The Parsifal Mosaic Read online

  “A tenuous rationalization. His office is responsible for all activities in the southwest Mediterranean sector. The territory includes the Costa Brava. An emergency rendezvous—especially one ostensibly involving the Baader-Meinhof—would certainly be cleared by him.” Rostov paused briefly, then added quietly, “Under normal circumstances.”

  “A not so tenuous rationalization?” asked Michael.

  “I leave myself the narrowest margin for error. An extremely remote possibility.”

  “It’s the one I accept!” Havelock shouted again, suddenly disturbed at his own outburst.

  “You want to accept it. Perhaps you have to.”

  “The VKR more often than not gets its orders directly from the policy rooms of the Kremlin. It’s no secret. If you’re not lying, you were passed over.”

  “To be sure, and the thought frightens me more than I can tell you. But as much as I’m forced to acknowledge your professional accomplishments, priyatel, I do not think the policy makers in the Kremlin are concerned with the likes of you and me. They have more weighty matters, global matters. And, to the point, they have no expertise where we’re concerned.”

  “They do with Baader-Meinhof! And the PLO, and the Brigate Rosse, and a couple of dozen ‘red armies’ blowing things up all over the goddamn place! That’s policy!”

  “Only for maniacs.”

  “Which is exactly what we’re talking about! Maniacs!” Michael paused, the obvious striking him. “We broke the VKR codes. They were authentic; I’ve seen too many variations not to know. I set up the contact. She responded. I sent the final transmission to the men in the boat offshore. They responded! Explain that!”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then get out!”

  The KGB officer looked at his watch. “I must, in any event. Time is up.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “We’re at an impasse,” said the Russian.

  “I’m not.”

  “No, I don’t think you are, and that compounds the risk about you. You know what you know and I know what I know. Impasse, whether you like it or not.”

  “Your time’s up, remember?”

  “I’m not forgetting. I don’t care to be caught in the cross fire. I’ll leave now.” Rostov went to the door and turned, his hand on the knob. “Several minutes ago you said the bait was too obvious, the stench too rotten. Tell that to Washington, priyatel. We’re not taking it either.”

  “Get out!”

  The door closed, and Havelock stood motionless for nearly a minute, picturing the Russian’s eyes. They had held too much truth in them. Over the years Michael had learned to discern the truth, especially in his enemies. Rostov had not been lying; he had spoken the truth as he believed it to be. Which meant that this powerful strategist for the KGB was being manipulated by his own people in Moscow. Pyotr Rostov was a blind probe—an influential intelligence officer sent out with information he is convinced his superiors do not have in order to make contact with the enemy and turn an American agent, recruiting him for the Soviets. The higher up the officer, the more credible his story—as long as he spoke the truth as he saw it, truth that was perceived as such by his enemy.

  Michael walked to the bedside table, where he had left the glass of whisky a half hour ago. He picked it up, drained the Scotch, and looked down at the bed. He smiled to himself, thinking how the evening had veered from where it had been heading thirty minutes ago. The whore had performed, but not in any way he might have expected. The sensuous courtesan from the playgrounds of the rich had been a setup. When were the setups going to stop? Amsterdam. Paris. Athens.

  Perhaps they would not stop. Until he did. Perhaps as long as he kept moving the would-be trappers would keep moving with him, watching him, cornering him, waiting for him to commit whatever crimes their imaginations led them to believe he would commit. It was in the movement itself that they found the ominous substance for their suspicions. No man wandered aimlessly after a lifetime of wandering under orders. If he kept it up, it had to mean he was following other orders, different orders; otherwise he’d stay put. Somewhere.

  Perhaps it was time he stopped. Maybe his odyssey of recovery had about run its course; there was a cable to be sent, a commitment to be made. A beginning. A nearly forgotten friend had become a friend again, and that man had offered him a new life, where the old life could be buried, where there were roots to cultivate, relationships to create, things to teach.

  What will you teach, Mikhail?

  Leave me alone! You are no part of me—you never were!

  He would send the cable to Harry Lewis in the morning, then rent a car and drive northwest to the ferry for the Adriatic port of Kérkira, where he would catch the boat to Brindisi in Italy. He had done it before under God knows what name or with what objective. He would do it now as Michael Havelock, visiting professor of government. From Brindisi he would take the circuitous train routes across Italy into Rome, a city he enjoyed immensely. He would stay in Rome for a week or two; it would be the last stop on his odyssey, the place where he would put to rest all thoughts of a life that was over.

  There were things to do in Concord, New Hampshire, U.S.A. He would assume his duties as visiting professor in something less than three months; in the meantime there were practicalities to be dealt with: lectures to be sketched out under the guidance of knowledgeable associates; curricula to study and evaluate, determining where his contributions might best be directed. A short visit, perhaps, with Matthias, who would certainly have insights to offer. No matter how pressed for time, Matthias would take the time, because, above all men, Anton would be happiest for him: his old student had returned to the campus. It was where it had all begun.

  So many things to do.

  He needed a place to live: a house, furniture, pots and pans and books, a chair to sit in, a bed to sleep in. Choices. He had not thought about such things ever before. He thought about them now and felt the excitement growing inside him.

  He went to the bureau, uncapped the Scotch and poured himself a drink. “Příteli,” he said softly, for no particular reason, as he looked at his face in the mirror. Suddenly he stared at his eyes and, in terror, slammed the glass down with such force that it shattered; blood spread slowly over his hand. His eyes would not let him go! And he understood. Had his own eyes seen the truth that night on the Costa Brava?

  “Stop it!” he screamed, whether silently or out loud, he could not tell. “It’s over!”

  Dr. Harry Lewis sat at his desk in his book-lined study, the cablegram in his hand. He listened for the sound of his wife’s voice. It came.

  “See you later, dear,” she called from the hallway beyond. The front door opened and closed. She was out of the house.

  Lewis picked up his telephone and dialed the area code 202. Washington, D.C. The seven digits that followed had been committed to memory, never written down. Nor would they be recorded on a bill, having bypassed the computers electronically.

  “Yes?” asked the male voice on the other end of the line.

  “Birchtree,” said Harry.

  “Go ahead, Birchtree. You’re being taped.”

  “He’s accepted. The cable came from Athens.”

  “Is there any change in dates?”

  “No. He’ll be here a month before the trimester starts.”

  “Did he say where he was going from Athens?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll watch the airports. Thank you, Birchtree.”

  The Rome Havelock had come to visit was not the Rome in which he cared to stay. Strikes were everywhere, the chaos compounded by volatile Italian tempers that erupted on every street corner, every picket line, in the parks and around the fountains. Mail had been strewn in gutters, adding to the uncollected garbage; taxis were scarce—practically nonexistent—and most of the restaurants had been closed because of the lack of deliveries. The poliziotti, having taken sufficient abuse, were on a work stoppage, snarling further the normal insanity of Rome’
s traffic, and since the telephones were part of the government’s postal service, they functioned on a level below normal, which made them damn near impossible. The city was full of a kind of hysteria, which was aggravated by yet another stern papal decree—from a foreigner, a polacco!—that was at odds with every progressive step since Vatican II. Giovanni Ventitreesimo! Dove sei?

  It was his second night, and Michael had left his pensions on the Via Due Macelli over two hours before, walking nearly the mile to the Via Flaminia Vecchia in hopes of finding a favorite restaurant open. It was not, and no amount of patience brought forth a taxi to bring him back to the Spanish Steps.

  Reaching the north end of the Via Veneto, he was heading toward the side street that would eliminate the crowds in the gaudy carnival that was the Veneto when he saw it—a poster in the lighted window of a travel agency proclaiming the glories of Venice.

  Why not? Why the hell not? The floating passivity of not planning included sudden changes in plans. He looked at his watch; it was barely eight-thirty, probably too late to get out to the airport and chance a reservation on a plane, but if he remembered correctly—and he did—the trains kept running Until midnight out of Rome. Why not a train? The lazy, circuitous trip from Brindisi by rail, passing through countrysides that had not changed in centuries, had been startlingly beautiful. He could pack his single suitcase in minutes, walk to the train station in twenty. Surely the money he was willing to pay would get him accommodations; if not, he could always return to the Via Due Macelli. He had paid for a week in advance.

  Forty-five minutes later Havelock passed through the huge portals of the massive Ostia Railroad station, built by Mussolini in the halcyon days of trumpets and drums and marching boots and trains that ran on time.

  Italian was not Michael’s best language, but he could read it well enough: Biglietto per Venezia. Prima classe. The line was short and his luck held. The famed Freccia della Laguna was leaving in eight minutes, and if the signore wished to pay the premium scale, he could have the finest accommodations by way of his own compartment He so wished, and as the clerk stamped his ornate ticket, he was told that the Freccia was leaving from binario trentasei, a dual platform several football fields away from the counter.

  “Fate presto, signore! Non perdete tempo! Fate in fretta!”

  Michael walked rapidly into the mass of rushing humanity, threading his way as fast as possible toward dual Track 36. As usual—as he recalled from memories past—the giant dome was filled with crowds. Screeching arrivals and wailing departures were joined in counterpoint; screamed epithets punctuated the deafening roar, because the porters, too, were obviously on strike. It took nearly five hectic minutes to shoulder his way through the huge stone arch and emerge on the double-track platform. It was, if possible, more chaotic than the station itself. A crowded train had arrived from the north as the Freccia della Laguna was about to depart. Freight dollies collided with hordes of embarking and disembarking passengers. It was a scene from a lower circle of Dante, screaming pandemonium.

  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!

  4

  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 wea
lthy 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.