Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

  Op. "How long have we got before he starts costing lives?"

  "He already has," broke in Dawson.

  "Not in a controlled sense," contradicted Miller. "It was a direct reaction

  to a violent attack on his own life. There's a difference."

  "Spell out the difference, Paul."

  "As I see it," said the psychiatrist, picking up his notes and adjusting

  his glasses. "And to use a favorite phrase of OgilvWs, I don't claim it's

  Holy Writ. But there are a couple of things that shed a little light, and

  IT be honest with you, they disturb me. The key, of course, is in whatever

  was said between Havelock and Ogilvie, but since we can't know what it was,

  we can only go by Baylor's detailed description of the scene, the physical

  movements, the general tone. I've read it over and over again, and until

  the final moments-the eruption of violence-I was struck by a note I didn't

  expect to find. The absence of sustained hostility."

  "Sustained hostility?" asked Stem. "I don't know what that finplies: in

  behavioral terms, but I hope it doesn't mean they didn't argue, because

  they did. Baylor makes that clear."

  "Of course they argued; it was a confrontation. There was a prolonged

  outburst on Havelock's part, restating the threats Ws made before, but then

  the shouting stopped; it had to. Some kind of accommodation was reached. It

  couldn't have been otherwise in light of what followed."

  "In light of what followed?" questioned Stem, bewildered. 'What followed

  was Ogilvie's trap, the diphenylamine gas, 'the explosion."

  "I'm sorry, you're wrong, Daniel. There was a retreat before then.

  Remember, from the moment Havelock showed himself until that instant at the

  bench when he kicked out, aborting the trap, there was no show of physical

  violence, no

  THE PAWIFAL MOSAIC145

  display of weapons. There was talk, conversation. Then the cigarettes, the

  matches. It's too damned reasonable."

  "N"at do you mean?"

  "Put yourself in Havelock's place. Your grievance is enormous, your anger

  at fever pitch, and a man you consider your enemy asks you for a light.

  What do you do?"

  "It's only a match."

  "That's right, only a match. But yoere consumed, your head throbbing with

  anxiety, your state of mind actually vicious. The man in front of you

  represents betrayal at its worst, at its most personal, most deeply felt.

  These are the things a paranoid schizophrenic feels at a time like this,

  with a man like this. And that man, that enemy-even if he's promised to

  tell you everything you want to bear-asks you for a light. How do you

  react?"

  "I'd give it to him."

  "How?"

  "Well, I'd-2' The section chief stopped, his eyes locked with Miller's.

  Then he completed the answer, speaking quietly. "Id throw it to him."

  "Or tell him to forget about it, or shove it, or just to keep on talking.

  But I don't think you7d take a pack of matches from your pocket and walk

  over, handing them to that man as though it were a momentary pause in an

  argument rather than an interruption of a highly charged moment of extreme

  personal anxiety. No, I don't think yoi;d do that. I don't think any of us

  would."

  "We don't know what Ogilvie said to him," objected Stem. "He could bave-2'

  "It almost doesn't matter, don't you see?" interrupted the psychiatrist.

  "It's the pattern, the goddamned pattern."

  "Discerned from a pack of matches?"

  'Yes, because it's symptomatic. Throughout the entire confrontation, with

  the exception of a single outburst, there was a remarkable absence of

  aggressiveness on Havelocles part. If Baylor is as accurate as you say-and

  I suspect he is, because under the circumstances he'd be prone to

  exaggerate any threatening movements or gestures-Havelock exercised

  extraordinary control ... rational behavior."

  "What does that ten you?" asked Dawson, breaking his silence, watching

  Miller closely.

  "rm not sure," said the doctor, returning the lawyer's

  140 RoBERT LuDLum

  stare. "But I know it doesn't flt the portrait of the man w6ve convinced

  ourselves we're dealing with. To twist a phrase, there's too much reason

  afoot, not enough madness."

  "Even with his slipping in and out of reality?" continued Dawson.

  "It's not relevant here. His reality is the oroduct of his whole

  experience, his everyday living. Not his convictions; they're based largely

  on his emotions. Under the conditions of the rendezvous, they should have

  surfaced more, distorting his reality, forcing him into listening less,

  into a more aggressive posture.... He listened too much."

  "You know what you're saying, don't you, Paul?" said the attorney.

  "I know what I'm implying, based on the data we've all accepted as being

  totally accurate ... from the beginning."

  "That the man on the Palatine three days ago doesn't fit the portrait?"

  suggested Dawson.

  "Might not fit it. No absolutes, only 'trained' guesswork. We don't know

  what was said, but there was too much rationality in what was described to

  suit me. Or the portrait."

  "VA-dch was predicated on information we've considered infallible,"

  concluded the lawyer. "In your words, 'from the beginning! From Costa

  Brava."

  "Exactly. But suppose it wasn't? Suppose it inet?"

  "Impossiblel" said the director of Consular Operations. "That information

  was filtered through a dozen sieves, then filtered again through twenty

  more. There was no margin for error. The Karas woman was KGB; she died at

  Costa Brava."

  "That's what we've accepted," agreed the psychiatrist. 'And I hope to God

  it's accurate, and that my guesswork observations are worthless reactions

  to an inaccurately described scene. But if it's not and theyre not, if

  there's the remotest possibility that we're not dealing with a psychopath

  but with a man who's telling the truth because it is the truth, then we're

  faced with something I don't even want to think about."

  The three men fell silent, each grappling with the enormity of the

  implication. Finally Dawson spoke. "We have to think about it."

  "It's appalling even to consider it," said Stern. "There was MacKenzie's

  confirmation, and it was a confirmation. The torn

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  clothing, parts of a blouse, a skirt, they belonged to her, itwas

  established. And the blood type, A-negative. Hers."

  "And Steven MacKenzie died of a coronary three weeks later," interrupted

  Miller. "We looked into it, but it just faded away."

  "Come on, Paul," objected Stem. "That doctor in Mary6 land is one of the

  most respected on the Eastern Shore. What's his name? . . . Randolph.

  Matthew Randolph. Johns Hopkins, Mayo Clinic, on the boards of

  Massachusetts General, New York's Mount Sinai, and with his own medical

  center. He was thoroughly interviewed."

  "'I'd like to talk to him again," the doctor said.

  "And I remind you," pressed the director of Cons Op. "MacKenzie had just

  about the finest record that ever came out of the Central Intelligence

  Agency. What you're suggesting is inconceiv
able."

  "So was the horse in Troy," said the lawyer. "When it was conceived." He

  turned to Miller, who had removed his glasses. "Trained guesswork, Paul.

  Let's take it all the way; we can always scratch it, but say there's

  substance. What do you think he'll do now?"

  "I'll tell you what he won't do-if there's substance. He won't come in, and

  we can't trick him with ploys because he understands-rationally-tbat

  whatevees happened we're either a part of it, or ignorant of it, or it's

  beyond our control. The attack's been made on him; he'll mount every

  defense he's learned in the sixteen years be's been in the field. And from

  here on in he'll be ruthless, because be has been betrayed. By men be can't

  see in places where they shouldn't be." The psychiatrist looked at Stem.

  "There's your answer, Daniel, if there's substance. Oddly enough, he's

  really back in his early days now-the machine guns, Lidice, betrayal. He's

  running through the streets wondering who in the crowds might be his

  executioner."

  A sharp, abrasive hum erupted from the red telephone on the small, low

  table next to Stem. The director reached down and picked it up, his eyes

  still on Miller. "Yes?"

  Thirty seconds of silence followed, interrupted only by quiet

  acknowledgments on Stem's part as he listened, staring across at the

  psychiatrist!s notes, absorbing the information being given him. "Stay on

  the line," he said finally, snapping the switch and looking up at both

  strategists. "This

  148 RoBETIT Liu:oLum

  is Rome. They've found a man in Civitavecebia, the name of a ship. It may be

  the girl. Or a Soviet hoax; that's entirely possible. It was Baylor's theory

  and he still holds to it.... The original order stands. Take Havelock, but

  not in dispatch; he's not to be considered 'beyond salvage.' . . . Now, I've

  got to ask you a question-primarily you, Paul, and I know I can't bold you

  to absolutes."

  "That's the only absolute."

  "We've acted on the assumption that we're dealing with an unbalanced man,

  with someone whose paranoia may compel him to place documents or statements

  exposing past operations with third parties, to be released on

  instructions. Is that right?"

  "Basically, yes. It's the sort of manipulation a schizophrenic mentality

  would indulge in, the satisfaction derived as much from revenge as from the

  threat. Remember, the third parties in question would undoubtedly come from

  undesirable elements; respectable people would shun such a person, and

  underneath be knows that. It's a compulsive, involuntary game. He really

  can~t win, only seek vengeance, and there's the danger."

  "Would a sane man play that game?"

  The psychiatrist paused, fingering his glasses. "Not the same way."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Would you?"

  "Please, Paul."

  "No, I'm serious. YGu'd be more concerned with the threat than with the

  revenge. You want something; revenge may be down the road, but it's not

  what's primarily on your mind now. You want answers. Threats might get them

  for you, but risking exposure of classified information by delivering it to

  highly suspect brokers defeats the purpose."

  "What would a sane man do?"

  "Probably get word to those he's threatening as to the kind of information

  he intends to reveal. Then he'd proceed to reach quahfied third

  parties-publishers, perhaps, or men and women who head organizations that

  legitimately, openly, resist the kind of work we do here-and make

  arrangements with them. That's a sane man's approach, his attack, his ulti-

  mate threat."

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  'Mere's no evidence that Havelock's done any of these things."

  "It's only been three days since the Palatine; he hasn't bad time. These

  things take time."

  "Lending credence to the matches. To his sanity."

  "I think so, and I'm biting the bullet. I gave him the label-based on what

  we had-and now I'm wondering if it should be removed."

  "And if we remove it, we accept the possibility of a sane man's attack. As

  you said, hell be ruthless, far more dangerous than a schizophrenic."

  'Yes," agreed the psychiatrist. "An unbalanced man can be repudiated,

  blackmailers dealt with ... and it's important to realize that since Costa

  Brava no such extortionists have tried to reach us. But legitimate

  interests, no matter bow misguided, could inflict extraordinary damage."

  'Costing networks, informants, sources, years of work .

  The director's band reached down to the telephone, to the switch. "And

  lives."

  "Yet if he's sane," interrupted Dawson sharply, once again breaking a

  silence, "if it is the girl, that presupposes a much deeper problem,

  doesn't it? Her guilt, her death, everything's in question. All that

  infallible information that was filtered through all those high-level

  sieves suddenly looks like a massive deception where deception shouldn't

  be. Those are the answers Havelock wants."

  "We know the questions," replied Stem quietly, his band still on the

  telephone switch, "and we can't give him the answers. We can only stop him

  from inflicting extraordinary damage." The director of Cons Op fell silent

  for a moment, his eyes on the telephone. "When each of us entered this

  room, we understood. The only morality here is pragmatic morality, no

  philosophy but our own brand of utilitarianism: the greatest advantage for

  the many-over the few, over the individual."

  "If you put him 'bevond salvage,' Daniel," continued the attorney softly

  but emphatically, "I can't support you. And not from an ethical point of

  view, but from a very practical one."

  Stem looked up. "Wbat is it?"

  "We need him for tracing the second, deeper problem. If he's sane, there's

  an approach we havedt tried, an approach

  150 RoBERT LuDLum

  be may listen to. As you said, weve acted on the assumption that be was

  unbalanced; it was the only reasonable assumption we could make. But if he

  isn't, he may listen to the truth."

  "What truth?"

  "That we don't know. Lees grant him that be did see the Karas woman, that

  she is alive. Then tell him we want the answers as badly as be does.

  Perhaps more so."

  "Assuming we can get that word to him, suppose he doesn't listen, suppose

  he demands only the answers we can't give, and considers everything else a

  trick to take him. Or take him out. What then? We've got the Costa Brava

  files; they contain the -names of everyone involved. What help can he

  really be? On the other band, we know the damage be can do, the panic he

  can create, the lives be can cost."

  "The victim becomes the villain," said Miller wearily. "Jesus Christ."

  "We take our problems in order of appearance and priority," said Stern,

  "and in my judgment these are two separate crises. Related but separate

  now. We go after the first. What else can we do?"

  "We can admit we don't knowl" answered Dawson urgently.

  "Every effort will be made to comply with the original order, to take him

  alive. But they have to be given the option."

 
"By giving it you're telling them he's a traitor. Theyll use it on the

  slightest provocation. They'll kill him. I repeat, I can't support you."

  The director slowly looked up at the lawyer; there were deep creases around

  his tired eyes, which were filled with doubt. "If we're this far apart,

  then it's time," he said quietly, reluctantly.

  "For what?" asked Miller.

  "To give this to Matthias's office. They can reach the old man, or not,

  knowing that time's running out. I'll go up myself and summarize." Stem

  flipped the switch on the telephone. "Rome? Sorry to keep you hanging, and

  I'm afraid ies going to get worse. Keep the ship under air surveillance,

  and send your people to Col des Moulinets, their radio frequency on

  scrambler for instructions. If they don't get their orders by the time they

  land, they're to reach you every fifteen minutes. You stay by this line and

  close it down-for your use

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  only. Well get back to you as soon as we can, either myself or someone

  upstairs. If it's not me, the code will be ... Ambiguity. Have you got that?

  Ambiguity. That's all for now, Rome." The director of Cons Op replaced the

  phone, snapped the switch, and got up from his chair. "I hate like hell

  doing this . . . at a time like this," he said. "We're supposed to be the

  shield with a thousand eyes, all-seeing, allknowing. Others can plan, others

  execute, but we're the ones who give the word. The lousy decisions are

  supposed to be made here, that's our function, goddamn it."

  "We've needed help before," said the psychiatrist.

  "Only on tactical questions that Ogilvie couldn't answer, never on matters

  of evaluation. Never for anything like this."

  "Dan, we're not playing corporate chairs in the boardroom," added Dawson.

  "We inherited Costa Brava, we didn't initiate it."

  "I know that," said Stem, going to the door. I suppose ifs a consolation."

  "Do you want us to go with you?" asked Miller.

  "No, I'll present it fairly."

  "Never doubted it," interjected the attorney.

  "We're running against a clock in Rome," continued the director. "The fewer

  of us, the fewer questions. It's reduced to one anyway. Sane or insane.

  'Beyond salvage' or not." Stem opened the door and left as the two