The Talbot Odyssey (47 page)

“Send someone for him.”

“He’s not feeling—”

Van Dorn puffed prodigiously on his cigar, a visible sign to his wife that he was about to explode.

She moved quickly toward the door. “Yes, dear.” She made a quick exit.

Van Dorn shot a glance at Grenville to see if he’d learned a valuable object lesson on wives.

Grenville looked uncomfortable. He stood again and said, “I guess I’d better leave.”

“I guess not.”

A bell chimed and Van Dorn walked across the room and disappeared behind a Japanese silk screen that hid an alcove. He reappeared with a sheet of telex paper and went to a wall safe behind a hinged picture. He opened the safe and took out a small code book, then handed both to Grenville. “Decode this message, then we’ll finish our discussion about your wife.”

Grenville took the message and book and moved behind Van Dorn’s desk.

George Van Dorn walked to the French doors and threw them open. The doors let out onto a small secluded garden on the side of the house, separated from the activity out back. Van Dorn walked across the flagstones and lowered himself into an old wooden deck chair. He blew smoke rings up at the moon and listened to the noise of his party.

He thought about Pat O’Brien, realizing that the shadowy mantle of leadership might settle on his shoulders, though neither he nor apparently anyone knew how these things were decided.

He thought too of Styler, Tanner, and Abrams, and wondered how they were faring. Van Dorn’s opinion of Abrams had gone from bare tolerance to grudging respect after he had been briefed on the man’s recent activities. O’Brien, he conceded, knew men.

But, Van Dorn concluded, there must have been one man whom O’Brien
thought
he knew well enough to let him get close to him, but not well enough for him to suspect that the man was to be his killer.

Van Dorn looked up into the clear starry night sky. Queer, he thought, that hell should lie below and the heavens above, yet the end, when it came, would come out of the heavens, just as nearly every apocalyptic writing had predicted.

And it
was
coming. That much they had discovered. Though none of them knew exactly when or how. But Van Dorn knew enough to try to stop it, and enough to know it was going to be a near thing.

Marc Pembroke returned to his room. “Have you seen any headlights?”

“Yes.” Joan Grenville continued looking out the window, fearful of his reaction if she turned to him. “About two minutes ago.”

“Could you see the car?”

“Yes, as it moved along the drive, I got a glimpse of it. It was sort of long and square and it had those carriage lights on the side, like a Lincoln.”

Pembroke took the binoculars and focused on the Russian house. He said, “You didn’t see the high beams flash, did you?”

“Well . . .”

He turned to her.

“Yes. I’m sure I did. Twice. I could see the trees lit up.”

Pembroke threw the binoculars on the bed and moved quickly toward the door.

Joan called out, “Marc . . . there’s something I should tell you.”

He turned back and said impatiently, “What?”

“Tony Abrams . . . Friday night he was in my room at the town house . . .”

Pembroke turned his back on her and reached for the doorknob. “Who cares?”

“No . . . I’m not confessing—I mean we didn’t make it . . . but he told me something I was supposed to tell—”

Pembroke removed his hand from the doorknob and turned. “Go on.”

“Tony said that if he disappeared or died, I was to relay a message to Katherine Kimberly.” She looked at Pembroke. “Has something happened to him?”

“Any reports of his death would be premature, but I wouldn’t underwrite life insurance on him. What were you supposed to tell Katherine?”

She hesitated. Having reluctantly absorbed some rudimentary security awareness over the years, she wasn’t certain Pembroke was the person who should be hearing this. But neither did she think Katherine—a woman—was the proper recipient of secrets. And Marc had been grilling her about this and that, and seemed concerned about Tony Abrams. Yet—

Pembroke crossed the room and stood in front of her. He slid his hands between her arms and the sides of her breasts and said, “Go on, Joan. It’s all right.”

She looked up into his eyes and saw that it was all right, if she went on; but if she didn’t, it was not going to be all right. She said, “You can tell Katherine if you want to. Tony Abrams said, ‘I discovered on the roof that Claudia is a friend of Talbot’s.’” She shrugged. “That’s it. Do you know what that means?”

Pembroke said, “Why did he confide in you?”

Joan smiled. “He said I was the least likely person to be involved in intrigue of a nonsexual nature.”

Pembroke nodded. He had come to the same conclusion about Joan Grenville. Abrams judged well. It was interesting, too, that Abrams had hedged his bet regarding Katherine. He
thought
she was reliable, but was not going to bet his life on it. Best to make posthumous revelations. If you were wrong, no one could kill you. Pembroke released his grip on Joan. “Get dressed and join the party. If I’m not back within the hour, tell Katherine what Abrams told you.” He turned toward the door.

“What the hell is going on now?
Marc!
”

“A legal matter.” He hurried toward the door and threw it open.

Kitty Van Dorn—a firm believer in the adage that if you want something done right, do it yourself—was standing poised to knock. She smiled, “Oh, Marc, George would like to see you if you’re feeling—” She spotted Joan Grenville standing naked in the room and let out a low moan, a curious mixture of disappointment and despair, as though somehow the party were irrevocably ruined by this selfish, bestial conduct under her very roof. “Ooohh . . .”

Pembroke excused himself formally, and brushed past her into the hallway.

Joan Grenville smiled nervously. “Oh, Kitty . . .”

Kitty Van Dorn put her hand to her forehead, turned, and staggered down the hall.

Stanley Kuchik sat cross-legged in a far corner of the empty swimming pool, a tray of pastry on his lap and three bottles of beer lined up against the pool wall. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his busboy jacket and belched.

“Hey!” called a man at the deep end of the empty pool. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Stanley looked down at the sloping end of the Olympic-size pool, dimly illuminated by the recessed lighting in the tiled walls. “I’m on a break.”

“You’re jerking off.”

“No, I’m on a break.”

“Sure. Get your ass over here and give us a hand or I’ll run you off.”

“Shit.”
Stanley set aside the tray, grabbed a bottle of beer, and moved sulkily down to the far end of the pool. About three fourths of the pool floor was covered with boxes, wires, and clusters of small rocket launchers, loaded and ready to go.

The man who had called him said a bit more kindly, “I’m Don. This is Wally and Lou. What’s your name?”

“Kuchik. Stanley.”

“A Polack.”

“No, Slovakian.”

“Same difference.”

Stanley looked at the three men. They were old. Mid-thirties, he guessed. They wore dark jeans and khaki-colored tank-top T-shirts. They were all sweating.

Don said, “We’re pyrotechnicians. You know what that means?”

Stanley looked around the area and scrutinized the boxes with Chinese lettering. “I guess it means you shoot fireworks.”

“Smart kid. See those barrels? When we start shooting, you take the wrappings, cardboard boxes, and all the leftover shit and stuff it in those barrels. If you do okay, you can fire a salvo.”

Stanley was torn between his innate curiosity and his inherent laziness. “Okay. But I got to get back in a while.”

“Right. You can start now. Get those empty cartons and crush them. But don’t touch nothing else, don’t push no buttons. And no smoking.”

“Okay.” Stanley began flattening boxes and stuffing them into the big wooden barrels.

After a while he wandered back to the center of the pool, where an old army camouflage tarp covered what appeared to be a stack of boxes. Stanley caught a glimpse of a small wooden crate peeking out from the tarp. He moved closer to the crate and stared down at the black stenciled letters: 81MM HEAT.

He continued staring at the crate for some time, thinking,
They
must use these crates to store things, because that’s not what’s insid
e.

He looked around surreptitiously, then peeled the tarp farther back. Dozens of crates were stacked to form a chest-high wall. Stanley crouched down and peered further into the tentlike enclosure. Sitting on the concrete floor of the pool was a long metal tube pointing up at a forty-five-degree angle. The tube sat on a round base plate and was supported by a bipod. It was, in fact, Stanley knew, an eighty-one-millimeter mortar, and it was pointed toward the Russian house.
“Jesus H. Christ.”

Abrams crouched against the wall. The situation had not improved dramatically. Neither had it deteriorated, however. The train hadn’t passed overhead; he assumed it was late. Time and space seemed frozen in this black, noiseless place, and his only awareness of movement or life was his breathing and the beating of his heart.

Abrams decided he needed help, and since none seemed to be at hand, he’d invent an imaginary friend—a dangerous one. He crouched into a tight ball and called out, “Pembroke? Is that you?” His voice echoed in the tunnel. Abrams waited, but drew no fire. He called again, “Yes, they’re down here. Can you block the other exit?” He paused, then said, “Good. I’ll sit tight.”

Abrams listened and heard the unmistakable sounds of Kalin and Vasili beating a hasty retreat, carrying their casualties.

Abrams resisted, then gave in to a childish impulse. He called back into the tunnel in near perfect Russian, “Kalin, tell Androv the Jew sends his regards.” Abrams waited a second longer, then despite his pains and light-headedness, dashed up the steps, taking them four and five at a time, until he knew he was not in view from the tunnel. He stopped near the top step and peered out onto the parking lot.

A black Ford was visible in the lot ahead, its front end facing him; it bore diplomatic license plates. Abrams assumed the car belonged to the Russians. He could see the head of the driver through the windshield and another man sitting beside him. That was the car that was going to take him for a ride if he had come along peacefully.

He rose a bit higher and scanned the hedges planted around the tracks and platform, but he didn’t see anyone. He heard a sound and became rigid, listening. The Manhattan-bound train was rumbling down the tracks.

Abrams climbed the last few steps and mounted the low platform. He glanced back at the Russians in the car They’d spotted him. One man was watching him, and Abrams could see in the dim light that the driver was holding something to his face—a radio microphone. Abrams began walking toward the darkened station house about fifty yards away. There were ten people there now, standing on the platform. Behind him the train’s whistle sounded two short blasts and the track rumbled.

Across the tracks he saw another black Ford moving parallel to him through the opposite parking lot. He could make out a face in the passenger-side window staring at him and thought it might be Kalin.

Abrams stopped about five yards from the group of people and eyed them. They all looked straight. Kalin had never expected him to get this far. Several people on the platform were stealing glances at him. He realized he had blood on his face, hands, and shirt. Also, he was shoeless. He hoped that a good citizen would summon a cop.

Abrams took stock: He’d lost the briefcase, but there was nothing in it except the file on the Russian Mission versus Van Dorn. He’d lost his licensed revolver, and that would cause him some legal problems, assuming anyone would be interested after the bombs fell, or whatever was going to happen. But he hadn’t lost his life, and that was a plus.

He wondered if they’d gotten Sam Hammond in the tunnel, on the train, or in Penn Station. He wondered too where the hell his backup was. Had they left him out in the cold on purpose? No, they would want him live to be debriefed. If they knew he had met Henry Kimberly, they’d have sent a limousine for him.

The train whistle blasted again and its headlight shone in a beam down the tracks. It slowed with a screech of airbrakes and came to a stop.

Abrams walked through the boarding and unboarding passengers, then stepped up to the connecting decks between the last two cars. There were two short blasts of the whistle and the train moved off, gathering speed. Abrams waited until he came abreast of the station house, which blocked the Russians’ view from the parking lot. He jumped off the moving train back onto the platform, shoulder-rolled, and sprang up into a crouch. He made his way quickly to the far side of the old station house and found a parked cab at the taxi stand. The driver, a young black man, was sleeping behind the wheel. Abrams, still in a crouch, opened the rear door and slid in quickly. He lowered himself to the floor, reached up, and shook the driver’s shoulder. “Let’s go!”

The driver woke with a start. “What? Where?” His hand automatically went for the ignition key and he started the engine. “What? Where you goin’?” He looked in the rearview mirror. “Where you a
t?”

“Behind the preposition. Move out.”

“Move out where?”

“Van Dorn’s. Big place on Dosoris Lane. Let’s go.”

The driver put the cab in gear and began moving slowly. “You okay, man?”

“I dropped my toothbrush. Move faster.”

The cab swung toward the parking lot exit. “Want a light on?”

“No. Just drive.”

“Who you runnin’ from, man?”

“The Russian secret police.”

The driver whistled. “Whew—them dudes fuckin’ with you?”

“They’re always fucking with me.” Abrams made himself comfortable on the floor. The cab turned north on St. Andrew’s Lane.

The driver said, “Van Dorn’s, you say? No sweat findin’
that
dude. Follow the fireworks.”