The Parsifal Mosaic (68 page)

“Horny. I said he was horny, that he walked around the
women in his store with a spike in the middle of his trousers.”

“And I said he was gay.”

“And you were right, because you unbuttoned your blouse a few inches and the son of a bitch kept following me.”

They both laughed, the laughter echoing off the veloured walls. Jenna reached over and touched his hand.

“It’s good to laugh again, Mikhail.”

“It’s good to laugh with you. I don’t know how often we’ll be able to.”

“We must make time for it I think it’s terribly important.”

“I love you, Jenna.”

“Then why don’t we ask our gun-bearing Escoffier where we sleep? I don’t want to appear
nevysponý
, my darling, but I love you, too. I want to be close to you, not with a table between us.”

“You figured I wasn’t gay.”

“Latent, perhaps. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Direct. I always said you were direct.”

The gun-bearing Escoffier walked in. “More coffee?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” said Havelock.

“Some brandy?”

“I think not,” said Jenna.

“How about television?”

“How about the sleeping quarters?”

“The reception’s lousy up there.”

“We’ll manage,” said Michael.

He sat on the antique deacon’s bench in front of the dying fire in the bedroom, stretching his neck and moving his shoulder in circles. He was sitting there under orders, Jenna’s favors to be withheld far seven years or some such nonsense if he disobeyed. She had gone downstairs to find bandages, antiseptic and no doubt whatever else she could lay her hands on in pursuit of her immediate medical aims.

Ten minutes ago they had walked into the room together, hands clasped, bodies touching, both laughing softly. When she leaned into him, Michael had suddenly winced from the pain in his shoulder, and she had looked into his eyes. She had then unbuttoned his shirt and studied the dressing underneath on his shoulder in the light of a table lamp. An accommodating
guard had started the fire over an hour before; it was nearly out, but the coals were glowing, the stone hearth throwing off heat.

“Sit down here and stay warm,” Jenna had said, leading him to the bench. “We never did pick up a Red Cross kit. They must have something downstairs.”

“You’d better call it ‘first-aid’ or they’ll think you’re taking up a collection.”

“Just be still, my darling. That shoulder’s raw.”

“I haven’t thought about it, I haven’t felt it,” said Havelock, watching her go to the door and let herself out.

It was true; he had neither thought about the wound from Col des Moulinets nor, except for mild spasms, been aware of the pain. There had been no time. It hadn’t been important enough to think about. Too much had been too overwhelming too quickly. He looked over at the large bedroom window, a window with the same thick beveled glass as the one below in the study. He could see the wash of floodlights beyond—distorted by the glass—and wondered briefly how many men prowled the grounds protecting the sanctity of Sterile Five. Then his eyes wandered back to the burning coals that were the end of the fire. So much … so overwhelming … so quickly. The mind had to catch up before it was drowned in the onrushing revelations released by floodgates no longer holding back unthinkable—unbearable
—
truths. If he was going to keep his sanity, he had to find time to think.

It’s good to laugh with you. I don’t know how often we’ll be able to
.

We must make the time for it. I
think it’s terribly important
.

Jenna was right. Laughter was not inconsequential.
Her
laugh was not; he suddenly wanted desperately to hear it. Where was she? How long did it take to find a roll of tape and a couple of bandages? Every sterile house was fully equipped with all manner of medical supplies; they went with the territory. Where
was
, she?

He got up from the antique bench, suddenly alarmed. Perhaps other men—men not assigned to Sterile Five—were prowling the grounds outside. He had a certain expertise in such matters. Infiltration was made easier by a profusion of woods and underbrush, and Sterile Five was a country house, surrounded by trees and foliage—natural cover for unnatural
experts bent on penetration.
He
could intrude, invade, undoubtedly take out opposition silently, and if he could, others could.
Where was she?

Havlock walked rapidly to the window, realizing as he approached it that the thick glass which was impervious to bullets would also distort movement outside. It did; he turned swiftly and started for the door. Then he realized something else: he had no weapon!

The door opened before he reached it. He stopped, his breath cut short, relief sweeping through him as Jenna stood there with one hand on the knob and the other holding a plastic tray filled with bandages, scissors, tape and alcohol.

“Mikhail, what is it? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I … I felt like getting up.”

“Darling, you’re perspiring,” said Jenna, closing the door and coming to him; she touched his forehead, then his right temple. “What
is
it?”

“I’m sorry. My imagination went a little off the track. I … I thought you were gone longer than … I expected. I’m sorry.”

“I was gone longer than
I
expected.” Jenna took his arm and led him to the bench. “Let’s get the shirt off,” she said, placing the tray down and helping him.

“Just that?” asked Havelock, sitting down and looking at her while removing his arms from his sleeves. “Just longer than you expected? That’s it?”

“Well, outside of two brief affairs under the staircase and a mild flirtation with the cook, I’d say it was sufficient … Now, hold still while I take this off.” Jenna carefully, expertly sliced through the borders of the dressing on his shoulder and peeled it back, then removed the bandage. “Actually, it’s healing quite well, considering what you’ve put it through,” she said as the stripped the tape and reached for the alcohol and cotton. “More irritation than anything else. The salt water probably prevented infection.… This will sting a bit.”

“It
does
,“said Michael, wincing, as Jenna swabbed the flesh around the wound, then stroked the residue of tape away. “Outside of that activity under the staircase, what the hell were you doing?” he asked while she placed squares of gauze over his skin.

“Concentrating on the mild flirtation,” she replied, reeling
out the surgical tape and strapping the clean dressing in place. “There. You won’t feel any better, but you look better.”

“And you’re avoiding me.”

“Don’t you like surprises?”

“Never did.”

“Koláče!”
she said, drawing out the word, while laughing and pouring alcohol over his exposed skin. “In the morning we’ll have
koláče,”
she added, massaging his back.

“Sweet rolls?
 … You’re crazy. You’re positively out of your mind. We’ve spent twenty-four hours in a goddamned hell and you’re talking about hot cross buns!”

“We must live, Mikhail,” said Jenna, her voice suddenly soft beside him, the movement of her hands slowing to a halt. “I did speak with our armed-to-the-teeth cook, and I’m sure I flirted. In the morning he’ll make sure we have apricots and dry yeast; nutmeg he has-and ground mace. He’ll order it all tonight. In the morning,
koláče.”

“I don’t believe you—”

“Try and you’ll see.” She laughed again, and held his face in her hands. “In Prague you found a bakery that made
koláče
. You loved it and asked me to bake some for you.”

“In Prague there was another set of problems, not what’s facing us now.”

“But it
is us
, Mikhail.
Us
once more, and we must have our moments. I lost you once, and now you’re here, with me again. Let me have these moments, let
us
have them … even knowing what we know.”

He reached for her, pulling her to him. “You have them. We have them.”

“Thank you, my darling.”

“I love to hear you laugh, have I told you that?”

“A number of times. You said I laughed like a small child watching a marionette show. Do you remember saying that?”

“I do, and I was right.” Michael tilted her head back. “It fits, a child and sudden laughter … a nervous child sometimes. Broussac saw it too. She told me what happened in Milan, how you stripped that poor bastard, colored him red, and stole his clothes.”

“As well as an enormous sum of money!” interrupted Jenna. “He was a dreadful man.”

“Régine said you laughed about it like a small child remembering a joke or a prank or something like that.”

“I suppose I did.” Jenna glanced at the fire. “I was so frightened, hoping so much that she would help me, thinking she might not. I think I was holding on to a memory that amused me, that might calm me down. I don’t know, but it’s happened before.”

“What do you mean?” asked Michael.

Jenna turned back to him, her wide eyes inches from his but not looking at him—instead, looking beyond, seeing images from the past. “When I ran away from Ostrava, when my brothers were killed, and I was marked by the anti-Dubčeks—when my life there was finished—I came into the world of Prague. It was a world filled with hatred, a world so violent that I thought at times I couldn’t stand it anymore. But I knew what I had to do, I couldn’t turn back to a life that wasn’t mine any longer.… So I would remember things, relive the memories as if I were actually
there
, not in Prague, not in that world of fear. I was back in Ostrava, my adoring brothers taking me for rides, telling their sister outrageous stories to make me laugh. During those moments I was free, I wasn’t afraid.” She looked at him. “Those memories were hardly like Milan, were they? But I could laugh, I
did
laugh.… Enough! I’m not making sense.”

“You’re making sense,” said Michael, pulling her to him again, his face against hers. “Thank you for that. Not much sense is being made these days. Anywhere.”

“You’re tired, my darling. More than tired, you’re exhausted. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

“I always obey my doctors.”

“You need rest, Mikhail.”

“I always obey my doctors up to a point.”

“Zlomený,”
said Jenna, laughing softly against his ear.

Strands of her blond hair were layered over his face, her arm across his chest, but neither was asleep. The splendid, warm comfort of their lovemaking did not bring sleep; the unthinkable was too much with them. A soft shaft of light came from the partially closed bathroom door.

“You didn’t tell me everything that happened to you on Poole’s Island, did you?” said Jenna, her head next to his on the pillow. “You told Bradford that you did, but you didn’t.”

“Almost everything,” replied Havelock, staring at the ceiling. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Jenna took her arm away and, supporting herself on her elbow, faced him. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I don’t think anybody can. It’s the bomb in my head.”

“What is, my darling?”

“I know Parsifal.”

“You
what
…?”

“That’s what Matthias said. He said I saw them all coming and going, the ‘negotiators of the world,’ he called them. But there was only one and I must have seen him. I must know him.”

“That was the reason he did what he did to you? To us? Why he wanted you out?”

“He said I could never understand … the deadliest treaties were the only solution.”

“And I was the sacrifice.”

“Yes. What can I say? He’s not sane; he wasn’t when he ordered up the case against you. You were to the and I was to live, live and be watched.” Michael shook his head in frustration.
“That’s
what I can’t understand.”

“My death?”

“No, my
living
.”

“Even in his insanity, he loved you.”

“Not
him
. Parsifal. If I was a threat, why didn’t Parsifal kill me? Why was it left to the mole to put out the order three months later?”

“Bradford explained that,” said Jenna. “You’d seen me; you were reopening Costa Brava, and it could have led you back to the mole.”

“It still doesn’t explain Parsifal. He could have had me taken out twenty times over. He didn’t. That’s the gap. What kind of a man are we dealing with?”

“Certainly not rational. That’s what so terrifying.”

Havelock turned his head and looked at her. “I wonder,” he said.

The ringing was harsh, unexpected, reverberating throughout the room. He bolted up from a deep sleep, his hand reached for a nonexistent weapon. It was the telephone, and Michael stared at it before picking it up from the bedside table. He
glanced at his watch as he spoke. It was four-forty-five in the morning.

“Yes?”

“Havelock, it’s Bradford.”

“What’s the matter? Where are you?”

“In my office. I’ve been here since eleven. Incidentally, I’ve had people working through the night. Everything you wanted will be at Sterile Five by ten o’clock, except the records at Poole’s Island. There’ll be a few hours’ delay with those.”

“You called at this hour to tell me that?”

“Of course not” Bradford paused, an intake of breath filling the moment “I may have found him,” he said rapidly. “I did as you suggested. I looked for someone who might not have been where he was supposed to be. I won’t know for certain until late this morning; that’s the delay with Poole’s Island. If it’s true, it’s incredible; his record is as clean as they come, his military service—”

“Don’t say any more,” ordered Michael.

“Your phone is as sterile as that house.”

“Mine may be. Yours may not be. Or your office. Just listen to me.”

“What is it?”

“Look for a puppet. He could be alive or dead.”

“A what?”

“Someone filling in, the strings leading back to your man. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, I think so. As a matter of fact, I do. It’s part of what I’ve found already.”

“Call me when you know. From the street, from a booth. But don’t close in, don’t do anything.” Havelock hung up and looked at Jenna. “Bradford may have found Ambiguity. If he has, you were right.”