The Parsifal Mosaic by Robert Ludlum
“Are you saying those who replaced the Rostovs think otherwise?”
“That is the rumor.”
“The Voennaya?”
“That is the speculation. And should they take over the power centers of the KGB, can leadership of the Kremlin be far behind? This cannot happen. If it does.…” The Russian did not finish the statement.
“There’ll be nothing?” offered Havelock.
“That is the judgment. You see, they think you’ll do nothing. They believe they can chew you up, first in one area, then in another.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“With tactical nuclear weapons?”
“That’s very new.”
“It’s insane,” said the man from the KGB. “You’ll have to react, the world will demand it.”
“How can we stop the VKR?”
“By giving them little or no ammunition.”
“What do you mean, ‘ammunition’?”
“Knowledge of provocative or inflammatory actions on your part they can use to threaten the tired old men in the Presidium. The same as over here; you have your jackals. Beribboned generals and wild—eyed colonels closeting themselves with overweight, overaged senators and congressmen, making pronouncements of disaster if you don’t strike first. The wisest men do not always prevail; actually, you’re better at that than we are. Your controls are better.”
“I hope so,” said Michael, thinking fleetingly of men like Lieutenant Commander Thomas Decker. “But you say the Voennaya has filtered into your ranks, into the KGB.”
“Speculation.”
“If it’s true, it means that at least several of them could be walking around the embassy here or the consulate in New York.”
“I’m not even sure of my own superior.”
“And a paminyatchik outside would know them, could reach them, make a delivery.”
“You assume I know something. I don’t. What delivery?”
Havelock paused, trying to still the throbbing in his temples. “Suppose I were to tell you that just such ammunition as you describe was stolen last night by a mole so deep and entrenched he had access to information released only by executive order. He disappeared.”
“Willing to give up his entrenched position?”
“He was found out. You were instrumental; you told me about Rostov’s death and the VKR. He belongs to the Voennaya. He’s the enemy.”
“Then look for the sudden diplomatic departure of a low—level attaché, a street security man, or a communications officer. If there is a VKR recruit, he would be among these. Intercept if you can; hold up the plane if you have to. Claim stolen property, espionage, go to the limit. Don’t let them have that ammunition.”
“If we’re too late—”
“What can I tell you without knowing the nature of the delivery?”
“The worst.”
“Can you deny?”
“It’s beyond deniability. Part of it’s false—the worst part—but it will be accepted as the truth—by the beribboned generals and the wild-eyed colonels.”
The Russian was silent, then replied quietly, “You must speak with others much higher, much wiser. We have, as you say here, a rule of thumb when dealing with such matters. Go to substantial men in the Party between the ages of sixty and seventy who went through Operation Barbarossa and Stalingrad. Their memories are acute; they may help you. I’m afaid I can’t.”
“You have. We know what to watch for at the embassy and the consulate.… You’ll be brought down here for debriefing, you understand that.”
“I understand. Will I be permitted to see American films—on the television, perhaps? After the interrogation sessions, of course.”
“I’m sure something can be arranged.”
“I do so like the Westerns.… Havelock, stop the delivery to Moscow. You don’t know the Voennaya.”
“I’m afraid I do know it,” said Michael, rounding the desk and sinking once again into the chair. “And I’m afraid,” he added, hanging up.
There was no rest for the next three hours, coffee, aspirin and coldwater compresses serving to keep him awake and numb the piercing ache that pounded through his head. Every department in every intelligence and investigatory agency that had information on or access to the Soviet embassy or the consulate in New York was contacted and ordered to divulge whatever Sterile Five requested. The schedules for Aeroflot, LOT Airlines, Czechoslovak Airlines—CSA—and all the carriers to the Eastern bloc were studied, their manifests checked for diplomatic passengers. The cameras were doubled on both Soviet buildings in Washington and New York, personnel leaving the premises placed under surveillance, the units told to keep their subjects in sight even at the risk of being seen themselves. Everything was designed to inhibit contact, to cut off the delivery on its way to Moscow, and nothing could achieve this more effectively than a VKR agent knowing he might expose the fugitive if he kept a rendezvous, or Pierce realizing he might be caught if he made one.
Helicopters crisscrossed along the Mexican border by the scores, following small aircraft; radio checks were constant, and planes with unsatisfactory replies were ordered to return and searched. Off the coasts of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas, navy jets soared low over the water, tracking boats that veered too far southeast; radios were used here, too, and unless explanations were satisfactory, directions were altered. Out of Corpus Christi, other jets and Coast Guard patrols spotted and intercepted fishing and pleasure craft on their way toward Mexican waters; fortunately, inclement weather in the western Gulf had reduced their number. None made contact with other boats; none went beyond Port Isabel or Brazos Island.
It was a quarter to four when Havelock, exhausted, returned to the couch. “We’re holding,” he said. “Unless we’ve missed something, we’re holding. But we may have …” He fell onto the pillows. “I’ve got to go back to the names. He’s there. Parsifal’s there and I have to find him! Berquist says we can’t go beyond tonight, he can’t take the chance. The world can’t take the chance.”
“But Pierce never got into that room,” protested Jenna. “He never saw the agreements.”
“The psychiatric file on Matthias spells them out—in ail their insanity. In some ways it’s worse. A diagnosed madman running the foreign policy of the most powerful, most feared country on earth. We’re lepers … Berquist said we’ll be lepers. If we’re alive.”
The telephone rang; Michael expelled his breath and buried his head. The mists were closing in again, now enveloping him, suffocating him.
“Yes, thank you very much,” said Jenna into the phone across the room.
“What is it?” asked Havelock, opening his eyes, staring at the floor.
“The Central Intelligence Agency unearthed five more photographs. That leaves only one, and that man they’re quite sure is dead. Others may be also, of course.”
“Photographs? Of what, whom?”
“The old men on my list.”
“Oh?” Michael turned over; his eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were closing rapidly. “Old men,” he whispered. “Why?”
“Sleep, Mikhail. You must sleep. You’re no good to yourself or anyone else this way.” Jenna walked to the couch and knelt beside him. She pressed her lips lightly against his check. “Sleep, my darling.”
Jenna sat at the desk, and each time the phone began to ring she pounced on it like a breathless cat protecting its lair from predators. The calls came from everywhere—progress reports issued by men who were following orders blindly.
They were holding.
* * *
The handsome couple in riding breeches, boots and emblazoned red jackets galloped across the field on their hunters—the horses straining, nostrils flared, long legs pounding the hard earth and plunging through the tall grass. In the distance to their right was a split-rail fence signifying the property line of an adjacent estate, and beyond it was another field that disappeared into a wall of giant maples and oaks. The man gestured at the fence, la
“Damn!” she shouted. “I pulled the muscle in my calf! It’s screaming!”
“Get off and walk around. Don’t sit on it.”
The woman dismounted as the man reached over for the reins of her horse. His companion walked in circles, her limp pronounced, swearing under her breath.
“Good God, where are we?” she asked, half shouting.
“I think it’s the Heffernans’ place. How’s the leg?”
“Murder, absolute murder! Christ!”
“You can’t ride on it.”
“I can hardly walk on it, you damn fool.”
“Temper, temper. Come on, let’s find a phone.” The man and woman started through the edge of trees, the man leading both horses, threading them around several thick trunks. “Here,” he said, reaching for a low branch on a thick bush. “I can tie them up here and come back for them; they won’t go anywhere.”
“Then you can help me. This really is excruciating.”
The horses tied and grazing, the couple began to walk. Through the trees they could see the outlines of the wide semicircular drive at the front entrance of the large house. They also saw the figure of a man who seemed to emerge out of nowhere. He was in a gabardine topcoat, with both hands in his pockets. They met and the man in the topcoat spoke. “May I help you? This is private property.”
“I trust we all have private property, old man,” replied the sportsman supporting the woman. “My wife pulled a muscle over our last jump. She can’t ride.”
“What?”
“Horses, sport. Our horses are tied up back there. We were doing a little pre-hunt work over the course before Saturday’s meet, and I’m afraid we came a cropper, as they say. Take us to a phone, please.”
“Well, I … I …”
“This is the Heffernans’ house, isn’t it?” demanded the husband.
“Yes, but Mr, and Mrs. Heffernan are not here, sir. Our orders are to allow no one inside.”
“Oh, shit!” exploded the wife. “How tacky can you be? My leg hurts, you ass! I need a ride back to the club.”
“One of the men will be happy to drive you, ma’am.”
“And my chauffeur can bloody well come and pick me up! Really, just who are these Heffernans? Are they members, darling?”
“I don’t think so, Buff. Look, the man has his orders, and tacky as they are, it’s not his fault. You go along and I’ll take the horses back.”
“They’d better not try to become members,” said the wife as the two men helped her across the drive to an automobile.
The man walked back through the woods to the horses, untied them, and led them across the field, where he lowered the rails and prodded them through into the tall grass. He replaced the rails, mounted his hunter and, with the woman’s horse in tow, trotted south over the course of Saturday’s hunt—as he understood the course to be from his first and only study of the charts as a guest of the club.
He reached under his saddle and pulled out a powerful hand-held radio; he pressed a switch and raised the instrument to his lips.
“There are two cars,” he said into the radio. “A black Lincoln, license plate seven-four-zero, MRL; and a dark green Buick, license one-three-seven, GMJ. The place is ringed with guards, and there are no rear exit roads. The windows are thick; you’d need a cannon to blow through them, and we were picked up by density infrareds.”
“Got it” was the reply, amplified over the tiny speaker. “We’re mainly interested in the vehicles.… By the way, I can see the Buick now.”
The man with the various saws dipped to and dangling from his wide leather belt was high up in the tall pine tree bordering the road, his safety strap around it and clamped to his harness. He shoved the hand-held radio into its holster and adjusted the binoculars to his eyes, looking diagonally down through the branches, focusing on the automobile coming out of the tree-lined drive.
The view was clean, all angles covered. No cars could enter or leave the premises of Sterile Five without being seen-even at night; the capabilities of infrared applied to lenses as well as trip lights.
The man whistled; the door of the truck far below opened, and on its panel were the words HIGH TOP TREE SURGEONS. A second man stepped out and looked up.
“Take off,” said the man above, loud enough to be heard. “Relieve me in two hours.”
The driver of the truck headed north for a mile and a half to the first intersection. There was a gas station on the right; the doors of its repair shop were open, and an automobile was inside, off the ground on a hydraulic lift, facing front. The driver reached for the switch and snapped his headlights on and off. Instantly, within the garage’s shop the headlights of the car on the lift flashed on and off—the signal had been acknowledged, the vehicle was in position. The station’s owner believed he was cooperating—confidentially—with the narcotics division of the state police. It was the least a citizen could do.
The driver swung to his right, then immediately to the left, making a U-turn between the converging roads; he headed south. Three minutes later he passed the pine tree that concealed his companion beyond the branches near the top. Under different circumstances he might have touched his horn; he couldn’t now. There could be no sound, no sight that marked in any way that area of the road. Instead, he accelerated and in fifty seconds came to another intersection, the first south of Sterile Five.
Diagonally across on the left was a small country inn, miniature antebellum in design—a large dollhouse built to bring back memories of an old plantation. In the back was a black asphalt parking lot, where perhaps a dozen cars were lined up, like large brightly colored toys. Except one, the fourth from the end, with a clear view of the intersection and swift access to the exit Facing front, it was layered with dirt, a poor relation in the company of its shiny, expensive cousins.
Again the driver leaned forward and flicked his headlights on and off. The dirty automobile—with an engine more powerful than any other in the lot-did the same. Another signal was acknowledged. Whatever emerged from Sterile Five could be picked up in either direction.
Arthur Pierce studied his face in the mirror of the run-down motel on the outskirts of Falls Church, Virginia; he was satisfied with what he saw. The fringe of gray circling his shaved head was in concert with the rimless glasses and the shabby brown cardigan sweater worn over the soiled white shirt with the frayed collar. He was the image of the loser, whose minor talents and lack of illusion kept him securely, if barely, above the poverty level. Nothing was ventured because it was useless. Why bother? No one stopped such men on the street; they walked too slowly; they were inconsequential.
Pierce turned from the mirror and walked across the room to the road map spread out under the light of a plastic lamp on the cheap, stained desk against the wall. On the right, holding the map in place, was a gray metal container with the emblem of the United States Navy stamped on the top, the medical insignia below it, and a brass, built-in combination lock on the side. In it was a document as lethal as any in history. The psychiatric diagnosis of a statesman the world revered, a diagnosis labeling that man as insane—as having been insane while functioning as the international voice of one of the two most powerful nations on earth. And the nation that permitted this intolerable condition to exist could no longer serve as the leader of the cause it espoused. A madman had betrayed not only his own government but the world-lying, deceiving, misleading, forging alliances with enemies, scheming against supposed allies. No matter that he was insane, it had happened. It was all there.
The steel container contained an incredible weapon, but for it to be used wi
He could afford no risks, and several phone calls had convinced him that there was risk in channeling it out with the few he could trust. As expected, embassy and consulate personnel were under heavy surveillance; all international flights were monitored, and hand and cargo luggage X-rayed. Too much risk.
He would bring it out himself, along with the ultimate weapon, the terminal weapon, documents that called for successive nuclear strikes against Soviet Russia and the People’s Republic of China—agreements signed by the great American Secretary of State. They were nuclear fantasies conceived by an insane genius, working with one of the most brilliant minds ever produced by the Soviet Union. Fantasies so real that the tired old men in the Kremlin would run for their dachas and their vodka, leaving decisions to those who could cope, to the men of the Voennaya.
Where was the brilliant mind that had made it all possible? The man who had turned on his homeland only to learn the truth—that he had been wrong. So wrong! Where was Parsifal? Where was Alexei Kalyazin?
With these thoughts Pierce turned to the map again. The inept—and not so inept—Havelock had mentioned the Shenandoah—that the man they called Parsifal was somewhere in the Shenandoah area, by implication within a reasonable distance of Matthias’s country home. The implied reasonable distance, however, was the variable quotient. The Shenandoah Valley was more than a hundred miles long, over twenty miles wide, from the Allegheny to the Blue Ridge Mountains. What might be considered reasonable? There was no reasonable answer, so the solution was to be found in the opposite direction. In the plodding mind of Michael Havelock—Mikhail Havlíček, son of Václav, named for a Russian grandfather from Rovno—a man whose talents lay in persistence and a degree of imagination, not brilliance. Havelock would reduce the arc, put in use a hundred computers to trace a single telephone call made at a specific time to a specific place to a man he called a zealot Havelock would do the work and a paminyatchik would reap the benefits. Lieutenant Commander Decker would be left alone; be was a key that might well unlock a door.