Read Online The Parsifal Mosaic by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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an imposition, but could I possibly wash up somewhere? I’d hate to greet the Contessa the way I look now.”
“This way, signore! A thousand apologies! I speak for all Rome! This way—”
While Michael washed and changed clothes in the back room, he focused his thoughts—as they came to him—on the brief visits he and Jenna Karas had made to Rome. There had been two. On the first they had passed through for a single night; the second was much longer, very official—three or four days, if he remembered correctly. They had been awaiting orders from Washington, having traveled as a Yugoslav couple through the Balkan countries in order to gather information on the sudden expansion in border defenses. There had been a man, an army intelligence officer not easily forgotten; he had been Havelock’s D.C, conduit. What made the man memorable was his cover; he was posing as the only first-level black attaché at the embassy.
Their first conference had not been without humor—black humor. Michael and Jenna were to meet the attaché at an out-of-the-way restaurant west of the Palatine. They hadwaited in the crowded stand-up bar, preferring that the conduit select a table, and were oblivious to the tall black soldier ordering a vodka martini on their right. After several minutes the man smiled and said, “I’m jes’ Rastus in the
catasta di legna
, Massa Havelock. Do you think we might sit down?”
His name was Lawrence Brown. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence B. Brown—the middle initial was for his real name, Baylor.
“So help me God,” the colonel had told them over after-dinner drinks that night, “the fellows in G-two felt there was more ‘concrete association’—that’s what they called it—by using Brown in the cover. It went under the heading of ‘psy-acceptance,’ can you believe it? Hell, I suppose it’s better than Attaché Coffee-Face.”
Baylor was a man he could talk to … if Baylor would agree to talk to him. And where? It would not be anywhere near the embassy; the United States government had several terrible things to explain to a retired field agent.
It took over twenty minutes on the manager’s phone-while the manager repacked Michael’s clothing in an outrageously priced new suitcase—before Havelock reached the embassy switchboard. Senior Attaché Brown was currently attending a reception on the first floor.
“Tell him it’s urgent,” said Michael. “My name is … Baylor.”
Lawrence Baylor was reluctant to the point of turning Havelock down. Anything a retired intelligence officer had to say would best be said at the embassy. For any number of reasons.
“Suppose I told you I just came out of retirement. I may not be on your payroll—or anyone else’s—but I’m very much back in. I’d suggest you don’t blow this, Colonel.”
“There’s a café on the Via Pancrazio, La Ruota del Pavone. Do you know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll be there. Waiting.”
Havelock watched from a table in the darkest corner of the café as the army officer ordered a carafe of wine from the bar and began walking across the dimly lit room. Baylor’smahogany face was taut, stern; he was not comfortable, and when he reached the table, he did not offer his hand. He sat down opposite Michael, exhaled slowly, and attempted a grim smile.
“Nice to see you,” he said with little conviction.
“Thank you.”
“And unless you’ve got something to say we want to hear, you’re putting me in a pretty rough spot, buddy. I hope you know that.”
“I’ve got something that’ll blow your mind,” said Havelock, his voice involuntarily a whisper. The trembling had returned; he gripped his wrist to control it. “It’s blown mine.”
The colonel studied Michael, his eyes dropping to Havelock’s hands. “You’re stretched, I can see that. What is it?”
“She’s
alive
. I
saw
her!”
Baylor was silent, immobile. His eyes roamed Michael’s face, noting
“This way, signore! A thousand apologies! I speak for all Rome! This way—”
While Michael washed and changed clothes in the back room, he focused his thoughts—as they came to him—on the brief visits he and Jenna Karas had made to Rome. There had been two. On the first they had passed through for a single night; the second was much longer, very official—three or four days, if he remembered correctly. They had been awaiting orders from Washington, having traveled as a Yugoslav couple through the Balkan countries in order to gather information on the sudden expansion in border defenses. There had been a man, an army intelligence officer not easily forgotten; he had been Havelock’s D.C, conduit. What made the man memorable was his cover; he was posing as the only first-level black attaché at the embassy.
Their first conference had not been without humor—black humor. Michael and Jenna were to meet the attaché at an out-of-the-way restaurant west of the Palatine. They hadwaited in the crowded stand-up bar, preferring that the conduit select a table, and were oblivious to the tall black soldier ordering a vodka martini on their right. After several minutes the man smiled and said, “I’m jes’ Rastus in the
catasta di legna
, Massa Havelock. Do you think we might sit down?”
His name was Lawrence Brown. Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence B. Brown—the middle initial was for his real name, Baylor.
“So help me God,” the colonel had told them over after-dinner drinks that night, “the fellows in G-two felt there was more ‘concrete association’—that’s what they called it—by using Brown in the cover. It went under the heading of ‘psy-acceptance,’ can you believe it? Hell, I suppose it’s better than Attaché Coffee-Face.”
Baylor was a man he could talk to … if Baylor would agree to talk to him. And where? It would not be anywhere near the embassy; the United States government had several terrible things to explain to a retired field agent.
It took over twenty minutes on the manager’s phone-while the manager repacked Michael’s clothing in an outrageously priced new suitcase—before Havelock reached the embassy switchboard. Senior Attaché Brown was currently attending a reception on the first floor.
“Tell him it’s urgent,” said Michael. “My name is … Baylor.”
Lawrence Baylor was reluctant to the point of turning Havelock down. Anything a retired intelligence officer had to say would best be said at the embassy. For any number of reasons.
“Suppose I told you I just came out of retirement. I may not be on your payroll—or anyone else’s—but I’m very much back in. I’d suggest you don’t blow this, Colonel.”
“There’s a café on the Via Pancrazio, La Ruota del Pavone. Do you know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll be there. Waiting.”
Havelock watched from a table in the darkest corner of the café as the army officer ordered a carafe of wine from the bar and began walking across the dimly lit room. Baylor’smahogany face was taut, stern; he was not comfortable, and when he reached the table, he did not offer his hand. He sat down opposite Michael, exhaled slowly, and attempted a grim smile.
“Nice to see you,” he said with little conviction.
“Thank you.”
“And unless you’ve got something to say we want to hear, you’re putting me in a pretty rough spot, buddy. I hope you know that.”
“I’ve got something that’ll blow your mind,” said Havelock, his voice involuntarily a whisper. The trembling had returned; he gripped his wrist to control it. “It’s blown mine.”
The colonel studied Michael, his eyes dropping to Havelock’s hands. “You’re stretched, I can see that. What is it?”
“She’s
alive
. I
saw
her!”
Baylor was silent, immobile. His eyes roamed Michael’s face, noting
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