The Parsifal Mosaic (85 page)

The marine helicopter was given clearance to enter a low-altitude pattern and set down on a pad north of the main field. Searchlights caught them a quarter of a mile away from ground zero as radar, radio and a pilot’s sharp eyes eased them into the threshold from which they could make the vertical descent. Among the instructions radioed from the
control tower was a message for Sterile Five. A jeep would be standing by to take Havelock to a runway on the south perimeter. It would wait there until his business was concluded and return him to the helicopter.

Havelock climbed out of the hatch and jumped to the ground. The damp chill of the air was accentuated by the rushing wash of the decelerating rotors, and as he walked rapidly away from it he pulled the lapels of his topcoat around his throat, wishing he had worn a hat—but then he remembered that the only hat he owned at the moment was a ragged knit cap that he’d left somewhere down on Poole’s Island.

“Sir!
Sir!”
The shout came from Michael’s left, beyond the tall assembly of the helicopter. It was the driver of the jeep, the vehicle itself barely visible in the shadows between the blinding, arcing lights of the pad.

Havelock ran over as the sergeant behind the wheel started to get out as a gesture of courtesy. “Forget it,” said Michael, approaching the side panel, his hand on the windshield frame. “I didn’t see you,” he added, stepping over and lowering himself into the seat.

“Those were my instructions,” explained the air force non-com. “Stay out of sight as much as possible.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask the man who gives the orders, sir. I’d say he’s careful, and since nobody’s got a name, I don’t ask questions.”

The jeep shot forward, expertly maneuvered by the driver onto a narrow asphalt road fifty yards east of the helicopter pad. He turned left and accelerated; the road virtually circled the massive field, passing lighted buildings and enormous parking lots—flickering black structures and dark, spacious blurs-interspersed with the glare of onrushing headlights; everything at Andrews was seemingly always at triple time. The wind whipped through the open vehicle, the slapping damp air penetrating through Michael’s coat and making him tense his muscles against the cold.

“I don’t care if he cads himself Little Bo Beep,” said Havelock, as much for conversation as for anything else. “So long as there’s heat wherever we’re going.”

The sergeant glanced briefly at Michael. “Sorry, again,” he replied, “but the man doesn’t have it that way. My instructions
are to take you to a runway on the south perimeter. I’m afraid that’s it. A runway.”

Havelock folded his arms and kept his eyes on the road ahead, wondering why the undersecretary of State was being so cautious within a military compound. Then his thoughts dwelt briefly on the man himself and he found part of the answer—the blind part, but nevertheless intrinsic: there bad to
be
a reason. From what he had read about Arthur Pierce in the State Department dossier, coupled with what he had known from a distance, the undersecretary was a bright, persuasive spokesman for American interests at the United Nations, as well as around the international conference tables, with an avowed profound mistrust of the Soviets. This mistrust, however, was couched in a swift, aggressive wit, and woven into deceptively pleasant frontal assaults that drove the Russians up their Byzantine walls, for they had no matching counterattacks, except for bluster and defiance, and thus were frequently outmaneuvered in the open forums. Perhaps Pierce’s outstanding credential was that he had been handpicked by Matthias himself when Anton was at the height of his intellectual powers. But the characteristic that stood out in Havelock’s mind while racing down the dark airfield road was the highly regarded self-discipline attributed to Arthur Pierce by just about everybody who had contributed to his service dossier. He was never known to say anything unless he had something to say. By extension, thought Michael, he would not do something unless there was a reason for doing it.

And he had chosen to meet on a runway.

The driver swung left into an intersecting road that ran the distance of a huge maintenance hangar, then turned right onto the border of a deserted airstrip. In the distance, silhouetted in the glare of the headlights, was the figure of a man standing alone. Behind him, perhaps five hundred feet beyond and off the strip, was a small propjet with interior and exterior lights on and a fuel truck alongside it.

“There’s the man,” said the sergeant, slowing down. “I’ll drop you off and wait back by the junk shop.”

“The what?”

“The maintenance hangar. Just shout when you want me.”

The jeep came to a stop thirty feet from Arthur Pierce. Havelock got out and saw the undersecretary of State starting
toward him—a tall, slender man in a dark overcoat and hat, his stride long and energetic. Protocol was obviously unimportant to Pierce; there were too many with his title in the State Department who, regardless of the crisis, would expect a mere foreign service officer to approach
them
. Michael began walking, noticing that Pierce was removing the glove from his right hand.

“Mr. Havelock?” said the diplomat, hand extended, as the jeep sped away.

“Mr. Undersecretary?”

“But of course it’s you,” continued Pierce, his grip firm and genuine. “I’ve seen your photograph. Frankly, I’ve read everything I could get my hands on about you. Now, I suppose I should get this over with.”

“What?”

“Well, I guess I’m a little awestruck, which is a pretty silly thing for a grown man to say. But your accomplishments in a world I don’t claim to understand are
very
impressive.” The undersecretary paused, looking embarrassed. “I imagine the exotic nature of your work evokes this kind of reaction quite a lot.”

“I wish it would; you make me feel terrific. Especially considering the mistakes I’ve made—especially during the last few months.”

“The mistakes weren’t yours.”

“I should also tell you,” Michael went on, overlooking the comment, “I’ve read a great deal about you, too. There aren’t many people in your league at State. Anthony Matthias knew what he was doing—when he knew what he was doing—when he pulled you out of the pack and put you where you are.”

“That’s one thing we have in common, isn’t it? Anthony Matthias. You far more than me in depth, and I’d never pretend otherwise. But the privilege, the goddamn
privilege—
there’s no other way I can put it—of having known him the way I knew him makes the years, the tensions, the sweat worthwhile. It was a time of my life when everything jelled for me; he made it come together.”

“I think we both feel the same way.”

“When I read the material on you, you have no idea how I envied you. I was close to him, but I could never be what you were to him. What an extraordinary experience those years must have been.”

“It was—they were. But nothing’s there for either of us any longer.”

“I know. It’s unbelievable.”

“Believe. I saw him.”

“I wonder if they’ll let me see him. I’m on my way to Poole’s Island, you know.”

“Do yourself a favor. Don’t. It sounds trite, but remember him—especially him—the way he was, not the way he is.”

“Which brings us to now.” Pierce shook his head while staring at Havelock in the chiaroscuro of the runway. “It’s not good. I don’t think I really described to the President how close we are to the edge.”

“He understood. He told me what they said to you when you warned them. ‘Look to yourselves,’ wasn’t that it?”

“Yes. When they get that simple, that direct, I shake. They’ll strike out at shadows; one violent shove and we’re over. I’m a fair debater and not bad at negotiations, but you know the Soviets better than I do. How do you read it?”

“The same as you. Understatement isn’t their way, bombast is. When they don’t bother to threaten, they’re threatening. Moves will take the place of words.”

“That’s what frightens me. The only thing I cling to is that I really don’t believe they’ve brought in the men who push the buttons. Not yet. They know they have to be absolutely accurate. If they have concrete proof, not just hints, that Matthias entered into nuclear aggression pacts against the U.S.S.R. and if they even smell China, they won’t hesitate to push the decision up where it won’t be theirs any longer. That’s when we can all start digging into the ground.”

“Nudear aggression …?” Havelock paused, alarmed more than he would have thought possible. “You think they’ve assumed
that
much?”

“They’re close to it. It’s what’s working them up into a frenzy. Pacts negotiated by a maniac—with other maniacs.”

“And now the frenzy’s gone. They keep quiet and show you the door. You warn them and they tell you we should look to ourselves. I’m frightened too, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“You know what I’m thinking, then?”

“Parsifal.”

“Yes.”

“Berquist said you thought the Soviets had learned something during the past eighteen hours. Is this it?”

“I’m not sure,” said Pierce. “I’m not even sure I’m working the right side of the street, but
something’s
happened. It’s why I wanted to see you. You’re the only one who knows what’s going on hour by hour. If I could pick something out, piece it together with something they said or reacted to, I might find a connection. What I’m looking for is a person or an event, anything that I can use to interdict them, to bring up before they do, and deflect them.
Anything
to keep them from alarming the warlords in the Presidium.”

“They’re not fools, they know those men. They’d know what they were delivering.”

“I don’t think that would stop them.” Pierce hesitated, as if debating with himself whether or not to cite an example, then decided to speak. “You know General Halyard?”

“I’ve never met him. Or Ambassador Brooks. I was supposed to meet them both this afternoon. What about him?”

“I consider him one of the most thoughtful,
skeptical
military men in this country.”

“Agreed. Not only from his reputation; I was given his dossier. And?”

“I asked him this afternoon what he thought the reaction would be—his included—if our clandestine services unearthed a Sino-Soviet pact against us, one that projected attack dates within forty-five days, and contained the kind of information found in those documents on Poole’s Island. His reply was one word: ‘Launch.’ If he can say that, what about lesser, far more insecure men?”

Arthur Pierce did not dramatize the question but asked it calmly, and the chill Michael felt was now only partially due to the damp, cold air. Forces were closing in; time was running out. “The President said to help you,” he began. “I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try. You say you’re looking for something to deflect them; I may have it. There’s a longstanding KGB operation that goes back to the days of the NKVD—to the thirties. It’s called
Operatsiya Paminyatchik-”

“Sorry,” interrupted the man from State. “My Russian’s not very good without an interpreter.”

“It doesn’t matter; an interpreter wouldn’t know it. It’s a code name. It stands for a strategy that calls for young children, even infants, selected by doctors and brought over here. They’re placed with specific families—deep-cover Marxists—and grow up as Americans, in every superficial way
normal, the more successful the better. But all through the years they’re being trained—programmed, if you like—for their adult assignments, which are dependent on their given skills and development. It comes down to infiltration—again, the higher the better.”

“Good
Lord,”
said Pierce quietly. “I’d think there’d be enormous risks in such a strategy. Such people have to be instilled with extraordinary belief.”

“Oh, they believe, it’s the essential part of their programming. They’re also monitored; the slightest deviation, and they’re either eliminated or brought back to Mother Russia, where they’re reeducated while training others at the American compounds in the Urals and in Novgorod. The main point is that we’ve never really been able to crack the operation; the few we’ve taken are the least competent and so low on the ladder they haven’t been able to shed any light. But we may have cracked it now. We’ve got ourselves an honest-to-God
paminyatchik
who’s sanctioned for killing, as part of an execution unit. His kind has access—
must
have access—to clearance centers and source controls. There’s too much risk in killing, too many possibilities for overreaction, to say nothing of being caught. Orders have to be rechecked, authorization confirmed.”

“You’ve
got
such a man? My God, where?”

“He’s being flown now to Bethesda—he’s wounded—and, later tonight, will be transferred to a clinic in Virginia.”

“Don’t
lose
him! Is there a doctor with him? A good one?”

“I think so. He’s a clinic specialist named Taylor; he’ll stay with him.”

“Then by morning you think you’ll be able to give me something I can use with the Soviets? This could be the deflection I need. I counter their attacks with an attack of my own. I accuse-”

“I can give it to you now,” interrupted Havelock, “but you can’t use it until I tell you. Tomorrow night at the earliest. Can you stall that long?”

“I think so. What is it?”

“We put him under chemicals an hour ago. I don’t know how the right people are reached, but I know the cover identity of their clearing center. Also the code name for the
paminyatchik
source control for this area—which I have to
assume includes the Washington operation, the most vital in the U.S.”

Arthur Pierce shook his head in astonishment and admiration. “You floor me,” he said, with respect in his quiet voice. “I told you I was a little awestruck. Well, I take it back, I’m a
lot
awestruck. What can I use?”

“Whatever you have to. After tomorrow I’ll trade off the whole
Operatsiya Paminyatchik
for another few days.”

“The President told me a few minutes ago—he called after reaching you. You think you’re that close to Parsifal?”

“We’ll be closer still when we get Taylor’s patient down to the clinic. With a few words he can put us within arm’s reach of the man we call Ambiguity. And unless everything that we’ve projected—that Bradford projected—is wrong—and I don’t think it is, it
can’t
be—once we have Ambiguity we’ll know who Parsifal is.
I’ll
know.”