The Parsifal Mosaic (6 page)

Havelock stared at the Soviet officer, his breathing audible, anger and bewilderment compounding the emotional strain. Even the shadow of a possibility that an error had been
made at Costa Brava was more than he could face.
But there was no error
. A Baader-Meinhof defector had set off the revealing chain of events. The evidence had been sent to Madrid, and he had pored over it, sifting every fragment for a shred to the contrary. There was nothing; there was everything. Even Anthony Matthias—
Anton
Matthias, friend, mentor, surrogate father—had demanded indepth verification; it had been returned: Positive.

“No! The proof was there!
She
was there! I saw for myself! I said I had to see for myself and they agreed!”

“‘They’? who is ‘they’?”

“You know as well as I do! Men like you! The inside shell—strategists! You didn’t look hard enough. You’re
wrong
!
”

The Russian moved his head slowly in circles, his left hand massaging his throat; he spoke softly. “I won’t deny that the possibility exists—as I said, the VKR is maniacally secretive,
especially
in Moscow—but that possibility is remote.… We were astonished. An unusually productive decoy conduit is led into a terrorist trap by her own people, who then proceed to hold the KGB responsible for her death by claiming she was one of us. The result of this manipulation is the neutering of the woman’s constant companion, her lover, a deep-cover, multilingual field agent of exceptional talent. Disillusion and disgust overwhelm him; he takes himself out. We are amazed; we search the dossier vaults, including the most inaccessible. She is
nowhere
. Jenna Karas—Karasova—was never a part of us.” Rostov paused, his eyes conveying his awareness: Michael Havelock was a dangerously provoked panther about to spring, about to strike. The Russian continued, his voice flat: “We are grateful; we profit by your elimination, but we ask ourselves Why? Why was this done? Is it a trick? If so, for what purpose? Who gains? On the surface we do, but again, why?
How?”

“Ask the VKR!” shouted Michael contemptuously. “They didn’t plan it this way, but that’s the way it happened. I’m the bonus! Ask
them!”

“We did,” said the Russian. “A section director, saner than most, who, because of his relative sanity, is frightened of his peers. He told us that he personally was not familiar with the Karas woman or the specifics at Costa Brava, but since the field personnel raised no questions, he assumed no questions
should
be raised. As he pointed out, the results were favorable: two condors shot down, both talented, one exceptional. The Voennaya was pleased to take credit.”

“Why shouldn’t they? I was out, and she could be Justified. A sacrifice by any name is still the same. It’s expendable for a purpose. He said it; he acknowledged it.”

“He did not acknowledge it and he was saying something quite different. I told you, he’s a frightened man. Only my rank persuaded him to go as far as he did.”

“You’re reaching.”

“I listened. As you listened to me a few moments ago. He was telling us that he hadn’t the vaguest idea what had happened or why.”

“He
personally
didn’t know,” said Havelock angrily. “The people in the field knew.
She
knew!”

“A tenuous rationalization. His office is responsible for all activities in the southwest Mediterranean sector. The territory includes the Costa Brava. An emergency rendezvous—especially one ostensibly involving the Baader-Meinhof—would certainly be cleared by him.” Rostov paused briefly, then added quietly, “Under normal circumstances.”

“A not so tenuous rationalization?” asked Michael.

“I leave myself the narrowest margin for error. An extremely remote possibility.”

“It’s the one I accept!” Havelock shouted again, suddenly disturbed at his own outburst.

“You want to accept it. Perhaps you have to.”

“The VKR more often than not gets its orders directly from the policy rooms of the Kremlin. It’s no secret. If you’re not lying, you were passed over.”

“To be sure, and the thought frightens me more than I can tell you. But as much as I’m forced to acknowledge your professional accomplishments,
priyatel
, I do not think the policy makers in the Kremlin are concerned with the likes of you and me. They have more weighty matters, global matters. And, to the point, they have no expertise where we’re concerned.”

“They do with Baader-Meinhof!
And
the PLO,
and
the Brigate Rosse,
and
a couple of dozen ‘red armies’ blowing things up all over the goddamn place!
That’s
policy!”

“Only for maniacs.”

“Which is exactly what we’re talking about! Maniacs!”
Michael paused, the obvious striking him. “We broke the VKR codes. They were authentic; I’ve seen too many variations not to know.
I
set up the contact. She
responded
. I sent the final transmission to the men in the boat offshore.
They
responded! Explain that!”

“I can’t.”

“Then get
out
!
”

The KGB officer looked at his watch. “I must, in any event. Time is up.”

“Yes, it is.”

“We’re at an impasse,” said the Russian.

“I’m not.”

“No, I don’t think you are, and that compounds the risk about you. You know what you know and I know what I know. Impasse, whether you like it or not.”

“Your time’s up, remember?”

“I’m not forgetting. I don’t care to be caught in the cross fire. I’ll leave now.” Rostov went to the door and turned, his hand on the knob. “Several minutes ago you said the bait was too obvious, the stench too rotten. Tell that to Washington,
priyatel
. We’re not taking it either.”

“Get
out!”

The door closed, and Havelock stood motionless for nearly a minute, picturing the Russian’s eyes. They had held too much truth in them. Over the years Michael had learned to discern the truth, especially in his enemies. Rostov had not been lying; he had spoken the truth as he believed it to be. Which meant that this powerful strategist for the KGB was being manipulated by his own people in Moscow. Pyotr Rostov was a blind probe—an influential intelligence officer sent out with information he is convinced his superiors do not have in order to make contact with the enemy and turn an American agent, recruiting him for the Soviets. The higher up the officer, the more credible his story—as long as he spoke the truth as he saw it, truth that was perceived as such by his enemy.

Michael walked to the bedside table, where he had left the glass of whisky a half hour ago. He picked it up, drained the Scotch, and looked down at the bed. He smiled to himself, thinking how the evening had veered from where it had been heading thirty minutes ago. The whore had performed, but not in any way he might have expected. The sensuous
courtesan from the playgrounds of the rich had been a setup. When were the setups going to stop? Amsterdam. Paris. Athens.

Perhaps they would not stop. Until he did. Perhaps as long as he kept moving the would-be trappers would keep moving with him, watching him, cornering him, waiting for him to commit whatever crimes their imaginations led them to believe he would commit. It was in the movement itself that they found the ominous substance for their suspicions. No man wandered aimlessly after a lifetime of wandering under orders. If he kept it up, it had to mean he was following other orders, different orders; otherwise he’d stay put. Somewhere.

Perhaps it was time he stopped. Maybe his odyssey of recovery had about run its course; there was a cable to be sent, a commitment to be made. A beginning. A nearly forgotten friend had become a friend again, and that man had offered him a new life, where the old life could be buried, where there were roots to cultivate, relationships to create, things to teach.

What will you teach, Mikhail?

Leave me alone! You are no part of me—you never were!

He would send the cable to Harry Lewis in the morning, then rent a car and drive northwest to the ferry for the Adriatic port of Kérkira, where he would catch the boat to Brindisi in Italy. He had done it before under God knows what name or with what objective. He would do it now as Michael Havelock, visiting professor of government. From Brindisi he would take the circuitous train routes across Italy into Rome, a city he enjoyed immensely. He would stay in Rome for a week or two; it would be the last stop on his odyssey, the place where he would put to rest all thoughts of a life that was over.

There were things to do in Concord, New Hampshire, U.S.A. He would assume his duties as visiting professor in something less than three months; in the meantime there were practicalities to be dealt with: lectures to be sketched out under the guidance of knowledgeable associates; curricula to study and evaluate, determining where his contributions might best be directed. A short visit, perhaps, with Matthias, who would certainly have insights to offer. No matter how pressed for time, Matthias would
take
the time, because,
above all men, Anton would be happiest for him: his old student had returned to the campus. It was where it had all begun.

So many things to do.

He needed a place to live: a house, furniture, pots and pans and books, a chair to sit in, a bed to sleep in. Choices. He had not thought about such things ever before. He thought about them now and felt the excitement growing inside him.

He went to the bureau, uncapped the Scotch and poured himself a drink.
“Příteli,”
he said softly, for no particular reason, as he looked at his face in the mirror. Suddenly he stared at his eyes and, in terror, slammed the glass down with such force that it shattered; blood spread slowly over his hand. His eyes would not let him go! And he understood. Had his own eyes seen the truth that night on the Costa Brava?

“Stop it!”
he screamed, whether silently or out loud, he could not tell.
“It’s over!”

Dr. Harry Lewis sat at his desk in his book-lined study, the cablegram in his hand. He listened for the sound of his wife’s voice. It came.

“See you later, dear,” she called from the hallway beyond. The front door opened and closed. She was out of the house.

Lewis picked up his telephone and dialed the area code 202. Washington, D.C. The seven digits that followed had been committed to memory, never written down. Nor would they be recorded on a bill, having bypassed the computers electronically.

“Yes?” asked the male voice on the other end of the line.

“Birchtree,” said Harry.

“Go ahead, Birchtree. You’re being taped.”

“He’s accepted. The cable came from Athens.”

“Is there any change in dates?”

“No. He’ll be here a month before the trimester starts.”

“Did he say where he was going from Athens?”

“No.”

“We’ll watch the airports. Thank you, Birchtree.”

The Rome Havelock had come to visit was not the Rome in which he cared to stay. Strikes were everywhere, the chaos
compounded by volatile Italian tempers that erupted on every street corner, every picket line, in the parks and around the fountains. Mail had been strewn in gutters, adding to the uncollected garbage; taxis were scarce—practically nonexistent—and most of the restaurants had been closed because of the lack of deliveries. The
poliziotti
, having taken sufficient abuse, were on a work stoppage, snarling further the normal insanity of Rome’s traffic, and since the telephones were part of the government’s postal service, they functioned on a level below normal, which made them damn near impossible. The city was full of a kind of hysteria, which was aggravated by yet another stern papal decree—from a foreigner, a
polacco
!—that was at odds with every progressive step since Vatican II.
Giovanni Ventitreesimo! Dove sei?

It was his second night, and Michael had left his
pensions
on the Via Due Macelli over two hours before, walking nearly the mile to the Via Flaminia Vecchia in hopes of finding a favorite restaurant open. It was not, and no amount of patience brought forth a taxi to bring him back to the Spanish Steps.

Reaching the north end of the Via Veneto, he was heading toward the side street that would eliminate the crowds in the gaudy carnival that was the Veneto when he saw it—a poster in the lighted window of a travel agency proclaiming the glories of Venice.

Why not? Why the hell not? The floating passivity of not planning included sudden changes in plans. He looked at his watch; it was barely eight-thirty, probably too late to get out to the airport and chance a reservation on a plane, but if he remembered correctly—and he did—the trains kept running Until midnight out of Rome. Why not a train? The lazy, circuitous trip from Brindisi by rail, passing through countrysides that had not changed in centuries, had been startlingly beautiful. He could pack his single suitcase in minutes, walk to the train station in twenty. Surely the money he was willing to pay would get him accommodations; if not, he could always return to the Via Due Macelli. He had paid for a week in advance.

Forty-five minutes later Havelock passed through the huge portals of the massive Ostia Railroad station, built by Mussolini in the halcyon days of trumpets and drums and marching boots and trains that ran on time.

Italian was not Michael’s best language, but he could read it well enough:
Biglietto per Venezia. Prima classe
. The line was short and his luck held. The famed
Freccia della Laguna
was leaving in eight minutes, and if the signore wished to pay the premium scale, he could have the finest accommodations by way of his own compartment He so wished, and as the clerk stamped his ornate ticket, he was told that the
Freccia
was leaving from
binario trentasei
, a dual platform several football fields away from the counter.

“Fate presto, signore! Non perdete tempo! Fate in fretta!”

Michael walked rapidly into the mass of rushing humanity, threading his way as fast as possible toward dual Track 36. As usual—as he recalled from memories past—the giant dome was filled with crowds. Screeching arrivals and wailing departures were joined in counterpoint; screamed epithets punctuated the deafening roar, because the porters, too, were obviously on strike. It took nearly five hectic minutes to shoulder his way through the huge stone arch and emerge on the double-track platform. It was, if possible, more chaotic than the station itself. A crowded train had arrived from the north as the
Freccia della Laguna
was about to depart. Freight dollies collided with hordes of embarking and disembarking passengers. It was a scene from a lower circle of Dante, screaming pandemonium.