The Parsifal Mosaic

  “Don’t change the rules, we’ve lived too long by them. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “You were always civilized, and I don’t understand any of this business. Why her? Why you?”

  “I wish to God I knew.”

  “That’s the key, isn’t it? Something you do know.”

  “If it is, I haven’t the vaguest idea what it could be. Good-bye, Gravet.”

  “Non, au revoir. I really don’t want the envelope, Mikhail. Come back to Paris. You owe me.” The distinguished critic turned and disappeared up the alley.

  There was no point in being evasive with Régine Broussac; she would sense the evasion instantly, the coincidence of timing being too unbelievable. On the other hand, to give her the advantage of naming the rendezvous was equally foolish; she would stake out the area with personnel the Quai d’Orsay had no idea were on its payroll. Broussac was tough, knowing when and when not to involve her government, and depending upon what Jenna had told her, she might consider any dealings with an unbalanced retired American field officer more suited to treatment by unofficial methods. There were no checks and balances in those methods; they were dangerous because there was no line of responsibility, only diverted monies that no one cared to acknowledge. Drones by any other names or payments were first cousins to the practitioners of violence—whether employed by Rome in Col des Moulinets or by a VKR officer in a cheap hotel on the Rue Etienne. All were essentially lethal, it was merely a question of degree, and all should be avoided unless one was the employer. Havelock understood; he had to get Broussac alone, and to do that, he had to convince her that he was not dangerous—to her—and might have information that could be extraordinarily valuable.

  An odd thought struck him as he descended the endless steps of Montmartre. He was talking to himself about the truth. He would tell her part of it, but not all of it Liars twisted the truth and she might listen to their version of the truth, not his.

  She was in the Paris telephone book. Rue Losserand.

  “… I’ve never given you wrong information and I’m not going to start tonight. But It’s out of sanction. Way out. So that you can judge just how far, use someone else’s name at the Quai d’Orsay and call the embassy. Ask about my status, directing the inquiry to the senior attaché of Consular Operations. Say I called you from somewhere in the South and wanted to set up a meeting. As an official of a friendly government, request instructions. I’ll call you back in ten minutes, not on this phone, of course.”

  “Of course. Ten minutes.”

  “Régtae?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember Bonn.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Havelock walked south to Berlioz Square, checking his watch frequently, knowing he would add an additional five to seven minutes beyond the stated ten. Stretching a callback under tension often exposed more than the recipient intended to reveal There was a cabine on the corner, a young woman inside screaming into the phone, gesturing frantically. In a fit of temper she slammed down the receiver and stalked out of the booth.

  “Vache!” exclaimed the angry girl as she passed Havelock, furiously adjusting the shoulder strap of her large purse.

  He opened the door and walked in; the extended stretch time had readied nine minutes. He made the call and listened.

  “Yes?” Broussac’s voice broke off the first ring. She was anxious; she had reached the embassy.

  “Did you speak to the attache?”

  “You’re late. You said ten minutes.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes. I’ll meet with you. Come to my flat as soon as you can.”

  “Sorry. I’ll call you back in a little while.”

  “Havelock!”

  He hung up and walked out of the booth, his eyes scanning the street for a vacant taxi.

  Twenty-five minutes later he was in another booth, the numbers indistinguishable in the shadows. He struck a match and dialed.

  “Yes!”

  “Take the Métro to the Bercy station, and walk up into the street. Several blocks down on the right is a row of warehouses. I’ll be in the area. Come alone, because I’ll know if you don’t. And if you don’t, I won’t show.”

  “This is ridiculous! A lone woman at night in Bercy!”

  “If there’s anyone around at this hour, I’ll warn him about you.”

  “Preposterous! What are you thinking of?”

  “A year ago in another street,” said Michael. “Of Bonn.” He lowered the phone into the cradle.

  The area was deserted, the row of warehouses dark, the streetlights dim, the wattage low by municipal decree. It was a favorable hour and location for a drop that entailed more than a pickup or an exchange of merchandise. A conversation could be held without the din of crowded streets or the jostling of impatient pedestrians, and unlike a café or a city park, there were few places where an unknown observer could conceal himself. The few residents who emerged from the lighted cavern of the Metro up the street could be watched—hesitation or sudden disappearance could be noted; a stray automobile could be seen blocks away. The complete advantage was found, of course, in being there at the rendezvous before it was established. He was; he left the booth and started across the Boulevard de Bercy.

  Two trucks were parked, one behind the other, at the curb in front of a loading platform. Their open-planked carriages were empty, stationary symbols of an early-morning call for the drivers. He would wait between the two vehicles, the sight lines in either direction clear. Régine Broussac would come; the agitated huntress, prodded and provoked, would be unable to resist the unexplained.

  Eleven separate times he heard the muted rumble of the underground trains and felt the vibrations in the concrete and earth beneath him. Starting with the sixth, he concentrated on the Métro’s entrance; she could not have arrived before it did. However, radio dispatch was commonplace and rapid; only minutes after the second call he had begun to study the street, the infrequent automobiles, the less frequent bicycles. He saw nothing that alarmed him, and the most insignificant intrusion would have done so.

  The twelfth rumble stopped, the faint vibrations still echoing underfoot, and by the time the below-ground thunder commenced again he could see her climbing up the steps; her short, broad figure emerging from the brighter light into the dimly lit street. A couple preceded her; Michael watched them carefully. They were elderly, older than Broussac, their pace slow and deliberate; they would be of no value to her. They turned left, around the squared iron latticework of the entrance, and away from the trucks and the warehouses; they were no part of a night unit. Régine continued forward with the hesitant stride of an apprehensive older woman aware of her vulnerability, her head turning slowly, reluctantly at each odd noise, real and imagined. She passed under a streetlight and Havelock remembered; her skin was as gray as her short-cropped hair, testimony to years of unacknowledged torments, yet her face was softened by wide blue eyes as often expressive as they were clouded. As she passed through the light into the shadows, Gravet’s words came back to Havelock: “Violence, pain, loss.” Régine Broussac had lived through it all and survived—quiet, wary, silently tough, and in no way beaten. She reveled in the secret, unseen powers her government had given her; it helped her get even. Michael understood; after all, she was one of them. A survivor.

  She came alongside him on the pavement. He called out softly from between the trucks, “Régine.”

  She stopped, standing motionless, her eyes straight ahead, not looking at him. She said, “Is it necessary to hold a weapon on me?”

  “I have no gun aimed at you. I have a gun, but it’s not in my hand.”

  “Bien!” Broussac spun around, her purse raised. An explosion blew a hole through the fabric, and the concrete and stone shattered beneath Havelock’s feet, fragments of rock and cement piercing his trousers, scraping his flesh. “For what you did to Jenna Karas!” shouted the woman, her face contorted. “Do not move! One step, one ges
ture, and I will put a hole in your throat!”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What have you done? Whom do you work for now?”

  “Myself, goddamn you! Myself and Jenna!” Havelock raised his hand, an instinctive move but no less a plea. It was not accepted.

  A second explosion came from the shattered purse, the bullet grazing his outer palm, ricocheting off the truck’s metal, whining out into the night.

  “Arrětez! I’d as soon deliver a corpse as a breathing body. Perhaps more so in your case, cochon.”

  “Deliver to whom?”

  “You said you would call me ‘in a little while’—were they not your words? Well, in a little while several colleagues of mine will be here, a time span I was willing to risk. In less than thirty minutes you would have felt secure; you would have shown yourself. When they arrive we’ll drive to a house out in the countryside where we shall have a session with you. Then we’ll give you to the Gabriel. They want you very badly. They called you dangerous, that’s all I had to know … with what I already knew.”

  “Not to you! I’m dangerous to them, not you!”

  “What do you take me for? Take us lot?”

  “You saw Jenna. You helped her—”

  “I saw her. I listened to her. I heard the truth.”

  “As she believes it, not as it is! Hear me! Listen to me!”

  “you’ll talk under the proper conditions. You know what they are as well as I do.”

  “I don’t need chemicals, you bitch! You won’t hear anything different!”

  “We’ll follow procedures,” said Broussac, removing her hand and the gun from the ruptured purse. “Move out of there,” she continued, gesturing with the weapon. “You’re standing in the shadows. I don’t like it.”

  Of course she didn’t like it, thought Havelock, watching the old woman blink her eyes. As with many aging people, it was clear that night was no friend to her vision. It accounted for her constantly moving head as she walked away from the lighted entrance of the Métro; she had been as concerned with the unexpected shadows as with sounds. He had to keep her talking, divert some part of her concentration.

  “You think the American embassy will tolerate what you’re doing?” said Michael, stepping out of the patterned shadow created by the slats of the open truck and the spill of the streetlamps.

  “There’ll be no international incident; we had no alternative but to sedate you. In their words, you’re dangerous.”

  “They won’t accept that and you know it.”

  “They’ll have little choice. The Gabriel has been alerted that a situation of extreme abnormality exists in which a former American intelligence officer—a specialist in clandestine activities—may be attempting to compromise an official of the Quai d’Orsay. The anticipated confrontation will take place twenty miles from Paris, near Argenteuil, and the Americans are requested to have a vehicle with armed personnel in the vicinity. A radio frequency has been established. We will turn over an American problem to the Americans once we learn the nature of the extortion. We protect the interests of our government. Perfectly acceptable, even generous.”

  “Christ, you’re thorough.”

  “Very. I’ve known men like you. And women; we used to shave their heads. I despise you.”

  “Because of what she told you?”

  “Like you, I know when I’ve heard the truth. She did not lie.”

  “I agree. Because she believes it all—just as I did. And I was wrong—God, was I wrong—just as she’s wrong now. We were used, both of us used.”

  “By your own people? For what purpose?”

  “I don’t know!”

  She was listening, her concentration beginning to split. She could not help herself, the unexplored was too compelling.

  “Why do you think I reached you?” he asked. “For Christ’s sake, if I had the leverage to find you, I could have bypassed you! I don’t need you, Régine. I could have learned what I wanted to learn without you. I called you because I trusted you!”

  Broussac blinked, the gray flesh around her eyes wrinkling in thought. “You’ll have your chance to talk—under the proper conditions.”

  “Don’t do this!” cried Michael, taking a short step forward. She did not fire; she did not move her gun. “You’ve set it in motion; you’ll have to turn me over! They know it’s me and you’ll be forced to. Your friends’ll insist. They’re not going to go down with you, no matter what you hear from me—under proper conditions!”

  “Why should we go down?”

  “Because the embassy is being Bed to. By people way the hell up!”

  The old woman’s eyes now blinked rapidly as she flinched. She had not fired when he moved only seconds ago.

  Now!

  Havelock lunged forward, his right arm extended, rigid, as straight as an iron bar, his left hand under his wrist. He made contact with the gun, sweeping it aside as a third explosion broke the silence of the deserted street. With his left hand he grabbed the barrel and ripped it out of her grip, then slammed her against the wall of the warehouse.

  “Cochon! Traître!” screamed Broussac, her face twisted. “kill me! You’ll learn nothing from me!”

  He held his forearm across her throat—in agony from the wound in his shoulder—as he pressed her head back into the brick, the weapon in his hand. “What I want can’t be forced from you, Régine,” he said, while gasping for breath. “Don’t you understand? It has to be given.”

  “Nothing! Which terroristes bought you? Meinhof cowards? Arab pigs? Israeli fanatics? Brigate Rosse? Who wants what you can sell?… She knew. She found out! And you must kill her! kill me first, betrayer!”

  Slowly Havelock released the pressure of his arm and, slower still, he moved his body away from hers. He knew the risk; he did not take it lightly. On the other hand, he knew Régine Broussac. After all, she was one of them; she had survived. He removed his arm and stood in front of her, his eyes steady, looking into hers.

  “I’ve betrayed no one except myself,” he began. “And through myself a person I love very much. I meant what I said. I can’t force you to tell me what I have to know. Among other things, you could lie to me too easily, too successfully, and I’d be back where I was ten days ago. I won’t do that. If I can’t find her, if I can’t have her back, perhaps it doesn’t matter. I know what I did and it’s killing me. I love her … I need her. I think we both need each other more than anything eke in the world just now. We’re all each other has left But I’ve learned something about futility over the years.” He raised the gun in his left hand, taking the barrel with his right. He held it out to her. “You’ve fired three times; there are four shells left.”

  Broussac stood still, staring at him, studying his face, his eyes. She took the weapon and leveled it at his head, her own eyes questioning, roaming his. Finally her grimacing features softened, astonishment replacing hostility. Slowly she lowered the gun.

  “C’est incroyable,” she whispered. “This is the truth, then.”

  “The truth.”

  Régine looked at her watch. “Vite! We must leave. They’ll be here in minutes; they’ll search everywhere.”

  “Where to? There are no taxis—”

  “The Méro. We’ll take it to the Rochereau. There’s a small park where we can talk.”

  “What about your team? What’ll you tell them?”

  “That I was testing their alertness,” she said, taking his arm as they started up the pavement toward the lighted entrance of the underground train. “That I wanted to see how they would react in a given situation. It’s consistent: it’s late, they’re off duty, and I’m a bitch.”

  “You’ve still got the embassy.”

  “I know, I was thorough. I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Maybe I never showed up,” said Havelock, rubbing his shoulder, grateful that the pain was receding.

  “Merci.”

  The vest-pocket park in Denfert Rochereau was a plot of
grass dotted with stone benches, sculptured trees and a graveled path circling a small pool with a fountain in its center. The only source of light was a streetlamp thirty feet away, its spill filtered by the branches of the trees. They sat beside each other on the cold bench. Michael told Broussac what he had seen—and what he had not seen—at the Costa Brava. He then had to ask the question. “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “She was warned, told to follow instructions.”

  “By whom?”

  “A high government official from Washington.”

  “How could she accept him?”

  “He was brought to her by a man identified as the senior attaché from Madrid’s Consular Operations.”

  “Consular … Madrid? Where was I?”

  “Madrid.”

  “Jesus, right down to the hour!”

  “What was?”

  “The whole goddamned thing. What instructions was she given?”

  “To meet a man that night and leave Barcelona with him.”

  “Did she?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She panicked. In her words, everything had collapsed for her. She didn’t feel she could trust anyone. She ran.”

  “Thank God. I don’t know who was killed on that beach, but it was meant to be Jenna. In a way, it makes the whole thing even more obscene. Who was she? Someone who didn’t know a damn thing? A woman brought there and told to chase a Frisbee in the moonlight, suddenly shot at, knowing she was going to die? Christ, what kind of people one they?”

  “Find out through Madrid. The attaché from Consular Operations.”

  “I can’t She was fed another lie. There’s no Cons Op unit in Madrid; the climate’s too rotten. It operates an hour away out of Lisbon.”

  Régine was silent, her eyes on him. “What’s happening, Michael?”

  Havelock watched the fountain in the dark pool. Its cascading spray was diminishing, folding, dying; somewhere a hand was turning a dial, shutting it off for the remainder of the night. “Liars are operating at very high places in my government. They’ve penetrated areas I used to think were impenetrable. They’re controlling, killing—lying. And someone in Moscow is working with them.”