The Parsifal Mosaic (56 page)

“Very coded,” agreed Jenna, crushing out her cigarette. “Which could mean whoever intercepted the operation and altered it might not have known that I
had
gotten out of Barcelona alive.”

“Until I saw you and let
everyone
know—everyone who counted. At which point we both had to die; one by the black—operations book—that was me. The other out of
strategy—no one in sanction aware—a bomb blowing up a car outside of Col des Moulinets. You. Everything buried.”

“Again Ambiguity?”

“No one else could have done it. No one else but a man with the clearance code could have infiltrated the strategy at that bridge.”

Jenna looked at him, then across at the windows; the orange glow was fading. “There are still too many omissions. Too many gaps.”

“We’ll fill some of them in, maybe all.”

“Emory Bradford, of course.”

“And someone else,” said Havelock. “Matthias. Four days ago I tried to reach him from Cagnes-sur-Mer on his private line—very few people have the number. I couldn’t understand it, but he wouldn’t talk to me. You can’t know how crazy it was—in a way, unbelievable. But he wouldn’t and I thought the worst: the man closest to me had cut me off. Then you tell me about Bradford, and I’m beginning to think I was wrong.”

“How do you mean?”

“Suppose Anton wasn’t there? Suppose others had taken over that private place, that very private line?”

“Bradford?”

“And whatever’s left of his tribe. The return of the political comets, looking for a way to get their fires back. According to
Time
magazine, Matthias is off on an extended holiday, but what if he’s not? What if the most celebrated Secretary of State in history is being held incommunicado. In a clinic somewhere, unable to get word out.”

“But that’s incredible, Mikhail. A man like that would have to stay in touch with his office. There are daily briefings, decisions—”

“It could be done through second and third parties, aides known to State personnel.”

“It’s too preposterous.”

“Maybe it’s not. When they told me Anton wouldn’t talk to me, I couldn’t accept it. I made another call—to an old man, a neighbor of Matthias’s whom he saw whenever he went to his lodge in the Shenandoah. His name’s Zelienski and he’s good for Anton—a retired professor brought over from Warsaw a number of years ago. They’d sit around playing chess, talking about the old days. He was a tonic for Matthias
and both of them knew it, especially Anton, but when I spoke to Zelienski he said Anton didn’t have time for him these days. Didn’t have time.”

“It’s entirely possible, Mikhail.”

“But not consistent. Matthias would
make
the time; he wouldn’t cut off an old friend without at least some kind of explanation, any more than he would me. It is not like him.”

“How do you mean?”

“I remember Zelienski’s words. He said he’d leave messages for Anton and men would call him back expressing Matthias’s regrets, saying he rarely drove out to the valley anymore. But he did; he was there in the valley when I called. Or he was
supposed
to be. My point is, he may not have been.”

“Now
you’re
not consistent,” broke in Jenna. “If what you say is true, why didn’t they simply say he wasn’t there?”

“They couldn’t. I used the private line and it’s to be answered only if he’s on the premises, and only by him. Someone picked up the phone by mistake and tried to cover it.”

“Someone working for Bradford?”

“Someone who’s part of a conspiracy against Matthias, at any rate, and I wouldn’t exclude Bradford. Men in Washington are dealing secretly with men in Moscow. Together they built Costa Brava, convincing Matthias you’re a Soviet agent—his note to me made that clear. We don’t know whether everything went off the track or not, but we do know Matthias had nothing to do with it and Bradford did. Anton didn’t trust Emory Bradford and his crowd; he considered them the worst sort of opportunists. He kept them away from extremely sensitive negotiations because he believed they’d use them for their own ends. He had a point; they did it before, letting the country know only what they wanted people to hear, using the classification stamp so that it became their signature.” Michael paused, inhaling on his cigarette as Jenna looked at him. “He may be doing it again, God knows for what purpose. It’ll be dark soon and we can drive. We’ll head across into Maryland, then down to Washington.”

“To Bradford?”

Havelock nodded. Jenna touched his arm and said, “They’ll connect you with Handelman and assume you reached me. They’ll know the first name I’d give you is Bradford’s. They’ll guard him.”

“I know that,” said Michael. “Let’s get dressed. We’ve got to eat and find a newspaper, one that carries the wire services. We’ll talk in the car.” He began walking toward his suitcase, then stopped. “My God, your clothes. I didn’t think; you don’t have your clothes.”

“Kohoutek’s people took them, took everything. They said foreign labels, European luggage, mementos—anything like that—had to be confiscated for our own good. There could be no traces of where we came from. They would supply me with something suitable later.”

“Suitable for what?”

“I was too frightened to think.”

“Take all your possessions, and leave you alone in a cell.”
So much to make up for
. “Let’s go,” he said.

“We should stop somewhere and pick up a Red Cross kit,” added Jenna. “That dressing on your shoulder should be changed. I can do it.”

So much to make up for!

At a diner on the outskirts of Hagerstown, they saw a dispenser for newspapers reflected in the light of the entrance. There were two papers left, both afternoon editions of the Baltimore
Sun
. They took both, to see whether any photographs had been released that might alert someone inside the roadside restaurant. Shaving the negative odds was instinct.

They sat across from each other in a corner booth. They turned the pages rapidly, and when they had gone through them all, they breathed easier. There were no photographs. They would go back and study the article in a moment; it was on page three.

“You must be starved,” said Havelock.

“To tell you the truth, I’d like a drink, if they serve one here.”

“They do. I’ll order.” He glanced at the counter and held up his hand.

“I haven’t even thought about eating.”

“That’s strange. Kohoutek said you wouldn’t eat last night, that you threw the tray at his Cuban.”

“A tray full of scraps. I ate; you always told me never to leave food when you’re in a bad situation. That you never know when you’ll get another meal.”

“Listen to Mother.”

“I listened to a child running for his life through the woods.”

“History. Why did you throw the tray? To keep him away from you?”

“To get the fork. There was no knife.”

“You’re something, lady.”

“I was desperate. Stop complimenting me.”

A plump, overly made-up waitress approached the table, her eyes appraising Jenna with a mixture of sadness and envy. Michael understood, neither with satisfaction nor in condescension; he merely understood. Jenna Karas was that often-forgotten person, whether she was forced to kill in order to survive, or be seduced so she might live. She was a lady. Havelock ordered their drinks. The waitress smiled as she nodded and left quickly; she would return quickly.

“Let’s get to the bad news,” said Michael, opening the newspaper.

“It’s on the third page.”

“I know. Did you read it?”

“Only the bottom line where it said ‘continued on page eleven.’ I thought they might have included a photograph there.”

“So did I.” Havelock began reading as Jenna watched him. The waitress returned, placing their drinks on the table. “We’ll order food in a minute,” said Michael, his eyes riveted on the paper. The waitress left as Havelock quickly flipped the pages, snapping the paper in place. As he read on he experienced relief, then concern and, finally, alarm. He finished and leaned back in the booth, staring at Jenna.

“What is it? What does it say?”

“They’re covering it up,” he said softly.

“What
?”

“They’re protecting me … actually protecting me.”

“You couldn’t have read it properly.”

“I’m afraid I did.” He leaned forward, his fingers scanning the lines in the column of the paper. “Listen to this. ‘According to the State Department, no such individual matching the name, the description, or the fingerprints is currently or has ever been in the employ of the Department of State. Further, a spokesman for State said that to speculate on the similarity of the reported name of the killer with that of any present or past employee would be grossly unfair and
inaccurate. A thorough computer check was made upon receipt of the Manhattan police report, and the results were negative. However, the State Department’s report revealed that the slain Professor Handelman had acted as a consultant to the Department in the area of European refugee displacement, with emphasis on those persons who had survived the Nazi period. According to a spokesman, the Manhattan police theorize that the killer may be a member of a terrorist organization violently hostile to the Jewish community. The State Department pointed out that it is not uncommon for terrorists in all countries to assume the identities of government personnel.’ ” Havelock stopped and looked up at Jenna. “That’s it,” he said. “They’ve thrown everybody off.”

“Could they believe it?”

“Not possible. To begin with, there are a hundred people in and out of State who know I was with Consular Operations. They’d put the names together and come up with mine. Second, my fingerprints had to be all over Handelman’s apartment; they’re on file. Last, Handelman had nothing whatsoever to do with any part of the government; that was his strength. He was a halfway man for the Quai d’Orsay, and they never would have used him if they thought he’d ever be under government scrutiny. It isn’t done; we’re all off-limits.”

“What do you make of it?”

Michael sank back in the booth, reached for his whisky, and drank. “It’s too blatant,” he mused, holding the glass in front of his lips.

“A trap, then,” said Jenna. “They want you to come in—presumably after Bradford—and take you.”

“To a point ‘beyond salvage,’ to coin a phrase. And once I’m dead, I can’t talk, but they can explain they trapped a killer. Reaching Bradford would be easy, coming out with him impossible.… Unless I could draw
him
out, make him come to
me
.”

“They’ll never permit it. He’ll be flanked by guards and they’ll be watching for you. They’ll kill you on sight.”

Havelock drank again, a thought stirring at the bottom of his mind but as yet unclear. “Watching for me,” he repeated, putting the glass down.
“Looking
for me … But no one’s
looking
for me except the men who did this to us.”

“The liars, as you call them,” said Jenna.

“Yes. We need help, but I assumed we couldn’t get it, that anyone I might want to reach wouldn’t touch us. That’s not the case now; they called
off
the hunt.”

“Don’t be foolish, Mikhail,” interrupted Jenna. “It’s part of the trap. There’s an alert out for you as well as for me, and yours isn’t coded; there’s nothing ambiguous about it. You’re you, and every agency that might be of value has you on its list. Whom in your government do you think you could trust?”

“No one,” agreed Havelock. “And no one who could survive a ‘beyond salvage’ association, if I did trust him.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Cagnes-sur-Mer,” said Michael, squinting. “At Salanne’s house, when I couldn’t reach Anton I called old Zelienski—I told you, remember? He mentioned him. ‘Alexander the Great,’ he called him. Raymond Alexander. Not just a mutual friend, but a pretty damned good friend—of mine as well as Matthias. He could do it.”

“How?”

“Because he’s
outside
the government. Outside but in a way very much a part of it; Washington needs him and he needs Washington. He’s a writer for
The Potomac Review
, and knows as much about the government as anyone I’ve ever met. But he relies on his contacts; he’d never let me get near him if I’d been identified in the newspapers, but I wasn’t.”

“How could he help us?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe draw out Bradford for me. He does in-depth interviews, and to be interviewed by him is a plus for anyone in the government. He’s above suspicion. They might drive Bradford out in a tank, but they’d let him go inside the house by himself. I could hint at something unexpected, a substantive change in the State Department with Bradford at the center. Then suggest an interview—with me in the house to listen, to verify.”

“The house?”

“He works at home; it’s part of his mystique. Like James Reston at the
Times
. If a politician or a bureaucrat says he was at Fiery Run, everyone knows what he means; there’ll be a story by Scotty Reston. If he says he was out at Fox Hollow, the same people know he was interviewed by Raymond Alexander. Fox Hollow’s in Virginia just west of Washington.
We could be there in an hour and a half, two hours at the most.”

“Would he do it?”

“He might. I won’t tell him why, but he might. We’re friends.”

“The university?”

“No, but there’s a connection. I met him through Matthias. When I first started at State, Matthias would come down to Washington on one thing or another, building his contacts, charming the asses off influential asses, and I’d frequently get a hurry-up call from Anton, asking me to join them both for dinner. I never refused, not only because of the company, but the restaurants were the kind way beyond my income.”

“That was gracious of your
přítele.”

“And not very bright for a brilliant man, considering the nature of my training. He was the
učitel
extolling his not too gifted student from Praha, when the last thing I needed was any sort of notice. I explained this quietly to Alexander. We both laughed and, as a result, had dinner now and then when Anton was safely back in his tower at Princeton, tending his academic gardens and not trying to grow arbors in Washington. Make no mistake, the great Matthias was not above fertilizing the seeds he’d sown.”