The Parsifal Mosaic (40 page)

“I understand, sir.”

“Your orders with regard to Havelock were unequivocal He was officially classified ‘beyond salvage’ and the word from Rome was to terminate with ‘extreme prejudice.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In other words, he was to be executed. killed at Col des Moulinets.”

“That’s what it meant.”

“And you received those instructions from the senior attaché, Consular Operations, Roma. A man named Warren. Harry Warren.”

“Yes, sir. I was in constant touch with him, waiting for the determination … waiting for Washington to give it to him.”

“How could you be certain the man you spoke with was Harry Warren?”

The agent seemed perplexed, as if the question were foolish, though the man who asked it was not foolish at all. “Among other things, I worked with Harry for over two years. I knew his voice.”

“Just his voice?”

“And the number in Rome. It was a direct line to the embassy’s radio room, unlisted and very classified. I knew that, too.”

“Did it occur to you that when he gave you your final instructions he might have been doing so under duress? Against his will?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

“It never crossed your mind?”

“If that had been the case, he would have told me.”

“With a gun at his head?” said Halyard. “How?”

“The code had been established and he used it He wouldn’t have if there’d been anything wrong.”

“Explain that, please,” said Brooks. “What code?”

“A word or a couple of words that originate in Washington. They’re referred to when decisions are transmitted; that way you know the authorization’s there without naming names. If anything had been wrong, Harry wouldn’t have used the code, and
I
would have known something wasn’t
right. I’d have asked for it and he would have given me a different one. He didn’t and I didn’t He used the correct one up front.”

“What was the code for Col des Moulinets?” asked Emory Bradford.

“Ambiguity, sir. It came direct from Cons Op, Washington, and will be listed in the embassy telephone logs, classified files.”

“Which is proof of authorization,” said Bradford, making a statement.

“Yes, sir. Dates, times and origins of clearance are in those logs.”

Bradford held up an eight-by-ten-inch photograph of a man’s face, adjusting the Tensor lamp so it could be seen clearly. “Is this Harry Warren?”

“Yes, sir. That’s Harry.”

“Thank you.” The undersecretary put down the photograph and made a check mark on the border of his notes. “Let me go back a bit; there’s something I’m not sure is clear. Regarding the woman, she was to be sent across the border unharmed, if possible. Is that correct?”

“The operative words were ‘if possible.’ Nobody was going to risk anything for her. She was just a needle.”

“A needle?”

“To stick into the Soviets. Let Moscow know we didn’t buy the plant.”

“Meaning she was a Russian device. A woman similar in appearance—perhaps someone who had undergone cosmetic surgery—whom the Soviets surfaced repeatedly at selected locations for Havelock’s benefit, letting him get close, but never close enough to take her. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The purpose being to shock Havelock into a state of mental instability, to the point of defection?”

“To drive him nuts, yes, sir. I guess it worked; the ‘beyond salvage’ came from Washington.”

“From Ambiguity.”

“Ambiguity, sir.”

“Whose identity can be traced in the embassy’s telephone logs.”

“Yes, sir. The logs.”

“So it was established beyond doubt that the woman at the bridge was
not
Jenna Karas.”

“Beyond doubt. She was killed at Costa Brava, everyone knew that. Havelock himself was the agent of record at that beach. He went crazy.”

Ambassador Brooks slapped down his pencil and leaned forward, studying the man from Col des Moulinets. The sharp, echoing crack of the pencil, and the movement itself, were more than an interruption; they combined to indicate an objection. “This entire operation, didn’t it strike you as … well, bizarre, to say the least? To be quite candid, was execution the only solution? Knowing what you all knew—presumed you knew—couldn’t you have tried to take the man, spare his life, get him back here for treatment?”

“With respect, sir, that’s a lot easier said than done. Jack Ogilvie tried in Rome and never left the Palatine. Havelock killed three men on that bridge that we know of; another two may be dead by now and probably are. He dug a knife into my face—He’s a psycho.” The agent paused, not finished. “Yes, sir. All things considered, we kill him. That’s ‘beyond salvage,’ and has nothing to do with me. I follow orders.”

“An all too familiar phrase, sir,” said Brooks.

“But justified under the circumstances,” Bradford broke in quickly, writing out the word
Ambiguity
on the page in front of him and continuing before anyone else could speak, or object. “What happened to Havelock? Did you learn?”

“They said an
assassino
pazzo—crazy man, killer—drove the truck hellbent across the bridge and out of sight. It had to be Havelock. There are alerts out all through the provinces—the towns and cities and up and down the Mediterranean coast. He worked the coast; he’ll get in touch with someone and they’ll find him. They said he was wounded; he won’t get far. My guess is a couple of days at the outside, and I wish I was there to take him myself.”

“Again quite justified,” said Bradford “And we want to thank you for your cooperation this evening. You’ve been very concise and helpful. You may leave now, and good luck to you.”

The man got out of the chair, nodded awkwardly and walked to the door. He stopped, touching his left cheek and
the tape as he turned to face the powerful men on the dais. “I’m worth the surgery,” he said.

“I’m sure you are,” replied the undersecretary.

The agent of record from Col des Moulinets opened the door and stepped out into the white-walled corridor. The instant the door was shut, Halyard turned to Bradford and shouted, “Get hold of Rome! Get those logs and find this
Ambiguity
! It’s what you were trying to tell us, isn’t it? This is the link to Parsifal!”

“Yes, General,” answered Bradford. “The Ambiguity code was established by the director of Consular Operations, Daniel Stern, whose name appears in the embassy logs, entered by the Cons Op senior attaché, Harry Warren. Warren was clear in his entry; the transcript was read to me. He wrote the following”—the undersecretary picked up a note on top of his papers—“ ‘Code: Ambiguity. Subject: M. Havelock. Decision pending.’ ”

“ ’Pending?” asked Brooks. “When was it
made
?”

“According to the embassy logs, it wasn’t. There were no further entries that night making any reference whatsoever to Ambiguity, Havelock, or the unit at Col des Moulinets.”

“Impossible,” protested the general. “You heard that man. The go-ahead was given, the authorization code was delivered. He didn’t mince words. That call
had
to have come through.”

“It did.”

“Are you saying that the entry was deleted?” asked Brooks.

“It was never made,” said Bradford. “Warren never made it.”

“Then get him,” said Halyard. “Nail him. He knows who he talked to. Goddamn it, Emory, get on that phone. This is Parsifal!” He turned in his chair, addressing the wall. “Mr.
President
?”

There was no reply.

The undersecretary separated the papers in front of him and removed a thin manila envelope from the rest. He opened it, took out a second photograph and handed it to the former ambassador. Brooks studied it, a sharp intake of breath accompanying his first glance. Silently he passed it to Halyard.

“
Jesus
 …” Halyard placed the photograph under the beam of the Tensor. The surface was grainy, the infinitesimal
lines the result of a transmitting machine, but the image was clear. It was a photograph of a corpse stretched out on a white table, the clothes torn and bloody, the face bruised terribly but wiped clean for identification. The face of the dead man was the same as that in the first photograph Bradford had shown the agent from Col des Moulinets only minutes before. It belonged to Harry Warren, senior attaché, Cons Op, Rome.

“That was telexed to us at one o’clock this afternoon. It’s Warren. He was run down on the Via Frascatti in the early hours of the morning two days ago. There were witnesses, but they couldn’t help much, except to tell our people the car was a large sedan with a powerful engine; it roared down the street, apparently gathering speed just before impact. Whoever drove it wasn’t taking any chances of missing; he caught Warren stepping onto the curb and hammered him into the pole of a streetlight, doing considerable damage to the automobile. The police are searching for it, but there’s not much hope. It’s probably at the bottom of a river in the hills.”

“So the link is gone.” Halyard pushed the photograph toward Brooks.

“I mourn the man,” said the undersecretary, “but I’m not sure how much of a link he was.”

“Someone thought so,” said the soldier.

“Or was covering a flank.”

“What do you mean?” asked Brooks.

“Whoever made that final call authorizing ‘beyond salvage’ couldn’t know what Stern told Warren. All
we
know is that the decision hadn’t been made.”

“Please be clearer,” the statesman insisted.

“Suppose the strategists of Consular Operations decided they couldn’t
reach
a decision. On the surface, it wouldn’t appear that difficult—a psychopath, a rogue agent capable of causing extraordinary damage, a potential defector, a killer—the decision wasn’t one that stretched their consciences. But suppose they learned something, or suspected something, that called everything into question.”

“The Karas woman,” said Halyard.

“Perhaps. Or maybe a communication, or a signal from Havelock that contradicted the assumption that he was a
maniac. That he was as sane as they were; a sane man caught in a terrible dilemma not of his own making.”

“Which is, of course, the truth,” interrupted Brooks quietly.

“The truth,” agreed Bradford. “What would they do?”

“Get help,” said Halyard. “Advice.”

“Guidance,” added the statesman.

“Or practically speaking,” said the undersecretary, “especially if the facts weren’t clear, they’d spread the responsibility for the decision. Hours later it was made, and they were dead … and we don’t know who made it, who placed that final call. We only know it was someone sufficiently cleared, sufficiently trusted to be given the code Ambiguity. That man made the decision; he made the call to Rome.”

“But Warren didn’t log it,” said Brooks. “Why didn’t he? How could it happen?”

“The way it’s happened before, Mr. Ambassador. A routed line traceable only to a single telephone complex somewhere in Arlington is used, the authorization verified by code, and a request made on the basis of
internal
security. There is to be no log, no tape, no reference to the transmission; it’s an order, actually. The recipient is flattered; he’s been chosen, deemed by men who make important decisions to be more reliable than those around him. And what difference does it make? The authorization can always be traced through the code—in this case through the director of Cons Op, Daniel Stern. Only, he’s dead.”

“It’s appalling,” said Brooks, looking down at his notes. “A man is to be executed because he’s right, and when the attempt fails, he’s held responsible for the death of those who try to kill him and labeled a killer himself. And we don’t know who officially gave the order. We can’t
find
him. What kind of people are we?”

“Men who keep secrets.” The voice came from behind the dais. The President of the United States emerged from the white-paneled door set into the white wall. “Forgive me, I was watching you, listening. It’s often helpful.”

“Secrets, Mr. President?”

“Yes, Mal,” said Berquist, going to his chair. “The words are all there, aren’t they? Top Secret, Eyes Only, Highly Classified, Maximum Clearance Required, Duplication Forbidden, Authorization to Be Accompanied by Access Code
 … so many words. We sweep rooms and telephone lines with instruments that tell us whether bugs and intercepts have been placed, and then develop hardware that misdirects those same scanners when we implant our own devices. We jam radio broadcasts—including satellite transmissions—and override the jamming with laser beams that carry the words we want to send. We put a national security lid on information we don’t want made public so we can leak selected sections at will, keeping the rest inviolate. We tell a certain agency or Department one thing and another something else entirely, so as to conceal a third set of facts—the damaging truth. In history’s most advanced age of communications, we’re doing our damnedest to louse it up, to misuse it, really.” The President sat down, looked at the photograph of the dead man in Rome, and turned it over. “Keeping secrets and diverting the flow of accurate information have become prime objectives in our ever-expanding technology—of communications. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, often vital, sir,” said Bradford.

“Perhaps. If only we could be certain when we applied them. I often wonder—late at night, watching the lights on the ceiling as I’m trying to sleep—if we hadn’t tried to keep a secret three months ago, whether we would be faced with what we’re faced with now.”

“Our options were extremely limited, Mr. President,” the undersecretary said firmly. “We might have faced worse.”

“
Worse
, Emory?”

“Earlier, then. Time is the only thing on our side.”

“And we have to use every goddamn minute,” agreed Berquist, glancing first at the general and then at Brooks. “Now you’re both aware of what’s happened during the past seventy-two hours and why I had to call you back to Washington.”

“Except the most relevant factor,” said the statesman. “Parsifal’s reaction.”

“None,” replied the President.

“Then he doesn’t know,” said Halyard rapidly, emphatically.