The Parsifal Mosaic (13 page)

“You told me the
Teresa
wasn’t sailing for hours.”

“It’s what
I
was told! They’re bastards,
all
bastards! They’re crazy too! They don’t know what they’re doing.”

“They know exactly what they’re doing,” said Michael quietly. “I’ve got to get along now. Thanks for your help.” Before the angry guard could answer, Havelock started forward
rapidly, wincing in pain as he tried to control his throbbing legs and aching chest.
For God’s sake, hurry!

He reached the stretch of fence that enclosed the
Cristóvão
’s pier, his hand now in his pocket, grateful for the weapon. The unconscious guard was still on the ground in the lower shadows of the glass booth. He had neither moved nor been moved in the five minutes, perhaps six, that he had lain there. Was the man in the overcoat still on the pier? The odds favored it; logic dictated that he would have looked for the guard because he did not see him in the booth and, when he found him, would have questioned the fallen man. In doing so, some part of the unconscious body would have been moved; it had not been.

But why would the
capo regime
remain on the pier for so long? The answer came from the sea through the fog and the wind. Shouts, questions, followed by commands and further questions. The man in the overcoat was still on the pier, his gorillas screaming from the waters below.

Michael clenched his teeth, forcing the pain from his mind. He slid along the side wall of the warehouse, past the door from which the blond decoy had emerged, to the corner of the building. The morning light was growing brighter, the mists rising, the absence of the freighter permitting the early rays of the sun to spread over the dock. In the distance, on the water, another ship was steaming slowly toward the harbor of Civitavecchia; it might well be heading for the berth recently vacated by the
Cristóvão
. If so, there was very little time remaining before the shape-up crews arrived. He had to move swiftly, act effectively, and he was not at all sure he was capable of doing either.

A stretch of unpatrolled coastline. Did the man only yards away from him now know which? He must find out. He had to be capable
.

He rounded the corner, holding the weapon against the cloth of his jacket. He could not use it, he understood that; it would serve no purpose because it would only eliminate his source and draw attention to the pier. But the threat had to be conveyed as genuine; his anger had to seem desperate. He was capable of that.

He stared through the rising mist. The man in the overcoat was at the edge of the dock, excitedly barking instructions in a low voice; he, too, was obviously afraid of drawing attention
from stray crewmen who might be loitering on the adjacent pier. The effect was comic. From what Michael could gather, one of the men below was hanging on to a piling strut, reluctant to let go because he apparently couldn’t swim. The negotiator was ordering the second man to support his companion and the man was apparently refusing, concerned that he might be pulled under by his incompetent associate.

“Don’t talk anymore!” Havelock said sharply in Italian, the words clear if not precise, his voice commanding though not loud.

The startled man spun around, his right hand reaching under his overcoat.

“If I see a gun,” continued Michael, moving closer, “you’ll be dead and in the water before you can raise it. Move away from there. Walk toward me. Now to your left. Over to the wall. Move! Don’t stop!”

The man lurched forward. “I could have had you killed, signore. I did not Surely, that is worth something to you.”

“It is—obviously. I thank you.”

“Nor was anything on your person taken, I assume you are aware of that. My orders were clear.”

“I’m aware. Now tell me why. On both counts.”

“I am neither a killer nor a thief, signore.”

“Not good enough. Raise your hands! Lean against the wall and spread your legs!” The Italian complied; it was not the first time such orders had been given him. Havelock came up behind him, kicking the man’s right calf as he whipped his hand around the
capo regime
’s waist, pulling the gun from the Italian’s belt. He glanced at it, impressed. The weapon was a Spanish automatic, a Llama .38 caliber, with grip and manual safeties. A quality gun, undoubtedly less expensive on the waterfront. He shoved it into his own belt “Tell me about the girl. Quickly!”

“I was paid. What more can I tell you?”

“A great deal.” Michael reached up and grabbed the man’s left hand; it was soft. The negotiator was not a violent man, the term
capo regime
, which the guard had used, was misapplied. This Italian was no part of the Mafia; a mafioso at his age would have come up through violent ranks and would not have soft hands.

A sudden cacophony of ship’s whistles erupted from the
harbor. They were joined by panicked shouts from the lone man in the slapping waters below the pier. Taking advantage of the sounds, Michael rammed the pistol into the negotiator’s kidney. The man screamed. Then Havelock crashed the handle into the side of the Italian’s neck and there was another scream, which was followed by a series of whimpering pleas. “Signore … signore! You are American; we speak American! Do not do this to me! I saved your life-my word on it!”

“We’ll get to that. The
girl!
Tell me about the girl! Quickly!”

“I do favors around the docks. Everyone knows that! She needed a favor. She paid!”

“To get out of Italy?”

“What else?”

“She paid for a lot more than that! How many did
you
pay? For the setup.”

“Che cosa vuol dire?
Set … up?”

“That show you put on! The pig who walked out of that door over there!” Havelock gripped the Italian by the shoulder and spun him around, slamming him back into the wall. “Right around that corner,” he added, gesturing. “What was that all about? Tell me! She paid for that, too.
Why?”

“As you say, signore. She paid.
Spiegazioni
 … explanations … were not required.”

Michael jammed the barrel of the pistol deep into the man’s stomach. “Not good enough.
Tell
me!”

“She said she had to
know,”
the negotiator spat out, doubling over.

“Know what?” Havelock slapped the man’s hat off and, grabbing him by the hair, crashed his head into the wall. “Know
what
?”

“What you would do!”

“How did she know I’d follow her here?”

“She did not!”

“Then why?”.

“She said you
might
do so! You were … 
ingegnoso
 … a resourceful man. You’ve hunted other men; you have means at your disposal. Contacts, sources.”

“That’s too loose!
How
?” Michael bunched the Italian’s hair in his fist, pulling it half out of its roots.

“Signore … she said she spoke to three drivers on the
piattaforma
before she found a taxi to take her to Civitavecchia! She was afraid!”

It made sense. It had not occurred to him to look for a taxi ramp at the Ostia; taxis were not in oversupply in Rome. In truth, he had simply not been thinking; he had been bent only on moving.

“Per favore! Aiuto! Mio Dio!”
The screams came from the water below.

The ships in the harbor were beginning to fill the air with whistles and vapor. There was so little time left; soon the crews would come, men and machinery crawling all over the pier. He had to learn exactly what the negotiator had sold; he gripped the man’s throat with his left hand.

“She’s on the
Teresa
, isn’t she?”

“Sì!”

Havelock recalled the words of Il Tritone’s owner: the
Teresa
sailed to Marseilles. “How is she to be taken off the ship?”

The Italian did not answer; Michael plunged his fingers deeper into the man’s throat, choking him. He went on: “Understand me, and understand me well. If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you now. And if you lie, and she gets past me in Marseilles, I’ll come back for you. She was right, I’m resourceful and I’ve hunted a great many men. I’ll find you.”

The negotiator went into a spasm, his mouth gaping as he tried to speak. Havelock reduced the pressure on the man’s neck. The Italian coughed violently, grabbing his throat, and said, “What’s it to me, anyway, so I’ll tell you. I don’t want
afflizione
with the likes of you, signore! I should have known better. I should have listened better!”

“Go on.”

“Not Marseilles. San Remo. The
Teresa
stops at San Remo. How or where she is to be brought ashore, I do not know—my word on it! She buys her way to Paris. She’s to be taken across the border at Col des Moulinets. When, I do not know—my word! From there to Paris. I swear on the blood of Christ!”

The negotiator did not have to swear he was telling the truth; his terrified eyes proved it. He was being honest out of fear, extraordinary fear. What had Jenna told him? Why hadn’t the man ordered him killed? Also, why had nothing been stolen? Michael released his grip on the Italian’s neck.

He spoke quietly. “You said you could have had me killed, but you didn’t. Now tell me why.”

“No, signore, I will not say it,” whispered the man. “In the name of God, you’ll never see me again! I say nothing, know nothing!”

Havelock raised the pistol slowly, resting the point of the barrel on the man’s left eye. “Say it,” he said.

“Signore, I have a small, profitable business here, but I have never once—never—involved myself with political activities! Or anything remotely connected to such things. I swear on the tears of the Madonna! I thought she was lying, appealing to me with lies! I never once believed her!”

“But I wasn’t killed, nothing on my person taken, I think you said.” Michael paused, then shouted as he jammed the barrel into the Italian’s eye. “
Why?
”

The man screamed, spitting out the words. “She said you were an American working with the
comunisti
! With the Soviets. I did not believe her! I know nothing of such things! But caution would naturally call for—caution. In Civitavecchia we are outside of such wars. They are too … 
internazionali
for people like us who make our few unimportant lire on the docks. These things mean nothing to us—my word on it! We wish no trouble from you, any of you! … Signore, you can understand. You attacked a woman—a
puttana
, to be certain, but a woman—on the pier. Men stopped you, pulled you away, but when I saw, I stopped
them
! I told them we should be cautious. We had to think …”

The frightened man continued to babble, but Havelock was not listening. What he had heard stunned him beyond anything he imagined he might hear.
An American working with the Soviets
. Jenna had said this? It was insane!

Had she tried to appeal to the man with a lie, only to instill a very real fear in the small-time operator after the fact,
after
the trap? The Italian had not equivocated; he had repeated her story out of fear. He had not lied.

Did she believe it? Was that what he had seen in her eyes on the platform at the Ostia station? Did she really believe it—just as he had believed beyond any doubt in his mind that she was a deep-cover officer for the Voennaya?

Oh,
Christ
! Each turned against the other with the same maneuver! Had the evidence against him been as airtight as the evidence against her? It had to have been; that was also
in her eyes. Fear, hurt … pain. There was no one she could trust, not now, not for a while, perhaps not ever. She could only run—as he had kept running.
God!
What had they
done?

Why?

She was on her way to Paris. He would find her in Paris. Or fly to San Remo or Col des Moulinets and intercept her at one or the other. He had the advantage of fast transport; she was on an old freighter plodding across the water and he would be flying. He had time.

He would use that time. There was an intelligence officer at the embassy in Rome who was about to know the depth of his anger. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence Baylor Brown was going to supply answers or all the exposés of Washington’s clandestine activities would be seen as mere footnotes compared with what he would reveal: the incompetences, the illegalities, the miscalculations and errors costing the lives of thousands the world over every year.

He would start with a blade diplomat in Rome who funneled secret orders to American agents throughout Italy and the western Mediterranean.

“Capisce?
You
do
understand, signore?” The Italian was pleading, buying time, his eyes glancing furtively to the right. Across on the second pier three men were walking through the early light toward the far pilings; two blasts of a ship’s whistle told why. The freighter steaming into port was to be tied up at the
Elba
’s berth. In moments additional crews would arrive. “We are cautious … 
naturalmente
, but we know nothing of such things! We are men of the docks, nothing more.”

“I understand,” said Michael, touching the man’s shoulder and turning him around. “Walk to the edge,” he ordered quietly.

“Signore, please! I beg you!”

“Just do as I say.
Now.”

“I swear on the patron saint of mercy Himself! On the blood of Christ, on the tears of the Holy Mother!” The Italian was weeping, his voice rising. “I am an insignificant merchant, signore! I know nothing! Say nothing!”

As they reached the edge of the pier, Havelock said, “Jump,” and pushed the negotiator over the side.

“Mio Dio! Aiuto!”
screamed the henchman below as his employer joined him in the water.

Michael tamed and hobbled back to the corner of the warehouse wall. The dock was still deserted, but the guard was beginning to move, shaking his head, trying to pull himself up in the shadows of the booth. Havelock slapped open the cylinder of the pistol and shook the bullets out of their tracks; they clattered onto the dock. He hurried toward the gate, and when he reached the door of the glass booth, he threw the weapon inside. He ran as fast as he was capable of running through the gate, toward the rented car.