Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  It doesn't matter; it's only for confusion. Theyll run; the truck's got a

  good engine."

  "And the car? What about the car?"

  "ies shoved through. We just want it out of there. She's not Karas, she's

  a Soviet lure. We're to let Moscow have her back. The French won't argue,

  a guard was paid."

  "Liarl Goddamned liarl" Michael slid the blade of the fishing knife across

  the agent's face to the other cheek. "Liars should be markedl You're going

  to be marked, liarl" He broke the skin with the point. "Those two nitro

  clowns, the

  THE PARswAL Mosmc 183

  ones who worked Africa-Tanzania, Mozambique, Angolathey're not here for the

  mountain air, liarl"

  "Oh, Jesusl You're killing mel"

  "Not yet, but it's entirely possible. Whats their act?"

  "They're just backupsl Ricci brought theml"

  "The Corsican?'

  "I don't know ... Corsican."

  'Me blond."

  "Yesl Don't cut mel Please, don't cut mel"

  "Backups? Like your friend at the table?"

  'Me table? Christ, what are you?"

  "An observer, and you're stupid. For you, they're only guns?"

  "Jesus, yesl That's what they arel"

  So the liars in Washington hed even to their own in Rome. Jerma Karas did

  not exist. The woman in the car was to be dispatched beyond Rome's

  cognizance. Liarsf Killersl

  WhyP

  "Where are they?"

  "I'm bleedingl I've got blood in my mouthl"

  "Youll drown in it if you don't tell me. Where?"

  "One on both sidesl Twenty, thirty feet before the gate. Christ, rm dyingl"

  "No, you're not dying, agent of record. You're just marked; you're

  finished. You're not worth surgery." Havelock switched the knife to his

  left band and raised his right, his fingers straight out, taut, the muscles

  of the palm's underside rigid. He crashed his hand into the man's throat;

  be would be immobilized for no less than an hour. It would be long enough;

  it had to be.

  He crawled through the underbrush, sure of his footing, at home in the

  friendly forest.

  He found him. The man was on his knees bunched over a canvas bag-a knapsack

  or a small duffel; the fight from the bridge was just bright enough to

  outline the figure and too dim to make it clearly visible if one did not

  know what to look for. Suddenly there was the growing sound of an engine

  accompanied by the clatter of a loose tailpipe or a bumper making contact

  with the rock-filled road. Michael spun around, holding his breath, his

  hand reaching toward his belt. X broken-down van came into view. A

  sickening feeling

  184 ROBErtT LuDLum

  spreading through him, he wondered, Had the agent lied? He looked back at

  the explosives specialist; the man crouched lower, making no other move at

  all, and Havelock slowly let out his breath.

  The van rattled by and stopped at the bridge. The blond killer was standing

  by a guard; he bad obviously been instructed to observe procedure, but

  instead, his eyes were roaming the woods and the road below. Loud voices

  filled the gate area: a couple in the van was objecting to the unexpected

  demand to get out; apparently, they made the trip daily across the border.

  Michael knew the noise was his cover; be crept forward. He was within seven

  feet of the man when the rear door of the van was opened and the shouted

  obscenities rose to a crescendo. The door was slammed shut. Havelock lunged

  out of the underbrush, arms extended with fingers curved for the attack.

  "Che mai ... ?"

  The specialist bad no chance to experience further shock. His head was

  slammed into soft earth and rock, his neck vised by Michael's right hand;

  he coughed spastically and went limp. Havelock turned the unconscious body

  over, and whipping the man's belt out of the trousers, he slipped it under

  the arms beneath the shoulder blades, and yanked it taut, then looped it

  over and knotted it. He removed the Llarna automatic from his chest holster

  and brought the short barrel down on the man's bead above the right temple,

  extending the time during which the expert would remain unconscious.

  Michael tore into the canvas bag. It was a specialist's mobile laboratory,

  filled with compact blocks of dynamite and soft rolls of plastic explosive.

  The devices with wires extending from miniaturized clocks with radium dials

  were detonators, with positive and negative poles plugged into one another

  across the letbal powder, set to emit charges at a given minute by a twist

  of the fingers. There was also another type of detonating device: small,

  flat, circular modules, no larger than the face of a man's watch; these

  were without wires, having only a bar with a luminous numerical readout,

  and a tiny button on the right with which to set the desired time. These

  were designed specifically for the plastic charges, buried inside, and were

  accurate within five seconds over a

  TFM PARSIFAL MOSAIC185

  time span of twenty-four hours. Havelock felt the casing of a single

  plastique. On the top surface was a self-sealing lip through which a module

  was inserted, and the bottom was marked by a flap that was to be peeled away

  several minutes before placement. The peeling process released an epoxy

  stronger than a weld; it would adhere to a second surface through earthquake

  and hurricane. He removed three charges and modules, and put them in his

  pockets. Then he crawled away, pulling the canvas bag behind him; ten feet

  farther into the forest be shoved it under a fallen pine branch. He looked

  at his watch. Twelve minutes to go.

  The yelling bad stopped at the bridge. The angry couple was back in the

  van, the guards apologizing for the crazy temporary regulations. Burocratil

  The engine was started, a series of metallic groans preceding the full roar

  of an accelerator pressed to the floor. The headlights were turned back on

  and the orange barrier raised as the gears ground abrasively and the

  decrepit vehicle crept onto the bridge. The clatter was louder now,

  actually deafening as the van rumbled across the surface of the bridge

  ridged with narrow, open metal struts. The noise echoed below and above,

  filling the air with an unrelenting staccato that made one of the guards

  wince and put both hands to his ears. The clatter, the headlights: the

  first was diversion; the second, distraction. If he could get into a decent

  line of sight, he might-just possibly-eliminate his backup executioner; be

  would not make the attempt unless the odds were his.

  The burly man in the heavy jacket would hug the rail, leaning over,

  perhaps, to be as inconspicuous as possible in the glare of the headlights,

  a weary pedestrian with too much wine in him. No single shot could be

  counted on; no man was that accurate at eighty-plus feet. But the magnum

  was a powerful weapon, the permanently attached silencer designed for zero

  sighting as mucli as any handgun could be. Therefore a marksman firing five

  or six rounds at a given target would have the probabilities on his side,

  but only if the bullets were fired in what amounted to a single burst; each

  instant of separat
ion was a margin for error. It would require a steady arm

  supported by a solid object, a view undistorted by light and shadow. it

  would not hurt to get closer, either.

  With his concentration split equally between the overgrowth in front of him

  and the blond assassin, whom he

  186 RoIBERT LUDLUM

  could see through the trees on his left, he made his way as swiftly, as

  silently, as he could to the edge of the river gorge.

  A flashlight beam shot out behind him. He scrambled behind a huge boulder,

  sliding partially down the smooth surface and catching his foot on a

  protruding ridge. His sanctuary was the top of a jagged wall of rock and

  bush that led to the roiling waters several hundred feet below. His vision

  at the far side was clear; he stared at the end of the beam of light. Some

  part of the foliage he had raced through had snapped, and the blond killer

  was standing motionless with the flashlight in his band. Gradually his

  attention waned: an animal or a night bird, he judged; there was no human

  being to be seen.

  Above, the clattering track neared the midpoint of the bridge. There he

  wasl Less than seventy feet away, he leaned over the rail, his head huddled

  deep in the collar of his heavy jacket. The clanging was thunderous now,

  the echoes full, as the backup executioner was caught in the glare of the

  headlights. Havelock spun around on the bouIder, steadying his feet on the

  flanking rocks. There would be no more than a second to make the decision,

  no more than two or three to fire the magnum during the short space of time

  when the rear of the van would block the view from the booths at the

  entrance. Full of uncertainty, Michael pulled the heavy weapon from his

  belt and braced his arm against the boulder, his feet anchored by pressure,

  his left hand gripping his right wrist to steady the barrel that was aimed

  diagonally above. He had to be sure; he could not risk the night and

  everything the night stood for. But if the odds were his ...

  They were. As the hood of the van passed the man he stood up, now

  silhouetted in the back light, a large immobile target. Havelock fired four

  rounds in rapid succession in concert with the deafening clatter on the

  bridge. The support killer arched backward, then sank down into the shadows

  of the solid steel barricade of the pedestrian walk.

  The clanging receded as the van reached the far side of the bridge. There

  was no orange barrier across the entrance on the French side: francs had

  been paid; the two guards leaning against a gatehouse wall smoked their

  cigarettes. However, another sound intruded, it came from behind, quite far

  behind, down the road from MonesL Michael

  TnE PA:aswAL MosArc187

  curved his spine into the surface of the rock and slid back into the edge of

  the woods, crouching instantly, shoving the warm magnum under his belt. He

  glanced through the trees at the checkpoint; the two authentic soldiers in

  the nearest gatehouse on the right could be seen beyond the large glass

  windows, nodding at each other as if counting something in their hands-lire

  bad reached the second level. The blond impostor was outside, an outsider as

  far as the current transaction was concerned; he was staring down the road,

  squinting in the dim light.

  He raised his hand to the midpoint of his chest and shook his wrist

  twice-an innocuous gesture, a man restoring circulation to a forearm

  strained by carrying too much weight too recently. It was a signal.

  The killer brought his hand down to his right hip, and it took no

  imagination to realize be was releasing the snap on his holster while

  keeping his concentration on the road below. Havelock crept rapidly through

  the woods until he reached the unconscious figure of the explosives

  specialist. The sound of a motor grew louder, joined now by a faint,

  bass-toned hum in the farther distance-a second vehicle steadily increasing

  its speed. Michael parted the thick branches of an overhanging pine and

  looked to his left. Several hundred yards down the road the glistening

  grille of a large automobile could be seen, reflecting the light from the

  bridge. It swung into the curve; the car was a IAncia. It was Jennal

  Havelock imposed a control over his mind and body he had not thought was

  possible. The next few minutes would bring into play everything he bad

  learned-that no one should ever have to learn-since he was a child in

  Prague, every skill he had absorbed from the shadow world in which he had

  lived so long.

  The Lancia sedan drew nearer, and sharp bolts of pain shot through Micbaers

  chest as he stared at the windshield. Jenna was not there. Instead, two men

  could be seen in the wash of the dashboard, the driver smoking, his

  companion apparently talking garrulously, waving his hands for emphasis.

  Then the driver turned his bead sideways, addressing a remark to someone in

  the back seat. The Lancia. began to slow down; it was within two hundred

  feet of the checkpoint.

  The blond impostor at the orange barrier turned and

  188 RoBLrRT LuDLum

  walked quickly to the gatehouse booth; be knocked on the window, then

  pointed to the approaching vehicle and then to himself. He was the eager

  recruit telling his veteran superiors that he could handle the immediate

  assignment. The two soldiers looked up, annoyed at the intrusion, perhaps

  wandering if the intruder had seen money changing hands; they nodded, waving

  him away.

  Instead of leaving immediately, the assassin employed by Rome reached into

  his pocket and took out an object while moving unobtrusively toward the

  closed door of the booth. He reached down and inserted the object into the

  frame below the window, the movements of his shoulders indicating that he

  used considerable force. Havelock tried to imagine what it was, what the

  killer was doing. And then it was clear; the door of the booth was a

  sliding door, but it would not slide now. Ile man called Ricci bad wedged

  a thin steel plate with small angled spikes into the space between frame

  and paneL- the. door was jammed. The more force that was used to open it,

  the deeper the tiny spikes would embed themselves, until all movement would

  be impossible. The two soldiers were trapped Inside, and as with

  checkpoints everywhere-no matter how minor-the booth was sturdily con-

  structed with thick glass in the windows. Yet there was a fallacy: a simple

  call to the barracks somewhere on the other side would bring assistance.

  Michael peered through the dim light above the gatebouse, and saw there was

  no fallacy. Dangling from the limb of a tree was a beavy-gauge telephone

  wire; It had been severed. The killers from Rome controlled the checkpoint.

  The blond man strode to the metal plank that separated the road from the

  entrance to the bridge, assumed a military stance-the feet apart, the left

  band at his waist, the right held up in the "Half position-and faced the

  oncoming sedan.

  The Lancia came to a stop. The front windows were rolled down and passports

  were offered by the two men in the front seat The killer walked to the

  driver's window
and spoke quietly-too quietly for Havelock to bear the

  words-while looking past the driver into the rear seat.

  The driver was explaining something and turned to his cQmpaWon for

  confirmation. The second man leaned across the seat, nodding his head, then

  shaking it, as if in sorrow.

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC189

  Ile false guard stood back and spoke louder, with a soldier's authority.

  'Regrets, signori and signora," he said in Italian. "Tonighes regulations

  require that all passengers step out of their automobiles while they are

  examined."

  "But we were assured that we could proceed across Into Col des Moulinets as

  rapidly as possible, Caporale,, protested the driver, raising his voice.

  "The dear woman buried her husband less than two hours ago. She is

  distraught.... Here are her papers, her passport. Ours also. Everything is

  in order, I can assure you. We are expected for an eight o'clock mass. She

  is from a fine family, a Franco-Italian marriage tragically ended by a

  dreadful accident. The mayors of both Monesi and Moulinets were at the

  funeral-2'

  "Regrets, signore," repeated the killer. "Please, step out. There is a

  truck behind you and it is not right for you to hold up the line."

  Havelock tamed his bead, looking at the run-down truck with the powerful

  engine. There was no one inside. Instead, the two men were on opposite

  shoulders of the road, dressed in mountain clothes, their eyes scanning the

  country road and the woods, their hands in their pockets. Backups for

  backups, support for support. The border belonged to the unit from Rome,

  secure in its knowledge that no one could pass through without being seen,

  and if the target was seen, the target would die.

  And if he was not seen? Would the secondary order hold? Would the secondary

  target-the bait-be elin-dnated in Col des Moulinets because she was no

  longer feasible bait? The answer was as painful for Michael to admit to

  himself as it was self-evident. She bad to be. She did not eieA her exis-

  tence was too dangerous for the liars who gave orders to strategists and

  embassies alike. The unit would return to Rome without Its primary kill,

  the only loser an agent of record who had not been apprised of the