The Parsifal Mosaic

  Michael watched, fascinated and revolted, as he always was when observing the effect of these chemicals on a human being. He had to remind himself that this killer had brutally taken the lives of men and women less than three hours ago—his own people and others, the guilty and the totally innocent How many would mourn for them and never understand? And how many were laid at the feet of one Michael Havelock, courtesy of Anton Matthias? Two career officers, a young staff doctor, a younger nurse, a man named Randolph, whose only crime was to try to right a terrible wrong.

  Futility.

  “He’s about ready now,” said Taylor, studying the filmy, partially closed eyes of the prisoner, whose movements had contracted into slow, weaving motions, accompanied by moans.

  “You must be happy in your work, Doctor.”

  “I was always a nosy kid,” answered the red-haired man, gently removing the striped tie from the traveler’s mouth. “Besides, someone’s got to do it, and Big Uncle paid for my medical degree. My old man couldn’t swing a bucket of suds in Paddy O’Rourke’s saloon. I’ll pay my debt and get out.”

  Havelock could not think of a reply any less tasteless than his comment, so he leaned over the bed as Taylor backed away. “May I begin?” he asked.

  “Talk, he’s your crossword puzzle.”

  “Orders,” began Michael, his hand on the headboard, his lips near the traveler’s ear, his voice firm, steady, low. “Orders, orders, orders. None of us can move without our orders! But we have to be certain, we can’t make a mistake. Who can dear our orders, clear our orders now?”

  The prisoner’s head moved back and forth, his mouth alternately opening and closing, stretching the bruised flesh. But no sound came.

  “It’s an emergency,” continued Havelock. “Everybody knows it’s an emergency … an emergency. We’ve got to hurry, hurry … hurry up.”

  “Hurry … hurry up.” The whisper emerged, tentative, uncertain.

  “But how can we be sure?” Michael raced on. “We have to be certain.”

  “The flight … the flight was smooth. We heard it twice. That’s all we have to know. The flight … smooth.”

  “Of course. A smooth flight. We’re all right now. We can hurry.… Now, let’s float back … before the emergency. Relax. Sleep.”

  “Very good,” said the doctor from across the dimly lit, squalid room. “You centered him as quickly as I’ve ever seen it done. That was a response.”

  “It wasn’t difficult,” replied Havelock, rising from the bed and studying the traveler. “Since he was given his orders he’s had three things on his mind. Emergency, speed and clearance. His instructions were to kill—an extreme order, also a dangerous one—so clearance was vital. You heard him, he had to hear it twice.”

  “The code was a ‘smooth flight.’ He gave it to you, and now you’ll give it back to him. You’re closer.”

  “And you’re no amateur, Doctor. Get me a chair, will you? I’ve also got speed and emergency on my mind. Things may get rough.” Taylor brought a straight-backed chair over to the bed; Michael sat down; the chair was unsteady but serviceable. He leaned forward, arms on the edge of the bed, and spoke again to the bound man. “We have a smooth flight … a smooth flight … a very smooth flight! Now, kill your partner!”

  The traveler whipped his head to the right, his clouded eyes blinking, lips moving—protest without sound.

  “You heard me!” shouted Havelock. “We have a smooth flight, so kill him!”

  “What …? Why?” The whispered words were guttural.

  “Are you married? Tell me, since we’re on a smooth flight, are you married?”

  “Yes … yes, married.”

  “Kill your wife?”

  “Why?”

  “We’re on a smooth flight! How can you refuse?”

  “Why … why?”

  “Kill your partner! Kill your wife! Do you have children?”

  “No!” The traveler’s eyes widened, the glaze within on fire. “You could never ask … never!”

  “I do! A smooth flight! What more do you need?”

  “Clearance. I demand clearance! I … must have it!”

  “From where? From whom? I’ve already told you. We’re on a smooth flight! That’s it!”

  “Please … ! Me, kill me. I’m … confused!”

  “Why are you confused? You heard my orders, just as you heard the orders for today. Did I give you those orders?”

  “No.”

  “No? You don’t remember? If not me, who?”

  “The trip … the smooth flight. The … control.”

  “The control?”

  “The source.”

  “The source control! Your source control. I am your source control! Kill your partner! Kill your wife! Kill the children! All the children!”

  “I … I. You can’t ask me … please don’t ask me.”

  “I don’t ask. I demand, I give orders! Do you want to sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t sleep!” Michael turned his head and spoke to Taylor, his voice soft, barely audible. “How long will the dose last?”

  “The way you’re eating it up, half the normal time. Another ten minutes, tops.”

  “Prepare another. I’m taking him up.”

  “It’ll blow him into space.”

  “He’ll come down.”

  “You’re the doctor,” said the doctor.

  “I am your source control!” shouted Havelock, getting out of the chair, leaning over the traveler’s face. “You have no one else, paminyatchik! You will do as I tell you, and only what I tell you! Now, your partner, your wife, the children …”

  “Ahhh …!” The scream was prolonged, a cry beyond helplessness.

  “I’ve only begun …”

  The bound, narcotized killer strained against the leather and the cloth, body and features twisted, his mind in a labyrinth of terror, with sacrifice demanded upon sacrifice, pain upon pain, no way out of the impossible maze.

  “Now,” said Havelock to the doctor beside him.

  Taylor plunged the hypodermic needle into the traveler’s arm; the reaction was there in moments, drug accelerating drug. The screams turned into animal screeches, saliva flowing from the killer’s mouth—violence the only answer to violence.

  “Give it to me!” yelled Michael. “Prove it to me! Or be killed with everyone else! Partner, wife, children … you all die unless you can prove yourself to me. Right now, this moment! … What is the code for your source control?”

  “Hammer-zero-two! You know it!”

  “Yes, I know it. Now tell me, where can I be reached—don’t lie!”

  “Don’t know … don’t know! I’m called … we’re all called.”

  “When you want clearance! When you have information to deliver. How do you reach me when you want clearance, when you have information that has to be relayed.”

  “Tell them … need it. We all do. Everyone.”

  “Who?”

  “Orphan. Reach … Orphan.”

  “Orphan?”

  “Ninety-six.”

  “Orphan-ninety-six? Where is he? Where?”

  “O … r … p … h …” The final scream was shattering. The traveler thrashed his full strength and weight against the belts and broke one, which freed his left arm, as he lunged up, then arched his back in a spasm and fell unconscious over the far side of the bed.

  “He’s had it,” said Taylor, reaching across Havelock and holding the prisoner’s wrist in his fingers. “His pulse is a jackhammer; it’ll be eight hours before he can sustain another jolt. Sorry—Doctor.”

  “It’s all right, Doctor,” said Michael, walking away from the bed and reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “We could have done worse. You’re a hell of a good chemist.”

  “I don’t consider it my life’s work.”

  “If it weren’t right now, you might not have—” Havelock stopped to light a cigarette.

  “What?”

&
nbsp; “Nothing. I meant you might not have time for a drink, but I do.”

  “Sure, I do. I’ll get Boris here down to a clinic.”

  “Boris?… You know?”

  “Enough to know he’s not a Boy Scout.”

  “That’s the funny thing. He probably was.”

  “Tell me,” asked the red-haired doctor, “would a source control order him to do that? Kill his wife and kids, people that close to him?”

  “Never. Moscow wouldn’t risk it. These people are like robots, but it’s blood inside, not oil. They’re monitored continuously, and if the KGB wants them taken out, an execution squad is sent in to do it. A normal family is part of the cover; if’s also a powerful secondary hook. If a man’s ever tempted, he knows what will happen.”

  “You used it the same way, didn’t you? Only in reverse.”

  “I’m not wildly proud of the accomplishment, but yes.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Paddy O’Rourke,” muttered the doctor.

  Michael watched as Taylor reached for the bedside phone to issue his instructions through Bethesda Central. The telephone. Orphan-96. “Wait a minute!” Michael cried suddenly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Let me use that phone!” Havelock rushed to the table, picked up the telephone and dialed, saying aloud as he did so, “O-r-p-h-a-n … nine-six.”

  “Operator,” said the female voice on the line.

  “What?”

  “Is this a collect call, billed to a credit card, or to another number?”

  “Credit card,” Michael stared at the wall to remember his untraceable, State-assigned number. He gave it to the operator and heard the subsequent ringing.

  “Good evening and thank you for calling the Voyagers Emporium, luggage for the sophisticated globe-trotter. If you’ll state the numbered item or items from our catalog you wish to purchase, you will be connected to the proper representative in our twenty-four-hour service department.”

  Havelock replaced the phone. He needed another code; it would be found in a clinic. It had to be found.… We all do. Everyone … Ambiguity was at the end of that code.

  “Anything?” asked the bewildered Taylor.

  “That’ll be up to you, Doctor. Ever heard of the Voyagers Emporium? I don’t know it, but then, for years I’ve bought most of my stuff in Europe.”

  “The Voyagers? Sure, they’ve got branches all over the place. They’re the Tiffany of the luggage business. My wife bought one of those carry-on bags, and I swear to God when I got the bill I thought she’d picked up a car. They’re first—class.”

  “They’re also a KGB proprietary. That’s what you’re going to work on. Whatever your schedule is, scratch it. I want you down at the clinic with our globe-trotter here. We need another series of numbers. Just one more set.”

  There was a sound of heavy footsteps outside the cabin, followed by a harsh rapping on the door.

  “What is it?” asked Havelock, loud enough to be heard outside.

  “Sterile Five, you’re wanted. Urgent call over the state police radio. You’re to be taken to the airfield pronto.”

  “On my way.” Havelock turned to Taylor. “Make your arrangements. Stay with it—with him. I’ll be in touch. Sorry about the drink.”

  “So’s Paddy O’Rourke.”

  “Who the hell is Paddy O’Rourke?”

  “A little man who sits on my shoulder and tells me not to think too much.”

  Michael climbed into the marine helicopter as the giant overhead blades thundered and the pilot beckoned him forward to the flight deck.

  “There’s a patch phone back there!” shouted the pilot. “It’ll be quieter when the hatch is closed. Well put your call through.”

  “Who is it?”

  “We’ll never know!” yelled the radioman, turning from his console against the bulkhead. “Our link is filtered. We’re by passed.”

  The heavy metal door was electronically swung into place, shutting out the spill of the airfield’s searchlights and reducing the thunder of the rotors to a muffled roar. Havelock crouched in the flashing darkness and gripped the phone, holding it to his right ear, his free hand covering the other. The voice that came last on the line was that of the President of the United States.

  “You’re being flown directly to Andrews Air Force Base to meet with Arthur Pierce.”

  “What’s happened, sir?”

  “He’s on his way to Poole’s Island with the vault specialist, but wants to talk with you first. He’s a frightened man, and I don’t think he frightens easily.”

  “The Soviets?”

  “Yes. He can’t tell whether they bought his story or not. They listened to him in silence, nodded and showed him the door. He has an idea that during the past eighteen hours they’ve learned something major, something they won’t talk about—something that could blow everything apart. He warned them not to make any precipitous moves without communication at the highest levels.”

  “What was their response?”

  “Deadly. ‘Look to yourselves,’ they said.”

  “They’ve got something. Pierce knows his enemy.”

  “In the last extremity, we’ll be forced to parade Matthias—hoping to deter a launch, no guarantee that it will. I don’t have to tell you what it will mean—we’ll be a government of lepers, never trusted again. If we’re on the map.”

  “What can I do? What does Pierce want?”

  “All you’ve got, everything you’ve learned. He’s trying to find something, anything, he can use as a lever. Every hour he can present a countercharge and prevent escalation, every day he can buy us, is a day for you. You are making progress?”

  “Yes. We know the Ambiguity connection now, where he sends and receives. By midmorning we should learn just how he does it, through whom. When we do we’ll find him.”

  “Then you could be a step away from Parsifal.”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t want to hear that! I want to hear ‘yes.’ ”

  “yes, Mr. President.” Havelock paused, thinking about the few, brief words they needed to break the Voyagers code. They would be heard and recorded in a clinic. “I believe it.”

  “You wouldn’t say it otherwise, thank God. Get down to Pierce. Give him everything you’ve got. Help him!”

  35

  The intersecting runways were lined with amber airstrip lamps, and the beams of searchlights crisscrossed and penetrated the dense cloud cover as routine patrols and check-out flights soared off into the night sky and swooped down from the darkness onto the floodlit open field. Andrews was a vast, guarded military city unto itself. The activity was intense both on the field and off. As headquarters of the U.S. Air Force Systems Command, it had responsibilities as far-ranging as they were endless. For thousands there was no such thing as day or night—merely duty hours and assignments. Banks of computers in a dozen buildings coexisted with the constant flow of expertise from the human interpreters, all forming Judgments that affected NORAD, CONAD, the DEW line stations and SAG. The base occupied some forty-four hundred acres east of the Potomac and west of Chesapeake Bay, but its interests circled the globe, its purpose being the defense of the North American continent.

  The marine helicopter was given clearance to enter a low-altitude pattern and set down on a pad north of the main field. Searchlights caught them a quarter of a mile away from ground zero as radar, radio and a pilot’s sharp eyes eased them into the threshold from which they could make the vertical descent. Among the instructions radioed from the control tower was a message for Sterile Five. A jeep would be standing by to take Havelock to a runway on the south perimeter. It would wait there until his business was concluded and return him to the helicopter.

  Havelock climbed out of the hatch and jumped to the ground. The damp chill of the air was accentuated by the rushing wash of the decelerating rotors, and as he walked rapidly away from it he pulled the lapels of his topcoat around his throat, wishing he had worn a hat—but th
en he remembered that the only hat he owned at the moment was a ragged knit cap that he’d left somewhere down on Poole’s Island.

  “Sir! Sir!” The shout came from Michael’s left, beyond the tall assembly of the helicopter. It was the driver of the jeep, the vehicle itself barely visible in the shadows between the blinding, arcing lights of the pad.

  Havelock ran over as the sergeant behind the wheel started to get out as a gesture of courtesy. “Forget it,” said Michael, approaching the side panel, his hand on the windshield frame. “I didn’t see you,” he added, stepping over and lowering himself into the seat.

  “Those were my instructions,” explained the air force non-com. “Stay out of sight as much as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask the man who gives the orders, sir. I’d say he’s careful, and since nobody’s got a name, I don’t ask questions.”

  The jeep shot forward, expertly maneuvered by the driver onto a narrow asphalt road fifty yards east of the helicopter pad. He turned left and accelerated; the road virtually circled the massive field, passing lighted buildings and enormous parking lots—flickering black structures and dark, spacious blurs-interspersed with the glare of onrushing headlights; everything at Andrews was seemingly always at triple time. The wind whipped through the open vehicle, the slapping damp air penetrating through Michael’s coat and making him tense his muscles against the cold.

  “I don’t care if he cads himself Little Bo Beep,” said Havelock, as much for conversation as for anything else. “So long as there’s heat wherever we’re going.”

  The sergeant glanced briefly at Michael. “Sorry, again,” he replied, “but the man doesn’t have it that way. My instructions are to take you to a runway on the south perimeter. I’m afraid that’s it. A runway.”

  Havelock folded his arms and kept his eyes on the road ahead, wondering why the undersecretary of State was being so cautious within a military compound. Then his thoughts dwelt briefly on the man himself and he found part of the answer—the blind part, but nevertheless intrinsic: there bad to be a reason. From what he had read about Arthur Pierce in the State Department dossier, coupled with what he had known from a distance, the undersecretary was a bright, persuasive spokesman for American interests at the United Nations, as well as around the international conference tables, with an avowed profound mistrust of the Soviets. This mistrust, however, was couched in a swift, aggressive wit, and woven into deceptively pleasant frontal assaults that drove the Russians up their Byzantine walls, for they had no matching counterattacks, except for bluster and defiance, and thus were frequently outmaneuvered in the open forums. Perhaps Pierce’s outstanding credential was that he had been handpicked by Matthias himself when Anton was at the height of his intellectual powers. But the characteristic that stood out in Havelock’s mind while racing down the dark airfield road was the highly regarded self-discipline attributed to Arthur Pierce by just about everybody who had contributed to his service dossier. He was never known to say anything unless he had something to say. By extension, thought Michael, he would not do something unless there was a reason for doing it.