scholar, a statesman, the creator of Utopia ... and a burner of here-
tics--they conveniently forget that, don't they? 'Condemn the
non-believers; they don't see what I see, and rm-inviolate.' ... Coddamn
it, if I bad my way, I'd do what fat Henry did with Thomas More. I'd cut
off Matthias's head, and instead of London Bridge, I'd jam it on top of the
Washington Monument as a reminder. Heretics, too, are citizens of the
republic and so, holy man, there can be no heresyl Goddamn him!"
"YOU know what would happen, don~t you, Mr. President?"
"Yes, Mr. Ambassador, I do. The people would look up at that bleeding neck
at that ever-benign face-no doubt with those tortoiseshell glasses still
intact-and in their infinite wisdom theyd say he was right, had been right
all along. CitIzens-heretics included-would canonize him, and that's the
lousy irony."
"He could still do it, I think," Brooks mused. "He could walk out and the
cries would start again. Theyd offer him the crown and he'd refuse and
theyd persist-until it became Inevitable. Another irony. Hail not Caesar
but Anthony-a coronation. A constitutional amendment would be rammed
THE PARsrrAL MosAic309
through the House and the Senate and President Matthias would sit in the
Oval Office. As incredible as it might seem, he could probably still do it.
Even now."
"Maybe we should let him," said Berquist softly, bitterly. 'Maybe the
people-in their infinite wisdom-are right, after all. Maybe he's been right
all along. Sometimes I doet know anymore. Perhaps he really does see things
others don't see. Even now."
The aristocratic statesman and the plainspoken general left the underground
room. The four would meet again at noon the next day, each arriving
separately at the South Portico entrance, away from the inquisitive eyes of
the VV7hite House press corps. If, in the morning, there were any startling
developments in Bradford's research at State, the time would be moved up,
the Presidenes calendar erased. The mole took all precedence. He could lead
them to a madman the President and his advisers called Parsifal.
"I commend you, Mr. Undersecretary," said Berquist, lowering his voice in
an amateur's imitation of the ambassador's fluid and graceful speech. It
was an imitation with only a brace of rancor; respect was also there. "He's
the last of the originals, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir. There aren~t many left, and none that I know of
who care that much. Taxes and the great democratization
have removed them-or alienated them. They feel uncomfort
able, and I think it's the countrys loss." A
"Don't be sepulchral, Emory, it doesn't suit you. We need him; the power
brokers on the Hill are still in awe of him. If there ever was an answer to
Matthias, ies Addison Brooks. The Mayflower and Plymouth Rock, New Yorles
Four Hundred and fortunes built on the backs of immigrantsleading to the
guilt feelings of the inheritors. Benevolent liberals who weep at the sight
of swollen black bellies in the Mississippi Delta. But for Chrises sake,
donI take away the CI-Ateau dYquem."
"Yes, Mr. President."
"You mean 'No, Mr. President! Vs in your eyes, Emory, it's always in the
eyes. Don't mistake me, I admire old elegant-ass, respect what's in that
head of his. just as I think Tightrope Halyar&s one of the few military
relies whove actually read the Constitution and understand what civilian
an-
310 RoBERT LuoLum
thority really means. It's not that wars too important to leave to the
generals; that's horseshit. Wed both be rotten pincering up the Rhine. It's
the ending of wars, the aftermath. The generals are reluctant to accept the
first and have no concept of the second. Halyards different, and the
Pentagon knows it. The joint Chiefs listen to him because he's better than
they are. We need him, too."
"I agree."
"That's what this office is all about. Need. Not likes or dislikes, only
need. If I ever get back to Mountain Iron, Minnesota, alive and in one
piece, I can think about whether I like someone or not. But I can't do that
now. It's only what I need. And what I need right now is to stop Parsifal,
stop what hes done, what he did to Anthony Matthias." The President paused,
then continued, "I meant what I said-he said. I do commend you. It was a
bell of a job."
"Thank you, sir."
"Especially what you didr~t say. Havelock. Where is he?"
"Almost certainly in Paris; it's where Jenna Karas was heading. Between
pages this afternoon I placed a number of calls to people I know in the
Assembly, the Senate, several ministries, the Quai d'Orsay, and our own
embassy. I applied pressure, hinting that my orders came from the White
House, but without mentioning you by name."
"You could have."
"Not yet, Mr. President. Perhaps never, but certainly not now.
"Then we understand each other," said Berquist
"Yes, sir. Necessity."
"Halyard might have understood; he's a practical soldier. Brooks wouldn't;
underneath that diplomatic exterior he's a thorough moralist."
"That was my assessment, why I didn't clarify Havelocks status."
"It remains what it was at Col. des Moulinets. If be exposed Costa Brava,
it would panic Parsifal more quickly than anything we might do in the State
Department. Havelock was at the center-from the beginning.-
"I understand, sir."
Berquises eyes strayed to the blank white screen at the far end of the
room. "In World War Two, Churchill had to make a decision that tore him
apart. The German code
THE PAmiFAL MosAic311
machine Enigma had been broken by Allied intelligence, a feat that meant
that military strategies issued from Berlin could be intercepted and
hundreds of thousands-ultimately perhaps millions-of fives could be saved.
Word came that a massive air strike had been called against Coventry. It was
a single transmission, coded through Enigma. But acknowledging it,
evacuating the city or even mounting sudden, abnormal defenses, would have
revealed that the riddle of Enigma had been solved.... Coventry had to be
bombed half out of existence so the secret could be kept. The secret of
Costa Brava cannot be exposed for the same reason-millions of lives are in
the balance.... Find Havelock, Mr. Undersecretary. Find him and have him
killed. Reinstate the order for his execution."
19
Havelock knew he bad been spotted: a newspaper wag abruptly lowered as he
walked between the roped stanchions of Air France~s disembarkation lounge at
Kennedy into the corridor that led to immigration. He had been pre-cleared
on diplomatic status, the papers Broussac bad provided guaranteeing a rapid
eidt through U.S. customs, and because of this accommodation he understood
that he had to destroy those papers as quickly as possible. He carried his
small suitcaseofficially lock-taped and stamped Diplonzatique in Paris-and
once through the corridor he would be admitted through the heavy metal doors
that led into the terminal by simply showing his United Nations credentials<
br />
and declaring that he had no other luggage. A dead-file name would be
checked against a dead-file name on the manifest, and he would be free to
search or be killed in the United States of America. It was all so simple.
However, for R6gine Broussaos protection-and ultimately his own-he had to
get rid of the false papers that made all this possible. Too, he had to
find out who had lowered the newspaper. The gray-faced man bad risen slowly
from his seat, folding the newspaper under his arm, and started for the
outer, crowded hallway that paralleled the inner corTidor that led to
questionable freedom. Who was that man?
If he could not find out, it was entirely possible that he
312
Trm PmwFAL MosAic 313
would be killed before he could search, before he reached a halfway broker
named Jacob Handelman. And that was not acceptable.
The uniformed immigration officer was astute, polite. He asked the proper
questions while looking Havelock directly in the eyes.
"You have no luggage, sir?"
"Non, monsieur. Only the one piece here."
"Men you don't expect to be on First Avenue very long?"
"A day, forty-eight hours," replied Michael with a Gallic shrug. "Une
conf&ence."
"I'm sure your government has made arrangements for transportation into the
city. Wouldn~t you care to wait for the rest of your party?'
The official was very good, thought Havelock. "Forgive me, monsieur, you
force me to be candid." Michael smiled awkwardly, as though his dignity had
been somewhat compromised. "There is a lady waiting for me; we see each
other so seldom. Perhaps it is noted on your information, I was posted
at-First Avenue for several months last year. Haste, mon ami, haste is on
my mind."
Slowly the official returned the smile as he checked off the name and
reached for a button. "Have a good day, sir," he said.
"Many thanks," said Havelock, walking rapidly through the parting steel
checkpoint. Vivent W amours des gentilhomme8 frangais, he thought.
The gray-faced man was standing by a short row of telephones, each
occupied; he was second in line behind the third. The newspaper, which bad
been folded under the arm, was instantly removed and snapped open. He had
not been able to make his call, and under the circumstances that was the
best sight Michael could hope to see.
He started walking in the man's direction, passing him quickly and looking
straight ahead. He took his first left into an intersecting wide corridor
crowded with streams of departing passengers heading for their gates. He
swung right into a narrower hallway, this one with far fewer people and the
majority of these in the uniforms of the various airlines.
Left again, the corridor longer, still narrow, even fewer people, mostly
men in white overalls and in shirt sleeves; he had intered some kind of
freight complex, the office section.
314 ROBERT LUDLUM
There were no passengers, no business suits, no briefcases or carry-on bags.
There were no public telephones. The walls were stark, broken up by widely
spaced glass doors. The nearest phones were far behind, around the comer in
the first, main hallway. Out of sight.
He found the m&s room; it said, AIRPORT EMPLOYEES ONLY. Michael pushed the
door open and walked inside. It was a large tiled room, two air vents
whining on the far wall, no windows. A row of toilet stalls was on the
left, sinks and urinals on the right. A man in overalls with the words
E=elsior Airline Caterers was positioned in front of the fourth urinal; a
flush came from one of the stalls. Havelock went to a sink, placing his
suitcase under it.
The man at the urinal stepped back and zipped up his overalls; he glanced
at Michael, his eyes biking in an expensive dark suit purchased that
morning in Paris. Then, as if to say, AU right, Mr. Executive, I'll wash my
hands, he ambled to the nearest sink and turned on the water.
A second man emerged from a stall; he pulled his belt taut and started for
the door, swearing under his breath, the plastic I.D. tag pinned to his
shirt indicating he was a harried supervisor.
The man in overalls ripped a paper towel out of a stainless-steel machine,
cursorily wiped his hands and threw the brown paper into a receptacle. He
opened the door and stepped out. As the door swung back Havelock ran to
catch it, holding it open no more than an inch, and peered outside.
The unknown surveillance was fifty-odd feet up the oorridor, casually
leaning against the wall next to an office door, reading the folded
newspaper. He looked at his watch, then glanced at the frosted glass panel;
be was the image of a visitor waiting for a friend to come out and join him
for a late lunch or drinks, or a drive to a motel near the airport. There
was nothing menacing about him, but in that control Michael knew there was
menace, professionalism.
Still, two could have control, two could wait, be professionaL The
advantage belonged to the one behind a door; he knew what was inside. The
one outside did not, and could not afford to move away-to a telephone,
perhaps-because once he was out of sight the quarry could escape.
Wait. Keep the control. And get rid of the false papers
TnE PARsi7AL MosAic315
that could lead the pursuers to 116gine Broussac and a halfway man named
Jacob Handelman. A dead-Me name on an aircraft's manifest was meaningless,
inserted by mindless computers that could not say who punched the keys, but
the papers could be traced to their origin. Havelock tore the documents into
shreds, which he flushed down a toilet. With a penknife he sliced the ribbed
Diplm~ue tape, which guaranteed the absence of official inspection, and
opened his suitcase in a stall at the end of the row. He removed the
short-barreled Llama automatic from beneath his folded clothes, and a
passport case containing his own very authentic papers. Presented properly,
the papers were essentially harmless. The objective, however, was not to
have to present them at all, and they were rarely required in the streets of
his adopted country, one of the benefits for which he was profoundly
thankful
Between the time he destroyed the mocked-up papers and inserted his
passport case and weapon in their proper places, the employees' meds room
had two more visitors. They came in together-an Air France pilot and his
first officer, to judge from their conversation; Michael remained in the
stall. They argued, urinated, swore at preflight red tape, and wondered how
much their Havana Monte Cristos would bring at the bar of VAuberge au Coin,
a restaurant apparently in midtown Manhattan. They continued talking about
their profits on the way out.
Havelock took off the jacket of his suit, rolled it up, and waited in the
stall. He held the door open no more than a quarter of an inch and looked
at his watch. He had been inside the lavatory nearly fifteen minutes. It
would happen soon, he thought.
It did. The white metal door swung slowly back and Havelock saw part of a
shoulder first, then the edge
of a folded newspaper. The unknown
surveillance was professional: no folded jacket or coat concealed a gun-no
draped cloth that could be grabbed and twisted, to be used against the
holder-just a loose newspaper that could be easily discarded and the weapon
fired cleanly.
The man whipped around the door, his back against the metal panel, his eyes
scanning the walls, the vents, the row of stalls. Satisfied, he bent his
knees, lowering himself, but apparently not for the purpose of checking the
open spaces
316 ROBERT LUDLUM
under the doors of the first several stalls. His eyes darted back and forth.
His body was turned away from Michael. What was he doing?
And then he did it, and the image of another professional on the bridge at
Col des Moulinets came to Michael, a blond professional in the uniform of
an Italian guard. But the killer "Riect' had come prepared, knowing what
his landscape was, knowing there was a gatehouse door to be jammed. This
gray-faced professional had improvised, the test of onsite ingenuity. He
had broken off a piece of wood, a small strip of cheap industrial
molding-found in a dozen places in any airport corridor-and was now wedging
it under the door. He stood up, placed his foot against the strip, and
pulled on the metal knob. The door was jammed; they were alone. The man
turned.
Peering from inside the stall, Havelock studied him. The menace was not at
first glance in the mares physical equipment. He was perhaps in his
mid-fifties, with thinning hair above a flat gray face with thick eyebrows
and high cheekbones. He was no more than five feet, eight inches, and his
shoulders were narrow, compact. But then, Michael saw the left hand-the
right was concealed beneath the newspaper; it was huge, a peasant's
powerful hand, formed by years of working with heavy objects and equipment.
The man started down the row of stalls, the sides of each about two inches
above the tiled floor, which made it necessary for him to be within three
feet of a front panel to ascertafn whether it was occupied. Wearing shoes
with thick rubber soles, he moved in total silence. Suddenly he spun his
right hand in a circle, flipping off the newspaper. Havelock stared at the
Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt Page 40
