The Talbot Odyssey (34 page)

She nodded as she caught her breath. She scanned the other slopes. “Early . . . we’ll take ten minutes here. . . .”

“Right.” Abrams looked north at the panoramic view of New York harbor, the Statue of Liberty, and the sunlit skyscrapers of lower Manhattan seemingly rising from the water. He turned and looked at Katherine, hair disarrayed, without makeup, sweating, her mouth open, sucking in air. He said, “You’re very beautiful.”

She laughed and tugged on his sweaty shirt. “You look very handsome yourself.”

They began walking in a circle around the crest of the hill. Katherine said, “This place is a mess.”

Abrams nodded. The park was a study in urban decay and neglect. There were broken bottles everywhere, unworkable water fountains, smashed trash receptacles, dog droppings, uncared-for trees, and graffiti on every possible surface. This, he imagined, was probably what Rome’s fabled parks looked like after the barbarians got the upper hand.

Katherine, who was watching him, seemed to sense what he was thinking. She said, “This park needs a good cleaning. It also needs better policing, tighter control.”

Abrams looked at her. She was speaking in that obscure way again, the park being a metaphor. He replied, “Perhaps. But not too much of that. There is a vitality here of people, pursuing their own lives, unburdened by government interference. The price of nearly absolute freedom is borderline anarchy.”

“A little law and order wouldn’t hurt.”

“Whose law? Whose order? Fascists and Communists have in common the desire to get everyone into lockstep. I don’t want to get into lockstep.”

She smiled. “Okay. No more politics. Ready to run?”

“No. Let’s walk awhile.”

She began walking down the hill. “I’ll get you into shape before the summer’s over.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

They walked in silence for a while, then she said, “The next place Peter might meet us is under the Verrazano Bridge.”

Abrams didn’t reply.

They walked south along a narrow asphalt path that ran parallel to the Shore Parkway. A stiff wind began blowing off the bay, churning up whitecaps. She spoke as though she were continuing a conversation, “I mean, we have no solid proof, and what we have could be explained by the fact that he
is
CIA.” She waited, then added, “Your perceptions may be colored by personal considerations.”

Abrams did not reply for some time, then said, “My perceptions are influenced by fifteen years of detective work.” He added, “You people ask me to find the murderer or kidnapper of Randolph Carbury. I suspect I did. Now I’m just trying to stay alive.”

She said nothing.

Abrams looked out in the bay. A few private boats sailed along close to the shoreline. Overhead, the helicopter made another pass. A few joggers and dog walkers appeared on the strip of park. Abrams motioned toward the rising parachute-jump tower of Coney Island in the far distance. “I used to spend hours at the shooting gallery there. These little toy ducks would move across a tank of water and I’d blast away at them.”

“I’ll bet the local girls fell all over you when you got those Kewpie dolls.”

“I had to turn my rifle on them to keep them away. Anyway, when I grew up, I was assigned to decoy duty, dressed as an old man, trying to attract muggers. I walked through the parks around Coney Island, like a little toy duck. That’s very bad duty. But rewarding. I attracted a lot of muggers, Then I’d do what the little toy ducks never did to me. I’d pull my gun.”

She said, “And here you are again. That must be a lousy feeling.”

“Yes, well, you can take the boy out of Brooklyn, the man out of the police force, and all that . . . listen to what I’m going to tell you. There are basically five ways to hunt—baiting, trapping, stakeouts, beating the bush, and decoying. It depends on the animal you’re after, the season of the year, and the terrain. With the human animal, you can use all methods, or combinations of methods, in any season and terrain. Just keep in mind that when the human animal approaches, he may take any form, including the guise of a friendly animal. He may wave a cheery hello, or ask for a cigarette. But you must realize you are being attacked, and in that split second of realization you have to act, because a second later it’s too late.”

“But what if you do bodily harm to a man who really
is
only asking for a cigarette?”

“That’s what the split second is for.”

They continued along the shore for some time. Katherine said, “You’re a complex man. Tough, gentle, streetwise, naive, political, apolitical, educated, anti-intellectual, committed and uncommitted.”

“I’ve played many roles.”

“So, who is Tony Abrams?”

“Beats me. What’s today? Monday? I’m carrying a gun . . . so today . . . no, it’s my day off . . . so—”

“Cut it out.”

They walked awhile in silence, then Abrams said, “Do you know a bartender at the University Club named Donald?”

Katherine replied, “I’m only allowed in the ladies’ lounge, so I elect not to go at all.”

“Well, nevertheless, Donald was mugged and murdered early this morning.”

She didn’t reply.

Abrams added, “Also, a man believed to be Carbury’s double was found in the lower harbor”—he pointed toward the Narrows—“about there, probably. That’s where most of the floaters are found. The currents, I guess.”

She said nothing, but began running again. Abrams followed, finding that his legs and lungs were in better shape than he thought.

They followed the curving shoreline as it swung south and east. Ahead, the Verrazano Bridge rose majestically, spanning the Narrows from Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, to Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. Abrams reflected on how simple national defense had been not so long ago: two stone forts, with artillery batteries that flung five-hundred-pound balls in a crossfire over the approaches to New York harbor. What could be more logical than nineteenth-century military science?

Now, however, national defense began in outer space, and ended in deep missile silos. And the complexities of the system were such that if every adult human brain and hand in the nation were put to work manning that system, it would not be enough. He said suddenly,
“Computers.”

She turned her head toward him as she ran. “What?”

“That’s what O’Brien may have been hinting at. They may have found a way to destroy or neutralize all the computers—military, financial, industrial . . . is that possible?”

She began to slow down, then returned to a walk. After a full minute she said, “Possible . . . yes . . . I’ve heard talk of that . . . the NSA, the people Ann works for, supposedly has a secret book of national access codes . . . not really a book, but a pulsemodulated tape. . . .” She looked at him. “This is very sensitive—”

“Then keep it to yourself.”

She went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The NSA sets security standards for military and civilian computers. Therefore, they have inside knowledge of them, and theoretically they can break any computer code in the country. Though this would be illegal.”

“So of course they don’t do that.”

“Well, there’s always been some discussion about the idea of having all computers accessible to a central command post in times of national emergency, such as war or a stock market crash. The theory is that the President could command and control better. You get the idea.”

“Yes, I do. Sounds risky.”

“Well, it would be if somehow all computers could be accessed simultaneously and all computer language translated into one language. Then it’s at least theoretically possible that someone with evil intent could . . . cause complete havoc.”

“Sounds pretty grim.”

“It would be disastrous.” She looked at him. “What made you think of that?”

Abrams shrugged. “I don’t know. It must have been something I heard, or deduced. It fits O’Brien’s picture, which excluded nuclear or chemical war.” He tapped his forehead. “My personal computer—sometimes it makes computations without me knowing it’s even working.”

She said, “It could be divine inspiration. Do you believe in God?”

“Yes. Human beings aren’t capable of causing all this misery themselves.”

“Cynic.”

They walked silently, listening to the water washing the shore. She said, “I’ll explore that further. Any other thoughts on the subject?”

“No. I’ll have to wait for another divine message. I hear voices sometimes.”

She smiled. “Do you? What do these voices say?”

“Lately they’ve been saying I should go to Miami for a month.”

“Really? What language do they speak to you in?”

He smiled at the standard interrogation used by priests, rabbis, and psychiatrists on the subject of voices. “They speak a sort of English with a Brooklyn Jewish accent. Sometimes I think it’s not God, but one or more of my dead relatives. That was their advice for all life’s problems. Go to Miami.”

“Are you going?”

“No, it’s off-season. My relatives would turn in their graves. I may go to Maine. Why don’t you come with me?”

She said unexpectedly, “All right.”

“The catch?”

“You know.”

He nodded. “First things first.”

“Yes . . . and here comes a priority item.”

Abrams looked up quickly. Under the bridge, two men on horseback had emerged from the bridge’s shadow and were trotting toward them. Abrams said, “Keep walking.”

The riders drew closer, and Abrams could see that they were not mounted police. He could also see that neither of them was Peter Thorpe. He had gambled that Thorpe would reveal himself personally, but now he wondered if the risk they were taking was worth it. “Damn it,” he said to her. “Okay, draw your gun but keep it out of sight.”

Katherine drew the small pistol as she walked and tucked her hand in her waistband.

Abrams dropped behind her so that he was blocked from view and drew his .38 revolver. He held it pressed close to his leg as he moved off to the side again. He looked around. There were a few joggers down toward the water. Some people sat on benches, a young couple walked a Great Dane, and a man was surf casting in the bay.

Katherine looked around also. She said, “Are these people all civilians?”

“We’ll see soon enough.”

She kept walking beside him, watching the riders closing in, glancing at the other people scattered around the shore area. She said, “How do we know when the split second has arrived?”

“It’s instinct. You’ll know. I never shot an innocent civilian yet. If you’re not sure, follow my lead.”

“Okay. . . . Did a mugger ever get the drop on you during that split second?”

“A few times. Sometimes you get a second chance though.”

The two horsemen were less than a hundred yards distant now.

Katherine replied, “You got your second chance when you walked off that roof alive.”

“Right. Sometimes you get a third chance, too.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too. Get ready.”

The drugs seemed to have worn off, and Nicholas West lay perfectly still, able to think clearly for the first time in many hours.

He thought about secrets and how to keep them from Peter Thorpe, and from Thorpe’s Soviet bosses. West wanted to believe that the mind was capable of overcoming nearly any adversity, including pain, suffering, drugs, and all the tools of the torturer’s trade. He believed that given the time, he could go into a protective self-hypnosis, which would reduce the pain and confuse the polygraph and voice analyzer. He knew, too, that he was more intelligent than Peter Thorpe, that Thorpe had serious personality flaws, not to mention more fundamental problems of the mind.

On the other hand, West realized, Thorpe was, as he’d said, a professional. There was a serious question in West’s mind as to whether or not he could defeat Thorpe, or at least stall him for any length of time.

West also thought about Ann, Patrick O’Brien, and Katherine. Thorpe was a one-man reign of terror, a man who had conjured up a living nightmare for those around him, and who would do the same for a nation of 240 million people.

West tried to determine what his duty and obligation were in this situation. The Company’s manual on the subject was explicit:
If
captured in a Communist country, stick to your cover no matter
what. If tortured, and unable to resist, use every means available to
kill yourself.

But this wasn’t a Communist country—yet. The manual went on:
In those rare instances where an agent or other employee is hel
d
incommunicado by foreign and/or enemy agents in a friendly coun
try, he must make every effort to escape the confines of his imprison
ment, or as circumstances permit, make contact with the outside. If
possible he must kill or capture one or more of his captors. Suicide i
s
permissible as a last resort only if captivity will lead to the compro
mising of fellow agents or the divulgence of sensitive information
under torture.

West thought about that. Rational advice. But probably not written by a man who had ever been strapped to a table and attached to electrodes. And not written for a man who was primarily a historian and former college teacher.

“A penny’s worth of electricity for your thoughts, Nicko.”

West looked quickly to his right.

“The polygraph shows some deep and dark thinking.” Thorpe pulled up the stool and sat. “I spoke to my friends in Glen Cove. They’re not satisfied with the results of our preliminary discussions. If the quality doesn’t improve soon, they want you delivered to them.”

West cleared his throat. “You’re lying. You’re trying to frighten me. Put the voice analyzer where I can see it, so I can tell when
you’re
lying to
me.
”

Thorpe laughed loudly. “Well, that’s what happens when the truth drugs wear off and you have time to think clearly. You’ll need some sodium pent to soften you up again.” He reached out and turned an adjustment key on the intravenous tube. “Nobody likes a smartass, Nick.”