Robert Ludlum - The Parcifal Mosaic.txt

by The Parcifal Mosaic [lit]

concurred; there was never any doubt. Aortal hemorrhage, plain and simple,

  and I don~t have the time to rehash this sort of thing. Do I make myself

  clear?"

  "More than you know, Dr. Randolph." It was Havelocles turn to pause. He did

  so until he could see in his mind's eye a mouth that had dropped open and

  hear the aggressive breathing of a man with something to hide. -rd find the

  time, if I were you. The Me isn't closed here, Doctor, and for reasons of

  specific external pressures we cadt shut it-as much as we'd like to. You

  see, we want to conclude it precisely the way you determined, but we have

  to cooperate with each other. Do I make myself clear?"

  "The pathology was unequivocal, you all agree with that?"

  "We want to. Please understand that. Be convinced of it."

  "What do you mean 'external pressures'?" The doctor's confidence was

  returning, the question asked sincerely.

  "Ut's say in-house intelligence troublemakers. We'd like to shut them up."

  520 ROBERT LuDLum

  Costa Brava was never far away. Even in deceit.

  Randolph's final pause was brief. "Come up tomorrow," he said. "Be here at

  noon.-

  Havelock sat in the back seat of the nondescript, armorplated sedan; three

  Secret Service men were his companions. Conversation was at a minimum. The

  two men in front and the pleasant but quiet agent beside Michael had

  obviously been ordered to make no direct inquiries.

  The Randolph Medical Center was indeed painted white. It was a glistening

  white complex of three buildings connected by enclosed walkways set down in

  the middle of a generous acreage of lawns, paths and a central winding

  driveway. They parked in the nearest available space to the entrance la-

  beled ADMISSIONS AND ADMINISTRAnON. Michael got out of the car, walked up

  the smooth concrete path that led to the glass double doors and went

  inside; he was expected.

  "Dr. Randolph's in his office, Mr. Cross," said a uniformed nurse behind

  the marble counter. "Take the first corridor to your right; his is the last

  door at the end of the hall. I'll tell his secretary you're on your way."

  "Thank you."

  As be walked down the spotless white corridor toward Randolph's office,

  Havelock considered the options available to him. How much he told the

  doctor depended upon how much Randolph already knew about Steven MacKenzie.

  If what he knew was little, Michaers words would be laced with

  security-conscious innuendo; if a great deal, there was no harm

  corroborating parts of the truth. However, what primarily concerned

  Havelock was the reason behind the doctor's extraordinary behavior. The man

  as much as admitted having twisted or concealed sonte aspect of MacKenzie's

  death, and regardless of whether he considered it minor or not, it was a

  dangerous act. Tampering with cause of death or withholding pertinent

  information was a crin-iinal act. What had the physician done and why had

  he done it? Even to consider Matthew Randolph as part of an intelligence

  conspiracy was absurd, irrational. What had he done?

  A stem-visaged secretary with disciplined angry hair pulled back and lashed

  into a bun rose from her chair. But her voice contradicted her appearance;

  it was the same voice that had relayed the doctois comment about his

  Medical

  THE PAT-tsTPAL MosATc521

  Cente?s being the same color as the White House. It was obvious that she bad

  thrown up a wall to protect herself from the Randolph hurricane.

  "He's very upset today, Mr. Cross, she said in that frail, intense tone.

  "You'll do better getting straight to your business. He hates to waste

  time."

  "So do I," replied Michael as the woman escorted him to an ornate paneled

  door. She rapped twice-not once or three times, but precisely

  twice-standing rigidly with splendid posture, as though she were about to

  refuse a blindfold.

  The cause of her stoicism was soon apparent. The door opened, revealing a

  tall, slender, angular man with a fringe of gray hair circling a bald head,

  the eyes behind the steelrimmed glasses alive and impatient. Dr. Matthew

  Randolph was rich, American Gothic, with not a little of Savonarola. thrown

  in, his long graceful bands somehow looking appropriate for holding a

  pitchfork, a torch or a scalpel. He looked past his secretary and barked;

  he did not speak.

  'You Cross?"

  "Yes."

  "You!re eight minutes late."

  "Your watch is fast."

  'Maybe. Come in." He now looked at his secretary, who had stepped aside.

  "No interruptions," he instructed.

  'Yes, Dr. Randolph."

  Ile physician closed the door and nodded at the chair in front of his

  large, cluttered desk. "Sit down," he said, "but before you do, I want to

  make damn sure you dodt have one of those recording machines on you."

  'You have my word."

  "Is it any good?"

  "Is yours?"

  "You called me. I didn't call you."

  Havelock shook his head. "I have no taping device on me for the simple

  reason that our conversation could be far more harmful to us than to you."

  "Maybe," muttered Randolph, going behind the desk as Michael sat down.

  "Maybe not. Well see."

  Maes a promising beginning."

  "Dodt get smart-ass, young fella."

  "I apologize if I sounded that way. I meant ft. We have a problem and you

  could put it to rest."

  522 ROBERT LTiDLum

  "Meaning I didn't before."

  "Lees say there are new questions and, frankly, they may be valid.

  Certainly they could be embarrassing, not only politically but in terms of

  morale in certain areas of the intelligence community. Someone might even

  care to go into print That's our problem."

  '11aes what I want to hear." The physician nodded, adJusting his glasses so

  he could look over the steel rims. "Your problem. Spell it out."

  Havelock understood. Randolph wanted an admission of guilt from the White

  House before he would implicate himself in any conceivable wrongdoing.

  Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that the more serious Havelock's

  first admission, the more latitude Randolph would permit himself regarding

  his own possible duplicity. Thieves in concert and conversation; who could

  go screaming to a judge?

  "Do you know the kind of work, MacKenzie was involved In?"

  "I've known Mac and his family for over forty years. His parents were close

  friends of mine and his three children were born right here at the Center.

  I delivered them myself-probably delivered his wife, Midge, too."

  "That doesn't answer my question."

  "It should. I've been caring for the MacKenzies most of their lives, and

  that included young Steve, as well as the adult Steve-as far as you

  permitted ' him to live as an adult. Actually, to be more accurate, these

  past years I more or less double-checked whatever the doctors df d at

  Walter Reed; by and large they were damned good. You could hardly tell from

  the scars that four of them were bullet wounds."

  "Then you did know," said Michael nodding.

  "I told him to get out. My God, I told him that over and over again for
the

  last five, six years now. The strain on him was something fierce-worse, I

  think, for Midge. Him flying all over the world, she never knowing whether

  he'd come back; not that he ever told her a hell of a lot, he wouldn't do

  that. . . . Yes, Mr. Cross, I knew what Steve did-not the specifics or his

  title or anything like that, but I knew it wasn't your everyday desk job."

  "It's strange," mused Havelock, indeed sensing the strangeness. "I never

  thought of MacKenzie as having a wife

  THE PAIISIFAL MOSAIC523

  and chfldren, coming from a relatively normal background." He was not a

  survivor. Why did he do it?

  "Maybe that's why he was so good. You looked at him and saw a pretty

  average successful executive-something like you, in fact. But underneath he

  had a fever, because you bastards poisoned him."

  The suddenness of the charge, its harshness, and the fact that it was

  delivered in a conversational tone was unnerving. "Thafs quite a

  statement," said Michael, his eyes roaming the doctor's face. "Would you

  care to explain it? To the best of my knowledge, no one held a gun to

  Mac]Kenzie~s bead and told him to do whatever it was he was doing."

  "You didn't have to, and you're damn right I care to explain it. I figure

  iesyour blueprint for narcotizing a man so be turns away from a normal,

  productive, reasonably happy life to one where he wakes up in a cold sweat

  in the middle of the night because he probably hasn't had the luxury of

  sleeping for the past several weeks. Or if he does sleep, the first sharp

  sound sends him lunging for protection. Or a gun. P,

  '-foere very dramatic."

  "It's what you did."

  "How?"

  "You fed him a diet of tension, excitement-even frenzy~ with fair doses of

  blood to go with it."

  "Now you~re melodramatic."

  "You know where it started for him?" Randolph went on, as if Havelock had

  not spoken. "Thirteen, fourteen years ago Mae was one of the best sailors

  on the Eastern Shore, probably the Atlantic coast and the Caribbean, too.

  He could sense a new wind and smell the currents. He could look at the

  stars in a dark sky and helin a craft-pot or sail-all through the night and

  take you within sight of where he said you~d be by dawn. It was a gift....

  Then came the war in Vietnam and be was a naval officer. Well, it didn't

  take those brass boys long to spot a good thing. Before you could pronounce

  one of those unpronounceable places, he was ferrying men and supplies up

  the coast and the inland waterways. Thaeswbereit started. He was the best

  there was; be could read gook maps and get anybody anywhere."

  "I'm not sure I understand.-

  Then you're thick. He was taking assassination and sabo- 524 ROBERT LUDLUM

  tage teams behind enemy lines. Fleets of small craft were under his command;

  he was a secret navy all by himself. Then it happened."

  "What?"

  "One day he didn't just ferry those people, he became one of them."

  "I see."

  "I wonder if you do. It's where the fever flrst touched him. Men who were

  nothing more than cargo became friends be made plans with, fought beside,

  who died before his eyes. He did that for twenty-eight months until he was

  wounded and sent home. Midge was waiting for him; they got married and he

  beaded back to finish law school. Only, be couldnI stand it. Before a year

  was up, be left, and began talking with people in Washington. A part of him

  missed that crazy-Christ, I don't know what you call it."

  "It doesn't make any difference," said Havelock quietly. "I know what you

  mean."

  The doctor looked hard at Michael. "Maybe you do. Maybe that!s why you're

  here.... Like a lot of men, Mae came back from that war a different person;

  not on the surface, but underneath. There was an anger in him I'd never

  seen before, a need to compete-angrily-for the highest stakes he could

  find. He couldn't sit still for twenty minutes at a time, much less absorb

  the finer points of law. He had to keep moving."

  "Yes, I know," interrupted Michael involuntarily.

  "And you bastards in Washington knew just what to feed him. Get him back

  into the excitement, the tension. Promise him the best-or

  worst--competition you could find, and make the -stakes so high no normal

  man would consider them. And all the while keep telling him be was the

  best, the best, the bestl He thrived on it and at the same time it was

  tearfng him apart.-

  Havelock brought his bands together, gripping them, moved both to anger and

  understanding. It was no time, however, to betray either; be wanted

  information. "What should we-bastards in Washington-have done, then?" he

  asked calmly.

  "Thaes such a stupid question only one of you sons of bitches would ask

  it."

  'Would you mind answering?"

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC525

  "Get him medical attentionl Psychiatric carel" Why didn~t you? You were

  his doctor."

  "Damn it, I triedl I even tried to stop youl"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Somewhere in a number of old files there are letters from me to the

  Central Intelligence Agency describing-goddamn it, diagnosing-a troubled

  man, a disturbed man. Mae would come home and for a few weeks he'd cover

  it, driving back and forth to Langley like a regular commuter. Then you

  could see it happening; he'd go into a kind of depression, wouldn7t talk

  very much, and when be did, be sure as ben wasn't listening. Then he'd

  become restless, impatient-his mind always somewhere else. You see, he was

  waiting, waiting for his next fix1"

  "And we gave it to him," said Michael.

  "Right on, as the youngsters sayl You knew exactly how long he could take

  it. You were priming him, honing his machine until hed either blow apart or

  get back into-whatever the hell you call it."

  "Ile field," said Havelock.

  "That's it, the goddamned fieldl Midge would come to me and tell me Mae was

  going to Pieces, couldn't sleep, wouldn't communicate, and rd write another

  letter. You know what I'd get back? A thank-you-for-your-interest, as

  though I'd suggested you bastards change your laundry servicel Midge and

  those kids were going through bell, and you people thought your shirts had

  just the right amount of starch in 'eml"

  Michael's eyes strayed to the bare white wall behind Randolph. How many

  buried letters were there in how many unopened files? How many

  MacKenzies... and Ogilvies . . . and HatvlocksP What was the gunslinger

  count these daysP Men primed, machines honed in the cause of futility.

  Deadly talents kept in the field because somewhere it was written they

  could do the job regardless of the mind and the body coma ... their own and

  others. Who prafitedP

  "I'm sorry," said Havelock. "With your permission, I'll report this

  conversation where it won~t be overlooked."

  "So far you7ve got my permission. Up to now."

  "Up to now," agreed Michael.

  The physician leaned back in his chair. "rve drawn a pic- 526 RoBERT LuDLum

  ture for you. ies not pretty, but Ive got my reasons. Now, you draw one for

  me and w
e'll see where we stand."

  "All right." Havelock crossed his legs, then spoke, choosing his words

  cautiously. "As I'm sure you're aware, most intelligence work is dull,

  pedestrian. It's routine digging for facts, reading newspapers, reports,

  scientific journals, and gathering information from a wide variety of other

  sources, the majority of which are reasonable people, perfectly amenable to

  imparting what they know because they see no reason to conceal it. Then, of

  course, there are others who are in the business of making a profit by

  selling the facts they've bought; buy low, sell higher, a time-honored

  principle. These people generally deal with a different kind of intelli-

  gence officer, one trained to distinguish between fact and fiction; the

  buy-low-sell-highers can be pretty imaginative." Michael paused, knowing

  that the timing of his delivery was vital. "Normally," he continued, "the

  combination of these rurces and the sheer volume of the information they

  provide is sufficient for specialists to put together an accurate pattern

  of facts and events, like fitting the pieces of a puzzle together. That's

  an abused expression, but it says it." Again Havelock paused. What Randolph

  wanted-needed-to hear called for a silent introduction. Three seconds were

  enough. "Finally, there's a last category of potential information. Ws the

  most difficult to obtain because it has to be extorted from sources who

  know they possess secrets that could cost them their lives if their

  superiors knew they had revealed them. These require an entirely different

  sort of intelligence officer, a specialist himself. He's trained to

  manipulate, to engineer situations in which individuals are convinced they

  have no choice but to take a specific course of action, in the end re-

  vealing secrets-or doing something-they would not previously have

  considered. Steven MacKenzie was that kind of specialist, and he was one of

  the best; no one had to convince him. But on his last, his final,

  assignment, someone intercepted and altered the situation MacKenzie had

  created. And in order for that original situation to remain the accepted

  one, be was marked for takeout."

  "What the hell is that, a plate of spaghetti?"

  "He was killed."

  Randolph shot forward in his chair. "He was what?"