He drove southwest to Provence, then due south toward the coast, to the small city of Cagnes-sur-Mer. He had worked the northern Mediterranean for years and knew a doctor between Cagnes and Antibes; he needed help. He had ripped the sleeve of his shirt and tied a knot around the wound in his shoulder, but it did not prevent the loss of blood. His entire chest was soaked, the cloth sticking to his skin, and there was the sweet-acrid odor that he knew only too well. His neck was merely bruised—a paramedical opinion that in no way diminished the pain—but the blow to his head required stitches; the slightest graze would reopen the laceration that was sealed with barely coagulated blood.
He needed other help, too, and Dr. Henri Salanne would provide it. He had to reach Matthias; to delay any longer was asinine. Specific identities could be traced from orders, from a code name, Ambiguity; there was enough information. Surface evidence of the massive conspiracy was clear from Jenna’s having survived Costa Brava—when she had been officially recorded as dead—and his own condemnation as “beyond salvage.” The first Matthias would accept from his přítele, the second could be confirmed from sealed black-bordered directives in the files of Consular Operations. Granted the whys were beyond Havelock’s reach, but not the facts—they existed, and Matthias could act on them. And while the Secretary of State acted, Michael had to get to Paris as quickly as possible. It would not be simple; every airport, highway and train station in Provence and the Mari-times would be watched, and Matthias could do nothing about it. Time and communications were on the side of the liars. Issuing covert orders was far easier then rescinding them; they spread like a darkening web of ink on soft paper, as the recipients disappeared, each wanting credit for the kill.
Within an hour—if it had not happened by now—Rome would be apprised of the events at Col des Moulinets. Telephones and little-used radio frequencies would be employed to send out the word: The man “beyond salvage” is loose; he can cost us too much that’s valuable, including time and our lives. All network personnel are on alert; use every source, every weapon available. Zero area: Col des Moulinets. Radius: Maximum two hours’ travel, reported to be wounded. Last known vehicles: A nondescript farm truck with a power-ful engine, and a Lancia sedan. Find him. kill him.
No doubt the liars on the Potomac had already reached Salanne but as with so many in the shadow world, there were hidden confidences—things in and of his past—that those who cleared payrolls in Washington or Rome or Paris knew nothing about And for drones such as Dr. Henri Salanne, only certain men In the field who had been on a given scene at a given time knew them, and stored away their names for future personal use should the necessity ever arise. There was even a vague morality about this practice, for more often than not the incriminating information or the events themselves were the result of a temporary crisis or a weakness that did not require that the man or the woman be destroyed—or killed.
With Salanne, Havelock had been there when it happened—to be precise, eleven hours after the act took place, time enough to altar the consequences. The doctor had sold out an American agent in Cannes who coordinated a small fleet of oceangoing pleasure craft for the purpose of monitoring Soviet naval positions in the sector. Salanne had sold him for money to a KGB informant, and Michael had not understood; neither money nor betrayal was a motive that made sense where the doctor was concerned. It took only one low—key confrontation to learn the truth, and it was a truth—or a juxtaposition of truths—as old as the grotesque world in which they all lived. The gentle if somewhat cynical middle-aged doctor was a compulsive gambler; it was the primary reason why years ago a brilliant young surgeon from L’Hôpital de Paris had sought out a practice in the Monte Carlo triangle. His credentials and references were honored in Monaco, which was a good thing, but his losses at the casino were not.
Enter the American, whose cover was that of a yacht-owning jet-setter, and who spent the taxpayers’ money cautiously but obnoxiously at the tables. His obnoxiousness, however, did not end at chemin de fer; he was a womanizer with a preference for young girls, an image, he rationalized, that did nothing to harm his cover. One of the girls he brought to his busy bed was Salanne’s daughter, Claudie, an impressionable child who suffered a severe depression when nothing further came of the relationship.
The Soviets were in the market; the doctor’s losses could be covered, and a preying coureur removed from the scene. Pourqnoi pas? The act had taken place.
Enter Havelock, who had traced the betrayal, got the American out before the boats were identified, and confronted Henri Salanne. He never reported his findings; there was no point, and the doctor understood the conditions of his “pardon.” Never again … and an obligation was assumed.
Michael found a telephone booth at a deserted corner in the downtown district of Cagnes-sur-Mer. He braced himself with difficulty, and got out of the car, clutching his Jacket around him as he stood up; he was cold, bleeding still. Inside the booth, he pulled out the Llama from his holster, smashed the overhead light, and studied the dial in the shadows. After what seemed like an interminable wait, he was given Salanne’s number by Antibes information.
“Votre fille, Claudie, comment va-t-elle?” he asked quietly.
There was dead silence. Finally the doctor spoke, his use of English deliberate. “I wondered if I’d hear from you. If it is you, they say you may be hurt.”
“I am.”
“How badly?”
“I need cleaning up and a few sutures. That’s all, I think.”
“Nothing internal?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“I hope you’re right. A hospital would be in questionable taste right now. I suspect all emergency rooms in the area are being watched.”
Michael was suddenly alarmed. “What about you?”
“There’s only so much manpower. They won’t waste it on someone they assume would rather see ten patients the on an operating table than be cut off from their generosity.”
“Would you?”
“Let’s halve it,” said Salanne, laughing softly. “In spite of my habits, my conscience couldn’t take more than five.” The doctor paused but not long enough for Havelock to speak. “However, there could be a problem. They say you’re driving a medium-sized truck-”
“I’m not.”
“Or possibly a dark gray Lancia sedan,” continued Salanne.
“l am.”
“Get rid of it, or get away from it.”
Michael looked at the large automobile outside the booth. The engine had overheated; steam was escaping from the radiator, vapor rising and diffusing under the light of the streetlamp. All this was calling attention to the car. “I’m not sure how far I can walk,” he said to the doctor.
“Loss of blood?”
“Enough so I can feel it.”
“Merde! Where are you?”
Havelock told him. “I’ve been here before, but I can’t remember much.”
“Disorientation or absence of impressions?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Blood.”
“I feel dizzy, if that’s what you mean.”
“It is. I think I know the corner. Is there a bijouterie on the other side? Called something and Son?”
Michael squinted through glass beyond the Lancia. “Ariale et Fils?” he said, reading the raised white letters of a sign above a dark storefront across the street “Fine Jewelry, Watches, Diamonds.’ Is that it?”
“Ariale, of course. I’ve had good nights, too, you know. They’re much more rèasonable than the thieves in the Spélugues. Now then, several shops north of Ariale is an alley that leads to a small parking lot behind the stores. I’ll get there as fast as I can, twenty minutes at the outside. I don’t care to race through the streets under the circumstances.”
“Nor should you. Walk slowly, and if there are automobiles parked there, crawl under one and lie flat on your back. When you see me arrive, strike a match. As little movement as possible, is that understood?”
“Understood.”
Havelock left the booth, but before crossing the street, he opened his jacket, pulled the blood-soaked shirt out of his belt and squeezed it until drops of dark red appeared on the pavement. Leaning over, he took a dozen rapid steps straight ahead past the corner building into the shadows, scuffing the blood with the soles of his shoes, streaking it backwards; anyone studying the Lancia and the immediate area would assume he had run down the intersecting street. He then stopped, awkwardly removed both shoes, and sidestepped carefully to the curb, pulling his jacket around him. He reversed direction and hobbled across the intersection to the side of the street that housed Ariale et Fils.
He lay on his back, matches in his hand, staring up at the black grease-laden underside of a Peugeot facing the parking-lot wall, keeping his mind alert with an exercise in the improbable. Proposition: The owner returned with a companion, and both got into the car. What should Michael do and how would he do it without being seen? The answer to the first was to roll out—obviously—but on which side?
Twin headlight beams pierced the entrance of the parking lot, cutting short his ruminations. The headlights were turned off ten feet inside the unmanned gate; the car stopped, the motor still running. It was Salanne, telling him he had arrived. Havelock crawled to the edge of the Peugeot’s chassis and struck a match. Seconds later the doctor was above him, and within minutes they were driving south on the road toward Antibes, Michael in the back seat, angled in the corner, legs stretched, out of sight.
“If you recall,” said Salanne, “there is a side entrance to my house, reached by the driveway. It leads directly to my office and the examining room.”
“I remember. I’ve used it.”
“I’ll go inside first, just to make certain.”
“What are you going to do if there are cars in front?”
“I’d rather not think about it.”
“Actually, I have. There’s a colleague of mine in Villefran-che, an elderly man, above reproach. I’d prefer not to involve him, of course.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” said Havelock, looking at the back of the doctor’s head in the coruscating light, noting that the hair touched with gray only a year or so ago was practically white now.
“I appreciate what you did for me,” replied Salanne softly. “I assumed a debt I never thought otherwise.”
“I know. That’s pretty cold, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. You asked how Claudie was, so let me tell you. She is happy and with child and married to a young intern at the hospital in Nice. Two years ago she nearly took her own life. How much is that worth to me, my friend?”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Besides, what they say about you is preposterous.”
“What do they say?”
“That you are insane, a dangerous psychopath who threatens us all with exposure—certain death from roving jackals of the KGB—if you are allowed to live.”
“And that’s preposterous to you?”
“As of an hour ago, mon ami méchant. You remember the man in Cannes who was involved with my indiscretion?”
“The KGB informant?”
“Yes. Would you say he’s knowledgeable?”
“As any in the sector,” replied Havelock. “To the point where we left him alone and tried to feed him disinformation. What about him?”
“When the word came through about you, I rang him up—from a public booth, of course. I wanted confirmation of this new, incredible judgment, so I asked him how soft the market was, how flexible in terms of price for the American consular attaché whose origins were in Prague. What be told me was both startling and specific.”
“Which was?” asked Michael, leaning forward in pain.
“There is no market for you, no price—high, low or otherwise. You are a leper and Moscow wants no part of your disease. You are not to be touched, even acknowledged. So whom could you expose in this manner?” The doctor shook his head. “Rome lied, which means that someone in Washington lied to Rome. ‘Beyond salvage’? Beyond belief.”
“Would you repeat those words to someone?”
“And by doing so, call for my own execution? There are limits to my gratitude.”
“You won’t be identified, my word on it.”
“Who would believe you without naming a source he could check?”
“Anthony Matthias.”
“Matthias?” cried Salanne, whipping his head to the side, gripping the wheel, his eyes straining to stay on the road. “Why would he …?”
“Because you’re with me. Again, my word on it.”
“A man like Matthias is beyond one’s well-intentioned word, my friend. He asks and you must tell him.”
“Only if you cleared it.”
“Why would he believe you? Believe me?”
“You Just said it. The attaché whose origins were in Prague. So were his.”
“I see,” said the doctor pensively, his head turned front again. “I never made the connection, never even thought about it.”
“It’s complicated, and I don’t talk about it. We go back a long time, our families go back.”
“I must think. To deal with such a man puts everything in another perspective, doesn’t it? We are ordinary men doing our foolish things; he is not ordinary. He lives on another plane. The Americans have a phrase for what you ask.”
“A different ballgame?”
“That’s the one.”
“It’s not. It’s the same game, and it’s rigged against him. Against all of us.”
There were no strange automobiles within a four-block radius of Salanne’s house, no need to travel to Villefranche and an elderly physician above reproach. Inside the examining room, Havelock’s clothes were removed, his body sponged, and the wounds sutured, the doctor’s petite, somewhat uncommunicative wife assisting Salanne.
“You should rest for several days,” said the Frenchman, after his wife had left, taking Michael’s garments to wash out what she could and bum the irrecoverable. “If there are no ruptures, the dressing will hold for five, perhaps six days, then it should be changed. But you should rest.”
“I can’t,” answered Havelock, grimacing, raising himself into a sitting position on the table, his legs over the edge.
“It hurts to move even those few inches, doesn’t it?”
“Only the shoulder, that’s all.”
“You’ve lost blood, you know that.”
“I’ve lost more, I know that, too.” Michael paused, studying Salanne. “Do you have a dictating machine in your office?”
“Of course. Letters and reports—medical reports—must be dealt with long after nurses and receptionists have gone home.”
“I want you to show me how to use it, and I want you to listen. It won’t take long, and you won’t be identified on the tape. Then I want to place an overseas call to the United States.”
“Matthias?”
“Yes. But the circumstances will determine how much I can tell him. Who’s with him, how sterile the phone is; he’ll know what to do. The point is, after you hear what I’ve got to say, the tape in your machine, you can decide whether to speak to him or not-if it comes up.”
“You place a burden on me.”
“I’m sorry—there won’t be many more. In the morning, I’ll need clothes. Everything I had is back in Monesi.”
“No problem. Mine would not fit, but my wife buys for me. Tomorrow, she will buy for you.”
“Speaking of buying, I’ve got a fair amount of money, but I’ll need more. I have accounts in Paris; you’ll get it back.”
“Now you embarrass me.”
“I don’t meant to, but, you see, there’s a catch. In order for you to get it back, I have to get to Paris.”
“Surely Matthias can effect swift, safe transportation.”
“I doubt it You’ll understand when you hear what I say in your office. Those who lied to Rome are very high in Washington. I don’t know who or where they are, but I know they’ll transmit only what they want to. His orders will be sidetracked, because their orders have gone out and they don’t want them voided. And if I say where I am, where I can be reached, they’ll send in men after me. In any case, they might succeed, which is why I need the tape. May we do it now, please?”
Thirty-four minutes later, Havelock depressed the switch on the cassette microphone and placed it on the Frenchman’s desk. He had told it all, from the screams at Costa Brava to the explosions at Col des Moulinets. He could not refrain from adding a last judgment. The civilized world might well survive the compromising of any sprawling, monolithic intelligence service-regardless of race, creed or national origin—but not when one of the victims was a man that the same civilized world depended on: Anthony Matthias, a statesman respected by geopolitical friends and adversaries everywhere. He had been systematically lied to regarding a matter to which he had addressed himself in depth. How many more lies had been fed him?
Salanne sat across the office, deep in a soft leather armchair, his body motionless, his face rigid, his eyes staring at Havelock. He was stunned, speechless. After several moments be shook his head and broke his silence.
“Why?” he asked in a barely audible voice. “It’s all so preposterous, as preposterous as what they say about you. Why?”
“I’ve asked myself that over and over again, and I keep going back to what I said to Baylor in Rome. They think I know something I shouldn’t know, something that frightens them.”
“Do your?”
“He asked me that.”
“Who?”
“Baylor. And I was honest with him—perhaps too honest—but the shock of seeing her had blown my mind. I couldn’t think straight. Especially after what Rostov had said in Athens.”
“What did you say?”
“The truth. That if I did know something, I’d forgotten it, or it had never made much of an impression on me.”
“That’s not like you. They say you are a walking data bank, someone who recalls a name, a face, a minor event that took place years ago.”
“Like most such opinions, it’s a myth. I was a graduate student for a long time, so I developed certain disciplines, but I’m no computer.”
“I’m aware of that,” said the Frenchman quietly. “No computer would have done what you did for me.” Salanne paused, leaning forward in the chair. “Have you gone over the months preceding Costa Brava?”
“Months, weeks, days-everything, every place we were … I was. Belgrade, Prague, Krakow, Vienna, Washington, Paris. There was nothing remotely startling, but I suppose that’s a comparative term. With the exception of an exercise in Prague where we got some documents out of the Státní Bezpečnost—the secret police headquarters—everything was pretty routine. Gathering information, which damn near any tourist could have done, that’s all.”
“Washington?”
“Less than nothing. I flew back for five days. It’s an annual event for field men, an evaluation interview, which is mostly a waste of time, but I suppose they catch a whacko now and then.”
“Whacko?”
“Someone who’s crossed over the mental line, thinks he’s someone he’s not, who’s fantasized a basically routine job. Cloak-and-dagger flakes, I suppose you could call them. It comes with the stress, with too often pretending you are someone you’re not.”
“Interesting,” said the doctor, nodding his head in some abstract recognition. “Did anything else happen while you were there?”
“Zero. I went to New York for a night to see a couple I knew when I was young. He owns a marina on Long Island, and if he ever had a political thought in his head, I’ve never heard it. Then I spent two days with Matthias, a duty visit, really.”
“You were close … are close.”
“I told you, we go back a long time. He was there when I needed him; he understood.”
“What about those two days?”
“Less than zero. I only saw him during the evenings when we had dinner together—two dinners, actually. Even then, although we were alone, he was constantly interrupted by phone calls and by harried people from State-supplicants, he called them—who insisted on bringing him reports.” Havelock stopped, seeing a sudden tight expression on Salanne’s face, but continued quickly, “No one saw me, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’d confer with them in his study, and the dining room’s on the other side of the house. Again, he understood; we agreed not to display our friendship. For my benefit, really. No one likes a great man’s protégé.”
“It’s difficult for me to think of you that way.”
“If’d be Impossible if you’d had dinner with us,” said Michael, laughing quietly. “All we did was rehash papers I’d written for him nearly twenty years ago; he could still punch holes in them. Talk about total recall, he has it.” Havelock smiled, then the smile faded as he said, “It’s time,” and reached for the telephone.
The lodge in the Shenandoah was reached by a sequence of telephone numbers, the first activating a remote mechanism at Matthias’s residence in Georgetown, which in turn was electronically patched into a line a hundred and forty miles away, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, ringing the private telephone of the Secretary of State. If he was not on the premises, that phone was never answered; if he was, only he picked it up. The original number was known to perhaps a dozen people in the nation, among them the President and Vice-President, the Speaker of the House, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of Defense, the president of the Security Council of the united Nations, two senior aides at State, and Mikhail Havlíček. The last was a privilege that Matthias had insisted upon far his krajana, his spolopracovníka from the university, whose father in Prague had been a colleague in intellect and spirit, if not in good fortune. Michael had used it twice during the past six years. The first time, when he was briefly in Washington for new instructions, Matthias had left word at his hotel that he should do so, and the call was merely social. The second was not pleasant for Havelock to recall. It had concerned a man named Ogilvie who Michael felt strongly should be removed from the field.
The Antibes operator offered to ring him back when the call to Washington, D.C., was put through, but experience had taught Havelock to stay on the line. Nothing so tested the concentration of an operator as an open circuit; calls were more swiftly completed by remaining connected. And while he listened to the series of high-pitched sounds that signified international transmission, Salanne spoke.
“Why haven’t you reached him before now?”
“Because nothing made sense, and I wanted it to. I wanted to give him something concrete. A name or names, a position, a title, some kind of identity.”
“But from what I’ve heard, you still can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can. The authorization for dispatch had a source. Code name Ambiguity. It could only come from one of three or four offices, the word itself cleared by someone very high at State who was in touch with Rome. Matthias reaches Rome, has the incoming logs checked, talks to the receiver, and learns who gave Ambiguity its status. There’s another name, too, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do. There was a second, so-called confirmation at Costa Brava, including torn pieces of bloodstained clothing. It’s all a lie; there were no clothes left behind.”
“Then find that man.”
“He’s dead. They say he died of a heart attack on a sailboat three weeks later. But there are things to look for, if they haven’t been obscured. Where he came from, who assigned him to Costa Brava.”
“And if I may add,” said the Frenchman, “the doctor who made out the death certificate.”
“You’re right.” The singsong tones disappeared from the line, replaced by two short, steady hums, then a break of silence, followed by a normal ring. The electronic remote had done its work; the telephone in the Shenandoah lodge was ringing. Michael felt the pounding in his throat and the shortness of breath that came with anxiety. He had so much to say to this přítele; he hoped to Christ he could say it and so begin the ending of the nightmare. The ringing stopped; the phone had been picked up. Thank God!
“Yes?” asked the voice over four thousand miles away in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a male voice, but not the voice of Anton Matthias. Or was the sound distorted, the single word too short to identify the man?
“Jak se vám daǐí?”
“what? Who’s this?”
It was not Matthias. Had the rules been changed? If they had, it did not make sense. This was the emergency line, Matthias’s personal phone, which was swept for intercepts daily; only he answered it. After five rings the caller was to hang up, dial the regular telephone number and leave his name and whatever message he cared to, aware that confidentiality was far less secure. Perhaps there was a simple explanation, an offhand request by Matthias for a friend nearer to the ringing phone to pick it up.
“Secretary of State Matthias, please?” said Havelock.
“Who’s calling?”
“The fact that I used this number relieves me of the need to answer that The Secretary, if you please. This is an emergency and confidential.”
“Mr. Matthias is in conference at the moment and has asked that all calls be held. If you’d give me your name—”
“Goddamn it, you’re not listening! This is an emergency!”
“He has one, too, sir.”
“You break into that conference and say the following words to him. Krajan … and bouře. Have you got that? Just two words! Krajan and bouře. Do it now! Because if you don’t, he’ll have your head and your Job when I talk to him! Do it!”
“Krajan,” said the male voice hesitantly. “Bouře.”
The line went silent, the silence interrupted once by the low undercurrent of men talking in the distance. The waiting was agony, and Michael could hear the echoes of his own breathing. Finally the voice came back.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be clearer, sir.”
“What?”
“If you’d give me the details of the emergency and a telephone number where you can be reached—”
“Did you give him the message? The words! Did you say them?”
“The Secretary is extremely busy and requests that you clarify the nature of your call.”
“Goddamn it, did you say them?”
“I’m repeating what the Secretary said, sir. He can’t be disturbed now, but if you’ll outline the details and leave a number, someone will be in contact with you.”
“Someone? What the hell is this? Who are you? What’s your name?”
There was a pause. “Smith,” said the voice.
“Your name! I want your name!”
“I just gave it to you.”
“You get Matthias on this phone—!”
There was a click; the line went dead.
Havelock stared at the instrument in his hand, then closed his eyes. His mentor, his krajan, his přítel, had cut him off. What had happened?
He had to find out; it made no sense, no sense at all! There was another number in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the home of a man Matthias saw frequently when he was in the Shenandoah, an older man whose love of chess and fine old wine took Anton’s mind off his monumental pressures. Michael had met Leon Zelienski a number of times, and was always struck by the camaraderie between the two academics; he was happy for Matthias that such a person existed whose roots, though not in Prague, were not so far away, in Warsaw.
Zelienski had been a highly regarded professor of European history brought over to America years ago from the University of Warsaw to teach and lecture at Berkeley. Anton had met Leon during one of his early forays into the campus lecture circuit; additional funds were always welcome to Matthias. A friendship had developed—mostly by way of the mails and over chess—and upon retirement and the death of Zelienski’s wife, Anton had persuaded the elderly scholar to come to the Shenandoah.
The Antibes operator took far longer with the second call, but finally Havelock heard the old man’s voice.
“Good evening?”
“Leon? Is that you, Leon?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Michael Havelock. Do you remember me, Leon?”
“Mikhail! Do I remember! No, of course not, and I never touch Kielbasa, either, you young baranie! How are you? Are you visiting our valley? You sound so far away.”
“I’m very far away, Leon. I’m also very concerned …” Havelock explained his concern; he was unable to reach their beloved mutual friend, and was old Zelienski planning to see Anton while Matthias was in the Shenandoah?
“If he’s here, Mikhail, I do not know it. Anton, of course, is a busy man. Sometimes I think the busiest man in this world … but he doesn’t find time for me these days. I leave messages at the lodge, but I’m afraid he ignores them. Naturally, I understand. He moves with great figures … he is a great figure, and I am hardly one of them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that … that he hasn’t been in touch.”
“Oh, men call me to express his regrets, saying that he rarely comes out to our valley these days, but I tell you, our chess games suffer. Incidentally, I must settle for another mutual friend of ours, Mikhail. He was out here frequently several months ago. That fine journalist Raymond Alexander. Alexander the Great, I call him, but as a player he’s a far better writer.”
“Raymond Alexander?” said Havelock, barely listening. “Give him my best. And thank you, Leon” Havelock replaced the phone and looked over at Salanne. “He hasn’t time for us anymore,” he said, bewildered.