The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  The man started down the row of stalls, the sides of each about two inches above the tiled floor, which made it necessary for him to be within three feet of a front panel to ascertain whether it was occupied. Wearing shoes with thick rubber soles, he moved in total silence. Suddenly he spun his right hand in a circle, flipping off the newspaper. Havelock stared at the gun as the intruder approached the final three stalls. He was angry but bewildered—the weapon was a Graz-Burya. The Russian bent over…

  Now. Michael threw his rolled-up suit jacket over the side of the stall on his right. The sound made the Russian leap up, spinning to his left, his gun raised.

  In simultaneous movements Havelock grabbed the handle of his suitcase and yanked the door open, then swung the heavy luggage in a lateral arc toward the gray-faced man. He reached for the Graz-Burya with his left hand and tore it out of the man’s hand. The Russian spun away, his powerful arms blocking Havelock; Michael used them—he locked the man’s left arm under his right, wrenched it forward until the Russian’s face was stretched in pain, then he pried the weapon loose and crashed the barrel into the man’s head. As the Russian started to fall, Havelock crouched and Jammed his shoulder into the man’s kidney, propelling him back into the row of urinals.

  The gray-faced man fell to his knees, supporting himself on his right hand and holding his left arm across his chest in pain. He gasped for breath, shaking his head. “Nyet, nyet,” he choked. “Talk only! Only talk.”

  “With the door as good as locked and a gun in your hand?”

  “Would you have agreed to a conversation if I had come up and introduced myself? In Russian, perhaps?”

  “You should have tried me.”

  “You did not stay still long enough … May I?” The Russian leaned back on his knees, holding his arm and raising one leg as he requested permission to stand.

  “Go ahead,” said Havelock, the Graz—Burya steady in his hand. “You were trying to make a phone call.”

  “Certainly. To relay word that you had been found. What would you have done? Or I don’t know, perhaps I should not ask.”

  “What do you know? How did you find me?” Michael raised the gun, aiming it at the man’s head. “I’d advise you to tell me the truth. I haven’t got a thing to lose with your corpse in here.”

  The Russian stared at the barrel and then at Havelock’s eyes. “No, you have nothing to lose; you would not hesitate. A younger man should have been sent out here.”

  “How did you know I’d be on that plane?”

  “I didn’t No one knows anywhere.… A VKR officer was shot in Paris; he had nowhere to turn but to us.”

  “An importing firm on the Beaumarchais?” interrupted Michael “KGB headquarters, Paris?”

  The Russian overlooked the interruption. “We knew you had connections throughout the French government Military intelligence, the Quai d’Orsay, the Deputies. If it was your intention to leave France, there was only one way you could do it. Diplomatic cover. All Air France flights listing diplomatic personnel are being watched. Everywhere. London, Rome, Bonn, Athens, the Netherlands, all of South America—everywhere. It’s my misfortune that you chose to come back here; it was not expected. You are ‘beyond salvage.’ ”

  “That seems to be a well—publicized piece of Information.”

  “It has been circulated in certain quarters.”

  “Is that what you wanted to talk about? Because if it is, Moscow’s wasting a lot of man—hours in all those airports.”

  “I bring you a message from Pyotr Rostov. He believes that after Rome, you might listen.”

  “Rome? What about Rome?”

  “The Palatine. It would seem it was conclusive for you. You were meant to the on the Palatine.”

  “I was?” Havelock watched the man’s eyes, the set of his lips. So Rostov knew about the Palatine; it was to be expected. Bodies had been found there: the corpse of a former American agent known for Jugular operations and his two wounded Italian drones who had nothing to lose and something to bargain with by telling the truth. Certainly Moscow knew. But Rostov did not know about Jenna Karas or Col des Moulinets, or he would have included them in his opening lure. Under different circumstances it might have been necessary for the words to have been shouted quickly: Jenna Karas is alive! Col des Moulinets! Both were far more persuasive. “What’s the message?”

  “He says to tell you the bait’s been reconsidered. He’ll take it now and thinks you should agree. He says he’s not your enemy any longer, but others are who may be his as well.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t answer you,” said the man, his thick eyebrows motionless above his deep—set peasant eyes. “I’m merely the messenger. The substance is for you to know, not me.”

  “You knew about the Palatine.”

  “The death of a maniac travels fast, especially if he’s your adversary—most especially if he’s killed a number of your friends.… What was the name his own people gave him? The Gunslinger, I believe. A romantic figure from your Western films, which, incidentally, I enjoy immensely. But in history such a fellow was invariably a filthy, unprincipled pig, devoid of morals or ideology, motivated solely by profit or pathological brutality. In these times he might be the president of an enormous corporation, no?”

  “Spare me. Save it for the state schools.”

  “Rostov would like a reply, but you don’t have to give it at once. I can reach you. A day, two days—a few hours from now. You may name the drop. We can get you out. To safety.”

  Again Michael studied the Russian’s face. Like Rostov in Athens before him, the man was relaying the truth—as he knew the truth, and as he knew the word of his superior in Moscow. “What does Rostov offer?”

  “I told you. Safety. You know what’s ahead of you here. The Palatine.”

  “Safety in exchange for what?”

  “That’s between you and Rostov. Why should I invent conditons? You would not believe them.”

  “Tell Rostov he’s wrong.”

  “About Rome? The Palatine?”

  “The Palatine,” said Havelock, wondering briefly if a KGB director ten thousand miles away would perceive the essential truth within the larger lie. “I don’t need the safety of the Lubyanka.”

  “You refuse his offer, then?”

  “I refuse the bait.”

  There was a sudden thud against the men’s—room door, followed by a muffled voice swearing, then repeated banging against the metal panel The strip of wood wedged under the door scraped the tile; it gave less than an inch, which was enough to make the intruder shout while continuing to pound, “Hey, what the hell is this! Open up!”

  The Russian glanced at the door; Havelock did not The man spoke rapidly: “Should you change your mind, there is a row of trash cans in Bryant Park, behind your Public Library. Place a red mark on the front of one of them—I suggest a felt marker or, better yet, a spot of woman’s nail polish. Then, starting at ten o’clock that same night, walk north and south on Broadway, between Forty-second and Fifty-third streets, staying on the east-side pavement Someone will reach you, giving you the address of the contact It will be outside, naturally. No traps.”

  “What’s going on in there? Fa’ Christ’s sake, open this goddamned door!”

  “I thought you said I could pick the drop.”

  “You may. Simply tell the man who reaches you where you want to meet. Just give us three hours.”

  “To sweep it?”

  “Son of a bitch! Open up!” The metal door was smashed back several inches, the strip of wood scratching against the tiles.

  A second, authoritative voice joined that of the angry intruder. “All right, what’s this all about?”

  “The door’s jammed! I can’t get in, but I hear ‘em talkin’! They jammed the fuckin’ door!” Another crash, another screech, another inch.

  “We take precautions, just as you do,” said the Russian. “What’s between you and Rostov … is between you a
nd Moscow. We are not in Moscow, I am not in Moscow. I do not call for the police when I’m in trouble in New York City.”

  “All right in there!” shouted the second voice in lower-register offlciousness. “Fair warning, you punks! Obstruction of normal operating procedures at an international airport con-stitutes a felony, and that includes the toilets! I’m calling Airport Security!” The stern-toned one addressed the angry intruder. “If I were you, I’d find another men’s room. These kids use needles; they can get hopped up and pretty violent.”

  “I’ve gotta take one pisser of a leak, man! And they don’t sound like no kids- There’s a cop! Hey, Fuzz!”

  “He can’t hear you. He’s walking past I’ll get to a phone.”

  “Shit!”

  “Let’s go,” said Havelock, reaching down for his jacket and slipping it on.

  “My life, then?” asked the Russian. “No corpse in a men’s room?”

  “I want my reply delivered. Forget the nail polish on those trash cans.”

  “Then, if I may, my weapon, please?”

  “I’m not that charitable. You see, you are my enemy. You have been for a long time.”

  “It’s difficult to explain a missing weapon. You understand.”

  “Tell them you sold it on the open market; It’s the first step in capitalism. Buy cheap—or set it for nothing—and sell high. The Burya’s a good gun; it’d bring a large profit.”

  “Please!”

  “You don’t understand, comrade. You’d be surprised how many hustlers in Moscow would respect you. Come on!” Havelock grabbed the man by the shoulder, propelling him toward the door. “Kick out the wood,” he ordered, shoving the weapon into his belt and picking up his suitcase.

  The Russian did as he was told. He pressed the side of his shoe on the protruding wedge, moving it back and forth, as he pushed the door shut The wedge came loose; he swept it away with his foot and pulled the door open.

  “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed an obese man in sky-blue overalls. “A couple of fuckin’ fairies!”

  “They’re coming!” yelled a shirt-sleeved man, running out of an office door across the corridor.

  “I think you’re too late, Mr. Supervisor,” said the wide—eyed freight employee, staring at Havelock and the Russian. “Here’re your fackin’ punks. Two old queens who figured the parking lot was too cold.”

  “Let’s go!” whispered Havelock, grabbing the Russian’s elbow.

  “Disgusting! Revolting!” shouted the supervisor. “At your age! Have you no shame? Perverts everywhere!”

  “You won’t change your mind about the weapon?” asked the Russian, walking breathlessly up the corridor, wincing as Michael gripped his damaged left arm. “I’ll be severely disciplined. I haven’t used it in years; It’s really a form of dress, you know.”

  “Perverts! You should all be in jail, not in public toilets! You’re a menace!”

  “I’m telling you, you’ll get a promotion if the right people think you made a bundle.”

  “Faggots!”

  “Let go of my arm. That idiot’s marking us.”

  “Why? You’re adorable.”

  They reached the second hallway, turning left toward the center of the terminal There were, as before, men in overalls and shirt sleeves milling about, watching an occasional secretary emerge from an office door. Up ahead was the Main corridor, crowds surging in both directions, toward departing gates and luggage areas.

  In seconds they were swept into the flow of arrivals. Seconds later a trio of uniformed police could be seen breaking through the stream of departing passengers, pushing aside shoulders and small suitcases and plastic garment bags. Havelock switched sides with the Russian, yanking him to the left, and as the police came parallel in the opposite aisle Michael crashed his shoulder into his companion, pummeling him into a blue uniform.

  “Nyet! Kishki!” yelled the Russian.

  “Goddamn it!” shouted the police officer as he plunged off balance to his right, tripping one of his associates, who in turn fell on top of an elderly blue-haired woman, who screamed.

  Havelock accelerated his pace, threading his way past startled passengers who were rushing toward an escalator on the right that led to the baggage area, where they could retrieve their belongings. On the left was someone’s idea of a celestial arch, which led into the central terminal; he headed toward it, walking faster still as the path became less congested. In the terminal the bright afternoon sunlight Streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked around as he went toward the exit door marked Taxis. There were rows of counters beneath panoplies of white-lettered schedules, isolated slots constantly in motion; circular booths selling knickknacks and gewgaws were dotted about in the middle of the domelike building. Along the walls were banks of telephones and indented racks of telephone books. He veered toward the nearest one.

  Thirty seconds later he found it: Handelman, J. The address was in upper Manhattan, on 116th Street, Morningside Heights.

  Jacob Handelman, halfway man, broker of sanctuary for the pursued and the dispossessed. The man who would conceal Jenna Karas.

  “Stop over there,” said Havelock, leaning forward in the seat and pointing to a blue canopy emblazoned with a small gold crown and the name THE KING’S ARMS HOTEL across the scalloped valance. He hoped he would not have to spend the night—each hour put greater distance between Jenna and himself—but on the other hand, he could not walk around Columbia University, carrying even a small suitcase while tracking down Jacob Handelman. He had told the cab driver to take the Triborough Bridge, heading west toward the Hudson and south into Morningside Heights; he wanted to pass the address on 116th, then find a secure place to leave his luggage. It was midafternoon and the halfway man could be anywhere within the sprawling urban campus.

  Michael had been to Columbia twice while a graduate student at Princeton, once for a lecture on Europe after Napoleon delivered by a visiting bore from Oxford, and the second time for an inter-graduate-school seminar on university placement for budding Carl Schorskes. Neither occasion was memorable, both were brief, and as a result he really knew nothing about the place. That was probably irrelevant, but the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about Jacob Handelman was not.

  The King’s Arms was around the comer from Handelman’s apartment. It was one of those small hotels that somehow manage to survive tastefully within the environs of a city university, upper Manhattan’s answer to the old Taft in New Haven or, stretching a point, the Inn at Princeton—in essence, a campus fixture, temporary quarters for visiting lecturers rather than an undergraduate drinking spot. It had the appearance of dark-leather English comfort and the smell of Academe. It was only an outside possibility, but since the hotel was so close to Handelman’s residence, there was a chance someone might know him.

  “Certainly, Mr. Hereford,” said the clerk, reading the registration card. “Dr. Handelman stops in now and then—a little wine or dinner with friends. A delightful gentleman, a most charming sense of humor. We here, like most everyone else, all call him the Rabbi.”

  “I didn’t know that. His being a rabbi, I mean.”

  “I’m not sure he is formally, although I doubt anyone would question his credentials. He’s Jarmaine Professor of Philosophy, and I understand he lectures frequently at the Jewish Theological Seminary. You’ll enjoy your interview.”

  “I’m sure I will. Thank you.”

  “Front,” said the clerk, tapping a bell.

  Handelman’s apartment building was between Broadway and Riverside Drive, the street sloping toward Riverside Park and the Hudson. It was a solid structure of heavy white stone—once a monument to New York’s exploding upward mobility—which had been permitted to age gently, and to pass through periods of brief renaissance, only to recede into that graveyard of tall, awkwardly ornate edifices too cumbersome for efficient economics. Once there had been a doorman standing in front of the glass-and-ironwork façade; now there were double locks on the
inner door and a functioning communications system between visitor and resident.

  Havelock pressed the bell, intending merely to make sure Handelman was home; there was no reply from the speaker. He rang again. Nothing.

  He went back outside, crossing the street to a doorway, and considered his options. He had telephoned the university’s information center and was given the location and number of Handelman’s office. A second call—placed anonymously as an administration clerk requesting a Thursday stat sheet—revealed the fact that Handelman had doctoral appointments scheduled through 4:00 P.M. It was now nearly five o’clock, and Michael’s frustration was growing. Where was Handelman? There was, of course, no guarantee that he would come directly home from his office, but a broker of sanctuary who had just placed— or was placing—a woman fugitive from Paris had certain obligations. Havelock had considered going to Handelman’s office or intercepting him on the street; he considered both options again. Perhaps an appointment had run late, or he had accepted an invitation for dinner; someone could still be there who might know, who might help him.

  Coping with the tension of waiting—a practice he was normally superb at—was causing him pain, actual physical pain in his stomach. He breathed deeply; he could not confront the halfway man in an office or on the street or in any public place and he knew it. The meeting had to take place where there were names and numbers, maps and codes; these were the tools of a halfway man. They would only be kept where he could store them safely, reach them quickly. Under a floorboard, or deep in a wall, or microscopically reduced and In the toe of a shoe or implanted in shirt buttons.

  He had not seen a photograph of Handelman, but he knew what he looked like. The florid-faced bartender at the King’s Arms Hotel—himself apparently a fixture, with the flair and verbosity of a fifth-rate poet from Dublin—had described “the Rabbi.” Jacob Handelman was a medium-tall man with long white hair and a short gray beard, given slightly to overweight and more than slightly to a paunch. His walk was “slow and stately,” the bartender said, “as if he was the Judaic blood-royal, sir, forever partin’ the waters, or mountin’ the ark to discourse with the animals. Ah, but he has a gleam in his eye and a lovely heart, sir.”