Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  library?"

  "Yes, sir. I'll tell him you're here. The name again, please?"

  There was a sudden hollow echo preceding the voice that filled the large

  hall. "It won't be necessary, Enid." It was the clipped, high-pitched voice

  of Raymond Alexander pouring out of an unseen speaker. "And I have been

  expecting Mr. Havelock."

  Micbaers eyes darted about the walls, his band now gripping Jennds arm. "Is

  this another rule, Raymond? Make sure the guest is who he says be is?"

  "Ies fairly new," replied the voice.

  Havelock walked with Jenna through the elegant living room, filled with

  antiques from the far comers of the earth, to the hand-carved door of the

  library. He guided her to his left, beyond the frame; she understood. He

  reached under his jacket for the Llama automatic and held it at his side

  before turning the heavy brass knob. He shoved the door open, his back

  pressed against the wall, his weapon ready.

  "Is that really necessary, Michael?"

  Havelock moved slowly into the frame, quickly adjusting his eyes to the

  shadowy indirect lighting of the library. The source was two lamps: one

  fringed and on the large desk at the far end of the room; the other a floor

  lamp, above the soft

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  leather armchair, shining down on the wild, unkempt head of Raymond

  Alexander. The old warhorse sat motionless, and in his bloated, pale white

  hands was a brandy glass, held In front of his deep-red velvet smoking

  jacket.

  "Come in," he said, turning to a small boxlike device on the side table. He

  pressed a button, and somewhere overhead, on the wall above the door, the

  dim glow of a television monitor faded away. "Miss Karas is a handsome

  woman. Very lovely.... Come in, my dear."

  Jenna appeared, standing next to Michael. "Yo&re a monster," she said

  simply.

  'Far worse."

  'You wanted to 16M us both," she continued. 'Why?'

  Not him, never him. Not-Mikhail." Alexander raised his glass and drank.

  "Your hf&-or death-was never really considered one way or the other. It was

  out of our hands."

  "I could kill you for that," said Havelock.

  "I repeat. Out of our hands. Frankly, we thought she'd be retired, returned

  to Prague, and eventually cleared. Don't you see, Michael, she wasret

  Important. Only you; you were the only one that mattered. You had to go,

  and we knew they'd never let you, you were too valuable. You had to do it

  yourself, insist on it yourself. Your revulsion bad to be so deep, so

  painful that there was no other way for you. It worked. You left. It was

  necessary."

  "Because I knew you," said Havelock. "I knew the man who lead a sick,

  disintegrating friend down the road of insanity, turning him into some kind

  of grotesque thing-Belial with his finger on the nuclear switch. I knew the

  man who did this to Anton Matthias. I knew Parsifal."

  "Is that the name they've given? Parsifal? Exquisite imy. No healing wounds

  with this fellow, only tearing them aparL Everywhere.

  'Ies why you did what you did, isn't 0 1 knew who you were."

  Alexander shook his head, the unkempt hair a thousand Coiled springs in

  motion, his green eyes, under the fia arched brows, briefly closing. "I

  wasnt important, either. Anton insisted-, you became an obsession with him.

  You were what was left of his failing integrity, his decaying conedence.0

  "But you knew how to do it. You knew a Soviet double

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  agent so high in the government be could have been made Secretary of State.

  Would have been if he hadn't been there on that beach at the Costa Brava.

  You knew where be was, you knew his name, you reached hirol"

  "We had no part of the Costa Braval I learned of it only after inquiring

  about you. We couldn~t understand, we were shocked."

  "Not Matthias. He was beyond being shocked."

  "It was when we knew everything was out of control."

  "Not wel Youl"

  The old journalist again stopped all movement, his hands gripping the

  glass. He locked his eyes with Michaers and answered, "Yes. Me. I knew."

  "So you sent me to Poole's Island, expecting me to be killed, and once dead

  I was guilty by reason of silence."

  "Nor Alexander shook his head, now violently. I never thought you~d go

  there, never thought you'd be permitted to gO there.0

  "That very convincing story about a soldiees wife you met and what she told

  you. It was all a lie. There've been no emergency leaves, no one's left

  that island. But I believed you, gave you my word I'd protect the source.

  Protect you. I never said anything, not even to Bradford."

  "Yes, yes, I wanted to convince you, but not that way. I wanted you to go

  up the ladder, using your regular channels, confront them, make them tell

  you the truth.... And once you learned the truth, the entire truth, you

  might see, you might understand. You might be able to stop it.... Without

  me."

  "How? For Christ's sake, how?"

  "I think I know, Mikhail," said Jenna, touching Havelock's arm as she

  stared down at Alexander. "He did mean 'we.' Not T' This man is not

  Parsifal. His servant, perhaps, but not Parsifal."

  "Is that true?" asked Havelock.

  'Pour yourself and Miss Karas a drink, Michael. You know the rules. I have

  a story to tell you."

  "No drinks. Your rules don't apply any longer."

  "At least sit down, and put that gun away. You have nothing to fear here.

  Not from me. Not any longer."

  Havelock looked at Jenna; he nodded, leading them both to adjacent chairs

  across from Alexander. They sat down,

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  Jenna removing the photographs from her coat and placing them on her lap.

  Michael shoved the weapon into his pocket. "Go on," he said curtly.

  "A number of years ago," began the journalist, staring at the glass in his

  hands, "Anton and I committed a crime. In our minds it was far more serious

  than any punishment for it might indicate, and the punishment would have

  been severe in the extreme. We were fooled . . . 'gulled' is the innocuous

  word, 'deceived' more appropriate, 'betrayed~ more appropriate still. But

  the fact that it could have happened to us-two pragmatic intellectuals, as

  we believed we were-was intolerable to us. Still, it had happened."

  Alexander drained his glass and placed it on the table next to his chair.

  He folded his puffed, delicate hands and continued. "Whether it was because

  of my friendship with Matthias, or for whatever standing I might have had

  in this city, a man called me from Toronto saying he had obtained a false

  passport and was flying to Washington. He was a Soviet citizen, an educated

  man in his early sixties, and an employee in a reasonably high position in

  the Soviet government. His intention was to defect, and he asked if I could

  put him in touch with Anthony Matthias." The journalist paused and leaned

  forward, gripping the arms of the chair. "You see, in those days everyone

  knew Anton was about to be tapped for extraordinary things; his influence

  was growing with every article he wrote, every trip to Washington. I />
  arranged a meeting; it took place in this room." Alexander leaned back and

  kept his eyes on the floor. "That man had remarkable insights to offer, a

  wide knowledge of internal Soviet affairs. A month later he was working for

  the State Department. Three years after that Matthias was special assistant

  to the President, and two years later, Secretary of State. The man from

  Russia, by way of Toronto, was still in the department, his talents so

  appreciated that by then he was processing highly classified information as

  the director of Eastern bloc debriefings and reports."

  "When did you find out?" asked Havelock.

  The journalist looked up, and said quietly, "Four years ago. Again, in this

  room. The defector asked to meet with us both; he said that what he had to

  say was urgent and our schedules for that very night must be cleared-tbere

  could be no delays. He sat where Miss Karas is sitting now and told us the

  truth. He was a Soviet agent and had been continuously

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  funneling the most sensitive information to Moscow for the past six years.

  But something had happened and he could no longer function in his role. He

  felt old and worn-out, the pressures were too great. He wanted to

  disappear."

  "And since you and Anton-the pragmatic intellectualshad been responsible

  for six years of infiltration, he had you exactly where he wanted you,"

  Michael said sharply. "God forbid the great men should be tarnished."

  "That was part of it, surely, but then, there was a certain justification.

  Anthony Matthias was at his zenith, reshaping global policies, reaching

  secure accommodations and d6tente, making the world somewhat safer than it

  was before him. Such a revelation would have been politically disastrous;

  it would have destroyed him-and the good he was doing. I myself presented

  this argument strongly-,,

  "I'm sure it didn~t take long to convince him," said Havelock.

  "Longer than you think, perhaps," replied Alexander, a trace of weary anger

  in his voice. "You seem to have forgotten what he was."

  "Perhaps I never really knew."

  "You say this was part of it," interrupted Jenna. "What was the other

  part?"

  The journalist shifted his gaze to rest on Jenna before he spoke. "That man

  was given an order with which he could not-would not-comply. He was told to

  be prepared for a series of shocking Eastern bloc reports, which he was to

  shape in such a way as to force Anton to request a naval blockade of Cuba

  along with a presidential Red Alert."

  "Nuclear?"

  "Yes, Miss Karas. A replay of the '62 missile crisis, but far more

  provocative. These startling reports would corroborate photographic

  'evidence' purporting to show the jungles and southern coastal regions of

  Cuba ringed with offensive nuclear weapons, the first bridge of an imminent

  attack."

  "For what purpose?" asked Jenna.

  "A geopolitical trap," said Michael. "He walks into it, hes finished."

  "Precisely," agreed Alexander. "Anton brings the full military might of the

  United States to the brink of war, and suddenly the gates of Cuba are

  opened and inspection teams

  from the world over are invited to see for themselves. There

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  Is nothing, and Anthony Matthias is humiliated, portrayed as a hysterical

  alarmist-the one thing be never was-all his brilliant negotiations thrown

  away. The healing with them, I might add."

  "But this Soviet agent," said jenna, bewildered, "this man who had for six

  years fed Moscow secrets, was a professional, if nothing else; he refused.

  Did he say why?'

  "Quite movingly, I thought. He said Anton Matthias was too valuable to be

  sacrificed to a cabal of hotheads in Moscow.

  -Ibe Voennaya," said Havelock.

  'rbose shocking reports came in and they were ignored. No crisis ever took

  place."

  "Would Matthias have accepted them as authentic if he hadn't known?" asked

  Michael.

  "Somebody would have forced him to. Perfectly conscientious men and women

  in the section would have become alarmed, would possibly have come to

  someone like me-if they hadn't been told in advance what to expect, what

  the Intemperate strategy was. Anton called in the Soviet ambassador for a

  long confidential talk. Men were replaced in Moscow. .

  rbey've come back," said Havelock.

  The journalist blinked; be did not understand, nor did he pretend to. He

  continued. "The man who bad deceived us, but who ultimately would not

  betray some voice inside himself, disappeared. Anton made it possible. He

  was given a new identity, a new life, beyond those who would have had him

  killed."

  "He came back too," said Michael.

  "He never really went away. But yes, be came back. A little over a year

  ago, without calling, without warning, he came to see me and said we bad to

  talk. But not in this room; he wouldn't talk in here and I think I

  appreciated that. I remembered too well that night when be told us what

  we'd done. It was late afternoon, and we walked along the ~ridge above the

  ravine-two old men maldng their way slowly, cautiously over the ground, one

  profoundly frightened, the other curiously intense ... in a quiet way,

  possessed." Alexander paused. "I'd like some more brandy, this isn't easy

  for me."

  "rm.not interested," said Michael.

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  "Where is it?" asked Jenna, getting up and going to the table, reaching for

  the glass.

  'The copper bar," said the old man, looking up at her. "Against the wall,

  my dear."

  "Go on," said Havelock impatiently. "She can hear you; we can both hear

  you."

  "I meant what I. said. I need the brandy. . . . You don't look well,

  Michael. You look tired; you're unshaven and there are dark circles under

  your eyes. You should take better care of yourself."

  "IT make a note of it."

  Jerma returned. "Here you are," she said, handing Alexander his drink and

  going to her chair.

  It was the first time Havelock noticed that Raymond's hand shook. It was

  why he held the glass in both hands, gripping it to reduce the tremble.

  "'In a quiet way, possessed.' That!s where you were."

  "Yes, I remember." Alexander drank, then looked at Jenna. "Mank you," be

  said.

  She nodded. "Please, go on."

  "Yes, of course.... We walked along the ridge, we two old men that late

  afternoon, when suddenly be stopped and said to me, Tou must do as I ask,

  for we have an opportunity that will never be presented to the world

  again.' I replied that I was not in the babit of acceding to such requests

  without knowing what was being asked of me. He said it was not a request

  but a demand, that if I refused be would reveal the roles Matthias and I

  had played in his espionage activities. He would expose us both, destroy us

  both. It was what I feared most-for both of us, Anton more than myself, of

  course. But still myself, I can't say otherwise."

  "What did be want you to do?" asked Havelock.

  "I was to be the Boswell and my journals were to recor
d

  the deterioration and collapse of a man with such power that

  be could plunge the world into the insanity that was down

  the road for him. My Samuel Johnson was, of course, An

  thony Matthias, and the message to mankind was to be a so~-

  bering one: , This must not be allowed to happen again; no

  one man should ever again be elevated to such heights.' "

  "'We made him a god,'" said Michael, recalling Berquises words, "when we

  didn't own the heavens.'"

  "Well put." The journalist nodded his head. "I wish I'd

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  written it. But then, to borrow from Wilde, I probably will, if I ever get

  the chance."

  "This man, this Russian said Jenna, "told you that afternoon what was

  happening to Matthias?"

  "Yes. He~d seen him, been with him, knew the signs. Sudden tirades,

  followed by weeping, constant seff-justiflcation, false humility that only

  served to point up his accomplishments ... growing suspicions about

  everyone around him; yet in public there was always the fagade of normalcy.

  Then there were the lapses of memory-in the main, concerning failures and

  when prodded, the necessity to blame others for those fa&;;s. . . . I came

  to see it all, write it all. rd drive to the Shenandoah every week or

  so---"

  'On SundaysP" broke in Havelock.

  "Sundays, yes."

  "Deckerr

  "Oh, yes, Commander Decker. By then' you see, the man you call Parsifal bad

  convinced a deteriorating Anton that all his policies, all his visions

  would find their ultimate justification in total strength. The Master Plan,

  they called it . . . and they found the man who could provide them with

  what they needed."

  "For the ultimate chess game " said Michael.

  "Yes. Decker would use the 9ack road and meet with Matthias in the cabin be

  used when be wanted to be alone."

  'The Woodshed," said Havelock. "A voice-activated tape Mtem."

  "It never failed," agreed Alexander, in a voice barely above a whisper.

  "Never. Even afterwards, when Matthias and ... Parsifal played their

  dreadful game, it was all the more terrifying because Matthias was one of

  the players. It was frightening in another aspect, too, for Anton would be-

  come the warlord statesman, the brilliant negotiator, not seeing the man