The Parsifal Mosaic Read Online Free PDF

Michael Havelock. Do I say your name right?”
    “Very nicely.”
    She touched his glass with hers, the sound gentle as she stepped closer. She reached up and placed her fingers on his lips, then his cheek, and finally around the back of his neck, drawing his face to hers. They kissed, her lips parting, the soft swollen flesh and moisture of her mouth arousing him; she pressed her body against his, pulling his left hand to the breast beneath her half-open gown. She leaned back, breathing deeply.
    “Where is your bathroom? I’ll get into something—less.”
    “Over there.”
    “Why don’t
you?
Get into something less, that is. We’ll meet at the bed. I’m really rather anxious. You’re very,
very
attractive, and I’m—very anxious.”
    She picked up her cape from the chair and walked casually, sensually toward the door beyond the bed. She went inside, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes telling him things that probably were not true, but were nevertheless exciting for the night The practiced whore, whatever her reasons were, would perform, and he wanted, needed, the release of that performance.
    Michael stripped himself down to his shorts, carried his drink to the bed, and tore away the spread and the blanket. He climbed under the sheet and reached for a cigarette, turning his body away from the wall.
    “Dobriy vyehchyer, priyatel.”
    At the sound of the deep male voice, Havelock spun around on the bed, instinctively reaching for a weapon—a weapon that was not there. Standing in the frame of the bathroom door was a balding man whose face Michael recognized from dozens of photographs going back years. He was from Moscow, one of the most powerful men in the Soviet KGB. In his hand was a gun, a large, black Graz-Burya automatic. There was a click; the hammer snapped into firing position.

3
    “You may leave now,” said the Russian to the woman concealed behind him. She slid past, glancing at Havelock, then rushed to the door and let herself out.
    “You’re Rostov. Pyotr Rostov. Director of External Strategies. KGB. Moscow.”
    “Your face and name are also known to me. And your dossier.”
    “You went to a lot of trouble,
priyatel,”
said Michael, using the Russian word for friend, its meaning, however, denied by his cold delivery. He shook his head, trying to clear it of a sickening mist, the effect of the ouzo and Scotch. “You could have stopped me on the street and invited me for a drink. You wouldn’t have learned any more or any less, and very little that’s valuable. Unless this is a
kazn gariah.”
    “No execution, Havlíček.”
    “Havelock.”
    “Son of Havlíček.”
    “You’d do well not to remind me.”
    “The gun is in my hand, not yours.” Rostov eased the hammer of his automatic back into its recess, the weapon still leveled at Michael’s head. “But that’s in the distant past and has no connection with me. Your recent activities, however, are very much my concern. Our concern, if you will.”
    “Then your moles aren’t earning their money.”
    “They file reports with irritating frequency, if only to justify it. But are they accurate?”
    “If they told you I was finished, they were accurate.”
    “Finished? A word with such finality, yet subject to interpretation, no? Finished with what? Finished with one phase, on to another?”
    “Finished with anything that might concern you.”
    “Out of sanction?” asked the KGB officer, rounding the border of the doorframe and leaning against the wall, his Graz-Burya steady, leveled now at Havelock’s throat. “No longer employed by your government in any official capacity? It’s difficult to accept. It must have been a blow to your dear friend Anthony Matthias.”
    Michael studied the Russian’s face, lowering his eyes to the huge gun aimed at him. “A Frenchman mentioned Matthias the other day. I’ll tell you what I told him, although I don’t know why I should. You paid him to bring up Matthias’s