The Talbot Odyssey (40 page)

“No.”

“Good. If they got prints from the questionnaire, they’ve already got a make on you. If they get prints while you’re there, the matching takes days, and you wouldn’t be blown while you’re there. But you wouldn’t want to go back for a second visit.” Evans looked at him closely. “No alias, right?”

“I said no.”

“Okay. Sometimes I get clients who are being set up to be blown for some fucked-up reason. They have a cover story that wouldn’t hold glue, much less water, and they have enough electronics on them to open up a Radio Shack. It’s always best to be clean and to be who you say you are.”

“I am.”

“I don’t care about you personally.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like to lose people.”

“Bad for business.”

“Right.” Evans lifted his attaché case onto the desk and opened it so that the inside faced Abrams. Evans said, “Do you know what that is?”

Abrams looked at the electrical components built into the case. “No.”

“That’s an EBI.”

“EBI?”

“Electronic bullshit indicator. Sometimes called a VSA—a voice stress analyzer.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Good. The Russkies use this on their guests. Theirs is American-made, like this one, of course.” Evans reached around and turned on the analyzer. “It doesn’t have to be hooked to you. They watch this digital display as you talk. It can be hidden in their attaché case like this, so you don’t see it.”

“And it tells them when I’m bullshitting.”

“Right. See, we establish a base number on the display for my normal voice. When I start bullshitting, the machine detects subaudible microtremors that occur with stress and deception. If the digital readout rises fifty percent or more above my normal voice range, which is reading forty-five here, then you’re listening to bullshit. Okay, watch the digital readout.” Evans spoke in apparently the same tone of voice he’d been using. “Smith, I think you’ve got a real good chance to pull this off.”

Abrams watched as the red LCD numbers rose to a hundred and six. “Bullshit.”

“Right.” He looked at Abrams. “Now you talk and I’ll get a base number for your voice.”

Abrams sipped on his Scotch, then said, “Okay, chief, I give up. How am I supposed to protect against that?”

Evans spun the attaché case around so it faced him. He played with the sensitivity dial as he replied, “Mostly keep your mouth shut in there. But what you’re doing now is good too.”

“What am I doing now?”

“Alcohol.” Evans reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. “Cough medicine for your cold. It has alcohol and some other stuff to anesthetize the vocal cords a bit. Confuses the machine.” He pulled another object out of his pocket and rolled it across the desk. “Bronchial mist spray. It’s spiked with helium. Don’t breathe too much or you’ll sound like you got your nuts caught in a revolving door. Use it only if they start asking you really direct questions, hot and heavy.”

Abrams nodded.

Evans sat back, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his stomach. “Okay, I’m a Russkie. I already fucked around with the papers in my attaché case, but what I really did was get a base number for your voice by shooting the breeze with you about the weather and your nice suit and all that. Now I’m going to pop a stressful question on you.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re going to act a little slow in the head, cough, sneeze, blow your nose, clear your throat, take a swig of cough medicine, or suck up some helium.”

Abrams replied, “That’s going to look like a burlesque act after a while.”

“You’ll get real natural at it when the time comes.”

“And they won’t know what the cough medicine and spray are all about?”

“They probably will if you overdo it. But it’s better than them knowing exactly when you’re lying and when you’re telling the truth. Okay, ready?”

“Sure.”

Evans spoke in a mock Russian accent. “So, Mr. Smith, would you like a tour of our beautiful house?”

Abrams nodded.

Evans laughed. “Don’t appear simpleminded. Answer the question.”

“Yes, I would.”

Evans looked at the display. “Lots of stress, but you see that can be interpreted two ways. One, you’re bullshitting, and you don’t want to see their fucking house, two, you want to see it so bad it’s producing microtremors. No machine is perfect. Have faith.”

“Right.”

Evans cleared his throat and continued, “So, Mr. Smith, what do you think of our case against Van Dorn?”

Abrams replied at length.

Evans nodded, then asked, “What did you do on the police force?”

“I was a traffic cop.”

Evans shook his head. “Jesus, Smith, we’re talking telephone numbers here.”

“Fuck you and your machine.”

“But you’ve got to deal with it. Okay, same question, but go into your act.” Evans again asked the question.

Abrams began to reply, then cleared his throat, put the mister over his nose, and sprayed. He made some heavy-breathing sounds, then said, “I was a traffic cop.” The voice was a bit high-pitched, but not abnormally so.

Evans looked at the digital readout, but said nothing.

“Well?”

Evans did not reply, but asked, “So, Mr. Smith, how long have you been with Edwards and Styler?”

Abrams answered, “About two and a half hours.”

Evans laughed, and peered over the top of the briefcase. “No stress. But the truth can get you into trouble too.”

“It usually does.”

“Right. Okay, we’re going to get you good at this. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Evans and Abrams spent the next half hour working with the voice analyzer. Evans abruptly shut off the machine and closed the attaché case. “Class is out.”

“How did I do?”

Evans lit a cigarette. “Well, I couldn’t make any final judgments about who you are and what you’re up to.”

“But you knew I was up to something?”

“Maybe. You see, Smith, people have stress for different reasons. Some people are nervous just being on Russian soil. Some people lie to be polite. Anyway, if I was a KGB security man operating this machine, I wouldn’t feel confident about pulling my revolver and shooting you on the spot.”

“That’s hopeful.”

Evans yawned, then said, “Electronics suck. Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“Technology sucks. Takes all the fun out of danger. Takes the soul out of this business.”

“This business never had a soul, Evans.”

Evans leaned forward, folded his arms on the desk, and stared at Abrams. “I used to be able to tell when a man was bullshitting me by watching his face. Now I have to look at a fucking machine instead of his eyes.”

“Right.”

“You know what?”

“No. What?”

“An agent on the ground is worth ten spy satellites and all the NSA’s electronic junk put together.”

“That’s not true.”

“I know.” Evans slumped back in his chair. “But sometimes you need a human being. For analysis. For theory. For judgment. For instinct. For
ethics,
for Christ’s sake.”

“You lost me on the ethics.”

Evans took a long breath. “Okay, let’s finish this briefing so you won’t be late for your rendezvous behind the Iron Curtain.”

“In that case, take your time.”

Evans smiled. “Right.” For the next twenty minutes Abrams sat and listened. He asked a few questions and received a few answers. Evans showed him the old architectural plans to what had once been Killenworth.

Finally, Evans stood and said, “Listen, I know you’re a little shaky. Who wouldn’t be? Do you know what keeps me cool when I’m on the wrong side of the Curtain?”

“No. What?”

“Anger. I build up a hate of those sons of bitches. I keep reminding myself that the Russkies want to fuck up my kids’ lives. They
like
to fuck us up. That’s what they were put on this earth to do. The Russians are the most fucked-up people God ever created.”

Abrams considered that a moment, then said, “Who are you working for?”

“I don’t know. I’m hired through a series of blinds. I’m ex-CIA. I have a private consulting firm called Executive Information Services.”

“Good meaningless name.”

“Right.” He handed Abrams his card. “We’re a group of exintelligence people. Most of my clients are multinational corporations who want to know when the Yahoos are going to take over some shithole country so they can pack up their people, pesos, and property, and beat it.”

“But who are your clients this time?”

“I told you, I don’t know. Could be the Company. They can’t operate in this country, and they don’t always like to go to the FBI. So, since there’s nothing that says they can’t hire private people for domestic work, they do.”

Abrams nodded, then said, “I’ve heard of a group of old boys who don’t hire out their services but work only for themselves.”

Evans’ voice became cool. “That’s not possible, Smith. Who would finance them? What would they do with their work product?”

Abrams shrugged. “Maybe I heard it wrong.”

“You did.” Evans moved toward the door.

Abrams stood. “Do you know a man named Peter Thorpe?”

“Why?”

“He said he had some employment opportunities for me.”

Evans nodded. “That’s another type of arrangement. He runs a loose group of civilians for the Company. No pay. Just trouble.”

“If I lost contact with him, could you put me in touch with him at any given time?”

“I could. I might.”

“How about a man named Marc Pembroke?”

Evans’ normally impassive face took on an uneasy look. “You stay away from that sucker.”

“Why?”

Evans stared off into space for some time, then replied, “Pembroke is a specialist. His work product is corpses. I’ve said enough.
Adiós, S
mith.”

Abrams came around the desk. “Thanks.”

“You never say thanks until you come back. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Take it easy in there. It won’t look good for me if they hack you up and throw your pieces into the lime pit in the basement.”

“I’ll make you proud of me.”

“Yeah.” Evans walked out, then turned back. “One more thing.”

Abrams looked at Evans’ face and he knew he wasn’t going to like this.

Evans said, “You’ve heard of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade?”

“Yes. Americans who fought the Fascists in Spain back in the thirties. Hemingway types.”

“Right. Most of them were pink or red. The Russkies had about twenty of these old vets out to Glen Cove for tea and borscht on May Day. One of these guys, a man named Sam Hammond, had switched sides years ago. He was working for whoever we’re working for. He had the same assignment as you. I briefed him.” Evans stared at Abrams.

“Sam Hammond is well, I hope.”

“Sam Hammond left the Russian place that night and took the Glen Cove train back to Manhattan. Sam Hammond never arrived home.”

Abrams did not respond.

Evans added, “Either Hammond blew it himself or he was blown by somebody before he even got there. I don’t think he blew it himself, I think I gave him a good briefing. He was very sharp. I think there was a leak.”

Abrams looked at Evans. “I’d rather believe your briefing was bad and Hammond was bad. I’d rather not believe there was a leak.”

“For your sake, I hope your belief is the right one.” Evans thought a moment, then looked up at Abrams. “When you were a cop, did you ever go into a dangerous situation, unarmed, with partners who would turn on you, with no radio backup, and with no one who would help you or feel responsible for your safety?”

“No. I never did that.”

“Well, welcome to the great world of espionage, chump.” Evans turned and left.

The long Lincoln Town Car moved slowly north along Dosoris Lane. It was nearly dark and most cars had their headlights on. Up ahead Abrams could see rotating police lights reflected off the trees. Abrams said, “Is it like this for every holiday?”

Huntington Styler, sitting in the rear, answered, “Usually. Van Dorn tries to give the appearance that his spite parties have a purpose—like his Law Day party that coincided with the Russians’ May Day celebration.”

Mike Tanner, behind the wheel, added, “And, of course, he throws a party for every legitimate American holiday as well, because he’s such a patriot.”

Styler said, “As long as he continues to be careful and consistent about these occasions, he has us at a bit of a disadvantage.”

Abrams flipped through the file on his lap. “I see that last November seventh, the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, he came up with . . . what the hell is this? . . . National Notary Public Day?”

Tanner laughed. “He bused in about fifty notaries from the city in the middle of the week, blared his loudspeakers, and shot off fireworks again. The notaries were confused but flattered.” Tanner laughed again.

Abrams suddenly looked up from the file. He turned to Tanner. “I suppose his biggest bash is the Fourth of July.”

Tanner nodded. “You should have seen the one last year. He had about two hundred people and six muzzle-loading cannon manned by men in colonial uniforms. He fired those cannon toward the Russian estate until about two in the morning. Black powder only, of course.”

Styler leaned over the front seat. “A few days later the Russians began looking for a lawyer. That’s how we eventually became involved.”

Abrams glanced at the file. The way Huntington Styler had specifically become involved was by writing an Op-Ed piece for the
Times,
roundly condemning Van Dorn for his spite parties. Abrams had no doubt the piece had been planted. He said, “Will the house be full this coming July Fourth weekend?”

Tanner hesitated, then said, “That’s a good question.”

Abrams looked at him. “Meaning what?”

Tanner glanced at Abrams as he negotiated through the heavy traffic. “Well, I counseled the Russian’s legal advisor, a man named Alexei Kalin, whom you’ll meet, that all the Russian diplomats, staff, and dependents in the New York area should make other plans—”

“To show,” interrupted Abrams, “that they are discommoded by Van Dorn’s harassment.”

“Yes. If over a hundred men, women, and children have to change their plans and stay in Manhattan because of Van Dorn, then we’ve got a real strong point for our case.”