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  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC

  BY

  ROBERT LUDLUM

  Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum

  Ask your book seller for the books you have missed

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION

  THE BOURNE IDENTITY

  THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT

  THE HOLCROFT COVENANT

  THE MATARESE CIRCLE

  THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC

  THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

  THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE

  BANTAM BOOKS

  TORONTO- NEWYORK - LA)NDON -SYDNEY* AUCKLANI)

  A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with

  the Author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Random House edition fublished March 1982

  A Selection of iterary Guild

  Bantam Export edition / April 1982

  Bantam edition / March 1983

  12 printings through June 1985

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 0 1982 by Robert Ludlum.

  Cover art copyright (D 1983 by Mara McAlfee.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or In part, AY

  mimeograph or any other Means, without permission.

  For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

  ISBN Oj553-25270-4

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trade.

  mark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the por

  trayal of a rooster, Is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark

  Office and in other countries. Marco Registrada. Bantam

  Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  PRUfM IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERIC&

  H21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13

  For Dolores and Charles Ryducha, two of the finest people I have ever

  knownfrom a grateful brother Na zdrowiel

  THE

  PARSIFAL

  MOSAIC

  BOOK

  - ONE,

  1

  The cold rays of the moon streaked down from the night sky and bounced off

  the rolling surf ' which burst into suspen ed sprays of white where isolated

  waves crashed into the rocks of the shoreline. The stretch of beach between

  the towering boulders of the Costa Brava was the execution ground. It had to

  be. May God damn this goddamned world-it had to bel

  He could see her now. And hear her through the sounds of the sea and the

  breaking surf. She was running wildly, screaming hysterically: "Pro boha

  iiv6hol ProN Co to d6WI Pfestafil ProN ProN

  Her blond hair was caught in the moonlight, her racing silhouette given

  substance by the beam of a powerful flashlight fifty yards behind her. She

  fell; the gap closed and a staccato burst of gunfire abruptly, insolently

  split the night air, bullets exploding the sand and the wild grass all

  around her. She would be dead in a matter of seconds.

  His love would be gone.

  They were high on the hill overlooking the Moldau, the boats on the -river

  plowing the waters north and south, their wakes furrows. The curling sinoke

  from the factories below diffused in the bright afternoon sky, obscuring the

  mountains in the distance, and Michael watched, wondering # the

  8

  4RoBERT LUDLUM

  winds above Prague would come along and blow th.6 smoke away so the

  mountains could be seen again. His head was on Jenna's lap, his long legs

  stretched out, touching the wicker basket she had packed with sandwiches and

  iced wine. She sat on the grass, her back against the smooth bark of a birch

  tree, she stroked his hair, her fingers circling his face, gently outlining

  his lips and cheekbones.

  'Mikhail, my darling, I was thinking. Those tweed jackets

  and dark trousers you wear, and that very proper English which must come

  from your very proper university, will never remove the Havlibek from

  Havelock."

  "I don't think they were meant to. One~'s a uniform of sods, and the other

  you kind of learn in self-defense." He smiled, touching her hand. "Besides,

  that university was a long time ago."

  "So much was a long time ago, wasWt it? Right down there."

  "It happened."

  'You were there, my poor darling."

  'It's history. I survived.'

  "Many did not."

  The blond woman rose, spinning in the sand, pulling at the wild grass,

  plunging to her right, for several seconds eluding the beam of light. She

  beaded toward the dirt road above the beach, staying in darkness, crouching,

  lunging, using the cover of night and the patches of tall grass to conceal

  her body.

  It would not do her any good, thought the tall man in the black sweater at

  his post between two trees above the road, above the terrible violence that

  was taking place below, above the panicked woman who would be dead in

  moments. He bad looked down at her once before, not so very long ago. She

  had not been panicked then; she had been magnificent.

  He folded the curtain back slowly, carefully in the dark office, his back

  pressed against the wall, his face inching toward the window. He could see

  her below, crossing the floodlit courtyard, the tattoo of her high heels

  against the cobblestones echoing martially up between the surrounding

  buildings. The guards were recessed in shadows--outlines of sullen mario-

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC5

  nettes in their Soviet-style uniforms. Heads turned, signifying

  appreciative glances directed at the figure striding confi-

  ='y to7h ;dstttiron gate in the center of the iron fence

  ngcompound that was the core of Prague's

  secret police. The thoughts behind the glances were clear:

  this was no mere secretary working overtime, this was a pnv

  ileged kurva who took dictation on a commissar`8 couch till all

  hours of the night.

  But others, too, were watching-from other darkened windows. One break in

  her confident stride, one instant of hesitation, and a phone would be

  picked up and orders of detention issued to the gate. Embarrassments, of

  course, were to be avoided where commissars were concerned, but not if

  there appeared to be substance behind suspicions. Everything was

  appearance.

  There was no break, no hesitation. She was carrying it ofiF

  . carrying it outl They had done itt Suddenly he felt a folt Of pain in his

  chest, he knew what it was. Fear. Pure, raw, sickening fear. He was

  remembering-memories within memories. As he watched her his mind went back

  to a city In rubble, to the terrible sounds of mass execution. Lidice. And

  a child-one of many children-scurrying through the billowIng gray smoke of

  burning debris, carrying messages and pockets full of plastic explosives.

  One break, one hesitation, then ... history.

  She reached the gate. An obsequious guard was permitted to leer. She was

  magnificent. God, he loved hert

  She had reached the shoulder of the road, legs and arms working furiously,

  digging into the s
and and the dirt, clawing for survival. With no wild grass

  to conceal her, she would be seen; the beam of light would find her, and the

  end would come quickly.

  He watched, suspending emotion, erasing pain, a human litmus accepting

  impressions without comment. He had toprofessionally. He had learned the

  truth, the stretch of beach on the Costa Brava w confirmation of her guilt,

  proof of her crimes. The hysterical woman below was a killer, an agent for

  the infamous Voennaya Kontra Razvedka, the savage branch Qf the Soviet KGB

  that spawned terrorism everywhere. That was the truth; it was undeniable.

  He had seen it all, talked with Washington from Madrid. The rendezvous

  6ROBERT LUDLUM

  that night had been ordered by Moscow, the purpose being the delivery by VKR

  Field Officer Jenna Karas of a schedule of assassinations to a faction of

  the Baader-Meinhof at an isolated beach called Montebello, north of the town

  of Blanes. That was the truth.

  It did not set him free. Instead, it bound him to another truth, an

  obligation of his profession. Those who betrayed the living and brokered

  death had to die. No matter who, no matter ... Michael Havelock had made

  the decision, and it was irrevocable. He had set the last phase of the trap

  himself, for the death of the woman who briefly bad given him more

  happiness than tiny other person on earth. His love was a killer; to permit

  her to live would mean the killing of hundreds, perhaps thousands.

  What Moscow did not know was that Langley had broken the VKR codes. He

  himself had sent the last transmission to a boat a half-mfle off the Costa

  Brava shoreline. KGB confirmation. Officer contact compromised by U.S.

  Intelligence. Schedules false. Eliminate. The codes were among the most

  unbreakable; they would guarantee elimination.

  . She was rising now. Her slender body rose above the shoulder of sand and

  dirt. It was going to happen! The woman about to die was his love: they had

  held each other and there had been quiet talk of a lifetime together, of

  children, of peace and the splendid comfort of being one-together. Once he

  had believed it all, but it was not to be.

  They were in bed, her head on his chest, her soft blond hair falling across

  her face. He brushed it aside, lifting up the strands that concealed her

  eyes, and laughed.

  You~re hiding," he said.

  "It seem we're always hiding," she replied, smiling sadly. 'Except when we

  wish to he seen by people who should see us. We do nothing that we simply

  want to. Everything is calculated, Mikhail. Regimented. We live in a

  movable prison."

  "It hasret been that long, and it won't last forever."

  'I suppose not. One day they'll find they doret need us, don!t want us any

  longer, perhaps. Will they let us go, do you thinkP Or will we disappear?*

  "Washington's not Prague. Or Moscow. We'll walk out of our movable prison,

  me with a gold watch, you with some kind of sileW decoration with your

  papers "

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC7

  "Are you sure? We know a great deal. Too much, perhaps."

  Our protection lies in what we do know. What I know. They'll always wonder:

  Did he unite it down somewhereP Take care, watch him, be good to him ...

  les not unusual, really. We'll walk out."

  'Always protection," she said, tracing his eyebrows. "You never forget, do

  youP The early days, the terrible days."

  'History. Irue forgottm'

  ~What will we do?"

  'Live. I love you."

  Do you think we'll have children? Watch them going off to school, hold

  them, scold them. Go to hockey-ball games."

  "Footballor baseball . Not hockey-ball. Yes, I hope 80 .

  'What will you do, Mikhail?"

  "Teach, I suppose. At a college somewhere. rve a couple of starched degrees

  that say rm qualified. Well be happy, I know that. Fm counting on it."

  ~What will you teach?"

  He looked at her, touching her face, then his eyes wan dered up to the

  shabby ceiling in the -run-down hotel room.

  History," he said. And then he reached for her, taking her in his arms.

  The beam of light swung across the darkness. It caught her, a bird on fire,

  trying to rise, trapped by the light that was her darkness. The gunshots

  followed-terrorists' gunfire for a terrorist. The woman arched backward, the

  first bullets penetrating the base of her spine, her blond hair cascading

  behind her. Three shots then came separately, with finality-a marksmaes eye

  delivering a marksman's score; they entered the back of her neck'and her

  skull, propelling her forward over the mound of dirt and sand, her fingers

  clawing the earth, her blood-streaked face mercifully concealed. A final

  spasm,and all movement stopped.

  His love was dead-for some part of love was a part of whatever they were.

  He had done what he had to do, just as she bad done the same. Each was

  right, each wrong, ultimately so terribly wrong. He closed his eyes,

  feeling the unwanted dampness.

  Why did it have to be? We are fools. Worse, we are stu- 8 RoBLmT LuDLUM

  pid. We do not talk; we die. So men with fluld tongues and facile minds can

  tell us what is right and wrong-geopolitically, you understand, which means

  that whatever they say is beyond our puerile understanding.

  What will you do, MikhailP

  Teach, I suppose. At a college somewhere

  What will you teach?

  History ...

  It was all history now. Remembrances of things too painful. Let it be cold

  history, as the early days were history. They cannot be a part of me any

  longer. She cannot be a part of me, it she ever was, even in her pretense.

  Yet I will keep a promise, not to her but to myself. I am finished. I will

  disappear into another lite, a new lite. I will go somewhere, teach

  somewhere. Illuminate the lessons of futility.

  He heard the voices and opened his eyes. Below, the killers of the

  Baader-Meinhof had reached the condemned woman, sprawled out in death,

  clutching the ground that was her execution place-geopolitically

  preordained. Had she really been so magnificent a liar? Yes, she had been,

  for he had seen the truth. Even in her eyes he had seen it.

  The two executioners bent down to grab the corpse and drag it away-her once

  graceful body to be consigned to fire or chained for the deep. He would not

  interfere; the evidence had to be felt, touched, reflected upon later when

  the trap was revealed, another lesson taught. Futility-geopolitically

  required.

  A gust of wind suddenly whipped across the open beach-, the killers braced

  themselves, their feet slipping in the sand. The man on the left raised his

  right hand in an unsuccessful attempt to keep the visored fishing cap on

  his head; it blew away, rolling toward the dune that was the shoulder of

  the road. He released his hold on the corpse and ran after it Havelock

  watched as the man came closer. There was something about him- About the

  face? No, it was the hair, seen clearly in the moonlight. It was wavy and

  dark, but not completely dark; there was a streak of white above his

  forehead, a sudden intrusion that was startling. He had seen that he
ad of

  hair, seen that face somewhere before. But where? There were so many

  memories. Files analyzed, photographs

  THE PARsiFAL MosAic9

  studied-contracts, sources, enemies. Where was this man from? KGB? The

  dreaded Voennaya? A splinter faction paid by Moscow when not drawing

  contingency funds from a CIA station chief in Usbon?

  It did not matter. The deadly puppets and the vulnerable pawns no longer

  concerned Michael Havelock-or Mikhail Havlf&-k, for that matter. He would

  route a cable to Washington through the embassy in Madrid in the morning.

  He was finished, he had nothing more to give. Whatever his superiors wanted

  in the way of debriefing he would permit. Even going to a clinic; he simply

  did not care. But they would have no more of his life.

  That was history. It had ended on an isolated beach called Montebello on

  the Costa Brava.

  2

  Time was the true narcotic for pain. Either the pain disappeared when it ran

  its course or a person learned to live with it. Havelock understood this '

  knowing that at this moment in time something of both was applicable. The

  pain had not disappeared but there was less of it; there were periods when

  the memories were dulled, the sear tissue sensitive only when prodded. And

  traveling helped; be had forgotten what it was like to cope with the

  compleidties facing the tourist.

  "If youT note' sir, it's printed here on your ticket. 'Subject to, change

  without notice.'

  "Where?"

  "Down here."

  "I can't read it'

  "I can."

  "You've memorized it."

  "I'M familiar with it sir."

  And the imn-dgration lines. Followed by customs inspections. The

  Intolerable preceded by the impossible; men and women who countered their

  own boredom by slamming rubber stamps and savagely attacking defenseless

  zippers whose manufacturers believed in planned obsolescence.

  There was no question about it, he was spoiled. His previous life bad had

  its difficulties and its risks. but they had not included the perils that

  confronted the iWeier at every turn.