The Talbot Odyssey (48 page)

Abrams looked up at the window and saw star clusters bursting in the northern sky. Abrams said, “Are we being followed?”

The driver checked his rearview mirror. “Headlights . . . don’t know if he’s followin’ or
followin’.”

“Well, assume he’s
followin’
and step on it.”

The cab lurched ahead and gathered speed, swinging north on Dosoris Lane.

Abrams toyed with the idea that the driver wasn’t straight, but decided he’d been unduly influenced by too many spy movies. “What’s your name?”

“Wilfred.”

Abrams held his wallet up over the back of the seat. “NYPD, Wilfred. Blow the stop lights and signs.”

The driver glanced at the badge and ID. “Okay, man. But this is Nassau County.”

“Don’t sweat the geopolitics. We’re all Americans.”

The driver increased his speed, slowed for a red light, then went through it. He glanced in his rearview mirror and said, “They’s
followin’.”

“What are they driving?”

Wilfred looked in the rearview mirror, then the sideview mirror. “Looks like a black Ford. Four men.”

The cab suddenly came to a halt. Abrams said, “What’s happening, Wilfred?”

“Traffic jam. Always catch it here when the fireworks start goin’.”

“Is that joker still behind us?”

“Kissin’ my bumper.”

“Cops up ahead?”

“Way up.”

Abrams rose and looked back through the rear window. A black car was, as Wilfred said, almost bumper to bumper with the cab. He could see four men silhouetted through the windshield. He turned and looked at the line of traffic. About a hundred yards ahead were police cars. Abrams gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks, Wilfred. You don’t look Russian. I never should have doubted you.”

Wilfred nodded. “You gonna ’rest them dudes?”

“Not right at this moment.” Abrams opened the door and got out on the curb side. He began walking along the shoulder of the road, passing the line of stalled traffic. A few people in the cars looked at him. He heard a car door slam behind him, followed by quick footsteps in the gravel. A man came up behind him and said, “There you are.”

Abrams kept walking as he replied, “If you’re the cavalry, you’re a little late.”

Pembroke fell into step beside him. “Sorry, old man. You left Ivan’s a bit earlier than we thought. Traffic to the station was dreadful. Holiday evening. No excuse, though.”

Abrams didn’t reply.

Pembroke continued, “Actually, I had put a chap on the train a few stations back to watch over you.”

“Thoughtful of you. How about a cigarette?”

Pembroke gave him one and lit it for him, then said, “You look a bit disheveled. They went for you in the underpass, did they? I knew they wouldn’t knock you off in their house, of course, but I thought they’d go for you on the train, or back in Manhattan.”

“Well, they had other ideas.”

Pembroke said, “I know you’re annoyed, and I do apologize.” He looked down and said, “You’re limping. Are you going to make it without your shoes?”

“Can I get into Van Dorn’s with dirty socks?”

Pembroke smiled. “I’ll sneak you in the servants’ entrance.”

“Swell.”

They walked a while longer, then Pembroke said, “Why did you decide to come back here?”

“Because I decided not to get on the train.”

Pembroke nodded, then after a minute said, “Actually, you never intended to take that train, did you? You discovered something of immediate value. That’s why you flashed the high beams. You thought we’d meet you at the station and take you to Van Dorn’s.”

“Could be.”

Pembroke nodded again, then said, “Well, that’s not my business unless someone makes it so. But I will get you an audience with George.”

“That’s all I want.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry about the foul-up. Did you think I left you hanging on purpose?”

Abrams flipped his cigarette away. “While I was in the tunnel, the thought crossed my mind.”

“I’m on your side, Abrams. You did me an immense favor by staying alive. My career could have been ruined.”

“Mine too.”

“Do you want to work for me?”

“What’s your work product?”

“Corpses. I suppose you know that. The pay is excellent.”

“No, thanks.”

“You’d be very good. Speak Russian, ex-policeman—”

“Blue Cross, major medical?”

“Of course. I’m incorporated under the laws of New York State. British Technologies. Prestigious address in Rockefeller Center. Secretary, water cooler—”

“Gun rack. I’ll think it over.”

“Good.”

They came within sight of the gates to the Russian estate across the road. The gates were clear of demonstrators tonight, and police vehicles were lined up on the shoulders. Pembroke said, “The police will be curious about your appearance.”

Abrams took off his jacket, threw it in a clump of bushes, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He peeled off his bloody socks, then took a handkerchief from Pembroke and wiped his hands and face. “Do I look suburban and summery?”

“Well . . . in the dark. Let’s go, then.”

They continued past the police cars, getting a few hard, appraising stares. After a few minutes they came within sight of Van Dorn’s driveway and Pembroke said, “It’s rather a good party, and after you’re debriefed, you should stay and enjoy yourself. I’ll fix you up with some clothing.”

“Is Claudia there?”

Pembroke drew on his cigarette and glanced at Abrams. He replied lightly, “Yes, but Katherine is there as well. Be careful, old man. You haven’t come this far to get knifed by a jealous woman.” He laughed.

Abrams stopped to pick out a piece of gravel that had worked itself into the wound on his foot. “Is Thorpe there?”

“No.”

Abrams continued walking. “Where is he?”

“Don’t know, really.” Pembroke flipped away his cigarette. “You know, Abrams, I wonder if we didn’t make a mistake by not killing him when we had the opportunity.”

“When did
we
get incorporated?”

“Well, I mean—”

“Listen, Pembroke, I’ve never killed in cold blood, but I would have killed Thorpe. Yet you, who’ve made killing a cottage industry, did not kill the man who deserved it most.”

Pembroke didn’t respond immediately, then nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. Sometimes one can be too professional and ignore instinct.”

Abrams wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead. The night was still, and the walk was beginning to wear on him. Days that began at dawn never boded well for him. Days that included mayhem, lovemaking, and hard thinking left him weary. He yawned.

Pembroke said, “Joan Grenville told me about Claudia. I wish I’d known sooner.”

“Everyone wishes they’d known everything sooner,” Abrams said. “I wish I’d known this morning who won this afternoon’s Metropolitan at Belmont. So what? What are you going to do about Claudia? Or is she already done?”

“She’s among the living. It’s not my business to decide what to do about her, nor yours.”

“I never thought it was mine.”

Pembroke added, “I’m surprised O’Brien and Company took her in. I’ve never yet had a good experience with an ex–Eastern Bloc resident.” He thought a moment, then said, “But perhaps she’s been turned, or has been a double all along. That’s why you can’t go about knocking people off until you know the facts.”

“Well, as of Friday night when she set me up to be pushed off the roof, she was working for them.”

Pembroke nodded to himself. “I wondered who lured you up to the roof. Your story seemed to lack details. I actually thought it might have been Joan, even Katherine.”

“No, it was Claudia.”

“Interesting . . . but don’t discount the possibility that she set you up in order to establish her bona fides with Thorpe and/or the Russians. Sometimes one agent has to sacrifice another to establish credibility.”

“You people play a nasty game.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. That’s why I keep out of that end of it, Abrams. Killing people is much less confusing. My father liked the intrigue. I find it too morally ambivalent for my taste.”

“Your father was in intelligence?”

“Yes, recently retired.”

They continued along the road, up a gentle rise. Abrams said suddenly, “Is James Allerton at Van Dorn’s?”

Pembroke regarded him for some seconds, then answered, “No. He went back to Washington. Why do you ask?”

“Is he with the President this weekend?”

Pembroke considered the question, then replied, “I’m not certain. The President is at Camp David, according to the newspapers. Why is it necessary to know if Allerton is with the President?”

Abrams considered his response a moment, then said, “It may be necessary to contact the President. I thought if Allerton was with him, then Van Dorn may actually be able to get through to Allerton quickly.
. .
.”

“Is it urgent?”

Abrams looked at him. “I think so. But you’re not interested in that end of it.”

Pembroke smiled politely. “Normally I’m not. But when people start suggesting that a working knowledge of Russian may prove useful for daily existence, then my interest is aroused.”

Abrams replied, “I’ll speak to Van Dorn.”

They walked silently for another minute, then crossed the road between the slow-moving traffic and passed through the entrance to Van Dorn’s estate. A security guard sitting in a parked car recognized Pembroke and waved them on. Abrams followed Pembroke up the rising drive and saw the big lighted house as they turned a bend. From the rear of the house another salvo of rockets rose into the clear, windless night sky and exploded in red, white, and blue showers of sparks. Abrams said, “Can I trust Van Dorn?”

Pembroke replied, “My God, I hope so.” He added, “I believe he’s running the show now.”

“Why shouldn’t I go to the FBI?”

“You may if you wish. Or the CIA. Both are very close by. If you decide to go, I’ll run you over with my car—I mean, I’ll
drive
you over.” He laughed.

Abrams glanced at him and understood his meaning clearly. “Let’s talk to Van Dorn.”

Viktor Androv stood in front of a north-facing gable window, his back to the three other men in the room. He stared toward George Van Dorn’s house. Balls of fire appeared over the distant tree line and rose lazily above the horizon of Long Island Sound, then burst apart into the moonlit sky. Androv imagined that he was watching a miniature of the explosion that would soon light up most of the North American continent for a few brief but fateful seconds.

Androv said, “At least he isn’t blaring his music. Well, after tonight we’ll never be bothered by him again.”

Androv turned from the window and faced Alexei Kalin, who stood at attention across the large darkened attic room. “So, Alexei, where did we go wrong, my friend? You had three trained men with you in the tunnel. You had two cars, each with two men, for a total of . . . let’s see . . . eight men, including yourself, all of you agents of the
Komitet Gossudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti,
the most feared state security agency in the world. And you were asked to bring here, for interrogation, one Jew. Correct?”

Kalin nodded stiffly. “Correct.”

“So . . . so it was not a particularly difficult mission, was it, Alexei?”

“No, it was not.”

“But instead of delivering me one Jew, you return with one dead man, whose poor wife is downstairs waiting for you to tell her where her husband is. Also, you present me with the unfortunate Feliks, who seems to have been beaten and knifed by his comrades, and Vasili, who appears to be suffering from great mental agitation. And look at
you.
You’re filthy.”

Kalin stared straight ahead.

“Perhaps you can explain to me how the Jew accomplished this.”

“I have no explanation.”

Androv said with biting sarcasm, “No? There is no logical explanation for this deplorable failure? At least tell me that the Jew had divine intervention. Tell me that Moses descended on you swinging his staff in the dark. I would sooner believe that than believe that one Jew outwitted and outfought four men of the KGB. Please, Alexei, let me report to Moscow that there is a God and He works for the Jews.”

Kalin’s face was set in the immobile expression required for these dressing downs. Kalin knew that whatever Androv finally told Moscow would exonerate both him and Androv. Feliks and Vasili would not fare so well. Kalin, of course, would then be owned by Androv until the debt was repaid, or until the tables could be turned. That was the way the system worked.

Androv ended his harangue and added, “I’m only sorry that our distinguished guest had to witness this.”

Henry Kimberly sat in a plastic-molded swivel chair, his legs crossed and his fingertips pressed together. He was dressed in casual slacks, blue blazer, and loafers. He said in Russian, “Please don’t consider me more than a loyal party man.”

Androv protested, “But you are. Before this week is out you will be the most famous man in America. Perhaps in the world. You will be the new American President.”

Henry Kimberly said nothing.

Androv turned back to Kalin. “Well, Alexei, sit down. We have another bungler joining us. Your friend Thorpe.” He looked again toward Kimberly. “Are you eager to meet your daughter’s lover?”

Kimberly seemed somewhat surprised at the question. He replied, “Not particularly.”

Androv sat heavily in another swivel chair. “If you would like, Henry, we can arrange to have her brought here tonight.”

Henry Kimberly sat motionless in his chair. He thought about Katherine as he had last seen her, a little girl of two. He suddenly recalled the signed picture he had sent her, right before his “death,” and he remembered that someone—Thorpe, he guessed—had told Kalin that the picture was hanging in Katherine’s office. He also thought about his daughter Ann, and remembered her letters to him and his to her. He’d had to leave all his mementos behind at Brompton Hall when he left for Berlin. He’d had to leave Eleanor behind as well, and his parting had been rather temperate, his last words being, “I’ll see you in about two weeks, Ellie. The war will be over by then and we’ll open that bottle of ’Thirty-seven Moët.”