The Parsifal Mosaic (72 page)

“I wish to Christ I could think of a reason to stop you. I can’t.”

“Your not wanting me to is reason enough.”

“No, it’s not. You were the one being killed; you have to know.” He opened the drawer on his right, reached in and pulled out a thick, black-bordered manila envelope. He gave it to her, their eyes briefly locking. “I’m not proud of it,” he said. “And I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life. I know what that means now.”

“We’ll help each other—for the rest of both our lives. I believed them too.”

She carried the envelope to the couch, sat down, and opened it, removing the file folders inside. They were in sequence; she picked up the first and leaned slowly back, looking at the object in her hands as though it were some horrible yet holy thing. She opened the cover and began reading.

Havelock could not move, could not concentrate. He sat rigid in the chair, the papers in front of him blurred, dark lines without meaning. While Jenna read he relived that terrible night; images flashed across his inner vision and exploded
inside his head. Just as he had watched her die, she was now witnessing the naked thoughts of a mind in chemical therapy—
his
mind, his deepest emotions—and was watching him die also.

The phrases—the screams—came back to him; she was hearing them too. She had to be, for it was she who now closed her eyes and held her breath, a tremor developing in her hands as she went on … and on. She finished the third folder, and he could feel her staring at him. It was a look he could not return. The screams were pounding in his ears, thunderbolts of intolerable violence, unforgivable errors. Betrayal.

Go quickly! Die quickly! Leave me quickly! You were never mine. You were a lie and I loved a lie but you were never part of me!
 … 
How can you be what you are, yet so much that you are not? Why did you do this to us?
To me? You were the only thing I had and now you’re my personal hell
.…
Die now, go now!
 … 
No! For God’s sake, let me die with you! I want to die
 … 
but I won’t die for you!
 … 
Only for myself, against myself! Never for you. You gave yourself to me but you gave me a whore and I took a whore
 … 
and I believed in the whore. A rotten slut of a whore!
 … 
Oh, Christ, she’s hit! She’s hit again. Go to her! For God’s sake, go to her! Hold her! … No, never to her! It’s over! It’s all over and it’s history and I won’t listen to the lies any longer. Oh, Jesus, she’s crawling, crawling in the sand like a cut—up, bleeding animal. She’s alive! Go to her! Hold her! Lessen the final pain—with a bullet if you have to! No!
 … 
She’s gone. There’s no movement now, only blood on her hands and streaked through her hair. She’s dead and a part of me is dead, too. Still, it’s got to be history, as the early days are history … Oh, my God, they’re dragging her away, dragging the lanced, dead animal away. Who? Who are they? Have I seen
 … 
photographs, files
 … 
it doesn’t matter. Do they know what they’ve done? Did she? Killer, slut, whore! … My once, my only love. It’s history now, it has to be history. A killer is gone
 … 
love gone. A goddamned fool survives
.

She had finished. She placed the last file on the coffee table in front of her and turned to him; she was crying silently. “So much love and so much hatred. Hatred and self-hatred. I wasn’t forced to go through what you did; perhaps
it was easier, if more bewildering, to be the victim. But when the bewilderment was replaced by anger, I
felt
the way you did. Hating you so very much, yet loathing myself for the hatred, never forgetting the love that I knew—I
knew
—had been there. It couldn’t have been false, not so much, not all of it. The anger took over at the border and later at the airfield in Col des Moulinets when I thought you had come to finally kill me. Kill me with the violence you had shown that woman on the pier at Civitavecchia. I saw your face through the window of the plane and—if there’s a God, may He forgive me—you were my enemy. My love was my enemy.”

“I remember,” said Michael. “I saw your eyes and I remember the hatred. I tried to shout, tried to tell you, but you couldn’t hear me; I couldn’t hear myself through the sound of the engines. But your eyes were weapons that night, more frightening than any I’d ever faced. I wouldn’t have the courage to see them again, but I suppose in a way I always will.”

“Only in your memory, Mikhail.”

The telephone rang; Havelock let it ring again. He could not take his gaze off Jenna. Then he picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Havelock?”

“Mr. President.”

“Did you get the information on Emory?” asked Berquist, the Minnesotan’s voice laced with sadness and exhaustion, yet forcing an illusion of strength.

“Nowhere near what I need.”

“What you need is a liaison. I’ll pick someone here at the White House, someone with authority and a man I can trust. I’ll have to bring him on board, but that can’t be helped. Bradford’s gone and you
do
need a funnel.”

“Not yet, sir. And not anyone at the White House.”

There was a pause from Washington. “Because of what Rostov told you in Athens?”

“Possibly. The percentages are minor, but I’d rather not test them. Not now.”

“You
believed
him?”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, he was the only one who told me the truth. From the beginning.”

“Why would he tell you a truth like that?”

“I’m not sure. On the other hand, why did he send Cons Op that cable? In both instances the information was sufficiently startling to force us all to pay attention. That’s the first step in sending a signal.”

“Addison Brooks said very much the same thing.”

“He was talking diplomatically, and he was right. The Voennaya doesn’t speak for Moscow.”

“I understand. Bradford—” Berquist paused, as if he suddenly remembered he was referring to a dead man. “—Bradford explained it to me last night. So you really believe there’s a Soviet agent operating inside the White House?”

“As I said, I’m not sure. But there may be—or more than likely, may have been. I don’t think Rostov would have brought it up unless he could have substantiated the reality, present or past. He was probing, looking for responses. The truth provokes the most genuine answers in this business; he learned that when he brought up Costa Brava. In this case, I don’t want to take the risk.”

“All right, but then, how can you function? You can’t be seen walking around questioning people.”

“No, but I can question them without being seen. I can use the phone if it’s set up properly. I know what I want to ask and “I’ll know what to listen for. From these conversations I’ll refine whom I want to see and set up contacts. I’m experienced at this, Mr. President.”

“I don’t have to take your word for it. How is it set up—properly?”

“Give me a name, and call me an assistant counsel to the President, or something like that. It’s not unusual for the Oval Office to make its own discreet inquiries into certain matters, is it?”

“Hell, no, I’ve got a staff for that, and it’s not necessarily discreet. Hundreds of reports are sent to the White House every week. They have to be checked out, experts questioned, figures substantiated. Without it all, responsible decisions can’t be made. In Lincoln’s time he had two young men, and they took care of everything, including the drafting of letters. Now we have scores of aides and assistants to aides and secretaries to assistants and they can’t half handle the volume. The answer is yes.”

“What happens if someone is called by an aide or an assistant
aide and that someone doubts the authority of the person questioning him?”

“It happens a lot, especially at the Pentagon; there’s a simple solution. He’s told to call the White House switchboard and ask to be connected to the aide’s or the assistant’s office. It works.”

“It
will
work,” said Michael. “Along with the lines already on this phone can you add another one, listing me in the White House index, the extension routed here?”

“Havelock, one of the more exotic pleasures in being President, or close to a President, is the trunkful of electronic gimmickry available on short notice. You’ll be indexed and patched into the switchboard within the hour. What name do you want to use?”

“You’ll have to choose one, sir. I might duplicate someone already there.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“Mr. President, before you hang up—”

“What is it?”

“I’ll need another one of those things that may not be in your lexicon. A context backup.”

“It sure as hell isn’t. What is it?”

“In the event someone calls the White House index and wants to know exactly what I do, there should be someone else there who can tell him.”

Again there was the pause from Washington. “You were right, down on Poole’s Island,” said Berquist pensively. “The words say exactly what they mean, don’t they? You need someone to back you up in the context of what you’re presuming to do, or be.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Call you back.”

“May I suggest something?” said Michael quickly.

“What?”

“Within the next few days—if we have a few days—someone is going to come up to that someone else in the White House and ask where my office is. When he or she does, hold him-or her-because whoever it is will bring us a step closer.”

“If that happens,” said Berquist angrily, “whoever it is may be strangled by a Minnesota farm boy before you get a chance to talk to him. Or her.”

“I’m sure you don’t mean that, Mr. President.”

“I’m not going to throw a nuclear warhead on Leningrad, either. Call you back.”

Havelock replaced the phone and looked over at Jenna. “We can begin narrowing down the names. We’ll start calling in an hour.”

“Your name is Cross. Robert Cross. Your title is Special Assistant to the President, and all inquiries as to your status and functions are to be directed to Mrs. Howell—she’s counsel to White House internal affairs. She’s been told what to do.”

“What about my office?”

“You’ve got one.”

“What?”

“You’ve even got an assistant. In the security area of E.O.B. You need a key to get in the main corridor over there, and your man is instructed to take into custody anyone who comes around looking for Mr. Cross. He’s a member of the Secret Service detail and if anyone does show up asking for you, he’ll alert you and bring that person down to Fairfax under guard. I assumed that’s what you wanted.”

“It is. What about the other offices in that area? Will the people in them be curious?”

“Unlikely. By and large those assignments are temporary, everyone working on his own quiet project. Curiosity’s discouraged. And if it surfaces, you’ve got your man in place.”

“It sounds tight.”

“I think so. Where are you going to start?… Emory showed me the list of the items you wanted and assured me you’d have it all in the morning. Did you get everything?”

“Everything. Bradford’s secretary to first, then the doctor in Maryland. MacKenzie’s death.”

“We were extremely thorough with him,” said Berquist. “Under the circumstances, we were able to bring in the Central Intelligence Agency and those people were aggressive. What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure. Someone who’s not around anymore, perhaps. A puppet.”

“I won’t try to follow that.”

“I may need your direct intervention in one area, however.
You said before that the Pentagon frequently balks at being questioned by White House personnel.”

“It goes with the uniforms; they’re not worn over here. I expect you’re referring to the Nuclear Contingency Committees. I saw them on your list.”

“I am.”

“They’re touchy. Rightfully so, I’d say.”

“I have to talk to every member of those three teams; that’s fifteen senior officers. Can you get word to the chairman that you expect them all to cooperate with Mr. Cross? Not in the area of maximum restricted information, but in terms of—progress evaluation.”

“One of those phrases again.”

“It says it, Mr. President. It would help if you could work Matthias in.”

“All right,” said Berquist slowly. “I’ll lay it on the great man. It’s not in character, but he can hardly deny it. I’ll have my military aide convey the word: the Secretary of State wants those committees to provide an in-depth progress report for the Oval Office. A simple memorandum ordering cooperation within the limits of maximum classification should do it … They’ll say there’s a crossover, of course. You can’t have one without violating the other.”

“Then tell them to err on the side of classification. The final report’s for your eyes only, anyway.”

“Anything else?”

“The psychiatric file on Matthias. Bradford was to have gotten it for me.”

“I’m going to Camp David tomorrow. I’ll detour to Poole’s Island and bring it back with me.”

“One thing more. This Mrs. Howell; outside of calling in the Secret Service if anyone approaches her about me, what has she been told to say? About me, my functions?”

“Only that you’re on a special assignment for the President.”

“Can you change it?”

“To what?”

“Routine assignment. Researching old agendas so White House files can be completed on various matters.”

“We have people doing that. It’s basically political—how is this position defended, or why did that senator buck us and how do we stop him from doing it again.”

“Put me in with the crowd.”

“You’re in it. Good luck … but then you’ll need a great deal more than luck. This world needs more than luck. Sometimes I think we need a miracle to last another week.… Keep me informed; my orders are that whenever Mr. Cross calls, I’m to be interrupted.”

Bradford’s secretary, one Elizabeth Andrews, was at home, the sensational death of her superior having had its emotional impact. A number of newspaper people had telephoned her, and she had relayed the events of yesterday morning sadly but calmly, until a gossip-oriented reporter, noting Bradford’s marital track record, hinted at a sexual entanglement.