The Parsifal Mosaic (7 page)

Suddenly, across the platform, through the milling crowds, he caught sight of the back of a woman’s head, the brim of a soft hat shadowing her face. She was stepping out of the incoming train from the north, and had turned to talk to a conductor. It had happened before: the same color or cut of the hair, the shape of a neck. A scarf, or a hat or a raincoat like those she had worn. It had happened before. Too often.

Then the woman turned; pain seared Havelock’s eyes and temples and surged downward—hot knives stabbing his chest. The face across the platform, seen sporadically through the weaving, colliding crowds, was no illusion. It was
she
.

Their eyes locked. Hers widened in raw fear; her face froze. Then she whipped her head away and plunged into the crowds in front of her.

Michael pressed his eyelids shut, then opened them, trying to rid himself of the pain and the shock and the sudden trembling that immobilized him. He dropped his suitcase; he had to
move
, run, race after this living corpse from the Costa
Brava! She was alive! This woman he had loved, this apparition who had betrayed that love and had died for it, was
alive!

Like a crazed animal, he parted the bodies in his path, screaming her name, ordering her to stop, commanding the crowds to stop her. He raced up the ramp and through the massive stone archway oblivious to the shrieking, furious passengers he pummeled and left in his wake, unaware of the slaps and punches and body blocks hurled at him, unconscious of the hands that ripped his clothing.

She was nowhere to be seen in the station crowds.

What in the name of God had
happened
?

Jenna Karas was alive!

With the terrifying impact of a bolt of lightning the sight of Jenna Karas had thrown him back into the shadow world he had left behind. She was alive! He had to keep moving; he had to find her. He ran blindly through the crowds, separating arms and gesturing hands and protesting shoulders. First to one exit, then to another, and a third and a fourth. He stopped to question what few police he found, picking the words from a blurred Italian lexicon somewhere in his mind. He shouted her description, ending each distorted phrase with
“Aiuto
!
”—
only to be met with shrugs and looks of disapproval.

He kept running. A staircase—a door—an elevator. He thrust 2,000 lire on a woman heading into the lathes’ room; 5,000 to a freight hand. He pleaded with three conductors leaving the station carrying satchels, which meant they were going home.

Nothing. She was nowhere.

Havelock leaned over a trash can, the sweat rolling down his face and neck, his hands scraped and bleeding. He thought for a moment that he would vomit into the garbage; he had passed over the edge of hysteria. He had to pull himself back; he had to get hold of himself. And the only way to do so was to keep moving, slower and slower, but to keep
moving, let the pounding in his chest decelerate, find a part of his mind so he could think. He vaguely remembered his suitcase; the possibility that it was still there was remote, but looking for it was something to do. He started back through the crowds, body aching, perceptions numbed, buffeted by the gesticulating hordes around him, as if he were in a dark tunnel filled with shadows and swirling winds. He had no idea how long it took for him to pass through the arch and walk down the ramp to the near-deserted platform. The
Freccia
had left, and the clean-up crews were invading the cars of the stationary train from the north—the train that had carried Jenna Karas.

There it was, crushed but still intact, straps broken, clothes protruding, yet oddly whole. His suitcase was wedged in the narrow space between the edge of the platform and the filthy, flat side of the third car. He knelt down and pulled it out of its jammed recess, sliding up first one side and then the other as the leather squeaked abrasively. The suitcase was suddenly freed; he lost his balance and fell on the concrete, still holding on to the half-destroyed handle. A man in overalls pushing a wide broom approached. Michael got to his feet awkwardly, aware that the maintenance crewman had stopped, his broom motionless, his eyes conveying both amusement and disgust. The man thought he was drunk.

The handle broke; held by a single clasp, the suitcase abruptly tilted downward. Havelock yanked it up and clutched it in his arms; he started down the platform toward the ramp, knowing his walk was trancelike.

How many minutes later, or which particular exit he used, he would never know, but he was out on the street, the suitcase held against his chest, walking unsteadily past a row of lighted storefronts. He was conscious of the fact that people kept glancing at him, at his torn clothes and the crushed suitcase, its contents spilling out. The swirling mists were beginning to break up, the cold night air diffusing them. He had to find his sanity by concentrating on the little things: he would wash his face, change his clothes, have a cigarette, replace the suitcase.

F. MARTINELLI
Valigeria
. The neon letters glowed impressively in deep red above the wide storefront window filled with accessories for the traveler. It was one of those shops near the Ostia Station that cater to the wealthy foreigner and
the self-indulgent Italian. The merchandise was expensive replicas of ordinary objects turned into luxuries by way of sterling silver and polished brass.

Havelock stood for a moment, breathing deeply, holding on to the suitcase as if it were somehow an object that would carry him, a plank in a wild sea—without it he would drown. He walked inside; mercifully, it was near closing time, and the shop was devoid of customers.

The manager emerged from behind the middle counter, looking alarmed. He hesitated, then stepped back as if to retreat quickly. Havelock spoke rapidly in barely passable Italian. “I was caught in an insane crowd on the platform. I’m afraid I fell. I’ll need to buy a few things—a number of things, actually. I’m expected at the Hassler fairly soon.”

At the mention of Rome’s most exclusive hotel, the manager at once turned sympathetic, even brotherly.

“Animali!”
he exclaimed, gesturing to his God. “How perfectly dreadful for you, signore! Here, let me help you—”

“I’ll need a new piece of luggage. Soft, very good leather, if you have it.”

“Naturalmente.”

“I realize it’s an imposition, but could I possibly wash up somewhere? I’d hate to greet the Contessa the way I look now.”

“This way, signore! A thousand apologies! I speak for all Rome! This way—”

While Michael washed and changed clothes in the back room, he focused his thoughts—as they came to him—on the brief visits he and Jenna Karas had made to Rome. There had been two. On the first they had passed through for a single night; the second was much longer, very official—three or four days, if he remembered correctly. They had been awaiting orders from Washington, having traveled as a Yugoslav couple through the Balkan countries in order to gather information on the sudden expansion in border defenses. There had been a man, an army intelligence officer not easily forgotten; he had been Havelock’s D.C, conduit. What made the man memorable was his cover; he was posing as the only first-level black attaché at the embassy.

Their first conference had not been without humor—black humor. Michael and Jenna were to meet the attaché at an out-of-the-way restaurant west of the Palatine. They had
waited in the crowded stand-up bar, preferring that the conduit select a table, and were oblivious to the tall black soldier ordering a vodka martini on their right. After several minutes the man smiled and said, “I’m jes’ Rastus in the
catasta di legna
, Massa Havelock. Do you think we might sit down?”

His name was Lawrence Brown. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence B. Brown—the middle initial was for his real name, Baylor.

“So help me God,” the colonel had told them over after-dinner drinks that night, “the fellows in G-two felt there was more ‘concrete association’—that’s what they called it—by using Brown in the cover. It went under the heading of ‘psy-acceptance,’ can you believe it? Hell, I suppose it’s better than Attaché Coffee-Face.”

Baylor was a man he could talk to … if Baylor would agree to talk to him. And where? It would not be anywhere near the embassy; the United States government had several terrible things to explain to a retired field agent.

It took over twenty minutes on the manager’s phone-while the manager repacked Michael’s clothing in an outrageously priced new suitcase—before Havelock reached the embassy switchboard. Senior Attaché Brown was currently attending a reception on the first floor.

“Tell him it’s urgent,” said Michael. “My name is … Baylor.”

Lawrence Baylor was reluctant to the point of turning Havelock down. Anything a retired intelligence officer had to say would best be said at the embassy. For any number of reasons.

“Suppose I told you I just came out of retirement. I may not be on your payroll—or anyone else’s—but I’m very much back in. I’d suggest you don’t blow this, Colonel.”

“There’s a café on the Via Pancrazio, La Ruota del Pavone. Do you know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be there. Waiting.”

Havelock watched from a table in the darkest corner of the café as the army officer ordered a carafe of wine from the bar and began walking across the dimly lit room. Baylor’s
mahogany face was taut, stern; he was not comfortable, and when he reached the table, he did not offer his hand. He sat down opposite Michael, exhaled slowly, and attempted a grim smile.

“Nice to see you,” he said with little conviction.

“Thank you.”

“And unless you’ve got something to say we want to hear, you’re putting me in a pretty rough spot, buddy. I hope you know that.”

“I’ve got something that’ll blow your mind,” said Havelock, his voice involuntarily a whisper. The trembling had returned; he gripped his wrist to control it. “It’s blown mine.”

The colonel studied Michael, his eyes dropping to Havelock’s hands. “You’re stretched, I can see that. What is it?”

“She’s
alive
. I
saw
her!”

Baylor was silent, immobile. His eyes roamed Michael’s face, noting the marks of recent scrapes and bruises on Havelock’s skin. It was obvious that he had made the connection. “Are you referring to the Costa Brava?” he asked finally.

“You know damn well I am!” said Michael angrily. “My abrupt retirement and the circumstances thereof have been flashed to every goddamned station and post we’ve got. It’s why you just said what you did. ‘Beware the screwed-up talent,’ Washington tells you. ‘He might do anything, say anything, think he has scores to settle.’ ”

“It’s happened.”

“Not to me. I don’t have any scores to think about because I’m not interested in the ballgame. I’m rational. I saw what I saw. And she saw me! She acknowledged me! She
ran!”

“Emotional stress is first cousin to hysteria,” said the colonel quietly. “A man can see a lot of things that aren’t there in that condition. And you had a jolt.”

“Past tense, not currently applicable. I was out. I accepted the fact and the reasons—”

“Come
on
, buddy,” insisted the soldier. “You don’t throw away sixteen years of involvement.”

“I did.”

“You were here in Rome with her. Memories get activated, twisted. As I said, it happens.”

“Again, negative. Nothing was activated, nothing twisted. I
saw—
”

“You even called
me
,” interrupted Baylor sharply. “The
three of us spent a couple of evenings together. A few drinks, a few laughs. Association; you reached me.”

“There was no one else. My cover was D-squared: you were my only contact here in Rome! I can walk into the embassy now, I couldn’t then.”

“Then let’s go,” said the colonel quickly.

“No way! Besides, that’s not the point.
You
are. You fielded orders to me from Washington seven months ago, and now you’re going to send an emergency flag back to those same people. Tell them what I’ve told you, what I saw. You haven’t got a choice.”

“I’ve got an opinion. I’m relaying what a former talent said while in a state of extreme anxiety.”

“Fine! Good! Then try this. Five days ago in Athens I nearly killed a man we both know from the Dzerzhinsky files for telling me Costa Brava wasn’t a Soviet exercise. That she wasn’t any part of the KGB, much less the VKR. I didn’t kill him because I thought it was a probe, a
blind
probe—that man was telling the
truth
, as he knew the truth. I sent a message back to Moscow. The bait was too obvious, the smell too rotten.”

“I suppose that was charitable of you, considering your record.”

“Oh, no, the charity started with
him
. You see, he could have taken me. I could have found myself in Sevastopol on my way to Dzerzhinsky Square without even knowing I’d left Athens.”

“He was that good? That well connected?”

“So much so, he was self-effacing. But he didn’t take me. I wasn’t booked on the Dardanelles airlift. He didn’t want me.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was convinced
I
was the bait. Pretty fair irony, isn’t it? There was no room at the Lubyanka. I was turned out. Instead, he gave me his own message for Washington: Dzerzhinsky wouldn’t touch me.” Havelock paused. “And now
this
.”

The colonel narrowed his eyes pensively, and, with both hands, turned his glass on the table. “I don’t have your expertise, but say you actually did see what you say you saw.”

“I did. Accept it.”

“No concessions, but say it’s possible. It could still be a
lure. They’ve got you under a glass, know your plans, your itinerary. Their computers pick up a woman reasonably similar in appearance, and with a little cosmetic surgery they’ve got a double sufficient for short distances, ‘Beware the screwed-up talent.’ You never know when he thinks he has ‘scores to settle.’ Especially if he’s given some time to stew, to get worked up.”

“What I saw was in her
eyes
! But even if you won’t accept that, there’s something else; it voids the strategy, and every point can be checked. Two hours ago I didn’t know I’d be inside that station; ten minutes before I saw her I didn’t know I’d be on that platform, and neither could anyone else. I came here yesterday and took a room in a
pensione
on the Due Macelli for a week, paid in advance. At eight-thirty tonight I saw a poster in a window and decided to go to Venice. I didn’t speak to anyone.” Michael reached into his pocket, took out his ticket for the
Freccia delta Laguna
and placed it in front of Lawrence Baylor. “The
Freccia
was scheduled to leave at nine-thirty-five. The time of purchase is stamped across the top of this. Read it!”