The Talbot Odyssey (55 page)

She looked at the three faces that were staring at her, and added, to be sure they understood, “A communications blackout equals a launch. Boom!
Auf wiedersehen,
world, as they say in merry old Germany.” She drained off her drink and held it out to Van Dorn. “A short one, George.
Danke.
”

Van Dorn took her glass and moved slowly to the bar.

Abrams looked at her, focusing on her eyes. At first he thought she was a little drunk, or mad, but then thought she just didn’t give a damn. But they made eye contact, and he saw she cared very much. It must be, he thought, the way her colleagues spoke of nuclear annihilation, as though they were discussing some past war, not the next one.
Auf wiedersehen
indeed. Not if he could help it.

Van Dorn said, “I assume the Russians know this.” He handed Ann her drink.

She held up her glass. “Here’s to good Kentucky whisky.” She tipped the glass back and took a swallow, then regarded Van Dorn. “Yes, they were told this. Otherwise what good would the threat be as a deterrent? But either they didn’t believe it, or they decided to take a goddamned shot at it anyway. Our nuclear response to an EMP blackout would be weakened, but not
that
weak. We have the subs and the European nukes.”

Ann walked to the French doors and looked up into the sky. The sheets of heat lightning had broken up into crackling bolts, and a wind was picking up off the sound. A distant thunder rolled into the quiet study. “God is trying to tip us off.”

She turned and faced the room. “Well, that’s the grim picture. You were worried about instant and total defeat, without a shot fired. Have no fear. We’ll get our nuclear war.” She stared down into her glass and swirled the amber liquor. “Classic case of underestimating your enemy’s will to fight back. Mass delusion in Moscow. Assholes.” She looked up. “So, all indications are that tomorrow’s sunbeams will shine through motes of nuclear debris.”

Van Dorn let out a long breath. “Maybe not. I assume the President is speaking to the Soviet Premier right now. If he lets them know that we’re on to them, they may call it off.”

Ann did not respond.

Van Dorn continued, “The President can inform the Soviets that he’s given all the nuclear forces the go-ahead to launch as soon as one of our missile-detecting satellites picks up a single Soviet launch.”

Ann was shaking her head. “They won’t see any launch, not from the Soviet Union, not from a Soviet sub, nor from anywhere.”

Van Dorn took a few steps toward her. “What do you mean? How are they going to detonate that nuclear device over the center of the United States?”

Ann replied, “Satellite, of course.”

Van Dorn was silent for a moment, then blurted, “Damn it! Of course—”

Ann went on, “It’s simplicity itself. Tumbling now through the black voids are thousands of satellites of every sort and description, passing freely across the unprotected frontiers of space. One type of Soviet satellite is called Molniya, which aptly enough means lightning. There are dozens of these fairly innocuous Molniya communications satellites crisscrossing North America every day. One of these Molniya satellites is of particular interest to my people at the National Security Agency. Molniya Number Thirty-six.”

Ann walked away from the French doors and sat on the edge of Van Dorn’s desk. She continued, “Molniya Thirty-six was launched from the Soviet rocket base at Plesetsk about a year ago. It has a highly elliptical orbit with an apogee of about twenty-five thousand miles—way out there—and a perigee of only four hundred miles. The ostensible reason for this highly unusual orbit is to prolong communications sessions, which is partly true. But with an orbit like that, it is also conveniently out of range of our snooping satellites and our killer satellites for a good deal of its journey. Its twenty-five-thousand-mile apogee is somewhere over Lake Baikal in central Siberia.” She added, almost offhandedly, “Its four-hundred-mile perigee is over America—around Nebraska, to be exact.”

No one spoke, and Ann walked back to the coffee table, picking up the nearly empty tray of hors d’oeuvres. She said, “My people at the NSA have determined by electronic means that there is not the normal load of communication equipment on board Molniya Thirty-six. Deduction: The extra space is filled with something else. To wit: a few pounds of enriched plutonium.” She picked out a piece of smoked salmon and ate it. “Molniya Thirty-six is most probably what we call an SOB—a satellite orbital bomb. SOB’s are outlawed by a 1966 UN treaty, but I guess Ivan lost his copy of it.”

She searched through the tray again and found another smoked salmon. “Good food, George. Do you still have that crazy Nazi working for you?”

Van Dorn replied in a distracted tone, “He’s not a Nazi. He’s a German Jew.”

“I thought he was an old SS man.”

“No, he pretended to be one. Look, Ann, are you sure—”

Abrams interrupted. “What’s the orbit time of this Molniya?” He pronounced it with the proper Russian accent and Ann glanced at him. She answered, “Well, that’s the good news. The orbiting time around the earth is long—twelve hours and seventeen minutes, give or take a few minutes.” She looked down into her glass and shook the ice cubes, then drank the remainder of the bourbon. “The bad news is that I don’t recall offhand when it’s due over Nebraska again.” She handed Van Dorn her glass. “Very light this time. Mostly soda.”

Van Dorn took her glass and made another trip to the bar. He said over his shoulder, “Well, we can find out, I’m sure.”

“No problem. Do you have a computer terminal yet?”

“No, I never got beyond the telex.”

“Oh, George.” Ann picked up Van Dorn’s phone as she took her drink from him with her other hand. “I think I can get through to Fort Meade.” She cradled the receiver on her shoulder and hit the push buttons.

Abrams watched. He’d never seen a twenty-one-digit phone number before. Ann went through an identification procedure of some length. Abrams remembered that someone had once said the National Security Agency was so secret that congressmen said NSA stood for No Such Agency.

Ann got someone on the phone whom she seemed to know. “Yes, Bob, this is Ann Kimberly. I’m in New York, and I need some information. Do you have your little computer in front of you?”

Abrams had also been told that there were fourteen acres of computers at the NSA facility beneath Fort Meade, so the chances of Bob having one in front of him were good.

Ann said, “No, this phone is not secure. But I only want some very low-classification stuff. Okay . . . ?” She nodded to the people in the room, then said into the receiver, “Punch up the Molniya series.” She waited, then continued, “Okay, I need Molniya Thirty-six. Got it? Now I need Molniya’s perigee time and place.” She listened, then said, “Okay . . . okay, Bob. Thanks. . . . No, just playing trivia here. Right. See you.” She hung up and looked at the three people staring at her. She said, “You don’t want to know.”

Van Dorn replied gruffly, “I damn sure want to know.”

Ann looked at her watch, which Abrams took as a bad sign. He wondered if she was looking at the minute hand or the second hand. She raised her head and spoke. “Molniya Thirty-six is traveling in a southwesterly direction, descending now from its apogee, toward earth. Perigee time over Blair, Nebraska, a small town about twenty miles north of Omaha, is 12:06 A.M., Eastern Daylight Time, 11:06 P.M. Central Time, which is, in any case . . . ninety-six minutes from now.” She stared out the bay window, as though, thought Abrams, she was looking for it.

Katherine said, “They may wait for the next orbit. . . .”

“Not likely,” said Van Dorn. “Even Russkies don’t like to sit in the basement for twelve hours.”

Abrams added, “If their mission offices don’t open for business as usual, and the delegation doesn’t show up at the UN tomorrow morning, it would look a little suspicious. No, they’re going for it tonight.
This
orbit.”

Katherine suddenly blurted, “Those bastards!” She looked at Van Dorn. “We’re partly responsible for this. We should have done more, or done nothing. But we’ve committed ourselves, so we must see it to its end.”

Van Dorn stayed motionless for some time, then said softly, “Yes, I agree. I didn’t intend to let it go with a few phone calls, Kate. We’ll deal directly with the situation next door.” He picked up the telephone and dialed the kitchen, where one of the staff picked up. “Find Marc Pembroke and get him to my study. Immediately.”

Van Dorn put down the receiver and looked at each person. “We may or may not be able to stop this ticking clock, but, by God, there’s no reason why we can’t indulge ourselves in some personal revenge.” He cocked his head toward the window. “Tonight is their last night, too.”

George Van Dorn looked at Ann Kimberly. “All right?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it matters much if one meets one’s end from a small-caliber bullet or a large nuclear fireball. When you’re dead, you’re dead a long time anyway. If you’ve got a gun, I’ve brought my trigger finger.”

Van Dorn looked at Abrams.

Abrams had a distaste for vigilantism, partly professional, partly cultural. He said, “I’m sure they’re prepared to withstand one hell of an onslaught.”

Van Dorn smiled grimly. “Pembroke and I have already drawn up some plans for an attack.”

Abrams found that odd but not incredible. He tried another tack. “What if it
isn’t
tonight? How do we explain why we attacked a diplomatic facility and shot up the Soviet Mission to the United Nations?”

Ann replied, “Look, we’re proposing a preemptive strike, not an unprovoked act of aggression.”

Van Dorn plucked at his heavy jowl, then said, “Abrams, if your objections are more practical than moral, please rest assured on that point. We may be amateur spies, but we’re professional soldiers. In fact, I happen to have an eighty-one-millimeter mortar out back.”

Abrams’ eyes widened.

Van Dorn smiled almost sheepishly. “We can level that goddamned house in about ten minutes, then go in and mop up.”

Abrams stared at him.

Van Dorn added, “As fate would have it, my three pyrotechnicians tonight have some mortar training.”

Abrams thought fate had little to do with it. He rubbed his forehead. When this was amateur spying, it was strange enough. Now that it had turned into a discussion of infantry tactics, it had become alarming. The image formed in his mind of the little Russian girl clutching her doll. Katerina and Katya.
Where are you
going, Katerina? Down to the basement.
He shook his head and looked at Van Dorn. “There are women and children in that basement.”

Van Dorn let out a long breath. He spoke softly, almost gently. “There are women and children all over America. If you want to talk about women and children, try to expand your imagination to picture the results of a nuclear war.”

Abrams replied somewhat irritably, “Massacring those people will not prevent any of that.” He added, “If there is an EMP attack, your mortar will still work. Why don’t you hold off until you see what happens at midnight?”

Van Dorn began to reply, but the phone rang and he picked it up. He listened, then said, “Yes, he’s right here.” He held out the receiver to Abrams. “Captain Spinelli.”

Abrams looked somewhat surprised as he took the receiver. He spoke into the mouthpiece. “What’s up, Dom?”

Spinelli replied, “Still partying, Abrams? Well, just a wrap-up on the evening news.”

“I don’t have any news.”

“I do.”

Abrams picked up the telephone and trailed the cord away from the desk toward the fireplace, and turned his back on the three people. He could hear them begin talking in low voices. Abrams said, “Where are you?”

“At the Nineteenth.”

Abrams spoke in a soft tone. “All right, what is it?” he asked without much interest.

“I’ve got a follow-up on that note you left with my man at the Thirty-sixth Street town house.”

Abrams replied, “Oh, right, the Lombardy. That was just a long shot. I didn’t think Thorpe would leave anything lying around. It’s a CIA safe house and other people use it—”

“It’s not a CIA safe house, and nobody else uses it but Thorpe. Thorpe put out that CIA bullshit to cover his ass.”

Abrams said to Spinelli, “So what did you find, Sherlock? Radios, ciphers, Russian tea, and a signed copy of
Das Kapital?”

“Well, radios anyway. Listen, we couldn’t get a court order so I called Henly, the CIA liaison here, and fast-talked him. We went to the Lombardy and busted the fucking door down with fire axes. Christ, what a setup this clown has. At the top of a narrow staircase, on the third floor, there was a big black door made out of some synthetic. It was resilient, like rubber. We whacked away at it for about ten minutes. Henly had a hard-on, he was so sure he was going to find something weird behind that door. But the door wouldn’t give. I had to call Emergency Service, who finally blew it with a half kilo of plastic.”

Abrams heard Spinelli lighting a cigar. “And . . . ?”

Spinelli said, “There was this huge attic room that looked like a cross between the flight deck of the
Enterprise
and the Marquis de Sade’s rec room. There was a trail of blood all over the white tile floor leading to a walk-in refrigerator—like they have in butcher shops. But there wasn’t prosciutto hanging in there. No, sir, this sucker is running a holding morgue.”

Abrams glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the three were still deep in conversation and apparently not paying attention to him. He said softly, “Who was in there?”

Spinelli drew a long breath. “Some bad stuff in there, Tony. Three—count ’em: One, the missing Randolph Carbury, skull rearranged with our old friend the blunt instrument. Two, a middleaged woman identified by the Frog concierge as the housekeeper, apparent bullet wound right eye, exit rear right ear. And number three, Nicholas West, tortured, cause of death unknown. You still there?”

Abrams nodded several times, then cleared his throat. “Yes . . . yes . . .”

“Good. Now we’re looking for Mr. Peter Thorpe. Any ideas?”

“No . . . well, maybe. He could be next door here.”