The Talbot Odyssey (33 page)

Thorpe looked at the heart monitor. “Oh, Christ.” He stood quickly and took a hypodermic needle from the instrument table and plunged it into West’s shoulder. “There. That ought to bring you back to the land of the living.”

Thorpe waited anxiously for several minutes, watching the heart monitor. “It would be my luck that your little chicken heart would stop . . . and don’t go into convulsions on me, you wimp. . . .” Thorpe waited, then said, “West! Can you hear me?”

West nodded slowly.

“Good. Ready for more conversation?”

West shook his head. “You . . . almost . . . killed me. . . .”

“Almost doesn’t count. Actually, it’s difficult to kill someone with the amount of volts this puts out. I tried it once. You’ll get your bullet when the time comes. I promise you that.”

“Now . . . I want . . . it now.”

“Oh, no. You
are
a coward.” Thorpe sat on the stool again. “Okay, I’ll speak awhile, and you listen.” Thorpe made an adjustment in the polygraph. “Think about what I’m saying. First, Moscow is concerned that parts of their plan may have been exposed. One way that could have happened is through NSA electronic snooping. So you’re going to tell me what Ann has told you.”

“Ann . . . is not . . . dead . . . you would have . . . kidnapped. . . .”

“We tried. But she died. Suicide, actually. Very badly bungled. Two more for Siberia.” He laughed.

“You . . . for Siberia . . .”

“Shut up. Anyway, another way this plan could be compromised is through the CIA in pursuit of its mission to uncover such nasty schemes. With the help of your high authorization code, my computer is right now scanning Langley’s computer for key words and names that will let me know if there is any suspicion of Moscow’s Operation Stroke.” Thorpe stared at the polygraph paper and saw that West was very agitated. He said, “Will anything show up?”

West’s tongue lolled in his mouth, then he said, “There’s . . plenty in there . . . about you. . . .”

Thorpe nodded. “Rest assured, I’m scanning for that also, my friend. In fact, I may just have to go on an extended sabbatical very soon.”

“You . . . are like me . . . you know too much. You have no friends . . . no place to hide.”

“There’s always China.” He laughed. “But to continue—another source of trouble is O’Brien’s old-boys network. They
are
on to something. But they’re being led to believe that some Arab terrorist group is going to obliterate Wall Street with a small nuclear weapon. Not a bad idea, but no cigar.”

Thorpe stretched his arms and legs. “I’m having sympathetic muscle cramps.” He laughed, then added, “Actually, Nick, I don’t think O’Brien and Company completely bought that. Neither did my people in the Company. You see, Nick, as far as I can determine, the Russians have an obsession with the concept of troika—the three-horse sleigh. They are fascinated by the trinity—three acting as one.”

West stared at Thorpe and tried to think clearly. Thorpe was onto something. Just as Thorpe had always underestimated him because of his physical frailty, so, because of Thorpe’s physical power, he, West, underestimated Thorpe’s powers of deduction, intuition, and comprehension.

Thorpe cracked his knuckles and looked down at West. “Therefore,” he continued, “they actually formulated
three
independent plans to cripple or destroy America. The first was the nuclear destruction of the financial center. The second, which I was led to believe, was the accessing of all American computers—civilian and military—and the simultaneous destruction, altering, or stealing of everything stored in the memory banks.”

Thorpe rubbed his chin reflectively, then said, “And now, Nick, you and I have touched on this third plan, which I believe is the one they are going with. The other two plans seemed real to those of us who discovered them, because they were and perhaps still are real options. Nothing lies like the truth. And so all the resources of Western intelligence, including you and me, Nick, and including private analysts such as O’Brien and Company, were mobilized to uncover the details of these two plans. But somewhere along the line, O’Brien got to thinking. He realized there was a third plan. And he began operating on that premise. He received information that the Russians were acquiring certain exotic types of Western electronic technology. He alerted the government to his initial findings. And that warning leaked back to the Russians. So, we all find ourselves in a quandary. The Russians are trying to figure out how much the United States really knows and how good their defenses are. The United States is trying to figure out if the blow is going to come to the face, the stomach, or the groin, or not at all. And wondering if maybe they shouldn’t strike first.”

Thorpe looked down at West. “When we are through here, Nick, we will know who, how, and where. We already know when—July Fourth. We know why—because as a result of a sort of political Darwinism, the world today has been reduced to two dominant species. Only one of them can survive.”

West drew a deep breath. “You’re mad. . . . Why do you feel this need to dominate . . . ?

“Why do you feel the need not to?” Thorpe lit a cigarette and drew it thoughtfully, then said, “Anyway, the final problem in Moscow is this Talbot business.” Thorpe reached down and picked up a leather dispatch case. “This is what Colonel Carbury was carrying.” He upturned the case and dumped the contents across West’s stomach and chest. “A diary and personal letters from the late Ann Kimberly to the late Major Henry Kimberly. The late Mr. O’Brien and his people would have found this diary very useful in uncovering Talbot, who was, after all, one of their own.”

Thorpe lifted the diary from West’s chest. “Or should I say three of their own? Yes, like you, Henry Kimberly concluded that there were perhaps three highly placed traitors. We will read this diary together and try to deduce what Major Kimberly deduced.” “The one described as a high-ranking officer in OSS counter

“Go to hell.”

Thorpe continued, “Kimberly seemed to know who these traitors were, but he never wrote the names, using only the expressions Talbot One, Two, and Three, like some ancient Hebrew who would not write or say the name of God.”

Thorpe opened the diary and read an entry: “‘I have narrowed down the names of OSS officers who could have been responsible for betraying us to the Russians. One of them is a close Donovan aide, and known to me. The other, a ranking officer in OSS counterintelligence, is a dear friend. The third is an OSS officer in the political section, a man who will assuredly go on to a political career after the war. Which one is Talbot? Perhaps all of them.’” Thorpe looked up. “End of entry.”

Thorpe put the diary aside. “You know, Nick, if this diary had found its way into O’Brien’s hands, or the hands of the CIA, it would have precipitated a massive investigation that may have led to the identity of Talbot. But once again, God was on the side of the atheists, and this message from the grave will remain undelivered.” Thorpe looked down at West, then focused on the analyzers. “Did you follow what I said?”

“Yes.”

“Could my adoptive father, James Allerton, be the dear friend?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any theories on the other two? Could one or both still be alive?”

“The one described as a high-ranking officer in OSS counter-intelligence.”

“And the one described as a potential politician?”

“Don’t know . . . I have no information on him.”

“What is the name of the high-ranking officer?”

“I . . . I’m not certain . . . I have several names that would fit . . .”

“Give me the names.”

West said, “Give me a treat.”

Thorpe laughed, then said, “Do you want your pipe?”

“Yes.”

Thorpe took West’s pipe from the instrument table and packed the tobacco tightly. He put the stem in West’s mouth and held a lighter to the bowl.

West drew deeply.

Thorpe said, “This is not your tobacco, of course. That was laced with nicotine alkaloid. So if you’re wondering why you’re not dying, that’s the reason.”

West squinted up at Thorpe as he continued to draw on the pipe.

Thorpe said, “You held out on me, you sneaky bastard. I
asked
you about poisons.”

West suddenly bit into the stem of the pipe, crunching it between his teeth.

Thorpe pulled the pipe out of West’s mouth and said, “No, no, Nick. I changed the stem, too. Do you think I’m as big an asshole as you are? I’ve been around the block, buddy. Now you’ve lost your smoking privileges.” He set down the pipe.

West’s body was shaking as tears rolled down his face.

Thorpe grabbed West’s ear and pulled his face toward him. “Look, bozo, I’m a pro. You’re an amateur. You can’t beat me, so forget it. You are utterly helpless and defenseless. You are at my mercy. You will lose your soul here, and your heart. When I’m through with you, your ego will be nonexistent. You will not even have enough free will left to commit suicide. But I’ll save you the trouble. Kate will not be so lucky. I’m going to let her live on, as sort of a domesticated house pet.”

West raised his head and spoke softly. “You will pay for this . . . somehow, in some way . . . you will be punished. . . .”

Thorpe smiled. “When a prisoner starts getting mystic and religious, that’s a sign that he’s about had it. I’ll break you sooner than I thought.”

West put his head back on the table and began to sob.

Thorpe gathered the contents of the dispatch case and shut off the polygraph. “I’m afraid I have to go out again. Amuse yourself. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Fuck you.”

Thorpe reached out and held the dial of the transformer. “Not telling me that pipe smoking may be dangerous to your health was a lie of omission, which unfortunately does not always register on the analyzers. Nonetheless, it was a lie—”

“No! No! Please!” West’s body began to quiver in response to a low-voltage charge passing through it. His screaming came out as a teeth-chattering stutter, as though he were freezing.

Thorpe smiled as he continued the mild shock. “That’s almost comical. You should see yourself . . . well, you will on the reruns. Kate will see it too. And Eva. And the Russians will get a laugh out of this one. God, Nick, you look like a half-wit.”

Thorpe shut off the electricity. “When I return you will tell me more about Talbot and Ann Kimberly. You will tell me what you know of O’Brien and his friends, including Katherine Kimberly, George Van Dorn, and the rest of those arrogant bastards. Also, you will tell me what you know of the Russians in Glen Cove. Your answers may determine whether or not these coming Fourth of July fireworks, picnics, and speeches will be the last.”

Abrams watched her as she ran ahead of him. She had a nice stride; long, easy, and graceful.

Abrams glanced around, but no one seemed to be following on foot, or by vehicle. They were near the southern end of Fourth Avenue, having traveled most of the distance from his apartment by subway. The route that Katherine had laid out, and had given to Thorpe, included a series of park runs, connected by subway, with little street running in between. It was, he thought, as if she’d picked dangerous territory on purpose. And, of course, she had.

The odd thing, he thought as he ran behind her, was that neither of them had openly acknowledged that what had started as a running date on Saturday, had become something very like police decoy duty today.

This was partly due to the sensitive topic involved. But it was also due to this refined way of speaking, where one did not
say
things, but indicated, implied, intimated, or alluded to them. This annoying manner of communication, he observed, was common to lawyers, corporate types, and genteel people in general. He preferred the way cops spoke.

Abrams felt the blood pounding through his veins and sensed the beginning of the runner’s high. He liked Brooklyn running; it was flat and laid back, unlike Manhattan running, which was flat but fanatical.

Brooklyn was brownstone running, quaint residential streets, with no skyblocking skyscrapers. Brooklyn was also the Borough of Churches, and Abrams was always able to orient himself by the dozens of familiar steeples whose clocks also gave him the time.

They turned into 67th Street and followed a strip of grassy panhandle toward Owl’s Head Park, their first possible rendezvous with Peter Thorpe.

Abrams looked up. Katherine was a good hundred yards ahead of him, and he called to her, “Stay close!”

She called back, “Run faster!”

Bitch.
He increased his stride.

Abrams’ original intention had been to take her through the Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods where the men turned away from barelegged women runners. Why he had intended to do this, he couldn’t say for sure. In any case, she’d planned the route based more on tactical considerations than sight-seeing or social studies. Still, if they ever ran together again, that’s where he’d take her. Abrams closed the distance as they approached the park.

Another place he’d wanted to take her was one of the new Russian Jewish neighborhoods with their signs in Cyrillic lettering, and the combination of Yiddish and Russian spoken on the bustling streets. These, he recognized, were his real roots, and he was fascinated by the vitality of the neighborhood, the proliferation of emigré businesses and shops.

They entered the park along a path, and he followed her as she cut across the grass, and began the arduous run up the large hill that dominated the park. He felt the sweat collecting around his shoulder holster and the chafing of the holster straps against his skin. He thought of Peter Thorpe, and wondered when they would meet, and how it would happen. The preferred method seemed to be death by misadventure.

Abrams looked up. Katherine stood at the summit of the hill, silhouetted against the clear blue sky. Seagulls circled overhead, and beyond the seagulls was a gray helicopter.

Abrams sprinted up the last twenty yards and stopped on the summit. He bent over and breathed deeply, then straightened up and looked around the sweeping, grassy hill planted with well-spaced trees and bushes. “We seem to be alone.”