The Parsifal Mosaic

by Robert Ludlum

  “You don’t know that. Besides, I need you. You’re not off the hook, Charley, I want those instincts of yours. There’s a naval officer at the Pentagon, a Lieutenant Commander Thomas Decker. Under a very thick screen, find out every-thing you can about him. Everything.”

  “An entry?”

  “No. A liar.”

  Jenna supported herself on the desk at Michael’s side, looking over his shoulder as he studied the names and brief summaries of the men she had selected from the CIA, Cons Op, and Army intelligence reports. Out of a hundred and thirty-five potential Soviet defectors who had not come over to the West and whose current whereabouts were unknown she had chosen eight for priority consideration.

  Michael looked at the list, put it down and slowly turned to her. “This has been a rotten day. It’s no time for jokes.”

  “I’m not joking, Mikhail,” said Jenna.

  “There’s not an armaments expert or a high-ranking military man or even an atomic scientist here. These are doctors, specialists—old men now, none of whom was remotely connected with any sort of strategic planning or nuclear strike capabilities.”

  “Parsifal needs no such connections.”

  “Then maybe I wasn’t clear about what those documents say,” Havelock said. “They spell out a series of nuclear moves—first and second strikes, interceptor counterstrikes, territorlal neutralization and automated reclamation—detailed strategies that could only be conceived and negotiated by ex-perts.”

  “Matthias didn’t carry around such details in his head, you’ve said as much.”

  “Of course not, which is why I’m going after the men on the Contingency Committees—one in particular. But Parsifal did. He had to have those projections available to him. They were chips, his bargaining points in their insane game.”

  “Then someone is missing,” Insisted Jenna, walking around the desk, then suddenly turning to face Havelock. “Who spoke for the People’s Republic? Who bargained China’s position? Who gave its projections, its strategic details? According to your theory, there has to be a third negotiator.”

  “No, there doesn’t. Their combined sources would be enough to build a totally convincing case for a China strategy. It’s common knowledge in intelligence circles that if U.S. and Soviet penetration of the PRC arsenals were linked up, we’d know more about China’s nuclear capabilities than anyone in Peking.”

  “A convincing case?”

  “Totally.”

  “Combined sources, Mikhail? Why?”

  Havelock studied Jenna’s face, gradually understanding what she was trying to say. “One source,” he said quietly, “Why not?”

  The telephone rang, its strident signal producing an abrupt tightness in Michael’s throat He reached for it; the President of the United States was on the line, his first words as ominous as any Havelock had ever heard.

  “The Soviets know about Matthias. There’s no way to tell their next move.”

  “Parsifal?” asked Michael, with no breath in him.

  “They can smell him, and what they smell is flaring their nostrils. They’re dose to panic.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “They reached one of our high diplomatic personnel. They told him that they were prepared to expose Matthias. The only hope we’ve got now is that the man they contacted is one of the best we’ve got. They respect him; he could be our single hope for containment. I’m bringing him on board; he’s taking Bradford’s place. He’s got to be told everything, understand everything.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A man named Pierce. Arthur Pierce.”

  33

  The paminyatchik sat in the underground strategy room of the White House as the President of the United States and two of the nation’s most influential men briefed him. The conference had taken precedence over all of Charles Ber-quist’s prior appointments and obligations. It had so far lasted nearly three hours, the incredulous undersecretary of State for the U.N. delegation rapidly taking brief notes, his intelligent gray eyes conveying a deep awareness of impending catastrophe, yet behind that sense a mind that was obviously in complete control, seeking answers, avoiding panic.

  The tension was electric, intermittently broken by expressions of courtesy and respect. Arthur Pierce could not be called a friend of either the President or Addison Brooks, but neither was he a stranger. He was a professional with whom both men had worked, and in whom both had confidence. They remembered with gratitude his penetrating analyses in previous crises. As for General Malcolm Halyard, “Tightrope” had met Major Pierce in Saigon years ago, and was so impressed with his performance there that he had cabled the Pentagon recommending that the War College make a serious appraisal of the major’s potential for permanent, as opposed to reserve, status.

  Despite these extremely favorable appraisals, the outstanding citizen-soldier had chosen civilian status, albeit goveminent-oriented. And since, to its dismay, the military establishment was frequently part of the government, the word had gone out: an exceptional man was available and looking for challenging work; someone should come up with something before the corporate headhunters descended on him. Washington needed all the genuine talent it could find.

  It had happened so easily, so logically in its arithmetic: one plus one plus one. People became steps and the steps led to a high place. An elderly career officer at State said he just happened to be at a dinner party in Alexandria where his military host mentioned Pierce to him. Naturally, the career officer felt compelled to mention Pierce’s name at a conference attended by Addison Brooks. State was perpetually scouting for that rare man with proven abilities who also had the potential for further intellectual growth. Arthur Pierce was summoned for an interview, which evolved into a lengthy lunch with the aristocratic statesman. This, in turn, led to an offer of employment, an entirely feasible decision in light of the record.

  The mole was in place. There had in fact been no dinner party in Alexandria, no host who had discussed in uniquely flattering terms an outstanding soldier from Saigon. It did not matter; others were discussing him; Brooks had verified that. A dozen corporations were about to make offers to the brilliant young man, so Addison Brooks spoke first.

  As the years went by, the decision to recruit Arthur Pierce could only be applauded. He was an outstanding talent with an increasingly apparent ability to comprehend and counter Soviet maneuvers, especially in face-to-face confrontations. There were, of course, specialists who studied lzvestia and the various Russian journals and communiqués to interpret often obscure Soviet positions, but where Pierce was most effective was at the conference table, whether in Helsinki, Vienna or Geneva. At times his perceptions were uncanny; he frequently seemed to be ten steps ahead of the spokesmen sent by Moscow, preparing counterproposals before the Soviet position had even been made clear, thus giving the U.S. team the advantage of an immediate response. His presence was increasingly sought by upper-level diplomats until the inevitable took place: he was brought into Matthias’s orbit, and the Secretary of State lost little time making Arthur Pierce an upper-level diplomat himself.

  The paminyatchik had arrived. An infant, genetically selected in Moscow and sent covertly into the heartland of America, was in place after a lifetime of preparation, and at this moment he was being addressed by the President of the United States.

  “You now have the whole ungodly picture, Mr. Undersecretary.” Berquist stopped as a painful memory flooded his mind. “It’s strange using that title,” he continued softly. “Only days ago another undersecretary sat at this same dais.”

  “I hope I can contribute even a fraction of what he did,” said Pierce, studying his notes. “The fact that he was killed is appalling. Emory was a friend of mine … he didn’t have many friends.”

  “He said the same thing about himself,” observed Addison Brookcs. “And about you.”

  “Me?”

  “That you were his friend.”

  “I’m flattered.”

&nbs
p; “You might not have been at the time,” said General Halyard. “You were one of nineteen people he was looking into.”

  “In what way?”

  “He was trying to find someone on the fifth floor of State who might have been out of the country, who might have been at the Costa Brava,” explained the President.

  “The man who later used the Ambiguity code?” asked Pierce, frowning.

  “That’s right.”

  “How did my name come up? Emory never told me, never called me.”

  “Under the circumstances,” said the ambassador, “he couldn’t. Several query responses between you and Washington during that week had been misplaced. I don’t have to tell you what a shock it was to him at first. They were found, of course.”

  “Those misfilings are a constant irritant,” said Pierce, going back to his notes, checking off items with his gold-plated ball-point pen. “I don’t even know that there’s a solution. The volume of traffic is simply too great and there are too few people cleared for the material at that level.” The under-secretary circled a note, adding as an afterthought, “On the other hand, I’d rather put up with the irritation than take the chance that some of those confidential memoranda might get out.”

  “How much of what you’ve learned here in this room do you think the Soviets know?” Berquist asked, his Nordic face set, his eyes hard and level, the muscles in his jaws pulsating.

  “Less than I’ve learned here in this room but probably more than we suspect. The Russians are so damned elliptical. What’s more, they’re working themselves up into a frenzy. I can’t form a judgment until I’ve had a chance to study those—incredible documents.”

  “False documents,” said Halyard emphatically. “Agreements between two madmen, that’s what they are.”

  “I’m not sure either Moscow or Peking would believe that, General,” said Pierce, shaking his head. “One of those madmen is Anthony Matthias, and the world isn’t ready to accept him as insane.”

  “Because it doesn’t want to,” interrupted Brooks. “It’s afraid to.”

  “That’s right, sir,” agreed the undersecretary of State. “But apart from Matthias, as the President has described these so-called nuclear aggression pacts, they contain extraordinary and extraordinarily classified information. Locations, megatonnage, detailed delivery capabilities, launching codes—even abort systems. From what I can gather, the gates of the arsenals of the two superpowers and their runner-up in China have been opened; the most secret hardware in each camp is there for anyone to see who reads the agreements.” Pierce turned to the soldier. “What would be the Pentagon’s recommendation if a similar Sino-Soviet pact against us were brought in by clandestine services, General?”

  “Launch,” answered Halyard flatly. “There’d be no alternative.”

  “Only if you were convinced it was authentic,” interjected Brooks.

  “I’d be convinced,” said the general. “So would you be. Who else but men with access to that information could include it? Also, there are the projected dates. I’d be damned convinced.”

  “When you say the Soviets are elliptical,” said the statesman, “I concur wholeheartedly, but how do you mean it in the current sense?”

  “They threw phrases at me—disjointed non sequiturs—watching me to see if I’d pick up on any. We’ve been confronting each other for a number of years now, whether in Vienna or Bern or New York; you get to spot even concealed reactions.”

  “But they first told you they knew Matthias was insane,” said Berquist. “That was their opening, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t think I used the exact words before. I will now. I was in the Soviet ambassador’s office at his request—summons, really—along with his senior aide. Frankly, I thought he’d asked to see me so we might work out a compromise on the Pan-Arab resolution, but instead he greeted me with a statement that could only refer to Matthias: ‘We understand from a most reliable source that a holiday has been extended because the mental condition of the vacationer has deteriorated to a point beyond recovery.’ ”

  “What was your reply?” asked Brooks. “The exact words, please.”

  “ ‘The Russian compulsion for brooding, self-serving fantasy is no different now from what it was when Dostoyevsky described it.’ Those were my exact words.”

  “Provocative yet insouciant,” said the statesman. “Very good.”

  “That’s when the fireworks started. ‘He’s mad!’ shouted the ambassador. ‘Matthias is mad! He’s done insane things, undermined what’s left of détente.’ Then his aide joined in, demanding to know where the next meetings were being held, which unstable governments Matthias had been in contact with, and whether they knew he was insane, or was a madman sending out secret communications, concealing his insanity from the people he was reaching? What frightens me, Mr. President, Mr. Ambassador, General Halyard, is that they described what you’ve described to me. If I understood correctly, Matthias has been doing just that for the past six months. Reaching unstable regimes, instant prime ministers, revolutionary juntas we shouldn’t be touching.”

  “That’s where the Soviets got their information, of course,” said Berquist. “They think a demented Matthias is implementing a number of his well-known ‘geopolitical realities.’ Moving in on them.”

  “They think far more than that, sir,” corrected Pierce. “They believe he may have funneled nuclear materials to extremist regimes and fanatic camps—Islamic, for example, or Afghan, or anti-Soviet Arab factions—we’ve all agreed shouldn’t have them. They’re paranoid about it. We can protect ourselves from each other by the sheer magnitude of our arsenals, but neither of us can protect ourselves from an irrational partisan junta or sect that possesses launch and nuclear capability. Actually, we’re far safer; we’re separated by oceans. Strategic Russia is part of the Euro-Asian land mass; its borders are vulnerable if only by proximity to potential enemies. If I read them correctly, it’s these concerns that are pushing them toward the panic button.”

  “But not Parsifal,” said Brooks. “In your judgment, the man we call Parsifal has not made contact with Moscow.”

  “I can’t rule anything out,” said Pierce. “There were so many phrases, threats, implications—as I said, elliptical references. For instance, they mentioned ‘next meetings,’ ‘unstable governments,’ ‘nuclear materials,’ All of these—again, if I understood correctly—are actually a part of these agreements. If I could study them I’d be able to spot parallels with the original texts.” The undersecretary paused, then spoke quietly, firmly. “I think it’s possible this Parsifal has made contact, delivering provocative hints, perhaps nothing more. And I think it’s urgent that we know even this.”

  “He wants to blow us all up,” said the President “My God, that’s all he wants to do.”

  “The sooner I can get to Poole’s Island, Mr.—” Pierce was Interrupted by the humming of the white telephone on the white dais, a red light flashing on its miniaturized console. Berquist picked it up. “Yes?”

  The President listened in silence for nearly thirty seconds, then answered, nodding, “I understand. Let me know what happens as soon as it happens.” He replaced the phone and turned to the others. “That was Havelock. He won’t get here this afternoon.”

  “What is happening?” asked the general.

  “Too many things for him to leave the phone.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Arthur Pierce. “I wanted to meet him. I think it’s vital we stay in touch. I can tell him what’s going on with the Soviets and he can keep me up-to-date. I have to know when to press forward, when to back off.”

  “You’ll be kept informed; he has bis orders from me.… They lost the pathologist.”

  “Damn!” exploded the general.

  “He either picked up the surveillance or, knowing things were out of control, decided to disappear.”

  “Or was ordered to disappear,” added the statesman.

  “That’s what I can’t un
derstand,” said Berquist, turning to the silent undersecretary of State. “The Russians gave you no indication that they were aware of any Soviet involvement in this whole damn thing? They didn’t mention the Costa Brava or Rostov’s cable to us?”

  “No, sir. That may be the one advantage we have. We know, but they don’t.”

  “Rostov knows,” insisted the President.

  “Then he’s too frightened to act,” replied Pierce. “It’s often the case with entrenched KGB personnel; they’re never sure whose toes they may be stepping on. Or if he is searching, he’s not getting anywhere.”

  “You’re talking as though we were speaking about two different Moscows,” objected Halyard.

  “I agree with Havelock,” said the mole. “We are. And until the Moscow that wants to get its hands on Matthias’s documents succeeds, the one I’m dealing with speaks for the Kremlin. That won’t be the case otherwise. It’s all the more reason why I’ve got to be kept current. If Havelock caught even one man we could trace to that other Moscow, it would be leverage. I could use it.”

  “He’s already told us,” interrupted Brooks. “A branch of Soviet intelligence known as the VKR. Rostov as much as admitted it.”

  Pierce looked bewildered. “I didn’t hear that mentioned.”

  “Perhaps I overlooked it,” said Berquist.

  “In any event, it’s too general. The VKR is a consolidation of many units. I’d need specifics. Which unit? Which directors?”

  “You may get them.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Pierce’s gold-plated pen was suspended above his notes.

  “It’s one of the things that’s keeping Havelock at Sterile Five.”

  “Sterile Five …”

  “They may have lost this Shippers, but Havelock expects that whoever gave him orders will send men up to Maryland to find out who Matthew Randolph’s been working with. He’s got his own people in place with orders to wound and take. As I told you, the doctor lied about Mackenzie’s death but for the wrong reasons.”

  “Yes, I know.” Pierce looked down at his notes as he replaced the pen inside the coat of his dark pinstriped suit. “It helps me to write things out; I didn’t expect to take these with me.”