The Parsifal Mosaic (29 page)

The intersecting streets grew wider, the houses and shops set farther back; narrow pavements became sidewalks, and more and more villagers were seen strolling past the lighted storefronts. The Lancia was nowhere; it had disappeared.

“Pardon! Ou est l’aéroport?”
he yelled out the window to an elderly couple about to step off the curb into the cobblestone street.

“Airport?” said the old man in French, the word itself pronounced in an accent that was more Italian than Gallic. “There is no airport in Col des Moulinets, monsieur. You can take the southern roadway down to Cap Martin.”

“There is an airport near the village, I’m sure of it,” cried Havelock, trying to control his anxiety. “A friend, a very
good
friend, told me he was flying into Col des Moulinets. I’m to meet him. I’m late.”

“Your friend meant Cap Martin, monsieur.”

“Perhaps not,” called out a younger man who was leaning against the doorframe of a shop closed for the evening. “There is no real airport, monsieur, but there is an airfield fifteen, twenty kilometers north on the road to Tenda. It’s used by the rich who have estates in Roquebillière and Breil.”

“That’s it! What’s the fastest way?”

“Take your next right, then right again back three streets to Rue Maritimes. Turn left; it will lead you into the mountain auto route. Fifteen, eighteen kilometers north.”

“Thank you.”

Time was a racing montage of light and shadow, filled with peopled streets and leaping figures, small interfering cars and glaring headlights, gradually replaced by fewer buildings, fewer people, fewer streetlamps; he had reached the outskirts of the village. If the police had been alerted by the panicked border guards, he had eluded them by the odds of a small force versus a large area. Minutes later—how many he would never know—he was tearing through the darkness of the Maritimes countryside, the rolling hills everywhere
that were introductions to the mountains beyond, barricades to be negotiated with all the speed the powerful truck could manage. And as the grinding gears strained and the tires under him screamed to a crescendo, he saw the silhouettes of paddle wheels; like the hills, they were everywhere, alongside houses by mountain streams and rivulets, slowly turning, a certain majesty in their never-ending movements—proof again that time and nature were constant. In a strange way, Michael needed the reaffirmation; he was losing his mind!

There were no lights on the auto route, no red specks fat the darkness. The Lancia was nowhere to be seen. Was he even going in the right direction? Or had anxiety warped his senses? So close and yet so terribly far away, one gulf traversed, one more to leap. Traversed? We said it better in Prague.
Přjezd
said it better.

Miluti vás, má drahá.
We understand these words, Jenna. We do not need the language of liars. We never should have learned it.
Don’t listen to the liars! They neutralized us; now they want to kill us. They have to because I know they’re there. I know, and so will you.

A searchlight! Its beam was sweeping the night sky. Beyond the nearest hills, diagonally up ahead on the left Somewhere the road would turn; somewhere minutes away was an airfield and a plane—and Jenna.

The second hill was steep, the other side of it steeper, with curves; he held the wheel with all his strength, careening into each turn.
Lights.
Wide white beams in front, two red dots behind. It was the Lancia! A mile, two miles ahead and below; it was impossible to tell, but the field was there. Parallel lines of yellow ground lights crossed each other at forty-plus degree points; the valley winds had been studied for maximum lift. The airfield was in a valley, sufficiently wide and long for small jets as well as prop aircraft—
used by the rich who have estates in Roquebillière and Breil.

Havelock kept the accelerator on the floor, his left foot grazing the brake for those instants when balance was in jeopardy. The road leveled out and became a flat track that circled the fenced-off airfield. Within the enormous compound were the vivid reflections of glistening wings and fuselages; perhaps a dozen stationary planes were moored to the ground in varying positions off the runways—the yachts of yesterday had been replaced by silver tubes that sailed
through the sikes. The ten-foot-high hurricane fence was strung with barbed wire across the top and angled an additional four feet inside. The rich of Roquebillière and Breil cared for their airborne possessions. Such a fence—a double mile in length—carried a price of several hundred thousand dollars; and that being the case, would there be a security gate and guards somewhat more attentive than the French and Italian military?

There were. He screeched into the entrance roadway. The heavy ten-foot gate was closing three hundred feet in front of him. Inside, the Lancia was racing across the field. Suddenly its lights were extinguished; somewhere within the expanse of grass and asphalt its driver had spotted a plane. Lights would reveal markings, and markings were traces; if he could see the Lancia’s headlights several miles away in the darkness of the valley, his, too, could be seen. There were only seconds and half-seconds now, each minuscule movement of a clock narrowing the final gulf or widening it.

While gripping the wheel, he jammed the palms of both hands on the rim of the truck’s horn, hammering out the only alarm code that came to him:
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!
He repeated it over and over again as he sped down the entrance drive toward the closing gate.

Two uniformed guards were inside the fence, one pushing the thick metal crossbar of the gate, the other standing by the latch, prepared to receive the sliding bar and insert the clamp. As the gate reached the three-quarter mark, both guards stared through the wire mesh at the powerful truck bearing down on them; the blaring series of notes was not lost on them. Their terrified faces showed they had no intention of staying in the path of the wild vehicle about to crash into their post. The guard at the crossbar released it and ran to his left; the gate swung back partially—only partially—when he withdrew his grip. The man by the latch scrambled to his right, diving into the grass and the protection of the extended fence.

The impact came, the truck ripping the gate away, twisting it up off its hinges and smashing it into the small booth, shattering glass and severing an electrical wire that erupted in sparks and static. Michael raced the truck onto the field, his wounded shoulder pitched in pain; the truck careened sharply, narrowly missing two adjacent planes parked in the
shadows of a single wide hangar. He spun the wheel to his left sending the trade in the direction the Lancia had been heading less than a minute ago.

Nothing. Absolutely
nothing!
Where was it? Where
was
it?

A flicker of light Movement—at the far end of the field, beyond the glowing yellow lines of the north runway, slightly above the farthest ground row. The cabin of a plane had been opened, an interior light snapped briefly on, then instantly turned off. He whipped the wheel to the right-blood from his wrenched wounded shoulder spreading through his shirt—and raced diagonally across the enormous compound; heavy, weatherproof bulbs exploded under the tires as he sped toward the now darkened area where seconds ago there had been the dim flash of light.

There it was! Not a jet, but a twin-engine, single-wing, its propellers suddenly revving furiously, flames belching from its exhausts. It was not on the runway but beyond the glow of the parallel lines of yellow lights; the pilot was about to taxi into the takeoff position. But he was not moving now; he was holding!

The Lancia. It was behind and to the right of the plane. Again, a light! Not from the aircraft now, but from the Lancia itself. Doors opened; figures leaped out, dashing for the plane. The cabin door, another light! For an instant Michael considered ramming the fuselage or crashing into the nearest wing, but it could be a tragic error. If he struck a fuel tank, the aircraft would blow up in seconds. He swerved the heavy truck to the right, then to the left, and screeching to a stop yards in front of the plane, he leaped out.

“Jenna!
Jenna! Poslouchám iá! Stůil! Listen to me!”

She was climbing on board, pushed up the steps by the driver of the Lancia, who followed her inside and closed the door. He ran, oblivious to everything but her; he had to stop her! The plane spun in place like a grotesque, dark cormorant. Its path was free of the Lancia!

The blow came out of the shadows, muffled and at the same time magnified by the furious winds of the propeller’s wash. His head snapped back as his legs buckled, blood matting the hair above his right temple. He was on his knees, supporting himself with his hands, staring up at the plane, at the window of the moving plane, and he could
not move!
The cabin lights remained on for several seconds and he saw her face in the glass, her eyes staring back at him. It was a sight he would remember for as long as he lived … if he lived. A second blow with a blunt instrument was delivered to the back of his neck.

He could not think about the terrible sight now, about
her
now! He could hear the sirens screaming across the field, see the glare of searchlights shooting over the runway, catching the glistening metal of the plane as it sped down between the yellow lights. The man who had struck him twice was running toward the Lancia; he had to
move!
He had to move now, or he would not be permitted to live, permitted ever to see her again. He struggled to his feet as he pulled the Llama automatic from under his jacket.

He fired twice above the roof of the sedan; the man leaping into the seat could have killed him moments ago; he would not kill that man now. His hands were too unsteady, the flashing, sweeping lights too bewildering to ensure inflicting only a wound. But he
had
to have the car. He fired again, the bullet ricocheting off the metal as he approached the window.

“Get out or you’re dead!” he shouted, gripping the door handle. “You heard what I said! Get
out
!” Havelock yanked the man by the cloth of his coat and pulled him, propelling him onto the grass. There was no time for a dozen questions he wanted to ask. He had to escape! He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut; the motor was running.

For the next forty-five seconds he crisscrossed the airfield at enormous speeds, evading the airfield’s security police by weaving in and out of searchlight beams. A dozen times he nearly crashed into stationary aircraft before reaching the demolished gate. He raced through, not seeing the road, functioning only on nerves and instinct.

He could not shut out the terrible sight of Jenna’s face in the window of the moving plane. In Rome her face had shown raw fear and confusion. Moments ago there had been something else; it was in her eyes.

Cold, immaculate hatred.

He drove southwest to Provence, then due south toward the coast, to the small city of Cagnes-sur-Mer. He had worked the northern Mediterranean for years and knew a doctor between Cagnes and Antibes; he needed help. He had ripped the sleeve of his shirt and tied a knot around the wound in his shoulder, but it did not prevent the loss of blood. His entire chest was soaked, the cloth sticking to his skin, and there was the sweet-acrid odor that he knew only too well. His neck was merely bruised—a paramedical opinion that in no way diminished the pain—but the blow to his head required stitches; the slightest graze would reopen the laceration that was sealed with barely coagulated blood.

He needed other help, too, and Dr. Henri Salanne would provide it. He had to reach Matthias; to delay any longer was asinine. Specific identities could be traced from orders, from a code name, Ambiguity; there was enough information. Surface evidence of the massive conspiracy was clear from Jenna’s having survived Costa Brava—when she had been officially recorded as dead—and his own condemnation as “beyond salvage.” The first Matthias would accept from his
přítele
, the second could be confirmed from sealed black-bordered directives in the files of Consular Operations. Granted the whys were beyond Havelock’s reach, but not the facts—they existed, and Matthias could act on them. And
while the Secretary of State acted, Michael had to get to Paris as quickly as possible. It would not be simple; every airport, highway and train station in Provence and the Mari-times would be watched, and Matthias could do nothing about it. Time and communications were on the side of the liars. Issuing covert orders was far easier then rescinding them; they spread like a darkening web of ink on soft paper, as the recipients disappeared, each wanting credit for the kill.

Within an hour—if it had not happened by now—Rome would be apprised of the events at Col des Moulinets. Telephones and little-used radio frequencies would be employed to send out the word:
The man “beyond salvage” is loose; he can cost us too much that’s valuable, including time and our lives. All network personnel are on alert; use every source, every weapon available. Zero area: Col des Moulinets. Radius: Maximum two hours’ travel, reported to be wounded. Last known vehicles: A nondescript farm truck with a power-ful engine, and a Lancia sedan. Find him. kill him.

No doubt the liars on the Potomac had already reached Salanne but as with so many in the shadow world, there were hidden confidences—things in and of his past—that those who cleared payrolls in Washington or Rome or Paris knew nothing about And for drones such as Dr. Henri Salanne, only certain men In the field who had been on a given scene at a given time knew them, and stored away their names for future personal use should the necessity ever arise. There was even a vague morality about this practice, for more often than not the incriminating information or the events themselves were the result of a temporary crisis or a weakness that did not require that the man or the woman be destroyed—or killed.

With Salanne, Havelock had been there when it happened—to be precise, eleven hours after the act took place, time enough to altar the consequences. The doctor had sold out an American agent in Cannes who coordinated a small fleet of oceangoing pleasure craft for the purpose of monitoring Soviet naval positions in the sector. Salanne had sold him for money to a KGB informant, and Michael had not understood; neither money nor betrayal was a motive that made sense where the doctor was concerned. It took only one low—key confrontation to learn the truth, and it was a truth—or a juxtaposition of truths—as old as the grotesque world in
which they all lived. The gentle if somewhat cynical middle-aged doctor was a compulsive gambler; it was the primary reason why years ago a brilliant young surgeon from L’Hôpital de Paris had sought out a practice in the Monte Carlo triangle. His credentials and references were honored in Monaco, which was a good thing, but his losses at the casino were not.