The Talbot Odyssey (32 page)

Katherine stayed with the group and followed the exit ramp around Cadman Plaza, then ran south on Henry Street. A few early risers watched idly. A truck driver whistled. A small boy fell in beside her and asked in the local dialect, “Youse runnin’?”

Katherine smiled at the obvious question.

“Hey, can I run witch youse?”

“Sure . . . no. No, it’s not safe.” She put on a burst of speed and outdistanced the boy.

The few other runners she had stayed with turned into Cranberry Street and headed for the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Katherine continued alone down Henry Street at too fast a pace, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. She was sweaty, and found her breathing to be much harder than it should have been.

She saw Abrams’ building ahead, an expensive highrise set among the brownstones. She increased her stride. As the landscaped entrance to the building came up, she cut diagonally across the forecourt and pushed through the glass doors. She leaned against the foyer wall and caught her breath, then glanced at her chronograph: 4.62 miles in 39 minutes. Not bad.

Katherine pushed at the inner glass doors, but they were locked. She turned to find Abrams’ buzzer, but a man inside the lobby opened the door for her. She hesitated, then slid past him and crossed the lobby quickly. She pushed the elevator button and waited. The man stood in the center of the lobby staring at her. The elevator came and she rode up to the sixth floor.

Katherine rang the bell of apartment 6C. The peephole slid back, then the door opened. “Come in.”

She exhaled a long breath and stepped into a small foyer.

Abrams said, “Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so . . . but there’s a man in your lobby. Brown suit, tall—”

“Cop.” He glanced at her. “Anything wrong?”

She forced a smile. “I got myself worked up.” She realized she was glad to be there. She felt safe with him. She looked at his tattered blue sweat suit, splattered with paint stains. The sweat shirt said NYPD GYM. “Is that Brooklyn chic?”

“Right. It signals to the muggers that I’m poor but armed.” He led her into the living room. She glanced around. This was not what she’d expected.

He followed her gaze but said nothing.

She turned back to him. “
Are
you armed?”

“Yes. You too. Lift your shirt.”

She hesitated, then hiked her T-shirt up. Abrams took a nylon gun belt from the coffee table, wrapped it around her waist, and pressed the Velcro fastener together. “How’s that feel?”

She drew a deep breath. “Fine.”

He produced a holster and clipped it on the belt near the small of her back.

She pulled down her shirt.

Abrams handed her a small silver automatic. “It’s a 7.65 Beretta, unloaded. Play with it.”

She operated the slide, checked the safety and the trigger pull. “It’s light.”

“Jogger’s Special. It won’t bother you much.”

“Will it bother anyone else?”

He smiled. “It doesn’t have much stopping power, and it’s pretty inaccurate, but it’s otherwise reliable.” He handed her two magazines of seven rounds apiece. “Aim for the midsection, and keep squeezing off rounds. It’s a fast reload.”

She slapped one magazine in the butt of the pistol, and put the other in her zippered pants pocket. She reached behind and slipped the gun in the holster, drawing it out to get the feel of it, then sliding it back in.

Abrams watched her, then said, “I know you’re used to your own cannon, but that’s the best I could do.”

“It’s fine. Really.”

The conversation, thought Abrams, had a bizarre quality to it, as though he had given her a cheap wristwatch and she was trying to hide her disappointment. “Who taught you about guns?”

“Peter.” She didn’t elaborate, but said, “What are you carrying?”

Abrams tapped his chest. “My thirty-eight in a shoulder holster. Sit down a minute.”

She sat on the couch, again taking in the room.

Abrams sat in a tan leather chair. “When I was on the force, I made some good investments.”

She seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I looked surprised.”

“Well, the police internal affairs people looked even more surprised when they paid an unexpected visit. They literally took the place apart searching for bag money.”

Again she seemed ill at ease. “But you were able to explain . . . ?”

Abrams sat back. “Marcy’s father was a stockbroker. She never knew I had dealings with him.” He smiled.

She smiled in return.

“Anyway, the internal affairs people were satisfied, but I was pulled out of intelligence, put back into uniform, and assigned to Staten Island to watch the birds. I realized I was not going anywhere and about that time Mr. O’Brien offered to put me on full time, so I left the force.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“Do you? Well, that job offer couldn’t have been better timed.”

There was a long silence in the room, then she said, “You aren’t suggesting that Mr. O’Brien had anything to do with—”

“I’m suggeting that Mr. O’Brien could get the Pope framed on charges of heresy if it suited his purpose.”

“Well . . .” She remembered the misfortunes that had befallen her ex-husband. “Well . . . he’s not malicious. I mean, there’s always a reason—”

“I’m sure of it. But there is no excuse. Not for manipulating people’s lives. Anyway, there’s no proof, is there? And no hard feelings, really.”

She changed the subject. “You have good taste in decorating.”

“Actually, Cousin Herbie is a decorator. Uncle Sy is in the furniture business, Aunt Ruth is in rugs. . . . You know how it is.”

“No, I don’t.” She stood. “I think we’d better go.”

He remained seated. “Isn’t Peter going to meet us here?”

“I don’t think so. Later.”

He stood. “Wait.” He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of brown liquid. “My own recipe.”

She held up her glass and looked at it suspiciously. “What
is
this?”

“Apples, bananas, cornflakes, and . . . I forget. Whatever is around goes in the blender.”

“Some recipe.” She sipped it. “Not too bad.”

Abrams emptied his glass. “Great. Well, the facilities are down that hall.”

She nodded. “I’ll be a minute.”

He watched her as she disappeared into the hallway. She was, he knew, in a state of turmoil. Her lover might be a traitor and a murderer. People around her were dying, and her own life was probably in danger. To add to the excitement, she truly believed the world was coming to an end. And probably, he thought, she’d already figured out that he wanted to take her to bed. This, he admitted, might not be the best possible time to broach that subject. Yet he knew he had to.

She returned. “I’m ready.” She looked at him.

Abrams remembered something O’Brien had told him in a candid moment:
She’s approachable. But as in warfare, you have to find
a point of approach.
He considered several, remembering another martial adage:
In war, there is no room for two mistakes.
“Katherine . . .”

She was studying his face and said, “No, Tony. One thing at a time.”

“I’m only considering one thing at this time.”

“One person at a time. Okay?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

She smiled slowly. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“Neither do you.” He indicated the door.

She moved toward it, then turned suddenly.

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

After some time, she pulled gently away. “We have things to do . . . first things first.”

“World War Three, or whatever the hell it is, can wait.”

“No . . . come . . .” She smiled. “Let’s go burn off some frustration.”

Abrams nodded as he followed her to the door. Peter Thorpe was his major frustration at the moment, and Abrams thought that he would find some pleasure in burning him off.

Nicholas West sensed the presence of someone near him and opened his eyes, squinting into the blinding light.

Thorpe’s form hovered above him. Thorpe said, “So, how are you, buddy?”

West shook his head. “Suffering.”

“It’s all relative. Well, let’s begin.” Thorpe drew up the stool and sat.

West turned his head to both sides. “Katherine . . . ?”

Thorpe smiled. “Not yet. But she’s coming. She’s coming.” Thorpe lit a cigarette.

West said, “My pipe . . .”

“Yes, I’ll get you your pipe, after we’ve discovered some truths.” Thorpe blew smoke in West’s face, then said, “What did Ann do for the National Security Agency?”

West ran his tongue over his dry cracked lips. “Water . . .”

“Christ, Nick, if you stall one more time . . .” Thorpe slid off the stool and went to a refrigerator, returning with a paper cup of ice chips. He dropped a few chips into West’s open mouth, then said, “What is—was—Ann’s job with the NSA?”

West mumbled something and Thorpe drew closer. “What?”

West spit in Thorpe’s face.

Thorpe drew back and said, “You son of a bitch!” He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

West said, “Lies equal pain, truth equals pleasure.”

Thorpe’s face reddened, then he broke into a smile. “All right, you little nerd. The worm turns. Is that it, Nick?”

West replied, “Your technique is bad. I hate you, I resent you, and I will resist you.”

Thorpe looked at the analyzers. “True statement. But these are early innings. Your heroics won’t last very long. Now, tell me about Ann.”

West hesitated, then said, “She’s involved with breaking codes.”

Thorpe nodded. “Russian codes. Specifically, she listens to traffic between Moscow and the Soviet diplomatic missions in New York, Washington, and Glen Cove. True?”

“True.”

“About six weeks ago, Ann Kimberly’s section notified the CIA and other intelligence agencies in Washington of an interesting occurrence. To wit: On the evening of April twelfth of this year, all radio traffic between Moscow and Glen Cove ceased for about six seconds, then resumed.”

Thorpe studied West’s face, then added, “As you probably know, radio codes between sensitive locations are continuous, even if nothing is actually being said. This is a security procedure so that people listening in will not draw any inferences from an increase or decrease in radio traffic. So, this six-second break was noteworthy, though not earthshaking. After the NSA’s routine report, the FBI reported back that there was a severe electrical storm on Long Island that evening, and that the Russian house, on the highest point in the area, was struck by lightning. End of mystery.”

West licked his lips, but said nothing.

Thorpe went on. “But wait. According to the NSA and others familiar with advanced electronics, something was not kosher. So, further inquiries were made. And lo and behold, a man out on his sloop, racing for the harbor during the storm, actually saw the lightning that struck the Russian house.”

Thorpe leaned over and put his elbows casually on the edge of the gurney. “Only it didn’t strike the
house,
Nick. It struck an
antenna
that was planted in the ground some distance from the house. The man saw this as the lightning struck and flashed. Furthermore, being familiar with that antenna as a landmark, he swears that it had a very tall extension atop it that he never saw before or since. What do you conclude, Nick?”

West said, “Lightning rod.”

“Correct. They were
trying
to attract lightning to that rod. True?”

“True.”

“Then why the hell did the power go out, Nick? The rod should have been grounded, not connected in some way to the house power. Even the stupid Russkies know how a lightning rod works.”

West said nothing.

Thorpe continued, “Well, I told my Russian friends that this occurrence had not gone undetected, and they got pretty upset. They asked me to pursue this further. Highest priority.”

West remained silent.

Thorpe flipped his cigarette on the floor, then said, “Of course, the remarkable thing was that after they attracted that huge power surge on purpose, their lights, radios, and apparently everything else were not damaged. And, in fact, everything was functioning again within
six
seconds. Conclusion: They were playing Ben Franklin, experimenting with electricity. But for what purpose? Nick?”

West said hesitantly, “The NSA . . . came to a private conclusion. . . . They told all other agencies involved to forget it. . . . Their conclusion was classified State Secret—”

“I know that, damn you. I never saw that conclusion. But perhaps you did. Perhaps Ann was privy to that conclusion. You had one quick meeting with her in Washington April twenty-ninth. Sometime between your passionate embraces, she told you the conclusion. What was it?”

West said nothing.

Thorpe reached for the transformer dial. “A stall equals a lie. Three seconds, two, one—”

“Wait! Wait! She said . . . They were testing . . . surge arrestors . . . like circuit breakers . . . they wanted to . . . to make their electrical and electronic systems invulnerable to electrical storms. . . . So there would be no lengthy interruption of radio communication.”

Thorpe was studying the analyzers. He finally spoke. “True, as far as it goes. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Otherwise my friends in Glen Cove wouldn’t be so nervous about it. What else did Ann say?”

“Nothing.”

Thorpe twisted the dial and held it.

West’s body arched off the table. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His bladder released into the tube, and his heart rate dropped dangerously.

Thorpe shut off the current. “Well, I’ve been itching to give you a big blast. But now you’re useless for a few minutes.”

West’s body settled onto the table, twitching, his muscles in spasm. His skin was pale and dry and his eyes were rolled back so that only the whites showed.

Thorpe said, “I’m fairly certain this experiment in Glen Cove had something to do with the Stroke—that’s what the Russians call their plan to destroy America, or, as they put it, to bring eternal peace to the world. . . . Nick?”

West’s face had gone ash-gray, and his breathing was irregular.