The Talbot Odyssey

41

Tony Abrams joined the holiday crowds at Penn Station and boarded the three-twenty train for Garden City, Long Island. It was a short ride, but he had ample time to turn over in his mind the events of the morning: Carmine Street, the Brooklyn run, Thorpe, the cemetery. He thought about the Englishman, Marc Pembroke, whom Katherine had identified as another shadowy character with an office in Rockefeller Center and a door that was always locked.

He and Katherine had taken a taxi to his place and picked up a few things including the suit he was now wearing and his identification. They’d gone back to Carmine Street and gathered some of her things. Then they’d ridden up to the town house on 36th Street. During the ride, there was that awkwardness a man and a woman feel when they know they are going someplace to make love for the first time.

The town house was under discreet surveillance, and as Abrams and Katherine approached the door, they were intercepted by a plainclothesman who asked them to identify themselves and their purpose.

“Abrams,” he replied. “I have no purpose.”

The plainclothesman smiled and said, “Spinelli’s telling everybody you’re dead.”

“I feel fine.”

He led Katherine into the red-brick house. They expected to find Claudia there, but the house was empty. Abrams did not construe Claudia’s absence as unusual. Sometime after Van Dorn’s party she would return to the town house, and Abrams meant to have a word with her. He knew she was the weakest link in this iron chain and he intended to break her before the sun rose again.

Katherine had gone to the room that had been her nursery, the room Claudia had given him the night of the OSS dinner. Abrams dropped his bag in an available bedroom across from hers, then helped her unpack. As she finished putting her things away, she said, “It’s always strange returning to a childhood place.”

“Bittersweet, I think, is the word.”

She walked across the room and, as she approached, Abrams wondered how and why he had ever thought of her as the Ice Queen.

They made love in the four-poster bed, and Abrams was glad he hadn’t slept with Claudia in that bed. Their lovemaking had all of the best qualities that mark a first time — passion, discovery, and a feeling of fulfillment. For Abrams, the reality had been even more satisfactory than the long-held fantasy. As Katherine had put it, “I’ve scratched a six-month itch.”

To which he’d replied, “Six months?”

“Maybe seven. How about you?”

He’d hesitated, then said with a straightforwardness that matched her own, “From my first day at O’Brien, Kimberly.”

He’d left her lying on the four-poster bed. She had wished him luck on whatever it was he was about to undertake. In the event one or the other did not return to the town house before dawn, they’d made a date to meet for coffee, before work, at the Brasserie.

Abrams’ mind returned to the present as the train arrived at the suburban village. He walked from the almost empty station to the nearby law offices of Edwards and Styler, located in a Georgian-style mansion.

The building was open, but deserted. Abrams referred to the lobby register and climbed a sweeping staircase to the second floor. He drew his .38 from his pocket and held it against his side. He walked quietly across the upper foyer and found a heavy oak-paneled door marked EDWARDS AND STYLER. He stood close to the door and listened for a while. He could hear nothing on the other side of the door. He knocked hard, three times, then moved to the side.

The door opened a crack, then swung fully open. A man about his own age smiled and put out his hand. “Mr. Abrams? Mike Tanner.”

Abrams transferred the pistol to his left hand and shook hands with Tanner, who was staring down at the gun. Tanner recovered his composure and escorted Abrams into a rear room, which was decorated in oak and red leather.

An older man rose to greet him. “I’m Huntington Styler.”

Abrams took Styler’s hand, wondering about parents who would name a baby Huntington, wondering more about the man who used the name.

Styler said, “Please have a seat.”

Abrams sat and regarded Styler for a few seconds, thinking, OSS. There was something about these people that was readily identifiable. It was as though they’d all gone to the same schools, belonged to the same clubs, and used the same haberdasher.

Huntington Styler, in turn, regarded Abrams for some time, then went to a liquor cabinet. “Scotch and soda, correct?”

“Yes.”

Mike Tanner said, “You’ve read the brief on this case?”

“Yes. I think the Soviet Mission has a good case against George Van Dorn.”

“So do we,” said Styler. He handed Abrams a drink. “It’s not popular to represent the Soviets in a lawsuit against a well-known patriot. We’ve lost some clients over this.”

Abrams replied, “Someone has to see that justice is done.”

“True.” Styler seemed deep in thought, then said, “I appreciate your misgivings about joining us, based on the fact that you’ve done a little work for the firm with which Mr. Van Dorn is associated. But part-time process serving does not constitute an unethical situation. It is, in fact, so minor, we didn’t mention it to our Russian clients.”

Abrams thought the purpose of expunging his work with O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose from his employment history had less to do with conflict of interest than it had to do with the fact that the Russians undoubtedly knew what O’Brien and Company was really all about.

Mike Tanner said, “I heard on Friday from Mr. Androv. He seemed a bit upset at your police background, but I assured him you’d been nothing more than a traffic cop. Your police files are sealed, I assume.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Abrams wondered if the KGB had ever gotten on to him when he was on the Red Squad. The more he thought about his cover, which held closely to the truth, the more he realized there could be problems. He had filled out a long visitors’ questionnaire for the Russians, giving vital statistics and other personal information. There were two questions he hadn’t expected: Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist party? Do you have any relatives or friends who are or have been members?

The questions sounded as though they had been drawn up by the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1948, though the Russians were asking for different reasons. Abrams said to Tanner, “Did Androv mention my parents’ Communist party membership?”

“Yes. He wondered if we were trying to butter him up. Then he went into a harangue about people who had been shown the light, who were born into the faith, so to speak, and did not continue in the faith.”

Abrams nodded.

Tanner added, “He asked if you spoke any Russian. I referred him to the visitors’ questionnaire in which you said no.” Tanner bit his lip, then added, “I suppose that was a shot in the dark on his part.”

“I never listed Russian as a language skill on any form, except in the police force.”

Styler nodded. He said, “Let me give you a piece of advice from an old play called The Double Dealer. ‘No mask like open truth to cover lies/As to go naked is the best disguise.’”

Abrams sipped on his drink and thought: He was going in there under his own name and he existed in all the places where the Russians might check; he was born, went to school, had a driver’s license, and so on. The major alteration of public and private records had been confined to obliterating his employment with O’Brien and predating his employment with Styler to fill in the gap between his resignation from the police force and the present. In all other respects his cover was solid, because it was the truth. Yet it was the truth, as he was discovering, that might be his undoing. Especially the one great truth, which he had only recently discovered, that his buddy Peter Thorpe was an agent of the KGB.

Abrams lit a cigarette and reflected on that new development. The question was: Had Thorpe filed a report to the Russians in which Abrams was mentioned by name? Abrams thought it was a sucker’s bet to gamble that he had not. He knew he should abort the mission. He knew he should have killed Thorpe, if for no other reason than to try to protect himself. But it was too late for that now, and may well have been too late even as early as Saturday morning. Abrams looked at Tanner. “Have you spoken to Androv since Friday?”

“No.” He looked at his watch. “But I’m to call him and confirm.” He picked up the telephone, and after some time found himself speaking to Viktor Androv. Tanner confirmed the time of the meeting, then said, “Yes, sir. Mr. Styler and Mr. Abrams will be there.” He listened, then replied, “Yes, they’re both here now… Yes, I will.”

Tanner hung up and looked at Abrams. “He wants you to know that he looks forward to meeting the son of famous freedom fighters.”

“I’m flattered,” Abrams said. He turned to Styler and said abruptly, “I didn’t see you at the OSS dinner Friday night.”

Styler smiled slowly, “I never go. I’m out of that business.”

Except today, thought Abrams. Styler was holding a one-day-only Memorial Day sale. Abrams said, “But you are acquainted with Mr. O’Brien.”

Styler remained silent for some time, then a strained look passed over his face. He said softly, “I don’t know how much your personal feelings for Pat O’Brien play into this… I assume you’re acting out of larger motivations… and if I were a cunning man, I wouldn’t tell you this right now… ”

Abrams set his drink on an end table and leaned forward.

Styler read the expression on his face and nodded. “Pat O’Brien flew out of Toms River, New Jersey, last night to make a parachute jump. The aircraft crashed in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Only the pilot’s body was found on board. The authorities assume that Mr. O’Brien jumped at some earlier time. There are search parties out. But the Pine Barrens cover a large area… ”

Abrams nodded.

Styler moved to the door. “I’ll meet you out front later. A brown Lincoln.” He left.

Tanner stood. “Please follow me.”

Abrams took his drink and followed Tanner through a communicating door that led into an office space that held six cubicles. Tanner said, “There’s your cubicle. A Mr. Evans will be with you shortly. He knows you as Smith. I’ll see you later.” He turned and left.

Abrams went inside the open cubicle that had his name on the glass partition and found a plain gray steel desk with his nameplate on it. He sat in the swivel chair and went through the desk drawers, finding them crammed with the Edwards and Styler version of the same junk he had in his desk at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose.

On the floor was a briefcase with his initials. He opened it. Inside was the thick file marked The Russian Mission to the U.N. vs. George Van Dorn.

Abrams rocked back in his chair and sipped on his Scotch. Ostensibly the dozen or so employees of this law firm had been well instructed regarding his employment history with them. Still, that was another possible source of exposure.

Abrams thought also about Pat O’Brien. Was he dead? Kidnapped? If kidnapped, would he expose Abrams? Abrams hoped for both their sakes that he was alive or dead; but nothing in between.

Abrams glanced at his watch. Mr. Evans, he supposed, was his briefing officer. Jonathan Harker, he reflected, did not have a briefing officer, or mission control people. But, then again, Count Dracula did not have KGB agents in his castle.

Abrams thought of the events of the last few days, the last few months, and then of the last few years, and wondered where he had gone wrong. He consoled himself with the knowledge that even a man like Huntington Styler could get suckered into this bad business.

Abrams heard footsteps outside his cubicle and slipped his hand into the pocket that held his revolver.

A tall, lanky man in late middle age stood in a slouched posture at the cubicle opening. He had one hand in his pocket, the other held an attaché case. He looked at Abrams but said nothing.

Abrams had the impression of a rather sad traveling salesman who’d been on the road a week too long.

The man nodded, as though to himself, then said, “You know what?”

“No. What?”

“Electronics suck.”

“Right. I always knew that.”

The man moved in a shambling gait into the small cubicle and stood facing Abrams across the desk. “Are you Smith?”

“Right.” Up close the man resembled Walter Matthau and sounded like Humphrey Bogart.

The man pulled his hand from his pocket and reached across the desk. “Evans.”

Abrams released the hold on his .38, stood, and shook hands with Evans.

Evans sprawled out in a chair facing Abrams, and said, “Over ninety percent of the intelligence this country collects is through electronics. But you know what?”

Abrams sat. “No. What?”

“It doesn’t take the place of eyes and ears.”

“Nose and throat.”

“Well, nose too. And brains. And balls. And heart. You have those?”

“I’m complete.”

“Good.” Evans thrust both hands in his trouser pockets and looked idly around the small room. “What a shitbox. Who could work here?”

“A guy named Abrams.”

Evans looked back at Abrams. “You speak Russkie, right?”

“Right.”

“Who would want to learn a shit language like that?”

“Little Russian kids.”

Evans nodded absently, then said, “Look, Smith, I’m going to talk to you for an hour. I’m going to show you the architectural plans of that Russkie mansion. I’m going to teach you how to be a spy.”

“Good. Do we need the whole hour?”

“Maybe. You’ve got some background. Right?”

“Right. Are you going to tell me what it is I’m supposed to find out in there.”

“No. You wouldn’t understand it anyway. Neither would I. It’s electronics. But I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to look for.”

“Okay.”

“Radios and televisions.”

“Radios and televisions?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why?”

“How do I know? Also, look for ground-fault interrupters.”

“Okay. They’re easy to spot.”

Evans smiled slowly. “That’s those electrical outlets you see in new bathrooms and kitchens, Smith. They detect a surge of current or something, and a button pops so you don’t get a short or electrocute yourself or whatever.”

“Okay.”

“See if they have them in place of the regular outlets in other rooms.”

“Okay.”

“Check the doors and windows for interlocking metal weather stripping.”

“Maybe you need a building inspector instead of a spy.”

“The weather stripping should be plated with a noncorrosive metal that’s highly conductive of electricity — tin, silver, gold, or platinum. Scrape some off with a knife. You got a harmless little knife that they won’t confiscate?”

“No.”

Evans threw a small penknife across the desk, then fished around in his pockets and came up with a listless-looking cigarette that seemed to match his posture. He lit it with a bent paper match. “Also, you have to try to get up close to get a look at their antennas. Most of them are on the roof, but they’ve got the big one on the north lawn. At the base of that antenna you might see a surge arrestor coupled with an electrical filter. Unless they’ve buried them.”

“I can always dig. Do you have a pocket shovel?”

Evans thought a moment, then said, “There was a tree surgeon a few months back who got too close to that antenna and they nearly took his head off. Whatever is at the base there is probably aboveground, but hidden with bushes.”

“What does this thing look like?”

Evans drew a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and skimmed it across the desk.

Abrams opened the paper and stared at a badly done line drawing. “Looks like something I did in grade school.”

“Funny you should say that. It was done by a seventeen-year-old kid, under hypnosis.”

Abrams looked up at Evans.

“Memory drugs, too, if you want the whole truth.”

Abrams said nothing.

Evans added, “Some local delinquent who gets his jollies fucking around on the Russian estate. He hid in the bushes around the antenna once. That’s all you have to know. Except that we want a verification of what the kid saw.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But you know what?”

“No. What?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Right. I thought so.”

“None of my business either, Smith. So sit back, listen, and hold the questions.”

Abrams lit a cigarette and sat back. Evans continued his briefing. As he listened, Abrams realized he would have to take some risks if he was to accomplish what was being laid out.

Messrs. Styler and Edwards had wisely excused themselves from this briefing. But to be fair, they were taking a risk just by bringing him.

He looked at Evans, who was staring at him. Evans said, “That house has been subject to more electronic surveillance, low- and high-altitude picture taking, and perimeter surveillance than any spot in the country, including the Russkies’ houses in Manhattan and The Bronx, and their diplomatic and trade buildings in San Francisco and Washington. But you know what?”

“No. What?”

“We’ve never had a pro inside before.”

“Well, I’m not a pro, Evans, and I’m not inside yet.”

“You will be inside. And you’re more of a pro than the tree surgeon, the kid, or that stupid deli guy, or—”

“Who?”

“The deli guy. Delicatessen.”

“What’s his name?”

“What’s it to you, Smith? What’s your name?”

“Is his name Karl Roth?”

“Could be. Probably is. Forget that.”

Abrams nodded.

Evans stared at him a few seconds, then continued. “Anyway, the Russkies have about thirty ways to detect any funny business, so I’m sending you in there clean. Are you clean?”

“All I’ve got is a little Smith & Wesson thirty-eight.”

“You’d better leave that behind.”

“I guess I better.”

“Do you want poison?”

“None for me, thank you.”

“Good. You wouldn’t use it anyway. But I had to ask.”

“Can’t hurt to ask.”

Evans nodded. “Are you going in there under an alias?”

“No.”

“Good. If they got prints from the questionnaire, they’ve already got a make on you. If they get prints while you’re there, the matching takes days, and you wouldn’t be blown while you’re there. But you wouldn’t want to go back for a second visit.” Evans looked at him closely. “No alias, right?”

“I said no.”

“Okay. Sometimes I get clients who are being set up to be blown for some fucked-up reason. They have a cover story that wouldn’t hold glue, much less water, and they have enough electronics on them to open up a Radio Shack. It’s always best to be clean and to be who you say you are.”

“I am.”

“I don’t care about you personally.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like to lose people.”

“Bad for business.”

“Right.” Evans lifted his attaché case onto the desk and opened it so that the inside faced Abrams. Evans said, “Do you know what that is?”

Abrams looked at the electrical components built into the case. “No.”

“That’s an EBI.”

“EBI?”

“Electronic bullshit indicator. Sometimes called a VSA — a voice stress analyzer.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Good. The Russkies use this on their guests. Theirs is American-made, like this one, of course.” Evans reached around and turned on the analyzer. “It doesn’t have to be hooked to you. They watch this digital display as you talk. It can be hidden in their attaché case like this, so you don’t see it.”

“And it tells them when I’m bullshitting.”

“Right. See, we establish a base number on the display for my normal voice. When I start bullshitting, the machine detects subaudible microtremors that occur with stress and deception. If the digital readout rises fifty percent or more above my normal voice range, which is reading forty-five here, then you’re listening to bullshit. Okay, watch the digital readout.” Evans spoke in apparently the same tone of voice he’d been using. “Smith, I think you’ve got a real good chance to pull this off.”

Abrams watched as the red LCD numbers rose to a hundred and six. “Bullshit.”

“Right.” He looked at Abrams. “Now you talk and I’ll get a base number for your voice.”

Abrams sipped on his Scotch, then said, “Okay, chief, I give up. How am I supposed to protect against that?”

Evans spun the attaché case around so it faced him. He played with the sensitivity dial as he replied, “Mostly keep your mouth shut in there. But what you’re doing now is good too.”

“What am I doing now?”

“Alcohol.” Evans reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. “Cough medicine for your cold. It has alcohol and some other stuff to anesthetize the vocal cords a bit. Confuses the machine.” He pulled another object out of his pocket and rolled it across the desk. “Bronchial mist spray. It’s spiked with helium. Don’t breathe too much or you’ll sound like you got your nuts caught in a revolving door. Use it only if they start asking you really direct questions, hot and heavy.”

Abrams nodded.

Evans sat back, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his stomach. “Okay, I’m a Russkie. I already fucked around with the papers in my attaché case, but what I really did was get a base number for your voice by shooting the breeze with you about the weather and your nice suit and all that. Now I’m going to pop a stressful question on you.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re going to act a little slow in the head, cough, sneeze, blow your nose, clear your throat, take a swig of cough medicine, or suck up some helium.”

Abrams replied, “That’s going to look like a burlesque act after a while.”

“You’ll get real natural at it when the time comes.”

“And they won’t know what the cough medicine and spray are all about?”

“They probably will if you overdo it. But it’s better than them knowing exactly when you’re lying and when you’re telling the truth. Okay, ready?”

“Sure.”

Evans spoke in a mock Russian accent. “So, Mr. Smith, would you like a tour of our beautiful house?”

Abrams nodded.

Evans laughed. “Don’t appear simpleminded. Answer the question.”

“Yes, I would.”

Evans looked at the display. “Lots of stress, but you see that can be interpreted two ways. One, you’re bullshitting, and you don’t want to see their fucking house, two, you want to see it so bad it’s producing microtremors. No machine is perfect. Have faith.”

“Right.”

Evans cleared his throat and continued, “So, Mr. Smith, what do you think of our case against Van Dorn?”

Abrams replied at length.

Evans nodded, then asked, “What did you do on the police force?”

“I was a traffic cop.”

Evans shook his head. “Jesus, Smith, we’re talking telephone numbers here.”

“Fuck you and your machine.”

“But you’ve got to deal with it. Okay, same question, but go into your act.” Evans again asked the question.

Abrams began to reply, then cleared his throat, put the mister over his nose, and sprayed. He made some heavy-breathing sounds, then said, “I was a traffic cop.” The voice was a bit high-pitched, but not abnormally so.

Evans looked at the digital readout, but said nothing.

“Well?”

Evans did not reply, but asked, “So, Mr. Smith, how long have you been with Edwards and Styler?”

Abrams answered, “About two and a half hours.”

Evans laughed, and peered over the top of the briefcase. “No stress. But the truth can get you into trouble too.”

“It usually does.”

“Right. Okay, we’re going to get you good at this. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Evans and Abrams spent the next half hour working with the voice analyzer. Evans abruptly shut off the machine and closed the attaché case. “Class is out.”

“How did I do?”

Evans lit a cigarette. “Well, I couldn’t make any final judgments about who you are and what you’re up to.”

“But you knew I was up to something?”

“Maybe. You see, Smith, people have stress for different reasons. Some people are nervous just being on Russian soil. Some people lie to be polite. Anyway, if I was a KGB security man operating this machine, I wouldn’t feel confident about pulling my revolver and shooting you on the spot.”

“That’s hopeful.”

Evans yawned, then said, “Electronics suck. Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“Technology sucks. Takes all the fun out of danger. Takes the soul out of this business.”

“This business never had a soul, Evans.”

Evans leaned forward, folded his arms on the desk, and stared at Abrams. “I used to be able to tell when a man was bullshitting me by watching his face. Now I have to look at a fucking machine instead of his eyes.”

“Right.”

“You know what?”

“No. What?”

“An agent on the ground is worth ten spy satellites and all the NSA’s electronic junk put together.”

“That’s not true.”

“I know.” Evans slumped back in his chair. “But sometimes you need a human being. For analysis. For theory. For judgment. For instinct. For ethics, for Christ’s sake.”

“You lost me on the ethics.”

Evans took a long breath. “Okay, let’s finish this briefing so you won’t be late for your rendezvous behind the Iron Curtain.”

“In that case, take your time.”

Evans smiled. “Right.” For the next twenty minutes Abrams sat and listened. He asked a few questions and received a few answers. Evans showed him the old architectural plans to what had once been Killenworth.

Finally, Evans stood and said, “Listen, I know you’re a little shaky. Who wouldn’t be? Do you know what keeps me cool when I’m on the wrong side of the Curtain?”

“No. What?”

“Anger. I build up a hate of those sons of bitches. I keep reminding myself that the Russkies want to fuck up my kids’ lives. They like to fuck us up. That’s what they were put on this earth to do. The Russians are the most fucked-up people God ever created.”

Abrams considered that a moment, then said, “Who are you working for?”

“I don’t know. I’m hired through a series of blinds. I’m ex-CIA. I have a private consulting firm called Executive Information Services.”

“Good meaningless name.”

“Right.” He handed Abrams his card. “We’re a group of exintelligence people. Most of my clients are multinational corporations who want to know when the Yahoos are going to take over some shithole country so they can pack up their people, pesos, and property, and beat it.”

“But who are your clients this time?”

“I told you, I don’t know. Could be the Company. They can’t operate in this country, and they don’t always like to go to the FBI. So, since there’s nothing that says they can’t hire private people for domestic work, they do.”

Abrams nodded, then said, “I’ve heard of a group of old boys who don’t hire out their services but work only for themselves.”

Evans’ voice became cool. “That’s not possible, Smith. Who would finance them? What would they do with their work product?”

Abrams shrugged. “Maybe I heard it wrong.”

“You did.” Evans moved toward the door.

Abrams stood. “Do you know a man named Peter Thorpe?”

“Why?”

“He said he had some employment opportunities for me.”

Evans nodded. “That’s another type of arrangement. He runs a loose group of civilians for the Company. No pay. Just trouble.”

“If I lost contact with him, could you put me in touch with him at any given time?”

“I could. I might.”

“How about a man named Marc Pembroke?”

Evans’ normally impassive face took on an uneasy look. “You stay away from that sucker.”

“Why?”

Evans stared off into space for some time, then replied, “Pembroke is a specialist. His work product is corpses. I’ve said enough. Adiós, Smith.”

Abrams came around the desk. “Thanks.”

“You never say thanks until you come back. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Take it easy in there. It won’t look good for me if they hack you up and throw your pieces into the lime pit in the basement.”

“I’ll make you proud of me.”

“Yeah.” Evans walked out, then turned back. “One more thing.”

Abrams looked at Evans’ face and he knew he wasn’t going to like this.

Evans said, “You’ve heard of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade?”

“Yes. Americans who fought the Fascists in Spain back in the thirties. Hemingway types.”

“Right. Most of them were pink or red. The Russkies had about twenty of these old vets out to Glen Cove for tea and borscht on May Day. One of these guys, a man named Sam Hammond, had switched sides years ago. He was working for whoever we’re working for. He had the same assignment as you. I briefed him.” Evans stared at Abrams.

“Sam Hammond is well, I hope.”

“Sam Hammond left the Russian place that night and took the Glen Cove train back to Manhattan. Sam Hammond never arrived home.”

Abrams did not respond.

Evans added, “Either Hammond blew it himself or he was blown by somebody before he even got there. I don’t think he blew it himself, I think I gave him a good briefing. He was very sharp. I think there was a leak.”

Abrams looked at Evans. “I’d rather believe your briefing was bad and Hammond was bad. I’d rather not believe there was a leak.”

“For your sake, I hope your belief is the right one.” Evans thought a moment, then looked up at Abrams. “When you were a cop, did you ever go into a dangerous situation, unarmed, with partners who would turn on you, with no radio backup, and with no one who would help you or feel responsible for your safety?”

“No. I never did that.”

“Well, welcome to the great world of espionage, chump.” Evans turned and left.

42

The long Lincoln Town Car moved slowly north along Dosoris Lane. It was nearly dark and most cars had their headlights on. Up ahead Abrams could see rotating police lights reflected off the trees. Abrams said, “Is it like this for every holiday?”

Huntington Styler, sitting in the rear, answered, “Usually. Van Dorn tries to give the appearance that his spite parties have a purpose — like his Law Day party that coincided with the Russians’ May Day celebration.”

Mike Tanner, behind the wheel, added, “And, of course, he throws a party for every legitimate American holiday as well, because he’s such a patriot.”

Styler said, “As long as he continues to be careful and consistent about these occasions, he has us at a bit of a disadvantage.”

Abrams flipped through the file on his lap. “I see that last November seventh, the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, he came up with… what the hell is this?… National Notary Public Day?”

Tanner laughed. “He bused in about fifty notaries from the city in the middle of the week, blared his loudspeakers, and shot off fireworks again. The notaries were confused but flattered.” Tanner laughed again.

Abrams suddenly looked up from the file. He turned to Tanner. “I suppose his biggest bash is the Fourth of July.”

Tanner nodded. “You should have seen the one last year. He had about two hundred people and six muzzle-loading cannon manned by men in colonial uniforms. He fired those cannon toward the Russian estate until about two in the morning. Black powder only, of course.”

Styler leaned over the front seat. “A few days later the Russians began looking for a lawyer. That’s how we eventually became involved.”

Abrams glanced at the file. The way Huntington Styler had specifically become involved was by writing an Op-Ed piece for the Times, roundly condemning Van Dorn for his spite parties. Abrams had no doubt the piece had been planted. He said, “Will the house be full this coming July Fourth weekend?”

Tanner hesitated, then said, “That’s a good question.”

Abrams looked at him. “Meaning what?”

Tanner glanced at Abrams as he negotiated through the heavy traffic. “Well, I counseled the Russian’s legal advisor, a man named Alexei Kalin, whom you’ll meet, that all the Russian diplomats, staff, and dependents in the New York area should make other plans—”

“To show,” interrupted Abrams, “that they are discommoded by Van Dorn’s harassment.”

“Yes. If over a hundred men, women, and children have to change their plans and stay in Manhattan because of Van Dorn, then we’ve got a real strong point for our case.”

“True. So what did Kalin say?”

Tanner moved the Lincoln up within sight of the Russian gates. “Kalin said he’d check; then a day later he called back and said they would cooperate with us and not come out that weekend.”

Abrams asked, “Then why is there a question?”

Tanner did not reply, but glanced into the rearview mirror at Styler.

Styler spoke. “We have information that, despite their promise to stay away from the Glen Cove house, they intend to be here July Fourth weekend.”

Abrams turned in his seat. “What sort of information?”

Styler said, “Well, as you know, Pat O’Brien has… had… the ability to discover these things through the most mundane ways — diplomatic staffs or their wives and children, are often sources of security breaches. Casual remarks to other diplomats, tradespeople; children saying something to their American friends. That sort of thing. Of course, that doesn’t mean that the Russian staff isn’t misinformed themselves, but small signs seem to point to the fact that they believe they’ll all be in Glen Cove that weekend.”

Abrams thought that the Russians considered this case a necessary nuisance. Necessary because they had been backed into a corner and had no choice but to proceed with it after Van Dorn’s outrages. Not to proceed would look odd. And a nuisance, because they did not like these attorneys coming onto their property, or telling them to stay in Manhattan over the July Fourth weekend. This presented a dilemma. They had to cooperate on the one hand, but on the other hand they had other things on their mind; perhaps a much better way to settle their case against Van Dorn — and the rest of the country.

Styler said, “This case gives Mr. O’Brien a unique opportunity to see how the Russians react to certain stimuli. You understand what I’m saying.”

“Yes.”

Styler added, “Enough said.”

As they edged closer to the gates, Tanner put on his left-hand turn signal. A traffic policeman approached and Tanner lowered the window. The sounds of the demonstrators filled the car. The policeman stuck his head in the window. “Where you heading?”

Tanner pointed. “There.”

“What’s your business there?”

Abrams could tell that Tanner was considering a lawyer’s version of “It’s none of your fucking business” but instead produced a letter written in English on Soviet UN stationery.

The policeman scanned the letter without comment.

Abrams looked out the windshield. There were over a hundred demonstrators around the gates, and the scene looked much like the one he’d viewed on the late news the night of May First, after his fateful interview with O’Brien on the roof of the RCA Building.

The policeman handed the letter back to Tanner and signaled to another officer up the road, who stopped oncoming traffic.

Tanner pulled into the opposing lane, then made his left-hand turn and headed into the gates, which had swung open.

Two burly Russian guards in brown uniforms with red trimming stood in the gravel drive. Their right arms were raised in a way that reminded Abrams of a Fascist salute. Tanner stopped.

A third man, dressed in civilian clothing, approached and spoke in good English. “What is your business, please?”

Tanner produced another letter on Soviet UN stationery, written in Russian. Abrams noticed a profusion of stamps, seals, and several signatures. There was, Abrams thought, something disturbing about a country that couldn’t make do with one seal and one signature.

The Russian took the letter and went to a nearby guardhouse. Abrams could see him pick up the telephone. The two guards remained in a blocking position on the drive. Tanner snorted. “Look at those fools. Do they think we’re going to try to sneak up the driveway? This is like some grade-B movie.”

Styler added, “It is rather inane. That man knew we were coming, and has a description of us right down to our license plate.”

Abrams interrupted. “I’d like to try to hear what he’s saying.”

The car was instantly silent. The civilian was standing at the open door of the guardhouse, speaking loudly into the telephone with all the blissful assurance of a man who believes he can’t be understood.

The man hung up and returned to the car, handing Tanner the letter.

Abrams could smell cheap cologne. The shirt was dirty, the tie stained, and the suit ill-fitting. The man was a Russian icon. This was like a grade-B movie.

The man gave Abrams a nasty sort of look, as though he were reading his mind, then said to Tanner, “Proceed up the drive, at ten kilometers. You will see a parking yard. Go beyond this and stop at the main entrance.”

Tanner mumbled a thank-you and began moving up the gravel drive. He said to Abrams, “Could you make out what he said on the phone?”

“Just normal security chatter. He said, ‘Styler, Tanner, and the Jew have arrived.’”

There was a silence in the car as it rolled up the long, S-shaped drive. The lighted house was visible now, a long, gabled structure of gray stone, multileveled to conform with the contours of the hilltop. The drive was overhung with trees, darkening it, but the borders were lit by short, squat Japanese lanterns.

Abrams reminded himself that although he was technically on Soviet soil, he was a long way from the Gulag. On the other hand, Evans’ cheery remark about the lime pit in the basement had to be considered more than flippancy. More to the point, the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade were short one member.

The car moved up the gradual incline, swinging past the north side of the house and through the parking yard. Tanner pulled into a large forecourt, brightly illuminated by modern security lighting. Abrams studied the east-facing facade. There was a half story exposed above ground level that had once been servants’ quarters and that Evans had said served a similar function, though the Russians who lived there now were not called servants.

Three rising bays protruded from the stone facade, each holding long casement windows. The right-hand bay indicated the location of the dining room and above that a large bedroom. The left bay was the original study now used as the security office. Above that was another bedroom. The large middle bay was the entrance. The third floor was a gabled garret entirely devoted, according to a Soviet defector, to electronic spying.

Tanner stopped the car directly in front of the entrance and shut off the engine. Outside in the warm night the sound of insects penetrated into the plush interior, and the car’s engine ticked as it cooled.

Abrams took his revolver and shoulder holster from his briefcase and stuffed them into the glove compartment.

Tanner watched him and said, “You shouldn’t have brought that. Their security people will find it there.”

“So what?” Abrams opened his door and stepped out into the warm, still air.

Tanner shut off the lights and he and Styler followed. Abrams walked up to the arched wooden door and pressed a buzzer. Inside the house a dog barked, followed by answering barks from around the mansion. Abrams commented, “Jonathan Harker was greeted by Dracula himself with the explanation that all the servants had retired for the evening.”

Tanner laughed, somewhat nervously. Styler smiled tightly.

The door suddenly swung open, and a squat man greeted them cheerily. “Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome to our dacha.” He laughed.

Abrams recognized the man from his Red Squad days. Viktor Androv, a.k.a. Count Dracula.

Abrams looked around the dimly lit stone foyer, larger than most living rooms. From the far side of the foyer rose a wide marble staircase.

Androv said pleasantly, “Mr. Styler, it is good to see you again — and Mr. Tanner.”

Abrams thought there was something incongruous about this fat little man, dressed in baggy slacks, an open-neck flowered shirt, and sandals with socks, holding court in a great house. But he supposed since the workers’ revolution it was the plight of Russians to look incongruous in elegant surroundings.

Androv turned to Abrams. “And you must be Mr. Abrams.”

Abrams wanted to say, “I must be or I wouldn’t have gotten past the gate.” He shook hands with Androv.

Androv motioned them toward the staircase and they began climbing the half level toward an upper foyer. Androv said, by way of explaining the stillness of the house, “Most of our people have returned to Manhattan. The small permanent staff we keep here has the evening off after this long weekend. But,” he added in an exasperated tone, “I doubt if any of us will get much sleep tonight when that lunatic next door begins his… his…”

“Harassment,” prompted Styler.

“Yes. But another word… capers… yes, when he begins cutting capers. I’m surprised he hasn’t begun yet. You should have been here on May Day!”

“We were available,” said Styler pointedly.

“Yes, yes. But it was not convenient.”

They stepped up into a square foyer, the walls and floors of which were made of a warm buff marble. The ceiling was plaster in bas-relief and badly cracked. Three arched openings gave off the foyer. The one directly ahead, Abrams saw, led into a long, low-ceilinged gallery, paneled in oak. The openings on either side led to long hallways. Androv motioned them to the left. He said as they walked, “You are late. But I am sure I know why.”

Styler smiled. “Yes, we should have allowed for the traffic.”

Androv nodded quickly. “I’m glad you saw what we must put up with.”

Abrams had the impression of a man who was playacting without a script. He knew the Russian soul and Russian mannerisms well enough to spot bullshit.

They came to a green curtain that was drawn across the hallway. Androv pulled on a cord and the curtain parted revealing a walk-through metal detector of the type used in airports.

An attractive woman dressed in designer jeans, polo shirt, and docksiders smiled tightly. Androv said, “Gentlemen, I must ask you to step through this.” He shrugged. “It is policy,” he added, as though he had nothing to do with it. He turned away and lit a cigarette.

The woman held out what looked to Abrams like a cheap plastic relish tray. “Metal objects, please.”

The three men put the required objects in separate compartments of the tray. Abrams tossed the penknife casually among the keys, pens, cigarette lighters, and coins.

Styler placed his briefcase on the conveyor belt and the woman pushed the start button. The briefcase rolled through the fluoroscope and the woman stared at the screen. Styler stepped through the metal-detector arch. Tanner, then Abrams, did the same.

The woman moved to the end of the stopped conveyor belt and casually opened Tanner’s briefcase, rummaging through the papers. Abrams, Styler, and Tanner glanced at one another.

That one act, thought Abrams, by its total indifference to manners and custom, said more about these people and their society than anything he’d ever read or heard. The safety of the state is the highest law.

The woman retrieved a gold pen from Tanner’s briefcase and dropped it on the tray with his other metal objects. She looked at the three men. “These items will be returned to you shortly. You may take your briefcases.”

Abrams could see that Tanner was fuming, but if the woman noticed, she could not have the slightest idea what he was upset about. Outrage was a luxury item available only in the West. Abrams remembered Evans’ advice. Get mad.

The three men retrieved their briefcases, Tanner doing so with more vigor than the act required.

Abrams glanced down at the metal detector’s electric cord where it plugged into the wall receptacle, and spotted his first ground-fault interrupter.

Abrams looked back at the woman. She was carrying the tray away and disappeared through a doorway that Abrams knew led to the former study, now the security office. Each metal object would be electrically scanned and physically examined. Fingerprints would be lifted, and Tanner’s car keys would be used to move the Lincoln to a vehicle inspection shop on the south side of the house. He wondered if he’d see his penknife again. Nobody trusted anyone anymore. And with good reason.

Androv approached them. “We will need a north-facing room so you can see and hear what Mr. Van Dorn visits upon us. The gallery will do. Follow me.”

He led them back down the hallway to the upper foyer, then motioned them through into the gallery. It would have been a shorter walk, Abrams realized, to cut through the music room, whose door was close by the metal detector. But the music room, now a sort of commons room for the staff, was obviously off limits.

Abrams looked around the gallery, which had once been Charles Pratt’s hunting-trophy room. Its ceiling beams and oak paneling still gave it the flavor of a hunting lodge, but the mounted animal heads and horns were gone, replaced by oversize canvases of proletarian art: smiling, well-muscled men and women working in fields and factories. The early capitalists, reflected Abrams, mounted animals they probably never shot, the ruling Communists displayed pictures of happy workers they probably never saw. The noble and idealized creatures of the earth were destined to wind up as wall decorations for the elite. In a just and orderly world, perhaps, capitalists would shoot, stuff, and mount Communists, and vice versa, leaving the wildlife and working people in peace.

Androv walked to a north-facing casement window. “Here you can see the lights of the madman’s house.” Androv looked at his watch. “Why hasn’t he begun his capers yet?”

Because, Abrams thought, he is holding off on his capers to allow me at least an hour in here. Abrams went to another window and looked out from the elevated room, across the treed hollow, to the next hill, upon which sat a gleaming white house of wood. Every window was lit, as was the custom in great houses when parties were held, and soft garden lighting of various hues gave the landscape a chimerical appearance.

He could make out a few people on the lawn and terrace, and he thought of Katherine down there. He wondered what she would think if she knew where he was.

It struck him too that though he never romanticized danger, there must be some sort of potentially fatal defect in his survival instinct or he would never have taken so many jobs where people shot at you. Neither would he be here now. However, from the moment he’d walked out of Katherine’s bedroom, he noticed a subtle change in his attitude and perceptions toward longevity.

He stared out the multipaned window. Beyond these hills, to the west and north, he could see the moonlit water of the Sound. Navigation lights of boats and ships blinked and moved across the calm water, and that reminded him that Peter Thorpe was still out there somewhere. He realized that Thorpe could conceivably wind up here tonight, anytime.

Androv looked at the three men, who had each picked a different window from which to look. “Well, let us sit and talk. When it begins, you will know it.”

Abrams examined the copper-clad casement window. There was a screen on the inside and the window cranked out. It was tightly closed now, and he could not see the weather stripping. He looked down at the terrace below, and said, “What’s that?”

Androv turned back and moved shoulder to shoulder beside Abrams. “Oh, that is a curiosity. It is what it looks like. A swastika set into the tilework.”

Abrams shielded his eyes against the glare of the window. “May I open this?”

Androv hesitated a moment, then said, “Of course.”

Abrams cranked. The window opened.

Androv added, “That was done, I am told, in about 1914, before the advent of the Nazis. It is the traditional gammadion — a symbol of good luck in the Orient and among American Indians. No one hates that symbol more than the Jews, except perhaps the Russians. So do not take offense.”

“Of course not. It just took me by surprise.” Abrams’ eyes ran over the sill and jambs. The weather stripping was plated with a bright, untarnished metal of what could have been platinum or white gold. Had he had his penknife, he still would not be able to get a scraping unless the interior screen were removed and Androv were removed. He said, “Should we leave this open to hear when Van Dorn’s barrage begins?”

“That’s not necessary.” Androv was already closing the window.

Abrams looked out across the brightly lit lawn and saw the towering antenna, held in place by guy wires. At the base of the antenna was the heavy planting of bushes that Evans had mentioned. Closer to the house and the terrace was the flagpole, surrounded by a circular hedgerow. Abrams could see the grating of the storm drain he’d been asked to verify.

At the edge of the woodline to the west, he spotted two men with a leashed dog. One man was speaking into what must have been a walkie-talkie, the other was shouldering what had to be a rifle. There was something surreal about this whole place he thought. The atmosphere was that of Kafka’s Castle, in which one never knew who would answer the telephone or if it would be answered at all. A place where one had the instinctive feeling that every unseen room and corridor was filled with silently waiting men; that all the dark and dimly appreciated places held perilous shadows. A glimpse here, a sound there, a smell, a feeling, confirmed that one was not alone.

“Come,” said Androv a bit impatiently, “let us be seated.” He motioned them to a grouping of chairs around a coffee table and directed each of them to a seat.

Abrams sat in a club chair, Tanner and Styler on a small settee, and Androv took a large upholstered armchair, his back to the windows.

Abrams regarded Androv for a moment. According to what was known of him, he was what was called in intelligence parlance the Chief Legal Resident. Or to use Abrams’ Red Squad description, Androv was the head of the KGB in New York, hiding behind a diplomatic post. This was not a great secret. What was a mystery was why he was bothering with this matter. Conclusion: He suspected a scam. Further conclusion: Whatever the Russians were up to, it was important enough to cause the KGB honcho to spend some time on it.

Androv was speaking. “I have asked Mr. Kalin, as our resident legal advisor, to join us. My function is one of community relations, so you will have to put up with me as well. Justice in this country is sometimes as much public relations as it is blind.”

Androv pulled out a box of Russian cigarettes, Troika Ovals, and offered them around in a gesture that Abrams thought was very Russian. Abrams took one of the proffered cigarettes and lit the loosely packed, foul-smelling Oval. On his first draw he sucked about an inch of tobacco into his mouth and had to pick it out.

“Do you like these?” Androv asked.

“They have a distinctive taste,” Abrams replied.

Tanner suppressed a smile.

Abrams marveled at the possibility that a country that couldn’t make a cigarette had found a way to destroy the most technologically advanced society the world had ever seen.

Androv looked at his watch. “Mr. Kalin takes courses at Fordham and thinks he understands American law.” Androv chuckled. “He is picking up all the worst habits of American lawyers. Lateness, for instance.”

Styler and Tanner put on obligatory smiles, then Styler opened his briefcase and flipped through some papers. “If we can’t obtain an injunction against Van Dorn for this July Fourth, then, as we told Mr. Kalin, we suggest you not come out here.”

Androv replied, “We told Mr. Tanner some weeks ago that we will not come for the three-day weekend if that is what you wish.”

Abrams looked closely at Androv. There was a discrepancy here between what Androv said and what O’Brien had discovered. Discrepancies were often suggestive of lies. There were two good reasons for the Russians to stay away: legal and practical. Therefore, if they intended to show up for Van Dorn’s bombardment, there must be one good reason for that. Conclusion: They had to be out of Manhattan. They had to be at their estate because this place was somehow safe. Further conclusion: No place else was safe that weekend.

The conventional wisdom in defense thinking was that when the time came, it would be on a holiday. Christmas or New Year’s Eve was the favored theory. But the Fourth of July was a nice, perverse symbolic possibility.

Tanner leafed through a file and said matter-of-factly, “We’re thinking in terms of punitive damages in the area of five hundred thousand dollars, plus whatever costs you incur.”

Androv’s mind, like his eyes, seemed focused on Abrams. He looked at Tanner. “What? Oh, that can wait for Mr. Kalin.” Androv rose and walked slowly across the room. He pulled a bell cord and remained standing beside it.

Presently a man in a white busboy tunic appeared at the hallway door pushing a serving cart. Androv walked beside the cart and announced, “Please help yourselves,” then served himself first and sat with a glass of tea and a plate heaped with cheap, store-bought pastry.

Abrams watched him. Androv suddenly appeared to be distracted, as though he had thought of something more pressing. He noticed that Androv kept glancing at his watch.

Abrams heard Androv speak softly to the busboy in Russian. “Tell Kalin to enter.”

Which to Abrams seemed more like a stage direction than an order to locate Kalin.

Styler, Tanner, and Abrams rose and walked to the cart. Beside the samovar was the relish tray with their metal items, minus, Abrams noticed, Tanner’s car keys. Each man reclaimed his own things, then each took a Russian tea glass with a metal handle and drew tea from the samovar.

Androv made desultory conversation between mouthfuls of sticky pastry.

Abrams said, “Are you returning to Manhattan tonight?”

Androv glanced at him. “Yes, why do you ask?”

“I thought I could get a ride with you.”

“You live in Brooklyn.”

“I’m staying in Manhattan this evening.”

“Are you?” Androv seemed momentarily disconcerted, then said, “I’m sorry, but we will be discussing classified matters.”

“I don’t speak Russian.”

Androv gave him a cold stare. “The car is full.”

“I’ll take the train, then.”

The door that led to the music room opened and a very tall and thin blond man, almost Scandinavian-looking, entered carrying an attaché case.

Androv did not rise. He said, “Gentlemen, Mr. Kalin. You know Mr. Styler and Mr. Tanner?”

Kalin nodded perfunctorily to the men present and pushed a wingback chair toward the circle of seats. Abrams noticed that he had positioned it between Androv and himself, but a few feet back from them.

Androv nodded toward Abrams. “Did I tell you, Alexei, that Mr. Abrams is the son of famous American Communists?”

“Yes.” Kalin took his seat.

Abrams eyed Alexei Kalin closely. The man was hard-looking, his face the sort that one did not easily forget. In fact, Abrams did recognize him from Fordham night school. One of the things that Abrams had learned as a cop was that men who wore a gun carried themselves in a subtly different way from men who did not. And one of the things that had struck him about Kalin on the few occasions he’d seen him was the strong possibility that he wore a shoulder holster. Abrams was fairly certain he was wearing one now.

Kalin set his attaché case on his lap and opened it. He shuffled through some papers, then said, “We can begin.”

Styler and Tanner opened their briefcases and brought out the ubiquitous yellow legal pads. Abrams used a small notebook that was a carry-over from his police days. Androv said, “Mr. Abrams is also a classmate of yours, Alexei.”

Kalin glanced up. “Yes, I have seen him.”

Androv looked at Abrams. “Yes? No?”

Abrams replied, “Yes, I recognize Mr. Kalin.”

“Mr. Abrams is a former New York City policeman, Alexei.” Androv spoke between bites of pastry. He turned to Abrams. “What did you say your duties were?”

Abrams replied, “I had many jobs on the force.”

Kalin sat motionless, staring down into the attaché case. He took a pen and appeared to write, but Abrams was certain he was playing with the dials, which had notches so they could be adjusted with a pen.

Androv again addressed Abrams. “It is unfortunate that immigrants to this country did not teach their children their native tongue. You speak no Russian at all, Mr. Abrams?”

Abrams replied indirectly, as instructed by Evans. “My parents, like many other immigrants, wanted their children to be Americanized. They used their native language to keep secrets from their children.”

Androv laughed. “What a pity.”

Styler cut in. “Perhaps we should discuss the case.”

Androv smiled. “Mr. Abrams is a curiosity for us. But—” He slapped his knees. “Alexei, let’s see what you learned at the Catholic school.”

Kalin looked up from his attaché case and addressed Styler in an unfriendly tone. “What do you intend to do about that incident of May Day?”

Styler replied, “You mean your claim that Van Dorn fired a pistol at four of your staff—”

“Yes, yes. And they harbored this boy who came on the property to steal.”

Styler cleared his throat. “Van Dorn tells a different story. I’d suggest we proceed separately with that. That’s a criminal matter.”

Kalin’s voice was impatient. “But it is important that this boy be questioned. We must serve him with a summons. Have you yet found his name and address?”

Tanner replied, “Yes.”

Kalin spoke sharply. “Well, what is it?”

Tanner picked out a sheet of paper. “Kuchik. Stanley Kuchik. He lives on Woodbury Lane. He’s a junior at the high school.” Tanner passed the paper to Androv, who glanced at it and gave it to Kalin.

Abrams did not think it was a terrific idea to give them the boy’s name and address, but they had little choice if they were to keep the Russians’ confidence. Abrams’ mind was working the way O’Brien’s had, and he wondered if the boy had just become cheese for a rattrap. Why not? They’d hypnotized him and given him truth drugs. If they were through debriefing him, he could be recycled as bait. Abrams was having some difficulty discerning the white hats from the black hats. He had to keep reminding himself that he was on the side of truth and justice.

Androv again addressed Abrams. “How would you proceed against this young hooligan?”

Abrams looked up from his notebook. He wanted to ask how Androv would proceed. Gun or knife? He said instead, “Since I haven’t passed the bar exam, I’d rather not offer a legal opinion.”

Androv replied, “But you are knowledgeable, no? How long have you worked for Mr. Styler?”

Abrams thought the segue was awkwardly done. He began to reply, then sneezed into his handkerchief. He used the bronchial spray, cleared his throat, and replied in a cracking voice, “Two years.”

Kalin glanced up from his attaché case.

Androv said, “Do you have a cold?”

“Allergy.”

“Ah, something in this room?”

“Probably.”

“It must be Mr. Kalin, then.” Androv laughed.

Abrams smiled and turned to Kalin. “What is your feeling on those punitive damages?”

Kalin, without glancing up, replied, “The figure seems small compared to what one reads in the papers.”

Which, Abrams thought, was interesting, considering Kalin had not been in the room when Tanner mentioned $500,000.

Kalin, realizing his mistake, glanced up at Abrams but did not look toward Androv.

Androv said, “I think we will have to send Mr. Kalin back to school.”

The meeting continued for another ten minutes, during which time Androv digressed now and then to ask Abrams a few more pointed questions. Abrams either answered evasively or answered after using one of the two drugs. Abrams could not tell if Kalin was happy or disappointed with his analyzer results. He could also not determine with any assurance whether Androv or Kalin were buying any of this. Androv’s manner had grown progressively preoccupied.

Finally, Androv cut off Tanner in midsentence. “What is keeping that madman from his capers?” He looked at his watch, then lifted his heavy bulk from his chair and marched to the window. He stared thoughtfully into the distance for a few seconds, then turned and faced the room. “He must know that you are here. So he won’t bother us until the police report to him that your car has gone.” He advanced a few steps. “You may as well leave. Park in the high school and wait for the fireworks and loudspeakers so you can satisfy yourselves. Thank you for coming on your holiday, gentlemen. Good evening.”

Abrams rose and said, “I’d rather we see it from your perspective.”

Androv stared at him. “I have a busy evening.”

“We can wait here and entertain ourselves.”

“That is against regulations.”

Kalin closed his attaché case and stood. “There is nothing further to discuss or see.”

Tanner said uneasily, “I guess we’ve got enough—”

Styler interrupted and addressed Androv. “We’ve gone to some trouble to get here, and we’d like to see for ourselves the exact nature of Van Dorn’s harassment.”

Abrams suppressed a smile. Styler had balls. Abrams glanced at his watch. Van Dorn would not begin for at least fifteen more minutes.

Androv began speaking in a voice that was not only frosty but had, Abrams thought, an edge of frenzy about it. “Gentlemen, let’s be frank. This is a high-security area as you know, and I don’t have the personnel to assign to keep you company this evening.” He made a sweeping motion toward the door. “Good night.”

Kalin began leading the way. Styler, Tanner, and Abrams began to follow, then Abrams turned back to Androv. “I’d like to use the rest room.”

Androv seemed to have calmed down. “Yes, of course.” He pointed to a doorway at the far end of the gallery. “Through there. You will see a door marked Powder Room.” He added, “Do not get lost, please.”

Kalin seemed to be on the point of accompanying Abrams, but Styler engaged him in conversation. Abrams left his briefcase on the chair and walked to the door Androv had indicated.

He passed through into a large passageway, dimly lit by wall sconces, and quickly checked his watch. He had, at best, five minutes before they sent someone to find him. He looked up at the cornices and spotted a television camera over the door through which he had just passed. He walked a few feet to the right toward the powder room door, then turned back, but the camera was not following him.

Abrams opened the powder room door, turned on the light, and looked around the small windowless enclosure, which held a single toilet, a washbasin, a vanity and chair. There seemed to be no air vent, and the place could stand a cleaning. He backed out, pulled the door closed behind him, and stood silently in the passageway.

Evans had not wanted him to take the risk of carrying the floor plans, but he remembered enough of them to know where he was. Across from the powder room was a narrow staircase, labeled on the plans Private stairs, which led up to the bedrooms. Beneath the staircase was a small door that led down to the basement.

Farther down the passage were two sets of double doors, directly across from each other. They were glass-paned doors, covered with sheer curtains. The doors to the right opened into the south end of the living room. The doors to the left were another entrance to the music room. At the far end of the passageway was a large set of French doors that opened onto the south terrace.

Abrams walked quickly to the French doors, unbolted them, and pushed them open. He heard no alarms, but that did not mean that a silent alarm had not gone off in the security office. Still, he hadn’t committed a capital offense yet. He walked out into the clear, moonlit night. The stepped terrace dropped off to the pool below, and to the left was the stone-walled service court, used now as a parking yard. Abrams could not see over the wall even from his vantage point, but he could see the court was brightly lit, and he suspected the Lincoln had gotten a careful search there.

Abrams turned and looked up at the massive house. All the windows on the upper stories were dark, but on closer examination he could see that blackout curtains had been drawn over them. He walked back to the French doors and stared down the long, dimly lit hall. The television camera was not clearly visible, but even if it was focused on him, he hadn’t committed that capital offense yet. But he was about to.

Abrams knelt and examined the weather stripping on the French doors, then drew his penknife. He scraped the metal stripping under the bottom edge of the door, letting the scrapings of bright metal plating fall into a handkerchief. He folded the handkerchief carefully and put it in his trouser pocket, then stood and closed the French doors, rebolting them. He waited, his heart beating heavily in his chest, but nothing happened. Actually, he knew that, even if they were listening or watching, they’d let him finish — let him, as Androv would say, cut his capers. And in the process, cut his own throat.

Abrams looked at his watch. Two minutes had passed. He walked to the music room doors and stood to the side. He listened for a few seconds and heard the sound of a television. He peered through the sheer curtains into the room and saw the young security woman sitting with her back to him, smoking a cigarette and having a drink. She was watching some moronic game show on a large seven-foot screen that looked like a late-model Sony. At least, thought Abrams, she wasn’t watching him on the screen. He began to believe he was going to pull this off.

This commons room was painted in a high-gloss enamel of avocado green, which Abrams thought would look better on a refrigerator or electric can opener. The furniture was red vinyl, split in all the right places, and the room had that special ill-used look that Abrams associated with police squad rooms and government waiting rooms. To the left he could see the door that led back to the gallery. He couldn’t imagine why Androv had circumvented this rather dreary commons room, unless it was to protect his American guests’ aesthetic sensibilities from severe shock. Then Abrams spotted, in the corner opposite the Sony, another television set. It was an old design with a highly polished mahogany cabinet, but Abrams instinctively recognized that it was not an old American model but what passed for a contemporary style in Russia.

His eyes began to take in the whole room through the spaces in the gauzy curtains. The wall receptacles appeared to be of the new ground-fault type. Next to the fireplace on the near right wall stood an old Philco radio console, the size of a jukebox.

Well, he thought, there’s the radio and television in question. Though why there should be a primitive Russian television set in the same room as a seven-foot Sony was a bit of a mystery. And why anyone but a nostalgia buff or antiques collector would keep a monstrous vacuum-tube Philco radio was stranger still.

Abrams focused on the young woman again. As he watched, she stood, carrying her drink, walked to the television, and switched it to videotape. Presently the screen lightened to a taped version of the Bolshoi, about midway through Giselle. The woman turned to go back to her chair and Abrams could see she was a little unsteady on her feet. As she came toward the chair and closer to him, he began to edge away from the door, but then he noticed her face. She had, he thought, one of the saddest expressions he could imagine, and tears rolled down her face. She gulped down her drink, wiped her eyes, and sank back into the chair, covering her face with her hands. Odd, he thought.

Abrams turned, crossed the passageway, and approached the glass-paneled living room doors. He listened again but heard nothing, and the room appeared to be dark. He edged closer to the doors and looked through the glass pane and sheer curtains, shielding his eyes against the glare of the passageway’s wall sconces. As he moved his other hand down to the brass doorknob, Abrams suddenly froze and held his breath. Slowly, he turned toward the narrow staircase as his right hand went into his pocket and found his penknife.

The figure coming down the dimly lit stairs stopped and stared at him.

Abrams stared back, then stepped to the foot of the stairs and looked up. He said softly, “Zdravstvoui.”

The girl, about five or six years old, clutched at a rag doll and replied in a frightened tone, “Please, don’t tell anyone.”

Abrams put on a reassuring smile. “Tell anyone what?”

“That I came upstairs,” she whispered.

“No, I won’t tell anyone.”

The girl smiled tentatively, then said, “You talk funny.”

Abrams replied, “I am not from the same part of Russia as you.” He looked at the doll. “How pretty. May I see it?”

The girl hesitated, then a bit nervously took another step down the stairs.

Abrams extended his arm slowly and the girl handed him the doll. Abrams examined it appreciatively. “What is your doll’s name?”

“Katya.”

“And what is your name?”

“Katerina.” She giggled.

Abrams smiled, and still holding the doll, said, “Where are you going, Katerina?”

“Down to the basement.”

“To the basement? Do you play down there?”

“No. Everyone is down there.”

Abrams began another question, then stopped. He stayed silent for some seconds, then said in a quiet voice, “What do you mean, everyone is down there?”

“I went upstairs to get Katya. But everyone is supposed to stay in the basement.”

“Why is everyone supposed to stay in the basement?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are your parents down there?”

“I told you — everyone is there.”

“Are you going back to your apartment in New York tonight?”

“No. We must all sleep here tonight.” She smiled. “There is no school tomorrow.”

Abrams passed the doll back to the girl. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you. Hurry back downstairs.”

The girl pressed the doll to her chest and scurried down the remaining steps past him. She opened the small basement door and disappeared, leaving the door open.

Abrams stared down the dimly lit stone stairway, then quietly closed the door. He stood motionless for a while and thought. Something is wrong here. Very wrong.

Abrams hesitated, glanced at his watch, then walked quickly back to the living room door. Slowly, he pushed the door open.

The large living room sat hushed in pale moonlight, and the bulky furniture cast moon shadows over the flowered rug, somehow reminding Abrams of prehistoric animals grazing in a primeval clearing.

He took a step into the room and stopped short. Not ten feet from him was the profile of a man sitting in an upholstered chair.

The man was very still, his hands resting in his lap, and at first Abrams thought he was asleep, then he noticed the glint of an open eye. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, a wispy stream of smoke rising silhouetted against the moonlit bay window across the room.

Abrams remained motionless and drew a silent breath through his nose, smelling now the foul acrid smoke of the Russian cigarette. It did not seem possible that the man hadn’t heard him enter, but then as Abrams’ eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed the earphones over the man’s head. The man was listening to something, jotting notes, and Abrams intuitively knew he was monitoring the conversation in the gallery.

The man finally seemed to sense the presence of an intruder and turned his face toward Abrams, removing the earphones as he did. The two men stared silently at each other, and Abrams saw now that the man was very old. The man spoke in a peculiarly accented Russian. “Who are you?”

Abrams replied in English, “I have lost my way. Excuse me.”

“Who are you looking for?”

“I have taken a wrong turn. Good night.”

The man did not reply but snapped on a green-shaded reading lamp.

Abrams found that he could not turn away, but continued to stare. Even after forty years the American’s Russian was not good, and that struck him, irrelevantly, as odd. Even after forty years, the face was recognizable as the one he had seen on her office wall. But even if he had never seen that photograph, he would know those large, liquid blue eyes, because they were her eyes.

Abrams understood and accepted the fact that he was looking at the face of the warrior who had returned from the dead, at the face of Henry Kimberly, at the face of Talbot.