The Parsifal Mosaic (71 page)

“You can’t find him, either. You lost him.”

“But we know who he is. We’ve studied his habits, his needs, his talents. Like all men with outstanding minds, he’s complicated but predictable. We’ll find him. We know what to look for, you don’t.”

“He defected from you, didn’t he?”

“A temporary condition. His quarrel was with the bureaucracy, with unimaginative superiors, not the objectives of the state. When he came to me, I could have taken him, but I chose not to; he offered me too high a price. You see, he believes in us, not you—certainly not you,
never
you. His grandfather was a tenant serf on the lands of Prince Voroshin. He was hanged by that grand nobleman for stealing a wild boar in winter to feed his family. He won’t turn on us.”

“Who’s ‘us’? Moscow doesn’t acknowledge you, we’ve learned that much through Costa Brava. The KGB had nothing to
do
with Costa Brava; it was never sanctioned.”

“Not by anyone you deal with. They’re old and tired; they accommodate. They’ve lost sight of our promise—our destiny, if you like. We haven’t.” Pierce looked at the television set and the video recorder beneath it, then at the box on Bradford’s desk. “A network film library—or is it archives? Images recorded, so they can be studied to settle disputes, or Investigate death. Very good, Emory.” The mole glanced up. “Or we could add a third
d
. Disappearance. Yes, those would tell you; that feeble excuse for a diplomat we call an ambassador certainly couldn’t He’d check his records, find that I’d given him the best arguments for those sessions, and swear I was there. It might amuse you to know that I frequently talk with my true associates in the lounge and tell them to go easy on him, let him win a few. He was heaven-sent for me.” “It doesn’t amuse me.”

Pierce approached Bradford, standing directly in front of him. “Havlíček’s come back, hasn’t he?”

“Who?”

“We prefer his real name. Mikhail Havlíček, son of Václav, an enemy of the state, and named for a grandfather from Rovno, across the Carpathians. Mikhail is a Russian name, you know. Not Czech. On the other hand, you probably
don’t
know that; you put such little emphasis on heritage. Under different circumstances, he might be standing where I am at this moment. He’s a talented man; I’m sorry he was so misguided. He’s here, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Emory. That outrageous newspaper story, that very opaque whitewash done so very badly out of State in response to the killing on Morningside Heights. That old Jew knew something, didn’t he? And the pathological Havlíček shot his head off finding out what it was. Then you covered for him because he’d found
you
out, and no doubt found the girl as well. You need him now; he could blow you apart You made your accommodation with him. You told him the truth, you had to. It all goes back to the Costa Brava, doesn’t it?”

“You
go back to the Costa Brava!”

“Certainly. We were on our way to the total compromise of one of the most powerful men in the Western world. We wanted to make sure it was done right. You didn’t have the stomach for it. We did.”

“But you didn’t know why. You still
don’t!”

“It never mattered, can’t you see that? He was going in-sane. You, with your extraordinary expectations, were driving him insane; he was a gifted man doing the work of twenty. The Georgian syndrome, Emory. Stalin was a babbling idiot when he was killed All we had to do with Matthias was fuel his fantasies, gratify his every whim, grievance and suspicion-encourage his madness. Because that madness compromised this country into its own madness.”

“There’s no compromise now. Only annihilation. Extinction.”

“Pierce nodded his head slowly. There’s the risk, of course, but one can’t be afraid to fail.”

“Now
you’re
the one who’s insane!”

“Not at all The extinction would be yours, the annihilation yours. That court of world opinion you whiningly appeal to so frequently would see to it. And right now, all that matters is that we find the man who single-handedly ushered Anton Matthias into his disintegration, and we want those documents. Don’t worry about Havlíček;
you
were going to put him ‘beyond salvage,’ we weren’t.”

“You did. You did! You put him beyond salvage.”

“At the time it was right to order his execution. It isn’t now. Now he’ll help us. I wasn’t Joking before; he’s one of the most talented men you’ve ever fielded, a very accomplished hunter. With
his
expertise and what
we
know, we’ll find the man who’ll bring this government to its knees.”

“I’ve told people who you are!” whispered Bradford. “
What
you are!”

“I’d have been followed at the airport-especially the air-port-and I wasn’t. You didn’t tell anyone because you didn’t know until a few minutes ago. I’m far too important a figure for such speculations from a man like you. You’ve made too many mistakes; you can’t afford any more. This city doesn’t like you, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“Havelock will kill you on sight.”

“I’m sure he would if he could see us, but that’s his problem, isn’t it. We
know
Havlíček; he doesn’t know us; he doesn’t know me. That puts him at quite a disadvantage. We’ll just watch him; it’s all we have to do.”

“You’ll never find him!” Bradford lurched to his left, instantly blocked by Pierce, who shoved him against the wall.

“Don’t, Emory. You’re tired and very weak. Before you could raise your voice you’d be dead. As for finding him, how many safe houses are there? Steriles One through Seventeen? And who wouldn’t tell a man like me—a man involved with numerous diplomatic ‘defections’—which ones are available? I’ve brought in several enviable catches-or presumed catches.” Pierce took several steps, once again standing in front of Bradford. “Now, don’t die. Tell me. Where is this catastrophic document? I assume it’s a photostat. The original is held over your head, a nuclear sword hanging by a very thin thread.”

“Where you could never find it.”

“I believe you,” said the traveler. “But you could.”

“There’s no way … could or would.”

“Unfortunately, I believe that, too.”

There was a brief snapping sound as Pierce suddenly thrust out his right hand, gripping Bradford’s bare arm, pressing his palm into the flesh. With his left, the mole simultaneously reached up and clamped his fingers over Bradford’s mouth, twisting the undersecretary’s body, arching him to the side. In seconds, Bradford’s eyes widened, then closed as the choking sounds from his throat were muted. He collapsed to the floor as Pierce withdrew the palmed needle. The mole raced behind the desk and picked up the tape container; beneath it was a note on corporate stationery. He reached for the telephone, pressed the outside-line button and dialed.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York Office,” a voice answered.

“Internal Security, please. Field Agent Abrams.”

“Abrams,” said a male voice seconds later.

“Your travels went well, I hope.”

“A smooth flight” was the reply. “Go ahead.”

“There’s a network executive,” continued Pierce, reading the note, “an R.B. Denning at the Trans American News Division. He supplied library footage to the wrong man at State, an unbalanced man named Bradford, whose motives were offensive to the interests of the United States government. The tapes were destroyed by Bradford in a rage, but for the good of Trans Am’s news department—the entire company, as well, of course—Denning’s officially advised to say nothing. The Department of State feels it’s mandatory to
contain the embarrassment, et cetera, et cetera. This is a very green light.”

“I’ll reach him right away even if he’s into his second martini.”

“You could add that State might be reluctant to deal with Trans Am in the future, insofar as they delivered company materials without checking the source of the request through proper channels. However, if everyone cooperates for the good of the country—”

“The picture will be clear,” interrupted the
paminyatchik
from New York. “I’ll get on it.”

Pierce hung up, walked to the television set, and carefully moved it back against the wall. He would have the video recorder taken away to another office. There would be no trace of the newsreel tapes or any way to trace them.

There was no prolonged, agonized scream, no cry of protest against offending gods or mortals—only the sound of shattering glass in the huge window as a body plummeted from the seventh floor of the State Department.

It was said by those who had seen him that morning that it was the way he had to go—in a moment of frenzy, of total despair, wanting it over with, not wanting to think any longer. The pressures had become overwhelming; he had never really recovered from those soul-searching days of the late sixties, everyone knew that. He was a man whose time had come and gone, and he had never reasoned out the role he had played in its arrival and departure. Substance had eluded him; at the end he was a voice in the shadows, a voice disturbing to many, but dismissed by many others because he couldn’t
do
anything.

The press printed it all in the evening editions, the obituaries ranging from kind to cool, depending on the editorial stripe. But it should be noted that none was very long; no one really cared. Inconsistency was not compatible with that most desirable of political sins: typecasting. To change was to be weak. We want Jesus or the strong-jawed cowboy. Who the hell can be both?

Undersecretary of State Emory Bradford, committed hawk turned, passionate dove, was dead. By his own hand, of course.

And there was no odd piece of equipment such as a video
recorder in the stand beneath the television set. It had been delivered to the wrong office, a G-12 on the third floor confirming his original request. The set was rolled back against the wall. Apparently unused.

“You couldn’t have prevented it,” said Jenna firmly, standing in front of Havelock at the desk. “You’re not permitted to go to the State Department and it’s a condition you accept. If the mole saw you, he’d either kill you quietly and remain where he was, or bolt and run to Moscow. You want him, and your being seen isn’t the way to find him.”

“Maybe I couldn’t have prevented it, but I might have let his death—his life—mean more than it did. He wanted to tell me and I told him not to say any more. He said this phone was as sterile as the house and I wouldn’t accept that.”

“That’s
not
what you said. You told him
his
phone,
his
office, might not be sterile. From everything you’ve learned over the years, everything you’ve seen, you made the logical decision. And I still believe there are
paminyatchiki
in your State Department who would lie for this man, tap an office for him.”

“You know, a paranoid named McCarthy said things like that and tore this country apart thirty years ago. Tore it apart with fear and frenzy.”

“Perhaps he was one himself. Who could have done it bet—ter?”

“It’s possible. The
paminyatchik is
the total patriot. He’ll call for a loyalty oath every time because he has no compunction about signing one.”

“That’s what you have to look for now, Mikhail. A total patriot; a man with an unblemished record. He will be the mole.”

“If I could find out what it was Bradford was waiting for yesterday, I think I’d have both. He said he wouldn’t know until ‘late morning.’ That means he expected something that would tell him where a man wasn’t, proof someone on the fifth floor wasn’t where he was supposed to be. The security desk said Bradford received a package at twelve-twenty-five, but no one knows what it was, and, naturally, it wasn’t there later.”

“There was no return address or company name?”

“If there was, nobody noticed. It was delivered by messenger.”

“Check the firms who provide those services. Certainly someone can recall the color of the uniform; that would narrow it down.”

“She wasn’t that kind of messenger. She wore a fur-collared tweed coat, and the only thing Security remembers is that she was pretty high-toned for delivering packages.”

“High-toned?”

“Attractive, well-spoken, direct. I think that covers it.”

“Someone’s secretary.”

“Yes, but whose? What sort of person would Bradford go to, what kind of proof?”

“What was the size of the package?”

“The guard who took it up said it was a large, padded envelope with a bulge on the bottom, and thick throughout. Papers and something else.”

“Papers?” said Jenna. “Newspapers? Could he have gone to a newspaper?”

“He might have. Four-month-old clippings that would describe an event or events during that time. Or he could have pulled in data from the CIA; he had friends there. Something from the files that pertained to the evidence against you, or perhaps Costa Brava … something we’ve overlooked. Or he could have been checking hospitals, or ski lodges, or hometown, small-town neighborhoods or divorce-court dockets—representation in absentia—or Caribbean resort reservations—signatures on meal and bar checks, a maître d’ or a beachboy who makes his money by remembering. All of it’s possible because everything I’ve said pertains to someone
in these records.” Michael touched the sheaf of pages on the desk, running his thumb along the edge. “And a dozen other possibilities I haven’t even thought about.” Havelock leaned back in the chair, folding his hands under his chin. “Our man’s good, Jenna. He’ll cover himself with a layer of invisible paint.”

“Then go on to something else.”

“I am. A doctor in Maryland. Talbot County’s most revered physician.”

“Mikhail?”

“Yes?”

“Before … you were reading the reports of your own therapy at the clinic. After the Costa Brava.”

“How did you know?”

“Every now and then you’d close your eyes. Those pages weren’t easy for you.”

“They weren’t easy.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

“No. Other than describing your execution and my reactions to it, nothing.”

“May I see them?”