The Parsifal Mosaic Read Online Free PDF Page A

polite.”
    “Civilized.
Au revoir
, Mikhail.… I prefer the name you were born with.”
    Havelock turned his head slowly and watched Gravet walk with studied grace down the pavement of the Pont Royaltoward the entrance of the bridge. The Frenchman had accepted a blind interrogation from people he found loathsome; he must have been paid very well. But Why?
    The CIA was in Amsterdam and the CIA did not believe him. The KGB was in Paris and the KGB did not believe him, either.
Why
?
    So much for Paris. How far would they go to keep him under a microscope?
    The Arethusa Delphi was one of those small hotels near the Syntagma Square in Athens that never let the traveler forget he is in Greece. The rooms were white on white on shimmering white. Walls, furniture and space-dividing ornamental beads were relieved only by garish plastic-framed oil paintings depicting the antiquities: temples, agoras and oracles romanticized by postcard artists. Each room had a pair of narrow double doors that opened onto a miniature balcony—large enough for two small chairs and a Lilliputian table—on which guests could have black morning coffee. Throughout the lobby and in the elevators one never escaped the rhythmic pounding of Greek folk music, strings and cymbals at
prestissimo greco
.
    Havelock led the olive-skinned woman out of the elevator, and as the doors closed, both stood for a moment in mock anticipation. The music was gone; they sighed in relief.
    “Zorba took a break.” Michael gestured to the left toward his room.
    “The rest of the world must think we are nervous wrecks,” said the woman, laughing, touching her dark hair and smoothing out the long white dress that complemented her skin and accentuated her breasts and tapered body. Her English was heavily accented, cultivated on those Mediterranean islands that are the playgrounds of the Mediterranean rich. She was a high-priced courtesan whose favors were sought after by the princes of commerce and inheritance, a good-natured whore with a decent wit and a quick laugh, a woman who knew her time of pleasure-giving was limited. “You rescued me,” she said, squeezing Havelock’s arm as they walked down the corridor.
    “I kidnapped you.”
    “Often interchangeable terms,” she replied, laughing again.
    It had been a little of both. Michael had run across a manon the Marathonos with whom he had worked in the Thermaikos sector five years ago. A dinner party was being held that night at a café on Syntagma Square; since it was convenient, Havelock accepted the invitation. The woman was there, the escort of a considerably older, boorish businessman. The ouzo and the
prestissimo greco
had done its damage. Havelock and the woman had been seated next to each other; legs and hands touched, they exchanged looks: comparisons were obvious. Michael and the island courtesan had slipped away.
    “I think I’m going to face an angry Athenian tomorrow,” said Havelock, opening the door of his room, leading the woman inside.
    “Don’t be silly,” she protested. “He’s not a gentleman. He’s from Epidaurus; there are no gentlemen in Epidaurus. He’s an aging bull of a peasant who made money under the colonels. One of the nastier consequences of their regime.”
    “When in Athens,” said Michael, going to the bureau where there was a bottle of prized Scotch and glasses, “stay away from Epidaurians.” He poured drinks.
    “Have you been to Athens often?”
    “A few times.”
    “What did you do? What line of work?”
    “I bought things. Sold things.” Havelock carried the drinks back across the room. What he saw was what he wanted to see, although he had not expected to see it so quickly. The woman had removed her thin silk cape and draped it on a chair. She then proceeded to unbutton her gown from the top, the swelling of her breasts provocative, inviting.
    “You didn’t buy me,” she said, taking the drink with her free hand. “I came of my own free will.
Efharistou
,