The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  And God knew decency was needed now.… Or was it? wondered Stern, startling himself, his hand reaching for the knob of the reception-room door. The only morality here is pragmatic morality … There was decency in that for hundreds of potential victims in the field.

  No matter, it was out of his hands, Stern thought as he opened the door. The decision to be made and transmitted under the code name Ambiguity was on Pierce’s conscience now. Quiet, bright, understanding Arthur Pierce—outside of Mikhail Havlíček, closest to Matthias—would ponder all sides of the question, then bring in others. The decision would be made by committee, if it was to be made. They were Ambiguity now.

  “Mr. Stern?” the receptionist called out as he passed her, heading for the elevator.

  “Yes?”

  “Message for you, sir.”

  It said: “Daniel, I’ll be at my office for a while. If you’re of a mind, come over for a drink. I’ll drive you home, chicken.”

  Dawson had not signed his name, nor was it necessary. The often aloof, circumspect attorney always seemed to know when quiet talk was called for; it was his warmer side. The two cold, analytical men every now and then needed the solace of each other’s rarely seen lighter traits. The humorous offer to drive him home was a reference to Stern’s distaste for Washington traffic. He took taxis everywhere, to the annoyance of his personal surveillance. Well, whatever team was on now, it could take a break and pick him up later at home in Virginia; Dawson’s guards could serve them both until then.

  Ogilvie had been right, the whole business was foolish, a hangover from the Angleton days in Langley. Stern looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes past seven, but he knew the lawyer would still be at his office, still waiting for the quiet talk.

  They talked for over an hour before going down to Dawson’s car, analyzing and reanalyzing the events at Costa Brava, realizing there was no explanation, no answer within their grasp. Each had called his wife; both women were inured to the interminable hours demanded at State, and claimed to understand. Each lied and both husbands understood; the clandestine regions of government placed too much strain on the marriage vows. This nether life would all come to an end one day. There was a far healthier world beyond the Potomac than either man had known for too many years.

  “Pierce will go to Matthias, and Matthias won’t consider it, you know that, don’t you?” said Dawson, turning off the crowded highway onto the backcountry road in Virginia, passing luminous signs that read CONSTRUCTION AHEAD. “He’ll demand a review.”

  “My conference with Pierce was one-on-one,” said Stern, absently glancing at the rearview mirror outside the window, knowing that a pair of headlights would be there in moments. The watchdogs stayed on their leashes. I was balanced but firm; either decision has merit, both have drawbacks. When he talks to his committee they may decide to go around Matthias because of the time factor. I emphasized it. In less than three hours our people will be in Col des Moulinets; so will Havelock. They have to know how to proceed.”

  “Whatever comes down, they’ll first try to take him alive.”

  “That’s the priority; no one here wants it otherwise.” Stern looked through the flashing shadows at the attorney. “But I don’t kid myself, you were right before. If it comes down ‘beyond salvage,’ he’s dead. It’s a license to kill someone who’ll kill you if he can.”

  “Not necessarily. I may have overreacted. If the order’s clear—dispatch the last resort—I could be wrong.”

  “You’re wrong now, I’m afraid. Do you think Havelock will give them a choice? He survived the Palatine; he’ll use every trick in his very thick book. No one’ll get close enough to take him. But getting him in a rifle sight is another matter. That can be done and no doubt will be.”

  “I’m not sure I agree.”

  “That’s better than not supporting me.”

  “It’s easier,” said Dawson, smiling briefly. “But Havelock doesn’t know we found the man in Civitavecchia; he doesn’t know we’re on him in Col des Moulinets.”

  “He’ll assume it. He told Baylor about the Karas woman getting out, how he’s convinced she got out. He’ll expect us to follow up. We’ll concentrate on her, of course. If it is Jenna Karas, she’s the answer to everything; we’d be home free without a shot. Then with Havelock we can go after the mess here. That’s the optimum, and I hope to Christ it happens. But it may not.”

  “And then we’re left with a man in the cross hairs of a rifle scope,” said Dawson with an edge to his voice, as he accelerated down the flat stretch of backcountry road. “If it is the Karas woman, we’ve got to find her. We have to.”

  “No matter who it is, we’ll do our damnedest,” said Stern, his eyes again straying to the mirror outside the window. There were no headlights. “That’s odd. The watchdogs strayed, or your foot’s outracing them.”

  “There was a lot of traffic on the highway. If they got in a slow lane, they could crack their butts breaking out. It’s Friday in Virginia, swizzle time for the hunt-country diplomats. On nights like this, I begin to understand why you don’t drive.”

  “What team’s on tonight, by the way?”

  The question was never answered. Instead, an ear-shattering scream exploded from the attorney’s throat as the deafening impact came, smashing the windshield into a thousand blades of flying glass, piercing flesh and eyes, severing veins and arteries. Metal shrieked against metal, twisting, breaking, curling, crushing against itself as the left side of the car rose off the ground, throwing the bodies into the well of deep-red rivulets below.

  The steel behemoth of yellow and black, its colors glistening in the reflection of its single front floodlight, vibrated thunderously; the giant treads of its spiked cables rolled through the huge wheel casings, relentlessly pressing the monster forward. This enormous machine that moved earth from mountains and forests now crawled ahead, crushing the demolished vehicle as it sent it over and beyond the road. The attorney’s car plunged down the steep incline of a shallow ravine; the fuel tank exploded, and fire spread everywhere, consuming the bodies within the car.

  Then the brightly colored machine, its curved implement of destruction hydraulically raised in triumph, jerked back and forth, its massive gears remeshing, the pitch of the sound higher—an animal proclaiming its kill. And with sporadic but deliberate movements it retreated across the road into its lair at the edge of the woods.

  High in the darkness of the cab the unseen driver turned off the engine and raised a hand-held radio to his lips.

  “Ambiguity terminated,” he said.

  “Get out of there,” was the reply.

  The long gray sedan roared out of the highway exit into the backcountry road. As the license plates indicated, the vehicle was registered in the State of North Carolina, but a persistent investigator could learn that the individual in Raleigh listed as the owner was in reality one of twenty-four men stationed in Washington, D.C. They were a unit, each having had extensive experience in military police and counterintelligence; they were assigned to the Department of State. The car now racing down the dark country road in Virginia was one of a fleet of twelve; they, too, were assigned to State, Division of Consular Operations.

  “File a report with the insurance company in Raleigh,” said the man sitting next to the driver, speaking into a microphone attached to a large radio console beneath the dashboard. “Some clown sideswiped us, and we plowed into a guy from Jersey. There was no damage to us, of course, but he doesn’t have much of a trunk left. We wanted to get out of there, so we told him—”

  “Graham!”

  “What?”

  “Up ahead! The fire!”

  “Jesus Christ! Move!”

  The gray sedan leaped forward, the sound of its powerful engine echoing through the dark Virginia countryside. Nine seconds later it reached the steep incline that fronted the shallow ravine, and tires screeched as the brakes were applied. Both men leaped out and raced to the edge, the heat of the flames directl
y below causing both to step back, with their hands shielding their eyes from the fire.

  “Oh, my God!” cried the driver. “It’s Dawson’s car! Maybe we can—”

  “No!” shouted the man named Graham, stopping his associate from crawling down the flank of the ravine. His eyes were drawn to the yellow-and-black bulldozer standing motionless in its recess on the side of the road. Then … “Miller!” he screamed. “Where’s Miller?”

  “The chart said Bethesda, I think.”

  “Find him!” ordered Graham, running across the road, crouching, reaching behind for the weapon in his hip holster. “Get Bethesda! Raise him!”

  The head nurse at the reception counter on the sixth floor of the Bethesda Naval Hospital was adamant. Neither did she appreciate the aggressive tone of voice used by the man on the telephone; it was a poor connection to begin with, and his shouting only made it worse.

  “I repeat, Dr. Miller is in psychiatric session and can’t be disturbed.”

  “You get him on the line and you get him on now! This is a Four Zero emergency, Department of State, Consular Operations. This is a direct order routed and coded through State’s switchboard. Confirm, please.”

  “Confirmed,” said a third voice flatly. “This is operator one-seven, State, for your recheck.”

  “Very well, operator one-seven, and you may be sure we will check.” The nurse jammed her forefinger on the hold button, cutting off further conversation, as she got out of her chair and walked around the counter. It was hysterical men like the so-called special agent from Consular Operations that kept the psychiatric wards in full operation, she thought as she proceeded down the white corridor toward the row of therapy rooms. They screamed emergency for the flimsiest reason, more often than not trying to impress everyone with their so-called authority. It would serve special agent Consular-whatever right if the doctor refused to come to the phone. But he would not refuse; the head nurse knew that. Dr. Miller’s brilliance in no way thwarted his genuine kindness; if he had a fault, it was his excessive generosity. He had checked into T.R. 20; she approached it, noting that the red light at the side of the door was on, signifying occupancy. She pressed the intercom button.

  “Dr. Miller, I hate to interrupt, but there’s a man from the State Department on the telephone. He says it’s an emergency.”

  There was no reply; perhaps the intercom was not working. The head nurse pressed the button again, applying more pressure, speaking louder. “Dr. Miller? I realize this is highly irregular, but there’s a man on the phone from State. He’s most insistent and the operator did confirm the status of the call.”

  Nothing. Silence. No sound of the knob being turned, no acknowledgment whatsoever. The doctor obviously could not hear her; the intercom was not working. She rapped on the door.

  “Dr. Miller? Dr. Miller?”

  Really, the man was not deaf. What was he doing? His patient was a marine, one of the hostages from Teheran. Not violent; overly passive, actually. Had there been a regression? The nurse turned the knob and opened the door of Therapy Room 20.

  She screamed—again and again.

  Crouched in the corner, trembling, was the young marine in his government-issue bathrobe. He was staring through the light of the desk lamp, his gaze riveted on the figure sprawled back on the chair. Miller’s eyes were open wide, glasslike—dead. In the center of his forehead was a single bullet hole from which blood poured out, rolling down his face and into the collar of his white shirt.

  The man in Rome looked at his watch. It was a quarter past four in the morning, his men in position in Col des Moulinets, and still no word from Washington. The only other person in the code room was the radio operator; bored with the inactivity, he was absently scanning his dials, picking up insignificant traffic signals from ships mainly. Every now and then he would lean back and flip through the pages of an Italian magazine, mouthing the phrases that had become his third language—the radio was his second.

  The light on the telephone preceded the hum. The man picked it up. “Rome,” he said.

  “This is Ambiguity, Rome.” The voice was clear, deliberate. “That name gives me complete authority regarding all orders issued to your unit at Col des Moulinets. I assume Director Stern made that clear to you.”

  “Very clear, sir.”

  “Are we on total scrambler?”

  “Total.”

  “We’re not to be taped or logged. Is that understood?”

  “Understood. No tape, no log. What’s the word?”

  “ ‘Beyond salvage.’ Complete.”

  “That’s it, then.”

  “Not yet. There’s more.”

  “What?”

  “Clarification. There’s been no contact with the freighter, has there?”

  “Of course not. Small-plane surveillance until it’s too dark, then we shift to parallel coast sightings.”

  “Good. She’ll be put ashore somewhere before San Remo, I’d guess.”

  “We’re ready.”

  “Is the Corsican in charge up there?” asked the voice from Washington.

  “The one who came on board three days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is. He put the unit together, and I can tell you we owe him. Our drones over here have dwindled.”

  “Good.”

  “Speaking of clarification, I assume the colonel’s order still holds. We bring the woman in.”

  “Inoperative. Whoever she is, she’s not the Karas woman; she was killed at Costa Brava, we know that.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Let Moscow have her back. This one’s Soviet poison, a lure to drive the target out of his head. It worked; he’s already talked. He’s—”

  “ ‘Beyond salvage.’ ”

  “Just get her out of here. We don’t want any trail that could lead back to us, no reopened speculations on Costa Brava. The Corsican will know what to do.”

  “I’ve got to say it, I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You don’t have to. We just want proof of dispatch. His dispatch.”

  “You’ll have it. Our man with the eyes is up there.”

  “Have a good day, Rome. A good day with no mistakes.”

  “No mistakes, no tape, no log.”

  “Out,” said the voice known only as Ambiguity.

  The man behind the desk was outlined in silhouette. He was in front of a window overlooking the grounds below the Department of State, the soft glow of faraway streetlamps the only light intruding on the dark office. The man had been facing the window, the telephone held dose to his lips. He swiveled in his chair, his features in shadow, as he replaced the phone and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the extended fingers of both hands; the curious streak of white that shot through his dark hair gleamed even in the dim light.

  Undersecretary of State Arthur Pierce, born Nikolai Petrovich Malyekov in the Village of Ramenskoye, southeast of Moscow, and raised in the State of Iowa, breathed deeply, steadily, imposing a calm over himself as he had learned to do throughout the years whenever a crisis called for swift, dangerous decisions; he knew full well the consequences of failure. That, of course, was the strength of men like him: they were not afraid to fail. They understood that the great accomplishments in history demanded the greatest risks; that, indeed, history itself was shaped by the boldness not only of collective action but of individual initiative. Those who panicked at the thought of failure, who did not act with clarity and determination when the moments of crisis were upon them, deserved the limitations to which their fears committed them.

  There had been another decision to make, a decision every bit as dangerous as the one he had transmitted to Rome, but there was no avoiding it. The strategists of Consular Operations had reopened the events of that night on the Costa Brava; they had been peeling away the layers of deceit, about which they knew nothing. It all had to be buried—they had to be buried. At all costs, at all risk. Costa Brava had to be submerged again and become an ob
scure deception in a convoluted world of lies. In a few hours word would be sent from Col des Moulinets: “The order for ‘beyond salvage’ has been carried out. Authorization: Code Ambiguity—established and cleared by D. S. Stem, director of Consular Operations.”

  But only the strategists knew whom Stern had come to with his ambiguous dilemma. In fact, Stern himself had not known whom he would approach until he had emerged on the fifth floor and studied the roster of senior personnel on the premises; he had made that clear. No matter, thought Arthur Pierce in the dark office as he glanced at the inscribed photograph of Anthony Matthias on the wall. All things considered, it would have been unthinkable for him not to have been consulted regarding the crisis. It was simply more convenient for him to have been in his office when Stern and the other strategists had made the decision to bring the insoluble problem upstairs. Had he not been on the floor, he would have been reached, his counsel sought. The result would have been the same: “Beyond salvage.” Only the method would have been different: an unacknowledged consensus by a faceless committee. Everything worked out for the best; the past two hours had been orchestrated properly. Failure had been considered, but not contemplated. Failure had been out of the question. The strategists were dead, all links to code name Ambiguity severed.