The Parsifal Mosaic (90 page)

“It’s a long border, and those are large bodies of water.”

“Get some rest, Mikhail. You can’t function if you’re exhausted—it’s one of your rules, remember.”

“One of the rules …?” Havelock brought both hands to the sides of his head, massaging his temples with his fingers. “Yes, that’s one of the rules, part of the rules.”

“Lie down on the couch and close your eyes. I can take the calls, let you know what they are. I slept for a while, you didn’t.”

“When did you sleep?” asked Michael, looking up, doubting.

“I rested before the sun was up. You were talking to your Coast Guard.”

“It doesn’t belong to me,” said Havelock wearily, pushing himself up. “Maybe I will lie down … just for a few minutes. It’s part of the rules.” He walked around the desk, then stopped; his eyes roamed the elegant study strewn with papers, notebooks and file folders. “God, I hate this room!” he said, heading for the couch. “Thanks for the coffee, but no thanks.”

The telephone rang, and Michael steeled himself, wondering if the bell would stop before a second ring or whether it would remain unbroken, the signal of an emergency. It stopped, then resumed ringing.

Havelock lowered himself down on the couch as Jenna answered, speaking calmly. “This is Sterile Five.… Who’s calling?” She listened, then covered the phone and looked over at Michael. “It’s the State Department, New York City, Division of Security. Your man’s come in from the Soviet consulate.”

Havelock rose unsteadily, briefly finding it necessary to center his balance. “I’ve got to talk to him,” he said, walking toward the desk. “I thought he’d be there hours ago.” Michael took the phone from Jenna and, after peremptory identifications, made his request. “Let me have the candidate, please.” The Russian got on the line. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Apparently, it is considered in poor taste over here to defect except during business hours,” began the Russian in a weary, singsong voice. “I arrived down here at the Federal Plaza at four o’clock this morning, after having survived an attempted mugging on the subway, only to be told by one of the night guards that there was nothing he could do until the
office
opened! I explained my somewhat precarious position, and the kind, vacuous idiot offered to buy me a cup of coffee—in a public diner. Finally getting into the building myself—your security is ludicrous—I waited in a dark, drafty hallway until nine o’clock, when your militia arrived. I then presented myself and the imbeciles wanted to call the
police
! They wanted to have me
arrested
for breaking and entering and the possible destruction of government property!”

“All right, you’re there now—”

“I’m not
fin-nished
!
”
yelled the Russian. “Since that auspicious
beginning I have been filling out uncountable forms—with Russian nursery rhymes, incidentally—and repeatedly giving your number, asking to be put in touch with you. What
is
it with you people? Do you limit
toll calls
?”

“We’re in touch now—”

“Not
fin-nished
! This past hour I have been sitting alone in a room so poorly wired I was tempted to lower my trousers and fart into the microphones. And I have
just
been given additional forms to fill out, including one inquiring about my hobbies and favorite recreational pastimes! Are you sending me to
camp
, perhaps?”

Michael smiled, grateful beyond words for a momentary break in the tension. “Only where you’ll be safe,” he said. “Consider the source. We’re fools, remember, not jackals. You made the right choice.”

The Russian sighed audibly. “Why do I work myself up? The
fruktovyje golovy
are no better in the Dzerzhinsky—why not admit it? They’re worse. Your Albert Einstein would be on his way to Siberia, assigned to pull mules in a gulag. Where is the sense in it all?”

“There’s very little,” said Havelock softly. “Except to survive. All of us.”

“A premise I subscribe to.”

“So did Rostov.”

“I remember the words he sent you. He’s not my enemy any longer, but others are who may be mine as well.’ They are ominous words, Havelock.”

“The Voennaya.”

“Maniacs!” was the guttural reply. “In their heads they march with the Third Reich.”

“How operational are they here?”

“Who knows? They have their own councils, their own methods of recruitment. They touch too many you can’t see.”

“The
paminyatchiki
? You can’t see them.”

“Believe me when I tell you I was trusted but never that trusted. However, one can speculate—on rumors. There are always rumors, aren’t there? You might say the speculation has convinced me that I should take the action I’ve taken.” The Russian paused. “I
will
be treated as a valuable asset, will I not?”

“Guarded and housed as a treasure. What’s the speculation?”

“In recent months certain men have left our ranks—unexpected retirements to well-earned dachas, untimely illnesses—disappearances. None so crudely as Rostov, but perhaps there was no time to be clever. Nevertheless, it seems there is a disturbing sameness about the departed. They were generally categorized as quiet realists, men who sought solutions and knew when to pull back from confrontation. Pyotr Rostov exemplified this group; he was in fact their spokesman in a way. Make no mistake, you were his enemy, he despised your system—too much for the few, too little for the many—but he understood there was a point where enemies could no longer push forward. Or there was nothing. He knew time was on our side, not bombs.”

“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, laughing and nodding his head. The woman at first feigned surprise and maidenly reluctance, then suddenly whipped her mount to the right and raced ahead of her companion, high in the saddle as she approached the fence. She soared over it, followed by the man only yards behind and to her left; they rode swiftly toward the edge of the woods, where both reined in their horses. The woman grimaced as she came to a stop.

“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.