The Parsifal Mosaic by Robert Ludlum
“We don’t know what Ogilvie said to him,” objected Stern. “He could have—”
“It almost doesn’t matter, don’t you see?” interrupted the psychiatrist. “It’s the pattern, the goddamned pattern.”
“Discerned from a pack of matches?”
“Yes, because it’s symptomatic. Throughout the entire confrontation, with the exception of a single outburst, there was a remarkable absence of aggressiveness on Havelock’s part. If Baylor is as accurate as you say—and I suspect he is, because under the circumstances he’d be prone to exaggerate any threatening movements or gestures—Havelock exercised extraordinary control … rational behavior.”
“What does that tell you?” asked Dawson, breaking his silence, watching Miller closely.
“I’m not sure,” said the doctor, returning the lawyer’s stare. “But I know it doesn’t fit the portrait of the man we’ve convinced ourselves we’re dealing with. To twist a phrase, there’s too much reason afoot, not enough madness.”
“Even with his slipping in and out of reality?” continued Dawson.
“It’s not relevant here. His reality is the product of his whole experience, his everyday living. Not his convictions; they’re based largely on his emotions. Under the conditions of the rendezvous, they should have surfaced more, distorting his reality, forcing him into listening less, into a more aggressive posture.… He listened too much.”
“You know what you’re saying, don’t you, Paul?” said the attorney.
“I know what I’m implying, based on the data we’ve all accepted as being totally accurate … from the beginning.”
“That the man on the Palatine three days ago doesn’t fit the portrait?” suggested Dawson.
“Might not fit it. No absolutes, only ‘trained’ guesswork. We don’t know what was said, but there was too much rationality in what was described to suit me. Or the portrait.”
“Which was predicated on information we’ve considered infallible,” concluded the lawyer. “In your words, ‘from the beginning.’ Prom Costa Brava.”
“Exactly. But suppose it wasn’t? Suppose it isn’t?”
“Impossible!” said the director of Consular Operations. “That information was filtered through a dozen sieves, then filtered again through twenty more. There was no margin for error. The Karas woman was KGB; she died at Costa Brava.”
“That’s what we’ve accepted,” agreed the psychiatrist. “And I hope to God it’s accurate, and that my guesswork observations are worthless reactions to an inaccurately described scene. But if It’s not and they’re not, if there’s the remotest possibility that we’re not dealing with a psychopath but with a man who’s telling the truth because it is the truth, then we’re faced with something I don’t even want to think about.”
The three men fell silent, each grappling with the enormity of the implication. Finally Dawson spoke. “We have to think about It.”
“It’s appalling even to consider it,” said Stern. “There was MacKenzie’s confirmation, and it was a confirmation. The torn clothing, parts of a blouse, a skirt, they belonged to her, it was established. And the blood type, A-negative. Hers.”
“And Steven MacKenzie died of a coronary three weeks later,” interrupted Miller. “We looked into it, but it just faded away.”
“Come on, Paul,” objected Stern. “That doctor in Maryland is one of the most respected on the Eastern Shore. What’s his name?… Randolph. Matthew Randolph. Johns Hopkins, Mayo Clinic, on the boards of Massachusetts General, New York’s Mount Sinai, and with his own medical center. He was thoroughly interviewed.”
“I’d like to talk to him again,” the doctor said.
“And I remind you,” pressed the director of Cons Op. “MacKenzie had just about the finest record that ever came out of the Central Intelligence Agency. What you’re suggesting is inconceivable.”
“So was the horse in Troy,” said the lawyer. “When it was conceived.” He turned to Miller, who had removed his glasses. “Trained guesswork, Paul. Let’s take it all the way; we can always scratch it, but say there’s substance. What do you think he’ll do now?”
“I’ll tell you what he won’t do—if there’s substance. He won’t come in, and we can’t trick him with ploys because he understands—rationally—that whatever’s happened we’re either a part of it, or ignorant of it, or it’s beyond our control. The attack’s been made on him; he’ll mount every defense he’s learned in the sixteen years he’s been in the field. And from here on in he’ll be ruthless, because he has been betrayed. By men he can’t see in places where they shouldn’t be.” The psychiatrist looked at Stern. “There’s your answer, Daniel, if there’s substance. Oddly enough, he’s really back in his early days now—the machine guns, Lidice, betrayal. He’s running through the streets wondering who in the crowds might be his executioner.”
A sharp, abrasive hum erupted from the red telephone on the small, low table next to Stern. The director reached down and picked it up, his eyes still on Miller. “Yes?”
Thirty seconds of silence followed, interrupted only by quiet acknowledgments on Stern’s part as he listened, staring across at the psychiatrist’s notes, absorbing the information being given him. “Stay on the line,” he said finally, snapping the switch and looking up at both strategists. “This is Rome. They’ve found a man in Civitavecchia, the name of a ship. It may be the girl. Or a Soviet hoax; that’s entirely possible. It was Baylor’s theory and he still holds to it…. The original order stands. Take Havelock, but not in dispatch; he’s not to be considered ‘beyond salvage.’ … Now, I’ve got to ask you a question—primarily you, Paul, and I know I can’t hold you to absolutes.”
“That’s the only absolute.”
“We’ve acted on the assumption that we’re dealing with an unbalanced man, with someone whose paranoia may compel him to place documents or statements exposing past operations with third parties, to be released on instructions. Is that right?”
“Basically, yes. It’s the sort of manipulation a schizophrenic mentality would indulge in, the satisfaction derived as much from revenge as from the threat. Remember, the third parties in question would undoubtedly come from undesirable elements; respectable people would shun such a person, and underneath he knows that. It’s a compulsive, involuntary game. He really can’t win, only seek vengeance, and there’s the danger.”
“Would a sane man play that game?”
The psychiatrist paused, fingering his glasses. “Not the same way.”
“How do you mean?”
“Would you?”
“Please, Paul.”
“No, I’m serious. You’d be more concerned with the threat than with the revenge. You want something; revenge may be down the road, but it’s not what’s primarily on your mind now. You want answers. Threats might get them for you, but risking exposure of classified information by delivering it to highly suspect brokers defeats the purpose.”
“What would a sane man do?”
“Probably get word to those he’s threatening as to the kind of information he intends to reveal. Then he’d proceed to reach qualified third parties—publishers, perhaps, or men and women who head organizations that legitimately, openly, resist the kind of work we do here—and make arrangements with them. That’s a sane man’s approach, his attack, his ultimate threat.”
“There’s no evidence that Havelock’s done any of these things”.
“It’s only been three days since the Palatine; he hasn’t had time. These things take time.”
“Lending credence to the matches. To his sanity.”
“I think so, and I’m biting the bullet. I gave him the label—based on what we had—and now I’m wondering if it should be removed.”
“And if we remove it, we accept the possibility of a sane man’s attack. As you said, he’ll be ruthless, far more dangerous than a schizophrenic.”
“Yes,” agreed the psychiatrist. “An unbalanced man can be repudiated, blackmailers dea
“Costing networks, informants, sources, years of work …” The director’s hand reached down to the telephone, to the switch. “And lives.”
“Yet if he’s sane,” interrupted Dawson sharply, once again breaking a silence, “if it is the girl, that presupposes a much deeper problem, doesn’t it? Her guilt, her death, everything’s in question. All that infallible information that was filtered through all those high-level sieves suddenly looks like a massive deception where deception shouldn’t be. Those are the answers Havelock wants.”
“We know the questions,” replied Stern quietly, his hand still on the telephone switch, “and we can’t give him the answers. We can only stop him from inflicting extraordinary damage.” The director of Cons Op fell silent for a moment, his eyes on the telephone. “When each of us entered this room, we understood. The only morality here is pragmatic morality, no philosophy but our own brand of utilitarianism: the greatest advantage for the many—over the few, over the individual.”
“If you put him ‘beyond salvage,’ Daniel,” continued the attorney softly but emphatically, “I can’t support you. And not from an ethical point of view, but from a very practical one.”
Stern looked up. “What is it?”
“We need him for tracing the second, deeper problem. If he’s sane, there’s an approach we haven’t tried, an approach he may listen to. As you said, we’ve acted on the assumption that he was unbalanced; it was the only reasonable assumption we could make. But if he isn’t, he may listen to the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That we don’t know. Let’s grant him that he did see the Karas woman, that she is alive. Then tell him we want the answers as badly as he does. Perhaps more so.”
“Assuming we can get that word to him, suppose he doesn’t listen, suppose he demands only the answers we can’t give, and considers everything else a trick to take him. Or take him out. What then? We’ve got the Costa Brava files; they contain the names of everyone involved. What help can he really be? On the other hand, we know the damage he can do, the panic he can create, the lives he can cost.”
“The victim becomes the villain,” said Miller wearily. “Jesus Christ.”
“We take our problems in order of appearance and priority,” said Stern, “and in my judgment these are two separate crises. Related but separate now. We go after the first. What else can we do?”
“We can admit we don’t know!” answered Dawson urgently.
“Every effort will be made to comply with the original order, to take him alive. But they have to be given the option.”
“By giving it you’re telling them he’s a traitor. They’ll use it on the slightest provocation. They’ll kill him. I repeat, I can’t support you.”
The director slowly looked up at the lawyer; there were deep creases around his tired eyes, which were filled with doubt. “If we’re this far apart, then it’s time,” he said quietly, reluctanty.
“For what?” asked Miller.
“To give this to Matthias’s office. They can reach the old man, or not, knowing that time’s running out. I’ll go up myself and summarize.” Stern flipped the switch on the telephone. “Rome? Sorry to keep you hanging, and I’m afraid it’s going to get worse. Keep the ship under air surveillance, and send your people to Col des Moulinets, their radio frequency on scrambler for instructions. If they don’t get their orders by the time they land, they’re to reach you every fifteen minutes. You stay by this line and close it down—for your use only. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can, either myself or someone upstairs. If it’s not me, the code will be … Ambiguity. Have you got that? Ambiguity. That’s all for now, Rome.” The director of Cons Op replaced the phone, snapped the switch, and got up from his chair. “I hate like hell doing this … at a time like this,” he said. “We’re supposed to be the shield with a thousand eyes, all-seeing, all-knowing. Others can plan, others execute, but we’re the ones who give the word. The lousy decisions are supposed to be made here, that’s our function, goddamn it.”
“We’ve needed help before,” said the psychiatrist.
“Only on tactical questions that Ogilvie couldn’t answer, never on matters of evaluation. Never for anything like this.”
“Dan, we’re not playing corporate chairs in the boardroom,” added Dawson. “We inherited Costa Brava, we didn’t initiate it.”
“I know that,” said Stern, going to the door. “I suppose it’s a consolation.”
“Do you want us to go with you?” asked Miller.
“No, I’ll present it fairly.”
“Never doubted it,” interjected the attorney.
“We’re running against a clock in Rome,” continued the director. “The fewer of us, the fewer questions. It’s reduced to one anyway. Sane or insane. ‘Beyond salvage’ or not.” Stern opened the door and left as the two strategists watched, an uneasy sense of relief apparent on both their faces.
“Do you realize,” said Miller, turning in his chair, “that for the first time in three years the phrase I can’t support you’ was used? Not I don’t think so’ or ‘I disagree,’ but ‘I can’t support you.’ ”
“I couldn’t,” said Dawson. “Daniel’s a statistician. He sees numbers—fractions, equations, totals—and they spell out the odds for him. God knows he’s brilliant at it; he’s saved the lives’ of hundreds with those statistics. But I’m a lawyer; I see complications, ramifications. Parties of the first part turning on parties of the second part. Prosecutors stymied because a point of law prohibits them from connecting one piece of evidence to another when it should be permitted. Criminals outraged over minor discrepancies of testimony when the only things outrageous were their crimes. I’ve seen it all, Paul, and there are times when the odds aren’t found in numbers. They’re found in things you can’t perceive at the moment.”
“Strange, isn’t it? The differences between us, I mean. Daniel sees numbers, you see complications, and I see—fullblown possibilities based on particles.”
“A book of matches?”
“I guess so.” The psychiatrist leveled his eyes at the attorney. “I believe in those matches. I believe in what they stand for.”
“So do I. At least in the possibility they represent. That’s the complication, Headman—as Ogilvie would have said. If there’s a possibility that? Havelock’s sane, then everything he says is true. The girl—false guilt generated in our deepest laboratories—alive, running. Rostov in Athens—bait not taken to the Lubyanka for reasons unknown, a Soviet mole at 1600 … Complications, Doctor. We need Michael Havelock to help us unravel a melted ball of wax. If it’s happened—whatever it is—it’s frightening.” Dawson abruptly pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ll leave a message for Stern; he may want to come over and talk. How about you?”
“What? Oh, no, thanks,” answered Miller, preoccupied. “I’ve got a five-thirty session at Bethesda, a marine from Teheran.” He looked up. “It is frightening, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Paul. Very.”
“We did the right thing. No one in Matthias’s section will put Mikhail Havlíček beyond salvage.’ ”
“I know. I counted on it.”
The director of Consular Operations came out of the office on the fifth floor, L Section, of State, closing the door quietly behind him—closing, too, a part of the problem from his mind. It was shared now, the responsibility spread. The man he had shared it with—the man who would reach Rome under the code name Ambiguity and render the judgment—was chosen carefully. He was one of Anthony Matthias’s inner circle, someone the Secretary of State trusted implicitly. He would consider all the options before making the decision—undoubtedly not alone.
The issue was as clear as it could be. If Havelock was sane and telling the truth, h
In Col des Moulinets the only way was to find the woman and, if it was Jenna Karas, to bring her to Havelock, let them join forces and together run down the second, potentially greater crisis here in Washington. But if it was not Jenna Karas, if it was a Soviet ploy, If she did not exist except as a deadly puppet hoax to drive a man mad and into treason, what then? Or If she was alive and they could not find her, would Havelock listen? Would Mikhail Havlíček, victim, survivor of Lidice and Soviet Prague, listen? Or would he see betrayal where there was none, and in turn betray his own? Could the delay then be Justified? Cod knew it could not be justified to dismantled networks or to undercover agents who found themselves in the Lubyanka. And if that was the answer, there was the possibility—the probability—that a man had to the because he was right.
The only morality here is pragmatic reality, no philosophy but our own brand of utilitarianism: the greatest advantage for the many—over the few, over the individual.
That was the real answer, the statistics proved it. But this was the inner territory of Anthony Matthias’s domain. Would they see it here? In all likelihood they would not, Stern realized. Fear would compel the man he had talked with to reach Matthias, and the revered Secretary of State would delay.
And a part of Daniel Stern—not the professional but the person inside—did not object A man should not the because he is right, because he is sane. Yet Stern had done his professional best to make the options clear, to justify that death if it came down to it. And he had been fortunate in one respect, he thought as he approached the door to the outer reception room. He could not have brought the problem to a fairer, more levelheaded man. Arthur Pierce’s title—like that of so many other young middle-aged men in the Department—was Undersecretary of State, but he was head and shoulders above the many others. There had been around twenty senior personnel still in L Section when Stern reached the fifth floor, but Pierce’s name had stood out. To begin with, Pierce was not in Washington every day; he was assigned to the United Nations in New York as chief liaison between the ambassador and the State Department, a position decreed by Anthony Matthias, who knew what he was doing. Given a respectable amount of time, Arthur Pierce would be made the U.N. ambassador, and a good man, a decent man, would be rewarded not only for his high intelligence but for his decency.