The Parsifal Mosaic (57 page)

“You’d have dinner at Alexander’s homer?”

“Always. He understood that he also wasn’t someone I wanted to be seen with in public.”

“Then you
are
good friends.”

“Reasonably so.”

“And he’s influential?”

“Of course.”

Jenna reached over and touched his arm. “Mikhail, why not tell him
everything?”

Havelock frowned and put his hand over hers. “I don’t think he’d want to hear it. It’s the sort of thing he runs from.”

“He’s a writer. In
Washington
. How can you say that?”

“He’s an analyst, a commentator. Not an investigative reporter, not a muckraker. He doesn’t like stepping on toes, only on opinions.”

“But what you have to tell him is extraordinary.”

“He’d tell me to go straight to the State Department security bureau on the basis that I’d get a fair hearing. I
wouldn’t. I’d get a bullet in my head. Alexander’s a sixty-five-year-old curmudgeon who’s heard it all—from Dallas to Watergate—and he thinks a hundred and ten percent of it is a conspiracy of horseshit. And if he found out what I’d done—Handelman excluded—he’d call security himself.”

“He’s not much of a friend.”

“By his lights he is; just don’t transgress.” Michael paused, turning her hand over. “But beyond the possibility that he’d bring Bradford out to Fox Hollow, there’s something he might clear up. My
přítele
. I’ll ask him to find out where Matthias is, say that I don’t want to call myself because I may not have time to see him and Anton would be upset. He’d do it; with his connections he
could
do it.”

“Suppose he can’t?”

“Then that’ll tell us something, won’t it? In which case, I’ll force him to get Bradford out there, if I have to put a gun to his head. But if he does reach Matthias at a lodge in the Shenandoah … we’ll know something else, and it frightens the hell out of me. It will mean that the Secretary of State has a Moscow connection in the KGB.”

The village of Fox Hollow was small. The streets were lit by gas lamps and the architecture was Colonial by township decree; the stores were called shops and their clientele was among the wealthiest in the Washington-New York orbit. The village’s charm was not only apparent, it was proclaimed, but it was not for the benefit of outsiders—tourists were discouraged, if not harassed. The minimum police force had maximum arms and a communications system that proportionately rivaled that of the Pentagon, where it was probably designed. Fox Hollow was an island in a landlocked area of Virginia as surely as if its square mileage were surrounded by an impassable sea.

The air had been warmed by the Potomac River, and the snow had receded on the outskirts of Harpers Ferry. It had turned into a cold drizzle at Leesburg, by which time Havelock had prepared his scenario for Raymond Alexander. Its bureaucratic plausibility lent it conviction, plausibility based on genuine anxiety where present or past covert operations were concerned. There had been a killing in New York—if Alexander had not heard of it, he would by morning; he was a voracious reader of newspapers—and the killer had mocked
up an impersonation, including an ID and an appearance uncomfortably close to Michael’s own. The State Department bad flown him back from London on military transport; any assistance the retired foreign service officer could give Consular Operations would be appreciated; also, he had been in London, hadn’t he?

The Bradford ploy would be refined as their conversation progressed, but the basic thrust would be that the once controversial undersecretary of State was about to be rehabilitated and put back in the limelight. In London, Havelock would say, he had been given a detailed report of Bradford’s extensive but secret negotiations in the touchy matter of NATO missile deployment; it was a major shift in policy. It was also sufficiently explosive to get Alexander’s juices running. It was the sort of advance leak he thrived on, giving him time to put together an exhaustive analysis of the pros and cons. But if the old warhorse wished to interview Emory Bradford—with on-site but unseen verification, possibly con—frontation—he had to persuade the undersecretary to come out to Fox Hollow in the morning. Havelock had a reservation on the afternoon flight back to London—and, of course, time and schedules permitting, he wanted to drop in on his old mentor Anthony Matthias, if only for a few minutes. If Alexander knew where he could find him.

As for Bradford, he had no choice. If summoned by the redoubtable journalist, he would comply. Other things—such as Costa Brava—might be paramount, but he still had to maintain his low profile at all costs, and one way to lose it was to refuse to be interviewed by Raymond Alexander. And when he came into the house in Fox Hollow, with his guards remaining outside in a limousine, Michael would take him. His disappearance would baffle the liars and the guards hired by the liars. The journalist’s large, rambling house was surrounded by miles of dense woods, overgrown fields and steep ravines. No one knew forests the way Mikhail Havlíček knew them; he would take Bradford through them until they came to a backcountry road somewhere, and a car, and the woman that Bradford had used in Barcelona. After his meeting with Alexander, they would have all night to study the map and travel the roads, watching for the Fox Hollow police, explanations at the ready if they were stopped. They could do it. They
had
to do it.

“It’s lovely!” cried Jenna, charmed by the gas-lit streets and the small alabaster columns of the storefronts.

“It’s wired,” said Michael, spotting a blue-and-white patrol car at the curb in the middle of the block.

“Get down!” he ordered. “Stay out of sight.”

“What?”

“Please.”

Jenna did as she was told, curling up on the floor. He slowed down, pulling alongside the police car; he saw the officer in the window, then eased to his right, and parked directly in front.

“What are you doing?” whispered Jenna, bewildered.

“Showing my credentials before anyone asks for them.”

“That’s very good, Mikhail.”

Havelock got out of the coupe and walked back to the patrol car. The police officer rolled down the window, first studying the license plate on Michael’s rented car. It was precisely what Michael wanted him to see; it could be of value later that night if a “suspicious vehicle” was reported.

“Officer, could you tell me where there’s a pay phone around here? I thought there was one on the corner, but then I haven’t been back here in a couple of years.”

“You’ve been here before?” asked the policeman, his voice friendly, his eyes not.

“Oh, sure. Used to spend weekends out here a lot.”

“You have business in Fox Hollow, sir?”

“Well …” Havelock paused, as if the question bordered on impertinence. Then he shrugged, as if to say, After all the police have a job to do. He spoke in a slightly lower tone. “All right, I understand. My business is with an old friend, Raymond Alexander. I want to call and tell him I’m here.… Just in case someone’s dropped in on him he’d prefer I not meet. It’s standard procedure with Mr. Alexander, Officer, but you probably know that. I could drive around for a while. I’ll probably have to later on anyway.”

The policeman’s posture had visibly improved at the mention of Alexander’s name. Limousines and military staff cars were common sights on the road to the venerated political commentator’s retreat. There was no such vehicle in front of him now, but the operative phrases were printed in the officer’s eyes: “An old friend”; “Used to spend weekends …”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. There’s a restaurant five blocks up with a phone in the lobby.”

“The Lamplighter?” said Havelock, remembering.

“That’s it.”

“I don’t think so, Officer. It could be a busy night. Isn’t there a booth on the street?”

“There’s one over on Acacia.”

“If you’ll tell me how to get there, both R.A. and I would appreciate it.”

“You can follow me, sir.”

“Thanks very much.” Michael started for his car, then stopped and returned to the window. “I know this sounds silly, but I was usually driven out here. I think I know the way to his home. I take a left on Webster to Underhill Road, then straight out for two or three miles, isn’t that it?”

“It’s nearer six miles, sir.”

“Oh? Thanks.”

“After you make your call, I could lead you out, sir. It’s quiet in town tonight.”

“That’s
very
kind of you. But really, I couldn’t ask you.”

“No problem. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Well, thanks again. I appreciate it.”

The call to Raymond Alexander brought forth the response Havelock expected. Nothing would do but that he drop in and see the journalist if only for a drink. Michael said he was glad Raymond was free, not only to renew an old friendship but because he had learned something in London that Alexander might want to know about. It might even make up partially for a great many expensive dinners Havelock had enjoyed at Raymond’s expense.

On the way back to his car from the booth, Michael stopped at the police officer’s window. “Mr. Alexander wanted me to get your name. He’s very grateful to you.”

“It’s nothing, sir. My name’s Lewis. Officer Lewis; there’s only one.”

Lewis
, he thought. Harry Lewis, professor of political science, Concord University. He could not think about Harry now, but he would have to think about him soon. Lewis must be convinced he had dropped out of civilization. He had, and to reenter it, liars would have to be found and exposed.

“Is something the matter, sir?”

“No, nothing at all. I know a man named Lewis. I remembered I was to call him. Thanks once again. I’ll follow you.”

Havelock climbed behind the wheel of the rented car and looked at Jenna. “How are you doing?”

“Uncomfortable and frightened out of my mind! Suppose that man had come over?”

“I would have stopped him, called to him from the booth, but I didn’t think it was likely. The police in Fox Hollow stay close to their radios. I just don’t want you seen, if we can help it. Not around here, not with me.”

The drive out to Alexander’s house took less than twelve minutes. The white post-and-rail fence marking the journalist’s property shone in the glare of the headlights of both cars. The home itself was set far back from the road. It was a tasteful combination of stone and wood, with floodlights shining down on the circular drive in front of wide slate steps that led to the heavy oak entrance door. The grounds were cleared in the front and on the sides of the house; thick, tall trees shot up at random about the close-cropped lawn. But where the lawn ended, on either side the dense woods abruptly began. From memory, Michael pictured the rear of the house; the woods were no farther away from the large back patio than they were from the sides of the building. He would use those woods and Bradford would enter them with him.

“When you hear the police car leave,” he said to Jenna, “get up and stretch, but don’t get out. I don’t know what kind of alarms Alexander has around here.”

“It’s been a strange introduction to this free country of yours, Mikhail.”

“Also, don’t smoke.”

“Děkuji.”

“You’re welcome.”

Havelock purposely touched the rim of the horn as he got out of the car; the sound was abrupt and short, easily explained. There were no dogs. He walked toward the patrol car in front, hoping the horn would serve its function before he reached the window. It did; the front door opened and a uniformed maid stood in the frame, looking out.

“Hello, Margaret!” yelled Michael over the hood of the police car. “Be right there.” He looked down at the police officer,
who had glanced at the door, the scene not lost on him. “Thanks again, Officer Lewis,” he said, taking a bill from his pocket. “I’d like to—”

“Oh, no, sir, thanks just the same. Have a good evening, sir.” The officer nodded with a smile, pulled the gear in place, and drove off.

Havelock waved; no police, no dogs, only unseen alarms. As long as Jenna stayed in the car, she was safe. He walked up the slate steps to the door and the maid.

“Good evening, sir,” said the woman in a distinct Irish brogue. “My name is Enid, not Margaret.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Mr. Alexander is expecting you. I never heard of a Margaret; the girl before me was Gretchen. She lasted four years, may the Lord rest her soul.”

Raymond Alexander got up from the soft easy chair in his book—lined, wood-paneled library and walked toward Michael, his hand outstretched. His gait was more lively than one might have expected from his portly figure; his cherubic face with the clear green eyes was topped by a mass of disheveled hair that managed to stay darker than the years normally permitted. In keeping with his anachronistic lifestyle, he wore a deep red velvet smoking jacket, something Havelock had not seen since his adolescent days in Greenwich, Connecticut.

“Michael, how
are
you? My God, it’s been four, five years now!” cried the journalist in his clipped, high-pitched voice.

“They’ve served you well, Raymond. You look great.”

“You
don’t! Forgive me, young man, but you look like something one of my cats would have left outside. I don’t think retirement agrees with you.” Alexander released Havelock’s hand and quickly raised both of his own. “Yes, I know all about it. I keep track when friends answer questions. Pour yourself a drink; you know the rules here and you look like you need one.”

“I will, thanks,” said Michael, heading for the familiar copper dry-bar against the wall.”

“I suppose you’d look better with some sleep.…”

It was the opportune opening. Havelock sat down opposite the journalist and told him the story of the killing in New York and State’s flying him back from London at 4:00
A.M
., U.K. time.

“I read about that this morning,” said Alexander, shaking his head. “Naturally, I thought of you—the name, of course—but knew right away it was ridiculous. You, of all people, with
your
background? Did someone steal an old identification of yours?”

“No, it was mocked, that’s what we think. At any rate, it’s been a long two days. For a while I thought I was a prisoner.”