The Parsifal Mosaic (24 page)

“You’ll have it. Our man with the eyes is up there.”

“Have a good day, Rome. A good day with no mistakes.”

“No mistakes, no tape, no log.”

“Out,” said the voice known only as Ambiguity.

The man behind the desk was outlined in silhouette. He was in front of a window overlooking the grounds below the Department of State, the soft glow of faraway streetlamps the only light intruding on the dark office. The man had been facing the window, the telephone held dose to his lips. He swiveled in his chair, his features in shadow, as he replaced the phone and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the extended fingers of both hands; the curious streak of white that shot through his dark hair gleamed even in the dim light.

Undersecretary of State Arthur Pierce, born Nikolai Petrovich Malyekov in the Village of Ramenskoye, southeast of Moscow, and raised in the State of Iowa, breathed deeply, steadily, imposing a calm over himself as he had learned to do throughout the years whenever a crisis called for swift, dangerous decisions; he knew full well the consequences of failure. That, of course, was the strength of men like him: they were not afraid to fail. They understood that the great accomplishments in history demanded the greatest risks; that, indeed, history itself was shaped by the boldness not only of collective action but of individual initiative. Those who panicked at the thought of failure, who did not act with clarity and determination when the moments of crisis were upon them, deserved the limitations to which their fears committed them.

There had been another decision to make, a decision every bit as dangerous as the one he had transmitted to Rome, but there was no avoiding it. The strategists of Consular Operations had reopened the events of that night on the Costa Brava; they had been peeling away the layers of deceit, about which they knew
nothing
. It all had to be buried
—they
had to be buried. At all costs, at all risk. Costa Brava had to be submerged again and become an obscure deception in a convoluted world of lies. In a few hours word would be sent from Col des Moulinets: “The order for ‘beyond salvage’ has been carried out. Authorization: Code Ambiguity—established and cleared by D. S. Stem, director of Consular Operations.”

But only the strategists knew whom Stern had come to
with his ambiguous dilemma. In fact, Stern himself had not known whom he would approach until he had emerged on the fifth floor and studied the roster of senior personnel on the premises; he had made that clear. No matter, thought Arthur Pierce in the dark office as he glanced at the inscribed photograph of Anthony Matthias on the wall. All things considered, it would have been unthinkable for him not to have been consulted regarding the crisis. It was simply more convenient for him to have been in his office when Stern and the other strategists had made the decision to bring the insoluble problem upstairs. Had he not been on the floor, he would have been reached, his counsel sought. The result would have been the same: “Beyond salvage.” Only the method would have been different: an unacknowledged consensus by a faceless committee. Everything worked out for the best; the past two hours had been orchestrated properly. Failure had been considered, but not contemplated. Failure had been out of the question. The strategists were dead, all links to code name Ambiguity severed.

They needed time
. Days, a week, a month. They had to find the man who had accomplished the incredible—with
their help
. They would find him, for he was leaving a trail of fear—no, not fear, terror—and trails could be tracked. And when they found him, it would not be the meek who inherited the earth. It would be the Voennaya.

There were so few of them left on this side of the world. So few, but so strong, so right. They had seen it all, lived it all. The lies, the corruption, the essential rot at the cores of power; they had been part of it for a greater cause. They had not forgotten who they were, or what they were. Or
why
they were. They were the travelers, and there was no higher calling; its concept was based in reality, not in romantic illusions. They were the men and women of the new world, and the old one needed them desperately. They were not many in numbers—less than a hundred, committed beyond life—but they were finely tuned units, prepared to react instantly to any opportunity or emergency. They had the positions, the right papers, the proper vehicles. The Voennaya was generous; they, in turn, were loyal to the elite corps of the KGB.

The death of the strategists had been crucial. The resulting vacuum would paralyze the original architects of Costa Brava, stunning them into silence. They would say nothing;
cover—up would be paramount. For the man in shadows behind the desk had not lied to Borne: there could be no reopened speculations on Costa Brava. For either side.

Darkness obscuring his movements, Arthur Pierce, the most powerful
paminyatchik
in the Department of State, rose from the desk and walked silently to the armchair against the wall. He sat down and stretched his legs; he would remain there until morning, until the crowds of senior and subordinate personnel began to fill up the fifth floor. Then he would mingle with the others, signing a forgotten roster sheet; his morning presence would be temporary, for he was needed back in New York. He was, after all, Washington’s senior aide to the ambassador of the American delegation at the United Nations. In essence, he was the State Department’s major voice on the East River; soon he would be the ambassador. That had been Anthony Matthias’s design; everyone knew it. It would be yet another significant step in his extraordinary career.

Suddenly Malyekov-Pierce bolted up in the chair. There was a last phone call to be placed to Borne, a last voice to be stilled: a man in a radio room who answered a sterile telephone and took an untaped, unlogged message.

“She’s not on board, I
swear
it!” protested the harassed captain of the freighter
Santa Teresa
, seated at his desk in the small cabin aft of the wheelhouse. “Search, if you wish, sig-nore. No one will interfere. We put her ashore three … three and a half hours ago.
Madre di Dio!
Such madness!”

“How?
Where?”
demanded Havelock.

“Same as you. A motor launch came out to meet us twelve kilometers south of Arma di Taggia. I swear to you, I knew
nothing
! I’ll
kill
that pig in Civitavecchia! Just a political refugee from the Balkans, he said—a woman with a little money and friends in France. There are so many these days. Where is the sin in helping one more?”

Michael leaned over and picked up the outdated diplomatic identification card that gave his status as consular attaché, U.S. Department of State, and said calmly, “No sin at all, if that’s what you believed.”

“It’s true, signore! For nearly thirty years I’ve pushed my old cows through these waters. Soon I leave the sea with a little land, a little money. I grow grapes. Never
narcotici!
Never
contrabbandi!
But people—yes. Now and then
people
, and I am not ashamed. Those who flee places and men you and I know nothing about. I ask you again, where is the sin?”

“In making mistakes.”

“I cannot believe this woman is a criminal.”

“I didn’t say that. I said we had to find her.”

The captain nodded his head in resignation. “Badly enough to report me. I leave the sea for prison.
Grazie, gran Signor Americano.”

“I didn’t say that, either,” said Michael quietly.

The captain’s eyes widened as he looked up, his head motionless.
“Che cosa?”

“I didn’t expect you to be what you seem to be.”

“Che dice?”

“Never mind. There are times when embarrassment should be avoided. If you cooperate, nothing may have to be said.
If
you cooperate.”

“In any way you wish! It’s a gift I did not expect.”

“Tell me everything she said to you. And do it quickly.”

“There was much that was meaningless—”

“That’s not what I want to hear.”

“I understand. She was calm, obviously highly intelligent, but, beneath, a very frightened woman. She stayed in this cabin.”

“Oh?”

“Not with me, I can assure you. I have daughters her age, signore. We had three meals together; there was no other place for her, and my crew is not what I would have my daughters eat with. Also, she carried a great deal of lire on her person. She had to; the transportation she purchased did not come cheap.… She looked forward to much trouble. Tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“She asked me if I had ever been to the Village of Col des Moulinets in the Ligurian mountains.”

“She told you about Col des Moulinets?”

“I think she assumed I knew, that I was merely one part of her journey, aware of the other parts. As it happened, I
have
been to Moulinets several times. The ships they give me are often in need of repairs, here in San Remo, or Savona, or Marseilles, which, incidentally, is my farthest port of call. I am not what is known as a
capitano superiore—”

“Please
. Go on.”

“We have been dry-docked here in San Remo a few times and I have gone up to the mountains, to Col des Moulinets. It’s across the French border west of Monesi, a lovely town
filled with mountain streams and—How do you say it?
Ruote a pale?”

“Paddle wheels.
Moulinets
can also mean paddle wheels in French.”

“Si. It’s a minor pass in the lower Alps, not used very much. It’s difficult to reach, the facilities poor, the transportation poorer. And the border guards are the most lax in the Ligurians and the Maritimes; they barely have time to take the Gauloises out of their mouths to glance at papers. I tried to assure my frightened refugee that she would have no trouble.”

“You think she’ll try to go through a checkpoint?”

“There’s only one, a short bridge across a mountain river. Why not? I doubt it would be necessary even to bribe a guard; if she was one woman among a group of well-dressed people at night, no doubt evidencing fine
vino
. What concern is it of theirs?”

“Men like me.”

The captain paused; he leaned back in his chair appraising the American official, as if in a somewhat different light. “Then you would have to answer that yourself, signore. Who else knows?” Both men looked at each other, neither speaking. The captain nodded and continued. “But I tell you this, if she doesn’t use the bridge, she will have to make her way through very dense forest with much steep rock, and don’t forget the river.”

“Thanks. That’s the kind of information I need. Did she say why she was getting out this way?”

“The usual. The airports were watched; the train stations also, as well as the major roads that cross into France.”

“Watched by whom?”

“Men like you, signore?”

“Is that what she said?”

“She did not have to say anything more than she did, and I did not inquire. That is the truth.”

“I believe you.”

“will you answer the question, then? Do others know?”

“I’m not sure,” said Michael. “The truth.”

“Because if they do, I am arrested. I leave the sea for prison.”

“Would that mean it’s public information?”

“Most certainly. Charges would be brought before la
commissione
”

“Then I don’t think they’ll touch you. I have an idea that this incident is the last thing on earth the men I’m involved with want known. If they haven’t reached you by now—by radio, or a fast boat, or by helicopter—they either don’t know about you, or they don’t want to touch you.”

Again the captain paused, looking carefully at Havelock. “Men you are involved with, signore?” he said, the words suspended.

“I don’t understand.”

“Involved with, but not
of
, is that correct?”

“It’s not important.”

“You wish to help this woman, do you not? You are not after her to … penalize her.”

“The answer to the first is yes. The second, no.”

“Then I will tell you. She asked me if I knew the airfield near Col des Moulinets, I did not. I never heard of it.”

“An airfield?” Michael understood. It was added information he would not have been given ten seconds ago. “A bridge over a mountain river, and an airfield. Tonight.”

“That is all I can tell you.”

The mountain road leading out of Monesi toward the French border was wide enough, but the profusion of rock and boulder and bordering overgrowth made it appear narrow, more suited to heavy-wheeled trucks and rugged jeeps than to any normal automobile. It was the excuse that Michael used to travel the last half-mile on foot, to the relief of the taxi driver from Monesi.

He had learned there was a country inn just before the bridge, a watering spot for the Italian and French patrols, where both languages were sufficiently understood by the small garrisons on either side, as well as by the few nationals and fewer tourists who occasionally passed back and forth. From what little Havelock had seen and had been told, the captain of the
Santa
Teresa was right. The border checkpoint of Col des Moulinets was at a minor pass in the lower Alps, not easily accessible and poorly staffed, manned no doubt because it was there—had been for decades—and no bureaucratic legislation had bothered to remove it. The general flow of traffic between the two countries used either the wide
coast roads of the Mediterranean fifteen miles south or the larger, more accommodating passes in the north, such as Col de Larche or Col de la Madeleine, west of Turin.

The late-afternoon sun was now a fan-shaped arc of deep orange and yellows, spraying up from behind the higher mountains, filling the sky above the Maritimes with receding echoes of light. The shadows on the primitive road were growing longer, sharper; in minutes their outlines would fade and they would become obscure shapes, indistinguishable in the gray darkness of early evening. Michael walked along the edge of the woods, prepared to spring into the underbrush at the first sounds not part of the forest. He knew that every move he made had to be prejudged on the assumption that Rome had learned about Col des Moulinets. He had not lied to the captain of the
Santa Teresa
; there could be any number of reasons why those working for the embassy would stay away from a ship in international waters. The slow freighter could be tracked and watched—very likely had been—but it was another matter to board her in a legitimate official capacity. It was a high-risk tactic; inquiries too easily could be raised with a commissione.