The Parsifal Mosaic

  “That’s why I’m so sure Ogilvie will bring him in,” said Stern. “I’m not in Paul’s line of work, but I think I know what’s going through Red’s mind. He’s offended, deeply offended. He’s watched friends the in the field—from Africa to Istanbul—unable to do anything because of his cover. He saw a wife and three children leave him because of his job; he hasn’t seen his kids in five years. Now he’s got to live with what he’s got—die from what he’s got. All things considered, if he stays on track, what gives Havelock the right, the privilege, to go over the edge? Our Apache’s on his last hunt, setting his last trap. He’ll see it through because he’s angry.”

  “That and one other thing,” said the psychiatrist “There’s nothing else left for him. It’s his final justification.”

  “For what?” asked the lawyer.

  “The pain,” answered Miller. “His and Havelock’s. You see, he respected him once. He can’t forget that.”

  8

  The unmarked jet swept down from the skies forty miles due north of the airport of Palombara Sabina. It had flown from Brussels, avoiding all military and commercial air routes, and soaring over the Alps east of the Lepontine sector; its altitude was so great and its descent so rapid that the probability of observation was practically nonexistent. Its blip on defense radar screens was prearranged: it would appear and disappear without comment, without investigation. And when it landed at Palombara, it would bring in a man who had been taken on board secretly at three o’clock in the morning, Brussels time. A man without a conventional name, referred to only as the Apache. This man, as with many like him, could not risk the formalities of identification at immigration desks or border checkpoints. Appearances might be altered and names changed, but other men watched such places, knowing what to look for, their minds trained to react like memory banks; too often they were successful. For the Apache—as for many like him—the current means of travel was more the norm than otherwise.

  The engines were cut back as the pilot—trained in carrier landings—guided his aircraft over the forests in the stretched-out, low approach to the field. It was a mile-long black strip cut out of the woods, with maintenance hangars and traffic towers set back and camouflaged, odd yet barely visible intrusions on the countryside. The plane touched down, and the young pilot turned in his seat as the reverse thrust of the jets echoed throughout the small cabin. He raised his voice to be heard, addressing the red-haired middle-aged man behind him.

  “Here we are, Indian. You can take out your bow and arrows.”

  “Funny boy,” said Ogilvie, releasing the clamp that held the strap across his chest. He looked at his watch. “What’s the time here? I’m still on a Washington clock.”

  “Oh-five-fifty-seven; you’ve lost six hours. You’re working on midnight, but here it’s morning. If you’re expected at the office, I hope you got some sleep.”

  “Enough. Is transport arranged?”

  “Right to the big chief’s wigwam on the Via Vittorio.”

  “Very cute. The embassy?”

  “That’s right You’re a special package. Delivery guaranteed straight from Brussels.”

  “That’s wrong. The embassy’s out.”

  “We’ve got our orders.”

  “I’m issuing new ones.”

  Ogilvie walked into the small office reserved for men like himself in the maintenance building of the unmapped airfield. It was a room devoid of windows, with only basic furniture; there were two telephones, both routed perpetually through electronic scrambler systems. The outside corridor that led to the office was guarded by three men dressed innocuously in overalls. Under the bulging fabric, however, each carried a weapon, and should any unidentified persons interfere with the incoming passenger or the presence of a camera even be suspected, the weapons would be bared, used instantly if necessary. These accommodations were the result of extraordinary conferences between unknown men of both governments whose concerns transcended the stated limits of covert cooperation; quite simply, they were necessary.

  Governments everywhere were being threatened from without and within, from fanatics of the left and the right committed solely to the destruction of the status quo. Fanaticism fed upon itself, upon sensationalism, upon the spectacular interruption of normal activity; clandestine access had to be given those who fought the extremists in any form. It was presumed that those who passed through Palombara were such fighters, and the current passenger knew beyond any doubt that he was one. Unless he brought in a rogue agent, a dangerous paranoid whose mind held the secret histories of a thousand untold intelligence operations going back sixteen years, that man could destroy alliances and networks throughout Europe. Sources would disappear, potential sources evaporate. Michael Havelock had to be found and taken; no terrorist could inflict greater damage.

  Ogilvie walked to the desk, sat down, and picked up the telephone on his left; it was black, signifying domestic use. He dialed the number he had committed to memory, and twelve seconds later the sleepy voice of Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence Baylor Brown was on the line.

  “Brown. What is it?”

  “Baylor Brown?”

  “Apache?”

  “Yes. I’m at Palombara. Have you heard anything?”

  “Not a word. I’ve got tracers out all over Rome; there’s not a line on him.”

  “You’ve got what?”

  “Tracers. Every source we can pay or who owes us a favor—”

  “Goddamn it, call them off! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Hey, easy, buddy. I don’t think we’re going to get along.”

  “And I don’t give a duck’s fuck whether we do or not! You’re not dealing with a G-two crossword puzzle; he’s a snake, buddy. You let him find out you’re going after him, he figures you’ve broken the rules. And he will find out; that’s when he bites. Jesus, you think he’s never been traced before?”

  “You think I don’t know my tracers?” countered Baybr angrily, defensively.

  “I think we’d better talk.”

  “Come on in, then,” said the colonel.

  “That’s another thing,” replied Ogilvie. “The embassy’s out.”

  “Why?”

  “Among other things, he could be in a window across the street.”

  “So?”

  “He knows I’d never show up in-territory. KGB cameras operate around the clock, aimed at every entrance.”

  “He doesn’t even know you’re coming,” protested Baylor. “Or who you are.”

  “He will when you tell him.”

  “A name, please?” said the army officer testily.

  “Apache’ll do for now.”

  “That’ll mean something to him?”

  “It will.”

  “It doesn’t to me.”

  “It’s not supposed to.”

  “We’re definitely not going to get along.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Since you won’t come in, where do we meet?”

  “The Borghese. In the gardens. I’ll find you.”

  “That’ll be easier than my finding you.”

  “You’re wrong, Baylor.”

  “About that?”

  “No. I think we will get along.” Ogilvie paused briefly. “Make it two hours from now. Our target may try to reach you by then.”

  “Two hours.”

  “And, Baylor?”

  “What?”

  “Call off those duck-fucking tracers, buddy.”

  The month of March was not kind to the Borghese. The chill of the Roman winter, mild as the winter was, still lingered, inhibiting the budding of flowers and the full explosion of the gardens that in spring and summer formed rows and circles of dazzling colors. The myriad paths that led through the tall pines toward the great museum seemed just a little dirty, the green of the pine trees tired, dormant. Even the benches that lined the narrow foot roads were layered with dust. A transparent film had descended over the park that was the Villa Borg
hese; it would disappear with the April rains, but for now the lifelessness of March remained.

  Ogilvie stood by the thick trunk of an oak tree on the border of the gardens behind the museum. It was too early for any but a few students and fewer tourists; a scattering of these strolled along the paths waiting for the guards to open the doors that led to the Casino Borghese’s treasures. The former field man, now in the field again, looked at his watch, wrinkles of annoyance spreading across his deeply lined face. It was nearly twenty minutes to nine; the army intelligence officer was over a half hour late. Ogilvie’s irritation was directed as much at himself as toward Baylor. In his haste to veto his going to the embassy as well as making it clear that he was the control and no one else, he had chosen a poor rendezvous and he knew it. So would the colonel, if he thought about it; perhaps he had, perhaps that was why he was late. The Borghese at this hour was too quiet, too remote, with far too many shadowed recesses from which those who might follow either of them could observe their every move, every word, visually and electronically. Ogilvie silently swore at himself; it was no way to initiate his authority. The attaché-conduit had probably taken a circuitous, change-of-vehicle route, employing frequency scanners in hopes of exposing and thus losing presumed surveillance. KGB cameras were trained on the embassy; the colonel had been put in a difficult situation thanks to an abrasive source from Washington enigmatically called Apache. A cover from the back of a cereal box.

  The enigma was there, but not the foolishness, not the cereal box. Seven years ago in Istanbul two undercover field men, code names Apache and Navajo, nearly lost their lives trying to prevent a KGB assassination on the Mesrutiyet. They had failed, and in the process Navajo had been cornered on the deserted Ataturk at four o’clock in the morning, KGB killer teams at both entrances. It was a total-loss situation until Apache sped across the bridge in a stolen car, screeching to a stop by the pedestrian alley, shouting at his associate to climb in or get his head blown off. Ogilvie had then raced through a fusillade of gunfire, receiving a graze wound at his temple and two bullets in his right hand while breaking through the thunderous early-morning barricade. The man called Navajo seven years ago would not readily forget Apache. Without him Michael Havelock would have died in Istanbul. Ogilvie counted on that memory.

  Snap. Behind him. He turned; a black hand was held up in front of him, the black face beyond the hand immobile, eyes wide and steady staring at him. Baylor shook his head sharply twice, bringing his index finger to his lips. Then slowly, moving closer and pulling both of them behind the tree trunk and the foliage, the army officer gestured toward the south garden, at the rear entrance of the stone museum. About forty yards away a man in a dark suit was glancing about, his expression indecisive, as he moved first in one direction, then in another, unable to choose a path. In the distance there were three rapid blasts of a high-pitched automobile horn, followed by the gunning of an engine. Startled, the man stopped, then broke into a run toward the direction of the intruding sounds and disappeared beyond the east wall of the Borghese.

  “This is one dumb location,” said the colonel, checking his watch.

  “That horn was yours?” asked Ogilvie.

  “It’s parked by the Veneto gates. It was near enough to be heard; that was all that mattered.”

  “Sorry,” said the former field man quietly. “It’s been a long time. I don’t usually make mistakes like this. The Borghese was always crowded.”

  “No sweat. And I’m not sure it was a mistake.”

  “Let the needle out. Don’t stick me with kindness.”

  “You’re not reading me. Your feelings aren’t any concern of mine. I’ve never been put under KGB surveillance before—not that I know of. Why now?”

  Ogilvie smiled; he was the control, after all. “You put out the tracers. I think I mentioned that.”

  The black officer was silent, his dark eyes aware. “Then I’m finished in Rome,” he said finally.

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe. I’m finished, anyway. It’s why I’m late.”

  “He reached you.” The red—haired agent made the statement softly.

  “With full artillery and I’m the first who’ll be exposed. He picked up the Karas woman’s trail and followed her to the port of Civitavecchia, where she got out. He won’t say how or on what ship. It was a trap; he waded through and reversed it, targeting the man responsible—a small—time operator on the docks. Havelock broke him, and what he learned—what he thinks he learned—has turned him into a stockpile of nitro.”

  “What is it?”

  “Double programming. Same tactic supposedly employed with him. She was sandbagged against him by us.”

  “How?”

  “By someone convincing her he’d gone over to the Soviets, that he was going to kill her.”

  “That’s a crock of shit.”

  “I’m only repeating what he said—what he was told. All things considered, it’s not without logic. It would explain a lot. The KGB’s got some pretty fair actors; they could have put on a performance for her. It’s sound strategy. He’s out and she’s running. A productive team neutralized.”

  “I mean the whole thing’s a crock of shit,” countered Ogilvie. “There is no Jenna Karas; she died on a beach called Montebello on the Costa Brava. And she was KGB—a deep-cover VKR field officer. No mistakes were made, but even that doesn’t matter now. The main point is she’s dead.”

  “He doesn’t believe it; when you talk to him you may not, either. I’m not sure I do.”

  “Havelock believes what he wants to believe, what he has to believe. I’ve heard the medical terms, and reduced to our language, he’s gone over the edge. He crosses back and forth between what is and what isn’t, but fundamentally he’s gone.”

  “He’s damned convincing.”

  “Because he’s not lying. That’s part of it. He saw what he saw.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “But he couldn’t have; that’s also part of it. His vision’s distorted. When he goes over, he doesn’t see with his eyes, only his head, and that’s damaged.”

  “You’re convincing too.”

  “Because I’m not lying and my head’s not damaged.” Ogilvie reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He extracted one and lit it with an old, tarnished Zippo purchased a quarter of a century ago. “Those are the facts, Colonel. You can fill in the blank spaces, but the bottom line’s firm. Havelock’s got to be taken.”

  “That won’t be so easy. He may be running around in his own foggy tunnels, but he’s not an amateur. He may not know where he’s going, but he’s survived in the field for sixteen years. He’s smart, defensive.”

  “We’re aware of that. It’s the reality part. You told him I was here, didn’t you?”

  “I told him a man named Apache was here.” The army officer paused.

  “Well?”

  “He didn’t like it Why you?”

  “Why not me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like you.”

  “He owes me.”

  “Maybe that’s your answer.”

  “What are you, a psychologist? Or a lawyer?”

  “A little of both,” said the colonel. “Constantly. Aren’t you?”

  “Right now I’m just annoyed. What the hell are you driving at?”

  “Havelock’s reaction to you was very quick, very vocal. ‘So they sent the Gunslinger,’ he said. Is that your other name?”

  “Kid stuff. A bad joke.”

  “He didn’t sound amused. He’s going to call at noon with instructions for you.”

  “At the embassy?”

  “No. I’m to take a room at the Excelsior. You’re to be there with me; you’re to get on the phone.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Ogilvie sucked breath through his teeth.

  “That’s a problem?”

  “He knows where I am but I don’t know where he is. He can watch me but I can’t watch him.”


  “What difference does it make? He’s obviously willing to meet you. In order to take him, you’ve got to meet with him.”

  “You’re the new boy on the block, Colonel, no offense intended. He’s forcing my hand at the top.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll need two men—Italians, preferably, as inconspicuous as possible—to follow me when I leave the hotel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he could take me?” said the former field man reflectively. “From behind. On any crowded sidewalk. There isn’t a jump he doesn’t know.… A man collapses in the street, a friend helps him to a nearby car. Both Americans, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “That presumes I won’t be with you. still, I’m the conduit. I could make a case for my being there.”

  “Definitely the new boy; he’d head for Cairo. And if yon tried to keep me in sight, I have an idea he’d spot you. No—”

  “Offense intended.… There are drawbacks.… I’ll get you your cover.” The officer paused again, then continued, “But not two men. I think a couple would be better.”

  “That’s good. You’ve got possibilities, Colonel.”

  “I’ve also got a recommendation to make that I’ll deny if it’s ever ascribed to me. And considering that sobriquet Gunslinger, I don’t think I’d have any difficulty saying I heard it from you.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it myself.”

  “I’m responsible for a large territory in this area of operations. The work I do for the Pentagon and State gets compounded; it’s unavoidable. I need a favor, or someone needs one from us, so the circle quietly grows bigger, even if we’ve never met each other.”

  “I hate to repeat myself,” interrupted Ogilvie, “but what the hell are you driving at now?”

  “I have a lot of friends out there. Men and women who trust me, trust my office. If I have to go, I’d like the office to remain intact, of course, but there’s something more basic. I don’t want those friends—known and unknown—to get hurt, and Havelock could hurt them. He’s worked Italy, the Adriatic, the Ligurian—from Trieste across the borders, along the northern coast all the way to Gibraltar. He could provoke reprisals. I don’t think one messed—up retired field man is worth it.”