The Parsifal Mosaic (77 page)

“There are three mobile units in the streets, separated by blocks, everyone in radio contact, wrist cameras activated by arm movements. They can move out on foot or by car—cars alternating in traffic. If they’re any good, they won’t lose him.”

“They
do
worry you, don’t they?”

“They worry me.” Havelock opened the door of the study, holding it for Jenna. “They’d worry me more if it wasn’t for a fellow named Charley who wanted to put a bullet in my head down on Poole’s Island.”

“The one from Consular Operations?”

Michael nodded, going to the desk. “He flew up last night—my personal request, which didn’t exactly thrill him. But he’s good, he’s thorough, and he knows that Shippers is involved with the Matthias crisis. That’s enough to make him better than he ever was. He’s in charge, and if he doesn’t choke on the mobile phone he’ll keep me posted, let me know if anything breaks.”

Jenna had gone to her own desk—the couch; on the coffee table in front of it there were neat, narrow stacks of papers and several pages of handwritten notes. She sat down and picked up a bound typewritten report from the pile on the left. She spoke while reading, her voice indefinite, her concentration split. “Have you gotten in touch with the insurance company?”

“No, that’s a risk I don’t want to take,” replied Havelock, sitting down at the desk and watching Jenna, but his interest was diverted. “MacKenzie’s policy might be flagged.”

“You’re probably right.”

“What have you got there? It’s the same thing you were looking at last night.”

“It’s the report from your Central Intelligence Agency. The list of potential Soviet defectors over the past ten years, none of whom materialized.”

“Look for a nuclear scientist or an armaments strategist who disappeared.”

“Others disappeared too, Mikhail,” said Jenna, reading and reaching for a pencil.

Havelock kept his eyes on her for several moments, then
looked down at a sheet of paper on which were scribbled various telephone numbers. He checked one, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“He’s a cold son of a bitch, I can tell you,” snapped Dr. Matthew Randolph. “Once I laid it out for him, he clammed up, asked a couple of questions like a mortician settling with a family lawyer, and said he’d get back to me.”

“How did you lay it out, and what were his questions?” asked Michael, putting down the page of Pentagon stationery on which were written the identities of the senior officers on the Nuclear Contingency Committees. He had circled a name. “Try to be as accurate as possible.”

“I’ll be
completely
accurate,” objected the surgeon testily.

“I only meant in terms of the words, the phrases he used.”

“It won’t be hard; they were damned few and damned short … Like you figured, he said I had no right to involve him, that was our understanding. He simply brought me his findings and how I altered them was my responsibility, not his. So
I
said I wasn’t a goddamned lawyer, but if my memory for trivia served me, he was an accessory and there was no way around it and I was going to be fried in hell before Midge MacKenzie and those kids got screwed out of what was coming to them.”

“So far very good. What was his response?”

“He didn’t have any, so I blasted along. I told him he was a damned fool if he thought he was invisible around here four months ago and a bigger fool if he thought anyone of the staff would believe I’d spend hours in a pathology laboratory over the body of a friend all by myself.”

“
Very
good.”

“He had an answer to that. Like a talking piece of dry ice, he asked who specifically knew.”

Havelock felt a sudden spasm in his chest, the specter of unnecessary executions rising. “What did you say? Did you mention anybody?”

“Hell, I said probably
everybody
!”

Michael relaxed. “You can get on the payroll, Doctor.”

“You couldn’t afford me, son.”

“Please, go on.”

“I backed down a bit, told him he was getting all worked up over nothing. I said the fella who came to see me from
the insurance company said it was fust a formality, that they required a second signature on the path report before sending the check. I even suggested he call Ben Jackson over at Talbot Insurance if he was worried, that Ben was an old friend—”

“You gave him a
name
?”

“Sure. Ben
is
an old friend; he set up Mac’s policy. I figured if anyone phoned Ben, he’d call me and ask what the hell was going on.”

“And what were
you
going to say?”

“That whoever it was got it backwards.
I
was the one who wanted the second signature for our own records.”

“What did
Shippers
say?”

“Just a few words, spoken like a frozen computer. He asked whether I had told either Ben or the man from the insurance company who he was.”

“And?”

“I said “No, I didn’t.’ Fair was fair, and I guessed the best way was to handle it quietly. For him to get over here and sign the damned report without any fanfare.”

“His response here?”

“Again, damned short and bloodless.” Randolph paused, and spacing his words apart in a monotone, he continued, “ ’Have you told me everything,’ he wanted to know. I tell you he was a zombie.”

“What did you say?”

“I said of course I had, what else was there? That’s when he told me he’d call me back. Just like that, ‘I’ll call you back,’ in that God-awful voice.”

Havelock breathed deeply, his eyes dropping to the names on the Pentagon stationery, to one name in particular. “Doctor, either you’ve done a remarkable job or I’m going to have your inflated head.”

“What the hell are you
talking
about?”

“If you’d done it my way, just using the insurance company alone, without any other name, Shippers would have assumed MacKenzie’s death was being reexamined by a third party without telling you. Now, if he calls this Jackson he’ll know you’re lying.”

“So
what? Same result, isn’t it?”

“Not for you, Doctor, and we can’t bring in your friend; we can’t take the risk. For your sake I hope he’s gone fishing.
And I mean it—if you’ve given me another complication, I’ll see your head rolling down the street.”

“Well, now, young fella, I’ve been doing some thinking about that. There could be a
couple
of heads rolling down a
two
-way street, couldn’t there? Here you are, a muckamuck from the White House telling me the executive branch of our government is trying to cover up the brutal killing of a heroic veteran, an employee of the CIA, and I’m just a country doctor trying to protect the interests of his bereaved widow and fatherless orphans because they’ve suffered more than anyone had a right to ask them to suffer. You want to tangle with me, you bastard?”

“Please call me if you hear anything further, Dr. Randolph.”

Special Detachment Officer Charles Loring, Consular Operations, late of Poole’s Island, rubbed his eyes and raised the thermos of black coffee to his lips as he sat in the front seat of the gray sedan. The driver was for all intents and purposes a stranger; that is to say, Loring had not seen him before ten o’clock last night, when he had met the entire unit selected by Havelock from thirty-odd service records submitted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the Justice Department’s request. The unit was now his responsibility, the assignment of continuity surveillance understood, the reasons behind it withheld—which was not the smartest thing to do when dealing with superior talent.

And regardless of Havelock’s minor—very minor—attempt to stroke him, Charley Loring knew that the former Cons Op field man was getting some of his own back by claiming “reluctant privilege.” The only clue Havelock gave him was that this Shippers was tied in with Poole’s Island, and it was—with reluctance—enough for Charley. Havelock was a low—blow—dealing prick and he had made fools of Savannah, but if he was running some part of the Matthias show in Washington, he had more problems than they did. Loring would do what he could to help. There were times when likes and dislikes just did not mean very much; the catastrophe—the tragedy—of Poole’s Island was such a time.

The unit had met at ten o’clock at Sterile Eleven down in Quantico, and had stayed up until four in the morning covering the variables of total surveillance—without knowing a
damn thing about the Subject. They had a photograph, but except for an inadequate description furnished by Randolph that was about all they had, and it, too, was inadequate. It was a blowup made at Sterile Eleven from a 1971 Jefferson Medical School yearbook that had been located by the FBI office in Philadelphia. No reason was given the agents who found it, only that they should observe complete secrecy. Actually, it had been stolen out of the university’s library by an agent, who had concealed it under his coat. Examining the grainy blowup, the unit had to imagine a face considerably older than that in the photograph, and since no one they could speak with had seen Shippers in four months, the possibility of a beard or a moustache could not be discounted. And they could speak to no one about Dr. Colin Shippers, no one at all. Havelock’s orders.

Initial surveillance had dispelled the conjecture about any hirsute additions to the subject’s face; tinted glasses and a heavier frame were the essential differences between his appearance now and the yearbook photograph. The men inside the Regency Foundation had radioed out twice; they had picked up Shippers. One man was down the hall from the laboratory where the pathologist worked; the other covered his office on the floor below. The waiting had begun, thought Loring. But waiting for what?

The hours or the days would tell. All Charles Loring knew was that he had done everything he could to position the unit effectively: spaced apart and in contact to ensure maximum concealment. The cars were at one-way intersections, his own down the street and across from the research center with a full view of the entrance and the adjacent garage used for personnel parking.

A sharp, high-pitched hum came from the dashboard console; it was a signal from one of the men inside. Loring reached for the microphone, depressed the switch, and spoke. “S-Five. What is it?”

“S-Three. He just left the lab, seems in a hurry.”

“Any clues?”

“I heard a telephone ring in there a few minutes ago. He’s alone, so he could have talked, but that’s spec. I wasn’t able to overhear any conversation.”

“It’s good enough. Stay where you are and stay out of sight.”

Loring replaced the microphone, only to hear a second jarring signal before he could lean back in the seat.

“S-Five.”

“S-Two. Subject went into his office. From the way he walked—his general demeanor—he’s agitated.”

“Good description; it fits upstairs. We may be moving faster than any of us—”

“Hold it! Stay on the line,” instructed Surveillance 2 as static filled the speaker. The man had concealed his radio under his clothing without breaking the open circuit. In seconds his voice was back. “Sorry. Subject came right back out and I had to spin. He chucked the white coat and is in his street clothes. Same tan raincoat, same soft, floppy hat. I guess he’s yours.”

“I guess he is. Out.” Loring held the microphone in his hand and turned to the driver. “Get ready, the package is coming our way. If I have to go on foot, take over. I’ll stay in touch.” He reached under his jacket and took out the small compact hand-held radio, checking by habit the battery charge. He then pulled back his left sleeve, revealing the flat miniaturized high-speed camera attached to the underside of his wrist. He twisted his hand and heard the muted click; he was ready. “I wonder who this Shippers is,” he said, watching the entrance of the Regency Foundation.

The telephone rang, breaking Havelock’s concentration on his Pentagon notes. He picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Cross?”

Michael blinked, recognizing Randolph’s strident voice. “Yes, Doctor?”

“Maybe we can both keep our heads. Ben Jackson just called, angrier than a Point Judith squall.”

“What about?”

“Seems this lawyer phoned him asking why the final payment on MacKenzie’s policy was being held up.”

“Shippers,” said Havelock.

“You got it, and Ben was madder’n hell. There
was
no final payment. The entire settlement was mailed to Midge’s lawyer about eight weeks ago.”

“Why did Jackson call you and not Mrs. MacKenzie’s attorney?”

“Because Shippers—I figure it was Shippers or someone calling for him—got shook up and said there was some confusion over signatures on a medical report and did Ben know anything about it. Naturally, Ben said he didn’t; the money was paid—processed through his agency—and that was that. He also added that he didn’t appreciate his reputation—”

“Listen to me,” interrupted Havelock. “I won’t lose
my
head, but you may have blown yours away. I want you to stay in your office and don’t see anybody until I can get a couple of men up there. If anyone tries to reach you, have the desk say you’re operating.”

“Forget it!” shot back Randolph. “A mealy-mouthed snot like Shippers doesn’t worry me. He comes near here, I’ll have one of the guards throw him into a padded cell.”

“If he did and you could, I’d kiss your feet at this point, but it won’t
be
Shippers. He may call you; that’s as near as he’ll come and it’d be the best thing that could happen to you. If he does, say you’re sorry for the white lie, but after long consideration, you wanted to cover yourself on that report.”

“He wouldn’t believe it.”

“Neither would I, but it’s a stall. I’ll have men up there within the hour.”

“I don’t want them!”

“You have no choice, Dr. Randolph,” said Michael, hanging up and immediately centering the page of telephone numbers in front of him.

“Do you really think Shippers will go after him?” asked Jenna, standing by the window with the CIA report in her hand.

“
He
won’t, but others’ll be sent up there, not at first to kill him, but to take him. Take him and get him alone where they can press his head until they find out who he’s dealing with, who he’s lying for. Killing could be nicer.” Havelock reached for the phone, his eyes on the page below.