It was an hour and forty-five minutes before he saw the floodlights that marked the entrance to the drive at Sterile Five. The flight from Andrews to Quantico and the trip by car to Fairfax had been oddly disturbing, and he did not know why. It was as though a part of his mind were refusing to function; he was conscious of a gap in his own thought process but was blocked by a compulsion not to probe. It was like a drunk’s refusal to face the gross embarrassments of the night before: something not remembered did not exist. And he was incapable of doing anything about it; he did not know what it was, only that it was not, and therefore, it was.
One long, unending, sleepless night. Perhaps that was it. He needed sleep … he needed Jenna. But there was no time for sleep, no time for them to be together in the way they wanted to be together. No time for anything or anyone but Parsifal.
What was it? Why had a part of him suddenly died?
The marine sedan pulled up in front of the ornate entrance of the estate. He got out, thanked the driver and the armed guard, and walked up to the door. He thought as he stood there, with a finger on the bell, that like so many other doors in so many other houses he had entered, he had no key with which to open it. Would he ever have a key to a house that was his—theirs—and be able to open it as so many millions opened theirs every day? It was a silly thought, foolishly pondered. Where was the significance of a house and a key? Still, the thought—the need, perhaps—persisted.
The door abruptly opened and Jenna brought him back to the urgent present, her striking, lovely face taut, her eyes burning into his.
“Thank God!” she cried, clutching him and pulling him inside. “You’re back! I was going out of my mind!”
“What is it?”
“Mikhail, come with me. Quickly!” She gripped his hand as they walked rapidly down the foyer past the staircase to the study, which she had left open. Going to the desk, she picked up a note and said, “You must call the Bethesda hospital. Extension six-seven-one. But first you have to know what happened!”
“What—?”
“The paminyatchik is dead.”
“Oh, Christ!” Michael grabbed the phone that Jenna held out for him. He dialed, his hand trembling. “When?” he shouted. “How?”
“An execution,” she replied as he waited for Bethesda to answer. “Less than an hour ago. Two men. They took out the guard with a knife, got in the room and killed the traveler while he was sedated. Four shots in the head. The doctor’s beside himself.”
“Six-seven-one! Hurry, please!”
“I couldn’t stand it,” whispered Jenna, staring at him, touching his face. “I thought you were there … outside somewhere … seen, perhaps. They said you weren’t, but I didn’t know whether to believe them or not.”
“Taylor? How did it happen?”
As Havelock listened to the doctor a numbing pain spread through him, stealing his breath. Taylor was still in shock and spoke disjointedly; Jenna’s brief description had been clearer, and there was nothing further to learn. Two killers in the uniforms of naval officers had come to the sixth floor, found Taylor’s patient, and proceeded professionally with the execution, killing a marine guard in the process.
“We’ve lost Ambiguity,” said Michael, hanging up, his hand so heavy the phone fell into the cradle, clapping into place. “How? That’s what I can’t understand! We had maximum security, military transport, every precaution!” He looked helplessly at Jenna.
“Was it all highly visible?” she asked. “Could the precautions and the transport have drawn attention?”
Havelock nodded wearily. “Yes. Yes, of course. We commandeered an airfield, flew in and out of there like a commando unit, diverting the other traffic.”
“And not that far from the Medical Center,” said Jenna. “Someone alerted to the disturbance would be drawn to the scene. He would see what you didn’t want him to see. In this case, a stretcher would be enough.”
Michael slipped off his topcoat and listlessly dropped it on a chair. “But that doesn’t explain what happened at the Medical Center itself. An execution team was sent in to abort a trap, to kill their own people, so there’d be no chance that anyone would be taken alive.”
“Paminyatchiki,” said Jenna. “It’s happened before.”
“But how did their controls know it was a trap? I spoke only to the Apache unit and to Loring. No one else! How could they? How could they have been so sure that they would risk sending in sanctioned killers? The risk was enormous!” Havelock walked around the desk, looking at the scattered papers, hating them, hating the terror they evoked. “Loring told me that he was probably spotted, that it was his fault, but I don’t believe it. That mocked-up patrol car didn’t just emerge from around the block; it was sent from somewhere by someone in authority who had made the most dangerous decision he could make. He wouldn’t have made it on the strength of one man seen in a parking lot—that man, incidentally, was too damned experienced to show himself so obviously.”
“It doesn’t seem logical,” agreed Jenna. “Unless the others were spotted earlier.”
“Even if the cardiologist cover was blown, at best they’d be considered protection. No, the control knew it was a trap, knew that the primary objective—let’s face it, the sole objective—was to take even one of them alive, … Goddamn it, how?” Michael leaned over the desk, his hands gripping the edge, his head pounding. He pushed himself away and walked toward the wide, dark windows with the thick, beveled glass. And then he heard the words, spoken softly by Jenna: “Mikhail, you did speak to someone else. You spoke to the President.”
“Of course, but …” He stopped, staring at the distorted image of bis face in the window, but slowly not seeing his face … seeing, instead, the formless outline of another. Then the night mist that had rolled in through the trees and over the lawns outside became another mist, from another time. The crashing of waves suddenly filled his ears, thundering, deafening, unbearable. Lightning shattered across the luminous, unseen screen in his mind, and then the sharp cracks came, one after another until they grew into ear-splitting explosions, blowing him into a frenzied galaxy of flashing lights … and dread.
Costa Brava. He was back at the Costa Brava!
And the face in the mirror took on form … distant form … unmistakable form. And the shock of white hair sprang up from that face, surrounded by waves of black, framed, isolated … an image unto itself.
“No … no!” He heard himself screaming; he could feel Jenna’s hands on his arms, then his face … but not his face! The face in the window! The face with the sharp path of white in the hair … his hair, but not his hair, his face but not his face! Yet both were the faces of killers, his and the one he had seen that night on the Costa Brava!
A fisherman’s cap had suddenly been blown away in the ocean wind; a hat had been whipped off the head of a man by the sudden wash of propellers. On a runway … in a shadowed light … two hours ago!
The same man? Was it possible? Even conceivable?
“Mikhail!” Jenna held his face in her hands. “Mikhail, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s not possible!” he screamed. “It can’t be!”
“What, my darling? What can’t be?”
“Jesus. I’m losing my mind!”
“Darling, stop it!” shouted Jenna, shaking him, holding him.
“No … no, I’ll be all right. Let me alone. Let me alone!” He spun away from her and raced to the desk. “Where is it? Where the hell is it?”
“Where is what?” asked Jenna calmly, now beside him.
“The file.”
“What file?”
“My file!” He yanked the top right-band drawer open, rummaging furiously among the papers until he found the black-bordered folder. He pulled it out, slammed it on the desk and opened it; breathing with difficulty, he leafed through the pages, eyes and fingers working maniacally.
“What’s troubling you, Mikhail? Tell me. Let me help you. What started this? What’s making you go back?… We agreed not to punish each other!”
“Not me! Him!”
“Who?”
“I can’t make a mistake! I can’t!” Havelock found the page he was looking for. He scanned the lines, using his index finger, his eyes riveted on the page. He read in a flat voice: “ ‘They’re killing her. Oh, my God, he’s killed her and I can’t bear the screams. Go to her, stop them … stop them. No, not me, never me. Oh, Christ, they’re pulling her away … she’s bleeding so, but not in pain now. She’s gone. Oh, my God, she’s gone, my love is gone.… The wind is strong, it’s blown his cap away.…The face? Do I know the face? A photograph somewhere? A dossier? The dossier of a killer.… No, it’s the hair. The streak of white in the hair.’ ” Michael stood up and looked at Jenna; he was perspiring. “A streak … of … white,” he said slowly, desperately trying to enunciate the words clearly. “It could be him!”
Jenna leaned into him and held his shoulders. “You must take hold of yourself, my darling. You’re not being rational; you’re in some kind of shock. Can you understand me?”
“No time,” he said, removing her hands and reaching for the phone. “I’m okay, and you’re right. I am in shock, but only because it’s so incredible. Incredible!” He dialed, breathed deeply, and spoke: “I want to be connected to the main switchboard of Andrews Air Force Base, and I want you to give instructions to the duty officer to comply with any requests I make with regard to information.”
Jenna watched him, then backed away to the table with the decanters. She poured him some brandy and handed it to him. “You’re pale,” she said. “I’ve never seen you so pale.”
Havelock waited, listening as the head of the White House Secret Service gave his instructions to Andrews and, conversely, the electronic verification check made by the colonel in charge of field communications. The incredible was always rooted in the credible, he thought. For the most credible reasons on earth he had been on that beach at the Costa Brava that night, observing the extraordinary, and a mere gust of wind had blown a man’s cap away. Now he had to know if there was substance in the observation. Both observations.
“There are calls from New York constantly,” said the colonel in answer to his question.
“I’m talking about those five to ten minutes,” countered Michael. “Transferred to a maintenance hangar on the south perimeter. It was less than two hours ago; someone has to remember. Check every operator on the boards. Now!”
“Christ, take it easy.”
“You take it fast!”
No operator at Andrews Air Force Base had transferred a call to a maintenance hangar on the south perimeter.
“There was a sergeant driving a jeep, ordered to pick up cargo labeled Sterile Five, marine equipment. Are you with me?”
“I’m aware of the Sterile classification and of the flight. Helicopter, north pad.”
“What’s his name?”
“The driver?”
“Yes.”
The colonel paused, obviously concerned as he answered, “We understand the original driver was replaced. Another relieved him on verbal orders.”
“Whose?”
“We haven’t traced it.”
“What was the second driver’s name?”
“We don’t know.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
Paminyatchik!
“Find me the dossier on Fierce,” said Havelock, looking up a Jenna, his hand on the telephone button.
“Arthur Pierce?” asked Jenna, astonished.
“As quickly as you can.” Michael dialed again, and said, “I can’t make a mistake, I can’t make a mistake. Not here, not now.” Then: “Mr. President? It’s Havelock. I’ve been with Pierce and tried to help him.… Yes, sir, he’s bright, very bright and very good. We’d like a point clarified; it’s minor but it would clear something up for both of us. He had a lot on his mind, a lot to absorb. At the meeting this afternoon, after I called you, did you bring up the Apache operation at the Randolph Medical Center? .. Then everyone’s current. Thank you, Mr. President.” Michael replaced the phone as Jenna handed him a dark-brown file folder.
“Here’s Pierce’s dossier.”
Havelock opened it and immediately turned to the synopsis of personal characteristics.
The subject drinks moderately at social occasions, and has never been known to abuse alcohol. He does not use any form of tobacco.
The match, the open flame unprotected, extinguished by the wind … A second flame, the flare of light prolonged, unmistakable. The sequence as odd and unmistakable as the cigarette smoke emerging solely from the mouth and mingling with the curling vapor of breath, a nonsmoker’s exhalation. A signal. Followed moments later by an unknown driver delivering an urgent message, using a name he was not supposed to know, angering the man he was addressing. Every sequence had been detailed, timed, reactions considered. Arthur Pierce had not been called to the phone, he had been making a call.
Or had he? There could be no mistake, not now. Had an operator transferring rapidly incoming calls throughout the vast expanse of an air force base forgotten one among so many? And how often did soldiers take over innocuous assignments for friends without informing their superiors? How frequently did highly visible men appear to be on the side of the avenging medical angels by never smoking in public but in a crisis pulling out a concealed pack of cigarettes, a habit they were sincerely trying to kick, the act of smoking actually awkward?… How many men had streaks of premature white in their hair?
No mistakes. Once the accusation was made it could not be taken back, and if it could not be sustained, trust at the highest level would be eroded, possibly destroyed; the very people who had to communicate with one another would be guarded, wary, commanders in silent conflict. Where was the ultimate proof?
Moscow?
There is first the KGB; all else follows. A man may gravitate to the VKR, but first he must ham sprung from the KGB. Rostov. Athens.
He says he is not your enemy … but others are who may be his as well. A Soviet agent. Kennedy Airport.
“I can see it in your eyes, Mikhail.” Jenna touched his shoulder, forcing him to look at her. “Call the President.”
“I have to be absolutely certain. Pierce said it would take at least three hours for the vault to be opened, another two to sort out the documents. I’ve got some time. If he’s Ambiguity, he’s trapped.”
“How can you be absolutely certain about a paminyatchik?”
“At the source. Moscow.”
“Rostov?”
“I can try. He may be as desperate as I am, but if he isn’t, I’ll tell him he should be. We’ve got our maniacs, and he’s got his.” Havelock picked up the phone and dialed the three digits for the White House switchboard. “Please get me the Russian consulate in New York. I’m afraid I don’t know the number.… No, I’ll hold on.” Michael covered the mouthpiece, speaking to Jenna. “Go over Pierce’s file. Look for something we can trace. Parents, if they’re alive.”
“A wife,” said Jenna.
“He’s not married.”
“Convenient. Lovers, then.”
“He’s discreet.”
“Naturally.” Jenna picked up the file from the desk.
“Dobrty oyehchyer,” said Havelock into the phone, his hand removed. “Ja khochu govorit’s nachal nikom okhrany.” Every operator at every Soviet embassy and consulate understood when a caller asked to be connected to the director of street security. A deep male voice got on the line, acknowledging merely that he had picked up the phone. Michael continued in Russian: “My name is Havelock and I have to assume I’m speaking to the right person, the one who can put me in touch with the man I’m trying to reach.”
“Who might that be, sir?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t get his name, but he knows mine. As I’m quite sure you do.”
“That’s not much help, Mr. Havelock.”
“I think it’s enough. The man met me at Kennedy Airport and we had a lengthy conversation, including the means I might employ to reach him again; a forty-eight-hour time span and the New York Public Library figured prominently among them. There was also some discussion about a missing Graz-Burya automatic, a splendid weapon, I think you’ll agree. It’s urgent I speak with that man—as urgent as his message was for me.”
“Perhaps if you could recall the message, it might be more helpful, sir.”
“An offer of sanctuary from the director of External Strategies, Pyotr Rostov, KGB, Moscow. And I wouldn’t say those words if I were taping this. You can, but I can’t afford it.”
“There is always the possibility of a reverse order of events.”
“Take the chance, comrade. You can’t afford not to.”
“Then why not talk with me … comrade?”
“Because I don’t know you.” Michael looked down at the list of the direct, unlisted numbers he had been assigned; he repeated one to the Russian. “I’ll be here for the next five minutes.” He hung up and reached for the brandy.
“Will he call back, do you think?” asked Jenna, sitting in the chair in front of the desk, the Pierce file in her hand.
“Why not? He doesn’t have to say anything, just listen.… Anything there we can use?”
“The mother died in 1968. The father disappeared eight months later and has never been seen since. He wrote his son in Vietnam that he ‘didn’t care to go on without his wife, that he’d join her with God.’ ”
“Naturally. But no suicide, no body. Just a Christian fade-out.”
“Naturally. Paminyatchik. He had too much to offer in Novgorod.”
The telephone rang, the lighted button corresponding to the number he had given the Soviet consulate in New York.
“You understand, Mr. Havelock,” began the singsong voice in English unmistakably belonging to the Soviet agent from Kennedy Airport, “that the message delivered to you was offered in the spirit of compassion tor the great injustice done by those in your government who called for the execution of a man of peace—”
“If you’re doing this,” interrupted Havelock, “for the benefit of any recording on this end, forget it. And if you’re auditioning for the consulate’s, do it later. I haven’t got time. I’m accepting a part of Rostov’s offer.”
“I was not aware that it was divided into parts.”
“I’m assuming prior communication.”
“I assume that’s reasonable,” said the Russian. “Under extremely limited circumstances.”
“Any circumstances you like, just use this telephone number and have him get back to me within the hour.” Michael looked at his watch. “It’s not quite seven o’clock in the morning in Moscow. Reach him.”
“I don’t believe those circumstances are acceptable.”
“They’ve got to be. Tell him I may have found the enemy. Our enemy, the word temporary, of course, assuming again there’s a future for either of us.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Don’t think. Reach him. Because if you don’t, I’ll try myself and that could be acutely embarrassing—to you, comrade, not to me. I don’t care anymore. I’m the prize.” Havelock replaced the phone, aware of the beads of perspiration that had broken out on his forehead.
“What can Rostov actually tell you?” Jenna got up from the chair and placed Pierce’s dossier on the desk. “There’s nothing here, incidentally. Just a brilliant, modest hero of the republic.”
“Naturally.” Michael wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and leaned forward, supporting himself on his elbows. “Rostov told me in Athens that one of his sources for Costa Brava was a mole operating out of the White House. I didn’t believe him; it’s the kind of shock treatment that makes you listen harder. But suppose he was telling me the truth—a past truth—because he knew the mole was out and untraceable. The perfect traveler.”
Jenna raised her hand, pointing to the dossier on the desk. “Pierce was assigned to the National Security Council. He had an office in the White House for several months.”
“Yes. And Rostov meant what he said; he couldn’t understand, and what you can’t understand in this business is cause for alarm. Everything he had learned about Costa Brava-which I confirmed—told him it couldn’t have taken place without the cooperation of someone in Moscow. But who? These operations are under his direct control, but he didn’t have anything to do with it, knew nothing about it. So he tested me, thinking I could tell him something, bringing in the mole for credibility, knowing that we both accepted a mole’s information as being reliable. The truth—as he was told the truth—except it was a lie.”
“Told by a KGB officer, a paminyatchik mole, who had transferred his allegiance from the KGB to the Voennaya,” said Jenna. “He throws off his former superiors for his new ones.”
“Then proceeds to intercept and take over Costa Brava. If he was at Costa Brava. If … if.”
“How will you handle Rostov? He’ll be taped; he’ll be monitored.”
“It’ll be light. He is, after all, director of External Strategies. I’ll play on the power struggle. KGB versus VKR. He’ll understand.”
“He won’t talk about the paminyatchik operation over the telephone, you know that. He can’t.”
“I won’t ask him to. I’ll name the name and listen. He’ll tell me somehow. We’ve both been around a long time—too long—and the words we use have never been written to mean what we say they mean, the silences we use never understood except by people like us. He wants what I have—if I have it—as much as I want what he can confirm. It’ll work. Somehow. He’ll tell me if Arthur Pierce is the mole—if he’s convinced the mole has gone around his back and joined the maniacs.”
Jenna walked to the coffee table, picked up a note pad, and sat down in the leather armchair. “While you’re waiting, do you want to talk about Commander Decker?”
“Christ!” Havelock’s right hand shot out for the phone, his left centering the list of numbers in front of him. He dialed as he spoke, his voice strained: “I mentioned him to Pierce. Oh, God, did I mention him! … Raise the Decker escort, please. Hurry.”
“Naval escort. In position.”
The words over the radiophone were clear, and the sudden throbbing in Michael’s temples began to subside. “This is Sterile Five. We have reason to believe there could be hostile activity in your area.”
“No signs of it” was the reply. “Everything’s quiet, and the street’s well lighted.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like additional personnel.”
“We’re stretched pretty thin at Sixteen Hundred, Sterile Five. Why not call in the locals? They don’t have to know any more than we do, and we don’t know a damn thing.”
“Can you do it?”
“Sure. We’ll label it diplomatic and they’ll get overtime. By the way, how do you read the activity?”
“Abduction. Neutering you first, then taking Decker.”
“Thanks for the warning. We’ll get right on it. Out.”
Havelock leaned back in the chair, his neck stretched over the back, and stared at the ceiling. “Now that we know there still is a Commander Decker, what did he tell you?”
“Where did you leave off? I went back over everything.”
Michael closed his eyes, remembering. “A phone call,” he said slowly. “It was later, after their Sunday meetings at the lodge. He tried for days, weeks, to get in touch with Matthias, but Anton wouldn’t talk to him. Then someone called him … with an explanation. That was it, he said it was an explanation.”
Jenna flipped through her notes, stopping at a page, then going back two. “A man with a strange voice, an odd accent—‘clipped and rushed’ was the way Decker described it. I asked him to recall as thoroughly as possible every word the man said. Fortunately, that call was very important to him; he remembered nearly everything, I think. I wrote it down.”
“Read it, will you?”
Jenna rolled the page over. “The man identified himself as a colleague of the Secretary of State, and asked Decker several questions about his naval career, obviously to make sure it was Decker.… Then here it begins —I tried to write it down as though I’d heard it myself. ‘Secretary Matthias appreciates everything you’ve done, and wants you to know that you will be mentioned prominently and frequently in his memoirs. But you must understand the rules, the rules can’t be broken. For the Secretary’s global strategy to be effective, it must be developed in total secrecy; the element of surprise is paramount; no one in or out of government—’ ” Jenna paused. “The emphases were Decker’s,” she added. “ ‘—in or out of government aware that a master plan has been created.’ ” Again Jenna stopped and looked up. “Here Decker wasn’t precise; the man’s reasons for excluding people in government were apparently based on the assumption that there were too many who couldn’t be trusted, who might divulge secrets regardless of their clearance.”
“Of course he wasn’t precise. He was talking about himself and it was a painful reference.”
“I agree.… This last part I’m sure was accurate, probably word for word. ‘The Secretary of State wants you to know that when the time comes you will be summoned and made his chief executive officer, all controls in your hands. But because of your superb reputation in the field of nuclear tactics, there can’t be even a hint of any association between you. If anyone ever asks you if you know the Secretary of State, you must say you do not. That’s also part of the rules.’ ” Jenna put the note pad down on her lap. “That’s it. Decker’s ego was thoroughly flattered, and by his lights his place in history was assured.”
“Nothing else was needed,” said Havelock, straightening himself up in the chair. “Did you write that out so I can read it?”
“I write more clearly in English than I do in Czech. Why?”
“Because I want to study it—over and over and over again. The man who spoke those words is Parsifal, and somewhere in the past I’ve heard that man speak before.”
“Go back over the years, Mikhail,” said Jenna, sitting forward, raising the note pad and flipping the pages. “I’ll go back with you. Now! It’s not impossible. A Russian who speaks English rapidly, clipping his words. It’s there. That’s what Decker said. ‘Clipped and rushed,’ those were his words. How many such men can you have known?”
“Let’s do it.” Havelock got up from the desk as Jenna tore off the two pages that contained her notes on the call to Thomas Decker. Michael came around and took them from her. “Men I know who’ve met Matthias. We’ll start with this year and work backwards. Write down every name I come up with.”
“Why not do it geographically? City by city. You can eliminate some quickly, concentrate on the others.”
“Association,” he added. “We scratch Barcelona and Madrid; we never touched the Soviets.… Belgrade—a river warehouse on the Sava, the attaché from the Russian consulate, Vasili Yankovitch. He was with Anton in Paris.”
“Yankovitch,” said Jenna, writing.
“And Ilitch Borin, visiting professor at the University of Belgrade; we had drinks, dinner. He knew Matthias from the cultural exchange conferences.”
“Borin.”
“No one else in Belgrade.… Prague. There must be at least a dozen men in Prague. The Soviets are crawling in Prague.”
“Their names? Start alphabetically.”
The names came, some rapidly, others slowly, some striking chords of possibility, others completely improbable. Nevertheless, Jenna wrote them all down, prodding Michael, forcing him to jolt his memory, one name leading to another.
Krakow. Vienna. Paris. London. New York. Washington.
The months became a year, then two, and finally three. The list grew as Havelock probed, pushing his conscious, permitting the free association of his subconscious, digging, straining, forcing his mind to function as if it were a finely tuned instrument. And again the sweat broke out on his forehead, his puke oddly quickening as he reached the end of his energies.
“God, I’m tired,” said Michael quietly, staring at the beveled windowpane where over an hour ago two faces had appeared, one replacing the other, both killers, both from the Costa Brava. Or were they?
“You have thirty-nine names,” said Jenna, coming to him, touching the back of his neck, massaging it gently. “Sit down and study them, study the telephone conversation. Find Parsifal, Mikhail.”
“Do any match the names on your list? I thought of that when I mentioned Ilitch Borin; he’s a doctor of philosophy. Is there anyone?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“He hasn’t called. Rostov hasn’t called.”
“I know.”
“I said an hour, the deadline was an hour.” Havelock looked at his watch. “It’s thirty-four minutes past the deadline.”
“There could be mechanical troubles in Moscow. It would be nothing new.”
“Not for him. He’s pulled in the white contact; he doesn’t want to acknowledge.”
“How often have you stretched a deadline? Waiting until the one who expected your call was filled with anxiety, his defenses eroded.”
“He knows my dossier too well for that.” Michael turned to her. “I have to make a decision. If I’m right, Pierce can’t be allowed off that island. If I’m wrong they’ll think I’ve crashed, gone over the edge. Berquist won’t have any choice, he’ll have to remove me.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Of course necessarily. I’m seeing monsters in dark closets, wasting valuable hours on delusions. That’s not a man you want giving orders. My God, Arthur Pierce! The most valuable asset we have—if we have him.”
“Only you know what you did see.”
“It was night, a night that was racking me. Look through that clinic file. Is that a rational man talking or thinking? What was he seeing?… I need one word, one sentence from Rostov.”
“Wait, Mikhail,” said Jenna, touching his arm and urging him back to the armchair. “You still have time. Study the list of names, the words spoken to Decker. It may happen for you. A name, a voice, a phrase. It could happen.”
Scholars. Soldiers. Lawyers. Doctors. Attachés. Diplomats.… Defectors. All Soviets who at one time or another had direct contact with Anthony Matthias. Havelock pictured each man, each face, his inner ear hearing dozens of voices speaking in English, matching the voices with the faces, listening for phrases that were spoken rapidly, words that were clipped, consonants harsh. It was maddening, faces and voices intermingling, lips moving, suddenly no sound followed by shouts. You will be mentioned prominently and frequently. Did he say that, would he say that? You will be summoned … how many times had that phrase been used? So many. But who used it? Who?
An hour passed, then most of another and a second pack of cigarettes with it. The expired deadline for Moscow was approaching the final deadline for Poole’s Island. A decision—the decision—would have to be made. Nothing was forgotten, only submerged, eyes straying to watches as the inner search for Parsifal reached a frightening level of intensity.
“I can’t find him!” cried Michael, pounding his hand on the coffee table. “He’s here, the words are here, but I can’t find him!”
The telephone rang. Rostov? Havelock shot up from the chair, staring at it, motionless. He was drained, and the thought of finding the resources to fence verbally with the Soviet intelligence officer eight thousand miles away drained him further. The abrasive bell sounded again. He went to the phone and picked it up as Jenna watched him.
“Yes?” he said quietly, marshaling his thoughts for the opening moves on both sides.
“It is your friend from Kennedy Airport who no longer has his weapon—”
“Where’s Rostov? I gave you a deadline.”
“It was met. Listen to me carefully. I’m calling from a phone booth on Eighth Avenue and must keep my eyes on the street. The call came through a half hour ago. Fortunately, I took it, as my superior had an engagement for the evening. He will expect to find me when he returns.”
“What are you driving at?”
“Rostov is dead. He was found at nine-thirty in the morning, Moscow time, after repeated calls failed to rouse him.”
“How did he die?”
“Four bullets in the head.”
“Oh, Christ! Have they any idea who killed him?”
“The rumor is Voennaya Kontra Razvedka, and I, for one, believe it. There have been many such rumors lately, and if a man like Rostov can be taken out, then I am too old, and must call from a phone booth. You are fools here, but it’s better to live with fools than lie among jackals who will rip your throat open if they don’t care for the way you laugh or drink.”
At the meeting this afternoon … something I didn’t understand … An intelligence officer from the KGB made contact … speculated on the identity … Arthur pierce, while awkwardly smoking a cigarette on a deserted runway.
Rostov didn’t speculate. He knew. A collection of fanatics in a branch called the VKR, the Voennaya … He’ll break it open … A fellow killer from the Costa Brava.
Had Pierce’s call encompassed more than the death of a paminyatchik? Had he demanded the execution of a man in Moscow? Four bullets in the head. It had cost Rostov’s life, but It could be the proof he needed. Was it conclusive? Could anything be conclusive?
“Code name Hammer-zero-two,” said Michael, thinking, reaching. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“A part of it possibly, not all of it.”
“What part?”
“The ‘hammer.’ It was used years ago, and was restricted. Then it was abandoned, I believe. Hammarskjöld, Dag Hammarskjöld. The United Nations.”
“Jesus! … Zero, zero … two. A zero is a circle … a circle. A council! Two … double, twice, second. The second voice in the delegation! That’s it!”
“As you gather,” interrupted the Russian, “I must cross over.”
“Call the New York office of the FBI. Go there. I’ll get word to them.”
“That is one place I will not go. It is one of the things I can tell you.”
“Then keep moving and call me back in thirty minutes. I have to move quickly.”
“Fools or jackals. Where is the choice?”
Havelock pressed the adjacent button on the phone, disconnecting the line. He looked up at Jenna. “It’s Pierce. Hammer-zero-two. I told him —we all told him—about Rostov dosing in on the Voennaya. He had Rostov killed. It’s him.”
“He’s trapped,” said Jenna. “You’ve got him.”
“I’ve got him. I’ve got Ambiguity, the man who called us dead at Col des Moulinets.… And when I get him to a clinic I’ll shoot him into space. Whatever he knows I’ll know.” Michael dialed quickly. “The President, please. Mr Cross calling.”
“You must be very quiet, Mikhail,” said Jenna, approaching the desk. “Very quiet and precise. Remember, it will be an extraordinary shock to him and, above all, he must believe you.”
Havelock nodded. “That’s the hardest part. Thanks. I was about to plunge in with conclusions first. You’re right. Take him up slowly.… Mr. President?”
“What is it?” asked Berquist anxiously. “What’s happened?”
“I have something to tell you, sir. It will take a few minutes, and I want you to listen very closely to what I’ve got to say.”
“All right. Let me get on another phone; there are people in the next room.… By the way, did Pierce reach you?”
“What?”
“Arthur Pierce. Did he call you?”
“What about Pierce?”
“He telephoned about an hour ago; he needed a second clearance. I told him about your call to me, that you both wanted to know if I’d brought up the Randolph Medical Center business—lousy goddamned mess—and I said I had, that we all knew about it.”
“Please, Mr. President! Go back. What, exactly, did you say?”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What did he say to you?”
“About what?”
“Just tell me! First, what you said to him!”
“Now, just a minute, Havelock—”
“Tell me! You don’t have time, none of us has time! What did you say?”
The urgency was telegraphed. Berquist paused, then answered calmly, a leader aware of a subordinate’s alarm, not understanding it but willing to respect its source. “I said that you’d phoned me and specifically asked if I had brought up the Randolph Medical Center at the meeting this afternoon. I said that I had, and that you seemed relieved that everyone knew about it.”
“What did he say?”
“He seemed confused, frankly. I think he said ‘I see,’ then asked me if you’d given any reason for wanting to know.”
“Know what?”
“About the Medical—What is wrong with you?”
“What did you say?”
“That I understood you were both concerned, although I wasn’t sure why.”
“What was his reply?”
“I don’t think he had one.… Oh, yes. He asked if you’d made any progress with the man you’ve got at Bethesda.”
“Which wasn’t until tomorrow and he knew it!”
“What?”
“Mr. President, I don’t have time to explain and you can’t lose a moment. Has Pierce gotten into that vault, that room?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop him! He’s the mole!”
“You’re insane!”
“Goddamn it, Berquist, you can have me shot, but right now I’m telling you! He’s got cameras you don’t know about! In rings, watches, cuff links! Stop him! Take him! Strip him and check for capsules, cyanide! I can’t give that order but you can! You have to! Now!”
“Stay by the phone,” said the President of the United States. “I may have you shot.”
Havelock got out of the chair, if for no other reason than the need to move, to keep in motion. The dark mists were closing in again; be had to get out from under them. He looked at Jenna, and her eyes told him she understood.
“Pierce found me. I found him, and he found me.”
“He’s trapped.”
“I could have killed him at Costa Brava. I wanted to kill him, but I wouldn’t listen. I wouldn’t listen to myself.”
“Don’t go back. You’ve got him. You’re within the time span.”
Michael walked away from the desk, away from the dark mist that pursued him. “I don’t pray,” he whispered. “I don’t believe. I’m praying now, to what I don’t know.”
The telephone rang and he lunged for it. “Yes?”
“He’s gone. He ordered the patrol boat to take him back to Savannah.”
“Did he get into that room?”
“No.”
“Thank Christ!”
“He’s got something else,” said the President in a voice that was barely audible.
“What?”
“The complete psychiatric file on Matthias. It says everything.”