The Parsifal Mosaic (67 page)

“You’re nit-picking a man’s vanity,” said Michael, walking toward the couch. “They’re called shortcomings; you may not have any, the rest of us do. He
was
many people; he had to be. Your problem is that you hated him.”

“No, you’re wrong.” Again Bradford shook his head. “You don’t hate a man like Matthias,” he continued, glancing at Jenna. “You may be awestruck, or frightened, or mesmerized—but you don’t hate.”

“Let’s get back to Parsifal,” said Havelock, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Where do you think he came from?”

“He came from nowhere and he disappeared into nowhere.”

“The second he may have done, the first he couldn’t have. He came from somewhere. He met with Matthias time after time, certainly for weeks, possibly months.”

“We’ve checked Matthias’s calendars over and over again. Also his logs, his telephone records, his classified appointments, his every travel itinerary—where he went, whom he met, from diplomats to doormen. There were no consistent repeats. Nothing.”

“I’ll want them all. Can you arrange it?”

“It’s arranged.”

“Anything on a time span?”

“Yes, spectroanalysis of the copy-page type indicates recent impressions. Within six months.”

“Very good.”

“We could have assumed it.”

“Do me a favor,” said Michael as he sat down and reached for his notebook.

“What’s that?” asked the undersecretary.

“Never assume.” Havelock wrote on the pad, and added, “Which is exactly what I’m going to do right now. Parsifal’s a Russian. Most likely an untouched, unlisted defector.”

“We’ve … assumed that. Someone with extraordinary knowledge of the Soviet Union’s strategic-arms capabilities.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Jenna Karas.

“The agreements. They contain offensive and defensive nuclear-strike data that match our deepest and most accurate penetrations of their systems.”

Michael wrote another note for himself. “Just as important,” he said, looking at Jenna, “Parsifal knew where to find Ambiguity. The connection is made, the mole reaches Moscow and the evidence against you is provided—for my benefit. Then Ambiguity moves into Costa Brava, rewriting the scenario on the beach.” Michael turned back to the undersecretary of State. “It’s here you think the break came, isn’t it?”

“I do, and I agree with you. I think it was Ambiguity on that beach, not Parsifal. I believe further that Ambiguity returned to Washington and found he’d lost Parsifal. He’d been used, then discarded, a situation that must have panicked him.”

“Because in order to get the KGB to cooperate he obviously had to promise something extraordinary?” asked Havelock.

“Yes, but then, there’s Rostov’s cable and it’s a snag. He as much as told us that if there was a connection, it wasn’t sanctioned, or even controllable.”

“He was right. I explained it to Berquist, and it fits … from the beginning. It’s the answer to Athens. Rostov was referring to a
branch
of the KGB, a descendant of the old OGPU slaughterhouse maniacs, a pack of wolves.”

“Voennaya Kontra Razvedka,”
said Jenna, adding quietly, “VKR.”

“Ambiguity isn’t just a major or a colonel in the KGB, he’s a member of the wolf pack. Those are the men he’s dealing with, and that, Mr. Bradford, is about the worst news you could hear. The KGB with all its paranoia is a stable intelligence—gathering organization compared with the fanatics of the Voennaya.”

“Fanatics and anything nuclear are a combination this world can’t afford.”

“If the Voennaya readies Parsifal first, that’s precisely the combination the world is stuck with.” Michael drank, swallowing more than he intended to, fear enveloping him. He picked up the notebook. “So we have a mole called Ambiguity
who cooperated with a fellow Russian we’ve labeled Parsifal, Matthias’s partner in creating these insane agreements that could blow up the globe. Matthias virtually collapses, is taken into custody—and therapy—at Poole’s Island, and Parsifal goes on alone. But now really alone because he’s dropped the mole.”

“You agree with me, then,” said Bradford.

Havelock looked up from the pad. “If you were wrong, we’d know it. Or maybe we wouldn’t; maybe we’d be a pile of ashes.… Or from a less melodramatic, though hardly less tragic, point of view in my judgment, the Soviet Union would be running this country with the blessings of the rest of the world. “The giant ran amok; for God’s sake, chain him. Moscow might even get a vote of confidence from our own citizens. ‘Better dead than Red’ is not a euphemism I care to test. When push comes to shove, people opt for living.”

“But you and I know what that living is, Mikhail,” broke in Jenna. “Would you opt for it?”

“Of course,” said the undersecretary of State, mildly surprising the other two. “You can’t change anything by dying—unless you’re a martyr—or by taking yourself out. Especially when you’ve seen the worst.”

Havelock looked again at Bradford, now studying him. “I think the jury just came back in for you, Mr. Undersecretary. That’s why you stayed in this city, isn’t it? You saw the worst.”

“I’m not the issue.”

“You were for us for a while. It’s nice to know the terrain’s firmer. Call me Havelock, or Michael, or whatever you like, but why not drop the ‘Mr.’?”

“Thanks. I’m Emory—or whatever you like.”

“I’m Jenna, and I’m starved.”

“There’s a fully stocked kitchen with a cook in residence. He’s also one of the guards. When we’re finished, I’ll introduce you.”

“Just a few more minutes.” Havelock tore off a page from his notebook. “You said you were checking the whereabouts of everyone on the fifth floor at the time of Costa Brava.”

“Rechecking,” interrupted Bradford. “The first check was negative all the way. Everyone was accounted for.”

“But we know someone wasn’t,” said Michael. “He was at
Costa Brava. One of those checks of yours ran into a smoke screen, the man Inside leaving and returning while supposedly he had stayed in place.”

“Oh?” It was the undersecretary’s turn to write a note, which he did on the back of one of his countless pages. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I was looking for an absence where the explanation might not hold up. You’re saying something quite different.”

“Yes, I am. Our man’s better than that; there won’t be any explanation. Don’t look for someone missing; look for someone who wasn’t there, who wasn’t where he was supposed to be.”

“Someone on assignment, then.”

“It’s a place to start,” agreed Havelock, tearing off a second page. “The higher the profile, the better, Incidentally. Remember, we’re looking for a man who’s got maximum clearance, and the more prominent the man the better the smoke screens work. Don’t forget Kissinger’s diarrhea in Tokyo; he was really in Peking.”

“I’m beginning to understand your accomplishments.”

“Considering the mistakes I’ve made,” replied Michael, writing on the page he had just torn out of the notebook, “I wouldn’t qualify for a code ring on the back of a cereal box.” He got up, stepped around the coffee table to where Bradford was sitting, and held out the two pages. “This is the list. Do you want to look it over and see if there are any problems?”

“Sure.” The undersecretary of State took the papers and settled back into the chair. “By the way, I’ll have that drink now, if you don’t mind. Bourbon on the rocks, please.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Havelock looked at Jenna; she nodded. He took her glass from the coffee table and walked around the couch as Bradford spoke. “There are a couple of surprises here,” he said, glancing up and frowning. “There’s no problem with the Matthias material—the appointments, logs, itineraries—but why do you need all this stuff on the doctor in Maryland? Background, financial statements, employees, laboratories. We
were
thorough, believe me.”

“I do believe you. Call it a throwback. I know a doctor in the South of France, and he’s one hell of a surgeon. But he gets brain fever when he’s near the tables; he’s crashed a couple of times and had to get bailed out.”

“There’s no parallel here. Randolph hasn’t had to work since his mother first saw him in the hospital. His family owns half the Eastern Shore, the richer half.”

“But not the people who work for him,” said Michael, pouring drinks. “They may not even own a sailboat.”

Bradford’s gaze again dropped to the page. “I see,” he said, more bewilderment in his voice than conviction. “I’m not sure I understand this. You want the names of people in the Pentagon who form the Nuclear Contingency Committees.”

“I read somewhere that there are three,” added Havelock, carrying the drinks back. “They play war games, changing sides and cross-checking their strategies.” He handed Bradford his bourbon, then sat down next to Jenna; she took her drink, her eyes on Michael.

“You think Matthias used them?” asked the undersecretary.

“I don’t know. He had to use somebody.”

“For what purpose? There’s nothing in our arsenals he didn’t know about, or have on file somewhere. He
had
to know; he negotiated.”

“I just want to be thorough.”

Bradford nodded with an embarrassed smile. “I’ve heard that before. Okay.” He went back to the page, reading aloud. “ ‘List of negative-possibles going back ten years. Follow-ups on each. Sources: CIA, Cons Op, Army intelligence.’ I don’t know what this means.”

“They will. There’ll be dozens of them.”

“What are ‘they’?”

“Men and women who were priority targets for defection, but never came over.”

“Well, if they didn’t come over—”

“Moscow doesn’t announce those who got out themselves,” interrupted Havelock. “The computer follow-ups will clarify current statuses.”

Bradford paused, then nodded again, reading silently.

Jenna touched Michael’s arm; he looked at her. She spoke softly, her eyes questioning.
“Proč ne paminyatchik?”

“No Ted.”

“I beg your pardon?” The undersecretary glanced up as he shifted the pages in his hands.

“Nothing,” said Havelock. “She’s hungry.”

“I’ll be finished in a minute, get back to Washington and
leave you alone; the rest of this is routine. The D.C. psychiatrists’ reports on Matthias will have to be signed over by the President and additional security put on here, but it can be done. I’m seeing him when I get back tonight.”

“Why don’t you just take me over to Bethesda?”

“Those records aren’t there. They’re down at Poole’s Island locked away with the other psychiatric probings and very special. They’re in a steel container and can’t be removed without presidential clearance. I’ll have to get them. I’ll fly down tomorrow.”

Bradford stopped reading and looked up, startled. “This last item … Are you sure? What can they tell you? They couldn’t tell
us
anything.”

“Put it down as my own personal Freedom of Information Act.”

“It could be very painful for you.”

“What is it?” asked Jenna.

“He wants the results of his own twelve days in therapy,” Bradford said.

They ate by candlelight in the country-elegant dining room, the scene somehow shifting from the deadly sublime to the faintly ridiculous. Adding to the contrast was a large, reticent man who was a surprisingly accomplished cook, but the bulge of a weapon beneath his white jacket did little to emphasize his talents in the kitchen. There was, however, nothing humorous about his eyes; he was a military guard and as accomplished with a gun as he was at preparing beef Wellington. Yet whenever he left the room after serving or clearing, Jenna and Michael looked across the table at each other, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. But even these brief moments of laughter did not last; the unthinkable never left them.

“You trust Bradford,” said Jenna, over coffee. “I know you do. I can tell when you trust a person.”

“You’re right, I do. He has a conscience, and I think he’s paid for it. You can trust a man like that.”

“Then why did you stop me from bringing up the
paminyatchiki
—the travelers?”

“Because he couldn’t handle it and it can’t help him. You heard him; he’s the methodical man, one step at a time, each step exhaustingly analyzed. That’s his value. With the
paminyatchiki
he’s suddenly asked to question everything geometrically.”

“I don’t understand. Geometrically?”

“In a dozen different directions at once. Everyone’s immediately suspect; he wouldn’t be looking for one man, he’d be studying whole groups. I want him to concentrate on smoke screens, bore into every assignment on the fifth floor, whether eight blocks or eight hundred miles away from the State Department, until he finds someone who might not have been where he was supposed to be.”

“You explained it very well.”

“Thanks.”

“You might have added the use of a puppet, however.”

Havelock looked at her through the glow of the candles, a half-smile coming to his lips. She leveled her eyes with his, smiling also. “Damn it, you know you’re absolutely right,” he said, laughing softly.

“I wasn’t making a list, you were. You can’t be expected to think of everything.”

“Thanks for the kindness. I’ll bring it up in the morning. Incidentally, why didn’t you? You weren’t shy in there.”

“That was asking questions, not giving orders or advice. There’s a difference. I wouldn’t care to give orders or advice to Bradford until he accepts me. And if I were forced to, it would be in the form of questions, leading to a suggestion.”

“That’s an odd thing to say. You’re accepted; Bradford heard it from Berquist. There’s no higher authority.”

“I don’t mean in that sense. I mean him. He’s uncomfortable with women; impatient, perhaps. I don’t envy his wife or his women; he’s a deeply troubled man.”

“He couldn’t have more to be troubled about.”

“Long before this, Mikhail He reminds me of a brilliant, talented man whose brilliance and talent don’t mix very well. I think he feels impotent, and that touches his women … all women, really.”

“Am I with Sigmund again?”

“Limburský sýr!”
Jenna laughed. “I watch people, you know I do. Do you remember the jeweler in Trieste, the bald-headed man whose shop was an M.I. Six drop? You said he was—What’s the peculiar word you have? Like
houkačka?”