Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  a permanent love affair with his uniform and his country; he'd neither

  allow the possibility of compromise nor give the Russians an ounce of

  ammunition. Decker's not an original, but hes genuine. I doubt the Lubyanka

  could break him."

  "Decker ... You~ve got him put away, don't you?"

  ~'He's not going anywhere. He's at home with an escort unit outside."

  Pierce shook his head while reaching into his pocket. "It's all so insanel"

  he said as be pulled out a pack of cigarettes and matches. "Care for one?"

  he asked, proferring the pack.

  "No, thanks. I've had my quota of five hundred for the day."

  The man from State stuck a match, holding the flame under the cigarette.

  Without the protection of a second hand, it was extinguished by the wind.

  He struck another, left palm up, and inhaled, the smoke from his mouth

  mingling with the vapor of his breath. "At the meeting this afternoon,

  Am-

  THE PARsuFAL MosAic607

  bassador Brooks brought up something I didn't understand. He said an

  intelligence officer from the KGB bad made contact with you and speculated

  on the identity of the faction in Moscow who'd worked with Matthias at Costa

  Brava."

  "He meant with Parsifal; Matthias was being led by then. And Rostov-his

  name~s Rostov-didn't speculate. He knew. They're a collection of fanatics

  in a branch called the VKR, the Voennaya. They make even our Deckers look

  like flower children. He's trying to break it open and I wish him luck.

  It's crazy, but a dedicated enemy may be one of our hopes."

  "What do you mean, 'break it open7'

  "Get names, find out who did what and let the saner people deal with them.

  Rostov's good; he may do it, and if he does, he'll somehow get word to me."

  "He will?"

  "He's already offered me a white contact. It happened at Kennedy Airport

  when I flew in from Paris."

  There was the sound of a gunning engine in the distance. Pierce threw down

  his cigarette and crushed it under his foot as he spoke. "What more do you

  think this Decker can give you?"

  "He may have spoken to Parsifal but doesn't know it. Or someone calling for

  Parsifal. In either case, be was reached at home, which means that

  somewhere in a couple of hundred thousand long-distance records is a

  specific call made to a specific number at a specific time."

  "Why not a couple of million records?"

  "Not if we've got a general location."

  "Do you?"

  "III know more by tomorrow. When you get back-"

  "Mr. Undersecretaryl Mr. Undersecretary!" The shouting was accompanied by

  the roar of the jeep's motor and the screeching of its tires as it came to

  a stop only a few feet from them. "Undersecretary Pierce?" said the driver.

  "Who gave you my name?" asked Pierce icily.

  "There's an urgent telephone call for you, sir. They said it was your

  office at the United Nations and they have to speak to you."

  "The Soviets," said Pierce under his breath to Havelock, his alarm was

  apparent. "Please, wait for me."

  The undersecretary of State swung himself rapidly into the air force jeep

  and nodded to the driver; his eyes were on the

  608 RoBEIRT LUDLUM

  lights of the maintenance hangar. Michael pulled his coat around him, his

  attention drawn to the small propjet aircraft several hundred feet away in

  the opposite direction. The left engine bad been started, and the pilot was

  revving it; the right coughed into operation seconds later. Then Havelock

  saw another jeep; it had taken the place of the fuel truck next to the

  plane. The vault specialist had arrived; the departure for Poole!s Island

  was imminent.

  Arthur Pierce returned six minutes later, climbed out of the open vehicle

  and dismissed the driver. "It was the Soviets," he said, approaching

  Michael. "They wanted an unrecorded, unlogged meeting tomorrow morning;

  that means an emergency. I reached the senior aide of the delegation and

  told him I had called my own emergency conference tomorrow on the strength

  of their reactions late this afternoon. I also suggested I might have

  information for them that would necessitate a storm of cables-I used your

  phrase-between New York, their embassy in Washington and Moscow. I hinted

  that perhaps the pounding shoe was in another hand." The undersecretary

  stopped, hearing the preliminary warmup of the jets from the plane in the

  distance; the jeep was leaving the area. "That's my signal; the vault

  specialist's here. You know, ies going to take at least three hours to

  break into that room. Walk over with me, will you?'

  "Sure. What was the Soviets' reaction?"

  "Very negative, of course. They know me; they sense a deflection, a

  diversion-to use your word. We agreed to meet tomorrow evening." Pierce

  paused and turned to Havelock. "For God's sake, give me the green light,

  then. I'll need every argument, every weapon I can have. Among them a

  medical report diagnosing exhaustion for Matthias ... God knows, not the

  psychiatric file I'm bringing back to you."

  "I forgot. The President was to have gotten it to me yesterday-today."

  "I'm bringing it up." Pierce started walking again as Michael kept pace. "I

  can see how it happens."

  "What happens?"

  "The days melding into one another. Yesterday, today ... tomorrow, if there

  is a tomorrow. One long, unending, sleepless night."

  "Yes," said Havelock, feeling no need to amplify.

  "How many weeks have you been living it?"

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  'More than a few."

  "Iesus." The roar of the combined engines grew louder as they drew nearer

  the plane. "I suppose this is actually the safest place to tak" said

  Pierce, raising his voice to be heard. "No device could filter that noise."

  "Is that why you wanted to meet on the runway?" asked Michael.

  "You probably think I'm paranoid, but yes, it is. I wouldn1 cue if we were

  in the control room of a NORAD base, I'd want the walls swept before having

  a conversation like the one we just had. You probably do think I'm

  paranoid. After all, this is Andrews-2'

  "I don't think you're paranoid at all," interrupted Havelock. "I think I

  should have thought of it."

  The door of the small aircraft was open, the metal steps in place. The

  pilot signaled from his lighted window; Pierce waved back, nodding

  affirmatively. Michael walked with the undersecretary to within ten feet of

  the door where the wash of the propellers was strong and growing stronger.

  "You said something about having a general location in mind regarding that

  call to Decker," shouted Pierce. "Where is it?"

  "Somewhere in the Shenandoah," yelled Havelock. "Vs only speculation, but

  Decker delivered the materials there."

  "I see."

  The engines roared a sudden crescendo, and the wind from the propeller

  blades reached gale force, whipping the hat from Arthur Pierce's head.

  Michael crouched, scrambling after it through the powerful wash. He stopped

  it with his foot and carried it back to the undersecretary of State.

  "Thanks very muchl" shouted Pierce.

  Havelock stared at
the face in front of him, at the streak of white that

  sprang up from the forehead and shot through the mass of wavy dark hair.

  36

  It was an hour and forty-five minutes before he saw the floodlights that

  marked the entrance to the drive at Sterile Five. The flight from Andrews to

  Quantico and the trip by car to Fairfax bad been oddly disturbing, and he

  did not know why. It was as though a part of his mind were refusing to

  function; he was conscious of a gap in his own thought process but was

  blocked by a compulsion not to probe. It was like a drunk's refusal to face

  the gross embarrassments of the night before: something not remembered did

  not exist. And be was incapable of doing anything about it; he did not know

  what it was, only that it was not, and therefore, it was.

  One long, unending, sleepless night. Perhaps that was it. He needed sleep

  . . . he needed jenna. But there was no time for sleep, no time for them to

  be together in the way they wanted to be together. No time for anything or

  anyone but Parsifal.

  What was UP Why had a part of him &uddenly diedP

  The marine sedan pulled up in front of the ornate entrance of the estate.

  He got out, thanked the driver and the armed guard, and walked up to the

  door. He thought as be stood there, with a finger on the bell, that like so

  many other doors mi so many other houses he had entered, he had no key with

  which to open it. Would he ever have a key to a house that was

  his-theirs-and be able to open it as so many mil-

  610

  Tim PATtsrrAL MosAic611

  lions opened theirs every day? It was a silly thought, foolisbly pondered.

  Where was the significance of a house and a key? Still, the tbougbt-tbe

  need, perbaps-persisted.

  The door abruptly opened and Jenna brought him back to the urgent present,

  her striking, lovely face taut, her eyes burning into his.

  "Thank Godl" she cried, clutching him and pulling him inside. 'You~re backl

  I was going out of my mindl"

  "What is it?"

  "Mikhail, come with me. Quicklyl" She gripped his band as they walked

  rapidly down the foyer past the staircase to the study, which she had left

  open. Going to the desk, she picked up a note and said, "You must call the

  Bethesda hospital. Extension six-seven-one. But first you have to know what

  happenedf"

  "What-?",

  'The paminyatchik is dead."

  "Oh, Christl" Michael grabbed the phone that Jenna held out for him. He

  dialed, his hand trembling. "When?" he shouted. "How?"

  "An execution," she replied as be waited for Bethesda to answer. "Less than

  an hour ago. Two men. They took out the guard with a knife, got in the room

  and killed the traveler while be was sedated. Four shots in the head. The

  doctor's beside himself."

  "Six-seven-onel Hurry, pleasel"

  "I couldn't stand it," whispered Jenna, staring at him, touching his face.

  "I thought you were there . . . outside somewhere . . . seen, perhaps. They

  said you weren't, but I didn't know whether to believe them or not."

  "Taylor? How did it happen?"

  As Havelock listened to the doctor a numbing pain spread through him,

  stealing his breath. Taylor was still in shock and spoke disjointedly;

  Jenna's brief description had been clearer, and there was nothing further

  to learn. Two killers in the uniforms of naval officers had come to the

  sixth floor, found Taylor's patient, and proceeded professionally with the

  execution, killing a marine guard in the process.

  'Ve've lost Ambiguity," said Michael,. hanging up, his hand so heavy the

  phone fell into the cradle, clapping into place. "How? That's what I canI

  understandl We had max-

  612 ROBERT LUDLUM

  imurn security, military transport~ every Precautiont" He looked helplessly

  at Jenna.

  "Was it all highly isible?' she asked. 'Could the precautions and the

  transport have drawn attention?"

  Havelock nodded wearily. "Yes. Yes, of course. We commandeered an airfield,

  flew in and out of there like a commando unit, diverting the other

  traffic."

  "And not that far from the Medical Center," said Jenna. "Someone alerted to

  the disturbance would be drawn to the scene. He would see what you didn't

  want him to see. In this case, a stretcher would be enough."

  Michael slipped off his topcoat and listlessly dropped it on a chair. "But

  that doesn't explain what happened at the Medical Center itself. An

  execution team was sent in to abort a trap, to kill their own people, so

  there'd be no chance that anyone would be taken alive."

  "Paminyatchiki," said Jenna. "It's happened before."

  "But how did their controls know it was a trap? I spoke only to the Apache

  unit and to Loring. No one elsel How could they? How could they have been

  so sure that they would risk sending in sanctioned killers? The risk was

  enormousl" Havelock walked around the desk, looking at the scattered

  papers, bating them, bating the terror they evoked. "Loring told me that be

  was probably spotted, that it was his fault, but I don't believe it. That

  mocked-up patrol car didn't just emerge from around the block; it was sent

  from somewhere by someone in authority who had made the most dangerous

  decision be could make. He wouldn't have made it on the strength of one man

  seen in a parking lot-that man, incidentally, was too damned experienced to

  show himself so obviously."

  "It doesn't seem logical," agreed Jenna. "Unless the others were spotted

  earlier."

  "Even if the cardiologist cover was blown, at best they'd be considered

  protection. No, the control knew it was a trap, knew that the primary

  objective-let's face it, the sole objective-was to take even one of them

  alive.... Goddamn it, how?" Michael leaned over the desk, his hands

  gripping the edge, his head pounding. He pushed himself away and walked

  toward the wide, dark windows with the thick, beveled glass. And then he

  heard the words, spoken softly by

  THE PAmiFAL MosAic613

  jenna: "Mikhail, you did speak to someone else. You spoke to the President."

  "of course, but He stopped, staring at the distorted image of his face in

  the window, but slowly not seeing his face . . . seeing, instead, the

  formless outline of another. Then the night mist that had rolled in through

  the trees and over the lawns outside became another mist, from another

  time. The crashing of waves suddenly filled his ears, thundering,

  deafening, unbearable. Lightning shattered across the luminous, unseen

  screen in his mind, and then the sharp cracks came, one after another until

  they grew into ear-sphtting explosions, blowing him into a frenzied galaxy

  of flashing lights ... and dread.

  Costa Brava. He was back at the Costa Braval

  And the face in the mirror took on form ... distant form ... unmistakable

  form. And the shock of white hair sprang up from that face, surrounded by

  waves of black, framed, isolated ... an image unto itself.

  "No . . . not" He heard himself screaming; he could feel jenna's hands on

  his arms, then his face . . . but not his facel The face in the windowl The

  f
ace with the sharp path of white in the hair . . . his hair, but not his

  hair, his face but not his facel Yet both were the faces of killers, his

  and the one he had seen that night on the Costa Braval

  A fisherman's cap had suddenly been blown away in the ocean wind; a hat had

  been whipped off the head of a man by the sudden wash of propellers. On a

  runway . . . in a shadowed light ... two hours agol

  The same man? Was it possible? Even conceivable?

  "Mikhaill" jenna held his face in her hands. "Mikhail, what is it? What's

  wrongil'

  "It's not possiblel" he screamed. "It can't bet"

  "What, my darling? What can't be?"

  "Jesus. I'm losing my mindf"

  "Darling, stop itl" shouted jenna, shaking him, holding him.

  "No . . . no, III be all right. Let me alone. Let me alonel" He spun away

  from her and raced to the desk. "Where is itP Where the hell is it?"

  "Where is what?" asked jenna cahnly, now beside him.

  "The file."

  owhat ffier

  614 ROBERT LuoLum

  "My filel" He yanked the top right-hand drawer open, rummaging furiously

  among the papers until he found the black-bordered folder. He pulled it

  out, slammed it on the desk and opened it; breathing with difficulty, he

  leafed through the pages, eyes and fingers working maniacally.

  "What's troubling you, Mikhail? Tell me. Let me help you. What started

  this? What's making you go back? . . . We agreed not to punish each otherl"

  "Not mel Himl"

  "Who?"

  "I can't make a mistakel I can't1" Havelock found the page he was looking

  for. He scanned the lines, using his index finger, his eyes riveted on the

  page. He read in a flat voice: "'They're killing her. Oh, my God, he's

  killed her and I can't bear the screams. Go to her, stop them ... stop

  them. No, not me, never me. Oh, Christ, tbeyre pulling her away ... she's

  bleeding so, but not in pain now. She's gone. Ob, my God, she's gone, my

  love is gone.... The wind is strong, ies blown his cap away .... The face?

  Do I know the face? A photograph somewhere? A dossier? The dossier of a

  killer. . . . No, it's the hair. The streak of white in the hair.'" Michael

  stood up and looked at jenna; be was perspiring. "A streak ... of ...

  white," he said slowly, desperately trying to enunciate the words. clearly.

  "It could be himi"