Free The Parsifal Mosaic by Robert Ludlum Page B

months. At last, perhaps, he was ready to get out and find the peace that had eluded him all these years. The statesman had made gentle fun of the situation; when a fellow Czech past forty and in Michael’s line of work decided to concentrate on one woman, Slavic tradition and contemporary fiction suffered irreparable blows.
    But there had been no such levity in Matthias’s note.
    Müj milý synu
    The attached pains my heart as it will yours. Yon who suffered so much in the early days, and have given of yourself so brilliantly and selflessly to our adopted country in these later ones, must again know pain. I nave demandedand received a complete verification of these findings. If yon wish to remove yourself from the scene, you may, of course, do so. Do not feel bound by the attached recommendations. There is only so much a nation can ask, and you have given with honor and more. Perhaps now the angers we spoke of years ago, the furies that propelled you into this terrible life, have subsided, permitting you to return to another world that needs the labors of your mind. I pray so.
    Tvüj
, Anton M.
    Havelock forced the note from his mind; it served only to aggravate the incomprehensible. Verification:
Positive
. He opened the magazine to the article on Matthias. There was nothing new, merely a recap of his more recent accomplishments in the area of arms negotiations. It ended with the observation that the Secretary of State was off for a well-deserved vacation at an unnamed location. Michael smiled; he knew where it was. A cabin in the Shenandoah Valley. It was entirely possible that before the night was over he would use a dozen codes to reach that mountain cabin. But not Until he found out what had happened. For Anton Matthias had been touched by it too.
    The crowds inside the giant dome of the Ostia had thinned out, the last of the trains leaving Rome having departed or being about to depart. Havelock pulled his suitcase from the locker and looked around for a sign; it had to be somewhere. It could well be a waste of time, but he did not think so; at least it was a place to start. He had told the intelligence officer-attaché in the café on the Via Pancrazio: “She was talking to a conductor seconds before she got off. I’m sure I can find him.”
    Michael reasoned that someone running did not casually strike up a conversation with a conductor for the sake of conviviality; too much was on that someone’s mind. And in every city there were those sections where men and women who wished to disappear could do so, where cash was the only currency, mouths were kept shut, and hotel registries rarely reflected accurate identities. Jenna Karas might know the names of districts, even streets, but she did not—had not known—Rome itself. A city on strike might just possibly convince someone running that it was urgent to ask a question or a direction of someone who might have the answer.
    There was the sign on the wall, an arrow pointing to the office complex: AMMINISTRATORE DELLA STAZIONE .
    Thirty-five minutes later, having convinced a night manager that it was imperative and in both his and the conductor’s financial interest that the conductor be found, he had the address of the man assigned to cars
tre, quattro
, and
cinque
for the incoming train on
binario trentasei
at eight-thirty that evening. As the rail system was government service, a photograph was attached to the employment sheet. It was the same man he had seen talking to Jenna Karas. Among his qualifications was a proficiency in English.
Livello primario
.
    He climbed the worn stone steps of the apartment building to the fifth floor, found the name “Mascolo” on the door and knocked. The red-faced conductor was dressed in loose trousers held up by wide suspenders over an undershirt. His breath reeked of cheap wine, and his eyes were not entirely focused. Havelock took a 10,000-lire note from his pocket.
    “Who can remember one passenger among thousands?”