penalize her."
"The answer to the first is yes. The second, no."
"Then I will tell you. She asked me if I knew the airfield near Col des
Moulinets. I did not. I never heard of it."
"An airfield?" Michael understood. It was added information he would not
have been given ten seconds ago. "A bridge over a mountain river, and an
airfield. Tonight."
"That is all I can tell you."
The mountain road leading out of Monesi toward the French border was wide
enough, but the profusion of rock and boulder and bordering overgrowth made
it appear narrow, more suited to heavy-wheeled trucks and rugged jeeps than
to any normal automobile. It was the excuse that Michael used to travel the
last balf-mile on foot, to the relief of the taxi driver from Monesi.
He had learned there was a country inn just before the bridge, a watering
spot for the Italian and French patrols, where both languages were
sufficiently understood by the small garrisons on either side, as well as
by the few nationals and fewer tourists who occasionally passed back and
forth. From what little Havelock had seen and had been told, the captain of
the Santa Teresa was right. The border checkpoint of Col des Moulinets was
at a minor pass in the lower Alps, not easily accessible and poorly
staffed, manned no doubt because it was there-had been for decades-and no
bureaucratic legislation had bothered to remove it. The general flow of
traffic between the two countries used either the wide
168 RoBEr-tT LunLum
coast roads of the Mediterranean fifteen miles south or the larger, more
accommodating passes in the north, such as Col de Larche or Col de la
Madeleine, west of Turin.
The late-afternoon sun was now a fan-shaped are of deep orange and yellows,
spraying up from behind the higher mountains, filling the sky above the
Maritimes with receding echoes of light. The shadows on the primitive road
were growing longer, sharper; in minutes their outlines would fade and they
would become obscure shapes, indistinguishable in the gray darkness of
early evening. Michael walked along the edge of the woods, prepared to
spring into the underbrush at the first sounds not part of the forest. He
knew that every move he made had to be prejudged on the assumption that
Rome had learned about Col des Moulinets. He had not lied to the captain of
the Santa Teresa, there could be any number of reasons why those working
for the embassy would stay away from a ship in international waters. The
slow freighter could be tracked and watched-very likely had been-but it was
another matter to board her in a legitimate official capacity. It was a
high-risk tactic; inquiries too easily could be raised with a commissione.
Had Rome found the man in Civitavecchia? He could only presume that others
could do what he had done; no one was that exceptional or that lucky. He
had in his anger-no, his outrage-shouted the name of the port city into the
phone and Baylor had repeated it. If the wounded intelligence officer was
capable of functioning after the Palatine, he would order his people to
prowl the Civitavecchia waterfront and find a broker of illegal passage.
Yet there were always gaps, spaces that could not be filled.
Would the man in Civitavecchia name the specific ship,
knowing that if he did so, he'd never again be trusted on the
waterfront? Trusted, hell; he could be killed in any one of a
dozen mist-filled back streets. Or might he plead ignorance
to that phase of the escape-sold by others unknown to him
but reveal Col des Moulinets so as to,curry favor with pow
erful Americans in Rome, who everyone knew were
inordinately generous with those they favored . . . . . One
more refugee from the Balkans, where was the sin, signori?"
So many gaps, so little that was concrete . . . so little time to think, so
many inconsistencies. Who would have thought there'd be a tired, aging
captain opposed to trafficking in the
THE PARSIFAL MOSAJC109
profitable world of narcotics and contraband but perfectly willing to
smuggle refugees out of Italy-no less a risk no less a cause for
imprisonment?
Or blunt Red Ogilvie, a violent man who never stopped trying to justify
violence. There was ambivalence in that strange justification. What had
driven John Philip Ogilvie? Why does a man strain all his life to break out
of self-imposed chains? Who really was the Apache? The Gunslinger? Whoever
and whatever, he had died violently at the very moment he had understood a
violent truth. The liars were in control in Washington.
Above all, Jenna. His love who had not betrayed that love but, instead, had
been betrayed., How could she have believed the liars? What could they have
said to her, what irrefutable proof could they have presented that she
would accept? Most important of all, who were the liars? What were their
names and where had they come from?
He was so close now that he could sense it, feel it with every step he took
on the darkening mountain road. Before the disappearing sun came up on the
other side of the world, he would have the answers, have his love back. If
his enemies had come from Rome, they were not a match for him; he knew
that. His belief in himself swelled within him; it was unjustified all too
often, but it was necessary. One did not come out of the early days, the
terrible days, and survive without it. Each step and he was nearer.
And when he had the answers, and his love, the call would be made to a
cabin in another range of mountains thousands of miles away. To the Blue
Ridge and the Sbenandoah, U.S.A. His mentor, his pfitel, Anton Matthias,
would be presented with a conspiracy that reached into the bowels of
clandestine operations, its existence incontrovertible, its purpose
unknown.
Suddenly he saw a small circle of light up ahead, shining through the
foliage on the left-hand side of the road. He crouched and studied it,
trying to define it. It did not move; it was merely there, where no light
had been before. He crept forward, mesmerized, frightened; what was it?
Then he stood up, relieved, breathing again. There was a bend in the road,
and in its cradle were the outlines of a building; it was the country inn.
Someone had just turned on an outside post lamp; other lights would follow
shortly. The
170 ROBERT LUDLVM
darkness had come abruptly, as if the sun bad dropped into a chasm; the tall
pines and the massive boulders blocked the shafts of orange and yellow that
could still be seen in the sky. Ught now appeared in windows, three on the
nearest side, more in front-bow many be could not tell, but at least six,
judging from the spin that washed over the grass and graveled entrance of
the building.
Michael stepped into the woods to check the underbrush and foliage. Both
were manageable, so be made his way toward the three lighted windows. There
was no point in staying on the road any longer; if there were surprises in
store, he did not care to be on the receiving end.
He reached the border of the woods, where
the thick trunk of a pine tree
stood between him and a deeply rutted driveway of bard mud. The drive
extended along the side of the inn and curved behind it into some kind of
parking area next to what appeared to be a delivery entrance. The distance
to the window directly across was about twenty-five feet; be stepped out
from behind the tree.
Instantly be was blinded by headlights. The truck tbundered out of the
primitive road thirty yards to his right, careening into the narrow
driveway of ridged mud. Havelock spun back into the foliage, behind the
trunk of the pine tree, and reached for the Spanish automatic strapped to
his chest. The truck bounced past, pitching and rolling over the hardened
ruts of the drive like a small barge in choppy water. From inside the van
could be beard the angry shouts of men objecting to the discomfort of their
ride.
Havelock could not tell whether he bad been seen or not; again he crouched
for protective cover and watched. The truck lurched to a stop at the
entrance of the wide, flat parking area; the driver opened his door and
jumped to the ground. Prepared to race into the woods, Michael crept back
several feet. It was not necessary; the driver stretched while swearing in
Italian, his figure suddenly caught in the spin of a floodlight someone had
switched on from inside the buildIng. What the light revealed was
bewildering: the driver was In the uniform of the Italian army, the
insignia that of a border guard. He walked to the back of the truck and
opened the large double doors.
"Cit ou4 you bastardsl" he shouted in Italian. "You~ve got
THE PAwiFAL MosAic171
about an hour to fill your kidneys before you go on duty. I'll walk up to
the bridge and tell the others we're here."
"The way you drive, Sergeant," said a soldier, grimacing as be stepped out,
"they heard you halfway back to Monesi.'
"Up yoursl"
Three other men got out, stamping their feet, and stretching; all were
guards.
The sergeant continued, "Paolo, you take the new man. Teach him the rules."
As the noncommissioned officer lumbered up the driveway past Havelock, he
scratched his groin and pulled down the underwear beneath his
trousers-signs of a long, uncomfortable trip.
"You, Riccil" shouted a soldier at the rear of the truck looking up into
the van. "Your name's Ricci, right?"
"Yes," said the voice from inside, and a fifth figure emerged from the
shadows.
"Yoifve got the best duty you'll find in the army, paesanol The quarters
are up at the bridge, but we have an arrangement: we damn near live here.
We don~t go up there until we go on. Once you walk in, you sign in,
understand?"
"I understand," said the soldier named Ricci.
But his name was not Ricci, thought Michael, staring at the blond man
slapping his barracks hat against his left hand. Havelock's mind raced back
over a dozen photographs; his mind's eye selected one. The man was not a
soldier in the Italian army-certainly no border guard. He was a Corsican,
a very proficient drone with a rifle or a handgun, a string of wire or a
knife. His real name was irrelevant; be used too many to count. He was a
"specialist" used only in "extreme prejudice" situations, a reliable
executioner who knew his way around the western Mediterranean better than
most such men, as much at home in the Balearic Islands as he was in the
forests of Sicily. His photograph and a file of his known accomplishments
had been provided Michael several years ago by a CIA agent in a sealed-off
room at Palombara. Havelock had tracked a Brigate Rosse unit and was moving
in for a nonattributable kill; be had rejected the blond an now standing
thirty feet away from him in the floodlit driveway. He bad not cared to
trust him then, but Rome did now.
Rome did know. The embassy bad found a man in Civitavecchia, and Rome had
sent an executioner-for a nonattributable kill. Something or someone had
convinced the hars
172 RoBERT LuDLum
in Washington that a former field officer was now a threat only if he lived,
so they had put out the word that he was "beyond salvage," his immediate
dispatch the highest priority. Nonattributable, of course.
The liars could not let him reach Jenna Karas, for she was part of their
lie, her mock death on the Spanish coast intrinsic to it. Yet Jenna was
running too; somehow, some way after Costa Brava she bad escaped. Was she
now included in the execution order? It was inevitable; the bait could not
be permitted to live, and therefore the blond assassin was not the only
killer on the bridge at Col des Moulinets. On, or near it.
The four soldiers and the new recruit started toward the rear entrance of
the country inn. The door beneath the floodlight was opened, and a heavyset
man spoke in a loud voice. "If you pigs spent all your money in Monesi,
stay the bell out of berel"
"Ab, Gianni, then we'd have to close you up for selling French girls higher
than oursf"
"You payl"
"Ricci," one of the soldiers said, "this is Gianni the thief. He owns this
dung heap. Be careful what you eat."
"I have to use the bathroom,' said the new recruit. He had just looked at
his watch; it was an odd thing to do.
"Who doesn't?" shouted another soldier as all five went inside.
The instant the door closed, Havelock ran across the drive to the first
window. It looked in on a dining room. The tables were covered with
red-checked cloths, with cheap silver and glassware in place, but there
were no diners; either it was too early for the kitchen or there were no
takers that afternoon. Beyond, separated only by a wide archway that ex-
tended the length of the wall, was the larger central barroom. From what he
could see, there were a number of people seated at small round
tables-between ten and fifteen would be his estimate, nearly all men. The
two women in his sigbt lines were in their sixties, one fat, one gaunt,
sitting at adjacent tables with mustachioed men; they were both talking and
drinking beer. Teatime in the Ligurian Alps. He wondered if there were any
other women in that room; be wondered-bis chest aching-if Jenna was huddled
at a corner table he could not see. If that was the case, he had to be
.1;i1E pAWMAL MOSAIc173
able to watch a door from the rear quarters-from the kitchen, perhaps-from
which the five soldiers had to emerge into the barroom. He had to be able to
see. The next few minutes could tell him what he needed to know: who among
the clientele in that barroom would the blond killer recognize, if only with
a glance, a twitch of his lips, or an almost imperceptible nod?
Michael crouched and ran to the second window along the drive; the angle of
vision was still too restricting. He raced to the third, appraised the view
and rejected it, then rounded the comer of the building to the first window
in front. He could see the door nOW-CUCINA, the lettering said; the five
soldiers would walk out of that door any second, but he could not see all
the tables. There were
two windows remaining that faced the stone path
leading to the entrance. The second window was too close to the door for
reasonable cover, but he held his breath and crawled swiftly to it, then
stood up in the shadow of a spreading pine. He inched his face to the
glass, and what he saw allowed him to let out the breath he had held. Jenna
Karas was not an ambushed target sitting in a comer. The window was beyond
the inside archway; he could see not only the kitchen entrance but every
table, every person in the room. Jenna was not there. And then his eyes
strayed to the far-right wall; there was another door, a narrow door with
two separate lines of letters. Uomini and Hommes, the men's room.
The door labeled cuciNA swung open and the five soldiers straggled in;
Gianni the thief had his hand on the shoulder of the blond man whose name
was not Ricci. Havelock stared at the killer, stared at the eyes with all
his concentration. The owner of the inn gestured to his left-Michaels
right-and the assassin started across the room toward the men's room. The
eyes. Watch the eyesl
It camel Barely a flicker of the lids, but it was there, the glance was
there. Recognition. Havelock followed the blond man's line of sight.
Confirmed. Two men were at a table in the center of the room; one had
lowered his eyes to his drink while talking, the other-bad form-bad
actually shifted his legs so as to turn his bead away from the path of the
killer's movement. Two more members of the unit-but only one of them was
active. The other was an observer. The man who had shifted his legs was the
agent of record who would con-
174 RoBEnT LuoLum
firm the dispatch but in no way participate. He was an American; his
mistakes bore it out. His jacket was an expensive Swiss windbreaker, wrong
for the scene and out of season; his shoes were soft black leather, and be
wore a shiny digital chronometer on his wrist-all so impressive, so irresis-
tible to a swollen paycheck overseas, so in contrast to the shabby mountain
garments of his companion. So American. The agent of record-but it was a
file no more than six en alive would ever see.
Something else was inconsistent; it was in the numbers. A unit of three
with only two active weapons was understaffed, considering the priority of
Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt Page 22
