“That’s impossible!” cried Havelock, rising to his feet. “You’re wrong!”
“Am I? Are you a doctor, too, Mr. Cross?”
“I don’t have to be. I know men like MacKenzie. I am one!”
“I figured as much, and that statement is about on a par with my assessment of the lot of you.”
“No, don’t mistake me,” said Michael quickly, shaking his head emphatically. “It’s no sophomoric generalization. I’m the first to admit that the thought of packing it in can become a recurrent fixation, obsessive, but not this way. Not alone on a boat. That doesn’t work!”
“Sorry. The pathology—the evidence—is against you. I wish to Almighty God it weren’t, but it is.”
Havelock could not help himself; he leaned over Randolph’s desk and shouted, “There was evidence against a woman very close to me and that evidence was a lie!”
“I don’t know what that’s got to do with the price of perfume in Alaska, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“In this case it does. There’s a connection!”
“You’re downright incoherent, young fella.”
“Please. Listen to me. I’m not a ‘young fella’ and I’m not a raving idiot. Whatever you found you were meant to find.”
“You don’t even know what it was.”
“I don’t have to! Try to understand me, Doctor. A black—operations officer like MacKenzie—”
“A what? Mac was white!”
“Oh, Jesus! An engineer, a manipulator … a man in sanction, with the authority to bring about events in which people might be killed, usually are killed—because it has to be done. More often than I can tell you, men like this have very painful doubts, enormous feelings of guilt, feelings of … goddamn it, futility! Certainly, depression sets in; sure, they’ve considered blowing their brains out, but not this way! There are other ways that make sense, because if there’s one thing ingrained in such men it’s function, function, function! For Christ’s sake, take yourself out, but accomplish something when you do it! And, do it right.”
“That’s subkindergarten psychobabble,” protested Randolph.
“Call it whatever you like, but it’s true. It’s the first thing, the most important thing recruiters look for in a candidate. It’s the single overriding factor.… You said it yourself. You said MacKenzie had to compete—angrily compete—for the highest stakes he could find.”
“Ultimately, he did. Himself.”
“No, that’s waste! That’s not even making a statement.… Look, I’m not a doctor, not a psychiatrist, and I probably can’t convince you, but I know I’m right, so let it pass. Just tell me what you found, what you did.”
“Mac gave himself a needle and let it all drift away.”
“Never.”
“Sorry. He was damned smart about it too. He used a steroid compound of digitoxin combined with enough alcohol to float an elephant. The alcohol blood count overshadowed everything else, but the digitoxin blew the heart. It’s one hell of a combination.”
“Then the X-ray was valid?”
Randolph did not reply at first. Instead, he pursed his thin lips and fingered his glasses. Then he spoke. “No.”
“You did switch the plates.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To carry out what Mac intended. To make sure.”
“Go back.”
The doctor leaned forward. “He knew what he’d put Midge and the kids through all these years, and it was his way of trying to make up for it, make peace with himself. Midge had had about all she could take; she was finished pleading. She told him he had to get out of the Agency or get out of the house.” Randolph stopped briefly, shaking his head. “Mac knew he couldn’t do either, so he Just decided to get out, period.”
“You’ve skipped something.”
“He had a whale of an insurance policy, and considering the work he did—work the insurance company didn’t know a damned thing about—it was understandable. Those kinds of policies don’t pay on suicide. I was going to be damned before Midge and those kids were cheated out of what they deserved.… That’s the story, Mr. Cross. You made him what he was, and together, he and I made him better.”
Havelock stared at the physician, then turned and sat down in the chair, his eyes still on Randolph. “Even if you were right,” he began wearily, “and, believe me, you weren’t then—you’re not now—you could have spelled it out for the Agency and they’d have gone along with you; the last thing they want is for this sort of killing to get into print. Instead, you put everyone off, wasted valuable time and the damage you’ve done is incalculable.”
“What in hell! Twenty minutes ago you said you wanted it my way! Yesterday on the phone you said you wanted to shut up some troublemakers!”
“I lied. Just as you lied. But at least I knew what I was doing; you didn’t. If you’d told the truth—if only to one person—every minute of MacKenzie’s day would have been examined; something might have turned up, somewhere a connection.…. No one even bothered to go over the boat. Oh, Christ!”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me!” shouted the physician, his eyes wild, his face apoplectic. “Midge MacKenzie had given her ultimatum! He was between a rock and a hard place. He couldn’t, as you put it, function anymore! He fell apart!”
“That accounted for the alcohol, I don’t doubt it.”
“And when he was plastered, he made his final decision. It’s all there!”
“It’s not there,” said Michael, feeling far older than the elderly doctor in front of him. “I don’t expect you to accept this, but the last thing a man like MacKenzie would do is make a decision when he’s drunk.”
“Let me ask you something. I assume you take a drink now and then, and when you do, you know when you’ve had a few.”
“Certainly.”
“Would you ever operate if you knew you were high?”
“Certainly not, but there’s no parallel!”
“Yes, there is, Dr. Randolph. Because when men like MacKenzie or myself—twenty or thirty more I could mention—are in the field, we’re surgeons. They even call most of the jobs we do ‘operations.’ It’s hammered into us from our first day of school that every reflex, every observation, every reaction has to be as accurate and as fast and as clear as we can make them. We’re primed—our machines are honed.”
“You’re playing with words—yours and mine! Mac wasn’t in the field.”
“If what you believe is true, he was, and the highest stakes were himself.”
“Goddamn it, you’re twisting everything I said!”
“No, I’m not. Because a lot of what you said was as perceptive as I’ve ever heard it expressed. I respect it.… Don’t you understand? MacKenzie wouldn’t have killed himself this way because—everything else aside—the digitoxin might not have worked! And that he couldn’t accept. It was too much a part of him, had been for too many years. If it was going to be his final decision, the one thing he couldn’t afford was a mistake! Can’t you see that?”
It was as though Matthew Randolph had been struck. His eyes were wide and fixed, the muscles of his face taut, his mouth rigid. When he spoke, it was a whisper. “God Almighty …” he said, his voice drifting off into silence. Then softly, unexpectedly, he rose from his chair, and stood motionless, a helpless old man struggling with a massive error he did not want to confront. “Oh, my God,” he added, taking off his glasses, breathing deeply.
Havelock watched him, moved to make things easier. “You did the right thing by your lights. Mine, too, if I’d been you. But at the wrong time, the wrong way. Still, we can go back over everything. We might find something.”
“Shut up!”
It was the last thing Michael had expected to hear. “What?”
“You’re full of surprises.”
“I may have a real one for you.”
“MacKenzie?”
Randolph did not answer. Instead, he walked rapidly to a file cabinet against the wall; taking out a small chain of keys, he selected one and literally jammed it into the upper lock. “These are my private files, very private. A lot of broken marriages and altered wills could result if they were read. Mac’s in here.”
“What about him?”
“Not him. The staff pathologist who put it all together. Who worked with me to convince those fellas from Langley it was a cardiovascular, pure and simple.”
“A question,” interrupted Havelock. “The CIA report says everything was processed here. Your laboratories, your equipment—your staff. How come they didn’t remove the body to Bethesda or Walter Reed?”
The physician turned, his hands in an open file drawer, his long fingers inserted between the folders. “Some pretty strong language on my part with the promise of a lot stronger from Midge MacKenzie if they tried. I told them she’d kick up a mess of feathers the like of which they haven’t seen since the Bay of Pigs, that she hated their guts, figured the strain killed Mac and the least they could do was leave him in peace.”
“Did they talk to her?”
“They tried to. She gave them five minutes, answered their questions, and told them to go to hell. They got the picture; they didn’t want any loud trouble from her.”
“I’ll bet they didn’t.”
“Also,” said Randolph, turning back to the files, “we’ve got a hell of a reputation here, treat some of the most important people in the country. Who’s going to call us liars?”
“You counted on that, didn’t you?”
“You’re damn right.…Here it is.”
“What did your pathologist find that you think might help?”
“It’s not what he found. Like I said, it’s him. He was a temporary.”
“A what?” Michael could feel a sudden, hollow suspension of breath in his chest.
“You heard me,” Randolph continued, carrying the file back to his desk and sitting down. “He was a temporary replacement, took over for our regular man, who was out with a case of mono.”
“Mononucleosis?”
“Herpesvirus. Easiest damn thing to transmit, if you’ve a mind to.”
“You’re losing me.”
“Catch up,” said the surgeon, turning the pages in the folder. “Several days before Mac’s death our pathologist comes down with mono. Then, thank you very much, a highly qualified man shows up; he’s in the middle of a transfer, has a month or so free, and is staying with a sister in Easton. Jesus, I grabbed him.”
“And?”
“Mac’s body’s brought in; he does the initial work, and asks to see me in my office. I’ll never forget it; the first thing he says to me is, ‘How well did you know this MacKenzie?’ ”
Havelock nodded. “One thing led to another, and the bottom line was that MacKenzie’s body couldn’t stand an independent autopsy.”
“He’d found minute traces of digitoxin,” said Randolph.
“And a puncture wound, the position and angle indicating that it was probably self-inflicted,” Havelock added.
“You got it.”
“I’m sure he also inquired about MacKenzie’s work, his mental state, his family—and, somewhere along the line, brought up the subject of insurance.”
“He did. Oh, Christ!”
“Don’t cut your throat, Doctor. These people do their homework like no one else on earth.”
“What people?”
“If I’m right, they’re called paminyatchiki.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. And don’t bother looking for holes in there. He covered himself; he didn’t tell you a single lie, that’s his blanket. He simply knew it all in advance. You couldn’t touch him without incriminating yourself and ruining your Center.”
“I’m not looking for holes,” said the doctor, rapidly scanning the pages.
“A sister in Easton? Forget it. She never was, and he’s gone, and you won’t find him.”
“That’s just it. I know where he is.”
Michael bolted forward in the chair. “You what?”
“His name came up several weeks ago. I was talking to a salesman from a surgical supply house and he mentioned that he had to check our purchase orders because a pathologist wanted to duplicate a piece of equipment we had. I recognized the name, of course, but not the place. It wasn’t where I thought he’d transferred to.” Randolph stopped and looked up from the file. “I did an odd thing,” he continued. “Childish, I suppose. It was as though I didn’t want to acknowledge him, or think about what he and I had done … just wanted to keep tabs on him. I didn’t tell my secretary—as I usually do—to list his current position in our personnel records. Instead. I came in here and wrote it in Mac’s file. Somewhere.” The doctor went back to the pages.
Stunned, Havelock sat rigidly on the edge of the chair. Over the years in his shadow world, he had learned that the most incredible turns of circumstance generally had the most credible reasons for happening. He barely found his voice as he explained. “Your pathologist kept the name because he knew that you of all people could never come after him. He had his hooks into you with the name, not without it. Believe me, Doctor, sooner or later he would have pulled you in, viciously and effectively.”
“I’ve got it,” said Randolph, raising his eyes and staring at Michael. “He still could, you know. Pull me in, I mean.”
“So could I, but I won’t unless you destroy the information on that page. It’s not likely because I wouldn’t give you the chance. On the other hand, he’ll never come near you because I won’t give him the chance. He’s made the one mistake he can’t afford to make in his very strange life. It’s fatal. The name, please.”
“Colin Shippers. Chief pathologist, the Regency Foundation. It’s a private research center.”
It’s far more than that, Doctor. It’s where a paminyatchik can be found. The first concrete step toward Ambiguity. Toward Parsifal.
“This is what I want you to do,” said Havelock. “And I’m afraid you’ll have to do it.”
It was vital to operate not only once removed but almost blindly, and that was the most difficult thing in the world for Michael to do. The highly concentrated surveillance had to be left to others, something Havelock hated because his team was operating totally in the dark, told only to follow instructions, given no clear reason for the job they were doing. There were always built-in risks in such methods; responsibility without knowledge or authority led to resentment, and resentment was the first cousin to carelessness. That could not be permitted. Nor, unfortunately, could inquiries be made regarding routine habits, friends, medical associates, places frequented … all the minutiae that might help them were denied them.
For if Mackenzie’s death linked Dr. Colin Shippers to the initial cover-up of Costa Brava—a cover-up that was no part of the White House strategy—he was at the Medical Center under orders from the mole at State, the paminyatchik who had assumed the Ambiguity code. And a paminyatchik in that position would never entrust an assignment as sensitive as the killing of a CIA black—operations officer to any but one of his own. Therefore they had to operate on the assumption that Shippers himself was a traveler, and that even the hint of an alarm would send him underground, severing the connection to Ambiguity, and, with it, any possibility of tracing the mole through the link. Sources of information were continuously covered by the travelers; personnel offices, bank and credit references, professional records—even FBI checks—all were assiduously scrutinized by informants—willing and unwilling, Russian plants and blackmailed clerks—who alerted these thoroughly Americanized Soviet agents that someone was interested in them. This practice, in concert with Amendments IV, V and VI of the Bill of Rights, made it virtually impossible to trap a paminyatchik; he was a citizen and entitled to the protection of the Constitution of the United States. By the time probable cause eliminated unreasonable search, or a grand jury returned a presentment or an indictment, and the accused was informed of the nature and cause of his possible crime the traveler had long since departed, only to surface in weeks or months with another identity, a wholly original résumé, and not infrequently a new face, courtesy of surgeons in Moscow.
However, as Rostov had pointed out in Athens, the irony of this long-range Soviet penetration was found in the practical results. Far too often the American “experience” served to undermine the Soviet commitment. During his rare but necessary trip to Moscow’s Dzerzhinsky Square, the paminyatchik was made aware of the inevitable comparisons between the two countries. In the final analysis, the travelers were far less productive than the KGB felt it had a right to expect in light of the money and the effort it expended. Yet to threaten one was to court exposure of the whole program.
Futility was not always the province of those with God on their side, thought Havelock.
Yet, again, there were the exceptions, and exposure would never come from them. A mole called Ambiguity, who roamed the sacrosanct corridors of the State Department, and a bright, persuasive pathologist named Colin Shippers, who could grasshop from laboratory to laboratory—how often were these laboratories branches of United States intelligence?—these justified the expense and whatever manpower Moscow allotted to the paminyatchik operation. Ambiguity was obviously Shipper’s superior, the on-site control, and without doubt a respected satellite in the KGB firmament—but he was not keeping his normal KGB channels informed of the present crisis. Costa Brava, and all the madness it represented, was not only disavowed by Dzerzhinsky Square, but what little they did know about it alarmed men like Pyotr Rostov.
It had to; events had taken place that could not have taken place without complicity in Moscow. A VKR officer had been trapped and wounded in Paris by the central figure at Costa Brava, and it took litttle imagination to know that the orders the officer followed were obfuscated so as to be untraceable within the complex machinery of Russian intelligence. Of course Rostov was alarmed; the specter of the fanatical VKR was enough to frighten the most dedicated Marxist, just as it frightened Havelock. For the unknown Ambiguity obviously sent routine dispatches to his controls in the KGB but reserved his most explosive information for his masters in the Voennaya.
Rostov sensed it, but he could not pin it down, much less expose it. It was the reason for his offer to a former counterpart in Consular Operations. He says he’s not your enemy any longer, but others are who may be his as well.
If Rostov had any idea how valid his instincts were, he would risk a firing squad to make contact, thought Michael. But Rostov was wrong; the Russian was his enemy. Essentially neither could trust the other because neither Washington nor Moscow would permit such trust, and not even the horror of Parsifal could change that.
Futility in a world gone mad—as mad as its former savior, Anthony Matthias.
“How long do you think it will take?” asked Jenna, sitting across from Havelock in the small, sunlit alcove off the kitchen where they had their morning coffee.
“It’s difficult to tell. It’ll depend on how convincing Randolph is and how quickly Shippers suspects that an insurance company may be something else, something that alarms him. It could be today, tonight, tomorrow … the day after.”
“I’d think you’d want Randolph to force him to react immediately. Can you afford the time?”
“I can’t afford to lose him; he’s the only link we’ve got. His name didn’t appear in the laboratory report—which was easy for him to insist on in light of Randolph’s decision to cover up what he thought was a suicide. Shippers knows the only way he could surface would be for Randolph to incriminate himself, which he’d never do. Beyond practical considerations, his ego wouldn’t permit it.”
“But swiftness is everything, Mikhail,” objected Jenna. “I’m not sure I understand your strategy.”
Havelock looked into her eyes, his own eyes questioning. “I’m not sure I do, either. I’ve always known that to make things work in this business—this so-called profession of ours—was to think as your enemy thinks, to be him, then do what you’re convinced he doesn’t expect. Now I’m asked to think like someone I can’t possibly relate to, a man who literally has to be two people.” Michael sipped his coffee, staring now at the rim of the cup. “Think about it. An American childhood, adolescence—the Yankees, the Knicks, the Denver Broncos, the Lakers—friends at school and college; going out with girls, talking about yourself, confiding in people you really like. These are the years when secrets are for telling; it’s against human nature to keep them to yourself—part of growing up is revealing yourself. So explain it to me. How does a man like this, a paminyatchik, keep the one secret he can never reveal so deep inside him.”
“I don’t know, but you’ve just described someone I do know very well.”
“Who?”
“You, my darling.”
“That’s crazy.” Havelock put his cup down. He was anxious to leave the table; that, too, was in his eyes.
“Is it?” Jenna reached over, putting her hand briefly over his. “How many friends at school and in college, how many girls and people you really liked did you tell about Mikhail Havlíček, and Lidice? How many knew about the agonies of Prague and a child who hid in the forests and carried secret messages and explosives strapped to his person? Tell me, how many?”
“It was pointless. It was history.”
“I would never have known—we would never have known—except that our leaders insisted on a thorough background check. Your intelligence services have not always sent the best people into our part of Europe and we paid for the mistakes. But when the dossier of Havlíček and the Havlíček family was brought to us—all easily verified—it came sealed with a man from the highest office of your State Department, who took it away with him. It was apparent that your immediate superiors—our normal contacts—were not aware of your early days. For some reason they were concealed; for some reason—you were two people. Why, Mikhail?”
“I just told you. Matthias and I agreed; it was history.”
“You didn’t care to live with it, then. You wanted that part of your life to remain hidden, out of sight.”
“That’ll do.”
“I was with you so many times when older people spoke of those days and you never said anything, never let on that you were there. Because if you had, it could have led to your secret, the years you didn’t care to talk about.”
“That’s consistent.”
“Like this Shippers, you’d been there and you were staying out of sight. You were there but your signature didn’t appear anywhere.”
“It’s a farfetched parallel.”
“Different, perhaps; not farfetched,” insisted Jenna. “You can’t make even the usual inquiries about Shippers because informants might alert him and he’d disappear, protecting his secret. You’re waiting for him to consider Randolph’s call; finally, perhaps—you hope—he’ll decide that he should find out whether or not this insurance company is really—How do you say it?”
“Balking,” offered Michael. “Asking last questions before agreeing to the final settlement on MacKenzie’s policy. It’s standard; they hate like hell paying money.”
“Yes, you believe he’ll do this. And when he discovers there are no questions, he’ll be alarmed, then make his move to contact his control, again you hope, Ambiguity.”
“I think that’s the way he will behave. It’s the best and the safest way I can come up with. Anything else would send him underground.”
“And each hour he …” Jenna shook her head, searching for words.
“Thinks about it,” said Havelock. “Concentrates.”
“Yes, concentrates. Every moment is a lost moment, giving him time to spot his surveillance, the men who worry you because you don’t know them and you can’t give them the true background material on their subject.”
“I don’t like it, but it’s been done before.”
“Hardly under these conditions, never with such terrible consequences for error. Swiftness is everything, Mikhail.”
“You’re trying to tell me something and I don’t know what it is.”
“You’re afraid of alarming Shippers, afraid he might disappear.”
“Terrified’ is a better word.”
“Then don’t go after him. Go after the man who was silent, who was at the Medical Center when MacKenzie died, but whose signature did not appear. As you were two men in Prague, he is two men here. Go after the one you see because you have no reason to believe he is two men, or has a secret to conceal.”
Havelock touched his cup, his eyes fixed on Jenna’s eyes. “Go after a laboratory pathologist,” he said quietly. “On the assumption that someone had to be there with Randolph.… Corroboration. The insurance company insists on a corroborating physician.”
“In my country five signatures are barely adequate for any one document.”
“He’ll refuse, of course.”
“He’ll tell Randolph he can’t support him, can’t agree openly to the diagnosis of aneurysm leading to aortal hemorrhage.”
“Then I think the doctor should be quite firm. If that’s Shippers’s medical position, why didn’t he take it before?”
Michael smiled. “That’s very good. Blackmail an extortionist with his own material.”
“Why not? Randolph has—how do you say it?—the leverage. Age, reputation, wealth; who is this Shippers to oppose him?”
“And none of it makes a damn bit of difference, anyway. We’re simply forcing him to move quickly. For his own protection—not as a traveler, but as a doctor—he’ll have to determine how serious the insurance people are. Whether it’s a routine measure or whether they mean it. Then he finds out there’s nothing; he’s got to move again.”
“What’s today’s schedule?” asked Jenna.
“Initial surveillance will pick up Shippers when he leaves his apartment this morning. Secondary will take over inside the Regency buildings.”
“How?… I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening last night when you were on the phone.”
“I know you weren’t, I was watching you. Are you going to have something for me?”
“Later, perhaps. How did your men get inside the buildings?”
“The Regency Foundation’s a private firm with its share of classified government contracts. That’s obviously the reason Shippers went there; a lot of those contracts are defense-oriented. Regency was the company that first projected the radius burn-level of napalm. It’s common for government technocrats and GAO personnel to be around there, shuffling papers and looking official. Starting this morning, there are two more.”
“I hope no one asks them questions.”
“They wouldn’t answer if anyone did; that’s standard. Also they’ve got briefcases and plastic ID’s on their lapels that identify them. They’re covered if anyone checks.” Havelock looked at his watch as he got up from the table. “Randolph’s making his call between ten and ten-thirty. Let’s go. I’ll reach him and give him the new word.”
“If Shippers reacts,” said Jenna, following Michael down the hall toward the paneled study, “he won’t use his office phone.”
“There are three mobile units in the streets, separated by blocks, everyone in radio contact, wrist cameras activated by arm movements. They can move out on foot or by car—cars alternating in traffic. If they’re any good, they won’t lose him.”
“They do worry you, don’t they?”
“They worry me.” Havelock opened the door of the study, holding it for Jenna. “They’d worry me more if it wasn’t for a fellow named Charley who wanted to put a bullet in my head down on Poole’s Island.”
“The one from Consular Operations?”
Michael nodded, going to the desk. “He flew up last night—my personal request, which didn’t exactly thrill him. But he’s good, he’s thorough, and he knows that Shippers is involved with the Matthias crisis. That’s enough to make him better than he ever was. He’s in charge, and if he doesn’t choke on the mobile phone he’ll keep me posted, let me know if anything breaks.”
Jenna had gone to her own desk—the couch; on the coffee table in front of it there were neat, narrow stacks of papers and several pages of handwritten notes. She sat down and picked up a bound typewritten report from the pile on the left. She spoke while reading, her voice indefinite, her concentration split. “Have you gotten in touch with the insurance company?”
“No, that’s a risk I don’t want to take,” replied Havelock, sitting down at the desk and watching Jenna, but his interest was diverted. “MacKenzie’s policy might be flagged.”
“You’re probably right.”
“What have you got there? It’s the same thing you were looking at last night.”
“It’s the report from your Central Intelligence Agency. The list of potential Soviet defectors over the past ten years, none of whom materialized.”
“Look for a nuclear scientist or an armaments strategist who disappeared.”
“Others disappeared too, Mikhail,” said Jenna, reading and reaching for a pencil.
Havelock kept his eyes on her for several moments, then looked down at a sheet of paper on which were scribbled various telephone numbers. He checked one, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“He’s a cold son of a bitch, I can tell you,” snapped Dr. Matthew Randolph. “Once I laid it out for him, he clammed up, asked a couple of questions like a mortician settling with a family lawyer, and said he’d get back to me.”
“How did you lay it out, and what were his questions?” asked Michael, putting down the page of Pentagon stationery on which were written the identities of the senior officers on the Nuclear Contingency Committees. He had circled a name. “Try to be as accurate as possible.”
“I’ll be completely accurate,” objected the surgeon testily.
“I only meant in terms of the words, the phrases he used.”
“It won’t be hard; they were damned few and damned short … Like you figured, he said I had no right to involve him, that was our understanding. He simply brought me his findings and how I altered them was my responsibility, not his. So I said I wasn’t a goddamned lawyer, but if my memory for trivia served me, he was an accessory and there was no way around it and I was going to be fried in hell before Midge MacKenzie and those kids got screwed out of what was coming to them.”
“So far very good. What was his response?”
“He didn’t have any, so I blasted along. I told him he was a damned fool if he thought he was invisible around here four months ago and a bigger fool if he thought anyone of the staff would believe I’d spend hours in a pathology laboratory over the body of a friend all by myself.”
“Very good.”
“He had an answer to that. Like a talking piece of dry ice, he asked who specifically knew.”
Havelock felt a sudden spasm in his chest, the specter of unnecessary executions rising. “What did you say? Did you mention anybody?”
“Hell, I said probably everybody!”
Michael relaxed. “You can get on the payroll, Doctor.”
“You couldn’t afford me, son.”
“Please, go on.”
“I backed down a bit, told him he was getting all worked up over nothing. I said the fella who came to see me from the insurance company said it was fust a formality, that they required a second signature on the path report before sending the check. I even suggested he call Ben Jackson over at Talbot Insurance if he was worried, that Ben was an old friend—”
“You gave him a name?”
“Sure. Ben is an old friend; he set up Mac’s policy. I figured if anyone phoned Ben, he’d call me and ask what the hell was going on.”
“And what were you going to say?”
“That whoever it was got it backwards. I was the one who wanted the second signature for our own records.”
“What did Shippers say?”
“Just a few words, spoken like a frozen computer. He asked whether I had told either Ben or the man from the insurance company who he was.”
“And?”
“I said “No, I didn’t.’ Fair was fair, and I guessed the best way was to handle it quietly. For him to get over here and sign the damned report without any fanfare.”
“His response here?”
“Again, damned short and bloodless.” Randolph paused, and spacing his words apart in a monotone, he continued, “ ’Have you told me everything,’ he wanted to know. I tell you he was a zombie.”
“What did you say?”
“I said of course I had, what else was there? That’s when he told me he’d call me back. Just like that, ‘I’ll call you back,’ in that God-awful voice.”
Havelock breathed deeply, his eyes dropping to the names on the Pentagon stationery, to one name in particular. “Doctor, either you’ve done a remarkable job or I’m going to have your inflated head.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“If you’d done it my way, just using the insurance company alone, without any other name, Shippers would have assumed MacKenzie’s death was being reexamined by a third party without telling you. Now, if he calls this Jackson he’ll know you’re lying.”
“So what? Same result, isn’t it?”
“Not for you, Doctor, and we can’t bring in your friend; we can’t take the risk. For your sake I hope he’s gone fishing. And I mean it—if you’ve given me another complication, I’ll see your head rolling down the street.”
“Well, now, young fella, I’ve been doing some thinking about that. There could be a couple of heads rolling down a two-way street, couldn’t there? Here you are, a muckamuck from the White House telling me the executive branch of our government is trying to cover up the brutal killing of a heroic veteran, an employee of the CIA, and I’m just a country doctor trying to protect the interests of his bereaved widow and fatherless orphans because they’ve suffered more than anyone had a right to ask them to suffer. You want to tangle with me, you bastard?”
“Please call me if you hear anything further, Dr. Randolph.”
Special Detachment Officer Charles Loring, Consular Operations, late of Poole’s Island, rubbed his eyes and raised the thermos of black coffee to his lips as he sat in the front seat of the gray sedan. The driver was for all intents and purposes a stranger; that is to say, Loring had not seen him before ten o’clock last night, when he had met the entire unit selected by Havelock from thirty-odd service records submitted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the Justice Department’s request. The unit was now his responsibility, the assignment of continuity surveillance understood, the reasons behind it withheld—which was not the smartest thing to do when dealing with superior talent.
And regardless of Havelock’s minor—very minor—attempt to stroke him, Charley Loring knew that the former Cons Op field man was getting some of his own back by claiming “reluctant privilege.” The only clue Havelock gave him was that this Shippers was tied in with Poole’s Island, and it was—with reluctance—enough for Charley. Havelock was a low—blow—dealing prick and he had made fools of Savannah, but if he was running some part of the Matthias show in Washington, he had more problems than they did. Loring would do what he could to help. There were times when likes and dislikes just did not mean very much; the catastrophe—the tragedy—of Poole’s Island was such a time.
The unit had met at ten o’clock at Sterile Eleven down in Quantico, and had stayed up until four in the morning covering the variables of total surveillance—without knowing a damn thing about the Subject. They had a photograph, but except for an inadequate description furnished by Randolph that was about all they had, and it, too, was inadequate. It was a blowup made at Sterile Eleven from a 1971 Jefferson Medical School yearbook that had been located by the FBI office in Philadelphia. No reason was given the agents who found it, only that they should observe complete secrecy. Actually, it had been stolen out of the university’s library by an agent, who had concealed it under his coat. Examining the grainy blowup, the unit had to imagine a face considerably older than that in the photograph, and since no one they could speak with had seen Shippers in four months, the possibility of a beard or a moustache could not be discounted. And they could speak to no one about Dr. Colin Shippers, no one at all. Havelock’s orders.
Initial surveillance had dispelled the conjecture about any hirsute additions to the subject’s face; tinted glasses and a heavier frame were the essential differences between his appearance now and the yearbook photograph. The men inside the Regency Foundation had radioed out twice; they had picked up Shippers. One man was down the hall from the laboratory where the pathologist worked; the other covered his office on the floor below. The waiting had begun, thought Loring. But waiting for what?
The hours or the days would tell. All Charles Loring knew was that he had done everything he could to position the unit effectively: spaced apart and in contact to ensure maximum concealment. The cars were at one-way intersections, his own down the street and across from the research center with a full view of the entrance and the adjacent garage used for personnel parking.
A sharp, high-pitched hum came from the dashboard console; it was a signal from one of the men inside. Loring reached for the microphone, depressed the switch, and spoke. “S-Five. What is it?”
“S-Three. He just left the lab, seems in a hurry.”
“Any clues?”
“I heard a telephone ring in there a few minutes ago. He’s alone, so he could have talked, but that’s spec. I wasn’t able to overhear any conversation.”
“It’s good enough. Stay where you are and stay out of sight.”
Loring replaced the microphone, only to hear a second jarring signal before he could lean back in the seat.
“S-Five.”
“S-Two. Subject went into his office. From the way he walked—his general demeanor—he’s agitated.”
“Good description; it fits upstairs. We may be moving faster than any of us—”
“Hold it! Stay on the line,” instructed Surveillance 2 as static filled the speaker. The man had concealed his radio under his clothing without breaking the open circuit. In seconds his voice was back. “Sorry. Subject came right back out and I had to spin. He chucked the white coat and is in his street clothes. Same tan raincoat, same soft, floppy hat. I guess he’s yours.”
“I guess he is. Out.” Loring held the microphone in his hand and turned to the driver. “Get ready, the package is coming our way. If I have to go on foot, take over. I’ll stay in touch.” He reached under his jacket and took out the small compact hand-held radio, checking by habit the battery charge. He then pulled back his left sleeve, revealing the flat miniaturized high-speed camera attached to the underside of his wrist. He twisted his hand and heard the muted click; he was ready. “I wonder who this Shippers is,” he said, watching the entrance of the Regency Foundation.
The telephone rang, breaking Havelock’s concentration on his Pentagon notes. He picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Cross?”
Michael blinked, recognizing Randolph’s strident voice. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Maybe we can both keep our heads. Ben Jackson just called, angrier than a Point Judith squall.”
“What about?”
“Seems this lawyer phoned him asking why the final payment on MacKenzie’s policy was being held up.”
“Shippers,” said Havelock.
“You got it, and Ben was madder’n hell. There was no final payment. The entire settlement was mailed to Midge’s lawyer about eight weeks ago.”
“Why did Jackson call you and not Mrs. MacKenzie’s attorney?”
“Because Shippers—I figure it was Shippers or someone calling for him—got shook up and said there was some confusion over signatures on a medical report and did Ben know anything about it. Naturally, Ben said he didn’t; the money was paid—processed through his agency—and that was that. He also added that he didn’t appreciate his reputation—”
“Listen to me,” interrupted Havelock. “I won’t lose my head, but you may have blown yours away. I want you to stay in your office and don’t see anybody until I can get a couple of men up there. If anyone tries to reach you, have the desk say you’re operating.”
“Forget it!” shot back Randolph. “A mealy-mouthed snot like Shippers doesn’t worry me. He comes near here, I’ll have one of the guards throw him into a padded cell.”
“If he did and you could, I’d kiss your feet at this point, but it won’t be Shippers. He may call you; that’s as near as he’ll come and it’d be the best thing that could happen to you. If he does, say you’re sorry for the white lie, but after long consideration, you wanted to cover yourself on that report.”
“He wouldn’t believe it.”
“Neither would I, but it’s a stall. I’ll have men up there within the hour.”
“I don’t want them!”
“You have no choice, Dr. Randolph,” said Michael, hanging up and immediately centering the page of telephone numbers in front of him.
“Do you really think Shippers will go after him?” asked Jenna, standing by the window with the CIA report in her hand.
“He won’t, but others’ll be sent up there, not at first to kill him, but to take him. Take him and get him alone where they can press his head until they find out who he’s dealing with, who he’s lying for. Killing could be nicer.” Havelock reached for the phone, his eyes on the page below.
“On the other hand,” observed Jenna, “knowing Randolph lied, knowing he was involved, made Shippers move faster than we thought possible. How long ago was Loring’s last call?”
“Over an hour. Shippers took a taxi downtown; they’re with him on foot by now. We should be hearing soon.” Michael dialed; the line answered quickly. “This is Sterile Five, Fairfax. Under that code name I was taken under escort up to the Randolph Medical Center yesterday. Talbot County, Maryland, Eastern Shore. Will you confirm, please?” While waiting, Havelock covered the phone and said to Jenna, “I just thought of something. With any luck we might turn a liability into an asset,” then returned to the phone: “… Yes, that’s right. Three-man team; departure was eleven hundred hours. Are you ready for instructions?… Return two men, up there immediately on a priority basis. Subject is Dr. Matthew Randolph; he’s to be given protection, maximum visual contact, but there’s a hook. I want the men to be part of the local scenery—orderlies or staff or whatever I can work out with Randolph. Tell them to get en route and call me on the mobile phone in twenty minutes; patch it through you.” Michael paused again, looking again at Jenna as the Secret Service dispatcher checked schedules. “Randolph may have done us another favor at a risk to himself he’ll never understand.”
“If he cooperates.”
“He hasn’t got a choice, I meant that.” The dispatcher returned; Havelock listened, then spoke. “No, that’s fine. Actually, I prefer men who weren’t up there yesterday. By the way, the code will be—” Michael stopped, his thoughts going back to the Palatine, to a dead man whose words had sent him to Maryland’s Eastern Shore. “Apache,” he said. “They were hunters. Tell Apache to call me in twenty minutes.”
Dr. Matthew Randolph roared his objections to no avail. He would either cooperate, Havelock told him, or they could all take their chances and the fallout “tangling” with each other. “Mr. Cross” was prepared to press his suit to the limit even if it meant admitting the murder of a CIA operations officer named Steven MacKenzie. And Randolph, understanding that he was now between a rock and a hard place, entered into the dangerous charade with a fair degree of inventiveness. The Apache team would be two visiting cardiologists from California, complete with white jackets and stethoscopes.
Havelock’s orders were explicit, no room for error. Whoever came for Matthew Randolph—and someone was bound to come—he or they were to be taken alive. Wounds were permitted, but only in the legs, the feet, nothing above the waist.
It was a Four Zero order, none more sacrosanct in the clandestine services.
“Havelock, if’s Loring.”
“How goes it?”
“My driver said he wasn’t able to raise you.”
“I was talking with an irascible doctor, but if there was an emergency, your man could have broken in. He knows that.”
“It wasn’t and it isn’t. It’s just weird.” Loring stopped. The pause was uncomfortable.
“What’s going down, Charley?”
“That’s just it. Nothing. Shipper’s taxi let him off in front of Garfinckle’s Department Store. He went inside, made a call from one of the phones on the first floor, and for the past hour or so he’s been wandering around the men’s shop on the fifth. I’m calling from there; I’ve got him in sight.”
“He’s waiting for someone.”
“If he is, it’s an odd way of doing it quietly.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s buying clothes like he was going on a cruise, trying on things and laughing with the clerks. He’s a one-man gross for the day.”
“It’s not usual, but be patient. The main point is he made the call, made his first outside move. You’re doing fine.”
“Who the hell is he, Havelock?”
Michael reflected. Loring deserved to be told more than he had been; it was the moment to bring him nearer to the truth. So much depended on the sharp, plainspoken Cons Op officer.
“A deep-cover entry who’s going to meet a man who could blow Poole’s Island out of Savannah harbor. I’m glad you’re there, Charley. We have to know who that man is.”
“Good enough, and thanks. All the floors and exits here are covered, we’re in contact and our cameras ready. If it’s a question of choice, do we drop Shippers and stay with his contact?”
“You may not have to. You may recognize him. The others probably wouldn’t, but you might.”
“Jesus, from State?”
“That’s right. My guess is fairly high-level, forty-five to middle fifties, and some kind of specialist. If you do recognize him, stay far back until they separate, then pick up Shippers and bring him down here. But when you close in, be very fast and very careful and check for capsules.”
“Shippers is that deep? Christ, how do they do it?”
“Past tense, Charley. Did. A long time ago.”
The waiting would have been intolerable had it not been for Havelock’s growing fascination with a Lieutenant Commander Thomas Decker, Annapolis ‘61, former skipper of the submarine Starfire, and a member of the Pentagon’s Nuclear Contingency Committees. Decker was a liar with no apparent reason for lying.
Michael had spoken with all fifteen NCC senior officers, calling several twice, a few three times, ostensibly to put together a clear picture of the committees’ working methods for updated presidential comprehension. In most of the conversations the initial remarks were guarded—each, of course, demanding White House switchboard verification—but as the words flowed and the officers realized Havelock knew what he was talking about, they grew less wary and more specific within the bounds of maximum security. Hypothetical events were matched with theoretical responses, and beyond his fundamental reason for speaking to each man, Havelock was impressed. If the laws of physics determined that for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction, the NCC teams had come up with a better equation. For any nuclear action on the part of an enemy the reaction was anything but equal; it was devastatingly superior. Even Lieutenant Commander Decker’s contributions were electric in this sense. He made it clear that a ring perimeter of undersea nuclear marauders could demolish all major enemy installations from the North Atlantic to the Black Sea and most points in between in a matter of minutes. In this area he did not lie; he did in another. He said he had never met Secretary of State Anthony Matthias.
His name had appeared on three separate telephone logs from Matthias’s office, all within the past six months.
It was, of course, possible that Decker’s statement was true, that he had not actually met Matthias, merely spoken with him on the phone. But if that was the case, why had he not volunteered the information? A man who was asked whether or not he knew a statesman of Matthias’s stature did not deny it readily without quickly offering the qualification that be did know him by way of the telephone. It was not natural, actually contradictory for an obviously ambitious naval officer rising fast in the Pentagon who would typically clutch ferociously at the coattails of Anthony Matthias.
Thomas Decker, USN, had lied. He did know Matthias and, for obscure reasons, did not care to admit it.
It was time for the fourth call to Lieutenant Commander Decker.
“You know, Mr. Cross, I’ve given you about all I can or should in these matters. I’m sure you’re aware that there are restrictions placed on me that can only be countered by the President himself—in his presence, I might add.”
“I’m aware of that, Commander, but I’m confused by one of my notes. It probably has nothing to do with anything we’ve talked about, but the Secretary of State didn’t understand it, either. You said you didn’t know him, never met him.”
Decker’s pause was as electric as his data on undersea nuclear warfare. “That’s the way he wanted it,” he said quietly. “That’s the way he said it had to be.”
“Thank you, Commander. Incidentally, Secretary of State Matthias was trying to pinpoint it this morning. He couldn’t recall where you and he last talked with each other.”
“The lodge, of course. Sometime in August or September, I think.”
“Of course. The lodge. The Shenandoah.”
“That’s where it was, where it always was. No one knew anything. It was just ourselves. How is it possible he can’t remember?”
“Thank you, Commander. Good—bye.”
The Shenandoah.
The bell was piercing, the ring unbroken; it was the switchboard’s way of signaling emergency. Havelock had been pacing. thinking; he rushed across the room and grabbed the phone. It was Loring.
“You’ve got my tail on a plate and I’ll start carving it for you! Jesus, I’m sorry!”
“You lost him,” said Michael, drained, his throat dry.
“Christ. I’ll turn in my cards! Every fucking one of them!”
“Calm down, Charley. What happened?”
“A switch. A goddamned switch! I … I just wasn’t looking for it! I should have, but I wasn’t!”
“Tell me what happened,” repeated Michael, sitting down as Jenna got up from the couch and started toward the desk.
“Shippers paid for the stuff he bought, arranging for most of it to be delivered except for a couple of boxes he took with him. He went into the fitting room and came out dressed for the street, same raincoat, same soft hat, carrying the boxes.”
“Held high,” Havelock broke in wearily, again the sense of futility spreading through him.
“Naturally,” agreed Loring. “I followed him to the elevator, staying several aisles away—frankly looking at every son of a bitch in the men’s department, figuring one of them might be your man. One lousy son of a bitch who might have brushed up against Shippers and gotten something from him. The elevator door closed, and I raised the men on each floor, every stop covered, each man to head below and join the others at the outside exits the second that elevator passed his floor. My S-Nine picked him up at the Fourteenth Street entrance and followed him, radioing the rest of us his position; we spread out in cars and on foot. Jesus!”
“When did it happen?” asked Michael.
“On the corner of Eleventh, four minutes after I left the store, and I was the last one out. The man hailed a cab, threw the boxes inside and, just before he got in, took off his hat. It wasn’t Shippers at all. It was some guy ten, fifteen years older and mostly bald.”
“What did your Nine do?”
“The best he could. He tried to stop the cab, but he couldn’t; it shot right through a break in traffic. He called us, spelling everything out, giving the cab’s number and description. Five of us ran back to the store, covering what exits we could, but we all knew we’d lost him. S-Eleven and -Twelve went after the cab; I told them to stay with it if they had to break every traffic law on the books—since we’d lost the subject, we could still grab the plant. They picked it up six blocks west, and there was no one inside. Only the raincoat, the hat, and the two boxes lying on the floor.”
“The driver?”
“He said some nut got in, took off his coat, gave him five dollars, and Jumped out at the next light. The men are taking the boxes in for possible prints.”
“They won’t find any matching anything in the Bureau’s computers.”
“I’m sorry. Havelock, I’m really sorry. Shippers’s whole act was a diversion, and I bought it. Of all the goddamned times to lose an instinct, I had to pick this one.”
Michael shook his head as he spoke. “You didn’t lose it, Charley, I pushed it out of your head. At least you sensed a break in the pattern and I told you to forget it. I told you to be patient and concentrate on a man who never intended to be there.”
“You don’t have to do this,” said Loring. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, I need you. You’re not off the hook, Charley, I want those instincts of yours. There’s a naval officer at the Pentagon, a Lieutenant Commander Thomas Decker. Under a very thick screen, find out every-thing you can about him. Everything.”
“An entry?”
“No. A liar.”
Jenna supported herself on the desk at Michael’s side, looking over his shoulder as he studied the names and brief summaries of the men she had selected from the CIA, Cons Op, and Army intelligence reports. Out of a hundred and thirty-five potential Soviet defectors who had not come over to the West and whose current whereabouts were unknown she had chosen eight for priority consideration.
Michael looked at the list, put it down and slowly turned to her. “This has been a rotten day. It’s no time for jokes.”
“I’m not joking, Mikhail,” said Jenna.
“There’s not an armaments expert or a high-ranking military man or even an atomic scientist here. These are doctors, specialists—old men now, none of whom was remotely connected with any sort of strategic planning or nuclear strike capabilities.”
“Parsifal needs no such connections.”
“Then maybe I wasn’t clear about what those documents say,” Havelock said. “They spell out a series of nuclear moves—first and second strikes, interceptor counterstrikes, territorlal neutralization and automated reclamation—detailed strategies that could only be conceived and negotiated by ex-perts.”
“Matthias didn’t carry around such details in his head, you’ve said as much.”
“Of course not, which is why I’m going after the men on the Contingency Committees—one in particular. But Parsifal did. He had to have those projections available to him. They were chips, his bargaining points in their insane game.”
“Then someone is missing,” Insisted Jenna, walking around the desk, then suddenly turning to face Havelock. “Who spoke for the People’s Republic? Who bargained China’s position? Who gave its projections, its strategic details? According to your theory, there has to be a third negotiator.”
“No, there doesn’t. Their combined sources would be enough to build a totally convincing case for a China strategy. It’s common knowledge in intelligence circles that if U.S. and Soviet penetration of the PRC arsenals were linked up, we’d know more about China’s nuclear capabilities than anyone in Peking.”
“A convincing case?”
“Totally.”
“Combined sources, Mikhail? Why?”
Havelock studied Jenna’s face, gradually understanding what she was trying to say. “One source,” he said quietly, “Why not?”
The telephone rang, its strident signal producing an abrupt tightness in Michael’s throat He reached for it; the President of the United States was on the line, his first words as ominous as any Havelock had ever heard.
“The Soviets know about Matthias. There’s no way to tell their next move.”
“Parsifal?” asked Michael, with no breath in him.
“They can smell him, and what they smell is flaring their nostrils. They’re dose to panic.”
“How did you find out?”
“They reached one of our high diplomatic personnel. They told him that they were prepared to expose Matthias. The only hope we’ve got now is that the man they contacted is one of the best we’ve got. They respect him; he could be our single hope for containment. I’m bringing him on board; he’s taking Bradford’s place. He’s got to be told everything, understand everything.”
“Who is he?”
“A man named Pierce. Arthur Pierce.”