Pierce bent over the map, his index finger shifting from one line to another. The arc, the semicircle that blanketed the Shenandoah from Sterile Five, was covered, with men and vehicles in position. From Harpers Ferry to the Valley Pike, Highways 11 and 66, Routes 7, 50,15, 17, 29, and 33, all were manned, waiting for word that a specific car was approaching at a specific time heading for a specific place. That place was to be determined and reported; nothing else was required of the men in those vehicles. They were hirelings, not participants, their time paid for in money, not purpose or destiny.
Arthur Pierce, born Nikolai Petrovich Malyekov in the village of Ramenskoye, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, suddenly thought about that destiny, and the years that had led to his own electrifying part in it. He had never wavered, never forgotten who he was or why he had been given the supreme opportunity to serve the ultimate cause, a cause so meaningful and so necessary for a world where the relative few tyrannized the many, where millions upon millions lived on the edge of despair or in hopeless poverty so that the capitalist manipulators could laugh over global balance sheets while their armies burned pajama-clad children in faraway lands. This was fact, not provocative propaganda. He had seen it all for himself—from the burning villages in Southeast Asia to the corporate dining rooms where offers of employment were accompanied by grins and winks and promises of stock options that were the first steps toward wealth, to the inner corridors of government power where hypocrites and incompetents encouraged more hypocrisy and incompetence. God, he hated it all! Hated the corruption and the greed and the sanctimonious Bars who deceived the masses to whom they were responsible, abusing the powers given them, lining their pockets and the pockets of their own.… There was a better way. There was commitment. There was the Voennaya.
He had been thirteen years old when he was told by the loving couple he called Mother and Father. They explained while holding him and gazing into his eyes to let him see their love. He was theirs, they said, but he was also not theirs. He had been born to a chosen couple thousands of miles away who loved him so much they gave him to the State, to a cause that would make a better world for generations to come. And as his “mother” and “father” spoke, so many things in Arthur Pierce’s young memory began to fall into place. All the discussions—not only with his “mother” and “father,” but with the scores of visitors who came so frequently to the farmhouse—discussions that told of suffering and oppression and of a despotic form of government that would be replaced by a government dedicated to the people—all the people.
He was to be a part of that change. Over the early years certain other visitors had come and had given him games to play, puzzles to work, exercises to read—tests that graded his capabilities. And one day when he was thirteen he was pronounced extraordinary; on that same day he was told his real name. He was ready to join the cause.
It would not be easy, his “mother” and “father” had said, but he was to remember when pressures seemed overwhelming that they were there, always there. And should anvthing happen to them, others would take their place to help him, encourage him, guide him, knowing that still others were watching. He was to be the best in all things; he was to be American—kind, generous and, above all, seemingly fair; he was to use his gifts to rise as far as he was capable of rising. But he was never to forget who and what he was or the cause that gave him the gift of life and the opportunity to help make the world better than it was.
Things after that auspicious day were not as difficult as his “mother” and “father” had predicted. Through his high school years and college, his secret served to prod him—because it was his secret and he was extraordinary. They were years of exhilaration: each new prize and award was proof of his superiority. He found it easy to be liked; as though in a never-ending popularity contest, the crown was always his. Yet there was self-denial, too, and it served to remind him of his commitment. He had many friends but no deep friendships, no relationships. Men liked him but accepted his basic distance, ascribing it usually to his having to find jobs to pay his way through school. Women he used only for sexual release and formed no attachments whatsoever, generally meeting them miles away from wherever he was living.
During his postgraduate studies at Michigan he was contacted by Moscow and told his new life was about to begin. The meeting was not without amusement, the contact a recruitment executive from a large conservative corporation who had supposedly read the graduate student files and wanted to meet one Arthur Pierce. But there was nothing amusing in his news; it was deadly serious—and exhilarating.
He was to join the army, where certain opportunities would be found leading to advancement, and further advancement, and contact with civilian and military authorities. He would serve out an appropriate amount of time and return not to the Midwest but to Washington, where word of his record and talents would be spread. Companies would be lined up, anxious to employ him, but the government would step in. He was to accept.
But first the army—and he was to give it everything he had, he was to continue to be the best. His “father” and “mother” had thrown him a farewell party on the farm, and invited all his friends, including most of the old Boy Scout Troop 37. And it was a farewell party in more than one sense. His “father” and “mother” told him at the end of the night that they would not see him again. They were getting old and they had done their job: him. And he would make them proud. Besides, their talents were needed elsewhere. He understood; the cause was everything.
For the first time since he was thirteen, he had cried that night. But it was permitted—and, besides, they were tears of joy.
All those years, thought Arthur Pierce, glancing in the cheap motel mirror at the fringe of gray and the frayed collar around his neck. They had been worth it; the proof would be found in the next few hours.
The waiting had begun. The reward would be a place in history.
Michael opened his eyes, a sea of dark brown leather confronting him, moisture everywhere, the heat oppressive. He turned over and raised his head, suddenly aware that it was not sunlight but the glow of a distant lamp that washed the room. He was drenched with sweat It was night, and he was not ready for night. What had happened?
“Dobrý den.” The greeting floated over to him.
“What time is it?” he asked, sitting up on the couch.
“Ten past seven,” said Jenna, who was sitting at the desk. “You slept a little over three hours. How do you feel?”
“I don’t know. Left out, I think. What’s going on?”
“Not a great deal. As you said, we’re holding. Did you know that the lights on these buttons actually go on before the telephone rings? Only a split-second, but they do.”
“It’s not comforting. Who called?”
“Very serious, bewildered men reporting nothing, reporting that they had nothing to report. Several asked how long they were to keep up what they referred to as their ‘reconnaissance.’ I said until they were told otherwise.”
“That says it.”
“The photographs arrived.”
“What …? Oh, your list.”
“They’re on the coffee table. Look at them.”
Havelock focused on the row of five grainy faces staring at him. He rubbed his eyes and wiped the perspiration from his hairline, blinking repeatedly as he tried to concentrate. He began with the face on the far left; it meant nothing to him. Then the next, and the next, and the … next.
“Him,” he said, not knowing why he said it.
“Who?”
“The fourth one. Who is he?”
Jenna glanced down at a paper in front of her. “It’s a very old picture, taken in 1948. The only one they could find. It’s over thirty years old.”
“Who is he? Who was he?”
“A man named Kalyazin. Alexei Kalyazin. Do you recognize him?” Jenna got up from the desk.
“Yes … no. I don’t know.”
“It’s an old photograph, Mikhail. Look at it
. Study it. The eyes, the chin, the shape of the mouth. Where? Who?”
“I don’t know. It’s there … and it’s not there. What did he do?”
“He was a clinical psychotherapist,” said Jenna, reading. “He wrote definitive studies evaluating the effects on men of the stress of combat or prolonged periods of enduring unnatural conditions. His expertise was used by the KGB; he became what you call here a strategist, but with a difference. He screened information sent in to the KGB by people in the field, looking for deviations that might reveal either double agents or men no longer capable of functioning in their jobs.”
“An evaluator. A flake with a penchant for overlooking the obvious.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Gunslingers. They never spot the gunslingers.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know him. It’s a face like so many other faces, so many dossiers. God, the faces!”
“But there’s something!”
“Maybe, I’m not sure.”
“Keep looking at it. Concentrate.”
“Coffee. Is there any coffee?”
“I forgot,” said Jenna. “The first rule upon waking is coffee. Black and too strong. You are Czech, Mikhail.” She went to the table behind the couch, where an accommodating guard had plugged in the silver pot.
“The first rule,” repeated Havelock, suddenly disturbed. “The first rule?”
“What?”
“Where are your notes on Decker’s telephone call?”
“You had them.”
“Where are they?”
“Down there. On the table.”
“Where?”
“Under the last photograph. On the right.”
Get yourself a drink. You know the rules.
Michael threw the photograph of an unknown face off the table, and gripped the two notebook pages. He stared at them, shifting them back and forth.
“Oh, my God! The rules, the goddamned rules!”
Havelock got up and lurched toward the desk, his legs unsteady, his balance fragile.
“What is it?” asked Jenna, alarmed, the cup in her hand.
“Decker!” shouted Michael “Where are the notes on Decker?”
“Right there. On the left. The pad.”
Havelock riffled through the pages, his hand trembling again, his eyes seeing and not seeing, looking for the words. He found them.
“ ‘An odd accent,” ’ he whispered “ ‘An odd accent,’ but what accent?”
He grabbed the phone, barely able to control his finger as he dialed. “Get me Lieutenant Commander Decker, you’ve got his number on your index.”
“Mikhail, get hold of yourself.”
“Shut up!” The elongated buzz signified the ring; the wait was intolerable.
“Hello?” said the tentative voice of a woman.
“Commander Decker, please.”
“I’m … terribly sorry, he’s not here.”
“He’s there to me! This is Mr. Cross calling. Get him on the phone.”
Twenty seconds elapsed, and Michael thought his head would explode.
“What is it, Mr. Cross?” Decker asked.
“You said an ‘odd accent.’ What did you mean?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The call! The call you got from Matthias, from the one who said he was speaking for Matthias! When you said he had an odd accent, did you mean foreign, Russian?”
“No, not at all. It was high-pitched and very Anglicized. Almost British, but not British.”
“Good night, Commander,” said Michael, hanging up.
Pour yourself a drink … you know the rules here.… Come now, we’re both out Freshen yours and do mine while you’re at it. That’s also pari of the rules, remember?
Havelock picked up the phone again, pulling the list of numbers in front of him. He dialed. The waiting was almost a pleasure, but it was too short; he needed time to adjust. Poole’s Island!
“This is Mr. Cross. Let me have Security, please.”
Two short hums were heard, and the officer on duty answered, “Checkpoint.”
“This is Cross. Executive order, priority-zero. Please confirm.”
“Start counting,” said the voice.
“One, two, three, four, five, six—”
“Okay. Scanners match. What is it, Mr. Cross?”
“Who was the officer who took an emergency leave approximately six weeks ago?”
The silence was interminable; when the reply came, it was a matter-of-fact response by a knowledgeable man. “Your information’s incorrect, Mr. Cross. There’s been no request for an emergency leave from the officer corps or anyone else. No one’s left the island.”
“Thank you, Security.”
Alexander the Great … Raymond Alexander!
Fox Hollow!
38
“It’s him,” said Michael, leaning over the desk, his hand still gripping the phone. “He’s Parsifal. Raymond Alexander.”
“Alexander?” Jenna took several steps away from the table and stared at Havelock, shaking her head slowly.
“It has to be! It’s in the words—‘the rules.’ ‘One of the rules, part of the rules.’ Always rules; his life is a series of unbreakable rules! The odd accent wasn’t foreign, wasn’t Russian. It was thirties Harvard with Alexander’s pretentious emphasis. He’s used it in a thousand lecture halls, hundreds of debates. Points made quickly, retorts thrown in unexpectedly, thrust and parry. That’s Alexander!”
“As you’ve described him,” said Jenna calmly but firmly, “there’s an enormous contradiction I don’t think you can explain. Are you prepared to accuse him of knowing the identity of a Soviet mole and doing nothing about it? Especially one so dangerous as an undersecretary of State?”
“No, I can’t explain it, but he can. He will. He sent me to Poole’s Island, telling me a bullshit story about an army officer on an emergency leave who let it slip to his wife. There wasn’t any such person; no emergency leaves were taken.”
“Perhaps he was protecting another source.”
“Then why the elaborate lie? Why not a simple refusal to disclose? No, he wanted me to believe it, made me give my word to protect him—knowing I would protect him!”
“For what purpose?” said Jenna, coming to the desk. “Why did he tell you in the first place? To have you killed?”
“Let him answer that.” Havelock picked up the phone, pressing the house intercom button. “I want a car and an escort to follow me. It’s about an hour’s drive from here. Right away.” He replaced the phone and, for a moment, looked at it, then shook his head. “No,” he said.
“The President?” asked Jenna.
“I’m not going to call him. Not yet. The state he’s in he’d send in a battalion of commandos. We won’t learn the truth that way. Cornered like that, Alexander might blow his brains out.”
“If you’re right, what more is there to learn?”
“Why!” said Michael furiously, opening the top drawer and taking out the Llama automatic. “And how,” he added, checking the magazine and cracking it back in place. “That large contradiction you mentioned. His beloved republic.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No.”
“Yes! This time you have no right to refuse me. My life is in this room—my death as well. I have a right to be there.”
“You may have a right but you’re not going. That son of a bitch set you up, he marked you for extinction.”
“I have to know why.”
“I’ll tell you.” Michael started to leave.
“Suppose you can’t!” cried Jenna, blocking him. “Yes, Mikhail, look at me! Suppose you do not come back—it’s possible, you know. Would you finally rob me of my sanity?”
“We’ve been out there. There are no alarms, no dogs or guards. Besides, he doesn’t expect me. I’ll come back—with him!… What the hell do you mean, your ‘sanity’?”<
br />
“I lost you once—I loved you and lost you! Do you think I can take even the risk of losing you again and never knowing why? How much do you want from me?”
“I want you to live.”
“I can’t live, I won’t live unless you’re with me! I’ve tried it—it simply doesn’t appeal to me. Whatever’s out there is for both of us, not you alone. It’s not fair, Mikhail, and you know it.”
“I don’t give a damn about being fair!” He reached for her and pulled her into his arms, aware of the gun in his hand, wishing they were somewhere else where there were no guns—ever. “I only care about you. I know what you’ve been through, what I did to you. I want you here, where I’ll know you’re all right. I can’t risk you, don’t you understand?”
“Because you love me?”
“So much … so very much.”
“Then respect me!” eried Jenna, whipping her head back, her blond hair swirling over her shoulders. “Damn you, Mikhail, respect me!”
Havelock looked at her, at the anger and the pleading in her eyes. So much to make up for. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get our coats. Let’s go.”
Jenna turned and went to the coffee table, where she picked up the photographs, including the one on the floor. “All right,” she said.
“Why?” asked Michael, gesturing at the pictures.
“Why not?” she replied.
The man concealed high up in the darkness of the tall pine drove his spikes deeper into the trunk, adjusting his harness to relax the pressure of the straps. Suddenly, in the distance far below, he saw the beams of headlights streaking out of the tree-lined drive at Sterile Five. He raised the infrared binoculars to his eyes with his right hand as his left pulled out the radio from its holster. He brought it to his lips and pressed the switch.
The Parsifal Mosaic Page 72
