Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt
Page 54
"What about inside?"
"What about it?"
'Are there alarms insideP"
'Only in Georgetown."
"What? What's Georgetown?"
"Hey, I know the rules. All I've got to give you is my name, rank, and
serial numberl"
"The gate," said Havelock menacingly. "Who's on the
grate?"
.1 The gate detail, who else? What goes out comes in.".
"Now, you tell me-"
A faint glow of light caught Michael's eye; it was far away, through the
trees, a distant beam of a flashlight. The search party was rounding the
island. There was no more time for conversation. He tore off part of the
soldiees shirt, rolled it up and stuffed it into the protesting mouth, then
stnuig: another rawhide lace around the young man's face and tied it at the
back of his neck, holding the gag in place. A third lace bound his ankles.
Havelock put on the field jacket, strapped the weapons belt around his
waist, removed his wool knit hat and shoved it into a pocket. He put the
barracks cap on his bead, pulling It down as far as be could, then reached
under his soaked sweater and unhooked the waterproof flashlight. He judged
the angles of passage through the trees, the distance of the emerging beams
of light, and started running diagonally to his right through the
pines-toward an edge of a rock or beach, he bad no idea which.
He clung to the rock, the crashing sea beneath him, the wind strong, and
waited until the last solider passed above. The instant be did, Michael
pulled himself up and raced toward the receding figure; with the experience
born of a hundred such encounters, he grabbed the man around the neck,
choking off all sound as be yanked him to the ground. Thirty seconds later
the unconscious soldier was boundarms, legs and mouth. Havelock ran to
catch up with the others.
THE PARSEFAL MOSAJC421
"All right, you guysl" shouted an authoritative voice. "Screw-off time is
overl Back to your kennelsl"
"Shit, Captain," yelled a soldier. 'We thought you were bringing in a
boatload of broads and this was a treasure hund" -
"Call it a trial run, gumba. Next time you may score."
"He can~t even score on the pinballl" shouted another. "Wbafs he gonna do
with a broad?"
Havelock followed the beams of light through the pines. The road
appeared-the ligbt-colored smooth concrete reflecting the harsh glare of
the gate lights. The squad crossed the road in a formless group, Michael
jostling himself ahead so there would be soldiers behind him. They passed
through the steel structure, a guard shouting off the numbers as each man
went past.
"One, two, three, four. .
He was number eight; he put his head down, rubbing his eyes.
"Seven, eight, nine . .
He was inside. He took his hands away from his eyes as he moved with the
squad across an oddly smooth surface, and looked up.
His breatbirig stopped, his legs froze. He was barely able to move forward,
for he was in another time, another place. What he saw in front of him and
around him was surreal. Abstract images, isolated fragments of an unearthly
scene.
He was not inside a compound on a small land mass off the Georgia coast
called Poole's Island. He was in Washington, D.C.
25
It was something out of a macabre dream, reality twisted, abstracted,
deformed to fulfill a demonic fantasy. Scaleddown models of familiar sights
were alongside six-foot-high photographic blowups of places he knew only too
well. There were small, narrow, tree-lined streets, abruptly starting, sud-
denly ending, falling off into dirt, and street signs and streetlamps-all in
miniature. The soft glow of light that came from the lamps washed over
massive, life-size doorways and on buildings-which were not buildings but
only the facades of buildings.
There were the glass doors of the Department of State. And over there, the
stone entrance of the new FBI Building, and across the way, beyond a tiny
park dotted with small white benches, the brown steps leading to the main
doors of the Pentagon. Far to his left he could see a tall black
wrought-iron fence with an opening in the center to accommodate a drive
flanked by two tiny glass-enclosed guardhouses. It was the South Portico
entrance to the White House.
Incrediblef
And automobiles of normal sizes glistening, A taxi, two army staff cars,
two outsized limousines, all parked separately, stationary symbols of
another place. And there were the immi takable symbols seen in the distance
to his right be422
THE PAPswAL MosAlc423
yond the miniature park: small alabaster models-no more than four feet in
size-of the Jefferson Memorial, the Washington Monument, and small compact
duplicates of the Reflecting Pool on the Mall ... all bathed in light ...
from far away perfect renditions, unmistakable landmarks. .
It was all there, all insanel It was a spread-out movie set, filled with
outlandish grainy photographs, miniaturized models, partial structures. The
whole scene could have been the product of a mad imagination, a fllm maker
intent on exploring a white-ligbt nightmare that was his warped, personal
statement about Washington, D.C.
Uncanny.
A bizarre, false world bad been created to present a distorted version of
the real one hundreds of miles awayl
It was more than Havelock could absorb. He had to break away and find a few
moments of sanity, to try to piece together the meaning of the macabre
spectacle. To find Anton Matthias.
The squad began to separate, several to the left, others to the right
Beyond the false fagade of State was a receding lawn, and low-hanging
willows, then darkness. Suddenly a prolonged burst of cursing came from
behind, from the entrance gate, and Michael tensed.
"Goddamned son-of-a-bitch-fack-off, where is hel"
"Who, Sergeantr
"Jackson, Lieutenantl He's late againl"
"He goes on report, Sergeant. This dutys become far too lax. I want it
tightened up."
There were amused rumblings from the searcb-party squad, a number looking
behind, laughing quietly. Havelock took advantage of the moment to slip
down the street and around the comer into the shadows of the lawn.
He leaned against a cinder-block wall; it was solid. It enclosed something
within and was not part of the false front. He crouched in the darkness
tying to think, trying to understand. And that was the problem: it was
beyond his understanding. He knew, of course, about the - Soviet b2ining
center in Novgorod called the American Compound, a vast complex where
everything was "Americanized," where there were stores and supermarkets and
motels and gas stations, where everyone used U.S. currency and spoke
American English, slang and different dialects. And he had heard about
424 RoBERT LuDLum
further Soviet experiments In the Urals, where entire U.S. army camps had
been built, American military customs and regulations followed with
extraordinary accuracy, and where, again, only American English w
as spoken,
barracks language encouraged, everything authentic down to the most minute
detail. Then, of course, there were the patWnyatchiki-the so-called
travelers-a deep-cover operation scomed as a paranoid fantasy by Rostov in
Athens, but still alive, still functioning. These were men and women who had
been brought over as infants and placed in homes as sons and daughters,
growing up entirely within the American experience, but whose mission as
adults was to serve the Soviet Union. It was said-and confirmed by
Rostov-that the paminyatchik apparatus had been absorbed by the Voennaya,
that maniacally secretive cult of fanatics that even the KGB found difficult
to control. It was further rumored that some of these fanatics had reached
positions of power and influence. Where did rumor stop and reality begin?
What was the reality here?
Was it possible? Was it even conceivable that Poole's Island was peopled by
graduates of Novgorod and the Urals, whose lower ranks were filled out by
paminyatchiki coming of age, and whose highest ranks were run by still
other paminyatchiki who had risen to positions of power at State, who were
capable of abducting Anton Matthias? Emory Bradford ... was he ... ?
Perhaps it was all rumor and nothing else. Men in Washington were working
with men in Moscow; there was madness enough in that acknowledged
connection.
He was not going to learn anything crouched in the shadows of a
cinder-block wall; he had to move, exploreabove all, not be caught. He
edged his way to the comer of the building and peered around it at the
softly lit tree-lined streets and the tiny structures that surrounded it.
Beyond the guard detail at the gate a trio of officers strolled through the
miniature park in the direction of the alabaster monuments in the distance,
and four enlisted men burried toward a large Quonset hut set back on a lawn
between two unfamiliar brick structures that looked like the first floors
of some tasteful apartment complex. Then, to Havelock's surprise a civilian
emerged from the doorway of the brick bufldinj on the left, followed by
another, m a white laboratory coat, who
THE PAwrFAL MosAic425
seemed to be speaking quietly but emphatically. Michael wondered briefly if
the language was Russian. The two men walked down the path and turned right
to a set-piece "intersection," whose simulated traffic lights, however, were
not operating. They turned right again, continuing their conversation, the
first civilian now upbraiding his white-coated companion, but not
obstreperously. Nothing was loud; the scene was still, with only the
penetrating cacophony of the crickets breaking the stillness. Whatever
secrets Poole!s Island held, they were buried beneath a peaceful
extexior-itself a he created by liars.
As the two civilians walked down the all6e and out of sigbt, Havelock
noticed the metal sign affixed to a post on the other side of the street.
Had be seen it before? Of course he hadl Every time he had driven or taken
a cab out to Matthias's house in Georgetown. There was a blue arrow
preceded by the words CHESAPEAKE AND oEixo cANAL. It was the picturesque
waterway that separated the stridency of Washington from the tranquillity
of the residential enclaves in Georgetown, whose quiet streets housed the
wealthiest and most powerful men in the nation's capitaL
Georgetown.
Are there alamn inst&P
Only in Georgetown.
Anton Matthias was somewhere down that street, somewhere over a bridge,
with or without water, in a house that was a lie. My Godl Had they
simulated his house so as to rehearse his abduction? It was entirely
possible; Anton's residence was protected by presidential order, guards
were on duty around the clock to protect the nation's most valuable living
asset. It was not only possible, it was the only way it could have been
done. Matthias had to have been taken at home, the alarms circumvented, the
guards pulled away and replaced by State Department orders-orders issued by
liars. A mission bad been rehearsed and executed.
He moved out into the street, walking casually-an enlisted man getting some
air or getting away from his fellow sol. diers. He reached the brick
building on the left and crossed over the lawn to the sidewalk; the
receding street was dark, no lamps shone above the line of short trees. He
walked faster, feeling more comfortable in the shadows, and noted the paths
that turned to the right, leading to a row of three
426 ROBERT Lumum
Quonsets-there were lights in several windows and the glow of a few
television sets. He assumed these were the living quarters of whatever
officers there were and their civilian counterparts. Graduates of Novgorod
and the Urals?
Suddenly, civilization stopped. The street and the sidewalk ended and there
was nothing ahead but a dirt road bordered by high foliage and darkness.
But it was a road; it led somewhere. Havelock began a slow lope; jogging
would be his excuse if he was stopped-before he took out his interrogator.
He thought of Jenna, going from telephone booth to telephone booth five
miles away on the mainland, reaching a bewildered Cons Op emergency
operator and saying words that brought no response: there might never be a
response. Michael understood that, and, strangely, it served only to in-
furiate him. One accepted the risks in his profession and treated them with
respect, for they induced fear and cantion-a valuable protection-but one
could not accept betrayal by ones own. It was the final circle of futility,
proof of the ultimate sham--of a wasted life.
A glow of light. Far down the road, to the left. He broke into a run, and
as he came nearer he knew what it was: the outlines of a house, part of a
house, a house that stopped at the second floor-but the first two stories
were unmistakable. It was the fagade of Anton's home in Georgetown, the
area of the street accurate in every detail. He approached the . end of the
dirt road and balted where the tarred surface began on the left. He stared
in disbelief.
The brick steps were the same brick steps that led up to the porticoed
entrance with the white door and the carriage lamps and the brass hardware.
Everything was identical with its original hundreds of miles away, even to
the lace curtains in the windows; he could picture the rooms inside and
knew that they, too, were the same. The lessons of Novgorod had been
learned well, their fruits transplanted to a small island minutes away from
the coast of the United States, seconds by air. My God, what's happenedP
"Stay right where you are, soldierl" The command came fi-om. behind. "What
the hell do you think you're doing out berel"
Havelock turned, covering the .45 as best he could. A guard stepped out of
the foliage with a gun in his hand, but he was not military; he was dressed
in civilian clothes. Have-
THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC427
lock said, "What's wrong with you? A guy can't take a walk?"
"You weren~t walking, you were running."
"Jogging, pal. Ever heard of it?"
/>
"Every morning, pal, when I don't pull this late-night crap. But on the
island road with everybody else, not down here. You know the rules. No one
goes past sector six; you don't go off the macadam."
"Hey, come on, man," said Havelock. "Don't be a hardnose-
A sudden swelling of music burst from the house, filling the night and
drowning out the crickets. Michael knew it well; it was one of Matthias's
favorites. Handel's Water Music. His Oitel was therel
"Every night, a goddamn concert," said the civilian.
"How come?"
"How the hell do I know? He goes into the garden and plays that stuff for
an hour or more."
Music is for thought, Mikhail. The better the music, the better the
thinking. There's a causal relationship, you know.
"Nice of you people to let him have it."
"Why not? What else has he got, and where's he going to go? But yotire
going to get your GI ass in a sling if you doxA get out of here." The guard
holstered his gun inside his jacket. "You~re lucky 1 don't-Hey, wait a
minutel You~ve got a weaponl"
Havelock lunged, gripped the man's throat and hurled him to the ground over
his left leg. He fell on the guard and rammed his knee into the man's chest
as he ripped the field jacket open and pulled out the hunting knife.
"You're not lucky at all," he whispered. "Where are you from, skotina?
Novgorod? The Urals? A paminyatchik?" Michael held the point of the knife's
blade between the guard's nostrils and lips. "rm going to cut your face off
unless you tell me what I want to know. First, bow many men are up there?
Easyr'He released. the pressure on the man's throat; the guard coughed.
"YoOl ... never get off here," he choked.
Havelock drew blood, the trickle covering the man7s lips. "Don't push me,
butcherl I have a lot of memories, poninwyu. How many men?"
"One~"
428 ROBEIRT LuDLum
"Liarl"
"No, onel The two of us are on till four. One outside, one insidel"
"Alarms. Where are they? What are they?'
'Crossbeams, shoulder to knee. In the door."
'rhaes all?"
"Ies all that's on. To keep him in."
"The garden?"
"Wall. Too high. For Christ's sake, where's he going to go? Where are you
going to goF'
"We'll see." Michael pulled the guard's head up by his hair, then dropped