It was a morning Sterile Five had never experienced before and would probably never see again. A persuasive inmate had taken over the somber asylum. Despite the tension, despite the anticipated call from Bradford, by eight-thirty Jenna had commandeered the kitchen, the gun-bearing Es-coffier relegated to the position of assistant Ingredients were measured and mixed to the accompaniment of glances of approval and the gradual breaking down of culinary barriers; the armed cook began to smile. Pans were selected and the outsized oven was turned on; then two additional guards emerged on the scene as if their nostrils belonged to hounds and the kitchen had become a meat market.
“Please call me Jenna,” said Jenna to the others, as Havelock was demoted to a comer table and dismissed with a newspaper.
First names were exchanged, wide grins appeared, and before long there was conversation interspersed with laughter. Hometowns were compared—bakeries the basis of comparison—and a kind of frivolity took over the kitchen at Sterile Five. It was as though no one had ever before dared lighten the oppressive atmosphere of the security-conscious compound. It was lightened now and Jenna was the bearer of that light. To say that the men—these professionals familiar with the deadly arts—were taken with her was too modest an observation. They were actually having fun, and fun was not normal at Sterile Five. The world was going to hell in a galactic basket and Jenna Karas was baking koláče.
At nine-flfty-five, however, after quantities of sweet rolls had been eaten in the kitchen and dispensed throughout the grounds, the serious air of the sterile house returned. Static on a dozen radios erupted, as inside bells and television monitors became operational. An armored van from the Department of State had entered the long, guarded drive from the highway. It was expected.
By ten-thirty Havelock and Jenna were back in the ornate study to examine the papers and photographs, which were separated by classification. There were six stacks, some thicker than others: four on the desk in front of Michael; two on the coffee table, where Jenna sat reading on the couch. Bradford had been thorough, and if more was more, his only error was in duplication. An hour and twenty minutes passed, the near-noon sun filling the windows; refracted in the bulletproof glass, the rays scattered across the walls. There was silence except for the turning of pages.
The approach they used was standard when dealing with such a mass of diverse information. They read everything rapidly, concentrating on the totality and not on specifics, trying first to get a feel for the landscape; they would get to the details later and relentlessly scrutinize them. Despite the concentration on reading, a comment was inevitable now and then.
“Ambassador Addison Brooks and General Malcolm Halyard,” said Michael, reading a page that contained the names of all those involved—however remotely, with or without knowledge—with the Parsifal mosaic. “They’re the President’s backups if he’s forced to expose Matthias.”
“In what sense?” asked Jenna.
“After Anton, they’re among the most respected men in the country. Berquist will need them.”
Several minutes later Jenna spoke. “You’re listed here.”
“Where?”
“An entry in an early Matthias calendar.”
“How early?”
“Eight—no, nine months ago. You were a house guest of his. It was when you were flown over for the Cons Op personnel evaluation, I think. We hadn’t known each other very long.”
“Long enough for me to want to get back to Prague as fast as I could. Those sessions were usually a monumental waste of time.”
“You told me once they serve a purpose, that the field often has strange effects on certain men and they should be periodically checked.”
“I wasn’t one of them. Anyway, I said usually, not always. On occasion they’d pick out a … a gunslinger.”
Jenna put the page down on her lap. “Mikhail, could it have been then? That visit with Matthias? Could you have seen Parsifal then?”
“Anton was himself nine months ago. There was no Parsifal.”
“You said he was tired—‘terribly tired’ were the words you used. You were worried about him.”
“His health, not his sanity. He was sane.”
“Still—”
“You think I haven’t gone over every minute in my mind?” interrupted Havelock. “It was in Georgetown, and I was there two days, two nights, the length of the evaluation. We had dinner twice, both times alone. I didn’t see anybody.”
“Certainly people came to the house.”
“They certainly did; they never gave him a moment’s peace, day or night.”
“Then you saw them.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. You’d have to know that old place; it’s a maze of small rooms in the front. There’s a parlor to the right of the hallway, a library on the left that one goes through to get to his office. I think Anton liked it; he could keep people waiting who probably wouldn’t see each other. Petitioners in stages, moved from one area to the next. He’d greet them in the parlor, then they’d be taken to the library and, finally, the sanctum sanctorum, his office.”
“And you were never in those rooms.”
“Not with anybody else. When he was interrupted at dinner, I remained in the dining room in the back. I even used a separate side entrance when coming or going from the house, never the front door. We had an understanding.”
“Yes, I remember. You didn’t care to be seen with him.”
“I’d put it differently. I’d have been honored—I mean that, honored—to have been seen with him. It just wasn’t a very good idea, for either of us.”
“But if it wasn’t during those two days, when was it? When could you have seen Parsifal?”
Michael looked at her, feeling helpless. “I’d have to go back over half a lifetime, that’s part of the madness. In his fantasy, he sees me leaving a conference; that could be anything from a classroom to a seminar to a lecture hall. How many were there? Fifty, a hundred, a thousand? Post-graduate degrees take time. How many have I forgotten? Was it there, in one of those? Was Parsifal somewhere in that past?”
“If he was, you could hardly be considered a threat to him now.” Jenna sat forward, recognition suddenly in her eyes. “ ‘He could have taken me out twenty times over but he didn’t,’ ” she repeated. “Parsifal didn’t try to kill you.”
“Exactly.”
“Then he could be someone you knew years ago.”
“Or there’s another possibility. I said he could have taken me out and he could have, but regardless of how careful or how removed a person is, there’s always a risk in killing someone or contracting for a gun, no matter how slight Maybe he can’t tolerate even the hint of a risk. Maybe he’s in a crowd of faces right in front of me and I can’t pick him out But if I knew who he is or what he looks like, I’d know where to find him. I’d know, but not necessarily too many others, probably no one in our line of work.”
“The mole could supply you with both an identity and a description.”
“Good hunting, Mr. Undersecretary,” said Havelock. “And I wish to hell he’d call!.… Anything else in there?” he added, going back to the material on the Maryland physician.
“I haven’t gotten that for with the calendars. But there’s something in the itineraries and it’s repeated frequently. I’m not sure I understand. Why is the Shenandoah mentioned so often, Mikhail?”
Havelock looked up from the page as a dissonant chord echoed in the recesses of his brain.
Emory Bradford struggled to keep his eyes open. Except for brief catnaps, taken when he could no longer function, he had not slept in nearly thirty-six hours. Yet he had to stay awake; it was past noon. The newsreel tapes and photographs from New York would be arriving any minute, flown down by an accommodating network television station that had accepted an innocuous explanation in exchange for a new and confidential source at the Department of State. The undersecretary had ordered up the proper equipment; he could run the tapes within minutes after receiving them. And then he would know.
Incredible. Arthur Pierce! Was it Pierce, after all? The senior State Department official at the United Nations delegation, chief aide to the ambassador, a career officer with a service record to be envied by just about anyone working in the upper regions of the government, a record that fairly screamed “advancement.” And prior to his arrival in Washington there was a superb military record. Had he stayed in the army he would have been on his way to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Pierce had arrived in Southeast Asia as a second lieutenant out of the University of Michigan, summa cum laude, master’s program, and Benning’s OCS. Thereafter, for five voluntarily uninterrupted tours of duty he had risen to the rank of major, replete with decorations for bravery, citations for leadership and recommendations for further strategic studies. And before that, before Vietnam, there was a dossier that exemplified the young American achievement of a farm boy: church acolyte, Eagle Scout, high school valedictorian, college scholarship with academic honors—even membership in a 4-H club. As General Halyard had said, Arthur Pierce was flag, mother, apple pie and God. Where was the connection to Moscow?
Yet there was one if there was validity in Havelock’s use of the term “smoke screen,” and especially in his warning “Look for a puppet. He could be alive or dead.” It was the initial suggestion, however, that had first caught Bradford’s attention: Look for a man who wasn’t there, who wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
He had been studying routinely—too routinely, for the thought seemed too farfetched—the recommendations and positions taken by the American delegation at the Security Council’s meetings during the week of Costa Brava. These included the confidential discussions within the delegation, as summarized by an attaché named Carpenter. His superior, Pierce, the man second only to the ambassador, was mentioned frequently; his suggestions were concise, astute, very much in character. Then Bradford came upon a parenthetical abbreviated phrase deep in the text of that Thursday’s meetings: “(Del./F.C.).”
It followed a strong and lengthy recommendation presented to the ambassador by Pierce. Bradford had not picked it up before, probably because of the unnecessarily complicated diplomatic verbiage, but seven hours ago he had looked hard at it “(Del./F.C.) Delivered by Franklyn Car-penter.” Translation: Not offered by the ambassador’s senior aide, Arthur Pierce, whose words they were, but relayed by a subordinate. Meaning: Pierce was not there, not where he was supposed to be.
Bradford had then studied every subsequent line in the delegation report. He’d found two additional bracketed F.C.’s for Thursday and three more for Friday. Friday. Then he had remembered the obvious and gone back to the beginning of the week. It had been the end of the year; the operation at Costa Brava had taken place on the night of January 4. Sunday. A weekend.
There had been no Security Council meeting that Wednesday because the majority of the delegations who were still on speaking terms were holding diplomatic receptions for New Year’s Eve. On Thursday, the first day of the new year, as if to show the world the U.N. meant to greet it seriously, the council had resumed work, then again on Friday—but not Saturday or Sunday.
Therefore, if Arthur Pierce was not where he was supposed to be, and had instructed a subordinate to deliver his words, he could have left the country Tuesday evening, allowing five days for the Costa Brava. If, if … if. Am-bigutty?
He had called Havelock, who told him what to look for next. The puppet.
The lateness of the hour was irrelevant Bradford had raised an operator on the all-night tracing switchboard, and told him to reach one Franklyn Carpenter wherever he might be. Eight minutes later the operator had called back; Franklyn Carpenter had resigned from the Department of State almost four months ago. The number on file was useless; the telephone had been disconnected. Bradford had then given the name of the only other person listed at the American desk during that Thursday meeting of the Security Council, a lower-level attaché no doubt still in New York.
The tracing operator had called back at 5:15 A.M., the U.N. attaché on the line.
“This is Undersecretary of State Bradford.…”
The man’s initial response had been one of astonishment mixed with the fuzziness of sleep, and more than a touch of fear. Bradford had spent several minutes reassuring him, trying to bring him back to those few days nearly four months ago.
“Can you remember them?”
“Reasonably, I suppose.”
“Did anything strike you as unusual during the end of that week?”
“Nothing that comes to mind, no, sir.”
“The American team for those sessions—and I’m mainly concerned with Thursday and Friday-consisted of the ambassador, the senior State Department official Arthur Pierce, yourself and a man named Carpenter, is that right?”
“I’d reverse the last two. I was low man on the totem pole then.”
“Were all four of you there every day?”
“Well … I think so. It’s hard to recall every day four months ago. The attendance rolls would tell you.”
“Thursday was New Year’s Day, does that help you?”
There was a pause before the attaché answered. When he did so, Bradford closed his eyes. “Yes,” the aide said. “I do remember. I may have been listed at the desk, but I wasn’t there. The White Flash had-Excuse me, I’m sorry, sir.”
“I know who you mean. What did Undersecretary Pierce do?”
“He had me fly down to Washington to compile an analysis of the entire Middle East position. I spent damn near the whole weekend on it Then, wouldn’t you know, he didn’t use it. Never has, to this day.”
“I have a last question,” Bradford said quietly, trying to control his voice. “When a team member’s recommendations are given to the ambassador by someone else at the desk, what exactly does it signify?”
“That’s easy. The senior members try to anticipate adversary proposals and write up strategies or counterproposals to block them. In the event he’s out of the council room when a controversial proposal is brought up, his advice is there for the ambassador.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? Couldn’t someone simply write up something under an official title and hand it to a member?”
“Oh, no, it doesn’t work that way. You don’t wing it in those deliveries. You’ve got to be on the premises, that’s a must Suppose the ambassador likes an argument, uses it, and gets hit with a counter he can’t handle. He wants the man responsible back in session to get him away from the fan.”
“Undersecretary Pierce gave a number of deliveries, as you call them, during the Thursday and Friday meetings.”
“That’s standard. He’s out of that room as much as he’s in it He’s terrific in the Diplomats’ Lounge, I’ve got to say it He’s there a lot, buttonholing God knows who, but it works. I think he’s as effective as anyone up here; I mean he’s really impressive. Even the Soviets like him.”
Yes, they do, Mr. Attaché. So much so that controversial proposals could be avoided by prearrangement, Bradford said to himself.
“I know. I said a last question; may I have one more?”
“I’m not going to argue, sir.”
“What happened to Carpenter?”
“I wish to hell I knew. I wish I could find him. I guess he just fell apart.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess you didn’t know. His wife and kids were killed in an automobile accident a couple of days before Christmas. How’d you like to have three coffins in front of a Christmas tree with the presents unopened?”
“I’m sorry.”
“He showed a lot of guts coming back as soon as he did. Of course, we all agreed it’d be the best thing for him. To be with people who cared, not alone.”
“I imagine that Undersecretary Pierce concurred.”
“Yes, sir. He was the one who persuaded him to come back.”
“I see.”
“Then one morning he just didn’t show up. The next day a telegram arrived; it was his resignation, effective immediately.”
“That was unusual, wasn’t it? Actually improper, I believe.”
“After what he’d been through, I don’t think anyone wanted to pursue formalities.”
“And again the undersecretary concurred.”
“Yes, sir. It was Pierce’s idea, Carpenter just disappeared. I hope he’s all right.”
He’s dead, Mr. Attaché. The puppet is dead.
Bradford had continued until the sun was up, until his eyes ached from the strain. The next items he had examined were the time sheets for the night the Ambiguity code had been taken over, the “beyond salvage” sent to Rome. He saw what he expected to see: Arthur Pierce had been not in New York but in Washington, at his office on the fifth floor-and, naturally, he had checked out shortly after five o’clock in the evening, the time corresponding to a half-dozen others’. How simple it must have been to walk out in a crowd, sign the security sheet and go right back inside. He could have stayed there all night, signed in in the morning and no one would have known the difference. Just as he, Undersecretary Emory Bradford, could do the same thing this morning.
He had gone back to the military transcripts—a nonpareil army record—to the State Department dossier—an inventory of achievement-to an early life that read like an officially documented tribute to Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy. Where in God’s name was the connection to Moscow?
By eight o’clock it had become impossible to concentrate, so he leaned back in his chair and slept. At eight-thirty-five he had been stirred awake by the hum of life beyond his office door. The day had begun for the Department of State. Coffee was made and poured, appointments checked, schedules set up as secretaries awaited the arrival of their crisp, starched superiors. There was an unwritten but understood dress code at State these days; frizzled hair, loud ties and unkempt beards were out He had gotten up, walked outside and greeted his own middle-aged secretary, startling her by his appearance. At that moment he realized what an impression he must have made-tieless, in shirt sleeves, dark circles under his eyes, his hair rumpled and the black stubble of a beard on his face.
He had asked for coffee and headed for the men’s room to relieve himself, wash, and straighten up as best he could. And as he walked through the large office, past desks and secretaries and arriving executives, he felt the stares leveled at him. If they only knew, he had thought to himself.
By ten o’clock, remembering Havelock’s admonition, he had gone out to a public booth and made arrangements for the tapes and the photographs to be flown down from New York. He had been tempted to call the President. He did not; he spoke to no one.
Now he glanced at his watch. It was twenty-two minutes past twelve, three minutes later than it was when he last checked. The shuttle flights were every hour out of New York; which one was the shipment on?
His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet rapping on his door and a corresponding acceleration in his heartbeat. “Come in!”
It was his secretary, and she looked at him the way she had looked at him early in the morning, concern in her deep-set eyes. “I’m off to lunch, okay?” “Sure, Liz.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks.”
The woman stood awkwardly in the doorframe, pausing before she continued. “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Bradford?” she asked. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Stop worrying about me and go to lunch,” he said, attempting a smile; it was not successful.
“See you later, then.”
If she only knew, he thought.
His telephone rang. It was lobby security; the unmarked delivery from New York had arrived. “Sign for it and send it up with a guard, please.”
Seven minutes later the tape was inserted into the video recorder and an interior view of the Security Council of the United Nations appeared on the screen. On the bottom of the picture a date was flashed on: Tues. December 30: 2:56 P. The occasion was an address by the Saudi Arabian ambassador. A few minutes into the speech there was a reaction pan shot—first the Israeli delegation, then the Egyptian, followed by the American team. Bradford stopped the tape with the remote control and studied the picture. The four men were in place; the ambassador and his senior aide, Arthur Pierce, in front, two men seated behind. There was no point listening or watching further for Tuesday the thirtieth; Bradford resumed the movement, pulling the remote mechanism up in front of him to locate the forward button. He pressed it, and a rushing blur appeared on the screen. He released the button; the Saudi was still there. He was about to resume the forward motion when a quick-cut shot revealed the American delegation again. Arthur Pierce was not there.
Bradford pressed the reverse several times until he found the action that he was looking for, that he knew would be there. An official from State did not walk out on a friendly speech without at least some explanation. There it was. Pierce was looking at his watch as he rose, leaning first toward the ambassador and whispering, then to the man behind him, presumably the lower-level attaché, who nodded. A female announcer’s voice came from the speaker: “We understand that a telephone call has been received by the United States delegation, quite possibly from the Secretary of State, who might care to have his comments registered for Ibn Kashani’s most laudatory comments.”
Bradford pressed the forward button again, and again, and once again. The address was over; many delegations rose in an ovation. Arthur Pierce had not returned to his chair.
Thurs. Jan. 1 10:43 A. The welcoming of the new year by the president of the Security Council. Pierce was not at the American desk. In his place was the man—presumably, Franklyn Carpenter-who had been seated behind the ambassador; he was beside him now, a sheaf of papers in his hands.
Fri. Jan. 2 4:10 P. A provocative speech by the P.R.C. delegate, necessitating the use of translation earphones. Pierce was not at the American desk.
Mon. Jan. 5 11:43 A. Arthur Pierce was absent.
Mon. Jan. 5 2:16 P. Arthur Pierce was absent.
Mon. Jan. 5 4:45 P. Arthur Pierce was in his chair, shaking his head in response to comments by the ambassador from Yemen.
Bradford turned off the videotape and looked at the manila envelope containing photographs of the New Year’s Eve reception. He did not really need them; he knew the undersecretary of the American delegation would appear in none.
He had been at the Costa Brava.
There was a final check, and with computer scanners it would take less than a minute. Bradford reached for his phone; he asked for transport backlog information, made his request and waited, rubbing his eyes, aware that a tremble had developed in his breathing. Forty-seven seconds later the reply came: “On Tuesday, December thirtieth, there were five flights out of New York to Madrid. Ten o’clock, twelve, one-fifteen, two-thirty and five-ten.… On Monday, January fifth, Spanish time, there were four flights from Barcelona routed through Madrid, starting at seven-thirty, A.M., arrival Kennedy Airport, E.S.T., twelve-twenty-one; nine-fifteen, A.M., arrival Kennedy, E.S.T., three o’clock—”
“Thank you,” said Bradford, interrupting. “I have what I need.”
He did. Pierce had taken the 5:10 Tuesday flight to Madrid, and had returned on the 9:15 Monday flight from Barcelona, permitting him to appear at the United Nations by 4:45, Eastern Standard Time. Somewhere in the manifests there would be a passenger whose name on a passport would in no way correspond to that of the undersecretary of the delegation.
Bradford pivoted in his chair, breathing deeply, staring out the large window at the tree-lined streets of Washington below. It was time to go out into one of those streets and find another telephone booth. Havelock had to know. He got up and walked around his desk toward his jacket and overcoat, both draped carelessly over a straight-backed chair against the wall.
The door opened without a knock, and the undersecretary of State froze, his every muscle paralyzed. Standing there, closing the door and leaning against the frame, was another undersecretary of State, a shock of white streaking through his dark hair. It was Pierce. He stood erect, his eyes level, cold, somehow weary, his voice flat as he said, “You look exhausted, Emory. You’re also inexperienced. Exhaustion and inexperience are a bad combination; together they cause lapses. When you ask questions of subordinates, you should remember to demand confidentiality. That young man, the one who took Carpenter’s place, was really quite excited this morning.”
“You killed Carpenter,” whispered Bradford, finding a part of his voice, “He didn’t resign, you killed him.”
“He was in great emotional pain.”
“Oh, Christ … His wife and children, you did that, too!”
“You have to plan, create circumstances, foster need—dependence. You can accept that, can’t you? Good Lord, in the old days you never gave it a thought. And how many did you kill? Before your celebrated conversion, that is. I was out there, Emory. I saw what you did.”
“But you were there—”
“Hating every minute of it. Sickened by the waste, the body counts—on both sides—and the lies. Always the lies, out of Saigon and Washington. It was the slaughter of children, yours and theirs.”
“Why you? There’s nothing anywhere to explain! Why you?”
“Because it’s what I was meant to do. We’re on different sides, Emory, and I believe in mine far more than you believe in yours. That’s understandable; you’ve seen what it’s like here, and you can’t do anything about it. I can and I will. There’s a better way for this world than yours. We’ll bring it about.”
“How? By blowing it up? By plunging us all into a nuclear war that was never meant to be!”
Pierce stood motionless, his eyes boring into Bradford’s. “It’s true, then,” he said quietly. “They did it.”
“You didn’t know … Oh, my God!”
“Don’t blame yourself, we were close. We were told—I was told—that he was going mad, that he was creating a strategy so intolerable the world would be revolted, the United States would never be trusted again. When it was completed, and the documents were in our hands, we would have the ammunition to dictate or destroy, the option would be ours—in either case your system would be finished, wiped from the face of the earth you’ve raped.”
“You’re so wrong … so misguided.” Bradford’s voice was a whisper. “Great mistakes, yes! Massive errors of judgment, yes! … But we face them. At the end we always face them!”
“Only when you’re caught. Because you haven’t the courage to fail, and without that you can’t win.”
“You think suppression’s the answer?” roared Bradford. “You think because you silence people they won’t be heard?”
“Not where it matters; that’s the practical answer. You’ve never understood us, anyway, You read our books but you don’t grasp their meaning; you even choose to overlook specifics. Marx said it, Lenin reconfirmed it; but you didn’t listen. Our system is in constant transition, phases to be passed through until change isn’t needed any longer. One day our freedoms will be complete, not like yours. Not hollow.”
“You’re spoon-fed! No change? People have to change. Every day! According to the weather, to birth, to death … to needs! You can’t turn them into automatons; they won’t stand for it! That’s what you can’t understand. You’re the ones who are afraid of failure. You won’t let anybody argue with you!”
“Not those who would undo more than sixty years of hope, of progress. Our great scientists, the doctors, the engineers … the vast majority of their parents weren’t able to read.” “So you taught the children and banned the books!”
“I thought you were better than that” Pierce took several steps forward, away from the door. “You can’t find him, can you? He delivered his nuclear blueprints, then went underground. You don’t know whom he’s shown them to, or sold them to. You’re in panic.”
“You can’t find him, either. You lost him.”
“But we know who he is. We’ve studied his habits, his needs, his talents. Like all men with outstanding minds, he’s complicated but predictable. We’ll find him. We know what to look for, you don’t.”
“He defected from you, didn’t he?”
“A temporary condition. His quarrel was with the bureaucracy, with unimaginative superiors, not the objectives of the state. When he came to me, I could have taken him, but I chose not to; he offered me too high a price. You see, he believes in us, not you—certainly not you, never you. His grandfather was a tenant serf on the lands of Prince Voroshin. He was hanged by that grand nobleman for stealing a wild boar in winter to feed his family. He won’t turn on us.”
“Who’s ‘us’? Moscow doesn’t acknowledge you, we’ve learned that much through Costa Brava. The KGB had nothing to do with Costa Brava; it was never sanctioned.”
“Not by anyone you deal with. They’re old and tired; they accommodate. They’ve lost sight of our promise—our destiny, if you like. We haven’t.” Pierce looked at the television set and the video recorder beneath it, then at the box on Bradford’s desk. “A network film library—or is it archives? Images recorded, so they can be studied to settle disputes, or Investigate death. Very good, Emory.” The mole glanced up. “Or we could add a third d. Disappearance. Yes, those would tell you; that feeble excuse for a diplomat we call an ambassador certainly couldn’t He’d check his records, find that I’d given him the best arguments for those sessions, and swear I was there. It might amuse you to know that I frequently talk with my true associates in the lounge and tell them to go easy on him, let him win a few. He was heaven-sent for me.” “It doesn’t amuse me.”
Pierce approached Bradford, standing directly in front of him. “Havlíček’s come back, hasn’t he?”
“Who?”
“We prefer his real name. Mikhail Havlíček, son of Václav, an enemy of the state, and named for a grandfather from Rovno, across the Carpathians. Mikhail is a Russian name, you know. Not Czech. On the other hand, you probably don’t know that; you put such little emphasis on heritage. Under different circumstances, he might be standing where I am at this moment. He’s a talented man; I’m sorry he was so misguided. He’s here, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on, Emory. That outrageous newspaper story, that very opaque whitewash done so very badly out of State in response to the killing on Morningside Heights. That old Jew knew something, didn’t he? And the pathological Havlíček shot his head off finding out what it was. Then you covered for him because he’d found you out, and no doubt found the girl as well. You need him now; he could blow you apart You made your accommodation with him. You told him the truth, you had to. It all goes back to the Costa Brava, doesn’t it?”
“You go back to the Costa Brava!”
“Certainly. We were on our way to the total compromise of one of the most powerful men in the Western world. We wanted to make sure it was done right. You didn’t have the stomach for it. We did.”
“But you didn’t know why. You still don’t!”
“It never mattered, can’t you see that? He was going in-sane. You, with your extraordinary expectations, were driving him insane; he was a gifted man doing the work of twenty. The Georgian syndrome, Emory. Stalin was a babbling idiot when he was killed All we had to do with Matthias was fuel his fantasies, gratify his every whim, grievance and suspicion-encourage his madness. Because that madness compromised this country into its own madness.”
“There’s no compromise now. Only annihilation. Extinction.”
“Pierce nodded his head slowly. There’s the risk, of course, but one can’t be afraid to fail.”
“Now you’re the one who’s insane!”
“Not at all The extinction would be yours, the annihilation yours. That court of world opinion you whiningly appeal to so frequently would see to it. And right now, all that matters is that we find the man who single-handedly ushered Anton Matthias into his disintegration, and we want those documents. Don’t worry about Havlíček; you were going to put him ‘beyond salvage,’ we weren’t.”
“You did. You did! You put him beyond salvage.”
“At the time it was right to order his execution. It isn’t now. Now he’ll help us. I wasn’t Joking before; he’s one of the most talented men you’ve ever fielded, a very accomplished hunter. With his expertise and what we know, we’ll find the man who’ll bring this government to its knees.”
“I’ve told people who you are!” whispered Bradford. “What you are!”
“I’d have been followed at the airport-especially the air-port-and I wasn’t. You didn’t tell anyone because you didn’t know until a few minutes ago. I’m far too important a figure for such speculations from a man like you. You’ve made too many mistakes; you can’t afford any more. This city doesn’t like you, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“Havelock will kill you on sight.”
“I’m sure he would if he could see us, but that’s his problem, isn’t it. We know Havlíček; he doesn’t know us; he doesn’t know me. That puts him at quite a disadvantage. We’ll just watch him; it’s all we have to do.”
“You’ll never find him!” Bradford lurched to his left, instantly blocked by Pierce, who shoved him against the wall.
“Don’t, Emory. You’re tired and very weak. Before you could raise your voice you’d be dead. As for finding him, how many safe houses are there? Steriles One through Seventeen? And who wouldn’t tell a man like me—a man involved with numerous diplomatic ‘defections’—which ones are available? I’ve brought in several enviable catches-or presumed catches.” Pierce took several steps, once again standing in front of Bradford. “Now, don’t die. Tell me. Where is this catastrophic document? I assume it’s a photostat. The original is held over your head, a nuclear sword hanging by a very thin thread.”
“Where you could never find it.”
“I believe you,” said the traveler. “But you could.”
“There’s no way … could or would.”
“Unfortunately, I believe that, too.”
There was a brief snapping sound as Pierce suddenly thrust out his right hand, gripping Bradford’s bare arm, pressing his palm into the flesh. With his left, the mole simultaneously reached up and clamped his fingers over Bradford’s mouth, twisting the undersecretary’s body, arching him to the side. In seconds, Bradford’s eyes widened, then closed as the choking sounds from his throat were muted. He collapsed to the floor as Pierce withdrew the palmed needle. The mole raced behind the desk and picked up the tape container; beneath it was a note on corporate stationery. He reached for the telephone, pressed the outside-line button and dialed.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York Office,” a voice answered.
“Internal Security, please. Field Agent Abrams.”
“Abrams,” said a male voice seconds later.
“Your travels went well, I hope.”
“A smooth flight” was the reply. “Go ahead.”
“There’s a network executive,” continued Pierce, reading the note, “an R.B. Denning at the Trans American News Division. He supplied library footage to the wrong man at State, an unbalanced man named Bradford, whose motives were offensive to the interests of the United States government. The tapes were destroyed by Bradford in a rage, but for the good of Trans Am’s news department—the entire company, as well, of course—Denning’s officially advised to say nothing. The Department of State feels it’s mandatory to contain the embarrassment, et cetera, et cetera. This is a very green light.”
“I’ll reach him right away even if he’s into his second martini.”
“You could add that State might be reluctant to deal with Trans Am in the future, insofar as they delivered company materials without checking the source of the request through proper channels. However, if everyone cooperates for the good of the country—”
“The picture will be clear,” interrupted the paminyatchik from New York. “I’ll get on it.”
Pierce hung up, walked to the television set, and carefully moved it back against the wall. He would have the video recorder taken away to another office. There would be no trace of the newsreel tapes or any way to trace them.
There was no prolonged, agonized scream, no cry of protest against offending gods or mortals—only the sound of shattering glass in the huge window as a body plummeted from the seventh floor of the State Department.
It was said by those who had seen him that morning that it was the way he had to go—in a moment of frenzy, of total despair, wanting it over with, not wanting to think any longer. The pressures had become overwhelming; he had never really recovered from those soul-searching days of the late sixties, everyone knew that. He was a man whose time had come and gone, and he had never reasoned out the role he had played in its arrival and departure. Substance had eluded him; at the end he was a voice in the shadows, a voice disturbing to many, but dismissed by many others because he couldn’t do anything.
The press printed it all in the evening editions, the obituaries ranging from kind to cool, depending on the editorial stripe. But it should be noted that none was very long; no one really cared. Inconsistency was not compatible with that most desirable of political sins: typecasting. To change was to be weak. We want Jesus or the strong-jawed cowboy. Who the hell can be both?
Undersecretary of State Emory Bradford, committed hawk turned, passionate dove, was dead. By his own hand, of course.
And there was no odd piece of equipment such as a video recorder in the stand beneath the television set. It had been delivered to the wrong office, a G-12 on the third floor confirming his original request. The set was rolled back against the wall. Apparently unused.