The Talbot Odyssey (39 page)

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abrams nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abrams nodded.

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

Tanner stood. “Please follow me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. What?”

“Electronics suck.”

“Right. I always knew that.”

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

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

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

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

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

Abrams sat. “No. What?”

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

“Nose and throat.”

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

“I’m complete.”

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

“A guy named Abrams.”

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

“Right.”

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

“Little Russian kids.”

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

“Good. Do we need the whole hour?”

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

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

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

“Okay.”

“Radios and televisions.”

“Radios and televisions?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why?”

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

“Okay. They’re easy to spot.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“What does this thing look like?”

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

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

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

Abrams looked up at Evans.

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

Abrams said nothing.

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

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But you know what?”

“No. What?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Right. I thought so.”

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

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

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

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

“No. What?”

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

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

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

“Who?”

“The deli guy. Delicatessen.”

“What’s his name?”

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

“Is his name Karl Roth?”

“Could be. Probably is. Forget that.”

Abrams nodded.

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

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

“You’d better leave that behind.”

“I guess I better.”

“Do you want poison?”

“None for me, thank you.”

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

“Can’t hurt to ask.”

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