The Talbot Odyssey (59 page)

Claire replied, “We
would
feel bad if something happened, though not guilty. Good luck.”

Joan looked at them.
Tough old birds.
Old OSS. They were all screwy. She took a deep breath and lay down on the trolley, then reached up and grabbed the cable with her gloved hands. “Ready.”

The electric motor hummed again and the cable dragged her into the dark tube. She listened to the sounds of the rubber trolley wheels on the clay pipe, the distant hum of the motor, the creaking of the pulleys, and the rubbing of her shoulders against the sides of the pipe. She cleared her throat and called out softly, “Stanley?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you doing?”

“Okay.”

Joan observed, “This sucks.”

Stanley laughed weakly. “Beats crawling.”

Neither spoke again. The light from the opening faded and the sound of the electric motor grew fainter.

Joan knew she could let go of the cable anytime and the trolley would roll her back to the basement of the tennis building. But she knew she wouldn’t.

Another few minutes,
she thought,
then we’ll be there.
She’d always been curious about that house anyway.

George Van Dorn stood at the bay window and watched the skyrockets rise from his empty swimming pool in the distance. He picked up one of three newly installed army field phones on the wide bay sill and cranked it.

Don LaRosa, the senior pyrotechnician, answered.

Van Dorn said, “How are we fixed for rockets, Mr. LaRosa?”

“About three hundred left, Mr. Van Dorn.”

“All right, I want airbursts low over the target. I don’t want the terrain lit too much, but I want noise cover.”

“Okay. Hey, did you hear the motherfucker rocket blow?”

“I believe so.”

“Scared the shit out of your wife’s cat, Mr. Van Dorn.”

Van Dorn glanced at Kitty standing across the room. “I’m happy to hear that, Don. Listen, is the tube ready?”

“Ready any time you are.”

“Plan for midnight. I want a sixty-to-eighty-second time on target—no fewer than twenty rounds of high explosive. Then, when you’ve made kindling wood out of the target, I want about five rounds of Willy Peter to finish off whatever’s left.”

Don LaRosa repeated the fire mission.

Van Dorn added, “I have an amphibious chopper on station to lift your people and your tube out of here immediately. You’ll land at the Atlantic City pier. All arrangements made.”

“Sounds super.”

“Speak to you later.”

Van Dorn hung up. It
would
be super, he thought, if Mr. LaRosa and his friends could spend the night gambling and whoring until dawn. He wouldn’t half mind joining them.

Kitty said, “What
is
Willy Peter, George?”

“Just a military expression, dear.” He added, “Actually, it’s white phosphorus. It burns.”

“Oh. That’s awful. Such a beautiful house.”

“War is hell, Kitty.”

“It’s so
destructive.”

“Yes, that too.” He walked to a stereo stack unit and turned up the volume. He listened to the sprightly notes of George M. Cohan’s “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which was being blared out from his loudspeakers on the polo field. Van Dorn hummed along as he bobbed his head to the music.

Kitty said, “George, are you really going to blow up those awful people next door?”

Van Dorn turned off the sound. “What? Oh, only if my ground attack fails. Have you arranged things with Dr. Frank and Dr. Poulos?”

“Yes, they’re in the basement aid station, setting up. Oh, Jane Atkins and Mildred Fletcher are assisting. They’re so thrilled to be able to lend a hand. They were both WAC nurses.”

“Well, I’ll try not to disappoint them, Kitty. If there are no casualties, I’ll shoot myself in the foot.”

“Belle La Ponte is a psychiatrist. Should I get her?”

“Why not? We’re all crazy.”

“I mean, she’s an MD—”

“Fine, Kitty. Are the medical supplies satisfactory?”

“I believe so. Dr. Frank seemed very impressed.”

Van Dorn nodded distractedly. He tried to think of what else ought to be done. He turned to one of the other two men in his study, Colonel William Osterman, a man who had been a young lieutenant in OSS’s London headquarters staff. Van Dorn said, “Phase one ought to be completed by now.”

Osterman looked up from the architectural plans and aerial photos of the Russian estate spread out on Van Dorn’s desk. Osterman said, “I would think so. The problem with this plan, George, is that it relies on near perfect timing without radio contact. If one group gets into a mess, the other three groups will get into a mess.”

Van Dorn replied, “Pembroke and his people are very good, Bill. They’re used to this sort of hit-and-run without communications. Sometimes I think they’ve developed telepathy.”

Wallis Baker, a senior partner in the firm, appeared from behind the screened telex alcove carrying a message. “This is a rather long communication from the Joint Chiefs, George.”

Van Dorn motioned him to the desk. “Get it deciphered immediately.”

Baker was already behind the desk with the code book.

The telephone rang and Van Dorn saw it was his published number. He ignored it, but no one else in the house seemed to be picking it up either. Then he realized who it might be and answered it. “Van Dorn residence.”

“Oh,” said the voice, “Mr. Van Dorn.”

Van Dorn looked at the other two men, then at Kitty, then said into the telephone, “Mr. Androv.”

“Yes. I am flattered that you recognized my voice.”

“I don’t know many people with Russian accents. Why are you calling me at this hour, Androv? It’s not polite to call people this late.”

Androv said a bit sharply, “As a man trying to get some sleep, I don’t care for your music or your fireworks. Do you know your rockets are exploding dangerously close to our house?”

“How close is that?”

Androv put on an aggrieved tone. “Mr. Van Dorn, as Community Relations Officer, I have attempted to maintain good relations with my neighbors—”

“No, you haven’t, Androv. I have it on good authority that your people never throw the tennis balls back.”

Androv made a sound of exasperation. “Oh, what does that matter now?”

Van Dorn smiled. He was mildly amused by Androv’s de rigueur phone call. More importantly, the call most probably meant that neither Pembroke’s team nor the team with Katherine and Abrams had been discovered. For his part, Androv had discovered that Van Dorn was definitely at home. There was intelligence to be gathered even from a banal phone conversation. Van Dorn said, “This is our holiday, Mr. Androv. Certainly the protocols of diplomacy demand some respect for the traditions of the host country, sir.”

“Yes, yes. But that music—I must respectfully request of you—”

“I’m not taking requests tonight. You get what’s on the tape. I am not a disc jockey, Mr. Androv.”

“No, no. I mean I must request that you cease that loud music, or I must call the police.”

“I think you’re being unreasonable.”

“I am not. My small staff here is very upset, and my dogs are extremely nervous and high-strung—”

“Then buy well-adjusted dogs, Viktor. Or get them to a shrink.”

Androv ignored this and said, “At what hour may I expect the music and fireworks to cease?”

“At midnight. I promise you, you will not be bothered after midnight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Van Dorn. Have a pleasant evening.”

“And you, Mr. Androv.” Van Dorn hung up and looked at the people in the room. “The nerve of that man calling to complain about my party when he has to stay up anyway to wait for a nuclear detonation.”

Osterman and Baker smiled.

Kitty said, “You were rude to him again, George.”

Van Dorn looked at his wife. “Your standards of etiquette are extravagant, Kitty.” He added, “You’d have required black tie and ushers at the Crucifixion.”

“Still, I think, as Mr. Churchill did, that if you’re going to shoot a man, it costs nothing to be polite.”

Van Dorn smiled at his wife. “You’re quite right.”

She announced, “I must go, but before I do, I want to tell you, George, that I absolutely will not have your Mr. Pembroke or Joan Grenville in this house again.” She paused, then added, “If they are wounded, I will make an exception. Good evening, George. Gentlemen.” She turned and left.

There was a silence in the room, then Colonel Osterman looked at his watch. “This is damned frustrating without radio contact.”

Baker added, “They could all be dead or captured, and we wouldn’t know.”

Van Dorn replied, “Which is the reason for the mortar. The next call I get from Androv’s telephone ought to be from one of our people. If I don’t hear by midnight, then
my
automatic launch response goes into effect. Then, as I said, Viktor Androv will be bothered by me no more.”

Viktor Androv sat at the desk in his office. The former chapel was dark, lit only by a shaded lamp whose light fell on a nearby stained-glass window.

Androv stared at the religious depiction: the inhabitants of Sodom forcing their way into Lot’s house in an attempt to abduct the two beautiful angels, then the angels sending out a blinding flash of celestial light and the Sodomites turning away. He remarked, “Some say the angels were extraterrestrials, and they destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah with a nuclear device.”

Henry Kimberly sat back in the green leather chair. “Four thousand years from now, who knows how tonight will be interpreted.”

Androv leaned across his desk. “Tonight will be interpreted the way the party wishes it to be interpreted. Just as the events of the Bible were interpreted as the priests and rabbis wished them to be interpreted.”

Kimberly said, “There will be no party four thousand years from now, Viktor, and you know that. Neither will there be priests or rabbis.” Kimberly lit a cigarette. “However, as you suggest, the party
will
write world history for at least the next thousand years.”

Androv shrugged. He stood and went to the side window and threw it open. The north wind entered the chapel and ruffled the papers on his desk. Van Dorn’s loudspeakers could be heard in the distance, and Androv raised his voice as he spoke. “I have given the order that anyone who opens a window or door after eleven thirty will pay with his life.” He fell silent a moment, then said, “It’s a strange phenomenon, this EMP. Like a supernatural miasma, it can enter through keyholes and cracks, through spaces around the doors and windows. A little of it can do a great deal of damage.” He added in a confident voice, “But this house has been inspected a hundred times. It’s as tight as a submarine. It could float.” He laughed.

Kimberly didn’t reply.

Androv looked up into the northern sky. “Molniya is hurtling toward us from the dark reaches of space.”

“Molniya?”

“The satellite that will deliver the nuclear blast. The courier told me. Very ingenious.”

Kimberly nodded appreciatively, then said, “What time?”

Androv continued staring out the window as he replied, “It will reach its low point somewhere over Nebraska a few minutes after midnight.”

Kimberly watched the smoke rise from his cigarette, then said, “What else did the courier tell you?”

Androv replied, “The Premier sends his good wishes to us and to you particularly.” He added, “The Premier also informs us that news of the Stroke is being disseminated now among key people in Moscow.” Androv nodded to himself and said, “Unlike the preparation for a nuclear war, this was so simple that only a few people had to be told. And only a few people had to act. Only one person has to push a nuclear detonator button, and that will be the Premier himself.”

Kimberly stood and walked to Androv. He looked through the window out over the distant tree line. A faint aura of light from Van Dorn’s house outlined the rolling treetops against the blackening sky. Kimberly said, “You know, Viktor, George Van Dorn and I went to the same army schools. The philosophy of the American army is aggressive, not defensive. They are great believers in the spoiling raid, the preemptive attack, the commando strike—like the British.” He gave Androv a sidelong glance. “You ought to deal with Van Dorn before he deals with you.”

Androv pulled the windows shut and walked to his desk. He pushed a button on a console and George Van Dorn’s voice came out of the speaker.

Kimberly listened silently.

Androv said, “That is a recording of George Van Dorn calling the Pentagon. Since he has warned them of our plans, and believes the situation is under control, he is unlikely to try anything against us on his own.”

Androv pushed another button and a woman’s voice came on. Androv said, “That is your daughter, Ann.”

Kimberly said nothing.

Androv continued, “She’s speaking to the National Security Agency. About Molniya.”

Kimberly listened to Ann’s voice for a few seconds, then walked to the desk and pushed the stop button. He turned to Androv. “How did they find out?”

Androv shrugged. “I assume they started with the premise that we wish to destroy them and worked backward. How many solutions are there to a problem? They asked themselves, ‘How would I destroy America with little or no damage to myself?’ They arrived at the answer we arrived at.”

Kimberly nodded slowly.

Androv continued, “So you see, Henry, I haven’t underestimated Van Dorn or his organization. We know they long ago put away the dagger and use only the cloak now. Van Dorn learned something and he called his friends in the military to deal with it. He will not come here with guns blazing.”

Kimberly did not reply for some time, then said, “But he
has
warned them, Androv. The Americans have an automatic launch response under certain—”

Androv held up his hand. “I know. But let me continue, please. You see, in this country almost every long-distance telephone call is relayed by microwave stations. This is very convenient for us because this house sits in the middle of what is known as ‘Microwave Alley.’ We intercept these microwave calls and listen to the diplomats in New York, as well as the Long Island and Connecticut defense contractors. Every call made to a government agency in Washington is monitored here. Van Dorn, of course, took precautions against this. He installed a fiber optic telephone line that runs into the main AT&T underground cables. His phone, he believes, is virtually untappable, which is why he speaks so freely over it.”