The Parsifal Mosaic (16 page)

“Not yet,” said Stern. “Not until we have no other choice. The quiet word is that he’s aware of his failing condition; he’s conserving his strength for SALT Three. We can’t lay this on him now.”

“We may
have
to,” insisted Dawson.

“We may then again we may not.” The director turned to Ogilvie. “Why does Havelock have to buy anything concrete, Red?”

“So we can get close enough to grab him.”

“Couldn’t a sequence be designed—say, one piece of information leading to another, each more vital than the last-so as to draw him in, suck him in, as Paul says? He can’t get the last unless he shows up?”

“A treasure hunt?” asked Ogilvie, laughing.

“That’s what he’s on,” said Miller quietly.

“The answer’s no.” The red-haired man leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “A sequence operation depends on credibility; the better the field man, the firmer the credibility. It’s also a very delicate exercise. The subject, if he’s someone like Havelock, will use decoys, blind intermediaries. He’ll reverse the process by programming his decoys with information of their own, give his intermediaries questions they want answered on the spot; he’ll suck
you
in. He won’t expect perfect answers; he’d be suspicious as hell if he got them, but he’ll want what we used to call a ‘stomach consensus.’ It’s not something you can write down on paper and analyze; it’s a gut feeling for believability. There aren’t that many good men who could fool Havelock in sequence. One substantial misstep and he closes the book and walks away.”

“And sets off the explosions,” said Miller.

“I see,” said Stern.

And it was clear that the men around that table
did
see. It was one of those moments when the unkempt, irascible Ogilvie confirmed his value, as he did so frequently. He had been out in that labyrinth called the “field,” and his summations had a peculiar eloquence and sagacity.

“There is a way, however,” continued the former agent. “I’m not sure there’s any other.”

“What is it?” asked the director of Cons Op.

“Me.”

“Out of the question.”

“Think about it,” said Ogilvie quickly. “
I’m
the credibility. Havelock knows me—more important, he knows I sit at this table. To him I’m one of
them
, a half-assed strategist who may not know what he’s asking for, but sure as hell knows why. And with me there’s a difference; a few of them out there might even count on it. I’ve been where they’ve been. None of the rest of you have. Outside of Matthias, if there’s anyone he’ll listen to, anyone he’ll meet with, it’s me.”

“I’m sorry, Red. Even if I agreed with you, and I think I do, I can’t permit it. You know the rules. Once you step inside this room, you never go out in the field again.”

“That rule was
made
in this room. It’s not Holy Writ.”

“It was made for a very good reason,” said the attorney. “The same reason our houses are watched around the clock, our cars followed, our regular telephones tapped with our consent. If any of us was taken by interested parties, from Moscow to Peking to the Persian Gulf, the consequences would be beyond recall.”

“No disrespect, Counselor, but those safeguards were designed for people like you and the Headman here. Even Daniel. I’m a little different. They wouldn’t try to take me because they know they’d wind up with nothing.”

“No one doubts your capabilities,” countered Dawson. “But I submit—”

“It hasn’t anything to do with capabilities,” interrupted Ogilvie, raising his hand to the lapel of his worn tweed jacket; he turned up the flap toward the lawyer next to him. “Look closely, Counselor. There’s a slight bulge an inch from the tip here.”

Dawson’s eyes dropped to the fabric, his expression noncommittal. “Cyanide?”

“That’s right.”

“Sometimes, Red, I find you hard to believe.”

“Don’t mistake me,” said Ogilvie simply. “I don’t ever want to use this—or the others I’ve got conveniently placed. I’m no macho freak trying to shock you. I don’t hold my arm over a fire to show how brave I am any more than I
want to kill someone or have him try
to
kill me. I’ve got these pills because I’m a coward, Mr. Lawyer. You say we’re being watched, guarded twenty-four hours a day. That’s terrific, but I think you’re overreacting to something that doesn’t exist I don’t think there is a file on you in Dzerzhinsky Square; at least not on you or the doctor here. I’m sure there’s one on Stern, but grabbing him is like codes in Cracker Jacks, or us going in and grabbing someone like Rostov. It doesn’t hapnen. But there’s a file on me—you can bet your legal ass on that—and I’m not retired. What I know is still very operative, more so ever since I stepped inside this room. That’s why I’ve got these little bastards. I know how I’d go in and how I’d come out, and they know I know. Strangely enough, these pills are my protection. They know I’ve got them and they know I’d use them. Because I’m a coward.”

“And you’ve just spelled out the reasons why you can’t go into the field,” said the director of Consular Operations.

“Have I? Then either you didn’t listen or you should be fired for incompetence. For not taking into account what I
didn’t
spell out. What do you want, Teacher? A note from my doctor? Excusing me from all activity?”

The strategists glanced briefly at each other, looking uncomfortable. “Come on, Red, cut it out,” said Stern. “That’s not called for.”

“Yes, it is, Dan. It’s the sort of thing you consider when making a decision. We all know about it; we just don’t talk about it, and I suppose that’s another kind of consideration. How long have I got? Three months, maybe four? It’s why I’m here, and
that
was an intelligent decision.”

“It was hardly the sole reason,” offered Dawson softly.

“If it didn’t weigh heavily in my favor, it should have, Counselor. You should always pick someone from the field whose longevity—or lack of it—can be counted on.” Ogilvie turned to the balding Miller. “Our doctor knows, don’t you, Paul?”

“I’m not your doctor, Red,” said the psychiatrist quietly.

“You don’t have to be; you’ve read the reports. In five weeks or so the pain will start getting worse … then worse after that. I won’t feel it, of course, because by then I’ll be moved to a hospital room where injections will keep it under control, and all those phony cheerful voices will tell me I’m
actually getting better. Until I can’t focus, or hear them, and then they don’t have to say anything.” The former field man leaned back in his chair, looking now at Stern. “We’ve got here what our learned attorney might call a confluence of beneficial prerogatives. Chances are that the Soviets won’t touch me, but if they tried, nothing’s lost for me, you can be goddamned sure of that. And I’m the only one around who can pull Havelock out in the open, far enough so we can take him.”

Stern’s gaze was steady on the red-haired man who was dying. “You’re persuasive,” he said.

“I’m not only persuasive, I’m right.” Suddenly Ogilvie pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’m so right I’m going home to pack and grab a cab to Andrews. Get me on a military transport to Italy; there’s no point in advertising the trip on a commercial flight. Those KGB turkeys know every passport, every cover I’ve ever used, and there’s no time to be inventive. Route me through Brussels into the base at Palombara. Then cable Baylor to expect me.… Call me Apache.”

“Apache?” asked Dawson.

“Damn good trackers.”

“Assuming Havelock will meet with you,” said the psychiatrist, “what’ll you say to him?”

“Not a hell of a lot. Once he’s an arm’s length away he’s mine.”

“He’s experienced, Red,” said Stern, studying Ogilvie’s face. “He may not be all there, but he’s tough.”

“I’ll have equipment,” replied the dying man, heading for the door. “And I’m experienced, too, which is why I’m a coward. I don’t go near anything I can’t walk away from. Mostly.” Ogilvie opened the door and left without another word. The exit was clean, swift, the sound of the closing door final.

“We won’t see him again,” said Miller.

“I know,” said Stern. “So does he.”

“Do you think he’ll reach Havelock?” asked Dawson.

“I’m sure of it,” replied the director of Cons Op. “He’ll take him, turn him over to Baylor and a couple of resident physicians we’ve got in Rome, then he’ll disappear. He told us. He’s not going into that hospital room and all those lying voices. He’ll go his own way.”

“He’s entitled to that,” said the psychiatrist.

“I suppose so,” agreed the lawyer without conviction, turning to Stern. “As Red might say, ‘No disrespect,’ but I wish to God we could be certain about Havelock. He’s
got
to be immobilized. We could be hauled in by authorities all over Europe, fuel for the fanatics of every persuasion. Embassies could be burned to the ground, networks scattered, time lost, hostages taken, and-don’t fool yourself—a great many people killed. All because one man fell off balance. We’ve seen it happen with far less provocation than Havelock could provide.”

“That’s why I’m so sure Ogilvie will bring him in,” said Stern. “I’m not in Paul’s line of work, but I think I know what’s going through Red’s mind. He’s offended, deeply offended. He’s watched friends the in the field—from Africa to Istanbul—unable to do anything because of his cover. He saw a wife and three children leave him because of his job; he hasn’t seen his kids in five years. Now he’s got to live with what he’s got—die from what he’s got. All things considered, if
he
stays on track, what gives Havelock the right, the privilege, to go over the edge? Our Apache’s on his last hunt, setting his last trap. He’ll see it through because he’s angry.”

“That and one other thing,” said the psychiatrist “There’s nothing else left for him. It’s his final justification.”

“For what?” asked the lawyer.

“The pain,” answered Miller. “His
and
Havelock’s. You see, he respected him once. He can’t forget that.”

The unmarked jet swept down from the skies forty miles due north of the airport of Palombara Sabina. It had flown from Brussels, avoiding all military and commercial air routes, and soaring over the Alps east of the Lepontine sector; its altitude was so great and its descent so rapid that the probability of observation was practically nonexistent. Its blip on defense radar screens was prearranged: it would appear and disappear without comment, without investigation. And when it landed at Palombara, it would bring in a man who had been taken on board secretly at three o’clock in the morning, Brussels time. A man without a conventional name, referred to only as the Apache. This man, as with many like him, could not risk the formalities of identification at immigration desks or border checkpoints. Appearances might be altered and names changed, but other men watched such places, knowing what to look for, their minds trained to react like memory banks; too often they were successful. For the Apache—as for many like him—the current means of travel was more the norm than otherwise.

The engines were cut back as the pilot—trained in carrier landings—guided his aircraft over the forests in the stretched-out, low approach to the field. It was a mile-long black strip cut out of the woods, with maintenance hangars and traffic towers set back and camouflaged, odd yet barely
visible intrusions on the countryside. The plane touched down, and the young pilot turned in his seat as the reverse thrust of the jets echoed throughout the small cabin. He raised his voice to be heard, addressing the red-haired middle-aged man behind him.

“Here we are, Indian. You can take out your bow and arrows.”

“Funny boy,” said Ogilvie, releasing the clamp that held the strap across his chest. He looked at his watch. “What’s the time here? I’m still on a Washington clock.”

“Oh-five-fifty-seven; you’ve lost six hours. You’re working on midnight, but here it’s morning. If you’re expected at the office, I hope you got some sleep.”

“Enough. Is transport arranged?”

“Right to the big chief’s wigwam on the Via Vittorio.”

“Very cute. The embassy?”

“That’s right You’re a special package. Delivery guaranteed straight from Brussels.”

“That’s wrong. The embassy’s out.”

“We’ve got our orders.”

“I’m issuing new ones.”

Ogilvie walked into the small office reserved for men like himself in the maintenance building of the unmapped airfield. It was a room devoid of windows, with only basic furniture; there were two telephones, both routed perpetually through electronic scrambler systems. The outside corridor that led to the office was guarded by three men dressed innocuously in overalls. Under the bulging fabric, however, each carried a weapon, and should any unidentified persons interfere with the incoming passenger or the presence of a camera even be suspected, the weapons would be bared, used instantly if necessary. These accommodations were the result of extraordinary conferences between unknown men of both governments whose concerns transcended the stated limits of covert cooperation; quite simply, they were necessary.

Governments everywhere were being threatened from without and within, from fanatics of the left and the right committed solely to the destruction of the status quo. Fanaticism fed upon itself, upon sensationalism, upon the spectacular interruption of normal activity; clandestine access had to be given those who fought the extremists in any form. It was
presumed that those who passed through Palombara were such fighters, and the current passenger knew beyond any doubt that he was one. Unless he brought in a rogue agent, a dangerous paranoid whose mind held the secret histories of a thousand untold intelligence operations going back sixteen years, that man could destroy alliances and networks throughout Europe. Sources would disappear, potential sources evaporate. Michael Havelock had to be found and taken; no terrorist could inflict greater damage.

Ogilvie walked to the desk, sat down, and picked up the telephone on his left; it was black, signifying domestic use. He dialed the number he had committed to memory, and twelve seconds later the sleepy voice of Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence Baylor Brown was on the line.