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 bead nurse knew that. Dr. Miller's brilliance
in no way thwarted his genuine Idndness; if he had a fault, it was his
excessive generosity. He had checked into T.R. 20; she approached it,
noting that
THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC159
the red light at the side of the door was on, signifying occupancy. She
pressed the intercom button.
"Dr. Miller, I bate to interrupt, but there's a man from the State
Department on the telephone. He says ies 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 be 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 comer, trembling, was the young manne in his
govemment-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 M*- 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 bad become his third language-the radio was his second.
The light on the telephone preceded the hum. The man picked it up. "Rome,"
be said.
"This is Ambiguity, Rome." The voice was clear, deliber- 160 ROBEIRT LUDLUM
ate. "That name gives me complete authority regarding all orders issued to
your unit at Col des Moulinets. I assume Director Stem 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-2'
"'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."
'-fou don't have to. We just want proof of dispatch. His dispatch."
"You'll have it. Our man with the eyes is up there."
THE PARsYFAL MosAic161
"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 close 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 bands;
the curious streak of white that shot through his dark bair 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 bad
learned to do throughout the years whenever a crisis called for swift,
dangerous decisions; be 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 be 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 bad been peeling away the layers of deceit, about
which they knew nothing. It all bad to be buried-they bad to be buried. At
all costs, at all risk. Costa Brava bad to be submerged again and become an
obscure 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-establisbed and cleared by D. S.
Stern, director of Consular Operations."
But only the strategists knew whom Stem had come to
162 ROBERT LuDLum
with his ambiguous dilemma. In fact, Stem himself had not known whom be
would approach until be had emerged on the fifth floor and studied the
roster of senior personnel on the premises; be had made that clear. No
matter, thought Artbur Pierce in the dark office as be 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 Stem and the other strategists had made the decision to bring the
insoluble problem upstairs. Had be not been on the floor, be 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.
They needed time. Days, a week, a month. They had to find the man who bad
accomplished the incredible-with their help. They would find him, for be
was leaving a trail of fear-no, not fear, terror-and trails could be
tracked. And when they found him, it would not be the meek who inberited
the earth. It would be the Voennaya.
There were so few of them left on this side of the world. So few, but so
strong, so right. They had seen it all, lived it all. The lies, the
corruption, the essential rot at the cores of power; they had been part of
it for a greater cause. They had not forgotten who they were, or what they
were. Or why they were. They were the travelers, and there was no higher
calling; its concept was based in reality, not in romantic illusions. They
were the men and women of the new world, and the old one needed them
desperately. They were not many in numbers-less than a hundred, committed
beyond life-but they were finely tuned units, prepared to react instantly
to any opportunity or emergency. They had the positions, the right papers,
the proper vehicles. The Voennaya was generous; they, in turn, were loyal
to the elite corps of the KGB.
The death of the strategists had been crucial. The resulting vacuum would
paralyze the original architects of Costa Brava, stunning them into
silence. They would say nothing;
THE PAmi7AL MosAic163
cover-up would be paramount. For the man in shadows bebind the desk had not
lied to Rome: there could be no reopened speculations on Costa Brava. For
either side.
Darkness obscuring his movements, Arthur Pierce, the most powerful
paminyatchik in the Department of State, rose from the desk and walked
silently to the armchair against the wall. He sat down and stretched his
legs; he would remain there until morning, until the crowds of senior and
subordinate personnel began to fill up the fifth floor. Then he would
mingle with the others, signing a forgotten roster sheet; his morning
presence would be temporary, for he was needed back in New York. He was,
after all, Washington's senior aide to the ambassador of the American
delegation at the United Nations. In essence, he was the State Department's
major voice on the East River; soon he would be the ambassador. That bad
been Anthony Matthias's design; everyone knew it. It would be yet another
significant step in his extraordinary career.
Suddenly Malyekov-Pierce bolted up in the chair. There was a last phone
call to be placed to Rome, a last voice to be stilled: a man in a radio
room who answered a sterile telephone and took an untaped, unlogged
message.
11
'Sh4A not on board, I swear itl" protested the harassed captain of the
freighter Santa Teresa, seated at his desk in the small cabin aft of the
wheelhouse. "Search, if you wish, signore. No one will interfere. We put her
ashore three . . . three and a half hours ago. Madre di Diol Such madnessl*
"How? WhereP'demanded Havelock.
"Same as you. A motor launch came out to meet us twelve Idlomerters south
of Arroa di Taggia. I swear to you, I knew nothingl I'll kill that pig in
Civitavecchial Just a political refugee from the Balkans, he said-a woman
with a little money and friends in France. There are so many these days.
Where is the sin in helping one more?"
Michael leaned over and picked up the outdated diplomatic identification
card that gave his status as consular attach6, U.S. Department of State,
and said calmly, "No sin at all, if that's what you believed."
"Ies true, signorel For nearly thirty years I've pushed my old cows through
these waters. Soon I leave the sea with a little land, a little money. I
grow grapes. Never narcoticil Never contrabbandil But people-yes. Now and
then people, and I am not ashamed. Those who flee places and men you and I
know nothing about. I ask you again, where is the sin?"
In making mistakes.'
164
THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC165
"I cannot believe this woman is a criminal."
"I didn~t say that. I said we had to find her."
The captain nodded his head in resignation. "Badly enough to report me. I
leave the sea for prison. Grazie, gran Signor Americano."
"I didn't say that, either," said Michael quietly.
The captain's eyes widened as he looked up, his head motionless. "Che
cosaP"
"I didn't expect you to be what you seem to be."
"Che dice?"
"Never mind. There are times when embarrassment should be avoided. If you
cooperate, nothing may have to be said. If you cooperate."
"In any way you wishl Vs a gift I did not expect."
"Tell me everything she said to you. And do it quickly.~
"There was much that was meaningless-2'
"That's not what I want to bear."
"I understand. She was calm, obviously highly intelligent, but, beneath, a
very frightened woman. She stayed in this cabin."
"Oh?"
"Not with me, I can assure you. I have daughters her age, signore. We bad
three meals together; there was no other place for her, and my crew is not
what I would have my daughters eat with. Also, she carried a great deal of
lire on her person. She had to; the transportation she purchased did not
come cheap.... She looked forward to much trouble. Tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"She asked me if I had ever been to the village of Col des Moulinets in the
Ligurian mountains."
"She told you about Col des Moulinets?"
"I think she assumed I knew, that I was merely one part of her journey,
aware of the other parts. As it happened, I have been to Moulinets several
times. The ships they give me are often in need of repairs, here in San
Remo, or Savona, or Marseilles, which, incidentally, is my farthest port of
call. I am not what is known as a capitano superlore-"
"Please. Go on."
"We have been dry-docked here in San Remo a few times and I have gone up to
the mountains, to Col des Moulinets. It's across the French border west of
Monesi, a lovely town
166 RoBERT LuDLum
filled with mountain streams and- How do you say it? Ruote a pate?"
"Paddle wheels. Moulinets can also mean paddle wheels in French."
"SI. It's a minor pass in the lower Alps, not used very much. It's
difficult to reach, the facilities poor, the transportation poorer. And the
border guards are the most lax in the Ligu
rians and the Maritimes; they
barely have time to take the Cauloises out of their mouths to glance at
papers. I tried to assure my frightened refugee that she would have no
trouble."
"You think she'll try to go through a checkpoint?"
"There's only one, a short bridge across a mountain river. Why not? I doubt
it would be necessary even to bribe a guard; if she was one woman among a
group of well-dressed people at night, no doubt evidencing fine vino. What
concern is it of theirs?"
"Men like me."
The captain paused; be leaned back in his chair appraising the American
official, as if in a somewhat different light. "Then you would have to
answer that yourself, signore. Who else knows?" Both men looked at each
other, neither speaking. The captain nodded and continued. "But I tell you
this, if she doesn't use the bridge, she will have to make her way through
very dense forest with much steep rock, and don't forget the river."
"Thanks. That's the kind of information I need. Did she say why she was
getting out this way?"
"The usual. The airports were watched; the train stations also, as well as
the major roads that cross into France."
"Watched by whorn?'
"Men like you, signore?"
"Is that what she said?"
"She did not have to say anything more than she did, and I did not inquire.
That is the truth."
"I believe you."
'Vill you answer the question, then? Do others know?"
`Tm not sure," said Michael. "The truth."
"Because if they do, I am arrested. I leave the sea for prison."
"Would that mean it's public information?"
Tim PAmFAL Mosmc 167
"Most certainly. Charges would be brought before la commissione.
"Then I don't think they'll touch you. I have an idea that this incident is
the last thing on earth the men I'm involved with want known. If they
haven't reached you by now-by radio, or a fast boat, or by belicopter-tbey
either don't know about you, or they don't want to touch you."
Again the captain paused, looking carefully at Havelock. 'Men you are
involved with, signore?' he said, the words suspended.
"I don't understand."
"Involved with, but not of, is that correct?"
"It's not important."
"You wish to help this woman, do you not? You are not after her to ...
Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt Page 21
