Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  the kill and the background of the foreign service officer who was the

  primary target. Michael began studying every face in the room, isolating

  each, watching eyes, seeing if any strayed to the oddly matched pair at the

  center table. After the faces came the clothes, especially those belonging

  to the few faces angled away from him. Shoes, trousers and belts where they

  could be seen; shirts, jackets, hats and whatever jewelry was visible. He

  kept trying to spot another chronometer or an Alpine windbreaker or soft

  leather shoes. Inconsistencies. If they were there, he could not find them.

  With the exception of the two men at the center table, the drinkers at the

  inn were a ramshackle collection of mountain people. Farmers, guides,

  storekeepers-apparently French from across the bridge-and, of course, the,

  border guards.

  "Ehil Che avete?" The words were hurled at him, a soldier's challenge. The

  sergeant from the truck stood, with his hand on his holster, in the

  semidarkness of the path that led to the entrance of the inn.

  'Mia sposa," said Havelock quickly, his voice low, urgent, properly

  respectful. "Noi siamo molto disturbati, Signor Maggiore. lo vado ad

  aiutare una ragazza francese. Lh mia sposa mi seguireil"

  The soldier grinned and removed his hand from the gun ewe. He admonished

  Havelock in barracks Italian: "So the men of Monesi still go across the

  border for French ass, eh? If your wife's not in there, she's probably back

  in your own bedroom being pumped by a Frenchmanl Did you ever think of

  that?"

  "The way of the world, Major," rephed Michael obsequiously, shrugging, and

  wLshing to Christ the loudmouthed dolt

  THE PAmiFAL MosAic175

  would go inside and leave him alone. He had to get back to the windowl

  "You~re not from Monesi," said the sergeant, suddenly alarmed. '-fou don't

  talk like a man from Monesi. 11

  "The Swiss border, Major. I come from Lugano. I moved here two years ago."

  The soldier was silent for a moment, his eyes squinting. Havelock slowly

  moved his hand in the shadows toward his waist, where, secured

  uncomfortably under his belt, was the heavy magnum with the silencer

  attached. There could be no sounds of gunfire, if it came to that.

  ~ Finally the sergeant threw up his hands, shaking his head in disgust.

  "Swissl Italian-Swiss, but more Swiss than Italianl All of youl Sneaky

  bastards. I won't serve in a battalion north of Milan, I swear it. I'll get

  out of the army first. Go back to your sneaking, Swissl" He turned and

  stalked into the inn.

  Inside, another door-the narrow door to the men's roomwas opened. A man

  walked out, and Michael not only knew he had found a third weapon in the

  unit from Rome, but realized there had to be a fourth. The man was part of

  a team-two demolition experts who worked together-veteran mercenaries who

  had spent several years in Africa blowing tip everything from dams and

  airports to grand villas suddenly occupied by inept despots in Graustarkian

  regalia. The CIA had found them in Angola, on the wrong side, but the

  American dollar was healthier then, and persuasive. The two experts had

  been placed in a single black-bordered file deep in the cabinets of

  clandestine operations.

  And their being at the bridge of Col. des Moulinets gave Havelock a vital

  piece of information: a vehicle or vehicles were anticipated. Either one of

  these two demolition specialists could pause for ten seconds by an

  automobile, and ten minutes later it would explode killing everyone in the

  immediate vicinity. Jenna Karas wa~ expected to cross the border by car;

  minutes later she would be dead, a successful, nonattributable kill.

  The airfield. Rome had learned about the airfield from the man in

  Civitavecchia. Somewhere on the road out of Col des Motilinets, whatever

  conveyance she was in would be blown into the night sky.

  Michael dropped to the ground behind the pine tree.

  1718 RoBERT LUDLUM

  Through the window he could see the explosives, expert walking directly to

  the front door of the inn; the man glanced at his watch, as the blond killer

  had done minutes ago. A schedule was in progress, but what schedule?

  The man emerged; his swarthy face looked even darker in the dim light of

  the post lamp at the end of the path. He began walking faster, but the

  acceleration was barely perceptible; this was a professional who knew the

  value of control. Havelock rose cautiously, prepared to follow; he glanced

  at the window, then looked again, alarmed. Inside, by the bar, the sergeant

  was talking to the blond recruit he called Ricci, obviously delivering an

  unwanted order. The killer seemed to be protesting, raising his beer as if

  it were much needed medicine and thus an excuse for not obeying. Then be

  grimaced, drank his drink in several swallows, and started for the door.

  The schedule was being adhered to. Through prearrangement, someone at the

  bridge bad been instructed to call for the new recruit in advance of the

  duty hour; be was to be rostered before the shift was over. Procedural

  methods would be the cover, and no one would argue, but it was not pro-

  cedure, it was the schedule.

  They knew. The unit from Rome knew that jenna Karas was on her way to the

  bridge. A motor launch bad been picked up in Anna di Taggia, and the party

  had been followed; the vehicle in which she traveled into the Ligurian

  mountains was now spotted within minutes of its arrival at the checkpoint

  of Col des Moulinets. It was logical: what better time to cross a border

  than at the end of a shift, when the soldiers were tired, weary of the dull

  monotony, waiting for relief, more careless than usual?

  The door opened, and Michael crouched again, peering to his right through

  the branches of the pine tree at the road beyond the post lamp. The

  mercenary had crossed diagonally to the shoulder on the other side, bearing

  left toward the bridge-an ordinary stroller, a Frenchman perhaps, returning

  to Col des Moulinets. But in moments he would fade into the woods, taking

  up a predetermined position east of the bridge's entrance, from which he

  could crawl to an automobile briefly held up by the guards. The blond

  killer was now halfway to the post lamp; he paused, lighting a cigarette,

  an action that gave another reason for his delay. He heard the

  THE PARsiFAL MosAic177

  sound of the door being opened, and was satisfied. The "soldier" continued

  on his way as the two men from the center table-the American agent of record

  and his roughly dressed companion, the second weapon in the unit from

  Rome-came out.

  Havelock understood now. The trap bad been engineered with precision; in a

  matter of minutes it would be in place. Two expert marksmen would take out

  the intruder who tried to interfere with the car carrying Jenna Karas-take

  him out instantly, the second be came in sight, with a fusillade of

  bullets; and two demolition specialists would guarantee that the automobile

  waved through would explode somewhere in the streets of Col des Moulinets,

  or on a road to an unmarked airfield.

  Another assumpti
on could be made beyond the fact that there was a schedule

  in progress that included a car on its way to the bridge. The unit from

  Rome knew be was there, knew he would be close enough to the border patrols

  to observe all those in any vehicle offering passports to the guards. They

  would examine closely every male figure that came into view, their hands on

  their weapons as they did so. Their advantage was in their numbers, but be,

  too, bad an advantage and it was considerable: he knew who they were.

  The well-dressed American and his employee, the second gun, separated at

  the road, the agent of record turning right in order to remove himself from

  the execution ground, the killer going left and to the bridge. Two small

  trucks clattered up the road from Monesi, one with only a single headlight,

  the other with both headlights but no windshield. Neither the American nor

  his hired weapon paid any attention; they knew the vehicle they were

  waiting for, and it was neither of these.

  If you know a strategy, you can counter a strategy-his father's words so

  many years ago. He could recall the tall, erudite man patiently explaining

  to a cell of partisans, calming their fears, channeling their angers.

  Lidice was their cause, the death of Germans their objective. He remembered

  it an now as he crept back to the driveway and raced across into the woods.

  He got his first glimpse of the bridge from three hundred yards away on the

  edge of the bend in the road that led to

  178 ROBERT LuDLum

  the country inn-the curve he had avoided by heading into the woods. From

  what he could see, it was narrow and not long, which was a blessing for

  drivers because two cars crossing at the same time would no doubt graze

  fenders. A dual string of naked bulbs was now lit; it arced over the central

  steel span, sagging between the struts; several of the bulbs had burned out,

  to be replaced when others joined them. The checkpoint itself consisted of

  two opposing structures that served as gatehouses, the windows high and

  wide, each with a ceiling light fixture; between the two small, square

  buildings a hand-winched barrier painted with intense, light-reflecting

  orange fell across the road. To the right of the winch was a shoulder-high

  gate that opened onto the pedestrian walk.

  Two soldiers in their brown uniforms with the red and green stripes were on

  either side of the second truck, talking wearily but animatedly with the

  driver. A third guard was at the rear, his attention not on the truck but

  on the woods beyond the bridge. He was studying the areas on both sides as

  a hunter might when stalking a wounded mountain cat; he stood motionless,

  his eyes roving, his head barely turning. He was the blond assassin. Who

  would suspect that a lowly soldier at a border checkpoint was a killer with

  a range of accomplishments that spanned the Mediterranean?

  A fourth man had just been passed through the pedestrian gate. He was

  trudging slowly up the slight incline toward the midpoint of the bridge.

  But this man had no intention of crossing to the other side, no intention

  of greeting the French patrols in Ligurian patois, claiming as so many did

  that the air was different in la beUe France and thank God for slender

  women. No, thought Michael, this crudely dressed peasant of the mountains

  with the drooping trousers and the large, heavy jacket would remain in the

  center shadows and, if the light was dim enough, would check his weapon, no

  doubt a braced, repeating, rapid-fire machine gun, its stock a steel bar

  clamped to the shoulders, easily concealed beneath garments. He would

  release the safety and be prepared to race down to the checkpoint at the

  moment of execution, ready to kill the Italian guards if they interfered,

  intent on firing into the body of a man coming out of the darkness to reach

  a woman crossing the border. This man, last seen at a

  THE PAmrrAL Mosmc 179

  center table in the country inn, was the backup support for the blond-haired

  killer.

  It was a gauntlet, at once simple and well manned, using natural and

  procedural roadblocks; once the target entered, he was trapped both within

  and without. Two men waited with explosives and weapons at the mouth of the

  trap, one at its core, and a fourth at its outer rim. Well conceived, very

  professional.

  12

  Ile tiny glow of a cupped cigarette could be seen in the bushes diagonally

  across the dark road. Bad form. The agent of record was an indulgent man

  denying himself neither chronometers nor cigarettes during the early stages

  of a kilL He should be replaced; he would be replaced.

  Havelock judged the angle of the cigarette, its distance to the ground; the

  man was crouched or sitting, not standing. Because of the density of the

  foliage it was impossible for the man to see the road clearly, which meant

  that he did not expect the car with Jenna Karas for some time yet; he was

  being too casual for an imminent sighting. The sergeant had said in the

  driveway that the soldiers had an hour to fill their kidneys; twenty

  minutes had passed, leaving forty. Yet not really forty. The final ten

  minutes of the shift would be avoided because the changing of the guard

  would require an exchange of information, no matter how inconsequential or

  pro forma. Michael bad very little time to do what had to be done, to mount

  his own counterstrategy. First, he had to learn all he could of Rome's.

  He sidestepped his way back along the edge of the foliage until the distant

  spill of light from the bridge was virtually blocked by the trees. He ran

  across the road and into the underbrush, turning left, testing every step

  to ensure the silence that was essential. For a brief, terrible moment he

  was back 180

  THE PAnsrFAL MosAic181

  in the forests outside Prague, the echoes of the guns of Lidice in his ears,

  the sight of screaming, writhing bodies before his eyes. Then he snapped

  back to the immediate present, remembering who and where he was. He was the

  mountain cat; the most meaningful lair of his life had been soiled, cor-

  rupted by liars who were no better than those who commanded the guns at

  Lidice-or others who ordered "suicides" and gulags when the guns were

  stilled. He was in his element, in the forest, which had befriended him when

  he had no one to depend on, and no one understood it better.

  The agent of record was sitting on a rock and, true to his indulgence, was

  playing with his watch, apparently pushing buttons, controlling time,

  master of the half-second. Havelock reached into his pocket and took out

  one of the items he bad purchased in Monesi, a four-inch fish-scaling knife

  encased in a leather scabbard. He parted the branches in front of him,

  crouched low, then lunged.

  "Youl Jesus ChrW1 . . . Don'tl What are you doing? Oh, my Godl"

  "You talk above a whisper, you won't have a facel" Michaers knee was rammed

  into the agent's throat, the razor-sharp, jagged blade pressed against the

  man's ebeek below his left eye. "This knife cleans fish, you son of a

  bitch. I'll peel your skin off unless you tell me what I want to know.

 
Right now."

  "Yoere a maniael"

  "And you~re the loser, if you believe that. How long have you been here?"

  "Twenty-six hours."

  "Who gave the order?"

  "How do I know."

  "Because even an asshole like you would cover yourselfl Ies the first thing

  we learn in dispatch, isn~t it? The orderl Who gave it?"

  "Ambiguityl The code was Ambiguity," cried the agent of record, as the

  scaling edge of the blade dug into his face. "I swear to Christ, that's all

  I knowl Whoever used it was cleared by Cons Op-D.C. It can be traced back

  therel Jesus, I only know our orders came from the codel It was our clear-

  ancel"

  "I'll accept it. Now, give me the step schedule. AU of ft.

  182 RoBEnT Lmxum

  You picked her up in Arma di Taggia, and shes been followed ever since.

  HowP"

  "Change of vehicles up from the coast."

  "Where is she now? Whaesthe car? When's it expectedP"

  "A Lancia. The ETA, as of a half hour ago, barring-"

  "Cut it outl WhenP-

  'Seven-forty arrival. A bug was planted in the car; theyll be here at

  twenty of eight."

  "I know you don't have a radio, a radio'd be evidence in your case. How

  were you contacted?"

  "Me phone at the inn. leswl Get that thing away from mel"

  "Not yet, sane man. The schedule, the steps? Who's on the car now?"

  "Two men in a beat-up truck, a quarter of a mile behind. In case you

  intercept, tbeyll hear it and be on you."

  "If Idon't, then what?"

  "We've made arrangements. Starting at seven-thirty, everyone crossing the

  border gets out of his car or truck or whatever. Vehicles are searebed-we

  spread lire-so one way or the other shell have to show herself."

  "Tbat's when you figured I'd come out?"

  "If we . . . they . . . don't find you first. They think they'll spot you

  before she gets here."

  "And if they don't?"

  "I don't knowl It's their plan."

  "It's your planf" Havelock broke the skin on the agenes face; blood

  streaked down his cheek.

  "Cbristl Don't, pleasel"

  "Tell mel"

  "Ies made to look like you attacked. They know you've got a weapon whether

  you show it or not. They nail you and pull it out if it's not in your hand.