The Parsifal Mosaic (30 page)

Enter the American, whose cover was that of a yacht-owning jet-setter, and who spent the taxpayers’ money cautiously but obnoxiously at the tables. His obnoxiousness, however, did not end at chemin de fer; he was a womanizer with a preference for young girls, an image, he rationalized, that did nothing to harm his cover. One of the girls he brought to his busy bed was Salanne’s daughter, Claudie, an impressionable child who suffered a severe depression when nothing further came of the relationship.

The Soviets were in the market; the doctor’s losses could be
covered
, and a preying coureur removed from the scene.
Pourqnoi pas?
The act had taken place.

Enter Havelock, who had traced the betrayal, got the American out before the boats were identified, and confronted Henri Salanne. He never reported his findings; there was no point, and the doctor understood the conditions of his “pardon.” Never again … and an obligation was assumed.

Michael found a telephone booth at a deserted corner in the downtown district of Cagnes-sur-Mer. He braced himself with difficulty, and got out of the car, clutching his Jacket around him as he stood up; he was cold, bleeding still. Inside the booth, he pulled out the Llama from his holster, smashed the overhead light, and studied the dial in the shadows. After what seemed like an interminable wait, he was given Salanne’s number by Antibes information.

“Votre
fille, Claudie, comment va-t-elle
?” he asked quietly.

There was dead silence. Finally the doctor spoke, his use of English deliberate. “I wondered if I’d hear from you. If it is you, they say you may be hurt.”

“I am.”

“How badly?”

“I need cleaning up and a few sutures. That’s all, I think.”

“Nothing internal?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“I hope you’re right. A hospital would be in questionable
taste right now. I suspect all emergency rooms in the area are being watched.”

Michael was suddenly alarmed. “What about you?”

“There’s only so much manpower. They won’t waste it on someone they assume would rather see ten patients the on an operating table than be cut off from their generosity.”

“Would you?”

“Let’s halve it,” said Salanne, laughing softly. “In spite of my habits, my conscience couldn’t take more than five.” The doctor paused but not long enough for Havelock to speak. “However, there could be a problem. They say you’re driving a medium-sized truck-”

“I’m not.”

“Or possibly a dark gray Lancia sedan,” continued Salanne.

“l am.”

“Get rid of it, or get away from it.”

Michael looked at the large automobile outside the booth. The engine had overheated; steam was escaping from the radiator, vapor rising and diffusing under the light of the streetlamp. All this was calling attention to the car. “I’m not sure how far I can walk,” he said to the doctor.

“Loss of blood?”

“Enough so I can feel it.”

“Merde! Where are you?”

Havelock told him. “I’ve been here before, but I can’t remember much.”

“Disorientation or absence of impressions?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Blood.”

“I feel dizzy, if that’s what you mean.”

“It is. I think I know the corner. Is there a
bijouterie
on the other side? Called something and Son?”

Michael squinted through glass beyond the Lancia. “Ariale et Fils?” he said, reading the raised white letters of a sign above a dark storefront across the street “Fine Jewelry, Watches, Diamonds.’ Is that it?”

“Ariale, of course. I’ve had good nights, too, you know. They’re much more rèasonable than the thieves in the Spélugues. Now then, several shops north of Ariale is an alley that leads to a small parking lot behind the stores. I’ll get there as fast as I can, twenty minutes at the outside. I don’t care to race through the streets under the circumstances.”

“Please don’t.”

“Nor should you. Walk slowly, and if there are automobiles parked there, crawl under one and lie flat on your back. When you see me arrive, strike a match. As little movement as possible, is that understood?”

“Understood.”

Havelock left the booth, but before crossing the street, he opened his jacket, pulled the blood-soaked shirt out of his belt and squeezed it until drops of dark red appeared on the pavement. Leaning over, he took a dozen rapid steps straight ahead past the corner building into the shadows, scuffing the blood with the soles of his shoes, streaking it backwards; anyone studying the Lancia and the immediate area would assume he had run down the intersecting street. He then stopped, awkwardly removed both shoes, and sidestepped carefully to the curb, pulling his jacket around him. He reversed direction and hobbled across the intersection to the side of the street that housed Ariale et Fils.

He lay on his back, matches in his hand, staring up at the black grease-laden underside of a Peugeot facing the parking-lot wall, keeping his mind alert with an exercise in the improbable. Proposition: The owner returned with a companion, and both got into the car. What should Michael do and how would he do it without being seen? The answer to the first was to roll out—obviously—but on which side?

Twin headlight beams pierced the entrance of the parking lot, cutting short his ruminations. The headlights were turned off ten feet inside the unmanned gate; the car stopped, the motor still running. It was Salanne, telling him he had arrived. Havelock crawled to the edge of the Peugeot’s chassis and struck a match. Seconds later the doctor was above him, and within minutes they were driving south on the road toward Antibes, Michael in the back seat, angled in the corner, legs stretched, out of sight.

“If you recall,” said Salanne, “there is a side entrance to my house, reached by the driveway. It leads directly to my office and the examining room.”

“I remember. I’ve used it.”

“I’ll go inside first, just to make certain.”

“What are you going to do if there are cars in front?”

“I’d rather not think about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Actually, I have. There’s a colleague of mine in Villefran-che, an elderly man, above reproach. I’d prefer not to involve him, of course.”

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” said Havelock, looking at the back of the doctor’s head in the coruscating light, noting that the hair touched with gray only a year or so ago was practically white now.

“I appreciate what you did for me,” replied Salanne softly. “I assumed a debt I never thought otherwise.”

“I know. That’s pretty cold, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. You asked how Claudie was, so let me tell you. She is happy and with child and married to a young intern at the hospital in Nice. Two years ago she nearly took her own life. How much is that worth to me, my friend?”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Besides, what they say about you is preposterous.”

“What do they say?”

“That you are insane, a dangerous psychopath who threatens us all with exposure—certain death from roving jackals of the KGB—if you are allowed to live.”

“And that’s preposterous to you?”

“As of an hour ago,
mon ami méchant
. You remember the man in Cannes who was involved with my indiscretion?”

“The KGB informant?”

“Yes. Would you say he’s knowledgeable?”

“As any in the sector,” replied Havelock. “To the point where we left him alone and tried to feed him disinformation. What about him?”

“When the word came through about you, I rang him up—from a public booth, of course. I wanted confirmation of this new, incredible judgment, so I asked him how soft the market was, how flexible in terms of price for the American consular attaché whose origins were in Prague. What be told me was both startling and specific.”

“Which was?” asked Michael, leaning forward in pain.

“There is no market for you, no price—high, low or otherwise. You are a leper and Moscow wants no part of your disease. You are not to be touched, even acknowledged. So whom could you expose in this manner?” The doctor shook his head. “Rome lied, which means that someone in Washington lied to Rome. ‘Beyond salvage’? Beyond belief.”

“Would you repeat those words to someone?”

“And by doing so, call for my own execution? There are limits to my gratitude.”

“You won’t be identified, my word on it.”

“Who would believe you without naming a source he could check?”

“Anthony Matthias.”

“
Matthias?
” cried Salanne, whipping his head to the side, gripping the wheel, his eyes straining to stay on the road. “Why would he …?”

“Because you’re with me. Again, my word on it.”

“A man like Matthias is beyond one’s well-intentioned word, my friend. He asks and you must tell him.”

“Only if you cleared it.”

“Why would he believe you? Believe me?”

“You Just said it. The attaché whose origins were in Prague. So were his.”

“I see,” said the doctor pensively, his head turned front again. “I never made the connection, never even thought about it.”

“It’s complicated, and I don’t talk about it. We go back a long time, our families go back.”

“I must think. To deal with such a man puts everything in another perspective, doesn’t it? We are ordinary men doing our foolish things; he is not ordinary. He lives on another plane. The Americans have a phrase for what you ask.”

“A different ballgame?”

“That’s the one.”

“It’s not. It’s the same game, and it’s rigged against him. Against all of us.”

There were no strange automobiles within a four-block radius of Salanne’s house, no need to travel to Villefranche and an elderly physician above reproach. Inside the examining room, Havelock’s clothes were removed, his body sponged, and the wounds sutured, the doctor’s petite, somewhat uncommunicative wife assisting Salanne.

“You should rest for several days,” said the Frenchman, after his wife had left, taking Michael’s garments to wash out what she could and bum the irrecoverable. “If there are no ruptures, the dressing will hold for five, perhaps six days, then it should be changed. But you should rest.”

“I can’t,” answered Havelock, grimacing, raising himself into a sitting position on the table, his legs over the edge.

“It hurts to move even those few inches, doesn’t it?”

“Only the shoulder, that’s all.”

“You’ve lost blood, you know that.”

“I’ve lost more, I know that, too.” Michael paused, studying Salanne. “Do you have a dictating machine in your office?”

“Of course. Letters and reports—medical reports—must be dealt with long after nurses and receptionists have gone home.”

“I want you to show me how to use it, and I want you to listen. It won’t take long, and you won’t be identified on the tape. Then I want to place an overseas call to the United States.”

“Matthias?”

“Yes. But the circumstances will determine how much I can tell him. Who’s with him, how sterile the phone is; he’ll know what to do. The point is, after you hear what I’ve got to say, the tape in your machine, you can decide whether to speak to him or not-if it comes up.”

“You place a burden on me.”

“I’m sorry—there won’t be many more. In the morning, I’ll need clothes. Everything I had is back in Monesi.”

“No problem. Mine would not fit, but my wife buys for me. Tomorrow, she will buy for you.”

“Speaking of buying, I’ve got a fair amount of money, but I’ll need more. I have accounts in Paris; you’ll get it back.”

“Now you embarrass me.”

“I don’t meant to, but, you see, there’s a catch. In order for you to get it back, I have to get to Paris.”

“Surely Matthias can effect swift, safe transportation.”

“I doubt it You’ll understand when you hear what I say in your office. Those who lied to Rome are very high in Washington. I don’t know who or where they are, but I know they’ll transmit only what they want to. His orders will be sidetracked, because
their
orders have gone out and they don’t want them voided. And if I say where I am, where I can be reached, they’ll send in men after me. In any case, they might succeed, which is why I need the tape. May we do it now, please?”

Thirty-four minutes later, Havelock depressed the switch on the cassette microphone and placed it on the Frenchman’s desk. He had told it all, from the screams at Costa Brava to the explosions at Col des Moulinets. He could not refrain from adding a last judgment. The civilized world might well survive the compromising of any sprawling, monolithic intelligence service-regardless of race, creed or national origin—but not when one of the victims was a man that the same civilized world depended on: Anthony Matthias, a statesman respected by geopolitical friends and adversaries everywhere. He had been systematically lied to regarding a matter to which he had addressed himself in depth. How many more lies had been fed him?

Salanne sat across the office, deep in a soft leather armchair, his body motionless, his face rigid, his eyes staring at Havelock. He was stunned, speechless. After several moments be shook his head and broke his silence.

“Why?” he asked in a barely audible voice. “It’s all so preposterous, as preposterous as what they say about you. Why?”

“I’ve asked myself that over and over again, and I keep going back to what I said to Baylor in Rome. They think I know something I shouldn’t know, something that frightens them.”

“Do your?”

“He asked me that.”

“Who?”

“Baylor. And I was honest with him—perhaps too honest—but the shock of seeing her had blown my mind. I couldn’t think straight. Especially after what Rostov had said in Athens.”

“What did you say?”

“The truth. That if I
did
know something, I’d forgotten it, or it had never made much of an impression on me.”

“That’s not like you. They say you are a walking data bank, someone who recalls a name, a face, a minor event that took place years ago.”

“Like most such opinions, it’s a myth. I was a graduate student for a long time, so I developed certain disciplines, but I’m no computer.”

“I’m aware of that,” said the Frenchman quietly. “No computer would have done what you did for me.” Salanne
paused, leaning forward in the chair. “Have you gone over the months preceding Costa Brava?”