

  strayed to the far-right wall; there was another door, a narrow door with

  two separate lines of letters. Uomini and Hommes, the men's room.

  The door labeled cuciNA swung open and the five soldiers straggled in;

  Gianni the thief had his hand on the shoulder of the blond man whose name

  was not Ricci. Havelock stared at the killer, stared at the eyes with all

  his concentration. The owner of the inn gestured to his left-Michaels

  right-and the assassin started across the room toward the men's room. The

  eyes. Watch the eyesl

  It camel Barely a flicker of the lids, but it was there, the glance was

  there. Recognition. Havelock followed the blond man's line of sight.

  Confirmed. Two men were at a table in the center of the room; one had

  lowered his eyes to his drink while talking, the other-bad form-bad

  actually shifted his legs so as to turn his bead away from the path of the

  killer's movement. Two more members of the unit-but only one of them was

  active. The other was an observer. The man who had shifted his legs was the

  agent of record who would con-

  174 RoBEnT LuoLum

  firm the dispatch but in no way participate. He was an American; his

  mistakes bore it out. His jacket was an expensive Swiss windbreaker, wrong

  for the scene and out of season; his shoes were soft black leather, and be

  wore a shiny digital chronometer on his wrist-all so impressive, so irresis-

  tible to a swollen paycheck overseas, so in contrast to the shabby mountain

  garments of his companion. So American. The agent of record-but it was a

  file no more than six en alive would ever see.

  Something else was inconsistent; it was in the numbers. A unit of three

  with only two active weapons was understaffed, considering the priority of