The Parsifal Mosaic (17 page)

“Brown. What is it?”

“Baylor Brown?”

“Apache?”

“Yes. I’m at Palombara. Have you heard anything?”

“Not a word. I’ve got tracers out all over Rome; there’s not a line on him.”

“You’ve got
what?”

“Tracers. Every source we can pay or who owes us a favor—”

“Goddamn it, call them off! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Hey, easy, buddy. I don’t think we’re going to get along.”

“And I don’t give a duck’s fuck whether we do or not! You’re not dealing with a G-two crossword puzzle; he’s a snake,
buddy
. You let him find out you’re going after him, he figures you’ve broken the rules. And he
will
find out; that’s when he bites. Jesus, you think he’s never been traced before?”

“You think I don’t know my tracers?” countered Baybr angrily, defensively.

“I think we’d better talk.”

“Come on in, then,” said the colonel.

“That’s another thing,” replied Ogilvie. “The embassy’s out.”

“Why?”

“Among other things, he could be in a window across the street.”

“So?”

“He knows I’d never show up in-territory. KGB cameras operate around the clock, aimed at every entrance.”

“He doesn’t even know you’re coming,” protested Baylor. “Or who you are.”

“He will when you tell him.”

“A
name
, please?” said the army officer testily.

“Apache’ll do for now.”

“That’ll mean something to him?”

“It will.”

“It doesn’t to me.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

“We’re definitely not going to get along.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Since you won’t come in, where do we meet?”

“The Borghese. In the gardens. I’ll find you.”

“That’ll be easier than my finding
you
.”

“You’re wrong, Baylor.”

“About
that
?”

“No. I think we will get along.” Ogilvie paused briefly. “Make it two hours from now. Our target may try to reach you by then.”

“Two hours.”

“And, Baylor?”

“What?”

“Call off those duck-fucking tracers,
buddy.”

The month of March was not kind to the Borghese. The chill of the Roman winter, mild as the winter was, still lingered, inhibiting the budding of flowers and the full explosion of the gardens that in spring and summer formed rows and circles of dazzling colors. The myriad paths that led through the tall pines toward the great museum seemed just a little dirty, the green of the pine trees tired, dormant. Even the benches that lined the narrow foot roads were layered with dust. A transparent film had descended over the park that was the Villa Borghese; it would disappear with the April rains, but for now the lifelessness of March remained.

Ogilvie stood by the thick trunk of an oak tree on the border of the gardens behind the museum. It was too early for any but a few students and fewer tourists; a scattering of these strolled along the paths waiting for the guards to open the doors that led to the Casino Borghese’s treasures. The
former field man, now in the field again, looked at his watch, wrinkles of annoyance spreading across his deeply lined face. It was nearly twenty minutes to nine; the army intelligence officer was over a half hour late. Ogilvie’s irritation was directed as much at himself as toward Baylor. In his haste to veto his going to the embassy as well as making it clear that he was the control and no one else, he had chosen a poor rendezvous and he knew it. So would the colonel, if he thought about it; perhaps he had, perhaps that was why he was late. The Borghese at this hour was too quiet, too remote, with far too many shadowed recesses from which those who might follow either of them could observe their every move, every word, visually and electronically. Ogilvie silently swore at himself; it was no way to initiate his authority. The attaché-conduit had probably taken a circuitous, change-of-vehicle route, employing frequency scanners in hopes of exposing and thus losing presumed surveillance. KGB cameras
were
trained on the embassy; the colonel had been put in a difficult situation thanks to an abrasive source from Washington enigmatically called Apache. A cover from the back of a cereal box.

The enigma was there, but not the foolishness, not the cereal box. Seven years ago in Istanbul two undercover field men, code names Apache and Navajo, nearly lost their lives trying to prevent a KGB assassination on the Mesrutiyet. They had failed, and in the process Navajo had been cornered on the deserted Ataturk at four o’clock in the morning, KGB killer teams at both entrances. It was a total-loss situation until Apache sped across the bridge in a stolen car, screeching to a stop by the pedestrian alley, shouting at his associate to climb in or get his head blown off. Ogilvie had then raced through a fusillade of gunfire, receiving a graze wound at his temple and two bullets in his right hand while breaking through the thunderous early-morning barricade. The man called Navajo seven years ago would not readily forget Apache. Without him Michael Havelock would have died in Istanbul. Ogilvie counted on that memory.

Snap
. Behind him. He turned; a black hand was held up in front of him, the black face beyond the hand immobile, eyes wide and steady staring at him. Baylor shook his head sharply twice, bringing his index finger to his lips. Then slowly, moving closer and pulling both of them behind the
tree trunk and the foliage, the army officer gestured toward the south garden, at the rear entrance of the stone museum. About forty yards away a man in a dark suit was glancing about, his expression indecisive, as he moved first in one direction, then in another, unable to choose a path. In the distance there were three rapid blasts of a high-pitched automobile horn, followed by the gunning of an engine. Startled, the man stopped, then broke into a run toward the direction of the intruding sounds and disappeared beyond the east wall of the Borghese.

“This is one dumb location,” said the colonel, checking his watch.

“That horn was yours?” asked Ogilvie.

“It’s parked by the Veneto gates. It was near enough to be heard; that was all that mattered.”

“Sorry,” said the former field man quietly. “It’s been a long time. I don’t usually make mistakes like this. The Borghese was always crowded.”

“No sweat. And I’m not sure it was a mistake.”

“Let the needle out. Don’t stick me with kindness.”

“You’re not reading me. Your feelings aren’t any concern of mine. I’ve never been put under KGB surveillance before—not that I know of. Why now?”

Ogilvie smiled; he was the control, after all. “You put out the tracers. I think I mentioned that.”

The black officer was silent, his dark eyes aware. “Then I’m finished in Rome,” he said finally.

“Maybe.”

“No maybe. I’m finished, anyway. It’s why I’m late.”

“He reached you.” The red—haired agent made the statement softly.

“With full artillery and I’m the first who’ll be exposed. He picked up the Karas woman’s trail and followed her to the port of Civitavecchia, where she got out. He won’t say how or on what ship. It was a trap; he waded through and reversed it, targeting the man responsible—a small—time operator on the docks. Havelock broke him, and what he learned—what he
thinks
he learned—has turned him into a stockpile of nitro.”

“What is it?”

“Double programming. Same tactic supposedly employed with him. She was sandbagged against him by us.”

“How?”

“By someone convincing her he’d gone over to the Soviets, that he was going to kill her.”

“That’s a crock of shit.”

“I’m only repeating what he said—what he was told. All things considered, it’s not without logic. It would explain a lot. The KGB’s got some pretty fair actors; they could have put on a performance for her. It’s sound strategy. He’s out and she’s running. A productive team neutralized.”

“I mean the whole
thing’s
a crock of shit,” countered Ogilvie. “There is no Jenna Karas; she died on a beach called Montebello on the Costa Brava. And she
was
KGB—a deep-cover VKR field officer. No mistakes were made, but even that doesn’t matter now. The main point is she’s dead.”

“He doesn’t believe it; when you talk
to
him you may not, either. I’m not sure I do.”

“Havelock believes what he wants to believe, what he has to believe. I’ve heard the medical terms, and reduced to our language, he’s gone over the edge. He crosses back and forth between what is and what isn’t, but fundamentally he’s gone.”

“He’s damned convincing.”

“Because he’s not lying. That’s part of it. He saw what he saw.”

“That’s what he says.”

“But he couldn’t have; that’s also part of it. His vision’s distorted. When he goes over, he doesn’t see with his eyes, only his head, and that’s damaged.”

“You’re convincing too.”

“Because I’m not lying and my head’s not damaged.” Ogilvie reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He extracted one and lit it with an old, tarnished Zippo purchased a quarter of a century ago. “Those are the facts, Colonel. You can fill in the blank spaces, but the bottom line’s firm. Havelock’s got to be taken.”

“That won’t be so easy. He may be running around in his own foggy tunnels, but he’s not an amateur. He may not know where he’s going, but he’s survived in the field for sixteen years. He’s smart, defensive.”

“We’re aware of that. It’s the reality part. You told him I was here, didn’t you?”

“I told him a man named Apache was here.” The army officer paused.

“Well?”

“He didn’t like it Why you?”

“Why not me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like you.”

“He owes me.”

“Maybe that’s your answer.”

“What are you, a psychologist? Or a lawyer?”

“A little of both,” said the colonel. “Constantly. Aren’t you?”

“Right now I’m just annoyed. What the hell are you driving at?”

“Havelock’s reaction to you was very quick, very vocal. ‘So they sent the Gunslinger,’ he said. Is that your other name?”

“Kid stuff. A bad joke.”

“He didn’t sound amused. He’s going to call at noon with instructions for you.”

“At the embassy?”

“No. I’m to take a room at the Excelsior. You’re to be there with me; you’re to get on the phone.”

“Son of a bitch!” Ogilvie sucked breath through his teeth.

“That’s a problem?”

“He knows where I am but I don’t know where he is. He can watch me but I can’t watch him.”

“What difference does it make? He’s obviously willing to meet you. In order to take him, you’ve got to meet with him.”

“You’re the new boy on the block, Colonel, no offense intended. He’s forcing my hand at the top.”

“How so?”

“I’ll need two men—Italians, preferably, as inconspicuous as possible—to follow me when I leave the hotel.”

“Why?”

“Because he could take
me?”
said the former field man reflectively. “From behind. On any crowded sidewalk. There isn’t a jump he doesn’t know.… A man collapses in the street, a friend helps him to a nearby car. Both Americans, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“That presumes I won’t be with you. still, I’m the conduit. I could make a case for my being there.”

“Definitely the new boy; he’d head for Cairo. And if yon tried to keep me in sight, I have an idea he’d spot you. No—”

“Offense intended.… There
are
drawbacks.… I’ll get you your cover.” The officer paused again, then continued, “But not two men. I think a couple would be better.”

“That’s good. You’ve got possibilities, Colonel.”

“I’ve also got a recommendation to make that I’ll deny if it’s ever ascribed to me. And considering that sobriquet Gunslinger, I don’t think I’d have any difficulty saying I heard it from you.”

“I can’t wait to hear it myself.”

“I’m responsible for a large territory in this area of operations. The work I do for the Pentagon and State gets compounded; it’s unavoidable. I need a favor, or someone needs one from us, so the circle quietly grows bigger, even if we’ve never met each other.”

“I hate to repeat myself,” interrupted Ogilvie, “but what the hell are you driving at now?”

“I have a lot of friends out there. Men and women who trust me, trust my office. If I have to go, I’d like the office to remain intact, of course, but there’s something more basic. I don’t want those friends—known and unknown—to get hurt, and Havelock could hurt them. He’s worked Italy, the Adriatic, the Ligurian—from Trieste across the borders, along the northern coast all the way to Gibraltar. He could provoke reprisals. I don’t think one messed—up retired field man is worth it.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then take him out. Don’t just take him, take him
out.”

“You could have heard that from me.”

“Do I hear it now?”

The man from Washington was silent for a moment; then he replied, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the act could bring about the consequences you don’t want.”

“Impossible. He hasn’t had time.”

“You don’t know that. If this thing’s been growing since Costa Brava, there’s no way to tell what deposits he’s made or where he’s made them. He could have left documents in half a dozen countries with specific instructions to release them if scheduled contacts are missed. During the last six
weeks he’s been in London, Amsterdam, Paris, Athens and Rome. Why? Why those places? With the whole world to choose from, and with money in his pocket, he returns to the cities where he operated extensively under cover. It could be a pattern.”

“Or coincidence. He knew them. He was out; he felt safe.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“I don’t follow the logic. If you simply take him, he still won’t make those contacts.”

“There are ways.”

“The clinics, I assume. Laboratories where doctors inject serums that loosen tongues and minds?”

“That’s right.”

“And I think you’re wrong. I don’t know whether he saw the Karas woman or not, but whatever he saw—whatever happened—happened during the past twenty-four hours. He hasn’t had time to do a
goddamned thing
. He may tell you he has, but he hasn’t.”