It was called Sterile House Five—Sterile Five for short—and was ten miles south of Alexandria in the Fairfax countryside. Once the estate of a horse breeder, it had been purchased by an elderly, apparently wealthy, retired couple who were in fact buyers of record for the United States government. They were appropriate “owners” because they had spent their adult lives in the foreign service; they had been attached to various embassies and given various titles, but in reality they were two of the most proficient cryptanalysts in U.S. intelligence. Their cover was simple; he had been an investment banker living in Europe for several decades. It was eminently acceptable to the distant, affluent neighbors and accounted for the frequent sight of limousines turning off the country road into the half-mile drive that led to the house. Once a visitor arrived, the “owners” were rarely visible—unless visibility was prearranged—for their quarters were in the north wing, a separate section of the house, with a separate entrance and independent facilities.
Sterile Five was another form of halfway house, serving clients who had far more to offer the United States government than the castaway inmates of Mason Falls, Pennsylvania. Over the years it had seen a procession of high-level defectors pass through its doors for periods of interrogation and debriefing. Scientists, diplomats, espionage agents, military men—all had been residents at one time or another. Sterile Five was reserved for those people Washington felt were vital to the immediate interests of the country at given moments of crisis. Havelock and Jenna Karas arrived in an unmarked government vehicle at twenty minutes past four. Undersecretary of State Emory Bradford was waiting for them.
The recriminations were brief; there was no point in going over past errors. Bradford had spoken with the President and understood that there would be “two new chairs at the table.” At Sterile Five, however, they sat in the “owner’s study,” a small room outfitted for a country squire: a couch and thick armchairs; leather, brass and expensive wood in harmony; mementos signifying little of substance on the walls. There was a heavy pine table behind the single couch, and on it was a silver tray with glasses, ice and bottles. Havelock made himself and Jenna drinks; Bradford declined.
“What have you told Miss Karas?” asked the undersecretary.
“Everything I learned at Poole’s Island.”
“It’s difficult to know what to say—what to think,” said Jenna. “I suppose I’m awestruck and terrified at the same time.”
“It’s a good combination,” agreed Bradford.
“What I want from you,” Havelock said to Bradford as he went around the couch with the drinks and sat down beside Jenna, “is everything you have, the names of everyone involved—no matter how remotely—from the beginning. I don’t care how long it takes; we can be here all night. As you go along I’ll ask questions, make notes, and when you’re finished “I’ll give you a list of what I need.”
It took less than four minutes for Michael’s first question: “MacKenzie? CIA? Black operations. One of the best out of Langley.”
“I was told the best,” Bradford said.
“He set up Costa Brava, then?”
“Yes.”
“He was the second sighting, the one who brought back the bloodstained clothing for forensic?”
“I was about to—”
“Tell me,” interrupted Havelock. “Did he die of a stroke—a coronary—on the Chesapeake?”
“Was there an inquest? An autopsy?”
“Not formally, but, again, the answer is yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“With a man like that, you don’t promote speculation. The doctor was cooperative and thoroughly questioned; he’s a very respected physician. X-rays were examined by him and our own people, the conclusion was unanimous. A massive aortal hemorrhage.” Bradford lowered his voice. “It was the first thought we had when we heard the news. We didn’t overlook a thing.”
“Thanks,” said Havelock, writing a note to himself. “Go on.”
Jenna placed her drink on the coffee table. “Was he the man with you in the lobby of the hotel in Barcelona?”
“Yes, it was his operation.”
“He was an angry man. His eyes were angry, not concerned, just angry.”
“He was in an angry occupation.”
“He crashed my door in; he had a gun in his hand.”
“He was worried, we both were. Miss Karas, if you’d come downstairs or even stayed in your room—”
“Please, go on,” Michael broke in.
The undersecretary continued as Havelock and Jenna listened intently, interrupting whenever either had a question or felt details should be clarified. Within the hour it was apparent to Bradford that Jenna Karas had a mind to contend with and the experience to match. She asked nearly as many questions as Michael, frequently pursuing specifics until possibilities not previously considered were suddenly brought to light.
Bradford reached the night when the three strategists were killed, when the unknown Ambiguity routed the call to Rome placing Havelock “beyond salvage.” The undersecretary of State was thorough, detailing the checks he had made on the personnel in the L Section of the fifth floor during the hours of question. None, he was certain, could be Ambiguity.
“Because the conferences and briefings they held were … how do you say it?” Jenna looked at Michael. “Potvrdit?”
“Confirmed,” said Havelock, watching her. “Logged in the official records.”
“Yes, official.” She turned back to Bradford. “Is this the reason you rule out these people?”
“None left their meetings long enough to have reached Rome on a code circuit.”
“Forgive me,” continued Jenna, “but do you exclude the possibility that this Ambiguity might have associates? Persons who would lie for him?”
“I don’t even want to think about it,” said the undersecretary. “But considering the diversity of those who were there, I do think it’s mathematically impossible. I know too many of those people, have known them for years, some for nearly two decades.”
“Still …”
“Paminyatchiki?” asked Havelock, his eyes on Jenna.
“Proč ne? To je možné.”
“Nemluv o tom.”
“Vy nemáte pravdu.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Bradford.
“We’re being rude,” said Jenna. “Sorry. I thought—”
“She thought it was something to think about,” interrupted Michael. “I explained that the numbers didn’t add up. Go on, please.”
Jenna looked at Havelock and reached for her drink.
The undersecretary of State spoke for nearly four hours, half the time answering questions and refining countless details until the elegant den came to seem like a quietly charged courtroom. Bradford was the reluctant hostile witness facing two agile and relentless prosecuting attorneys.
“How are you dealing with Jacob Handelman?”
“Unsolved. The President read me what you wrote over the phone. It’s incredible … about Handelman, I mean. Are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”
“It was his gun, his knife. There was no mistake.”
“Berquist said you had to have had an extraordinary reason to kill him.”
“Oddly enough, I didn’t. I wanted him to sweat—for years, if I could. He came after me. Are you going to tell the truth about him?”
“The President says no. What purpose would it serve? He says the Jews have been through enough; let it be.”
“Another necessary lie?”
“Not necessary, but compassionate, I think.”
“Kohoutek? That farm in Mason Falls?”
“He’s being taken now.”
“His clients?”
“Each case will be studied individually and determinations made, again compassionately.”
Havelock leafed through the pages of his notebook, then put it down on the coffee table and reached for his empty glass. He glanced at Jenna; she shook her head. He got up and walked around the couch to pour himself a drink. “Let me try to put this together,” he began quietly. “Ambiguity’s somewhere on the fifth floor of the State Department and he’s probably been there for years, feeding Moscow everything he gets his hands on.” Michael paused and walked aimlessly to the thick-paned window; outside, the floodlights illuminated the landscaped grounds. “Matthias meets this Parsifal and together they create these incredible—no, not in-credible-unthinkable agreements.” Havelock stopped, turning suddenly from the window and looking hard at Bradford. “How could it have happened? For Christ’s sake, where were all of you? You saw him every day, talked to him, watched him! Couldn’t you see what was happening to him?”
“We never knew what role he was playing,” said the undersecretary of State, returning the stare, slow anger finally surfacing. “Charisma has many facets, like a diamond seen in different lights, different turns. Was he Dean Matthias sitting in academic judgment, or Dr. Matthias at a lectern, holding forth for an enraptured convocation? Or was he the European Mr. Chips, over sherry, with Handel in the background, enlightening his favorite idolaters of the moment? He did that very well. Then there was the bon vivant, the darling of Georgetown, Chevy Chase and the Eastern Shore. My God, what a coup for a hostess! And how magnificently he performed … what charm! What wit! The sheer force of his personality, a paunchy little man who suddenly emanated power! If he’d been capable, he could have had any woman he wanted. Then, of course, there was the office tyrant. Demanding, petulant, self-seeking, jealous—so conscious of his image he scoured the papers for the most minor mention, swelling up with the headlines, furious at the slightest criticism. And speaking of criticism, what did he do last year when a lowly senator questioned his motives at the Geneva conference? He went on television, voice choking, close to tears, and said he would remove himself from public life. Jesus, what an uproar! That senator’s a pariah today!” Bradford paused, shaking his head, embarrassed at his outburst. He continued, lowering his voice. “Then there was Anthony Matthias, the most brilliant Secretary of State in this nation’s history.… No, Mr. Havelock, we saw him but we didn’t see him. We didn’t know him because he was too many people.”
“You’re nit-picking a man’s vanity,” said Michael, walking toward the couch. “They’re called shortcomings; you may not have any, the rest of us do. He was many people; he had to be. Your problem is that you hated him.”
“No, you’re wrong.” Again Bradford shook his head. “You don’t hate a man like Matthias,” he continued, glancing at Jenna. “You may be awestruck, or frightened, or mesmerized—but you don’t hate.”
“Let’s get back to Parsifal,” said Havelock, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Where do you think he came from?”
“He came from nowhere and he disappeared into nowhere.”
“The second he may have done, the first he couldn’t have. He came from somewhere. He met with Matthias time after time, certainly for weeks, possibly months.”
“We’ve checked Matthias’s calendars over and over again. Also his logs, his telephone records, his classified appointments, his every travel itinerary—where he went, whom he met, from diplomats to doormen. There were no consistent repeats. Nothing.”
“I’ll want them all. Can you arrange it?”
“It’s arranged.”
“Anything on a time span?”
“Yes, spectroanalysis of the copy-page type indicates recent impressions. Within six months.”
“Very good.”
“We could have assumed it.”
“Do me a favor,” said Michael as he sat down and reached for his notebook.
“What’s that?” asked the undersecretary.
“Never assume.” Havelock wrote on the pad, and added, “Which is exactly what I’m going to do right now. Parsifal’s a Russian. Most likely an untouched, unlisted defector.”
“We’ve … assumed that. Someone with extraordinary knowledge of the Soviet Union’s strategic-arms capabilities.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Jenna Karas.
“The agreements. They contain offensive and defensive nuclear-strike data that match our deepest and most accurate penetrations of their systems.”
Michael wrote another note for himself. “Just as important,” he said, looking at Jenna, “Parsifal knew where to find Ambiguity. The connection is made, the mole reaches Moscow and the evidence against you is provided—for my benefit. Then Ambiguity moves into Costa Brava, rewriting the scenario on the beach.” Michael turned back to the undersecretary of State. “It’s here you think the break came, isn’t it?”
“I do, and I agree with you. I think it was Ambiguity on that beach, not Parsifal. I believe further that Ambiguity returned to Washington and found he’d lost Parsifal. He’d been used, then discarded, a situation that must have panicked him.”
“Because in order to get the KGB to cooperate he obviously had to promise something extraordinary?” asked Havelock.
“Yes, but then, there’s Rostov’s cable and it’s a snag. He as much as told us that if there was a connection, it wasn’t sanctioned, or even controllable.”
“He was right. I explained it to Berquist, and it fits … from the beginning. It’s the answer to Athens. Rostov was referring to a branch of the KGB, a descendant of the old OGPU slaughterhouse maniacs, a pack of wolves.”
“Voennaya Kontra Razvedka,” said Jenna, adding quietly, “VKR.”
“Ambiguity isn’t just a major or a colonel in the KGB, he’s a member of the wolf pack. Those are the men he’s dealing with, and that, Mr. Bradford, is about the worst news you could hear. The KGB with all its paranoia is a stable intelligence—gathering organization compared with the fanatics of the Voennaya.”
“Fanatics and anything nuclear are a combination this world can’t afford.”
“If the Voennaya readies Parsifal first, that’s precisely the combination the world is stuck with.” Michael drank, swallowing more than he intended to, fear enveloping him. He picked up the notebook. “So we have a mole called Ambiguity who cooperated with a fellow Russian we’ve labeled Parsifal, Matthias’s partner in creating these insane agreements that could blow up the globe. Matthias virtually collapses, is taken into custody—and therapy—at Poole’s Island, and Parsifal goes on alone. But now really alone because he’s dropped the mole.”
“You agree with me, then,” said Bradford.
Havelock looked up from the pad. “If you were wrong, we’d know it. Or maybe we wouldn’t; maybe we’d be a pile of ashes.… Or from a less melodramatic, though hardly less tragic, point of view in my judgment, the Soviet Union would be running this country with the blessings of the rest of the world. “The giant ran amok; for God’s sake, chain him. Moscow might even get a vote of confidence from our own citizens. ‘Better dead than Red’ is not a euphemism I care to test. When push comes to shove, people opt for living.”
“But you and I know what that living is, Mikhail,” broke in Jenna. “Would you opt for it?”
“Of course,” said the undersecretary of State, mildly surprising the other two. “You can’t change anything by dying—unless you’re a martyr—or by taking yourself out. Especially when you’ve seen the worst.”
Havelock looked again at Bradford, now studying him. “I think the jury just came back in for you, Mr. Undersecretary. That’s why you stayed in this city, isn’t it? You saw the worst.”
“I’m not the issue.”
“You were for us for a while. It’s nice to know the terrain’s firmer. Call me Havelock, or Michael, or whatever you like, but why not drop the ‘Mr.’?”
“Thanks. I’m Emory—or whatever you like.”
“I’m Jenna, and I’m starved.”
“There’s a fully stocked kitchen with a cook in residence. He’s also one of the guards. When we’re finished, I’ll introduce you.”
“Just a few more minutes.” Havelock tore off a page from his notebook. “You said you were checking the whereabouts of everyone on the fifth floor at the time of Costa Brava.”
“Rechecking,” interrupted Bradford. “The first check was negative all the way. Everyone was accounted for.”
“But we know someone wasn’t,” said Michael. “He was at Costa Brava. One of those checks of yours ran into a smoke screen, the man Inside leaving and returning while supposedly he had stayed in place.”
“Oh?” It was the undersecretary’s turn to write a note, which he did on the back of one of his countless pages. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I was looking for an absence where the explanation might not hold up. You’re saying something quite different.”
“Yes, I am. Our man’s better than that; there won’t be any explanation. Don’t look for someone missing; look for someone who wasn’t there, who wasn’t where he was supposed to be.”
“Someone on assignment, then.”
“It’s a place to start,” agreed Havelock, tearing off a second page. “The higher the profile, the better, Incidentally. Remember, we’re looking for a man who’s got maximum clearance, and the more prominent the man the better the smoke screens work. Don’t forget Kissinger’s diarrhea in Tokyo; he was really in Peking.”
“I’m beginning to understand your accomplishments.”
“Considering the mistakes I’ve made,” replied Michael, writing on the page he had just torn out of the notebook, “I wouldn’t qualify for a code ring on the back of a cereal box.” He got up, stepped around the coffee table to where Bradford was sitting, and held out the two pages. “This is the list. Do you want to look it over and see if there are any problems?”
“Sure.” The undersecretary of State took the papers and settled back into the chair. “By the way, I’ll have that drink now, if you don’t mind. Bourbon on the rocks, please.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Havelock looked at Jenna; she nodded. He took her glass from the coffee table and walked around the couch as Bradford spoke. “There are a couple of surprises here,” he said, glancing up and frowning. “There’s no problem with the Matthias material—the appointments, logs, itineraries—but why do you need all this stuff on the doctor in Maryland? Background, financial statements, employees, laboratories. We were thorough, believe me.”
“I do believe you. Call it a throwback. I know a doctor in the South of France, and he’s one hell of a surgeon. But he gets brain fever when he’s near the tables; he’s crashed a couple of times and had to get bailed out.”
“There’s no parallel here. Randolph hasn’t had to work since his mother first saw him in the hospital. His family owns half the Eastern Shore, the richer half.”
“But not the people who work for him,” said Michael, pouring drinks. “They may not even own a sailboat.”
Bradford’s gaze again dropped to the page. “I see,” he said, more bewilderment in his voice than conviction. “I’m not sure I understand this. You want the names of people in the Pentagon who form the Nuclear Contingency Committees.”
“I read somewhere that there are three,” added Havelock, carrying the drinks back. “They play war games, changing sides and cross-checking their strategies.” He handed Bradford his bourbon, then sat down next to Jenna; she took her drink, her eyes on Michael.
“You think Matthias used them?” asked the undersecretary.
“I don’t know. He had to use somebody.”
“For what purpose? There’s nothing in our arsenals he didn’t know about, or have on file somewhere. He had to know; he negotiated.”
“I just want to be thorough.”
Bradford nodded with an embarrassed smile. “I’ve heard that before. Okay.” He went back to the page, reading aloud. “ ‘List of negative-possibles going back ten years. Follow-ups on each. Sources: CIA, Cons Op, Army intelligence.’ I don’t know what this means.”
“They will. There’ll be dozens of them.”
“What are ‘they’?”
“Men and women who were priority targets for defection, but never came over.”
“Well, if they didn’t come over—”
“Moscow doesn’t announce those who got out themselves,” interrupted Havelock. “The computer follow-ups will clarify current statuses.”
Bradford paused, then nodded again, reading silently.
Jenna touched Michael’s arm; he looked at her. She spoke softly, her eyes questioning. “Proč ne paminyatchik?”
“No Ted.”
“I beg your pardon?” The undersecretary glanced up as he shifted the pages in his hands.
“Nothing,” said Havelock. “She’s hungry.”
“I’ll be finished in a minute, get back to Washington and leave you alone; the rest of this is routine. The D.C. psychiatrists’ reports on Matthias will have to be signed over by the President and additional security put on here, but it can be done. I’m seeing him when I get back tonight.”
“Why don’t you just take me over to Bethesda?”
“Those records aren’t there. They’re down at Poole’s Island locked away with the other psychiatric probings and very special. They’re in a steel container and can’t be removed without presidential clearance. I’ll have to get them. I’ll fly down tomorrow.”
Bradford stopped reading and looked up, startled. “This last item … Are you sure? What can they tell you? They couldn’t tell us anything.”
“Put it down as my own personal Freedom of Information Act.”
“It could be very painful for you.”
“What is it?” asked Jenna.
“He wants the results of his own twelve days in therapy,” Bradford said.
They ate by candlelight in the country-elegant dining room, the scene somehow shifting from the deadly sublime to the faintly ridiculous. Adding to the contrast was a large, reticent man who was a surprisingly accomplished cook, but the bulge of a weapon beneath his white jacket did little to emphasize his talents in the kitchen. There was, however, nothing humorous about his eyes; he was a military guard and as accomplished with a gun as he was at preparing beef Wellington. Yet whenever he left the room after serving or clearing, Jenna and Michael looked across the table at each other, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. But even these brief moments of laughter did not last; the unthinkable never left them.
“You trust Bradford,” said Jenna, over coffee. “I know you do. I can tell when you trust a person.”
“You’re right, I do. He has a conscience, and I think he’s paid for it. You can trust a man like that.”
“Then why did you stop me from bringing up the paminyatchiki—the travelers?”
“Because he couldn’t handle it and it can’t help him. You heard him; he’s the methodical man, one step at a time, each step exhaustingly analyzed. That’s his value. With the paminyatchiki he’s suddenly asked to question everything geometrically.”
“I don’t understand. Geometrically?”
“In a dozen different directions at once. Everyone’s immediately suspect; he wouldn’t be looking for one man, he’d be studying whole groups. I want him to concentrate on smoke screens, bore into every assignment on the fifth floor, whether eight blocks or eight hundred miles away from the State Department, until he finds someone who might not have been where he was supposed to be.”
“You explained it very well.”
“Thanks.”
“You might have added the use of a puppet, however.”
Havelock looked at her through the glow of the candles, a half-smile coming to his lips. She leveled her eyes with his, smiling also. “Damn it, you know you’re absolutely right,” he said, laughing softly.
“I wasn’t making a list, you were. You can’t be expected to think of everything.”
“Thanks for the kindness. I’ll bring it up in the morning. Incidentally, why didn’t you? You weren’t shy in there.”
“That was asking questions, not giving orders or advice. There’s a difference. I wouldn’t care to give orders or advice to Bradford until he accepts me. And if I were forced to, it would be in the form of questions, leading to a suggestion.”
“That’s an odd thing to say. You’re accepted; Bradford heard it from Berquist. There’s no higher authority.”
“I don’t mean in that sense. I mean him. He’s uncomfortable with women; impatient, perhaps. I don’t envy his wife or his women; he’s a deeply troubled man.”
“He couldn’t have more to be troubled about.”
“Long before this, Mikhail He reminds me of a brilliant, talented man whose brilliance and talent don’t mix very well. I think he feels impotent, and that touches his women … all women, really.”
“Am I with Sigmund again?”
“Limburský sýr!” Jenna laughed. “I watch people, you know I do. Do you remember the jeweler in Trieste, the bald-headed man whose shop was an M.I. Six drop? You said he was—What’s the peculiar word you have? Like houkačka?”
“Horny. I said he was horny, that he walked around the women in his store with a spike in the middle of his trousers.”
“And I said he was gay.”
“And you were right, because you unbuttoned your blouse a few inches and the son of a bitch kept following me.”
They both laughed, the laughter echoing off the veloured walls. Jenna reached over and touched his hand.
“It’s good to laugh again, Mikhail.”
“It’s good to laugh with you. I don’t know how often we’ll be able to.”
“We must make time for it I think it’s terribly important.”
“I love you, Jenna.”
“Then why don’t we ask our gun-bearing Escoffier where we sleep? I don’t want to appear nevysponý, my darling, but I love you, too. I want to be close to you, not with a table between us.”
“You figured I wasn’t gay.”
“Latent, perhaps. I’ll take what I can get.”
“Direct. I always said you were direct.”
The gun-bearing Escoffier walked in. “More coffee?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” said Havelock.
“Some brandy?”
“I think not,” said Jenna.
“How about television?”
“How about the sleeping quarters?”
“The reception’s lousy up there.”
“We’ll manage,” said Michael.
He sat on the antique deacon’s bench in front of the dying fire in the bedroom, stretching his neck and moving his shoulder in circles. He was sitting there under orders, Jenna’s favors to be withheld far seven years or some such nonsense if he disobeyed. She had gone downstairs to find bandages, antiseptic and no doubt whatever else she could lay her hands on in pursuit of her immediate medical aims.
Ten minutes ago they had walked into the room together, hands clasped, bodies touching, both laughing softly. When she leaned into him, Michael had suddenly winced from the pain in his shoulder, and she had looked into his eyes. She had then unbuttoned his shirt and studied the dressing underneath on his shoulder in the light of a table lamp. An accommodating guard had started the fire over an hour before; it was nearly out, but the coals were glowing, the stone hearth throwing off heat.
“Sit down here and stay warm,” Jenna had said, leading him to the bench. “We never did pick up a Red Cross kit. They must have something downstairs.”
“You’d better call it ‘first-aid’ or they’ll think you’re taking up a collection.”
“Just be still, my darling. That shoulder’s raw.”
“I haven’t thought about it, I haven’t felt it,” said Havelock, watching her go to the door and let herself out.
It was true; he had neither thought about the wound from Col des Moulinets nor, except for mild spasms, been aware of the pain. There had been no time. It hadn’t been important enough to think about. Too much had been too overwhelming too quickly. He looked over at the large bedroom window, a window with the same thick beveled glass as the one below in the study. He could see the wash of floodlights beyond—distorted by the glass—and wondered briefly how many men prowled the grounds protecting the sanctity of Sterile Five. Then his eyes wandered back to the burning coals that were the end of the fire. So much … so overwhelming … so quickly. The mind had to catch up before it was drowned in the onrushing revelations released by floodgates no longer holding back unthinkable—unbearable—truths. If he was going to keep his sanity, he had to find time to think.
It’s good to laugh with you. I don’t know how often we’ll be able to.
We must make the time for it. I think it’s terribly important.
Jenna was right. Laughter was not inconsequential. Her laugh was not; he suddenly wanted desperately to hear it. Where was she? How long did it take to find a roll of tape and a couple of bandages? Every sterile house was fully equipped with all manner of medical supplies; they went with the territory. Where was, she?
He got up from the antique bench, suddenly alarmed. Perhaps other men—men not assigned to Sterile Five—were prowling the grounds outside. He had a certain expertise in such matters. Infiltration was made easier by a profusion of woods and underbrush, and Sterile Five was a country house, surrounded by trees and foliage—natural cover for unnatural experts bent on penetration. He could intrude, invade, undoubtedly take out opposition silently, and if he could, others could. Where was she?
Havlock walked rapidly to the window, realizing as he approached it that the thick glass which was impervious to bullets would also distort movement outside. It did; he turned swiftly and started for the door. Then he realized something else: he had no weapon!
The door opened before he reached it. He stopped, his breath cut short, relief sweeping through him as Jenna stood there with one hand on the knob and the other holding a plastic tray filled with bandages, scissors, tape and alcohol.
“Mikhail, what is it? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I … I felt like getting up.”
“Darling, you’re perspiring,” said Jenna, closing the door and coming to him; she touched his forehead, then his right temple. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry. My imagination went a little off the track. I … I thought you were gone longer than … I expected. I’m sorry.”
“I was gone longer than I expected.” Jenna took his arm and led him to the bench. “Let’s get the shirt off,” she said, placing the tray down and helping him.
“Just that?” asked Havelock, sitting down and looking at her while removing his arms from his sleeves. “Just longer than you expected? That’s it?”
“Well, outside of two brief affairs under the staircase and a mild flirtation with the cook, I’d say it was sufficient … Now, hold still while I take this off.” Jenna carefully, expertly sliced through the borders of the dressing on his shoulder and peeled it back, then removed the bandage. “Actually, it’s healing quite well, considering what you’ve put it through,” she said as the stripped the tape and reached for the alcohol and cotton. “More irritation than anything else. The salt water probably prevented infection.… This will sting a bit.”
“It does,“said Michael, wincing, as Jenna swabbed the flesh around the wound, then stroked the residue of tape away. “Outside of that activity under the staircase, what the hell were you doing?” he asked while she placed squares of gauze over his skin.
“Concentrating on the mild flirtation,” she replied, reeling out the surgical tape and strapping the clean dressing in place. “There. You won’t feel any better, but you look better.”
“And you’re avoiding me.”
“Don’t you like surprises?”
“Never did.”
“Koláče!” she said, drawing out the word, while laughing and pouring alcohol over his exposed skin. “In the morning we’ll have koláče,” she added, massaging his back.
“Sweet rolls? … You’re crazy. You’re positively out of your mind. We’ve spent twenty-four hours in a goddamned hell and you’re talking about hot cross buns!”
“We must live, Mikhail,” said Jenna, her voice suddenly soft beside him, the movement of her hands slowing to a halt. “I did speak with our armed-to-the-teeth cook, and I’m sure I flirted. In the morning he’ll make sure we have apricots and dry yeast; nutmeg he has-and ground mace. He’ll order it all tonight. In the morning, koláče.”
“I don’t believe you—”
“Try and you’ll see.” She laughed again, and held his face in her hands. “In Prague you found a bakery that made koláče. You loved it and asked me to bake some for you.”
“In Prague there was another set of problems, not what’s facing us now.”
“But it is us, Mikhail. Us once more, and we must have our moments. I lost you once, and now you’re here, with me again. Let me have these moments, let us have them … even knowing what we know.”
He reached for her, pulling her to him. “You have them. We have them.”
“Thank you, my darling.”
“I love to hear you laugh, have I told you that?”
“A number of times. You said I laughed like a small child watching a marionette show. Do you remember saying that?”
“I do, and I was right.” Michael tilted her head back. “It fits, a child and sudden laughter … a nervous child sometimes. Broussac saw it too. She told me what happened in Milan, how you stripped that poor bastard, colored him red, and stole his clothes.”
“As well as an enormous sum of money!” interrupted Jenna. “He was a dreadful man.”
“Régine said you laughed about it like a small child remembering a joke or a prank or something like that.”
“I suppose I did.” Jenna glanced at the fire. “I was so frightened, hoping so much that she would help me, thinking she might not. I think I was holding on to a memory that amused me, that might calm me down. I don’t know, but it’s happened before.”
“What do you mean?” asked Michael.
Jenna turned back to him, her wide eyes inches from his but not looking at him—instead, looking beyond, seeing images from the past. “When I ran away from Ostrava, when my brothers were killed, and I was marked by the anti-Dubčeks—when my life there was finished—I came into the world of Prague. It was a world filled with hatred, a world so violent that I thought at times I couldn’t stand it anymore. But I knew what I had to do, I couldn’t turn back to a life that wasn’t mine any longer.… So I would remember things, relive the memories as if I were actually there, not in Prague, not in that world of fear. I was back in Ostrava, my adoring brothers taking me for rides, telling their sister outrageous stories to make me laugh. During those moments I was free, I wasn’t afraid.” She looked at him. “Those memories were hardly like Milan, were they? But I could laugh, I did laugh.… Enough! I’m not making sense.”
“You’re making sense,” said Michael, pulling her to him again, his face against hers. “Thank you for that. Not much sense is being made these days. Anywhere.”
“You’re tired, my darling. More than tired, you’re exhausted. Come on, let’s go to bed.”
“I always obey my doctors.”
“You need rest, Mikhail.”
“I always obey my doctors up to a point.”
“Zlomený,” said Jenna, laughing softly against his ear.
Strands of her blond hair were layered over his face, her arm across his chest, but neither was asleep. The splendid, warm comfort of their lovemaking did not bring sleep; the unthinkable was too much with them. A soft shaft of light came from the partially closed bathroom door.
“You didn’t tell me everything that happened to you on Poole’s Island, did you?” said Jenna, her head next to his on the pillow. “You told Bradford that you did, but you didn’t.”
“Almost everything,” replied Havelock, staring at the ceiling. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Jenna took her arm away and, supporting herself on her elbow, faced him. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I don’t think anybody can. It’s the bomb in my head.”
“What is, my darling?”
“I know Parsifal.”
“You what …?”
“That’s what Matthias said. He said I saw them all coming and going, the ‘negotiators of the world,’ he called them. But there was only one and I must have seen him. I must know him.”
“That was the reason he did what he did to you? To us? Why he wanted you out?”
“He said I could never understand … the deadliest treaties were the only solution.”
“And I was the sacrifice.”
“Yes. What can I say? He’s not sane; he wasn’t when he ordered up the case against you. You were to the and I was to live, live and be watched.” Michael shook his head in frustration. “That’s what I can’t understand.”
“My death?”
“No, my living.”
“Even in his insanity, he loved you.”
“Not him. Parsifal. If I was a threat, why didn’t Parsifal kill me? Why was it left to the mole to put out the order three months later?”
“Bradford explained that,” said Jenna. “You’d seen me; you were reopening Costa Brava, and it could have led you back to the mole.”
“It still doesn’t explain Parsifal. He could have had me taken out twenty times over. He didn’t. That’s the gap. What kind of a man are we dealing with?”
“Certainly not rational. That’s what so terrifying.”
Havelock turned his head and looked at her. “I wonder,” he said.
The ringing was harsh, unexpected, reverberating throughout the room. He bolted up from a deep sleep, his hand reached for a nonexistent weapon. It was the telephone, and Michael stared at it before picking it up from the bedside table. He glanced at his watch as he spoke. It was four-forty-five in the morning.
“Yes?”
“Havelock, it’s Bradford.”
“What’s the matter? Where are you?”
“In my office. I’ve been here since eleven. Incidentally, I’ve had people working through the night. Everything you wanted will be at Sterile Five by ten o’clock, except the records at Poole’s Island. There’ll be a few hours’ delay with those.”
“You called at this hour to tell me that?”
“Of course not” Bradford paused, an intake of breath filling the moment “I may have found him,” he said rapidly. “I did as you suggested. I looked for someone who might not have been where he was supposed to be. I won’t know for certain until late this morning; that’s the delay with Poole’s Island. If it’s true, it’s incredible; his record is as clean as they come, his military service—”
“Don’t say any more,” ordered Michael.
“Your phone is as sterile as that house.”
“Mine may be. Yours may not be. Or your office. Just listen to me.”
“What is it?”
“Look for a puppet. He could be alive or dead.”
“A what?”
“Someone filling in, the strings leading back to your man. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, I think so. As a matter of fact, I do. It’s part of what I’ve found already.”
“Call me when you know. From the street, from a booth. But don’t close in, don’t do anything.” Havelock hung up and looked at Jenna. “Bradford may have found Ambiguity. If he has, you were right.”
“Paminyatchik?”
“A traveler.”