Read The Talbot Odyssey Online
Authors: Nelson DeMille
The Talbot Odyssey (51 page)
Kimberly replied, “Their motivations were as confused as yours. It must run in the family.”
Thorpe bit back a reply and took out a cigarette.
Kimberly let the silence drag out, then said, “How is she? Does she mention me at all?”
Thorpe saw his possible salvation in these questions. He answered, “She’s a bit of a bitch, actually. Takes after her mother, I understand. And, yes, she mentions her deceased war-hero father from time to time.” He added, “Katherine and I had a good relationship until recently, regardless of what you may hear to the contrary.”
Thorpe was amazed at the things he was thinking and saying. It must be, he thought, the shock of knowing America was finished, and that he himself might be finished. He was not contrite over what he had done, only angry at himself for playing a bad hand.
Kimberly smiled but said nothing.
Thorpe added, “I can fill you in about Ann, too. I know her. And I can answer other questions you may have about things in general over the next several months.”
Again, Kimberly smiled. “Someone once wrote that the true genius is the person who can invent his own job. Well, Thorpe, I suppose you’d make a passable presidential advisor. Or perhaps a White House court jester.”
Thorpe’s eyelids twitched, but he kept control of himself.
Kimberly leaned back in his chair. “Before you arrived, we were discussing Katherine’s fate. She’s next door.”
“I know that.”
“Did you know that they’ve all been poisoned and will begin dying in a few hours?”
Thorpe’s eyes widened.
“There
is
a way to save her. Do you want her?”
Thorpe had the feeling again that he was navigating a minefield. “Do you?”
Kimberly’s expression took on a faraway look as he mused aloud. “There are times when I think I’d like to see a reunion of family and friends. There are other times when I want to obliterate the past. . . .” He looked at Thorpe. “Did you know I married a Russian girl over there? She’s still there, of course. Hardly a presentable first lady. I have two sons . . . one is a colonel in the KGB. . . . Do you think it would be a good idea to annihilate the American Kimberly line? That would strengthen the Russian Kimberly family.”
Before Thorpe could reply, the door swung open and Mikhail Karpenko strode in, followed by Androv and Valentin Metkov. Kalin was not with them, and Thorpe didn’t know if that was good or bad.
Karpenko hurried to the far end of the attic room and spoke to the communications officer. He took a sheet of paper from the officer and walked quickly back to the group. He read from the paper, “Cultural affairs attaché Gordik, arriving Kennedy Airport, eight forty-eight P.M., your time. Will proceed by hired conveyance to Glen Cove. Extend usual courtesies.”
Androv nodded. “That will be a verbal courier. Obviously, Moscow isn’t taking a chance on transmitting any information that the National Security Agency might decode.” Androv looked at his watch. “Gordik should be here shortly. He’ll deliver the last direct orders we receive from Russia until immediately after the Stroke.” He began moving toward the far end of the attic. “Follow me, please.” Metkov, Karpenko, Kimberly, and Thorpe followed.
Androv turned into the attic of another wing of the mansion. He threw a switch and the smaller attic area burst into bright, blinding light, revealing an elegantly appointed study set in the far end of the attic. There was a walnut desk, bookshelves, a marble fireplace, and a leaded-glass window in a gabled peak. Above the fireplace hung a large American flag.
Thorpe’s eyes adjusted to the light and he noticed television cameras and microphones. This study was actually a studio set.
Androv said to Kimberly, “From here, your voice and your image will go out to the world, via satellite, over all radio and television bands and frequencies.” Androv motioned to the leather chair behind the desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Kimberly walked around the desk and sat in a high-backed chair. He surveyed the set and commented, “This does look like the type of place from which the voice of authority speaks.”
Androv nodded. “The set was designed in Moscow by Special Section Four. It’s supposed to convey dignity, tranquillity, authority, and control.”
Kimberly noticed a clear plastic garment bag hanging on the wall to the side. “Is that what I’m to wear?”
“Yes, that’s also inspired by SS Four. They decided on a blue-gray three-piece pinstripe. You’ll look like one of those State Department people,” Androv said.
Kimberly asked Thorpe, “What do you think, Peter?”
Thorpe replied, “Americans believe anything they see on television.”
Kimberly laughed. “So I’ve heard.” He turned to Karpenko. “How much of the population will I reach?”
Karpenko ran a handkerchief over his perspiring bald head. “We estimate that eighty percent of the population will have access to working radios or televisions. You understand, Major, that only the sets that are on at the time of the Stroke will act as lightning rods for the electromagnetic pulse and be destroyed?”
Kimberly nodded.
Karpenko continued, “But there will be no other radio or television stations operating. And switching to auxiliary power will not put them in operation, either, because these stations will not have experienced a simple power
loss
as in a blackout, but a catastrophic power
surge,
as if ten million bolts of lightning had struck all at once. The only station in America, southern Canada, or northern Mexico that will be on the air will be ours. Here in this room. The only voice anyone will hear will be the voice of Major Henry Kimberly.”
Kimberly looked across his desk to where Karpenko stood. He said, “Will I begin broadcasting immediately after the EMP storm?”
Karpenko replied, “When we see the sky light up. For the first few hours you’ll make periodic identification of yourself only as Major Henry Kimberly and implore the public to remain calm. Let everyone draw whatever conclusions they wish, until it’s time to tell them that you’re their new leader. Do you have any questions—”
Thorpe interrupted Karpenko. “Excuse me. But hasn’t anyone here ever heard the term ‘thermonuclear war’?”
It was Androv who answered. “To reply to your sarcasm, Thorpe, the American government will not be at all certain how this happened, but even if they do understand that it was an EMP storm, they will not be sure it was the Soviet Union that caused it.” He gave a small shrug and continued, “In any event, most of the E-3I in this country—the command, control, communications, and intelligence networks—are not yet EMP-proof. America will be struck deaf, dumb, and blind.”
Thorpe said, “Even a deaf, dumb, and blind man can push a launch button.”
Androv said, “Yes, but keep in mind three other important factors: One, the President will be in Camp David with your father; two, the President’s little black box will be useless; and, three, America has no EMP-proof missiles, bombers, warships, or fighter planes. Any American nuclear strike initiated by an automatic response would be a greatly weakened strike. Our losses would be acceptable.”
Henry Kimberly spoke, “Moscow has prepared for every eventuality. So, let us not speak of war, but of victory without war.”
Thorpe thought to himself,
Just like that. Two hundred years of
nation-building and there won’t even be a shot fired.
Androv said, “A great deal depends on James Allerton. When he informs the President and his advisors of the helplessness of the situation, and formally requests the surrender of the United States, there may be some hysterics at Camp David. He may be shot on the spot. He is, however, an accomplished diplomat, and this will be his crowning glory if he can get cooler heads to prevail there. With luck, persuasion, and threats, he will make the President understand that capitulation is the only course of action left that will prevent nuclear destruction.”
Metkov said, “The President’s last duty will be to read a short prepared statement to the American people announcing . . . a ‘peace treaty’ between the Soviet Union and the United States. He’ll also announce his resignation from the presidency. He will not be heard from again.”
Androv walked into the studio set, past Kimberly’s desk, and stopped in front of the fireplace. He stared up at the American flag, then reached out and took the corner of it, rubbing it between his fingers as though he were a rug merchant considering a purchase. There was a long silence and Androv finally said, “We could never have beaten them militarily. But as the fates would have it, there was a small gap in the complex structure of their country’s armor. They recognized it, and rushed to fill the gap. We recognized it, and rushed to exploit it. We arrived first; they were too late. Space wars, indeed. Protons and neutrons, laser beams, and killer satellites. We could never have kept up. But on their way to the stars, they forgot to close their one window of vulnerability. And we jumped into it.”
Katherine sat on the sofa with her legs curled up, staring at the ceiling. Abrams strode impatiently around the study, glancing at her from time to time and looking at his watch. He wondered what was keeping Van Dorn.
The telephone on the desk rang and someone in another part of the house answered it, then buzzed the study. Abrams picked it up quickly. “Tony Abrams.”
“Well?”
“Spinelli? Did you get my message?”
“No, I just dialed a number at random and got you.”
“Where are you?”
“Where you asked me to call from—the squad room. I drove all the fuck the way in from Jersey on my day off to call
you
from
this
phone. Now, why am I here?”
“I’ll get to that. Listen, what do you see from the window?”
“Hold on.”
Abrams could hear the venetian blinds rattling. He glanced at Katherine and forced a wan smile. She returned a somewhat brighter smile.
Spinelli came back on the line. “Well, I’ll be damned, Abrams. Did you know that the Russian Mission to the UN was right across the street from the Nineteenth Precinct? I never knew that.”
Abrams ignored the ill temper in Spinelli’s voice. He said, “Are the buses out there?”
“Only the big gray bus.”
“How about the minibuses?”
“They’re either in the garage, or they haven’t come in from Glen Cove yet.”
Abrams pictured in his mind the twelve-story white brick apartment building on East 67th Street that housed the Russians’ United Nations offices as well as the entire staff. He said, “Do you see anything that doesn’t look kosher?”
“Look, Abrams, Russian-watching was your line, not mine.”
“Well, pretend you’re as sharp as me. What do you see?”
Spinelli stared down from the second-story squad room. “Okay—the street is relatively quiet. A few pedestrians. The police booth is manned. Three squad cars parked half on the sidewalk. Routine. Looks peaceful.”
Abrams saw the familiar scene in his mind’s eye: the partly residential street, the Russian building with the cement awning, the forbidding fence in front, and the three remote television cameras sweeping the street. Directly across the street was the firehouse and the Nineteenth Precinct, where Abrams had worked out of the Red Squad. Abrams knew every square foot of that block between Third Avenue and Lexington Avenue. He knew the street’s routine better than he knew his own block in Brooklyn. He said, “How’s the building look?”
Spinelli replied, “The garage door is closed, front doors are closed, first three floors are dark. Residence floors are pretty well lit, blinds drawn, but I can see some shadows passing by. Ambassador’s suite on the top is lit. What’s up, kid? Should I get the Bomb Squad on the horn?”
Abrams thought,
If they can defuse falling H-bombs, call them.
He said, “Where are the FBI guys tonight?”
“Not here. They may be at the firehouse. Better coffee there.”
Abrams said, “Dom, can you connect me with the FBI watch? Or the CIA?” Abrams knew the CIA kept several apartments next door to the Russian building and listened through the walls. They also had a third-floor apartment in the building next to the Nineteenth, from which they videotaped the Russian building, day and night, an endless film-record of the building and sidewalk.
“No. I don’t want to owe them any favors.”
“Then connect me with the police booth. You can listen in.”
“Oh, may I?” Spinelli grumbled a string of obscenities.
Abrams heard the phone click, then a female voice said, “Police Officer Linder speaking.” Spinelli identified himself, then said, “Okay, Abrams, you’re on.”
Abrams introduced himself briefly, then asked, “Is this your regular duty, officer?”
“Yes, sir, on and off for about six months.”
“Okay, first question—did you see the gray bus unload?”
The policewoman replied, “Yes, sir. Mostly luggage, as usual. A few men on board helped the porters carry the luggage through the service door in the right of the building. That was over an hour ago.”
Abrams thought a moment, then said, “How much luggage?”
She hesitated, then said, “About the same.”
Abrams did not want to lead the witness, he wanted Officer Linder to report what she’d seen, not what Abrams would have liked her to see. Abrams asked, “Can you tell me if anything struck you as unusual tonight? Anything that was not normal for the last night of a weekend?”
Officer Linder was silent for some time, then replied, “Well . . . no . . . no, sir. Could you be more specific?”
Abrams said, “Why don’t you just recount to me what happened since you came on duty. That would be four P.M., correct?”
“Yes, sir.” She thought, then said, “Well, it’s been pretty quiet since this afternoon. About an hour ago the black Ford Fairlane arrived with the ambassador, his wife, three kids, and a driver.”
“How did they look?”
She understood he was looking for her impression. She answered, “The wife and kids looked all right. The wife was smiling and nodded to the cops as she usually does. He looked a little . . . I can’t say exactly . . . just not himself.”
“Okay, I understand. Were there any more cars?”
“No, sir. Not tonight. Sometimes there’s only one, though.”
“Okay, how about the minibuses?”
Linder answered, “Yes, they arrived. Pulled into the garage.”
“How many? How were they spaced?”
Linder replied, “They came in two groups, as usual. The first group arrived about forty-five minutes ago. Six or seven buses. That was the bigger group, so that would be the kids, I guess.”
Abrams nodded to himself. Unless the procedure had changed, the six or seven buses would have left the Pioneers camp in Oyster Bay and made a stop at the estate in Glen Cove. The exact purpose of this stop was unknown, but it probably was an administrative routine to pick up adult monitors, or do a head count. When it came to kids, Russians were not much different from everyone else.
In any event, thought Abrams, the buses always pulled into the walled service court, where any loading and unloading could not be observed with usual snooping devices. Abrams thought that if tonight was in fact different from all other weekend nights, then the children had been unloaded from the buses at the Glen Cove estate and escorted into the basement. He spoke into the phone, “How about the buses with the adults?”
Linder said, “They arrived maybe fifteen minutes after the kids’ buses. There were four buses in that group. They also pulled right into the garage.”
Abrams pictured the large iron overhead garage door. As the buses drew up to the building, the door would open, and the buses would cross the sidewalk and disappear down the ramp into the underground garage. The police booth where Linder stood was less than ten feet from the garage opening. Abrams said, “Were the buses full?”
She replied, “They have one-way glass.”
“I know. Listen, Officer Linder, you’ve been watching these buses pull in and out for a while. Now, think a moment. Were they
full?”
Linder replied almost immediately. “No. No, they were
not
full.” She added, “I think they were almost empty.”
Abrams let her continue without prompting.
She said with growing certainty, “Something struck me as odd when they pulled in, and it sort of stuck in my mind. And now that you ask—when they moved across, the sidewalk toward the garage . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, all the buses bounced like they were pretty light. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
She added, “And as they pulled into the garage, the clearance on the top was very tight.” She repeated, “Tight. Close.”
Abrams said nothing.
Officer Linder spoke tentatively, as though she realized she’d stuck her neck out. “Is . . . is there anything else?”
Abrams said softly, “No, no. That’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The phone clicked, and Spinelli said, “Well?”
“Well, Spinelli, you heard it.”
“Yeah. I heard it. So maybe the ambassador looked a little out of it. Maybe he has hemorrhoids. Maybe the buses did arrive empty. Maybe the ambassador gave them all another day out in the country.”
“Could be,” said Abrams. “Why should they have to work on a Tuesday after a three-day weekend? Why not just send their baggage back to town on the big gray bus, and send a dozen minibuses in empty?”
“Well, we don’t
know
the buses were empty, Abrams.”
“She knew.”
“Yeah. . . . Okay, so maybe most of the Russkies are hiding out in Glen Cove. Okay, they want everybody to think they’re all back at ground zero here. So, okay, when does
la bomba
drop, Abrams?”
Abrams remained silent for some time, then said, “Am I being paranoid?”
Spinelli, too, let some time pass before he answered in a subdued tone, “No. This stinks. I’ll make a quick verbal report. Anything else new besides World War Three?”
“No, that’s about it. Slow night. How about you, Dom?”
“Well, I have a few things for you . . . I don’t know how important they are anymore.”
Abrams could hear a definite edge of anxiety in his voice. “Go on, Dom.”
Spinelli cleared his throat. “Well, this guy West did a vanish. Two-dozen fucking people watching his ass and he’s gone. This guy O’Brien is still missing. Autopsy on the pilot shows the back of his skull fractured, probably with a rubber club. What else . . . ? Oh, Arnold Brin’s death. The ME says murder. And you’re still alive.”
“Right.” Abrams looked at Katherine. She made no pretense of not listening; there was no reason to feign polite disinterest when the subject was Armageddon and the time was now.
Spinelli added, “Also, you called for a book at the main library.
The Odyssey.
I didn’t know you read Greek, much less owned a library card. You want to tell me about that?”
“It’s by Homer.”
“Who gives a shit?” Spinelli could be heard drawing on a cigar, then said, “Look, Abrams, I can see this is out of my league. I can’t get anywhere with the FBI, CIA, State Department intelligence, or even you. Everybody is asking me things, but nobody is telling me anything. So who cares?” Spinelli let out a long breath. “Look, if there’s anything I can do, call me. See you later, Abrams.”
“Right.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s not as bad as it sounds, Dom. Thanks.” He hung up, then turned slowly to Katherine, who was looking at him attentively.
She said, “I caught the drift of that.”
Abrams nodded.
“They’re all next door.”
“Most of them. A few sacrifices went back to Manhattan.”
“My God. . . .” She stood and walked quickly to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. She said softly, “I wish Pat O’Brien were here.”
Abrams replied, “I think O’Brien would be the first to say we’d done all we could.”
“Yes, I think we are past the time for planning, development, and intelligence gathering. We’re in the operations stage, whether we’re ready or not. I think perhaps it’s time for Marc Pembroke. I think it’s time we paid a visit next door.”