The Parsifal Mosaic (94 page)

“They’ve come back,” said Havelock.

The journalist blinked; he did not understand, nor did he pretend to. He continued. “The man who had 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, he came back. A little over a year ago, without calling, without warning, he came to see me and said we had 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 he told us what we’d done. It was late afternoon, and we walked along the ridge above the ravine—two old men making 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.”

“I’m not interested,” said Michael.

“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.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

Jenna 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. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “Please, go on.”

“Yes, of course.… We walked along the ridge, we two old men that late afternoon, when suddenly he stopped and said to me, ‘You 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 habit 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 he 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 he want you to do?” asked Havelock.

“I was to be the Boswell and my journals were to record the deterioration and collapse of a man with such power that he could plunge the world into the insanity that was down the road for him. My Samuel Johnson was, of course, Anthony Matthias, and the message to mankind was to be a sobering 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 Berquist’s words, “ ‘when we didn’t own the heavens.’ ”

“Well put.” The journalist nodded his head. “I wish I’d
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 after-noon what was happening to Matthias?”

“Yes. He’d seen him, been with him, knew the signs. Sudden tirades, followed by weeping, constant self-justification, false humility that only served to point up his accomplishments … growing suspicions about everyone around him; yet in public there was always the façade of normalcy. Then there were the lapses of memory—in the main, concerning failures and, when prodded, the necessity to blame others for those failures.…. I came to see it all, write it all. I’d drive to the Shenandoah every week or so—”

“On Sundays?” broke in Havelock.

“Sundays, yes.”

“Decker?”

“Oh, yes, Commander Decker. By then, you see, the man you call Parsifal had 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 back road and meet with Matthias in the cabin he used when he wanted to be alone.”

“The Woodshed,” said Havelock. “A voice-activated tape system.”

“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 become the warlord statesman, the brilliant negotiator, not seeing the man you call Parsifal but seeing others, addressing others. Russian generals and scientists who weren’t there, Chinese army commanders and commissars halfway across the globe. During those moments he
saw
them, they were
there
. It was a running pattern of self-induced séances, therapy of the most destructive kind. And each time he came out of it he was a little bit worse, his eyes guarded by those tortoiseshell glasses a little less focused. He was a man who’d been on some sort of drus trip, his mind a touch less clear
for it. It was progressive, but he could still function in both worlds.… I saw it all, wrote it all.”

“When did I come up?” asked Havelock. “Why me?”

“You were there all the time, photographs of you were on his desk, his bureau … in the Woodshed. An album of the two of you on a camping trip through the Canadian far west.”

“I’d forgotten,” said Michael. “It was so long ago. I was in graduate school, Anton was my adviser.”

“Far more than that You were the son he never had, speaking to him in his native language, recalling another place, another time.” Alexander raised his head from the cradle of his chest, riveting his eyes on Havelock. “Above all, you were the son who refused to believe that his visions, his solutions for the world, were the right ones. He couldn’t convince you. Your voice kept telling him he was wrong, and he couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t stand being told he was wrong, especially by you.”

“He was. He knew I’d tell him.”

“His eyes would stray to your pictures, and suddenly he would see you and be talking with you, tormented by your arguments, your anger. He was afraid of you, really … and the work would stop.”

“So I had to be put out of reach.”

“Where you could no longer judge him, I think. You were part of his everyday reality, the Department of State. You had to be separated from that reality. It began to consume him; he couldn’t tolerate your interference. You had to go; he wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“And Parsifal knew how to do it,” said Michael bitterly. “He knew the mole at State. He reached him and told him what to do.”

“I had no part of that. I knew it was being done, but I didn’t know how.… You had spoken to Anton about Miss Karas. About your devotion to her and how after the long years of your own inner turmoil—going back to your childhood—you were ready to come out. With her. Getting out was very important to you. Your decision had been made.”

“You thought I’d come out
without
her? Why?”

“Because Parsifal was experienced in such matters,” said Jenna. She selected one of the photographs and handed it to
Michael. “A clinical psychologist attached to the KGB. A man named Alexei Kalyazin—the face that struck a chord with you.”

“
I don’t
know
him!” shouted Havelock, getting out of the chair and turning to Raymond Alexander. “Who
is
he?”

“Don’t ask me to say the name,” whispered the journalist, shaking his head and pulling back into the chair. “Don’t ask me. I can’t be involved.”

“Goddamn you, you
are
involved!” yelled Michael, throwing the photograph on Alexander’s lap. “You’re the
Boswell!
 … Wait a minute!” Michael looked at Jenna and said, “He was a defector. Forget the fact that he was a plant, he was a
defector
. He had to be listed!”

“All references to the defection of Alexei Kalyazin were expurgated,” said Alexander quietly. “All files were removed; a man with another name simply disappeared.”

“Naturally. So the great man couldn’t possibly be tarnished!” Havelock approached Alexander’s chair; he reached down and, gripping the lapels of the journalist’s jacket, yanked him up. “Who
is
he?
Tell
me!”

“Look at the photograph.” Alexander’s body was trembling. “Look at it. Remove much of the hair, the eyebrows as well. Give him many lines around his face, his eyes … a small white beard, speckled with gray.”

Michael grabbed the photograph and stared at it “Zelienski—Leon
Zelienski
!”

“I thought you’d see, I thought you’d understand. Without me. The ultimate chess game … the finest chess player Anton knew.”

“He isn’t Russian, he’s a Pole! A retired professor of history from Berkeley … brought over here years ago from the University of Warsaw!”

“A new identity, a new life, papers in place and locations obscured. Living on a backoountry road less than two miles from Matthias. Anton always knew where he was.”

Havelock brought his hands to his temples, trying to contain the racking pain in his head. “You … you and Zelienski. Two
demented old mern
! Do you know what you’ve
done
?”

“It’ s out of control Everything’s out of control.”

“You never had it
in
control! The instant Zelienski reached the mole, you lost! We all lost! Couldn’t you see what was
happening? Did you think it would end with a goddamn
message
? Couldn’t you
stop
him? You knew Matthias was at Poole’s Island … 
how
did you know?”

“A source. One of the doctors—he’s frightened.”

“Then you knew he’d been diagnosed insane! How could you let it go on?”

“You just said it. I couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t listen to me—he
won’t listen
to me. I
can’t stop him
! He’s as crazed as Anton now. He has a Christ complex—his is the only light, the only way.”

“And you traded your holy name in print so he could have it! What the
hell
are you made of?”

“Leave me something, Michael. He had me caged. Zelien-ski told me that if I went to anyone, if anyone came for him, a telephone call that he made daily from various phone booths would
not
be made, and those so-called nuclear agreements—
signed
by Anthony Matthias—would be on their way to Moscow and Peking.”

Havelock watched the uneasy green eyes of the old journalist, and looked at the bloated hands gripping the arms of the chair. “No, Raymond, that’s only part of it. You couldn’t stand being exposed, being wrong. You’re like Anton—frightened by the truth of your own mistakes. The blind but omniscient Tiresias, seeing things others can’t see, the myth to be sustained whatever the cost.”

“Look
at me!” shouted Alexander suddenly, his whole body shaking. “I’ve lived with this
-through
this—for nearly a year! What would
you
have done?”

“God help me, I don’t know. I can only hope better than you … but I don’t know. Pour yourself a lot of brandy, Raymond. Maintain the myth; keep saying to yourself over and over again that you’re infallible. It may help. It also may not make any difference anymore. Go out with a grin on that pompous face of yours. Just go.” Michael turned to Jenna. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We’ve got a long drive.”

“South to North, come in.”

“North in touch. What is it?”

“Get to a phone and call Victor. There’s movement. Our people came out fast and spoke with the escort; they were on the grounds. Both cars raced out of here a few moments ago, heading west, pedals to the floor.”

“Don’t lose them.”

“No chance. The escort left the Lincoln up on the road and we placed a directional homer under the trunk. An earthquake couldn’t move it. We’ve got them tracked up to twenty miles and down to a hundred yards. We’ve got them.”

The night sky was oddly divided—clear moonlight behind, a ceiling of darkness ahead. The two automobiles raced over the country roads, the men in the Lincoln committed to protection without understanding, and Michael and Jenna understanding too well and afraid.

“There are no rules now,” said Michael. “The book hasn’t been written.”

“He’s capable of change, that’s all you really know. He was sent here for one purpose and walked over to the other side.”

“Or did he stumble? Alexander and Zelienski—Kalyazin—told them he felt old and worn—out, the pressures too great. Maybe he just gave up and walked into sanctuary.”

“Until he found another commitment and accepted an entirely different set of pressures,” said Jenna. “Exhilarating pressures for a man of his age, I imagine. He’s over seventy, isn’t he?”

“Around there, I’d guess.”

“Think of it. The end may not come for a long time but, still, it’s in sight. And as you approach it you suddenly find you’ve discovered an extraordinary solution you believe the world needs desperately, a lesson it has to be taught. What do you do?”

Havelock glanced at her. “That’s what frightens me. Why should you move off center? How can I make him move?”

“I wish I could answer that.” Jenna looked up at the windshield—at the myriad globules of water forming over the glass. “We’re heading into the rain,” she said.

“Unless there’s another solution,” said Michael quietly, switching on the wipers. “Exchange one lesson for another.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t know. There aren’t any rules.” Havelock reached for the microphone and pulled it to his lips. “Escort, are you with me?”

“About four hundred feet behind, Sterile Five.”

“Slow down and make it at least a mile and a half. We’re getting into the area, and to a lot of people you’re an obvious government vehicle. I don’t want any connection between us or any startled eyes. If the man I’m making contact with gets even a hint of you, I don’t want to think about the consequences.”