The Talbot Odyssey

43

Marc Pembroke stood at the window, dressed only in his tan trousers. He focused his binoculars on the Russian mansion, nearly half a mile across the hollow. “This may seem a primitive way to gather intelligence, but one can learn things peeking from windows.”

Joan Grenville stretched and yawned on the bed. “I’d better get downstairs before I’m missed.”

“Yes,” Pembroke replied. “An hour is rather a long time to be gone to the loo.” He knelt in front of the open screenless window and steadied his elbows on the sill, adjusting the focus. “There’s a chap in a third-floor gable. He’s got a tripod-mounted telescope and he’s staring back at me.”

“Can I turn on the lights to get dressed?”

“Certainly not.” Pembroke scanned with the binoculars. “I can see the forecourt clearly, but I don’t see the Lincoln’s headlight beams yet. They won’t be leaving for a while, I expect.”

Joan Grenville sat on the edge of the bed. “Who won’t be leaving where?”

“Abrams is leaving the Russian estate. At least, I hope he is. If there’s trouble, they’re to flash their high beams.”

Joan Grenville stood and came beside him. “What sort of trouble? What’s Tony Abrams doing there?”

“It’s a legal matter.”

“Oh, bullshit. How many times have I heard that from Tom and his idiot friends?”

“You’re refreshingly without depth, Mrs. Grenville. One gets tired of all these still waters that run deep. You’re a frothy, fast-moving, and shallow stream. I can touch bottom with you.”

She giggled. “You did. Twice.”

Pembroke smiled as he refocused on his Russian counterpart. “Ivan does not believe his good luck in spying a beautiful naked woman bathed in moonlight. He’s rubbing his eyes and drooling.”

Joan Grenville glanced out the window. “Can he really see me?”

“Of course. Here, hold these and watch for a flash of high beams.”

She took the binoculars and stood in front of the window.

Pembroke finished dressing and walked to the door.

She giggled again. “The Russian is waving at me.”

“Watch for the damned headlights or I’ll throw you out the window.”

She nodded quickly. There was something in his voice that suggested he meant that literally. Without turning, she asked, “Where are you going?”

“As the Duke of Wellington said when asked to impart a piece of enduring military wisdom, ‘Piss when you can.’” He left.

Joan Grenville shrugged and kept her eyes to the binoculars. “‘Piss when you can’ indeed. He probably had to use the phone more than he had to use the john. These people even lie about the weather.”

Karl Roth stood at the long table in the spacious kitchen and surveyed the cellophane-covered trays of food. “There’s something here for everyone.”

Maggie Roth turned from the sink and glanced at the trays heaped with meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, nuts, and pastries. Small labels identified the special dietary items, including kosher meats. “You’ve gone to some trouble, Karl. Even hiring two extra serving girls. We’ll not make any profit on this one.”

“Van Dorn is a good customer. Sometimes you have to give a little extra. For public relations.”

She laughed. “You’re the best bloody Communist capitalist I know.”

Karl Roth’s eyes darted nervously around the busy kitchen. “Maggie, watch your tongue.”

She looked at the wall clock. “We should begin serving soon.” She walked to the table and peeled back a cellophane covering.

Karl Roth held up his hands. “No, Not yet.”

A passing busboy reached out and deftly filched a steak tidbit, popping it in his mouth.

Roth bellowed, “Keep your filthy hands off!”

“Stay cool, pop.” The boy walked off.

Maggie Roth said, “Karl, what are you so jumpy about?”

He didn’t answer, but glanced at the wall clock as he hovered protectively over the food-laden table.

She said, “It’s really past time. Get the girls to pull off the wrappings and let’s serve.”

“No.” He began rubbing his hands together and Maggie could see he was very agitated. She shrugged and went back to the sink.

The swinging door opened and Claudia Lepescu entered the noisy kitchen, carrying a drink and wearing a clinging black knit dress. She looked at Karl Roth and said, “Are you the caterer?”

Roth stared at her for several seconds, then nodded quickly.

Maggie Roth turned her head and stared at Claudia, taking in the clothing, which she thought was inappropriately dressy for an outdoor party. She wondered what sort of accent that was. Like many immigrants, she didn’t particularly care for foreigners. Karl, too, she reflected, was usually curt with fellow Europeans. Now, however, he was making little shufflings and scrapings of servitude toward this woman. Odd. Maggie turned back to the sink.

Claudia said, “Please leave me your card. I could use your services.”

Again Roth nodded, but said nothing and averted his eyes from hers.

Claudia walked to the table and peeled back the cellophane on a tray of hors d’oeuvres, taking one and putting it in her mouth. “Very good. You should serve these before they get stale.”

Roth’s head bobbed up and down and he began taking off the remainder of the cellophane from the trays.

Claudia wandered aimlessly around the kitchen.

Karl Roth knelt under the table where he had stacked several boxes, found a small parcel taped closed, and ripped it open. He retrieved a plastic spray bottle and stood. He shook the bottle vigorously and began spraying the trays of food with a light misty mixture of oil and water.

Maggie looked over her shoulder and said, “That’s not necessary, Karl. Everything is fresh.” She shot a look at Claudia.

Roth replied in a distracted tone. “It makes everything look better… You should read the trade journals instead of your stupid movie magazines.”

Maggie watched him and noticed his hand shaking.

Roth finished the spraying, went to the sink, and emptied the remaining contents of the bottle down the drain. He rinsed the bottle and placed it in the trash compacter, then washed his hands with soap.

Maggie walked deliberately to the table and picked up a piece of smoked salmon, raising it to her mouth.

Roth hesitated, then came up quickly behind her and grabbed her hand. Their eyes met and she said softly, “Oh, Karl… you fool… ”

Claudia stood some distance off and watched, then began moving toward Maggie Roth.

Katherine Kimberly turned the corner of the long second-floor hallway and saw Marc Pembroke emerging from a passage that led to the back service stairs. She watched him for a moment as he approached the door to his room, then called out and walked up to him. “I’ve been looking for you. May I speak with you a moment?” She indicated his door.

“Actually, no. I’m rather busy.”

She shot a glance at the closed door. “We can go to an empty room.”

He hesitated, then followed her down the hallway and entered a storage room piled high with boxes and holiday decorations. She snapped on an overhead light and said, “Do you have Joan Grenville in your room?”

“A gentleman does not tell, and a lady should not ask.”

“I ask because her husband holds a sensitive position in my firm.”

“I see. Well, yes, I admit I pumped her in more ways than one. But she’s rather uninformed. Tom doesn’t tell her much.”

Katherine said evenly, “Who exactly do you work for?”

Pembroke seemed a bit impatient and glanced at his watch. “Oh, different people. You, at the moment. O’Brien, to be exact.”

“And what do you do for us, Marc?”

“Well, I’m not involved with intelligence gathering, analysis, or anything clever like that. I kill people.”

She stared at him.

“Really. But I only kill villains. To answer your next question, I decide who are villains.”

She drew a deep breath, then asked, “What do you know about these recent deaths?”

“I know I didn’t do them. Except for your fiancé’s friends this morning.”

“Yes, I wanted to thank—”

He waved his hand. “I’m billing your firm for that. You’ll see that it’s paid, won’t you?”

She ignored the question and asked, “And you had nothing to do with Arnold Brin’s death?”

“In a way I did. I should have protected him. I wish I’d known you had him working on something—”

“Are you trying to blame me?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to—”

“And if you had the job to protect him, why didn’t you?”

“Oh, it wasn’t my job. I mean I wasn’t hired to do that. I was supposed to do that. He was my father.”

She drew an involuntary breath. “What? Arnold Brin…?”

“Actually Brin was his nom de guerre, but he kept it after the war. Our family name is not Pembroke, either, but that’s not relevant.”

She looked at him closely in the dimly lighted room, focusing on his eyes, then his mouth. “Yes… yes, you are his son.”

“So I said. Archive work is dreadfully boring, and unremunerative. But it does give one some good leads to villains. I began my career bumping off old Nazis for the Israelis. Then I ran out of Nazis and I switched to Eastern Bloc targets.”

“Are you working now for Mr. O’Brien? Or are you working to avenge your father’s death?”

“There’s no money in vengeance.” Pembroke walked to a small dusty window and stared out at the distant Manhattan skyline silhouetted by the last traces of dusk in the western sky. He added, “However, as it happens, Mr. O’Brien’s needs and my desires coincide. But I am a professional, and though your fiancé was the proximate cause of my father’s death, I did not kill him. I’m after his bosses.”

Katherine sat on a packing crate and stared at Marc Pembroke’s profile. Subconsciously she had always compared him to Peter, but now the contrasts were striking and obvious. Peter was charmingly amoral. Marc was charmingly immoral. Peter, like an infant or an animal, hadn’t the vaguest idea of right or wrong; Marc did, and chose to kill. By the standards of conventional theology, psychology, and jurisprudence, Peter was innocent, Marc was culpable. Yet, by those same standards, Peter was beyond help or reason, while Marc Pembroke could be saved. She thought of him standing at the gravesite and suspected she was looking at a reluctant killer, like a soldier who in times of peace would not take up arms. She said, “I like you. I wish you’d reconsider archive work. There’s an opening.”

She saw the trace of a smile pass over his lips. He turned to her but didn’t reply. He glanced at his watch again, then said, “Well, I must run. We’ll continue this another time.”

She stood, blocking his way. “Wait. What do you know of Tony Abrams’ mission? Where is he?”

“Close by, actually.”

“Next door?”

Pembroke nodded.

“What is he doing there?”

Pembroke did not reply.

“Is he safe?”

“I rather doubt it. But if you’ll step aside, I can go and try to find out.”

She remained standing in front of him. “If he’s not safe, will you… can you do something?”

“No. The Iron Curtain begins at the next property line.”

“But—”

“Please step aside. I have pressing business to attend to.” He added, as though he suddenly realized she was actually his employer, “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“You’ll keep me informed?”

“Certainly.”

She walked to the door and opened it for him. Pembroke moved toward it, then hesitated. He said, “I never ask, you know. I mean, about the larger picture. But is it true, Kate, that this is the last throw of the dice?”

She replied carefully, “That’s what some people seem to think.”

He nodded. “Yes, O’Brien did too.”

“Yes, he — what do you mean, did?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to put him in the past tense. He’s fine as far as I know.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Pembroke seemed to notice her for the first time, and his distraction turned to close scrutiny. She was wearing white linen slacks and a white silk shirt with the top three buttons open. She looked sophisticated yet sensual. He said, “Look here, I don’t have the time to proposition you properly now, but later… if there’s any time left for any of us, I shall.”

She found herself breaking eye contact with him, which was not her habit in these situations. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m already involved.”

“Oh, but he’ll be dead shortly.”

She looked quickly at him. “What—? Who—?”

“Thorpe.”

“Oh.” She let out a breath. “No, I meant… someone else.”

He looked surprised, then nodded. “I see… yes, of course. I’m not paying attention. Well, Abrams is a fine fellow. Do him a favor and give him the archive job.” He turned and left.

Katherine watched him as he walked toward his room. Marc Pembroke, for all his guile, was not a good liar. He had some news about Pat O’Brien, and she suspected it was not good news. She was neither shocked nor stunned. She’d expected it. She’d also expected that if O’Brien was ever sick and dying, missing, or dead, the news would be held back for as long as possible, in much the same way that the death of a great general might be kept secret to avoid panicking the troops and giving comfort to the enemy.

She felt herself shaking and leaned back against the doorjamb.

No, she thought, it was no accident that the past had returned, or that there were so many coincidental relationships, personal and familial. It had been contrived by Patrick O’Brien and his friends. Marc Pembroke probably had at least a vague understanding that he had been maneuvered since childhood to perform a function. O’Brien’s recruiting and manipulation had been more far-reaching than she’d imagined. His corporation had many subsidiaries. She thought of something an English jurist had written in the seventeenth century: Corporations cannot commit treason, nor be outlawed, nor excommunicate, for they have no souls. Also, they were ostensibly immortal. And though Patrick O’Brien might be dead, she hoped there was enough life force left in the wounded, immortal, and soulless being of his creation, so that inertia at least would carry it forward toward its last encounter with its enemy.

44

Mike Tanner drove the Lincoln into the dimly lit parking lot of the Glen Cove train station. The conversation had been confined to legal matters as instructed by Evans, who had warned that the Russians liked to plant bugs in their guests’ cars, “just to hear them talking about what a swell time they had.”

The Lincoln stopped and Abrams opened the passenger-side door. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.” He took his briefcase and closed the door.

Styler slid out the rear. “I’ll walk you.” He took Abrams’ arm and they stepped a few feet from the car. “What happened in there?”

“I saw a ghost.” He began walking slowly toward the tracks.

“You looked it. My God, you’re still pale.” He added, “You’re not home free yet. Are you being covered?”

Abrams turned to him as they walked, and regarded the older man closely. This was the first time Styler had actually acknowledged the fact that there was a mortal danger inherent in the situation. Abrams replied, “I imagine so.”

Styler said, “I hope they saw the high beams flash.”

Abrams replied, “If they were looking, they did.”

Styler glanced at his watch. “You have about ten minutes until the city-bound train comes.” He motioned ahead toward a flight of descending stairs. “That’s the pedestrian underpass that takes you to the westbound side.”

Abrams looked across the tracks at the station house, a small Victorian-style building that was dark and closed for the evening. On the platform in front of the station house, four people stood under a lamppost: a young couple and two teen-age boys, waiting for the train to Manhattan. There was no one on the eastbound platform directly in front of him. Abrams had not realized he was on the wrong side of the tracks, and having realized it, had not fully appreciated the fact that he could not cross over them but would have to take the tunnel to the other side.

Styler peered down the dark concrete staircase. “We’ll wait here until we see you board.”

“No. Go on. You’ve been told to clear out.” Abrams moved toward the stairs.

Styler nodded. “I know one shouldn’t question orders, but we can take you back to Garden City and you can catch the train there.”

“No, I’ve been instructed to take this train at this station, and if I start getting tricky I’ll lose any protection that’s been planned.” Also, he thought, if Androv had something planned, it might be interesting to see what it was. He wondered what had happened to his resolve to be more careful.

Abrams put out his hand and Styler took it. Abrams said, “I hope I was of some help on the case.”

Styler smiled. “I think you lost us that client, Abrams.” His smile changed to an expression of concern. “Good luck.” He walked back toward the car.

Abrams began to descend the steps. He heard the Lincoln pull away over the graveled blacktop. As he went farther down, he could smell the damp, fetid air. He reached the bottom step and looked into the underground passageway. It was about fifty yards long, and of the six or seven overhead lights, only one, in the middle, was still working, though it lit up most of the tunnel. He took the last step and waited for his eyes to become adjusted to the dim light.

Obviously the place was used by kids as a hangout. There were a few broken beer and wine bottles on the concrete floor, and Abrams spotted a flaccid rubber sheath that in his youth had been called a Coney Island whitefish. The gray concrete walls were covered with graffiti of a uniquely obscene variety, much better than the semiliterate walls of Brooklyn. Better schools in the suburbs, he thought. A cricket chirped somewhere close by.

Abrams began walking ahead, at a normal pace, through the long concrete tunnel. He was nearly halfway through it when he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps to his front. A figure appeared out of the gloom, then another. Two men in business suits. He stopped.

Behind him he made out the soft footfalls of someone who was trying not to be heard, then a second person joined the first; then they both dropped all pretense and began advancing at a normal pace.

Abrams turned his head and saw two men coming toward him. They were in leisure suits that looked, even from this far off in the bad lighting, very unstylish. The thought would have been irrelevant except for the associated thought: Russians.

Abrams turned and resumed his walk toward the westbound tracks. The two men to his front moved into the brighter area nearer the single light, and Abrams could see that the man closest to him was tall and blond. At first he believed it was Pembroke. But it was Kalin.

Kalin stopped and called out. “So, there you are, Abrams.” His voice boomed in the damp narrow tunnel and the cricket stopped chirping. “I was looking for you on the other side. Androv said you may ride with us back to Manhattan.”

Abrams did not reply, but slowed his pace.

Kalin said, “Please hurry. The car is this way. Come.”

Abrams heard the footsteps behind draw closer, probably to within forty feet. Abrams continued slowly toward Kalin. The man with him had stayed some distance back. Kalin said, “Come, come, Abrams. Don’t dawdle.”

Abrams picked up his pace. Kalin put his hands in his pockets. “It will be quicker this way.”

Abrams replied, “I’m sure it will be.” He drew his revolver as he walked.

Kalin’s eyebrows rose in a look of mock surprise, then a nasty smile spread across his hard face as he went for his own pistol.

Abrams had examined his revolver in the car and it looked as if it had not been tampered with. Now he was sure that if he squeezed the trigger, it would misfire or the powder charge would have been spiked with nitroglycerin and it would blow up in his hand. He let out a blood-curdling scream and charged forward.

Kalin took a second or two to recover his composure, then raised his pistol. “Halt!”

Abrams stopped in his tracks, directly beneath the overhead light.

“Hands up!”

Abrams raised his hands and quickly thrust the barrel of his revolver up through the thick glass of the light, shattering the bulb with a dull pop. He dove for the wall and flattened himself against it.

There was no sound in the black tunnel. Abrams stood still, controlling his breathing. He reversed the revolver in his hand, making it into a bludgeon, then lowered his briefcase silently and retrieved his penknife, opening the two-inch blade. He waited.

He suspected they didn’t have flashlights, or they would have used them by now. But they’d have blackjacks and perhaps knives. The KGB never left home without them.

Abrams carefully slipped his shoes off and began edging along the wall toward the westbound tracks. Darkness, he reminded himself, more than guns, was the great equalizer. He heard no movement from the Russians, not even breathing.

Abrams’ left foot came down on a shard of glass and it sliced into his arch. He drew a quick breath through his nostrils and stopped moving. Carefully, he raised his foot and pulled out the glass, feeling the warm blood soaking his sock. He flung the fragment toward the eastbound exit and heard it tinkle on the concrete floor, but it produced no reaction. They were, he thought, well disciplined. But what did he expect?

Abrams’ natural impulse was to make a break, but he knew that if they didn’t have flashlights, he could possibly sit it out. Time was basically on his side. They couldn’t stand there in a pedestrian underpass of the Long Island Rail Road forever. But he could.

Kalin must have come to the same conclusion. He called out softly to his men, and Abrams was able to understand the orders: the two men on the eastbound side — Feliks and Vasili — were to kneel in the tunnel, which was only eight feet wide, join hands, and touch the walls with their free hands, in effect blocking that side of the tunnel. Kalin and his partner, Boris, were going to move in along the walls. The space between them was going to be covered by taking Boris’ suit jacket and holding the arms outstretched between them, dragging the hem along the floor. A hammer-and-anvil technique. Abrams thought that was quite clever.

He was fairly certain now that Kalin didn’t know he understood Russian. But whether he did or not, Kalin had to give his men orders, and therefore give Abrams warning.

Abrams heard Kalin’s and Boris’ footsteps approaching and estimated they were about ten feet away. He could hear their breathing as they drew nearer, then heard the jacket dragging along the concrete floor. He thought he smelled them too: their breaths, their sweat, and a cloying lavender cologne. Abrams backtracked, edging the opposite way along the wall, toward Feliks and Vasili.

Kalin said, “How close are we to you? Say something.”

Abrams assumed the question was not directed at him, but he was interested in the answer.

One of the two men replied, “You sound close. Five meters.”

Kalin replied, “He’s right here. Between us. Be alert now.” Kalin switched to English. “Abrams, listen to me. We don’t want to harm you. We want to speak to you. May we speak to you?”

Abrams thought that Kalin had picked a funny place to chat. That’s what happened when you crossed a KGB man with a lawyer: you got a killer who wanted to discuss the pros and cons of slitting your throat in the dark.

He realized he had to make a move before the space between the hammer and anvil closed. He glanced toward the stairs on either side. Now that he’d been in the darkness so long, he could see something he hadn’t noticed before: There was a dim light from the parking lots that could be faintly seen on the steps. If he somehow made it past the Russians and got as far as the end of the tunnel, he’d be silhouetted against the light falling on the steps — a duck in a shooting gallery.

He edged back a few more feet as Kalin and Boris approached. He estimated that he had less than three feet left in which to maneuver.

So, he thought, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, he had to fight. And he had to do it here and now, close in where they’d be afraid to use guns, knives, or blackjacks. His one advantage was the fact that when the fight started, he could be sure he had no friends to worry about in the dark. They did not have this assurance.

Abrams thought of his mother’s advice to get an inside job and wondered if this counted. He wondered, too, what his parents would say if they knew their comrades were trying to kill their son.

Abrams took a long step away from the wall and positioned himself toward the center of the tunnel. He swung his briefcase high and flung it toward the eastbound steps. Abrams pivoted toward Kalin and Boris, dropping to one knee as the briefcase slapped heavily on the concrete floor and skidded.

Boris fired over the heads of Abrams, Feliks, and Vasili, toward the sound of the briefcase. Abrams saw the tongue of orange flame, heard the muffled cough of the silencer, and listened to the bullet whistle above and strike the steps and ricochet, causing a loud echoing. The smell of burnt cordite hung heavily in the damp, still air.

Abrams pointed his penknife three feet below the place where he’d seen the muzzle flash, and sprang forward. He felt the small knife slice into what he guessed was Boris’ abdomen. Even before he heard the surprised groan, he withdrew back into a crouch.

Boris’ voice sounded shaky. “I’m cut! Blood. Oh… I’m stabbed. Blood!”

“Shut up, Boris.” Kalin’s voice. “Pick up your end of the jacket.”

Abrams realized he had a hole in the net and moved in a crouch between Boris and Kalin.

But Kalin had anticipated this and had dropped back, centering himself like a middle linebacker, arms outstretched, weaving left and right, a blackjack in one hand, his pistol in the other.

Abrams’ forehead touched the cold steel of the gun, and Kalin sensed it and brought his blackjack down hard. Abrams felt the heavy blow on his right shoulder and let out an involuntary gasp as his penknife fell to the floor. A sharp kick caught him on his thigh as he fell back. He whispered in Russian, “No. It’s me.”

Kalin hesitated. Abrams stood quickly and swung the butt of his pistol at shoulder height. He felt it graze off something, and heard Kalin utter a sharp cry.

Abrams moved back against the wall, fighting back the shooting pain in his right shoulder. He knew he had to get his hands on one of their guns, but even as he thought it, he heard Kalin’s voice: “Put away the pistols! Knives and blackjacks only. Move in.”

Abrams thought Kalin sounded as if he was in some pain, but his voice was steady. The man was good.

Abrams listened and heard Boris a few feet away, on the floor, breathing irregularly. That was one gun that was still available. Abrams got down on all fours, fingertips and toes, to make the least amount of noise. He moved toward Boris and suddenly felt a warm wetness on his fingers, a great deal of it, pooling across the cold concrete. He must have severed the man’s iliac artery.

Abrams made contact with Boris’ leg, and moved his hands quickly over his body, feeling the blood-soaked abdomen, then locating his arms and hands, but he could not find the pistol. Kalin and the other two had drawn closer and were guiding themselves toward the sound Abrams was making in his frantic effort to find Boris’ pistol.

Abrams braced himself on one knee, grabbed the limp body of Boris by the shoulders and, together, they rose to a standing position. Abrams shoved the dying man toward Feliks and Vasili, hearing the collision of bodies, followed by shouts, the pounding of blackjacks, and the sound of knives grating against bones. Abrams joined the melee, swinging his pistol and bringing the butt down again and again, oblivious to everything except the motion of his arm, the thud of the wooden-handled pistol — splintered now — and the confused cries of three, then two, then one man. Abrams backed off and braced himself against the wall. He assessed the damage to his own body and discovered a superficial slice on his neck and innumerable places on his body where the two blackjacks had hit him. He felt suddenly dizzy and lowered himself to one knee.

Kalin’s voice came out of the darkness from some distance away. “Report.”

No one answered for some seconds, then a voice, winded and in pain, replied, “Vasili.”

Kalin’s voice was not as steady now. “The others? The Jew?”

Vasili replied: “I don’t know. I can’t see.”

Abrams heard another man — it had to be Feliks — moaning, then sobbing, then finally crying out in agony, “I’m dying!”

Vasili shouted, “Kalin, we must go. Help me with them.”

Abrams felt the dizziness grow worse. He tried to stand but found himself on the floor. He realized he made some noise as he fell.

Kalin barked, “Vasili! Here!”

Abrams heard the sound of footsteps approaching cautiously. Then he heard Kalin speak. “He’s lying against the wall. Don’t use your gun — it’s too close for a ricochet.”

Kalin spoke in English. “Your last chance, Abrams. You will come with us, dead or alive.”

Abrams’ head was spinning. He was running out of ideas, tricks, weapons, and steam. For a fraction of a second he considered going with them. They’d rather not kill him just yet. That was obvious. Later he’d have a chance to escape. Then he remembered the basement full of Russians, waiting for something, and he doubted there would be a later. He had to get out of here — now.

The dizziness seemed to pass, but he wasn’t certain he should try to stand yet. He felt the crease of a trouser leg touch his hand and didn’t think the man felt it. He was aware of a fragment of glass near his fingers and picked it up. It was sharp on all sides, but he grasped the glass tightly and swung it in a slashing motion across the man’s shin, feeling it slice into the flesh and scrape the bone.

The man — Vasili — bellowed, hopped back on one foot, lost his balance, and fell, still bellowing and swearing.

Abrams stood cautiously, the noise of his movement masked by the sound of Vasili whimpering.

Kalin shouted, “What happened?”

“I’m cut!”

Abrams had already stepped across to the opposite wall and was walking quickly but quietly toward the westbound tracks in his stocking feet.

Kalin shouted, “Abrams! Hands against the wall!”

Abrams could tell that Kalin had faced the opposite way when he called.

Kalin turned and called again. “Abrams! Answer me or I’ll shoot!”

There was a touch of anxiety and defeat in Kalin’s voice. Abrams didn’t envy Kalin his next meeting with Androv. Abrams removed his belt and flung it back toward the two Russians. It hit the floor, and he could hear Vasili let out a startled shout.

Abrams reached the stairs and stopped, his back to the wall. The bluish glow of the parking lot lights fell on the concrete steps. Still, he didn’t want to hang around any longer. He drew a deep breath and prepared to spring up the steps. Just before he moved, he heard a round strike a lower step, sending fragments of concrete splattering. The bullet ricocheted back and struck the wall above Abrams’ head. He heard another round strike the opposite steps and echo back through the tunnel. So, they didn’t know which way he’d gone, but they were letting him know that bounding up the steps was not without risk. In fact, it would be a fool’s bet to gamble that he could outdistance a bullet. Yet he had to get back and make a report, and if what he suspected was true, he had to do it soon.

An unsettling thought came to him: Kalin might have backup people in cars out in the parking lots on either side of the tracks. He was not home free yet. Not even close. He waited.

45

Karl Roth held his wife’s wrists in a tight grasp. “Get out of here,” he said under his breath. “Get in the van and go home.” His hands were shaking and his voice quavered.

“Like hell I will.” She pulled free of him and backed away.

He took a step toward her, but she skirted across the table and said, “You stupid, you idiotic — you — you—” She stammered over her words and tears streamed down her face. A few kitchen workers turned their heads.

Karl Roth forced a tight smile and looked at the people in the kitchen. He said, “Please begin serving. Go on. This is none of your concern.”

The serving girls began carrying the trays out of the kitchen.

Maggie was torn between exposing her husband and protecting him.

Roth waited until the serving girls had left, then looked back at his wife and held his hands up placatingly. “Now, now, Maggie. Calm yourself.” He moved toward her, but she darted around the table, then hefted a large tray of raw cut vegetables and heaved them toward him.

The tray glanced off his upraised arm and clattered to the floor. She said, “Karl — Karl — help me throw it all out — Karl — don’t let them serve—”

He nodded and made calming motions with his hands as he approached her. “Yes. Yes. Fine.”

She looked into his eyes as he drew near, then she snatched a paring knife from the table. “Stay away, Karl! Stay—”

Claudia Lepescu had come up behind her. Quickly and expertly she applied a half nelson and with her other hand delivered a sharp chopping blow to Maggie’s wrist, causing her to drop the knife. Maggie let out a piercing scream. Claudia brought her hand up over Maggie’s mouth and nose, and Maggie smelled a strange odor, then began to feel dizzy.

Karl Roth rushed forward, and together he and Claudia propelled Maggie into the butler’s pantry, a sort of auxiliary kitchen. Claudia held Maggie, whose struggling was growing weaker, then let her slip to the floor. “This is a strong old lady.” Claudia went to a small copper sink and washed the chloroform off her hands. “I knew she would be trouble.”

Roth looked down at his wife, whose eyes were closed now. “Will she be all right?”

Claudia dried her hands on a towel. “She will feel a great deal better than Mr. Van Dorn’s guests.” She smiled.

Roth was shaking so badly that he had to sit in a chair. “Why tonight? They said it would be Christmas.”

She shrugged. “Christmas, July Fourth, New Year’s Eve — they had many holidays to choose from.” She thought a moment, then added, “I suspect the Americans are too close. Everything is happening very quickly.”

Roth had his face buried in his hands and she saw that he was weeping. His words were barely intelligible. “This is terrible… terrible… ”

Claudia walked up to him and slapped him sharply across his head. “Stand up!”

Roth stood and faced her, but said nothing.

“Pick her up.”

Roth bent down and took his wife under her arms, and Claudia took her ankles. Together they carried her out the rear of the butler’s pantry, into a small hallway and up the service stairs to the third-floor servants’ quarters. They found a small maid’s room and laid her on the bed.

Roth caught his breath and looked at Claudia. “What should we do now?”

She replied, “I’m going to enjoy the party. You’re going to see that everyone has plenty to eat.”

Roth looked nervously around the small room, as though someone might be there, then said in a low voice, “How much time do we have?”

Claudia glanced at her wristwatch. “About four hours. There won’t be any effects before then.”

Roth stared at her. “What did you put in the bottle? It was to put them to sleep…?”

“You know it was poison.”

He began shaking his head, then nodded ruefully. His voice was barely a whisper. “What if they taste it? Or smell it? Did I put enough on…?”

Claudia looked annoyed. “It was something called ricin, which I am told is extracted from a castor oil bean. That is why it mixed well with the vegetable oil. But unlike the foul castor oil, this has no smell and no taste, and it only needed the light spray because it is so deadly. The blood begins to disintegrate. Death is by suffocation, and regardless of what Androv told you, it is very painful at the end. The KGB is very advanced on the subject of poisons. There will be no survivors.”

Roth sat on the edge of the bed beside his comatose wife. “But… but… what will happen to me?”

Claudia snapped, “You fool. This is the end. Don’t you understand that? At about the time these people’s blood begins to disintegrate, this country will begin to disintegrate. No one will care about you. Just take your stupid wife and go next door. But not until you’ve finished here and cleaned up. Act natural. I’ll be watching you.”

Roth tried to stand, but slumped back on the bed. “But… what if… if this thing does not happen tonight?”

Claudia laughed. “Well, then we’ll all be a little embarrassed. You will have two hundred bloated corpses ripening in the yard when the morning sun comes up, and the police will want a word with you.” She laughed again, then added. “There is no antidote for ricin.”

Roth stared at her in the dim light.

Claudia walked to the window and looked out onto the lawn and gardens. Over two hundred people milled about or sat at tables under the blue-and-white striped tent. Servants passed around small trays and left larger ones on the tables as instructed. Claudia said, “They are filling their faces. These pigs who have given us so much trouble all these years, they will all be dead by midnight.”

Roth stood and moved to her side. He stared down onto the grounds strung with Chinese lanterns. “There are children down there.”

“They are the lucky ones, Herr Roth. When you see what happens to the rest of this country later, you will not feel sorry for them.”

Roth nodded his head toward the window. “Some of these people have been your friends. The Van Dorns, the Grenvilles, the Kimberly woman… Do you not feel anything?”

“No.” She added with a touch of fatalism in her voice, “What difference would it make? There is no turning back. Whatever is to happen will happen. Most of these people are enemies and would die later anyway. Androv wants them safely dead now so they will present no threat at a critical moment. Also, I think he wants some of them dead for personal reasons.”

“But are we safe?”

She looked at him contemptuously. “Is that all that worries you? They told me you were a hero — a resistance fighter who hunted Nazis in the ruins of Berlin as the bombs were falling.”

“One gets old.”

“That is a paradox, is it not? The young with years to live are reckless, and the old worry about their few failing years or months.” She turned and walked toward the door. “Are we safe? Who knows? When the lights go out, is anyone safe?”

Roth remembered the New York blackout of 1977, the looting, rioting, and burning.

Claudia turned back to him. “None of us wishes to be caught in a country in its death throes. You remember what that was like, Herr Roth.”

Roth remembered exactly what it had been like. Starvation, mass suicides, summary executions, and disease. The days were nightmares and the nights were hell.

Claudia added, “But it is our duty and our fate to witness this. If we succeed and survive, we will be rewarded.”

Roth nodded. That’s what they’d told him in Berlin in 1945. But this time, at least, there were no more exploiters of the people, no more enemies of the revolution. Odd, he thought, how long it had been since he had spoken or even thought of slogans or words like that. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d stopped believing in the revolution long ago.

Claudia seemed to guess his thoughts. “It’s too late, Roth.” She added in a whisper, “Tomorrow morning the sun will rise on a new world. The struggle will be over, and you can rest. Just survive the next twenty-four hours.” She left the room.

Roth looked back at the unconscious figure of his wife. He remembered as if it were yesterday the last message he’d received from Henry Kimberly in Berlin, and it was, word for word, the whispered message he had just received from this woman.

George Van Dorn stood in his ground-floor study, his hands behind his back, and stared through the bay window. “Quite a party. I do it right.”

Tom Grenville, standing in the center of the room, concurred. “Very nice, George. Should we go outside?”

“No. I hate parties.”

Grenville shrugged. George Van Dorn, he reflected, was somewhat like his nearby mythical neighbor, Jay Gatsby, staging perfect parties that he never attended. “Can I get you a drink, George?”

“No. I’d like to keep a clear head tonight.”

Grenville’s eyebrows arched.

Van Dorn added, “You should too.”

Grenville looked down at the drink in his hand, then placed the glass on an end table.

Van Dorn turned from the window and began striding around the room, hands still behind his back. Grenville watched him, juxtaposed against the walls covered with old World War II campaign maps, and a large mounted globe in the center of the room. Grenville was reminded of Napoleon brooding over the fate of the world. “Something on your mind, George?”

Van Dorn stopped pacing. “Lots of things.” He looked up at the mantel clock. “I guess I should begin my assault on the enemy positions.”

“Assault…? Oh, the fireworks.” Grenville smiled.

Van Dorn nodded. “Sit down, Tom. I want a word with you.”

Grenville sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair.

Van Dorn remained standing. He was silent for some time, then said, “Your father was a man whom I respected. His death after the war from his brutal treatment in the Jap POW camp moved me deeply. More so, I think, than if he’d died in battle.”

Grenville nodded cautiously.

“Anyway, out of respect for him, I’m going to speak to you as an uncle. About your wife.”

Grenville’s face revealed an almost disappointed look, as though he’d expected that Van Dorn was going to confide some important business matter. “Oh…” He assumed a neutral expression.

“I want to be tactful, but at the same time direct.” Van Dorn lit a cigar and exhaled a stream of smoke. “She’s fucking nearly everybody. What are you going to do about it?”

“Oh…” Grenville ran his hand through his hair and lowered his head. His domestic problem had just become a professional problem. This was serious. He looked up. “I’ll divorce her.”

“Normally, I would concur. But I have a better idea… ” He rubbed his heavy jowls, then continued, “Joan is in fine physical shape, as anyone can see.” He stared at Grenville, who seemed, if not actually embarrassed, then at least ill at ease. Van Dorn went on. “You know, Tom, during the war the OSS recruited all types. A good deal of recruiting was done out of expediency. If a person had only one skill or attribute that we needed, then he — or she — was recruited on an ad hoc basis, usually for a one-time-only mission.”

“George, if you’re suggesting that I allow my wife to use her… her physical attraction for some mission—”

Van Dorn cut him off with a wave of his arm. “No, Tom. I can find fifty femmes fatales. I am interested in her body, but only in a peripheral way. What I have in mind is a mission that requires someone with a good deal of physical stamina, coupled with a slight build. For all Joan’s charms, she has the build of a boy.” He thought to himself, I’ve seen better tits and ass on a snake.

Grenville cleared his throat. “I don’t think Joan would even consider—”

“I have a file on her so thick you could stand on it and change a light bulb. She will be the most impoverished divorcée in Scarsdale, or she will play ball.” Van Dorn stared at the seated figure of Grenville. “I also want you to know that there is a strong element of danger involved in—”

The door suddenly swung open and Van Dorn turned quickly toward it, his hand sliding inside his jacket.

Kitty Van Dorn entered, balancing a tray in one hand. “There you are.”

“And there you are.”

“And Tom. Where’s Joan? We haven’t seen her for some time.” Kitty smiled.

Grenville stood and smiled back weakly. “She went to the ladies’—”

Kitty said, “What are you both doing all alone in this stuffy, smoky room?”

Van Dorn replied, “Tom and I are having a homosexual affair, Kitty.”

“Oh, George.” She offered the tray to Grenville. “Try the pâté. Sit down.”

Grenville did as he was told, in the order he was told.

“Ginger loves the pâté.”

Van Dorn commented, “I’ve got a wife named Kitty and a cat named Ginger.”

Kitty turned and held the tray out to her husband. “Karl really outdid himself this time. I’ve never seen such variety.”

Van Dorn picked up a toast point covered with pink salmon mousse in the shape of a rosebud. He noticed globules of what looked like oil or glycerin on the mousse, hesitated, then put it in his mouth and chewed. “Pussy food. Next time we’ll roast a few steers and hogs.”

Kitty set the tray on his desk. “George, everyone is waiting for the fireworks.”

“Well, if they’re paying for them, tell them to give the order to fire when ready.”

A dark frown crossed her brow, as though she had just remembered something. “George, who are those pyrotechnicians? I’ve never seen them before. What happened to the Grinaldis?”

“They blew themselves up.”

She turned to Grenville. “The Grinaldis have national reputations as pyrotechnicians. George does it right.”

Grenville nodded. “Yes, he—”

Van Dorn turned abruptly to his wife. “Have you seen Pembroke?”

She thought a moment. “Pembroke…”

Van Dorn snapped, “The tall Limey with an icicle up his arse.”

“Oh… yes… a friend of Tom’s… and Joan’s…” She glanced at Grenville, remembering there was some talk of trouble at the May Day party, then turned quickly back to her husband. “Mr. Pembroke wasn’t feeling well and went to his room.”

“Send someone for him.”

“He’s not feeling—”

Van Dorn puffed prodigiously on his cigar, a visible sign to his wife that he was about to explode.

She moved quickly toward the door. “Yes, dear.” She made a quick exit.

Van Dorn shot a glance at Grenville to see if he’d learned a valuable object lesson on wives.

Grenville looked uncomfortable. He stood again and said, “I guess I’d better leave.”

“I guess not.”

A bell chimed and Van Dorn walked across the room and disappeared behind a Japanese silk screen that hid an alcove. He reappeared with a sheet of telex paper and went to a wall safe behind a hinged picture. He opened the safe and took out a small code book, then handed both to Grenville. “Decode this message, then we’ll finish our discussion about your wife.”

Grenville took the message and book and moved behind Van Dorn’s desk.

George Van Dorn walked to the French doors and threw them open. The doors let out onto a small secluded garden on the side of the house, separated from the activity out back. Van Dorn walked across the flagstones and lowered himself into an old wooden deck chair. He blew smoke rings up at the moon and listened to the noise of his party.

He thought about Pat O’Brien, realizing that the shadowy mantle of leadership might settle on his shoulders, though neither he nor apparently anyone knew how these things were decided.

He thought too of Styler, Tanner, and Abrams, and wondered how they were faring. Van Dorn’s opinion of Abrams had gone from bare tolerance to grudging respect after he had been briefed on the man’s recent activities. O’Brien, he conceded, knew men.

But, Van Dorn concluded, there must have been one man whom O’Brien thought he knew well enough to let him get close to him, but not well enough for him to suspect that the man was to be his killer.

Van Dorn looked up into the clear starry night sky. Queer, he thought, that hell should lie below and the heavens above, yet the end, when it came, would come out of the heavens, just as nearly every apocalyptic writing had predicted.

And it was coming. That much they had discovered. Though none of them knew exactly when or how. But Van Dorn knew enough to try to stop it, and enough to know it was going to be a near thing.

Marc Pembroke returned to his room. “Have you seen any headlights?”

“Yes.” Joan Grenville continued looking out the window, fearful of his reaction if she turned to him. “About two minutes ago.”

“Could you see the car?”

“Yes, as it moved along the drive, I got a glimpse of it. It was sort of long and square and it had those carriage lights on the side, like a Lincoln.”

Pembroke took the binoculars and focused on the Russian house. He said, “You didn’t see the high beams flash, did you?”

“Well…”

He turned to her.

“Yes. I’m sure I did. Twice. I could see the trees lit up.”

Pembroke threw the binoculars on the bed and moved quickly toward the door.

Joan called out, “Marc… there’s something I should tell you.”

He turned back and said impatiently, “What?”

“Tony Abrams… Friday night he was in my room at the town house…”

Pembroke turned his back on her and reached for the doorknob. “Who cares?”

“No… I’m not confessing — I mean we didn’t make it… but he told me something I was supposed to tell—”

Pembroke removed his hand from the doorknob and turned. “Go on.”

“Tony said that if he disappeared or died, I was to relay a message to Katherine Kimberly.” She looked at Pembroke. “Has something happened to him?”

“Any reports of his death would be premature, but I wouldn’t underwrite life insurance on him. What were you supposed to tell Katherine?”

She hesitated. Having reluctantly absorbed some rudimentary security awareness over the years, she wasn’t certain Pembroke was the person who should be hearing this. But neither did she think Katherine — a woman — was the proper recipient of secrets. And Marc had been grilling her about this and that, and seemed concerned about Tony Abrams. Yet—

Pembroke crossed the room and stood in front of her. He slid his hands between her arms and the sides of her breasts and said, “Go on, Joan. It’s all right.”

She looked up into his eyes and saw that it was all right, if she went on; but if she didn’t, it was not going to be all right. She said, “You can tell Katherine if you want to. Tony Abrams said, ‘I discovered on the roof that Claudia is a friend of Talbot’s.’” She shrugged. “That’s it. Do you know what that means?”

Pembroke said, “Why did he confide in you?”

Joan smiled. “He said I was the least likely person to be involved in intrigue of a nonsexual nature.”

Pembroke nodded. He had come to the same conclusion about Joan Grenville. Abrams judged well. It was interesting, too, that Abrams had hedged his bet regarding Katherine. He thought she was reliable, but was not going to bet his life on it. Best to make posthumous revelations. If you were wrong, no one could kill you. Pembroke released his grip on Joan. “Get dressed and join the party. If I’m not back within the hour, tell Katherine what Abrams told you.” He turned toward the door.

“What the hell is going on now? Marc!”

“A legal matter.” He hurried toward the door and threw it open.

Kitty Van Dorn — a firm believer in the adage that if you want something done right, do it yourself — was standing poised to knock. She smiled, “Oh, Marc, George would like to see you if you’re feeling—” She spotted Joan Grenville standing naked in the room and let out a low moan, a curious mixture of disappointment and despair, as though somehow the party were irrevocably ruined by this selfish, bestial conduct under her very roof. “Ooohh…”

Pembroke excused himself formally, and brushed past her into the hallway.

Joan Grenville smiled nervously. “Oh, Kitty…”

Kitty Van Dorn put her hand to her forehead, turned, and staggered down the hall.

Stanley Kuchik sat cross-legged in a far corner of the empty swimming pool, a tray of pastry on his lap and three bottles of beer lined up against the pool wall. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his busboy jacket and belched.

“Hey!” called a man at the deep end of the empty pool. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Stanley looked down at the sloping end of the Olympic-size pool, dimly illuminated by the recessed lighting in the tiled walls. “I’m on a break.”

“You’re jerking off.”

“No, I’m on a break.”

“Sure. Get your ass over here and give us a hand or I’ll run you off.”

“Shit.” Stanley set aside the tray, grabbed a bottle of beer, and moved sulkily down to the far end of the pool. About three fourths of the pool floor was covered with boxes, wires, and clusters of small rocket launchers, loaded and ready to go.

The man who had called him said a bit more kindly, “I’m Don. This is Wally and Lou. What’s your name?”

“Kuchik. Stanley.”

“A Polack.”

“No, Slovakian.”

“Same difference.”

Stanley looked at the three men. They were old. Mid-thirties, he guessed. They wore dark jeans and khaki-colored tank-top T-shirts. They were all sweating.

Don said, “We’re pyrotechnicians. You know what that means?”

Stanley looked around the area and scrutinized the boxes with Chinese lettering. “I guess it means you shoot fireworks.”

“Smart kid. See those barrels? When we start shooting, you take the wrappings, cardboard boxes, and all the leftover shit and stuff it in those barrels. If you do okay, you can fire a salvo.”

Stanley was torn between his innate curiosity and his inherent laziness. “Okay. But I got to get back in a while.”

“Right. You can start now. Get those empty cartons and crush them. But don’t touch nothing else, don’t push no buttons. And no smoking.”

“Okay.” Stanley began flattening boxes and stuffing them into the big wooden barrels.

After a while he wandered back to the center of the pool, where an old army camouflage tarp covered what appeared to be a stack of boxes. Stanley caught a glimpse of a small wooden crate peeking out from the tarp. He moved closer to the crate and stared down at the black stenciled letters: 81MM HEAT.

He continued staring at the crate for some time, thinking, They must use these crates to store things, because that’s not what’s inside.

He looked around surreptitiously, then peeled the tarp farther back. Dozens of crates were stacked to form a chest-high wall. Stanley crouched down and peered further into the tentlike enclosure. Sitting on the concrete floor of the pool was a long metal tube pointing up at a forty-five-degree angle. The tube sat on a round base plate and was supported by a bipod. It was, in fact, Stanley knew, an eighty-one-millimeter mortar, and it was pointed toward the Russian house. “Jesus H. Christ.”

46

Abrams crouched against the wall. The situation had not improved dramatically. Neither had it deteriorated, however. The train hadn’t passed overhead; he assumed it was late. Time and space seemed frozen in this black, noiseless place, and his only awareness of movement or life was his breathing and the beating of his heart.

Abrams decided he needed help, and since none seemed to be at hand, he’d invent an imaginary friend — a dangerous one. He crouched into a tight ball and called out, “Pembroke? Is that you?” His voice echoed in the tunnel. Abrams waited, but drew no fire. He called again, “Yes, they’re down here. Can you block the other exit?” He paused, then said, “Good. I’ll sit tight.”

Abrams listened and heard the unmistakable sounds of Kalin and Vasili beating a hasty retreat, carrying their casualties.

Abrams resisted, then gave in to a childish impulse. He called back into the tunnel in near perfect Russian, “Kalin, tell Androv the Jew sends his regards.” Abrams waited a second longer, then despite his pains and light-headedness, dashed up the steps, taking them four and five at a time, until he knew he was not in view from the tunnel. He stopped near the top step and peered out onto the parking lot.

A black Ford was visible in the lot ahead, its front end facing him; it bore diplomatic license plates. Abrams assumed the car belonged to the Russians. He could see the head of the driver through the windshield and another man sitting beside him. That was the car that was going to take him for a ride if he had come along peacefully.

He rose a bit higher and scanned the hedges planted around the tracks and platform, but he didn’t see anyone. He heard a sound and became rigid, listening. The Manhattan-bound train was rumbling down the tracks.

Abrams climbed the last few steps and mounted the low platform. He glanced back at the Russians in the car They’d spotted him. One man was watching him, and Abrams could see in the dim light that the driver was holding something to his face — a radio microphone. Abrams began walking toward the darkened station house about fifty yards away. There were ten people there now, standing on the platform. Behind him the train’s whistle sounded two short blasts and the track rumbled.

Across the tracks he saw another black Ford moving parallel to him through the opposite parking lot. He could make out a face in the passenger-side window staring at him and thought it might be Kalin.

Abrams stopped about five yards from the group of people and eyed them. They all looked straight. Kalin had never expected him to get this far. Several people on the platform were stealing glances at him. He realized he had blood on his face, hands, and shirt. Also, he was shoeless. He hoped that a good citizen would summon a cop.

Abrams took stock: He’d lost the briefcase, but there was nothing in it except the file on the Russian Mission versus Van Dorn. He’d lost his licensed revolver, and that would cause him some legal problems, assuming anyone would be interested after the bombs fell, or whatever was going to happen. But he hadn’t lost his life, and that was a plus.

He wondered if they’d gotten Sam Hammond in the tunnel, on the train, or in Penn Station. He wondered too where the hell his backup was. Had they left him out in the cold on purpose? No, they would want him live to be debriefed. If they knew he had met Henry Kimberly, they’d have sent a limousine for him.

The train whistle blasted again and its headlight shone in a beam down the tracks. It slowed with a screech of airbrakes and came to a stop.

Abrams walked through the boarding and unboarding passengers, then stepped up to the connecting decks between the last two cars. There were two short blasts of the whistle and the train moved off, gathering speed. Abrams waited until he came abreast of the station house, which blocked the Russians’ view from the parking lot. He jumped off the moving train back onto the platform, shoulder-rolled, and sprang up into a crouch. He made his way quickly to the far side of the old station house and found a parked cab at the taxi stand. The driver, a young black man, was sleeping behind the wheel. Abrams, still in a crouch, opened the rear door and slid in quickly. He lowered himself to the floor, reached up, and shook the driver’s shoulder. “Let’s go!”

The driver woke with a start. “What? Where?” His hand automatically went for the ignition key and he started the engine. “What? Where you goin’?” He looked in the rearview mirror. “Where you at?”

“Behind the preposition. Move out.”

“Move out where?”

“Van Dorn’s. Big place on Dosoris Lane. Let’s go.”

The driver put the cab in gear and began moving slowly. “You okay, man?”

“I dropped my toothbrush. Move faster.”

The cab swung toward the parking lot exit. “Want a light on?”

“No. Just drive.”

“Who you runnin’ from, man?”

“The Russian secret police.”

The driver whistled. “Whew — them dudes fuckin’ with you?”

“They’re always fucking with me.” Abrams made himself comfortable on the floor. The cab turned north on St. Andrew’s Lane.

The driver said, “Van Dorn’s, you say? No sweat findin’ that dude. Follow the fireworks.”

Abrams looked up at the window and saw star clusters bursting in the northern sky. Abrams said, “Are we being followed?”

The driver checked his rearview mirror. “Headlights… don’t know if he’s followin’ or followin’.”

“Well, assume he’s followin’ and step on it.”

The cab lurched ahead and gathered speed, swinging north on Dosoris Lane.

Abrams toyed with the idea that the driver wasn’t straight, but decided he’d been unduly influenced by too many spy movies. “What’s your name?”

“Wilfred.”

Abrams held his wallet up over the back of the seat. “NYPD, Wilfred. Blow the stop lights and signs.”

The driver glanced at the badge and ID. “Okay, man. But this is Nassau County.”

“Don’t sweat the geopolitics. We’re all Americans.”

The driver increased his speed, slowed for a red light, then went through it. He glanced in his rearview mirror and said, “They’s followin’.”

“What are they driving?”

Wilfred looked in the rearview mirror, then the sideview mirror. “Looks like a black Ford. Four men.”

The cab suddenly came to a halt. Abrams said, “What’s happening, Wilfred?”

“Traffic jam. Always catch it here when the fireworks start goin’.”

“Is that joker still behind us?”

“Kissin’ my bumper.”

“Cops up ahead?”

“Way up.”

Abrams rose and looked back through the rear window. A black car was, as Wilfred said, almost bumper to bumper with the cab. He could see four men silhouetted through the windshield. He turned and looked at the line of traffic. About a hundred yards ahead were police cars. Abrams gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks, Wilfred. You don’t look Russian. I never should have doubted you.”

Wilfred nodded. “You gonna ’rest them dudes?”

“Not right at this moment.” Abrams opened the door and got out on the curb side. He began walking along the shoulder of the road, passing the line of stalled traffic. A few people in the cars looked at him. He heard a car door slam behind him, followed by quick footsteps in the gravel. A man came up behind him and said, “There you are.”

Abrams kept walking as he replied, “If you’re the cavalry, you’re a little late.”

Pembroke fell into step beside him. “Sorry, old man. You left Ivan’s a bit earlier than we thought. Traffic to the station was dreadful. Holiday evening. No excuse, though.”

Abrams didn’t reply.

Pembroke continued, “Actually, I had put a chap on the train a few stations back to watch over you.”

“Thoughtful of you. How about a cigarette?”

Pembroke gave him one and lit it for him, then said, “You look a bit disheveled. They went for you in the underpass, did they? I knew they wouldn’t knock you off in their house, of course, but I thought they’d go for you on the train, or back in Manhattan.”

“Well, they had other ideas.”

Pembroke said, “I know you’re annoyed, and I do apologize.” He looked down and said, “You’re limping. Are you going to make it without your shoes?”

“Can I get into Van Dorn’s with dirty socks?”

Pembroke smiled. “I’ll sneak you in the servants’ entrance.”

“Swell.”

They walked a while longer, then Pembroke said, “Why did you decide to come back here?”

“Because I decided not to get on the train.”

Pembroke nodded, then after a minute said, “Actually, you never intended to take that train, did you? You discovered something of immediate value. That’s why you flashed the high beams. You thought we’d meet you at the station and take you to Van Dorn’s.”

“Could be.”

Pembroke nodded again, then said, “Well, that’s not my business unless someone makes it so. But I will get you an audience with George.”

“That’s all I want.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry about the foul-up. Did you think I left you hanging on purpose?”

Abrams flipped his cigarette away. “While I was in the tunnel, the thought crossed my mind.”

“I’m on your side, Abrams. You did me an immense favor by staying alive. My career could have been ruined.”

“Mine too.”

“Do you want to work for me?”

“What’s your work product?”

“Corpses. I suppose you know that. The pay is excellent.”

“No, thanks.”

“You’d be very good. Speak Russian, ex-policeman—”

“Blue Cross, major medical?”

“Of course. I’m incorporated under the laws of New York State. British Technologies. Prestigious address in Rockefeller Center. Secretary, water cooler—”

“Gun rack. I’ll think it over.”

“Good.”

They came within sight of the gates to the Russian estate across the road. The gates were clear of demonstrators tonight, and police vehicles were lined up on the shoulders. Pembroke said, “The police will be curious about your appearance.”

Abrams took off his jacket, threw it in a clump of bushes, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He peeled off his bloody socks, then took a handkerchief from Pembroke and wiped his hands and face. “Do I look suburban and summery?”

“Well… in the dark. Let’s go, then.”

They continued past the police cars, getting a few hard, appraising stares. After a few minutes they came within sight of Van Dorn’s driveway and Pembroke said, “It’s rather a good party, and after you’re debriefed, you should stay and enjoy yourself. I’ll fix you up with some clothing.”

“Is Claudia there?”

Pembroke drew on his cigarette and glanced at Abrams. He replied lightly, “Yes, but Katherine is there as well. Be careful, old man. You haven’t come this far to get knifed by a jealous woman.” He laughed.

Abrams stopped to pick out a piece of gravel that had worked itself into the wound on his foot. “Is Thorpe there?”

“No.”

Abrams continued walking. “Where is he?”

“Don’t know, really.” Pembroke flipped away his cigarette. “You know, Abrams, I wonder if we didn’t make a mistake by not killing him when we had the opportunity.”

“When did we get incorporated?”

“Well, I mean—”

“Listen, Pembroke, I’ve never killed in cold blood, but I would have killed Thorpe. Yet you, who’ve made killing a cottage industry, did not kill the man who deserved it most.”

Pembroke didn’t respond immediately, then nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. Sometimes one can be too professional and ignore instinct.”

Abrams wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead. The night was still, and the walk was beginning to wear on him. Days that began at dawn never boded well for him. Days that included mayhem, lovemaking, and hard thinking left him weary. He yawned.

Pembroke said, “Joan Grenville told me about Claudia. I wish I’d known sooner.”

“Everyone wishes they’d known everything sooner,” Abrams said. “I wish I’d known this morning who won this afternoon’s Metropolitan at Belmont. So what? What are you going to do about Claudia? Or is she already done?”

“She’s among the living. It’s not my business to decide what to do about her, nor yours.”

“I never thought it was mine.”

Pembroke added, “I’m surprised O’Brien and Company took her in. I’ve never yet had a good experience with an ex — Eastern Bloc resident.” He thought a moment, then said, “But perhaps she’s been turned, or has been a double all along. That’s why you can’t go about knocking people off until you know the facts.”

“Well, as of Friday night when she set me up to be pushed off the roof, she was working for them.”

Pembroke nodded to himself. “I wondered who lured you up to the roof. Your story seemed to lack details. I actually thought it might have been Joan, even Katherine.”

“No, it was Claudia.”

“Interesting… but don’t discount the possibility that she set you up in order to establish her bona fides with Thorpe and/or the Russians. Sometimes one agent has to sacrifice another to establish credibility.”

“You people play a nasty game.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. That’s why I keep out of that end of it, Abrams. Killing people is much less confusing. My father liked the intrigue. I find it too morally ambivalent for my taste.”

“Your father was in intelligence?”

“Yes, recently retired.”

They continued along the road, up a gentle rise. Abrams said suddenly, “Is James Allerton at Van Dorn’s?”

Pembroke regarded him for some seconds, then answered, “No. He went back to Washington. Why do you ask?”

“Is he with the President this weekend?”

Pembroke considered the question, then replied, “I’m not certain. The President is at Camp David, according to the newspapers. Why is it necessary to know if Allerton is with the President?”

Abrams considered his response a moment, then said, “It may be necessary to contact the President. I thought if Allerton was with him, then Van Dorn may actually be able to get through to Allerton quickly. . .”

“Is it urgent?”

Abrams looked at him. “I think so. But you’re not interested in that end of it.”

Pembroke smiled politely. “Normally I’m not. But when people start suggesting that a working knowledge of Russian may prove useful for daily existence, then my interest is aroused.”

Abrams replied, “I’ll speak to Van Dorn.”

They walked silently for another minute, then crossed the road between the slow-moving traffic and passed through the entrance to Van Dorn’s estate. A security guard sitting in a parked car recognized Pembroke and waved them on. Abrams followed Pembroke up the rising drive and saw the big lighted house as they turned a bend. From the rear of the house another salvo of rockets rose into the clear, windless night sky and exploded in red, white, and blue showers of sparks. Abrams said, “Can I trust Van Dorn?”

Pembroke replied, “My God, I hope so.” He added, “I believe he’s running the show now.”

“Why shouldn’t I go to the FBI?”

“You may if you wish. Or the CIA. Both are very close by. If you decide to go, I’ll run you over with my car — I mean, I’ll drive you over.” He laughed.

Abrams glanced at him and understood his meaning clearly. “Let’s talk to Van Dorn.”

47

Viktor Androv stood in front of a north-facing gable window, his back to the three other men in the room. He stared toward George Van Dorn’s house. Balls of fire appeared over the distant tree line and rose lazily above the horizon of Long Island Sound, then burst apart into the moonlit sky. Androv imagined that he was watching a miniature of the explosion that would soon light up most of the North American continent for a few brief but fateful seconds.

Androv said, “At least he isn’t blaring his music. Well, after tonight we’ll never be bothered by him again.”

Androv turned from the window and faced Alexei Kalin, who stood at attention across the large darkened attic room. “So, Alexei, where did we go wrong, my friend? You had three trained men with you in the tunnel. You had two cars, each with two men, for a total of… let’s see… eight men, including yourself, all of you agents of the Komitet Gossudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the most feared state security agency in the world. And you were asked to bring here, for interrogation, one Jew. Correct?”

Kalin nodded stiffly. “Correct.”

“So… so it was not a particularly difficult mission, was it, Alexei?”

“No, it was not.”

“But instead of delivering me one Jew, you return with one dead man, whose poor wife is downstairs waiting for you to tell her where her husband is. Also, you present me with the unfortunate Feliks, who seems to have been beaten and knifed by his comrades, and Vasili, who appears to be suffering from great mental agitation. And look at you. You’re filthy.”

Kalin stared straight ahead.

“Perhaps you can explain to me how the Jew accomplished this.”

“I have no explanation.”

Androv said with biting sarcasm, “No? There is no logical explanation for this deplorable failure? At least tell me that the Jew had divine intervention. Tell me that Moses descended on you swinging his staff in the dark. I would sooner believe that than believe that one Jew outwitted and outfought four men of the KGB. Please, Alexei, let me report to Moscow that there is a God and He works for the Jews.”

Kalin’s face was set in the immobile expression required for these dressing downs. Kalin knew that whatever Androv finally told Moscow would exonerate both him and Androv. Feliks and Vasili would not fare so well. Kalin, of course, would then be owned by Androv until the debt was repaid, or until the tables could be turned. That was the way the system worked.

Androv ended his harangue and added, “I’m only sorry that our distinguished guest had to witness this.”

Henry Kimberly sat in a plastic-molded swivel chair, his legs crossed and his fingertips pressed together. He was dressed in casual slacks, blue blazer, and loafers. He said in Russian, “Please don’t consider me more than a loyal party man.”

Androv protested, “But you are. Before this week is out you will be the most famous man in America. Perhaps in the world. You will be the new American President.”

Henry Kimberly said nothing.

Androv turned back to Kalin. “Well, Alexei, sit down. We have another bungler joining us. Your friend Thorpe.” He looked again toward Kimberly. “Are you eager to meet your daughter’s lover?”

Kimberly seemed somewhat surprised at the question. He replied, “Not particularly.”

Androv sat heavily in another swivel chair. “If you would like, Henry, we can arrange to have her brought here tonight.”

Henry Kimberly sat motionless in his chair. He thought about Katherine as he had last seen her, a little girl of two. He suddenly recalled the signed picture he had sent her, right before his “death,” and he remembered that someone — Thorpe, he guessed — had told Kalin that the picture was hanging in Katherine’s office. He also thought about his daughter Ann, and remembered her letters to him and his to her. He’d had to leave all his mementos behind at Brompton Hall when he left for Berlin. He’d had to leave Eleanor behind as well, and his parting had been rather temperate, his last words being, “I’ll see you in about two weeks, Ellie. The war will be over by then and we’ll open that bottle of ’Thirty-seven Moët.”

He had put some of his affairs in order, as men do when they are going out on risky business, but had done nothing or taken nothing with him that would lead anyone to suspect that he knew he was never coming back. In fact, he remembered with a touch of amused irony, he had borrowed a hundred dollars from George Van Dorn before he left for Berlin. With interest, he owed Van Dorn about four thousand dollars.

Androv coughed pointedly, and said, “The decision regarding your daughter is entirely yours, Henry. But you should know that by now Karl Roth has poisoned everyone next door.”

Kimberly did not seem moved by this news.

Androv continued, “We chose an extremely rare substance for which no antidote is known in the West. But our Technical Operations Directorate has developed such an antidote. If we get your daughter here within four hours, she can be saved.” He looked at Henry Kimberly. “Please advise me.”

Kimberly said, “What does her fiancé advise?”

Androv smiled slowly, then replied, “Ah, young men are fickle. He no longer loves her, but would not mind if she lived to see the wave of the future wash over her little sand castles. I believe he wants to keep her as a maidservant. He’s a nasty young man.”

Kimberly nodded, then replied, “If you can save her without jeopardizing the mission, or”—he nodded toward Kalin—“or any more men, then do so. But I have no desire to see her. If she is brought here, keep her away from me.”

Androv said, “Yes, it might be upsetting to you if you met. And you have important work to do—”

“Please don’t anticipate my psychological reaction to anything.”

“Forgive me.” Androv regarded Kimberly for some time. After a month under the same roof, Androv could not understand the man’s motivations, much less his wants, needs, fears, or aspirations. Yet Kimberly was in many ways like other Western defectors he’d met in Moscow: strangers in a strange land, stuck in a previous time frame.

Kimberly turned from Androv and addressed Alexei Kalin. “How well do you know this Peter Thorpe?”

Kalin sat up. “I’m his control officer.”

“Do you like him? Or is he, as Viktor suggested, a nasty young man?”

Kalin replied diplomatically, “He is rather… odd. But he can be charming with the ladies.”

Kimberly nodded. “Takes after his natural father. James Allerton was no ladies’ man.” He smiled, then asked Kalin, “Is this the type of man I’d want around me as an aide?”

Kalin’s eyes went to Androv, and it was Androv who answered, “This is the type of man who should be liquidated.” He added quickly, “But you will want to decide for yourself, of course. Let’s have him come up. I’ve also invited some others whom you’ve met only briefly.” He pressed the intercom button. “Send them up.”

Androv looked down the length of the long attic that lay over the central wing of the house. The sloped walls were lined with electronic consoles whose lighting provided most of the room’s illumination. At the far end of the attic, nearly one hundred feet away, a lone man, the communications duty officer, sat hunched over the radio that was in continuous contact with the Kremlin.

Androv said, “Gentlemen, I do not know the precise time of the Stroke, but I think it will be before dawn.” He pointed across the room. “Do you see those two steady green lights?” The two men turned and saw two burning green lights in the distant dimness, like cats’ eyes glowing in the night. Androv continued, his voice heavy, “That is the highest alert status we’ve ever had from Moscow — it means the Stroke is imminent. There’s a third green light that will begin blinking when the final countdown begins. When all three lights are steady green, the Stroke is only minutes away.”

48

The heavy metal door to the attic opened, silhouetting a tall man dressed in a military uniform. He entered, followed by another Russian with swept-back hair and dark glasses, and dressed in a brown business suit. Peter Thorpe came in last. The two Russians stood aside, one of them closing the door.

Androv stood and made the introduction. “Major Henry Kimberly, please meet Major Peter Thorpe.”

Kimberly stood and took Thorpe’s hand. “How do you do?”

Thorpe could not hide his surprise at meeting a man he thought had been dead for forty years, then forced his features into an emotionless mask. He looked into Kimberly’s clear blue eyes and replied, “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

Androv said offhandedly, “That may be the last pleasure you experience, Thorpe.”

Thorpe looked at Androv, a mixture of anger and apprehension in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Androv addressed Kimberly. “Henry, you may remember these two gentlemen. This is Colonel Mikhail Karpenko of the Eighth Directorate of the KGB, which, as you know, is responsible for satellite communications, ciphers, and diplomatic transmission. This room is his domain.”

Karpenko, a tall, cadaverous bald-headed man with veins popping on his skull, bowed his head stiffly.

Androv continued, “And this is Valentin Metkov, of Department Five of the First Chief Directorate, known unofficially as the Department of Mokrie Dela—Wet Affairs.” Androv turned to Thorpe. “Coincidentally, what your CIA comrades call ‘wet stuff.’ Murder.”

Metkov pursed his thin lips and nodded to himself, as if he were discovering this information for the first time.

Androv motioned Karpenko, Metkov, and Thorpe toward swivel chairs. He saw that Karpenko and Metkov had both glanced at the green lights on the far console. Androv said, “Yes, the time is drawing near.”

Thorpe thought Alexei Kalin, who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence, looked moody and sullen. Thorpe also noticed that Kalin was disheveled and there was a bruise on his cheek. At Langley, Thorpe would have concluded that the man had gotten into a scrape. Here, it was quite possible that Kalin’s boss had had him beaten. These people were crude by the standards Thorpe was accustomed to. He felt an unfamiliar fear grip at his throat.

The talking stopped and Androv leaned back in his chair. He frowned at Thorpe. “Well, Peter, you were told never to come here, but here you are. Ordinarily this would be an inexcusable breach of security. However, as it turns out, tonight is the night of the Stroke, and I may consider a pardon if you can convince me that you’re not an imbecile.”

Thorpe’s face reddened. In all his clandestine meetings with the Russians, it had been he who had been rude, abrasive, and arrogant. His only meeting with Androv, two years before, had ended with Thorpe lecturing Androv about the personal hygiene of one of Androv’s couriers. But now he was in the wolf’s lair, and apparently he’d shown up on the last night of his usefulness. Rotten luck.

Androv said, “For a man with so much to say, you’re very quiet. Perhaps you are an imbecile.”

Thorpe knew that he had to be cautious, without being apologetic. He would not, could not, grovel. He put a tone of annoyance in his voice. “I want to know why the timetable has been moved up without your informing me. I want to know what you intended to do to insure my safety.”

Androv answered, “The timetable has been moved up because of recent events, one of them being what you yourself discovered from West. If you had gone to the party next door as you were supposed to, you would have been approached by Claudia and given the instructions you needed to survive. Is that explanation satisfactory?”

Thorpe nodded.

Androv added, “I assume you would not have come here unless it was urgent. Tell us what is on your mind.”

Thorpe crossed his legs and said, “Nicholas West is dead. Eva killed him. I killed her.”

Androv looked around the room, his eyes passing over Kimberly; then he focused on Thorpe. “That’s unfortunate but not urgent, and not crucial any longer. Tell me, where did you spend this afternoon?”

Thorpe licked his lips, then replied, “Well… that’s the other thing… After West’s death, I realized I had to follow up on what he’d revealed, so I decided to… to kidnap… Katherine Kimberly.” He glanced at Henry Kimberly, but saw no change in his abstracted expression. Thorpe continued, “She was with Tony Abrams, so he became involved—”

Androv said, “You have a unique gift of altering the truth without altering the facts. But that is unimportant now. I assume your kidnap attempt failed, since Mr. Abrams called on us this evening. And Miss Kimberly is next door.”

Thorpe found himself sweating in the air-conditioned room. He cleared his throat and addressed Henry Kimberly. “I had no idea, of course, that you—”

Androv’s voice became curt. “There’s a great deal you did not know, Mr. Thorpe.” Androv let out a breath of exasperation, then said in a calmer tone, “You know, Peter, you have no political or personal commitment to socialism. You are an individualist in your heart. You are also an idiot, because you have helped destroy the system that spawned you and the only system under which you could survive. You will not survive long in the world you helped create.”

Thorpe recalled O’Brien’s warning to him before his death. And, of course, West’s predictions about his future. They’d both been right, as usual.

Androv sat back, his hands resting on his stomach. “But you did kill Patrick O’Brien. That was the finest thing you ever did. If we can think of a use for you, perhaps we will let you live.”

Thorpe ignored the threat and said, “Is James Allerton the second Talbot?”

Androv smiled. “Yes, he is. And lucky for you, he’s fond of you, though you are not such a good son to him. He is annoyed with you at the moment. You forgot to send him a card on Father’s Day.” Androv laughed. “You see how these little things come back to haunt you? For the price of a greeting card, you could have laid claim to some protection.”

Thorpe knew he was being played with, but he no longer was certain that he was under sentence of death. He relaxed imperceptibly, then said, “Where is my father?”

Androv answered, “At Camp David for the holiday. He will have some interesting news to deliver to the President sometime before dawn.” Androv reached down under the console desk and picked up a leather dispatch case. “For now, let’s proceed with the next item on my agenda.” He turned the case toward Kimberly. “This, according to Mr. Thorpe, is your property.”

Kimberly stared at the old scarred leather case, but said nothing.

Androv reached inside and drew out a bundled stack of papers. He handed them to Kimberly.

Henry Kimberly examined the grayish papers. They were all letters written on the V-mail stationery required during the war, flimsy paper that folded into envelopes. They were addressed to him in an adult hand, though when he turned them over, he saw Ann’s childish pencil scrawl. There were drawings — hearts, flowers, stick figures, and X’s for kisses. He read a few lines of a letter at random: When are you going to win the war and come home? Daddy I love you. XXXX Ann.

Henry Kimberly looked up at Androv. “Where did you get these?”

Androv handed Kimberly three folded pieces of stiff photocopy paper. “This will explain.”

Kimberly unfolded the pages and saw the letterhead: Lady Eleanor Wingate, Brompton Hall, Tongate, Kent. Beneath the letterhead was written in script: Dear Miss Kimberly. A curious and perhaps fateful incident has occurred which prompts me to write you.

Henry Kimberly read no further, but looked off at some indeterminate point in space. He said, “They told me soon after I arrived in Moscow never to ask about anyone from the past. They said it would be easier for me… that if I was dead to them, they must be dead to me.” He smiled slightly. “They did, however, give me a short yearly report on my daughters. In time, of course, I lost interest in even them… the dead soon lose interest in the affairs of the living.” Kimberly looked at Androv. “This past month has awakened many memories. I didn’t know, of course, that Eleanor was still alive.”

Androv replied bluntly. “She’s not. She lost her life in a fire at Brompton Hall.”

Kimberly looked around the room at the faces of the Russians, whose eyes, mirroring his own, revealed nothing. He bent his head over the letter and read. After he had finished, he refolded it and passed it back to Androv. He said, “Where is the diary?”

Androv replied, “Here, in this dispatch case.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course. But first, with your indulgence, let me ask you a question. Do you remember this English officer, Carbury?”

“Yes, Randolph Carbury was assigned to the Soviet desk. Counterintelligence. He was involved with O’Brien’s Operation Wolfbane. He was, in fact, looking for me.”

Androv smiled. “Well, Henry, neither Carbury nor O’Brien ever stopped looking for you. For their persistence, they suffered the same fate, and by the same hand.” He cocked his head toward Thorpe.

Kimberly said, “I am, of course, relieved that these men are dead. But I’m curious to know how the rules of the game have changed so much as to allow pawns to kill kings.” He stared at Thorpe.

“Yes, there are times when I wonder at that myself.” Androv pulled the diary from the dispatch case and handed it to Kimberly.

Henry Kimberly examined the cover, then opened it and leafed through the cream-colored pages. A slow smile passed over his lips.

Androv said, “It’s a clever forgery.”

Kimberly closed the diary and said, “Whose work is this?”

Androv shrugged. “I suppose an OSS forger. Recently, I think. It smells of O’Brien.” Androv added, “Did you actually keep a diary?”

“Yes, and in that muniment room — but this is not it.”

Androv smiled. “It was unfortunate for O’Brien that of all the dead OSS men he could have picked to ascribe this bogus diary to, he picked Talbot himself.”

Kimberly replied, “He trusted me. It was one of the few mistakes he made. I sometimes thought he had psychic powers, but he was human.”

“And mortal,” added Androv.

Kimberly nodded.

Androv said, “And after all, what did O’Brien accomplish with all his cleverness? He picked the wrong man as the author of this diary, and we did not become hysterical and expose our hand. He suffered many casualties, and lost his own life, while we have maintained the secret of the identities of the three Talbots. True, he forced us to move up our timetable, but that is for the better. Yes, these old gentlemen of the OSS have lost the last and final round to the KGB.”

49

Tony Abrams stood at the large bay window in George Van Dorn’s study and looked out at the party in progress. He caught sight of Katherine on the lawn, speaking to a man, and he had the unfamiliar sensation of jealousy. Katherine and the man separated and she joined two elderly women on a bench. Abrams turned from the window.

He walked to the wall near the French doors and surveyed the rows of old framed photographs. He studied a group picture: about a dozen men in tan summer uniforms. He recognized Van Dorn’s hulking frame towering over the others. Toward the right end of the group was Patrick O’Brien, appearing very boyish, his arm draped over the shoulder of Henry Kimberly.

Marc Pembroke freshened his drink and looked up from the bar. “There’s nothing puts life into perspective like old photographs.”

Abrams said, “A brush or two with death gives you a little perspective.” He moved to another picture, a grainy enlarged snapshot of three men in battle fatigues: James Allerton, looking rather aesthetic despite the attire; beside him Kimberly again, looking more like a weary veteran than he did in the other picture; and a third man, who looked familiar. Abrams studied the face and was sure the man was a national figure but couldn’t place him.

Pembroke cut into his concentration. “We were just tots when this was going on. I remember the bombs falling, though. I was evacuated from London and lived with an aunt in the country. Do you have any recollections?”

Abrams glanced over his shoulder. “A few. Nothing quite so immediate as that.” Abrams scanned the other pictures. Some were captioned, and he saw Tom Grenville’s father, posing with Ho Chi Minh. A few feet to the left was a photograph that appeared to be hand-colored: a short, swarthy man with deep black eyes, wearing colorful native costume. The caption identified him as Count Ilie Lepescu. Abrams saw no family resemblance, but remembered that Claudia would be this man’s granddaughter.

In a grouping, there were some autographed head-and-shoulder shots of leaders of the era, including Eisenhower, Allen Dulles, and General Donovan. Below was a slightly blurry picture of a man sitting in a jeep, identified as OSS Captain John Birch, for whom, Abrams realized, the right-wing organization had been named. There were also various shots of ragtag resistance units, ranging from dark Latins posed amid classical ruins, to fair Nordic men and women against snowy backdrops. Everyone appeared somehow strangely innocent, almost naive. Or perhaps, he thought, their eyes reflected some sort of unity of purpose and purity of spirit that was not often seen any longer.

Marc Pembroke settled into a leather chair and watched Abrams. He said, “You look rather nifty in my white tropicals.”

Abrams continued surveying the photographs. “Does this outfit come with a Good Humor truck?”

“That’s Egyptian linen, Abrams. I had that suit made in Hong Kong—”

“By Charlie Chan’s tailor.”

Pembroke sounded miffed. “Well, it looks a damned sight better on me than it does on you.”

Abrams looked over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

Pembroke seemed mollified. “Are those sandals all right? How’s that bandage?”

“Fine.” Marc Pembroke had cleaned and dressed the deep gash in Abrams’ foot, and done it with the clinical detachment that one associates with doctors, soldiers, cops, and others who are not strangers to the misfortunes that befall human flesh.

Pembroke said, “Foot wounds need antibiotics. I’ll see what George has available.”

Abrams turned back to the pictures and said, “Only an accomplished hypochondriac could worry simultaneously about nuclear vaporization and a foot infection.”

Pembroke smiled. “Still, we shave and wash on the eve of battle. We are creatures of habit and infinite optimism.”

“Right.” Abrams’ eye was drawn to a face in one of the formally posed shots of a group of uniformed men. It was Arnold Brin, looking very much better than when Abrams had last seen him. Brin wore the uniform of an officer, not a sergeant. Interesting, but Abrams had already come to the conclusion that these people played fast and loose with names, ranks, occupations, and other vital statistics.

Abrams searched for a photo of Carbury but couldn’t find one, though he saw a long shot of a manor house, captioned Brompton Hall. To the immediate left was a studio portrait of a lovely young woman with dark hair and dreamy eyes. “Is this Eleanor Wingate?”

Pembroke looked up from a magazine. “Oh, I believe it is. Yes, beside the Brompton Hall shot. Pity. Nice house.”

“Yes.” Abrams moved to his right and looked up at a long silver-framed photograph, a banquet scene that at first glance reminded him of “The Last Supper.” On closer inspection he recognized the uniforms of Soviet officers, alternating with American officers. It was a victory celebration of some sort. The celebrants included George Van Dorn, whose back was being patted or slapped by a grinning Russian officer. Van Dorn did not look particularly pleased. It was odd, thought Abrams, how a picture could sometimes capture the essence of a time and place, as well as a presentiment of the future.

Pembroke put down his magazine. “Did you get to that bastard’s progenitors yet? Over there. Eye level to your right. In the appropriately black frame.”

Abrams spotted a slightly overexposed picture showing the fuselage of a large aircraft. Twelve parachutists, eight men and four women, stood or knelt for what could have been, and probably was for some, their penultimate photograph — the last being the one that the methodical Gestapo took of the allied agents before their execution. Among the names on the caption were Jeanne Broulé and Peter Thorpe.

Abrams looked closely at Thorpe’s mother, a striking blonde, as tall as the men around her, with a figure that could not be hidden by the jump outfit. Thorpe’s father, also light-haired, was a handsome man, but he looked, Abrams thought, rather supercilious. “Yes,” he said, “yes, a good-looking couple.”

“All the same, if they’d kept their pants on, they would have spared the world a damned lot of grief.”

“Amen.” Abrams quickly perused the other photographs and recognized vaguely familiar faces, perhaps men and women who had come into the office, or people from the OSS dinner. Some of them, he realized, he’d seen just a few minutes ago, much older now, wandering in the shadows outside, like premature ghosts.

Pembroke interrupted his thoughts. “How did you get involved with this group?”

“I saw an ad in the Times.” Abrams turned from the picture. He went to the desk, where he’d set down a glass of Scotch, neat, and took a short drink, then picked up a canapé from the tray. “Chopped chicken liver.”

“No. Pâté.”

Abrams smiled. “To use a 1940s expression, any way you slice it it’s still baloney.” He ate the liver and toast.

Pembroke looked at his watch and stood. “Well, I’ve delivered you. Good luck, then.” He put out his hand and Abrams took it firmly. Abrams said, “Will you be around tonight?”

“Should I be?”

Abrams replied, “Maybe… I don’t make policy around here.”

“I’ll stay close. And please take care of that foot. You can’t count on being vaporized before it gets infected.”

He turned, and as he walked toward the door, it opened and Katherine Kimberly came into the study. They smiled and nodded to each other. Pembroke left, and Katherine took a few hesitant steps into the room. Abrams put down his drink and came toward her as she rushed into his arms. They embraced and she looked up at him. Her words tumbled out. “Are you all right? George just told me you were here—”

“Yes, I’m fine. Except for this suit and these sandals.”

She laughed and stepped back. “That’s not you.”

“Neither was the tux. What’s happening to me?”

She hugged him tightly, then said, “Well, you’re here and that’s just fine.” She touched a cut on his cheek. “What happened in there?”

He stayed silent for some time, then said, “Are you going to be here when I brief Van Dorn?”

She nodded. “Would you rather talk about it then? He’ll be here shortly. I’ll wait.”

He went to the bar. “Scotch, correct?”

“I don’t want a drink.”

He made her a Scotch and water and set it on the coffee table, then sat on the edge of the sofa. He took her hand and drew her down beside him.

She looked at him closely. “What is it? What’s wrong, Tony? Something to do with Pat O’Brien? He’s dead, isn’t he? You can tell me. I’m not a child.”

He could see tears forming in her eyes. He didn’t know which news was worse: that Patrick O’Brien was missing, or that her father was not. He said, “O’Brien’s plane crashed Sunday night. His body was not recovered. We can assume he’s dead or kidnapped.”

She nodded slowly, but before she could say anything, Abrams went on quickly. “While I was in the Russian house, I wandered off by myself and came face-to-face with Henry Kimberly.”

Katherine was drying her eyes with a handkerchief, looking at him, and he could see she did not comprehend a word of it. He said, “I met your father. He’s alive.”

She still didn’t seem to assimilate it. Then she suddenly shook her head and stood. He stood too and held her shoulders. They looked at each other for a long time, then she nodded.

“You understand?”

She nodded again quickly, but said nothing. She was very pale. He eased her down onto the sofa and gave her the Scotch. She swallowed a mouthful, then took a deep breath. “Odysseus.”

Abrams replied, “Yes, the warrior has returned.” He put his hand on her cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes.” She stared into his eyes. “You knew, didn’t you? You tried to tell me… and I guess I understood what you were saying… so it’s not a complete shock.”

“I only suspected. Now I know.”

She took his hand in both of hers. “You recognized him?”

He nodded and forced a smile. “The Kimberly eyes.”

She smiled faintly in return, thought a moment, and said, “My God… Oh, my God… Tony… What does this mean?”

Abrams shook his head. “I don’t know, but it does not bode well, does it?”

She squeezed his hand tightly. “No. No, it is—grave and foreboding.”

Abrams nodded. Henry Kimberly’s presence in America would have to be taken as a signal that the countdown had begun.

And if, in fact, that basement was full of people, then all systems were go.

50

The attic room was still, and Peter Thorpe heard the low hum of the electronic consoles, and felt the machines’ vibrations in the floorboards. The big, open room reminded him of his own garret in the Lombardy, where he would have preferred to be at the moment. This place, however, was more elaborate. This was the fabled Russian spy center of North America, the subject of press editorials, congressional debates, and television documentaries. This facility also had diplomatic immunity, and his did not. Also, his attic room had to serve as both a communications center and an interrogation room, which was not always convenient. The Russians used their cellar for the messy stuff. This was the advantage of a nice big house in the suburbs over an apartment in town. He smiled grimly at his own forced humor.

Thorpe looked at his watch. The four Russians had left to put people and systems on alert status and had not yet returned. He turned from the window and saw the communications officer walking down the line of consoles, making entries into a logbook. Henry Kimberly was sitting nearby, ignoring Thorpe and reading a Russian newspaper by the light of a computer’s video display screen.

Thorpe noticed that odd smell in the room that electronics emitted, and he felt the heat that was generated by the radios and computers.

Thorpe regarded Kimberly. All was obviously not well in his attic. Thorpe recognized that his own peculiarities of the mind were inherent and inborn. He was certain that Kimberly’s strangeness was acquired. The old term brainwashing came to him. But it was more than that. Forty years, he thought. Not only was the brain washed, but so was the heart and soul.

In fact, though, they had probably done nothing more to him than they’d done to 270 million other Soviet citizens; they had made him live there.

Thorpe remembered his two brief, furtive trips to Russia. As he walked the streets of Moscow, he had had the impression that half the population was going to a funeral and the other half coming from one.

As he looked at Kimberly, he wondered how the Russians were going to present this bloodless man to the American public as their new leader; his speech, his movements, his facial expressions, his whole persona, reminded Thorpe of an alien from another world trying to pass as an earthling. Thorpe was sure the KGB had kept Kimberly abreast of the developments in American life, but the American Training School on Kutuzovsky Prospekt was a poor substitute for the real thing.

Kimberly sensed that Thorpe was staring at him and looked up from his newspaper. Thorpe hesitated, then asked, “Was it you, or James, or someone else, who sent my parents to their deaths?”

Kimberly seemed neither surprised nor put off by the question. He replied, “It was I. One of the agents on that jump was a Communist. One of my people. After he hit the ground, he tipped off the Gestapo, anonymously. The twelve people on that jump were all eventually arrested and shot. What difference does it make to you?”

“I’m not certain.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make a moral judgment of me, or any sort of judgment for that matter.”

“I’m not making judgments. I just wanted to know.” He hesitated again, then said, “James, and others, speak well of them.” He looked at Kimberly.

Kimberly shrugged. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum—speak only good of the dead. But if it’s the truth you’re after, and I suppose you are, your mother was a French whore, and your father a pompous, spoiled dilettante.”

Thorpe replied, “That hardly sounds like the type of people who would volunteer to parachute into enemy territory.”

Kimberly replied, “Their motivations were as confused as yours. It must run in the family.”

Thorpe bit back a reply and took out a cigarette.

Kimberly let the silence drag out, then said, “How is she? Does she mention me at all?”

Thorpe saw his possible salvation in these questions. He answered, “She’s a bit of a bitch, actually. Takes after her mother, I understand. And, yes, she mentions her deceased war-hero father from time to time.” He added, “Katherine and I had a good relationship until recently, regardless of what you may hear to the contrary.”

Thorpe was amazed at the things he was thinking and saying. It must be, he thought, the shock of knowing America was finished, and that he himself might be finished. He was not contrite over what he had done, only angry at himself for playing a bad hand.

Kimberly smiled but said nothing.

Thorpe added, “I can fill you in about Ann, too. I know her. And I can answer other questions you may have about things in general over the next several months.”

Again, Kimberly smiled. “Someone once wrote that the true genius is the person who can invent his own job. Well, Thorpe, I suppose you’d make a passable presidential advisor. Or perhaps a White House court jester.”

Thorpe’s eyelids twitched, but he kept control of himself.

Kimberly leaned back in his chair. “Before you arrived, we were discussing Katherine’s fate. She’s next door.”

“I know that.”

“Did you know that they’ve all been poisoned and will begin dying in a few hours?”

Thorpe’s eyes widened.

“There is a way to save her. Do you want her?”

Thorpe had the feeling again that he was navigating a minefield. “Do you?”

Kimberly’s expression took on a faraway look as he mused aloud. “There are times when I think I’d like to see a reunion of family and friends. There are other times when I want to obliterate the past… ” He looked at Thorpe. “Did you know I married a Russian girl over there? She’s still there, of course. Hardly a presentable first lady. I have two sons… one is a colonel in the KGB… Do you think it would be a good idea to annihilate the American Kimberly line? That would strengthen the Russian Kimberly family.”

Before Thorpe could reply, the door swung open and Mikhail Karpenko strode in, followed by Androv and Valentin Metkov. Kalin was not with them, and Thorpe didn’t know if that was good or bad.

Karpenko hurried to the far end of the attic room and spoke to the communications officer. He took a sheet of paper from the officer and walked quickly back to the group. He read from the paper, “Cultural affairs attaché Gordik, arriving Kennedy Airport, eight forty-eight P.M., your time. Will proceed by hired conveyance to Glen Cove. Extend usual courtesies.”

Androv nodded. “That will be a verbal courier. Obviously, Moscow isn’t taking a chance on transmitting any information that the National Security Agency might decode.” Androv looked at his watch. “Gordik should be here shortly. He’ll deliver the last direct orders we receive from Russia until immediately after the Stroke.” He began moving toward the far end of the attic. “Follow me, please.” Metkov, Karpenko, Kimberly, and Thorpe followed.

Androv turned into the attic of another wing of the mansion. He threw a switch and the smaller attic area burst into bright, blinding light, revealing an elegantly appointed study set in the far end of the attic. There was a walnut desk, bookshelves, a marble fireplace, and a leaded-glass window in a gabled peak. Above the fireplace hung a large American flag.

Thorpe’s eyes adjusted to the light and he noticed television cameras and microphones. This study was actually a studio set.

Androv said to Kimberly, “From here, your voice and your image will go out to the world, via satellite, over all radio and television bands and frequencies.” Androv motioned to the leather chair behind the desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Kimberly walked around the desk and sat in a high-backed chair. He surveyed the set and commented, “This does look like the type of place from which the voice of authority speaks.”

Androv nodded. “The set was designed in Moscow by Special Section Four. It’s supposed to convey dignity, tranquillity, authority, and control.”

Kimberly noticed a clear plastic garment bag hanging on the wall to the side. “Is that what I’m to wear?”

“Yes, that’s also inspired by SS Four. They decided on a blue-gray three-piece pinstripe. You’ll look like one of those State Department people,” Androv said.

Kimberly asked Thorpe, “What do you think, Peter?”

Thorpe replied, “Americans believe anything they see on television.”

Kimberly laughed. “So I’ve heard.” He turned to Karpenko. “How much of the population will I reach?”

Karpenko ran a handkerchief over his perspiring bald head. “We estimate that eighty percent of the population will have access to working radios or televisions. You understand, Major, that only the sets that are on at the time of the Stroke will act as lightning rods for the electromagnetic pulse and be destroyed?”

Kimberly nodded.

Karpenko continued, “But there will be no other radio or television stations operating. And switching to auxiliary power will not put them in operation, either, because these stations will not have experienced a simple power loss as in a blackout, but a catastrophic power surge, as if ten million bolts of lightning had struck all at once. The only station in America, southern Canada, or northern Mexico that will be on the air will be ours. Here in this room. The only voice anyone will hear will be the voice of Major Henry Kimberly.”

Kimberly looked across his desk to where Karpenko stood. He said, “Will I begin broadcasting immediately after the EMP storm?”

Karpenko replied, “When we see the sky light up. For the first few hours you’ll make periodic identification of yourself only as Major Henry Kimberly and implore the public to remain calm. Let everyone draw whatever conclusions they wish, until it’s time to tell them that you’re their new leader. Do you have any questions—”

Thorpe interrupted Karpenko. “Excuse me. But hasn’t anyone here ever heard the term ‘thermonuclear war’?”

It was Androv who answered. “To reply to your sarcasm, Thorpe, the American government will not be at all certain how this happened, but even if they do understand that it was an EMP storm, they will not be sure it was the Soviet Union that caused it.” He gave a small shrug and continued, “In any event, most of the E-3I in this country — the command, control, communications, and intelligence networks — are not yet EMP-proof. America will be struck deaf, dumb, and blind.”

Thorpe said, “Even a deaf, dumb, and blind man can push a launch button.”

Androv said, “Yes, but keep in mind three other important factors: One, the President will be in Camp David with your father; two, the President’s little black box will be useless; and, three, America has no EMP-proof missiles, bombers, warships, or fighter planes. Any American nuclear strike initiated by an automatic response would be a greatly weakened strike. Our losses would be acceptable.”

Henry Kimberly spoke, “Moscow has prepared for every eventuality. So, let us not speak of war, but of victory without war.”

Thorpe thought to himself, Just like that. Two hundred years of nation-building and there won’t even be a shot fired.

Androv said, “A great deal depends on James Allerton. When he informs the President and his advisors of the helplessness of the situation, and formally requests the surrender of the United States, there may be some hysterics at Camp David. He may be shot on the spot. He is, however, an accomplished diplomat, and this will be his crowning glory if he can get cooler heads to prevail there. With luck, persuasion, and threats, he will make the President understand that capitulation is the only course of action left that will prevent nuclear destruction.”

Metkov said, “The President’s last duty will be to read a short prepared statement to the American people announcing… a ‘peace treaty’ between the Soviet Union and the United States. He’ll also announce his resignation from the presidency. He will not be heard from again.”

Androv walked into the studio set, past Kimberly’s desk, and stopped in front of the fireplace. He stared up at the American flag, then reached out and took the corner of it, rubbing it between his fingers as though he were a rug merchant considering a purchase. There was a long silence and Androv finally said, “We could never have beaten them militarily. But as the fates would have it, there was a small gap in the complex structure of their country’s armor. They recognized it, and rushed to fill the gap. We recognized it, and rushed to exploit it. We arrived first; they were too late. Space wars, indeed. Protons and neutrons, laser beams, and killer satellites. We could never have kept up. But on their way to the stars, they forgot to close their one window of vulnerability. And we jumped into it.”

51

Katherine sat on the sofa with her legs curled up, staring at the ceiling. Abrams strode impatiently around the study, glancing at her from time to time and looking at his watch. He wondered what was keeping Van Dorn.

The telephone on the desk rang and someone in another part of the house answered it, then buzzed the study. Abrams picked it up quickly. “Tony Abrams.”

“Well?”

“Spinelli? Did you get my message?”

“No, I just dialed a number at random and got you.”

“Where are you?”

“Where you asked me to call from — the squad room. I drove all the fuck the way in from Jersey on my day off to call you from this phone. Now, why am I here?”

“I’ll get to that. Listen, what do you see from the window?”

“Hold on.”

Abrams could hear the venetian blinds rattling. He glanced at Katherine and forced a wan smile. She returned a somewhat brighter smile.

Spinelli came back on the line. “Well, I’ll be damned, Abrams. Did you know that the Russian Mission to the UN was right across the street from the Nineteenth Precinct? I never knew that.”

Abrams ignored the ill temper in Spinelli’s voice. He said, “Are the buses out there?”

“Only the big gray bus.”

“How about the minibuses?”

“They’re either in the garage, or they haven’t come in from Glen Cove yet.”

Abrams pictured in his mind the twelve-story white brick apartment building on East 67th Street that housed the Russians’ United Nations offices as well as the entire staff. He said, “Do you see anything that doesn’t look kosher?”

“Look, Abrams, Russian-watching was your line, not mine.”

“Well, pretend you’re as sharp as me. What do you see?”

Spinelli stared down from the second-story squad room. “Okay — the street is relatively quiet. A few pedestrians. The police booth is manned. Three squad cars parked half on the sidewalk. Routine. Looks peaceful.”

Abrams saw the familiar scene in his mind’s eye: the partly residential street, the Russian building with the cement awning, the forbidding fence in front, and the three remote television cameras sweeping the street. Directly across the street was the firehouse and the Nineteenth Precinct, where Abrams had worked out of the Red Squad. Abrams knew every square foot of that block between Third Avenue and Lexington Avenue. He knew the street’s routine better than he knew his own block in Brooklyn. He said, “How’s the building look?”

Spinelli replied, “The garage door is closed, front doors are closed, first three floors are dark. Residence floors are pretty well lit, blinds drawn, but I can see some shadows passing by. Ambassador’s suite on the top is lit. What’s up, kid? Should I get the Bomb Squad on the horn?”

Abrams thought, If they can defuse falling H-bombs, call them. He said, “Where are the FBI guys tonight?”

“Not here. They may be at the firehouse. Better coffee there.”

Abrams said, “Dom, can you connect me with the FBI watch? Or the CIA?” Abrams knew the CIA kept several apartments next door to the Russian building and listened through the walls. They also had a third-floor apartment in the building next to the Nineteenth, from which they videotaped the Russian building, day and night, an endless film-record of the building and sidewalk.

“No. I don’t want to owe them any favors.”

“Then connect me with the police booth. You can listen in.”

“Oh, may I?” Spinelli grumbled a string of obscenities.

Abrams heard the phone click, then a female voice said, “Police Officer Linder speaking.” Spinelli identified himself, then said, “Okay, Abrams, you’re on.”

Abrams introduced himself briefly, then asked, “Is this your regular duty, officer?”

“Yes, sir, on and off for about six months.”

“Okay, first question — did you see the gray bus unload?”

The policewoman replied, “Yes, sir. Mostly luggage, as usual. A few men on board helped the porters carry the luggage through the service door in the right of the building. That was over an hour ago.”

Abrams thought a moment, then said, “How much luggage?”

She hesitated, then said, “About the same.”

Abrams did not want to lead the witness, he wanted Officer Linder to report what she’d seen, not what Abrams would have liked her to see. Abrams asked, “Can you tell me if anything struck you as unusual tonight? Anything that was not normal for the last night of a weekend?”

Officer Linder was silent for some time, then replied, “Well… no… no, sir. Could you be more specific?”

Abrams said, “Why don’t you just recount to me what happened since you came on duty. That would be four P.M., correct?”

“Yes, sir.” She thought, then said, “Well, it’s been pretty quiet since this afternoon. About an hour ago the black Ford Fairlane arrived with the ambassador, his wife, three kids, and a driver.”

“How did they look?”

She understood he was looking for her impression. She answered, “The wife and kids looked all right. The wife was smiling and nodded to the cops as she usually does. He looked a little… I can’t say exactly… just not himself.”

“Okay, I understand. Were there any more cars?”

“No, sir. Not tonight. Sometimes there’s only one, though.”

“Okay, how about the minibuses?”

Linder answered, “Yes, they arrived. Pulled into the garage.”

“How many? How were they spaced?”

Linder replied, “They came in two groups, as usual. The first group arrived about forty-five minutes ago. Six or seven buses. That was the bigger group, so that would be the kids, I guess.”

Abrams nodded to himself. Unless the procedure had changed, the six or seven buses would have left the Pioneers camp in Oyster Bay and made a stop at the estate in Glen Cove. The exact purpose of this stop was unknown, but it probably was an administrative routine to pick up adult monitors, or do a head count. When it came to kids, Russians were not much different from everyone else.

In any event, thought Abrams, the buses always pulled into the walled service court, where any loading and unloading could not be observed with usual snooping devices. Abrams thought that if tonight was in fact different from all other weekend nights, then the children had been unloaded from the buses at the Glen Cove estate and escorted into the basement. He spoke into the phone, “How about the buses with the adults?”

Linder said, “They arrived maybe fifteen minutes after the kids’ buses. There were four buses in that group. They also pulled right into the garage.”

Abrams pictured the large iron overhead garage door. As the buses drew up to the building, the door would open, and the buses would cross the sidewalk and disappear down the ramp into the underground garage. The police booth where Linder stood was less than ten feet from the garage opening. Abrams said, “Were the buses full?”

She replied, “They have one-way glass.”

“I know. Listen, Officer Linder, you’ve been watching these buses pull in and out for a while. Now, think a moment. Were they full?”

Linder replied almost immediately. “No. No, they were not full.” She added, “I think they were almost empty.”

Abrams let her continue without prompting.

She said with growing certainty, “Something struck me as odd when they pulled in, and it sort of stuck in my mind. And now that you ask — when they moved across, the sidewalk toward the garage…”

“Yes?”

“Well, all the buses bounced like they were pretty light. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

She added, “And as they pulled into the garage, the clearance on the top was very tight.” She repeated, “Tight. Close.”

Abrams said nothing.

Officer Linder spoke tentatively, as though she realized she’d stuck her neck out. “Is… is there anything else?”

Abrams said softly, “No, no. That’s fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The phone clicked, and Spinelli said, “Well?”

“Well, Spinelli, you heard it.”

“Yeah. I heard it. So maybe the ambassador looked a little out of it. Maybe he has hemorrhoids. Maybe the buses did arrive empty. Maybe the ambassador gave them all another day out in the country.”

“Could be,” said Abrams. “Why should they have to work on a Tuesday after a three-day weekend? Why not just send their baggage back to town on the big gray bus, and send a dozen minibuses in empty?”

“Well, we don’t know the buses were empty, Abrams.”

“She knew.”

“Yeah… Okay, so maybe most of the Russkies are hiding out in Glen Cove. Okay, they want everybody to think they’re all back at ground zero here. So, okay, when does la bomba drop, Abrams?”

Abrams remained silent for some time, then said, “Am I being paranoid?”

Spinelli, too, let some time pass before he answered in a subdued tone, “No. This stinks. I’ll make a quick verbal report. Anything else new besides World War Three?”

“No, that’s about it. Slow night. How about you, Dom?”

“Well, I have a few things for you… I don’t know how important they are anymore.”

Abrams could hear a definite edge of anxiety in his voice. “Go on, Dom.”

Spinelli cleared his throat. “Well, this guy West did a vanish. Two-dozen fucking people watching his ass and he’s gone. This guy O’Brien is still missing. Autopsy on the pilot shows the back of his skull fractured, probably with a rubber club. What else…? Oh, Arnold Brin’s death. The ME says murder. And you’re still alive.”

“Right.” Abrams looked at Katherine. She made no pretense of not listening; there was no reason to feign polite disinterest when the subject was Armageddon and the time was now.

Spinelli added, “Also, you called for a book at the main library. The Odyssey. I didn’t know you read Greek, much less owned a library card. You want to tell me about that?”

“It’s by Homer.”

“Who gives a shit?” Spinelli could be heard drawing on a cigar, then said, “Look, Abrams, I can see this is out of my league. I can’t get anywhere with the FBI, CIA, State Department intelligence, or even you. Everybody is asking me things, but nobody is telling me anything. So who cares?” Spinelli let out a long breath. “Look, if there’s anything I can do, call me. See you later, Abrams.”

“Right.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s not as bad as it sounds, Dom. Thanks.” He hung up, then turned slowly to Katherine, who was looking at him attentively.

She said, “I caught the drift of that.”

Abrams nodded.

“They’re all next door.”

“Most of them. A few sacrifices went back to Manhattan.”

“My God… ” She stood and walked quickly to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. She said softly, “I wish Pat O’Brien were here.”

Abrams replied, “I think O’Brien would be the first to say we’d done all we could.”

“Yes, I think we are past the time for planning, development, and intelligence gathering. We’re in the operations stage, whether we’re ready or not. I think perhaps it’s time for Marc Pembroke. I think it’s time we paid a visit next door.”

52

A taxi from Kennedy Airport to this part of Long Island was difficult enough to find on a holiday evening, Ann Kimberly thought. And, one having been found, it was harder to believe anything more coincidental than sharing the taxi with a Russian whose destination was also Dosoris Lane, albeit the Iron Curtain end of the street.

Ann crossed her legs and openly regarded the young Russian on the far side of the seat. He was very good-looking, she thought, with curly auburn hair, long eyelashes, hazel eyes, and a cupid bow mouth.

She had noticed him on the Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt, and they had both wound up at the special passport-control desk, avoiding both the baggage claim and customs. They’d then hurried out to the taxi stand, he arriving first. She had watched him out of curiosity, professional and personal, as he approached a few cabbies. But he seemed to be having trouble finding a taker. Then he’d unluckily approached one of the Soviet Jewish emigrés who seemed to predominate in the long-haul cab business. The Jewish cabbie had seized the opportunity to vent some venom in his native tongue, and looked as if he were working himself up to striking the young Russian.

Ann had stepped in to rescue the Russian and after some conversation had discovered that they had the same destination. She had finally gotten a cab and escorted the hesitant man into it.

As she watched him now, she made some observations: Like her, he had no luggage with him, but that might not be significant — his things might have been shipped through the diplomatic pouches. He had an overnight bag of an unfortunate red vinyl, and an attaché case of good pigskin. Government issue. Her own overnight bag said Vuitton, though that meant nothing to him, and her government attaché case was not high-quality leather. He, she assumed, was going to Dosoris Lane to speak to his people; she was going to speak to hers.

They had made some perfunctory and necessary conversation at the outset of their journey, mostly regarding the necessity of sharing a taxi. Then he had retreated into a defensive sort of silence.

She said in slow but passable Russian, “Have you been to Glen Cove before?”

He looked at her, smiled nervously, and nodded.

She said, “Are you staying long in America?”

He seemed to weigh his answer carefully, as if the question were important. He finally replied in studied English, “I will work here.”

“I work in Munich.”

“Ah.”

She wondered why he hadn’t been met, though that was not too unusual. Since the Russian staff cars were almost always followed by the FBI, this was a way to get couriers in and out of the country without too much attention. The passport-control officer at Kennedy would alert the FBI to a Russian diplomatic passport, of course, but she hadn’t noticed anyone following.

Ann Kimberly regarded the Russian’s attaché case lying in his lap. There was no doubt in her mind that whatever was in there was very high-grade stuff. She counted it a personal victory that the Soviets did not feel they could broadcast everything over the radio. Their codes were good, but not that good. She said to the Russian, “It’s very warm here.”

He replied, “Very humid.”

She almost laughed at the banality of the exchange. “Washington is worse. Munich is more pleasant.”

“Yes.”

His taciturn behavior, she decided, was a combination of traditional Russian suspicion, bureaucratic reserve, and the shyness of a young man who finds himself in the forced company of an older and more sophisticated woman.

She said, “I was in Moscow once. Leningrad twice. Where are you from?”

The young man looked unhappy at these questions. It must have occurred to him, she thought, as it had occurred to her, that this chance meeting had the look of a setup. Yet, it wasn’t. At least not on her part. The Russian replied, “I am from Saratov.”

She nodded. “On the Volga.”

His eyes widened just a bit, she noticed, then he turned toward the window. She found she couldn’t take her eyes off his attaché case, and she had noticed him glancing at her case also. She reflected that an attractive man and woman sharing a cab shouldn’t keep looking at each other’s attaché case. She smiled.

The Russian craned his neck to take in the passing scenery. He glanced at his watch.

Ann Kimberly looked ahead and saw the traffic beginning to slow. On the horizon she saw skyrockets arching into the air. She reached over and tapped the Russian, and he turned with a start, one hand coming down on the attaché case. She pointed out the front windshield, unable to remember the Russian word for fireworks. “A celebration. A day to honor the dead of all wars. Like your May ninth Victory Day.”

He seemed distressed rather than pleased at her familiarity with his language and country. He smiled tightly. “Yes. A celebration today.”

“My name is Ann Kimberly. What is your name?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Nikolai Vasilevich,” giving his first and patronymic names but not his last name.

Ann said, “My fiancé is named Nikolai — Nicholas in English.”

He seemed not in the mood for any more coincidences. “Yes?”

She stared into his eyes until he turned away. She wondered why he was going to the Glen Cove weekend house instead of to East 67th Street. She said, “You are with the United Nations?”

He had ceased to be surprised at her questions. He nodded. “Yes, I am with the United Nations.” This time he did not look away but looked her over. He smiled, tentatively. After a few seconds, he said, “Will you be here long?”

She replied, “Perhaps.” Ann Kimberly reflected that there was little she didn’t know about the Soviet delegation to the UN. It was made up of about one-half legitimate foreign service people with their dependents, one-fourth foreign service people who had been co-opted by the KGB, and one-fourth hard-core KGB agents, with a smattering of GRU people — Soviet military intelligence staff.

Ann sat back in her seat and made eye contact with the young man again. He had none of the arrogance of a KGB man, nor the savoir faire of a foreign service man. She nodded to herself. He might be GRU, a military courier, strong, disciplined, wary, intelligent; he carried as much in his head as he did in the attaché case. Probably more. The paper in his case would be flash paper and would incinerate in a second, the stuff in his head could be destroyed as quickly with the cyanide pill he carried. He would be armed, but not with a conventional pistol. Some gadget out of the Fourteenth Department. She glanced at his attaché case again and thought, Whatever he is carrying, he is prepared to protect it with his life. She crossed her legs and put her head back.

The taxi came to a stop and the driver turned his head. “I think those fireworks drew a crowd up ahead.”

Ann replied, “I’ll walk from here.” She looked at the Russian. “It would be better to walk, Nikolai. I’ll show you the way.”

He looked anxiously at his watch and seemed to vacillate.

She prompted, “It’s faster. About five minutes to the Soviet delegation house. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”

He nodded, but made no move.

She smiled slowly, then shrugged. She took a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and put it on his attaché case.

He looked down at it.

Ann took her bag and attaché case and opened the curbside door, then looked back over her shoulder. She hesitated, then indulged herself in two impulses. She said, “You’re very good-looking, Nikolai Vasilevich. You should defect. The American women would faint over you.” She added, “Give my regards to Viktor Androv.” Ann winked at the gaping young man and left the taxi.

She moved up the line of slow-moving traffic, then crossed Dosoris Lane as a policeman held up traffic for her. Within a few minutes she came abreast of the gates to the Russian estate and peered up the drive at the guardhouse. She continued another few hundred yards and turned into the gates of Van Dorn’s estate.

She walked up to the parked car and the guard turned on his interior lights. She identified herself with her passport. Though her name was not on the guest list, he dimly remembered her and knew her sister, Katherine. He said, “I’m sorry I can’t drive you, Miss Kimberly. Should I radio for a car?”

“No, I’ll walk.” She hesitated, then said, “Has Nicholas West arrived yet?”

The guard scanned his typed list. “No, ma’am.”

She nodded, then turned toward the driveway. Nicholas was not at the Princeton Club, his office, or in his apartment. A duty officer at Langley had been vague. She was suspicious, but not in the way that lovers are suspicious.

She drew in a long breath of the warm night air as she climbed the driveway. She turned a bend and saw the big white house on the crest of the hill.

She had decided to take this sudden journey for a variety of reasons: Nick, Katherine’s phone calls, a Teletype message from O’Brien requesting a piece of sensitive information. But there was an element of intuition involved as well. Her job at the NSA station in Munich had been to snatch ethereal messages from the air and decipher them. Somehow, over the years, that technical skill had transcended itself to include an almost telepathic ability. She knew there was something in the air that needed deciphering now, and it wasn’t going to be a routine message.

53

The French doors leading to the side patio swung open, and George Van Dorn entered his study. He looked at Abrams, seeming more surprised at the white linen suit and sandals than at the bandaged foot, the abrasions on Abrams’ face, or the fact that he was alive.

Van Dorn nodded to Katherine, then addressed Abrams. “You wanted to see me?”

Abrams replied, “Possibly.”

Van Dorn had done enough debriefing to understand the psychological state of an agent just returned from a bad assignment. The attitude was often arrogant, taciturn, and insubordinate. Van Dorn said, “Sit down, Abrams. I’ll freshen your drink.”

“I’ll stand and I’ll pass on the drink.”

Van Dorn sat behind his desk. “How do you want to begin?”

“I’d like to begin by asking you if there should be anyone else present.”

“There should be, but he’s not available.”

Katherine said, “I know about Pat O’Brien.”

Van Dorn looked at her, but said nothing.

Abrams continued, “What I discovered is important. I want to be certain my report is going to reach official channels.”

“You can be sure it won’t unless I think it should.”

Abrams replied, “How do I know you’re not one of them?”

“You don’t know. You do know I fit the Talbot profile, so your suspicion is justified.”

Abrams considered a moment, then responded, “I didn’t say you could be Talbot. I’ve already met Talbot.”

Van Dorn smiled. “Did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

Katherine interjected, “Tony, I think you can speak freely.”

Abrams said, “All right, I don’t have many options.”

Van Dorn didn’t seem particularly offended at having to be vouched for. He said to Abrams, “Pembroke filled me in about the train station. That was a desperate move on their part.” He added with a slight smile, “What did you do to piss them off, Abrams?”

Abrams replied, “I only did what your friend Evans asked me to do.” He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and opened it on Van Dorn’s desk. “This looks like gold.”

Van Dorn picked up a pinch of the metal scrapings. “It does. Good work. Window or door?”

“French door. What does this mean?”

Van Dorn ignored the question and asked his own. “Did they see you take this scraping?”

“No.”

“Then how did they get on to you? Lie detector?”

“They caught me snooping.”

Van Dorn nodded. “All right, what else did you find?”

“Well, I was told to check the outlets, radio and television sets, and the outside antenna.”

Van Dorn asked a few questions and made a few notes, then looked up. “Nice job, Abrams. Balls.” He glanced at Katherine. “Guts.” He said to Abrams, “But that’s not why they decided to murder you in the railroad underpass. What did you do, or see, that got them murderous?”

Abrams walked to the side wall, took a picture off its hook, and laid it on Van Dorn’s desk. He pointed to the image of Henry Kimberly as he stared at Van Dorn.

Van Dorn’s gaze went between Abrams’ face and the face in the picture, then back to Abrams, but he said nothing.

Abrams took his finger off the picture, then glanced at Katherine.

Van Dorn stood slowly and rubbed his heavy jowls. He looked at Katherine and saw that she knew and believed it. He turned back to Abrams and nodded several times before the words came out. “Yes… Yes, by God.” He reached out and took Abrams’ Scotch from the desk and swallowed it in two gulps. He sat back in his seat.

Abrams watched Van Dorn closely as his face went from pale to its normal florid color again. Abrams said, “There’s more. But I’m not going on until I get some answers.”

Van Dorn stood again. “Look, Abrams, I’m most appreciative, but it’s not my policy to confide in field agents.”

“Well, it’s not my policy to be one. I did a favor for a man I respect. I discovered something of immediate concern. I want to tell you what it is, but I want you first to tell me why I risked my life.”

Van Dorn hesitated.

Katherine said, “George, I’d like to know what the hell is going on!” She came toward him. “My father is next door, for God’s sake. People are dead—”

Van Dorn held up his hand and lowered his head in thought, then said, “All right, I’ll tell you.”

Abrams said, “Please tell it fast. I don’t think there’s much time left.”

Van Dorn stared at him, then said, “I know. It’s very close. A matter of days or weeks—”

“No. A matter of hours.”

“What?”

“Is there anyone in the government or military you can call?”

Van Dorn nodded slowly. “Hours? How do you know?” He stared at Abrams, then said, “Understand, Abrams, that I can’t just cry wolf — a full alert cost tens of millions of dollars… I won’t make a fool of myself. I need something other than the fact that you saw Henry Kimberly. I need something that will point to a final countdown. You tell me something like that, Abrams, and I’ll call… and then I’ll tell you what this is about.”

Abrams replied, “Okay, here’s what sounds to me like a final countdown: The basement of your neighbor’s house is full of Russians, and they’re not there to change the fuse.”

Van Dorn shot a quick look at Katherine, then came quickly around the desk. “Are you certain? Abrams, did you see them?”

Abrams shook his head. “No, I didn’t see them. A little girl told me. A big girl confirmed it.” He explained briefly.

When Abrams had finished, Van Dorn stayed motionless and silent, his head bowed. Abrams could see he was shaken. And why shouldn’t he be? thought Abrams. He has just heard what amounts to an air raid siren.

Van Dorn reached for the telephone on his desk and dialed. He spoke into the receiver: “This is George Van Dorn. Identification phrase, ‘We went through fire and through water.’ Let me speak to Pegasus, please.” Van Dorn waited, then said, “Well, locate him and have him call me at home. Condition Omega. Yes.” He hung up and glanced at his watch. “Pegasus will never be more than ten minutes from a message.”

Abrams wondered who Pegasus was and where he was, but knew better than to ask. He said, “O’Brien once indicated to me that the threat is not nuclear war, and may not be chemical or biological either. That rules out three modern Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and ought to be a comforting thought. But knowing the capacity we have of developing new ways to destroy ourselves, somehow I’m not comforted.”

Van Dorn nodded. “There is a fourth horseman.” He took a cigar and bit off the tip. “Have either of you heard of EMP — electromagnetic pulse?”

Abrams nodded cautiously. “Some journalists call it the Doomsday Pulse.”

Katherine added, “It has something to do with a nuclear explosion in space.”

Van Dorn replied, “Yes, it does. But the threat itself is not nuclear. Those people hiding in the basement next door are hiding from us, not the nuclear blast. The blast, when it comes, if it comes, will be somewhere over Omaha at an HOB — height of burst — of about three hundred miles. There will be no mushroom cloud, no shock waves, no heat, no radiation, and none of the physical destruction associated with a thermonuclear detonation. There will only be a flash of light in the sky, then…”

“Then what?” asked Katherine.

“Then, to paraphrase Lord Grey, the lights will go out all over North America. And I don’t think we will see them lit again in our lifetime.”

No one spoke for some time, then Abrams said, “Is this some sort of electrical phenomenon? Like a lightning storm?”

Van Dorn nodded. “Yes. It’s very complex; a bit of technological arcana, first discovered in the early 1960s during our last high-altitude nuclear tests. Discovered, unfortunately, by the Russians at about the same time.”

Van Dorn lit his cigar, then said, “What apparently happens is this: When a nuclear device is exploded high above the atmosphere, earthbound gamma rays released from the explosion hit air molecules and create something called Compton electrons. Those electrons undergo a turning motion around the earth’s magnetic field lines and emit an electromagnetic pulse. Every electrical and electronic device in the country, including that digital watch you’re wearing, Abrams, will act as a lightning rod for this pulse. There will be virtually nothing left that works, including nuclear power plants, jet engines, auto and truck engines, diesels and home furnaces.” Van Dorn paused, then said, “It’s difficult, isn’t it, to even imagine the magnitude of the catastrophe.” He looked at his telephone, as though underscoring the point.

No one said anything, then Abrams spoke softly. “I assume there’s some protection against this?”

Van Dorn replied, “Our friends next door apparently tested their EMP protection devices with lightning, and I suppose the bastards think they’re fairly well covered. However, no one will know for sure unless there’s an actual EMP storm.”

Katherine asked, “What about the military?”

Van Dorn replied, “They’ve belatedly identified the danger, but what they’ve done to harden the vital systems is too little and too late. Only one of the four presidential flying command posts, for instance, is EMP-proof.”

Van Dorn ran his finger through the gold scrapings on his desk. “This, by the way, conducts the EMP and keeps it from passing through the spaces around the windows and doors.”

Abrams thought, The scientific equivalent of garlic or wolfbane. He said, “And vacuum tubes?”

Van Dorn drew on his cigar. “That’s another irony. The old-type vacuum tubes are about ten million times more resistant to EMP than the fragile integrated solid state circuits that have replaced them.”

Van Dorn paused thoughtfully, then said, “The Soviets may not have learned about EMP before we did, but they damned sure acted on it sooner. Do you remember the Russian Foxbat, the MiG-25 that was flown to Japan in 1976 by a Russian defector? It was thought to be the world’s most advanced fighter plane. American technicians took it apart and found most of the aircraft was state-of-the-art technology. But the electronics closest to the fuselage skin were based on vacuum tubes. At first the American technicians were amazed at such primitive electronics. But as they dug deeper down into the aircraft, they discovered that the Soviets indeed possessed advanced solid-state technology. So why the vacuum tubes? Well, now we know. The electronics closest to the exterior of the aircraft that would pick up the EMP were purposely dependent on vacuum tubes. This was the first hard evidence we had that they took EMP seriously. The Israelis made similar findings on captured Russian-made equipment. We should assume that most of the Soviet arsenal is designed with EMP in mind.”

Abrams said, “Apparently their house next door is designed to weather the storm as well. I suppose they’ll use the place as a command and control center after the EMP attack.”

Van Dorn nodded.

Katherine said, “Is this house…?”

Van Dorn shook his head. “No, and I don’t have a bomb shelter, either. I don’t plan for disasters, I prevent them.”

Abrams thought a moment, then looked at Van Dorn. “Your close physical proximity to them must make them a little nervous… Is it possible they have something special planned for this house?”

Van Dorn replied, “I’m fairly certain they do.” He nodded to himself, then added, “I have something special planned for them, too, and it’s not my usual light-and-sound show. It is instead a rather unneighborly gate-crashing.” He smiled in a way that Abrams thought was both mischievous and sinister. Van Dorn added, “The larger issues of world politics pale beside the petty squabbles of feuding neighbors. If I’m to end my days on this planet, I’m going to take a good number of those bastards with me.”

54

Van Dorn did not expand on his views of how to deal with unfriendly neighbors, and Abrams did not probe. The study was silent enough to hear the clock ticking on the mantel. They could also hear the muffled sounds of Van Dorn’s guests as they made the obligatory “oohs” and “ahhs” as the pyrotechnic display heated up. Katherine, Abrams noticed, looked sad but not dispirited, as if she’d lost a tennis set but not yet the match.

Van Dorn regarded Abrams for some time, then said, “We sent you in there only to confirm some of our suspicions. We didn’t expect you to have a chat with Henry Kimberly, or to discover that their people did not take their buses back to Manhattan. Fine job.”

Abrams acknowledged the compliment with a short nod, and said, “I would guess that the events of the past few days or weeks — which you and your friends precipitated — have spooked them. Perhaps pushed them into action.”

Van Dorn studied the tip of his burning cigar, then said, “Yes, the final irony. We stampeded them into action. Perhaps before they were completely ready.”

Abrams observed, “It doesn’t appear that we’re completely ready either.”

“Well… we are warned.”

Katherine said, “Isn’t it possible, George, that this is only a drill? A test to see if they can hide their people in Glen Cove without detection?”

Van Dorn shook his head. “On the contrary. They would not normally have to hide anyone. They would simply coordinate the EMP storm with their usual weekend in Glen Cove. We’ve always known that the Russians would prefer to schedule a thermonuclear war or EMP attack on a holiday weekend. Their people in Washington and San Francisco would also be at country places, and American response to Red Alerts, no matter what anyone tells you, is two to three minutes slower on the weekend. For instance, Pegasus has not called back, and it’s been”—he glanced at his watch—“twelve minutes.” He looked at Katherine. “No, I wish I could believe it was a drill, but the fact that they’ve hidden those people here in Glen Cove on a night when they should all be back in Manhattan means to me that tonight is the night. Mr. Abrams is right.”

Katherine nodded.

Abrams said, “I’m wondering why the Russians went to so much trouble in making their house resistant to EMP. Why not just shut off the master switch and pull all the plugs a few minutes before the EMP storm?”

Van Dorn replied, “No one is certain that cutting off the power will completely safeguard electrical components. But even if it were true, the Russians won’t pull their main switch, because the FBI monitors their electrical usage and would be on the horn to the President within five seconds.”

Abrams’ eyes moved around the room, as though he were taking in all the electrical components.

Van Dorn seemed to know what he was thinking. “Yes, life would be very different. We would freeze to death in the dark.” He looked at his desk. “Even my pocket calculator would give up the ghost.”

Abrams said, “We seem to have no defense — but could we at least retaliate?”

Van Dorn began to reply, then the phone rang and he picked it up. “Van Dorn. Yes.” He repeated his identification phrase, listened a moment, then said, “Well, where the hell is he? No, I will not give you the information. Is Unicorn there? Centaur? I repeat, this is a Condition Omega.” Van Dorn nodded several times as he listened. “All right. Fine. I’m still here. Have one of them call me.” He hung up and looked at Abrams and Katherine. “Pegasus is inexplicably unavailable. Unicorn or Centaur will call back soon. In the meantime, they’ve accepted my analysis of the situation as an Omega alert, and things are moving.”

Katherine’s head suddenly turned toward the bay window behind Van Dorn, and her eyes widened.

Van Dorn looked quickly over his shoulder. “What is it?”

She drew a deep breath, then spoke. “I… I thought… It must have been heat lightning.”

Van Dorn licked his lips, then said, “Well, the lights are still on, so it must have been. But that’s probably what it will look like… Bad luck to have heat lightning tonight of all nights, isn’t it?”

Abrams replied, “I’m not certain if it’s bad luck or a cosmic joke.”

Katherine added, “Whatever, it’s damned unnerving.”

Van Dorn cleared his throat. “There’s not much more I can do right now. The question on the floor concerned retaliation, and that is a complex question. Could we? Would we? Should we?”

Katherine said, “What do you mean, should we?”

Van Dorn replied, “It’s a moral question. The President will have to be convinced that it was the Russians who caused the EMP storm. And he will have to decide if a crippled nuclear response will serve any purpose other than inviting a massive Soviet counterstrike.”

Katherine nodded slowly. “I understand… ”

Abrams asked, “How is the nuclear device that will cause an EMP storm going to be delivered? I assume any missile trajectory out of Russia will be instantly spotted.”

Van Dorn stubbed out his cigar. “That’s the question. We don’t know. But we do know that a Soviet submarine off the coast of California can launch a missile that will explode over the center of the United States, at the required altitude to cause an EMP storm — flight time three to four minutes. Before a submarine launch was even confirmed, it would be too late to act. The command, control, and communications network — the glue that holds our entire nuclear program together — will be gone. Once that’s gone, that’s it. As one Air Force general said, the winner of the next war will be the side with the last two working radios.”

Abrams walked to the large bay window and gazed across the crowded lawn, past the striped tent and the tables, beyond the glare of the party lights, to where the edge of the sweeping lawn met the expanse of night sky. A sizable rocket rose from the depths of the waterless swimming pool, its fiery plume brilliant against the black sky, then exploded in a dazzling shower of golden particles. He turned from the window and said, “In effect, our own advanced technology — our microchips, computers, and transistors on which we’re so dependent — leave us vulnerable. If we unleashed a retaliatory electromagnetic storm over the Soviet Union, the consequences to them would not be as cataclysmic.”

“That’s correct,” answered Van Dorn. “This is one of those cases where primitiveness is a distinct advantage. You can’t burn out a country’s microchips and computers if they don’t have any. And if they do but they’re not dependent on them, they’re not as vulnerable as we are.”

Van Dorn picked up his pocket calculator and looked at it, then said, “Every civilization has its Achilles’ heel. If we introduced a rice blight into China and wiped out their crop, they would suffer mass starvation. If they did the same thing to us, no one would notice much. Do you see? Do you understand why we’re on the threshold of extinction?”

Abrams nodded.

Van Dorn looked at Katherine. “In mortal combat, it’s not only the Achilles’ heel we look for, we also need the right weapon to deal the death blow.” Van Dorn walked around his desk. “Sometimes the right weapon is EMP. Sometimes it is rice blight.” He opened the top drawer of his desk. “But if it’s a werewolf you’re after”—he set something on the desk top and took his hand away—“it’s a silver bullet you need.”

Katherine and Abrams stared at the gleaming .45-caliber bullet, sitting upright like a miniature missile ready for launch. Van Dorn said, “No, it’s not O’Brien’s. I have my own. There is one more. Because there were three Talbots.”

Katherine’s eyes moved from the bullet to Van Dorn’s face. “Three…?”

“Yes. In fact, your father had the third bullet.”

Katherine did not reply.

Van Dorn said softly, “But I think this is the one with his name on it, Kate. Would you have any objections if I used it?”

Katherine hesitated only a moment, then shook her head.

Van Dorn nodded, then scooped the bullet into his hand and dropped it in his trouser pocket. He said, “No matter what happens tonight — a national disaster or a miracle of survival — Henry Kimberly will die. We can discuss how later.”

Abrams stared at Van Dorn’s profile, noticing for the first time the hard angular features that were not so apparent from the front. The man may look like an old basset hound, he thought, but somewhere under the aging flesh there lurked a more ravening beast.

The silence in the room was broken by the ringing phone. Van Dorn picked it up and went through the identification procedure. He listened, nodding as he made a few notes. He said, “You must understand that one of the men with the President this weekend, James Allerton, is most probably a Soviet agent.” Van Dorn listened a second, then snapped, “Yes, damn it, the James Allerton. How fucking many are there who would be at Camp David with the President? Yes, all right. But I still need to speak to one of the three.” He listened, then replied, “All right — I have hard evidence pointing to an EMP attack—tonight. Get it cranked up, Colonel. Yes. Fine.” He hung up and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Well, now you know about Allerton if you hadn’t already suspected.” He glanced at Katherine.

She shook her head. “My God… this is too much… ”

Abrams said, “Who is the third?”

Van Dorn shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t even know if he’s still alive. But if the Russians wind up in the White House, I suppose we’ll find out.”

Katherine looked at Van Dorn. “George… what will happen afterward? After the EMP attack? I mean… if there’s no nuclear exchange… what happens next? Surrender? Occupation? What?”

“That’s rather negative thinking, Katherine.”

“Nonetheless,” said Abrams, “it’s a good question.”

Van Dorn glanced at Abrams, then at Katherine, and saw how things stood with them. He smiled, and Katherine seemed chagrined. Abrams tried to look impassive. Van Dorn walked to the wall safe and returned with a manila file folder. He opened it and extracted a sheaf of papers, laying them on the desk facing Abrams. “Can you read that?”

Abrams looked at the typed Cyrillic letters. He read, “‘A Report on the State’s Appropriation and Administration of the Garment Industry in New York.’” He looked at Van Dorn quizzically.

Van Dorn said, “Not in and of itself interesting reading. What’s interesting is the fact that such a report even exists.”

Katherine glanced at the thick file. “Where did you get this?”

Van Dorn allowed himself a smile. “From a local juvenile delinquent.” He explained about Stanley Kuchik and added, “The kid said there were dozens of file cabinets full of papers. If he had been able to read Russian, he might have grabbed something more interesting, perhaps their plans for the court and legal system… not that it matters.”

Abrams turned a few pages of the report. There was some element of coincidence here, he thought; his parents had been active in the garment workers’ movement, and they would have approved of this expropriation.

Van Dorn slid a few photographs out of the file and pushed them across the desk. “The kid takes pictures, too. These are the electrical panels in the basement. No real surprises there. But the CIA found it fascinating that we could get in and out of Ivan’s basement.” Van Dorn chuckled. “I didn’t tell them we came on these by pure chance.” He pushed another photo toward Abrams. “Do you recognize the fat one?”

Abrams nodded. “Androv. The so-called cultural affairs attaché.”

“Yes, and the man walking beside him has been identified as Valentin Metkov of the KGB’s Department Five. Murder Incorporated.”

Katherine stared at the faces in the photo. Androv looked so benign, and Metkov so sinister. But there seemed to be no correlation between how they looked and how they behaved.

Van Dorn continued, “Metkov is not a trigger man, he’s a high-ranking officer who directs mass liquidations. He’s worked in Poland, Afghanistan, the Soviet Republic of Lithuania — wherever the KGB has a free hand to deal with the enemies of the Soviet state. I never thought I’d see him in America. He is a harbinger of death.”

“Who’s a harbinger of death?”

Everyone turned toward the door as Ann Kimberly strode across the room. “Who’s a harbinger of death, George? Not me, I hope?”

There was an astonished silence, then Van Dorn said, “One of my neighbors, Valentin Metkov of Department Five, is planning to murder us all, Ann.”

“Well, George, you’ve been begging for it for years.” She smiled, “Hello, Kate. I guess I arrived at the right time. Is this your new boyfriend, Tony? Hello. Did I miss much? Get me a drink, will you, George? I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

55

Ann Kimberly sat on the edge of the coffee table with a bourbon in her hand. She said, “Do I sound like a suspicious fiancée? I feel a bit of a fool making the hop over to look for my boyfriend.”

Katherine, who was standing in front of her, replied, “No, it’s not foolish. Peter would disappear for weeks, but Nick’s job and his… his nature argue against his dropping out of sight.”

Van Dorn had little sensitivity for this female chatter. Nicholas West was among the most protected men in the nation. He said, “As a result of all that’s going on, the Company probably just pulled him in for his own protection. You’ll get word soon.”

Ann wanted to point out that she wasn’t some hysterical young girl; that she was the first person listed on Nicholas West’s contact sheet, and she was in the business. But she said instead, “Let’s get on to what’s on your minds.” She leaned forward. “Tell me all about it.”

Van Dorn exchanged a quick glance with Katherine, then Katherine turned to her sister and said, “The first thing I have to tell you is that our father is alive.”

Ann did not appear to react, but Abrams, standing to her side, saw her glass begin to slip from her hand before she clenched it tighter.

Katherine went on, “He’s next door, Ann. He’s a defector. A traitor.”

Ann said, “He is Talbot.”

Katherine replied, “He is Talbot.”

Ann nodded to herself thoughtfully, as though storing the information for some future reference. She said, “There are two others, you know.” She looked up at Van Dorn. “Did you get a telex from England a few hours ago?”

Van Dorn nodded. “From our contact in MI5.” He opened the file drawer of his desk and pulled out the deciphered message. He read, “‘In reply to your inquiry: Long-distance call from New York, routed through local exchange, Tongate, to Brompton Hall seven P.M. your time. Duration eight minutes. Call from Brompton Hall to New York at seven forty-three P.M. your time. Duration six minutes. Both calls, New York party at UN Plaza Hotel. Request further?’” Van Dorn looked up and said, “About fifteen minutes after the call was made from Brompton Hall, neighbors reported a fire.” He turned to Abrams. “I think I know what happened, but maybe you can try to reconstruct it. I’d feel better if I heard it from a cop.”

Abrams was not flattered at being asked to perform, but he said, “The person at the UN Plaza Hotel was James Allerton.” He saw Van Dorn nod. “Allerton would have liked to cover traces of those calls, but time was short and he was feeling a little nervous. So he took a chance no one would check. The time of his call to Brompton Hall corresponds to the time in New York when he could have first received the news about the diary and the Wingate letter. Probably from Thorpe, who got it from Katherine.” He kept his eyes fixed on Van Dorn.

Van Dorn said, “We’re not certain Allerton and Thorpe knew about each other. But the news did come to Allerton somehow as a result of Thorpe’s conversation with Katherine, and the timing is right. Go on.”

Abrams thought a moment, then said, “Allerton spoke for eight minutes to Lady Wingate or her nephew. He was probably trying to determine if his name was mentioned in the diary in any negative context.” Abrams paused, then went on, “This presupposes that Allerton believed the diary was real, though I’ve been told recently, it wasn’t.” He glanced at Katherine, then said to Van Dorn, “Allerton never knew he and Kimberly were on the same side of the fence — which is usually how these things work.”

Van Dorn nodded. “Allerton was badly frightened, which was the idea of the diary. Or, to use the other metaphor, the werewolf sensed danger, but unlike natural wolves he didn’t run from it, he ran at it.”

Abrams lit a cigarette and drew on it, then continued, “Allerton must have convinced Eleanor Wingate that he was working with Carbury, O’Brien, and Katherine, and that they were concerned about her safety, or something along those lines. Allerton was, of course, after the Photostat of the diary.”

Abrams watched the smoke rise from his cigarette. He was aware of the absolute stillness in the room. He was aware, too, that there was a startling contrast between the gentleman he had met at the OSS dinner and seen on television, and the man he was now describing; but that was the nature of the werewolf. Abrams said, “Allerton sent someone to Brompton Hall and so did O’Brien. The timing is close and it’s hard to say who got there first, but Eleanor Wingate let both of them in.” Abrams remembered a line from the letter and observed, “She must have been just as confused then as she had been in 1945, when two different men showed up at Brompton Hall on the identical mission of recovering Henry Kimberly’s papers.”

Van Dorn nodded again, “In any event, Allerton’s man murdered Eleanor Wingate, her nephew, and O’Brien’s man. He may have… interrogated them first and recovered the diary Photostat. Then he called Allerton and reported. Fifteen minutes after that call, the house went up in flames.” He looked at Abrams. “It’s reassuring that you’ve come to the same conclusions.” He added, “We couldn’t convict James Allerton on the evidence of the phone calls, but we can kill him.”

Abrams didn’t reply directly to the suggestion of homicide, but said, “And James Allerton is at this moment with the President at Camp David?”

Van Dorn laughed without humor. “I’m afraid so. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about.”

Ann said, “What do we have to worry about, George?”

“Lots of things. The third Talbot, for one thing. But I have no evidence that he’s even alive.” He looked at Ann.

She replied, “I think he is. But I’d rather not comment at this time. Before you tell me what else is on your mind, let me tell you that there has been no unusual radio traffic between Moscow and Washington, Manhattan, or Glen Cove. Very banal stuff going out on the air — administrative junk. Androv’s home leave has been approved, for instance. Low-level diplomatic codes, not much high-grade tricky stuff. I did a computer analysis, and it seems that whenever this phenomenon has occurred in the past — nearly every time between the Berlin blockade in 1948 and the present — it usually, but not always, means the bastards are up to something. We call it QBSHF: Quiet Before Shit Hits Fan.”

Van Dorn observed, “They haven’t been very quiet here.”

Ann continued, “Also, I caught a break tonight and shared a cab with the sexiest Russian I’ve ever laid eyes on.” She explained briefly, then added, “When I see an obviously high-level courier skulking around in a cab like that, his attaché case not handcuffed to him, trying to look unofficial, then I get a little suspicious. For two cents I would have mugged him.” She smiled. “But he looked tough. And not every courier is carrying the game plan for World War Three, is he?”

Van Dorn replied, “No, but I think this one was.”

“Well, had I known… but let’s hear it, then, George.”

“Right—” The phone rang and Van Dorn picked it up and listened. He gave his identification phrase, answered, and asked a few questions, then hung up shortly. He said, “Well, they wouldn’t give me much over an unsecured line, but they wanted me to know the alert status has been upgraded and the President has been informed.” He looked at the screen in front of the alcove. “They’ll telex encoded details later.” Van Dorn looked at Ann. “Well, are you in the mood for more bad news?”

“I thrive on it, George. Shoot.”

Abrams watched Ann Kimberly as Van Dorn gave her a background briefing. She asked a few questions and made a few succinct comments. Abrams saw she was quick, intelligent, and knowledgeable. She was also good-looking. Her coloring was like her sister’s, but her hair was shorter, and her body fuller. She was also, he knew, about three years older. Whereas Katherine radiated a sense of the outdoors, Ann looked as if she spent too much time in underground facilities, and what tan she had, he guessed, came from hickory-smoked bourbon.

As for personality, Ann Kimberly was somewhat more breezy and outgoing than her sister, and more prone to banter and profane observations. She had already told Van Dorn he’d gotten too heavy and that Kitty was looking for a lover, and suggested his parties were boring.

Also, she did not seem particularly worried as Van Dorn presented the news that America might come under attack at any moment; but Abrams could see she believed him.

He wondered how Ann Kimberly and Nicholas West ever got together and how they had stayed together. It struck him that Ann Kimberly and Peter Thorpe were more suited to each other than Thorpe and Katherine, at least on the surface.

Ann rattled the ice cubes in her glass and helped herself to the tray of hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table, as she carried on a fast dialogue with Van Dorn.

Van Dorn said, “Then the President can’t order a nuclear strike?”

“That’s right, George. The President would not have the ability to send out what’s called an Emergency Action Message, not after we’ve gotten an electronic lobotomy.” Ann stood and looked around the room, then said, “But I’ll give you all a piece of information classified Highest State Secret. The military foresaw this EMP problem and they’ve convinced the President that if any such complete blackout occurs, the lack of communications will be the signal to go. It’s called ALARM — Auto-Launch Response Mode. That’s even a quicker response than LAW — Launch on Warning.” She added, “The fucking military would have to speak English if they didn’t have their acronyms.” She took a deep breath and said, “To put it more poetically, the silent radios would, ironically, be the last call to arms.”

She looked at the three faces that were staring at her, and added, to be sure they understood, “A communications blackout equals a launch. Boom! Auf wiedersehen, world, as they say in merry old Germany.” She drained off her drink and held it out to Van Dorn. “A short one, George. Danke.”

Van Dorn took her glass and moved slowly to the bar.

Abrams looked at her, focusing on her eyes. At first he thought she was a little drunk, or mad, but then thought she just didn’t give a damn. But they made eye contact, and he saw she cared very much. It must be, he thought, the way her colleagues spoke of nuclear annihilation, as though they were discussing some past war, not the next one. Auf wiedersehen indeed. Not if he could help it.

Van Dorn said, “I assume the Russians know this.” He handed Ann her drink.

She held up her glass. “Here’s to good Kentucky whisky.” She tipped the glass back and took a swallow, then regarded Van Dorn. “Yes, they were told this. Otherwise what good would the threat be as a deterrent? But either they didn’t believe it, or they decided to take a goddamned shot at it anyway. Our nuclear response to an EMP blackout would be weakened, but not that weak. We have the subs and the European nukes.”

Ann walked to the French doors and looked up into the sky. The sheets of heat lightning had broken up into crackling bolts, and a wind was picking up off the sound. A distant thunder rolled into the quiet study. “God is trying to tip us off.”

She turned and faced the room. “Well, that’s the grim picture. You were worried about instant and total defeat, without a shot fired. Have no fear. We’ll get our nuclear war.” She stared down into her glass and swirled the amber liquor. “Classic case of underestimating your enemy’s will to fight back. Mass delusion in Moscow. Assholes.” She looked up. “So, all indications are that tomorrow’s sunbeams will shine through motes of nuclear debris.”

Van Dorn let out a long breath. “Maybe not. I assume the President is speaking to the Soviet Premier right now. If he lets them know that we’re on to them, they may call it off.”

Ann did not respond.

Van Dorn continued, “The President can inform the Soviets that he’s given all the nuclear forces the go-ahead to launch as soon as one of our missile-detecting satellites picks up a single Soviet launch.”

Ann was shaking her head. “They won’t see any launch, not from the Soviet Union, not from a Soviet sub, nor from anywhere.”

Van Dorn took a few steps toward her. “What do you mean? How are they going to detonate that nuclear device over the center of the United States?”

Ann replied, “Satellite, of course.”

Van Dorn was silent for a moment, then blurted, “Damn it! Of course—”

Ann went on, “It’s simplicity itself. Tumbling now through the black voids are thousands of satellites of every sort and description, passing freely across the unprotected frontiers of space. One type of Soviet satellite is called Molniya, which aptly enough means lightning. There are dozens of these fairly innocuous Molniya communications satellites crisscrossing North America every day. One of these Molniya satellites is of particular interest to my people at the National Security Agency. Molniya Number Thirty-six.”

Ann walked away from the French doors and sat on the edge of Van Dorn’s desk. She continued, “Molniya Thirty-six was launched from the Soviet rocket base at Plesetsk about a year ago. It has a highly elliptical orbit with an apogee of about twenty-five thousand miles — way out there — and a perigee of only four hundred miles. The ostensible reason for this highly unusual orbit is to prolong communications sessions, which is partly true. But with an orbit like that, it is also conveniently out of range of our snooping satellites and our killer satellites for a good deal of its journey. Its twenty-five-thousand-mile apogee is somewhere over Lake Baikal in central Siberia.” She added, almost offhandedly, “Its four-hundred-mile perigee is over America — around Nebraska, to be exact.”

No one spoke, and Ann walked back to the coffee table, picking up the nearly empty tray of hors d’oeuvres. She said, “My people at the NSA have determined by electronic means that there is not the normal load of communication equipment on board Molniya Thirty-six. Deduction: The extra space is filled with something else. To wit: a few pounds of enriched plutonium.” She picked out a piece of smoked salmon and ate it. “Molniya Thirty-six is most probably what we call an SOB — a satellite orbital bomb. SOB’s are outlawed by a 1966 UN treaty, but I guess Ivan lost his copy of it.”

She searched through the tray again and found another smoked salmon. “Good food, George. Do you still have that crazy Nazi working for you?”

Van Dorn replied in a distracted tone, “He’s not a Nazi. He’s a German Jew.”

“I thought he was an old SS man.”

“No, he pretended to be one. Look, Ann, are you sure—”

Abrams interrupted. “What’s the orbit time of this Molniya?” He pronounced it with the proper Russian accent and Ann glanced at him. She answered, “Well, that’s the good news. The orbiting time around the earth is long — twelve hours and seventeen minutes, give or take a few minutes.” She looked down into her glass and shook the ice cubes, then drank the remainder of the bourbon. “The bad news is that I don’t recall offhand when it’s due over Nebraska again.” She handed Van Dorn her glass. “Very light this time. Mostly soda.”

Van Dorn took her glass and made another trip to the bar. He said over his shoulder, “Well, we can find out, I’m sure.”

“No problem. Do you have a computer terminal yet?”

“No, I never got beyond the telex.”

“Oh, George.” Ann picked up Van Dorn’s phone as she took her drink from him with her other hand. “I think I can get through to Fort Meade.” She cradled the receiver on her shoulder and hit the push buttons.

Abrams watched. He’d never seen a twenty-one-digit phone number before. Ann went through an identification procedure of some length. Abrams remembered that someone had once said the National Security Agency was so secret that congressmen said NSA stood for No Such Agency.

Ann got someone on the phone whom she seemed to know. “Yes, Bob, this is Ann Kimberly. I’m in New York, and I need some information. Do you have your little computer in front of you?”

Abrams had also been told that there were fourteen acres of computers at the NSA facility beneath Fort Meade, so the chances of Bob having one in front of him were good.

Ann said, “No, this phone is not secure. But I only want some very low-classification stuff. Okay…?” She nodded to the people in the room, then said into the receiver, “Punch up the Molniya series.” She waited, then continued, “Okay, I need Molniya Thirty-six. Got it? Now I need Molniya’s perigee time and place.” She listened, then said, “Okay… okay, Bob. Thanks… No, just playing trivia here. Right. See you.” She hung up and looked at the three people staring at her. She said, “You don’t want to know.”

Van Dorn replied gruffly, “I damn sure want to know.”

Ann looked at her watch, which Abrams took as a bad sign. He wondered if she was looking at the minute hand or the second hand. She raised her head and spoke. “Molniya Thirty-six is traveling in a southwesterly direction, descending now from its apogee, toward earth. Perigee time over Blair, Nebraska, a small town about twenty miles north of Omaha, is 12:06 A.M., Eastern Daylight Time, 11:06 P.M. Central Time, which is, in any case… ninety-six minutes from now.” She stared out the bay window, as though, thought Abrams, she was looking for it.

Katherine said, “They may wait for the next orbit… ”

“Not likely,” said Van Dorn. “Even Russkies don’t like to sit in the basement for twelve hours.”

Abrams added, “If their mission offices don’t open for business as usual, and the delegation doesn’t show up at the UN tomorrow morning, it would look a little suspicious. No, they’re going for it tonight. This orbit.”

Katherine suddenly blurted, “Those bastards!” She looked at Van Dorn. “We’re partly responsible for this. We should have done more, or done nothing. But we’ve committed ourselves, so we must see it to its end.”

Van Dorn stayed motionless for some time, then said softly, “Yes, I agree. I didn’t intend to let it go with a few phone calls, Kate. We’ll deal directly with the situation next door.” He picked up the telephone and dialed the kitchen, where one of the staff picked up. “Find Marc Pembroke and get him to my study. Immediately.”

Van Dorn put down the receiver and looked at each person. “We may or may not be able to stop this ticking clock, but, by God, there’s no reason why we can’t indulge ourselves in some personal revenge.” He cocked his head toward the window. “Tonight is their last night, too.”

George Van Dorn looked at Ann Kimberly. “All right?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it matters much if one meets one’s end from a small-caliber bullet or a large nuclear fireball. When you’re dead, you’re dead a long time anyway. If you’ve got a gun, I’ve brought my trigger finger.”

Van Dorn looked at Abrams.

Abrams had a distaste for vigilantism, partly professional, partly cultural. He said, “I’m sure they’re prepared to withstand one hell of an onslaught.”

Van Dorn smiled grimly. “Pembroke and I have already drawn up some plans for an attack.”

Abrams found that odd but not incredible. He tried another tack. “What if it isn’t tonight? How do we explain why we attacked a diplomatic facility and shot up the Soviet Mission to the United Nations?”

Ann replied, “Look, we’re proposing a preemptive strike, not an unprovoked act of aggression.”

Van Dorn plucked at his heavy jowl, then said, “Abrams, if your objections are more practical than moral, please rest assured on that point. We may be amateur spies, but we’re professional soldiers. In fact, I happen to have an eighty-one-millimeter mortar out back.”

Abrams’ eyes widened.

Van Dorn smiled almost sheepishly. “We can level that goddamned house in about ten minutes, then go in and mop up.”

Abrams stared at him.

Van Dorn added, “As fate would have it, my three pyrotechnicians tonight have some mortar training.”

Abrams thought fate had little to do with it. He rubbed his forehead. When this was amateur spying, it was strange enough. Now that it had turned into a discussion of infantry tactics, it had become alarming. The image formed in his mind of the little Russian girl clutching her doll. Katerina and Katya. Where are you going, Katerina? Down to the basement. He shook his head and looked at Van Dorn. “There are women and children in that basement.”

Van Dorn let out a long breath. He spoke softly, almost gently. “There are women and children all over America. If you want to talk about women and children, try to expand your imagination to picture the results of a nuclear war.”

Abrams replied somewhat irritably, “Massacring those people will not prevent any of that.” He added, “If there is an EMP attack, your mortar will still work. Why don’t you hold off until you see what happens at midnight?”

Van Dorn began to reply, but the phone rang and he picked it up. He listened, then said, “Yes, he’s right here.” He held out the receiver to Abrams. “Captain Spinelli.”

Abrams looked somewhat surprised as he took the receiver. He spoke into the mouthpiece. “What’s up, Dom?”

Spinelli replied, “Still partying, Abrams? Well, just a wrap-up on the evening news.”

“I don’t have any news.”

“I do.”

Abrams picked up the telephone and trailed the cord away from the desk toward the fireplace, and turned his back on the three people. He could hear them begin talking in low voices. Abrams said, “Where are you?”

“At the Nineteenth.”

Abrams spoke in a soft tone. “All right, what is it?” he asked without much interest.

“I’ve got a follow-up on that note you left with my man at the Thirty-sixth Street town house.”

Abrams replied, “Oh, right, the Lombardy. That was just a long shot. I didn’t think Thorpe would leave anything lying around. It’s a CIA safe house and other people use it—”

“It’s not a CIA safe house, and nobody else uses it but Thorpe. Thorpe put out that CIA bullshit to cover his ass.”

Abrams said to Spinelli, “So what did you find, Sherlock? Radios, ciphers, Russian tea, and a signed copy of Das Kapital?”

“Well, radios anyway. Listen, we couldn’t get a court order so I called Henly, the CIA liaison here, and fast-talked him. We went to the Lombardy and busted the fucking door down with fire axes. Christ, what a setup this clown has. At the top of a narrow staircase, on the third floor, there was a big black door made out of some synthetic. It was resilient, like rubber. We whacked away at it for about ten minutes. Henly had a hard-on, he was so sure he was going to find something weird behind that door. But the door wouldn’t give. I had to call Emergency Service, who finally blew it with a half kilo of plastic.”

Abrams heard Spinelli lighting a cigar. “And…?”

Spinelli said, “There was this huge attic room that looked like a cross between the flight deck of the Enterprise and the Marquis de Sade’s rec room. There was a trail of blood all over the white tile floor leading to a walk-in refrigerator — like they have in butcher shops. But there wasn’t prosciutto hanging in there. No, sir, this sucker is running a holding morgue.”

Abrams glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the three were still deep in conversation and apparently not paying attention to him. He said softly, “Who was in there?”

Spinelli drew a long breath. “Some bad stuff in there, Tony. Three — count ’em: One, the missing Randolph Carbury, skull rearranged with our old friend the blunt instrument. Two, a middleaged woman identified by the Frog concierge as the housekeeper, apparent bullet wound right eye, exit rear right ear. And number three, Nicholas West, tortured, cause of death unknown. You still there?”

Abrams nodded several times, then cleared his throat. “Yes… yes…”

“Good. Now we’re looking for Mr. Peter Thorpe. Any ideas?”

“No… well, maybe. He could be next door here.”

Spinelli let out a whistle. “Well, that’s it for the NYPD.” Spinelli paused, then said, “I think the CIA wants to take it from here anyway.”

“Listen, Dom… Good work. Thanks for calling.”

“No problem, Abrams. I owe you. For what, I don’t know, but I’ll pay you back. What’s that wine you drink?”

“Villa Banfi Brunello di Montalcino, seventy-eight vintage. Go home, Dom. Seriously. Go home.” Abrams hung up and turned around.

Van Dorn looked up from the conversation. “Anything for us, Abrams?”

Abrams put the telephone back on the desk. He hesitated, then said, “The police and the CIA went into Thorpe’s apartment and found Colonel Carbury’s body in a food locker up in the attic.”

Katherine put her hand over her mouth and sank into a chair.

Van Dorn’s voice was low and angry, “That son of a bitch. Wait until I get my hands on that—”

Ann interrupted, “Oh, don’t take it personally, George. Peter has nothing personal against any of us. He’s just bonkers.” She looked at her sister. “Sorry, Kate. I should have warned you.”

“You did. I wasn’t listening.”

Ann turned back to Abrams. “What else did your police friend say?” She held Abrams’ eyes for a few seconds and Abrams understood that she understood. Ann turned away.

Abrams said, “The police and CIA are looking for Thorpe, of course. I told them to try next door.”

Van Dorn snorted, “If Thorpe is there, he’s home free. All the more reason to blow the place up.” Van Dorn lit a cigar stub.

Katherine stood and drew a long breath. She said, “No, George. I agree with Tony that we can’t do that.” She turned to Abrams. “But we absolutely must get into that house. There may be something we can do there to stop this…” She hesitated, then said, “My father is in there… Peter may be in there… I think a personal confrontation — not an artillery barrage — is more in keeping with the spirit of our group.”

Van Dorn said nothing.

Ann added, “As a practical and professional matter, I’d like to get my hands on that communications equipment. That may be the key to shut down their operation.” She turned to Van Dorn. “No artillery, George. We go in there mano a mano.”

Van Dorn nodded. “All right… ”

Katherine put her hand on Abrams’ arm. “All right?”

Abrams didn’t think a choice between a mortar barrage and a commando raid was much of a choice, but he could see the point in the latter. He said, “Look, you don’t need my approval. Go ahead. Put a bullet in Androv’s fat belly if you can. But for God’s sake, leave Mr. Van Dorn here on the telephone to try to head off this EMP blast.”

Van Dorn drew heavily on his cigar, then spoke. “I won’t waste time by making a show of telling you I won’t send my people where I wouldn’t go myself. During the war I sent hundreds of men and women out to meet their fate without me. Everyone has a job. Mine tonight is to stay here by the phone and the telex. And to hell with anyone who thinks badly of me.”

Ann put her arms around Van Dorn’s huge shoulders. “Oh, George, no one will think badly of you. If we fail next door, they’ll come here and shoot you anyway.”

Van Dorn smiled grimly as he stepped away from Ann and patted the holster under his pocket. “In 1945 I had a shoot-out with two KGB goons in the Soviet sector of Vienna. We all missed. I won’t miss this time.”

Ann smiled. “Well, George, it’s never too late in life to redeem yourself.” She added, “I’m going next door, of course, because I can work their communications equipment.” She turned to Katherine. “You’re going because you must.” Ann looked at Abrams.

Abrams shrugged. “I’m going because I’ve got a screw loose.”

Katherine smiled at him. “And your Russian is good, and you know the layout.”

Ann said to Van Dorn, “You ought to break up this boring party, George.”

Van Dorn shook his head. “Can’t. That would look suspicious. The invites said until one A.M., and my neighbors somehow have access to that sort of information.” He thought a moment, then added, “I’d like to keep them all here anyway.”

Van Dorn looked at Katherine. “What do you carry?”

She nodded toward her bag. “Browning automatic, forty-five caliber.”

Van Dorn reached into his pocket and produced the silver-plated .45-caliber bullet. “This is melodramatic, I know… but we were young then and given to theatrics. Nevertheless, the bullet is real.”

She took it without a word and held it in her clenched hand.

Ann said, “Well, George, if we’re not back by the time the lights go out, I trust you won’t hesitate to fire your artillery.”

“If I don’t see you back here, or hear from you, EMP attack or not, by midnight, I’ll let loose with the mortar.” He looked at the three people. “All right?”

Everyone nodded.

There was a knock on the door and it opened. Marc Pembroke walked in.

Ann smiled at him. “You’re looking fit, Marc. Fit enough to do a job?”

“Oh… hello, Ann. Long time.” He turned to Van Dorn. “Tonight, is it?”

“Right.” Van Dorn glanced at Abrams, then said to Pembroke, “There are children in the basement. They’re innocent, of course. There are also women and diplomatic staff down there. Exercise some judgment.”

Pembroke nodded. “A complication but not a problem. When do we shove off?”

Van Dorn looked at his watch. “Can you get ready in thirty minutes?”

“No, but I will.”

“Then gather your people and my people, and bring them here.”

“I’ll fetch them now.” Pembroke turned.

Van Dorn called out, “One more thing. It’s time to settle some old scores, right here in this house. As we discussed.”

Pembroke nodded and left quickly.

Van Dorn went behind his desk and picked up the telephone. He looked at the three people in the room as he dialed, and said, “In the last war, radar gave you as much as an hour’s warning. Today, they’re happy with fifteen minutes. I’ve given them a few hours. I hope to God they’ve been using the time constructively.” He spoke into the receiver. “Hello, Van Dorn here. We’ve gone through fire and through water.” He began speaking to the person on the other end.

Abrams walked over to the wall where the pictures hung in neat rows, and stared at them. Katherine came up beside him. She said, “We’ve actually had about forty years’ warning, haven’t we?”

Abrams didn’t reply.

She said softly, “We haven’t even gotten to know each other yet.”

He glanced at her. “We have a rendezvous for breakfast tomorrow. The Brasserie.”

She smiled. “Don’t be late.” She turned and walked back to her sister.

Abrams continued looking at the pictures, but his eyes were not focused on them. He thought that in many ways events had come full circle. He remembered his parents and their friends meeting in mean rooms, plotting and planning for the day when the workers would throw off their chains. He thought of George Van Dorn exchanging gunfire with the future enemy in the streets of Vienna. He contemplated the personality of James Allerton, a half century or more in the service of a foreign power, making him perhaps the country’s longest-enduring traitor. He reflected on the Kimberly diary, and Arnold Brin’s message, and other dead messages, and dead files, and dead matter from the living and the dead; and he thought that somehow the dead past had returned to bury the living and the unborn.