The Parsifal Mosaic (27 page)

“That’s when you figured I’d come out?”

“If we … 
they
 … don’t find you first. They think they’ll spot you before she gets here.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I don’t know! It’s
their
plan.”

“It’s your plan!” Havelock broke the skin on the agent’s face; blood streaked down his cheek.

“Christ! Don’t,
please
!”

“Tell me!”

“It’s made to look like you attacked. They know You’ve got a weapon whether you show it or not. They nail you and pull it out if it’s not in your hand. It doesn’t matter; it’s only for confusion. They’ll run; the truck’s got a good engine.”

“And the car? What about the
car
?”

“It’s shoved through. We just want it out of there. She’s not Karas, she’s a Soviet lure. We’re to let Moscow have her back. The French won’t argue, a guard was paid.”

“Liar! Goddamned
liar
!” Michael slid the blade of the fishing knife across the agent’s face to the other cheek. “Liars should be marked! You’re going to be
marked, liar
!” He broke the skin with the point. “Those two nitro clowns, the
ones who worked Africa—Tanzania, Mozambique, Angola—they’re not here for the mountain air,
liar
!”

“Oh,
Jesus
! You’re killing me!”

“Not yet, but it’s entirely possible. What’s their act?”

“They’re just backups! Ricci brought them!”

“The Corsican?”

“I don’t know … Corsican.”

“The blond.”

“
Yes!
Don’t cut me!
Please
, don’t
cut
me!”

“Backups? Like your friend at the table?”

“The
table
? Christ, what
are
you?”

“An observer, and you’re stupid. For you, they’re only guns?”

“Jesus, yes! That’s what they are!”

So the liars in Washington lied even to their own in Rome. Jenna Karas did not exist. The woman in the car was to be dispatched beyond Rome’s cognizance. Liars! killers!

Why?

“Where are they?”

“I’m bleeding! I’ve got blood in my mouth!”

“You’ll drown in it if you don’t tell me.
Where?
”

“One on both sides! Twenty, thirty feet before the gate.
Christ
, I’m
dying
!”

“No, you’re not dying, agent of record. You’re just marked; you’re finished. You’re not worth surgery.” Havelock switched the knife to his left hand and raised his right, his fingers straight out, taut, the muscles of the palm’s underside rigid. He crashed his hand into the man’s throat; he would be immobilized for no less than an hour. It would be long enough; it
had
to be.

He crawled through the underbrush, sure of his footing, at home in the friendly forest.

He found him. The man was on his knees hunched over a canvas bag—a knapsack or a small duffel; the light from the bridge was just bright enough to outline the figure and too dim to make it clearly visible if one did not know what to look for. Suddenly there was the growing sound of an engine accompanied by the clatter of a loose tailpipe or a bumper making contact with the rock-filled road. Michael spun around, holding his breath, his hand reaching toward his belt. A broken-down van came into view. A sickening feeling
spreading through him, he wondered, Had the agent lied? He looked back at the explosives specialist; the man crouched lower, making no other move at all, and Havelock slowly let out his breath.

The van rattled by and stopped at the bridge. The blond killer was standing by a guard; he had obviously been instructed to observe procedure, but instead, his eyes were roaming the woods and the road below. Loud voices filled the gate area: a couple in the van was objecting to the unexpected demand to get out; apparently, they made the trip daily across the border.

Michael knew the noise was his cover; he crept forward. He was within seven feet of the man when the rear door of the van was opened and the shouted obscenities rose to a crescendo. The door was slammed shut. Havelock lunged out of the underbrush, arms extended with fingers curved for the attack.

“
Che mai …?
”

The specialist had no chance to experience further shock. His head was slammed into soft earth and rock, his neck vised by Michael’s right hand; he coughed spastically and went limp. Havelock turned the unconscious body over, and whipping the man’s belt out of the trousers, he slipped it under the arms beneath the shoulder blades, and yanked it taut, then looped it over and knotted it. He removed the Llama automatic from his chest holster and brought the short barrel down on the man’s head above the right temple, extending the time during which the expert would remain unconscious.

Michael tore into the canvas bag. It was a specialist’s mobile laboratory, filled with compact blocks of dynamite and soft rolls of plastic explosive. The devices with wires extending from miniaturized clocks with radium dials were detonators, with positive and negative poles plugged into one another across the lethal powder, set to emit charges at a given minute by a twist of the fingers. There was also another type of detonating device: small, flat, circular modules, no larger than the face of a man’s watch; these were without wires, having only a bar with a luminous numerical readout, and a tiny button on the right with which to set the desired time. These were designed specifically for the plastic charges, buried inside, and were accurate within five seconds over a
time span of twenty-four hours. Havelock felt the casing of a single
plastique
. On the top surface was a self-sealing lip through which a module was inserted, and the bottom was marked by a flap that was to be peeled away several minutes before placement. The peeling process released an epoxy stronger than a weld; it would adhere to a second surface through earthquake and hurricane. He removed three charges and modules, and put them in his pockets. Then he crawled away, pulling the canvas bag behind him; ten feet farther into the forest he shoved it under a fallen pine branch. He looked at his watch. Twelve minutes to go.

The yelling had stopped at the bridge. The angry couple was back in the van, the guards apologizing for the crazy temporary regulations.
Burocrati!
The engine was started, a series of metallic groans preceding the full roar of an accelerator pressed to the floor. The headlights were turned back on and the orange barrier raised as the gears ground abrasively and the decrepit vehicle crept onto the bridge. The clatter was louder now, actually deafening as the van rumbled across the surface of the bridge ridged with narrow, open metal struts. The noise echoed below and above, filling the air with an unrelenting staccato that made one of the guards wince and put both hands to his ears. The clatter, the headlights: the first was diversion; the second, distraction. If he could get into a decent line of sight, he might—just possibly—eliminate his backup executioner; he would not make the attempt unless the odds were his.

The burly man in the heavy jacket would hug the rail, leaning over, perhaps, to be as inconspicuous as possible in the glare of the headlights, a weary pedestrian with too much wine in him. No single shot could be counted on; no man was that accurate at eighty-plus feet. But the magnum was a powerful weapon, the permanently attached silencer designed for zero sighting as much as any handgun could be. Therefore a marksman firing five or six rounds at a given target would have the probabilities on his side, but only if the bullets were fired in what amounted to a single burst; each instant of separation was a margin for error. It would require a steady arm supported by a solid object, a view undistorted by light and shadow. It would not hurt to get closer, either.

With his concentration split equally between the overgrowth in front of him and the blond assassin, whom he
could see through the trees on his left, he made his way as swiftly, as silently, as he could to the edge of the river gorge.

A flashlight beam shot out behind him. He scrambled behind a huge boulder, sliding partially down the smooth surface and catching his foot on a protruding ridge. His sanctuary was the top of a jagged wall of rock and bush that led to the roiling waters several hundred feet below. His vision at the far side was clear; he stared at the end of the beam of light. Some part of the foliage he had raced through had snapped, and the blond killer was standing motionless with the flashlight in his hand. Gradually his attention waned: an animal or a night bird, he judged; there was no human being to be seen.

Above, the clattering truck neared the midpoint of the bridge. There he was! Less than seventy feet away, he leaned over the rail, his head huddled deep in the collar of his heavy jacket. The clanging was thunderous now, the echoes full, as the backup executioner was caught in the glare of the headlights. Havelock spun around on the boulder, steadying his feet on the flanking rocks. There would be no more than a second to make the decision, no more than two or three to fire the magnum during the short space of time when the rear of the van would block the view from the booths at the entrance. Full of uncertainty, Michael pulled the heavy weapon from his belt and braced his arm against the boulder, his feet anchored by pressure, his left hand gripping his right wrist to steady the barrel that was aimed diagonally above. He had to be
sure;
he could not risk the night and everything the night stood for. But if the odds were his …

They
were
. As the hood of the van passed the man he stood up, now silhouetted in the back light, a large immobile target. Havelock fired four rounds in rapid succession in concert with the deafening clatter on the bridge. The support killer arched backward, then sank down into the shadows of the solid steel barricade of the pedestrian walk.

The clanging receded as the van reached the far side of the bridge. There was no orange barrier across the entrance on the French side: francs had been paid; the two guards leaning against a gatehouse wall smoked their cigarettes. However, another sound intruded; it came from behind, quite far behind, down the road from Monesi. Michael
curved his spine into the surface of the rock and slid back into the edge of the woods, crouching instantly, shoving the warm magnum under his belt. He glanced through the trees at the checkpoint; the two authentic soldiers in the nearest gatehouse on the right could be seen beyond the large glass windows, nodding at each other as if counting something in their hands—lire had reached the second level. The blond impostor was outside, an outsider as far as the current transaction was concerned; he was staring down the road, squinting in the dim light.

He raised his hand to the midpoint of his chest and shook his wrist twice—an innocuous gesture, a man restoring circulation to a forearm strained by carrying too much weight too recently. It was a signal.

The killer brought his hand down to his right hip, and it took no imagination to realize he was releasing the snap on his holster while keeping his concentration on the road below. Havelock crept rapidly through the woods until he reached the unconscious figure of the explosives specialist. The sound of a motor grew louder, joined now by a faint, bass-toned hum in the farther distance—a second vehicle steadily increasing its speed. Michael parted the thick branches of an overhanging pine and looked to his left. Several hundred yards down the road the glistening grille of a large automobile could be seen, reflecting the light from the bridge. It swung into the curve; the car was a Lancia. It was Jenna! Havelock imposed a control over his mind and body he had not thought was possible. The next few minutes would bring into play everything he had learned—that no one should ever have to learn—since he was a child in Prague, every skill he had absorbed from the shadow world in which he had lived so long.

The Lancia sedan drew nearer, and sharp bolts of pain shot through Michael’s chest as he stared at the windshield. Jenna was not there. Instead, two men could be seen in the wash of the dashboard, the driver smoking, his companion apparently talking garrulously, waving his hands for emphasis. Then the driver turned his head sideways, addressing a remark to someone in the back seat. The Lancia began to slow down; it was within two hundred feet of the checkpoint.

The blond impostor at the orange barrier turned and
walked quickly to the gatehouse booth; he knocked on the window, then pointed to the approaching vehicle and then to himself. He was the eager recruit telling his veteran superiors that he could handle the immediate assignment. The two soldiers looked up, annoyed at the intrusion, perhaps wondering if the intruder had seen money changing hands; they nodded, waving him away.

Instead of leaving immediately, the assassin employed by Rome reached into his pocket and took out an object while moving unobtrusively toward the closed door of the booth. He reached down and inserted the object into the frame below the window, the movements of his shoulders indicating that he used considerable force. Havelock tried to imagine what it was, what the killer was doing. And then it was clear; the door of the booth was a sliding door, but it would not slide now. The man called Ricci had wedged a thin steel plate with small angled spikes into the space between frame and panel; the door was jammed. The more force that was used to open it, the deeper the tiny spikes would embed themselves, until all movement would be impossible. The two soldiers were trapped inside, and as with checkpoints everywhere—no matter how minor—the booth was sturdily constructed with thick glass in the windows. Yet there was a fallacy: a simple call to the barracks somewhere on the other side would bring assistance. Michael peered through the dim light above the gatehouse, and saw there was no fallacy. Dangling from the limb of a tree was a heavy-gauge telephone wire; it had been severed. The killers from Rome controlled the checkpoint.

The blond man strode to the metal plank that separated the road from the entrance to the bridge, assumed a military stance-the feet apart, the left hand at his waist, the right held up in the “Halt” position—and faced the oncoming sedan.

The Lancia came to a stop. The front windows were rolled down and passports were offered by the two men in the front seat. The killer walked to the driver’s window and spoke quietly—too quietly for Havelock to hear the words—while looking past the driver into the rear seat.