The Talbot Odyssey (6 page)

Joan Grenville nodded in agreement. “He’s going to do it again, isn’t he? Memorial Day, I mean. Then
again
on July Fourth. Oh, Tom, let’s be out of town. I can’t stand all this flag-waving, martial music, fireworks, and whatnot. It’s not fun, really.” She turned to Marc Pembroke again. “The English wouldn’t behave like this, would they? I mean, you’re civilized.”

Pembroke crossed his legs and looked closely at Joan Grenville. She stared back at him and the first smile of the evening broke across her face. They held eye contact for several seconds, then Joan reiterated, “I mean, are you civilized or not?”

Pembroke rubbed his lower lip, then replied, “Only recently, I think. Are you staying the weekend?”

The sudden shift in subject caught her off guard. “No . . . I mean, yes. We may. And you?”

He nodded.

Tom Grenville seemed not to notice the currents passing between his wife and the Englishman as he made himself another drink. There was a sharp knock on the window of the stopped vehicle and Grenville lowered it. A helmeted policeman peered in and asked, “Van Dorn’s or the Russians’?”

“Van Dorn’s,” answered Grenville. “Don’t we look like capitalists?”

“You all look the same to me, buddy. Pull out on the shoulder and go around this mess.”

Grenville instructed the driver through the intercom and the limousine pulled out of the line of traffic and moved slowly on the shoulder.

Before they came to the main entrance of the Russian estate, they passed the YMCA, whose enclosed tennis courts as well as a few other buildings had once been part of Killenworth. Grenville said to his wife, “That’s where the FBI headquarter themselves. The CIA uses the Glengariff Nursing Home up the road.”

“Who cares?” replied Joan.

Marc Pembroke said, “How do you know that?”

Grenville shrugged. “Local lore.”

The limousine drew abreast of the main gates to the Russian estate, moving very slowly through the police cars and motorcycles. Katherine thought there must be at least a hundred people picketing, led by the mayor of Glen Cove, Dominic Parioli, holding a huge bullhorn and wearing an Uncle Sam top hat.

Tom Grenville inclined his head toward the demonstrators. “About a fourth of them are FBI agents, with a few CIA, plus some county and state undercover police. Not to mention a KGB spy or two. If it weren’t for all the double agents, Parioli couldn’t muster ten people.” He chuckled softly.

The demonstrators started singing “America,” the police were trying to get the vehicles through the crowd, and rockets were bursting overhead. In the distance, Van Dorn’s speakers could be heard now, also blaring out “America.”

A separate group of demonstrators, made up of members of the Jewish Defense League and Soviet Jewish emigrés, was shouting anti-Soviet slogans, in Russian, through a loudspeaker aimed at the estate house. A group from the local high school was baiting a few grim-looking uniformed Russian guards through the fence.

Joan Grenville finally spoke. “I wish to God everyone would just calm down. This makes me nervous.”

Her husband replied, “We’ll be past here in a minute.”

Katherine responded, “I think Joan was speaking in a larger sense. This makes me nervous too.”

Pembroke nodded and put his drink on the bar. He said, “I think I hear war drums.”

Stanley Kuchik hung on to the side of the rising cliff. He didn’t think he could climb another inch, yet he refused to let himself slide down into the arms of the Russian below. Overhead, he heard people walking. He took a long breath and continued up the slippery incline, hardly conscious of what he was doing.

Suddenly, he tumbled onto the narrow footpath. It was several seconds before he realized where he was and was able to take in his surroundings. The first thing he saw was feet and legs. Legs coming up the path toward him, and legs coming down the path toward him. He was trapped. He wondered what they would do to him.

A voice said, “What the hell are you doing here? This is private property.”

Stanley started to reply, then realized the man had spoken in good American English. A man down the path responded breathlessly, “We chase this thief. He steals from us.”

The American said, “What the hell did he steal?”

Stanley raised himself into a sitting position. Two men, Americans, were standing about five feet off to his left on the narrow footpath. Four Russians stood in Indian file about ten feet to his right down the sloping path. The first, a young, hard-looking man dressed in a brown uniform, spoke in an angry voice. “He steals flag. He spies on diplomatic property.”

“Oh, bullshit. Spies, my ass. All you people think about is spies.”

“He has flag. You see?”

Stanley instinctively moved one hand to the knotted flag around his waist. His other hand moved toward his knife.

The American who was speaking answered brusquely, “I don’t see any flag.”

Stanley looked at the American. He was dressed in a suit and was kind of old, with white hair and heavy jowls. Stanley thought it might be Van Dorn himself. No one spoke or moved for a while. Stanley got his fingers around the handle of his knife.

The second American, a young man with blond hair and dressed in a white suit, squeezed around the older man and knelt beside Stanley. He spoke. “Hello. My name is Marc. What’s yours?”

Stanley stared up at him. He wasn’t American after all. Maybe English. He answered, “Stanley.”

“Stanley, that’s quite an outfit you’re wearing.”

Stanley looked the Englishman up and down and wanted to say
Look who’s talking,
but replied, “Camouflage.”

“So I see. Your face is not naturally green, is it? Are you all right?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, don’t be frightened. You’re safe now.”

Stanley looked at the larger Russian force and nodded dubiously. He said very softly, “They have guns.”

Marc Pembroke nodded and whispered, “I’m sure they do. So just take your hand off that knife. It won’t do any good, you know. We’ll have to talk our way out of this one.”

Stanley did as he was told.

Pembroke said in a normal voice, “Is that a Russian flag around your waist?” He smiled slightly.

The boy nodded.

“Where did you get it, Stanley?”

“From their flagpole.”

Pembroke’s smile widened. “You don’t say.”

The older man moved closer and said gruffly, “You stole that from their flagpole?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you old enough to drink, kid? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

The lead Russian spoke impatiently. “We take flag. We call FBI. This is federal offense.”

Van Dorn reached his hand down and helped Stanley to his feet. “It’s up to you, kid. You want to keep the flag?”

Stanley seemed surprised that he had any say in the matter. “Well . . . I . . .”

Pembroke spoke softly to Van Dorn. “He really can’t keep it, George.”

“Why not?” bellowed Van Dorn. “He stole it. It’s his. That’s what American capitalism is all about.” Van Dorn laughed at his own inanity.

Pembroke looked annoyed. “Don’t be an ass, George. Enough is enough. Be a good neighbor, now.”

“Fuck them.” He rubbed his heavy jowls in thought, then said, “Tell you what, though. I’ll show you all how Communism works. Give me your knife, kid. We’ll cut the goddamned flag into seven pieces and give everyone a piece to wipe their ass with.” He laughed.

Stanley knew better than to go for his knife. Old Van Dorn, he thought, was a weird dude. Stanley looked at the group of Russians, who appeared a little closer now. Stanley thought they looked pretty mad, like they were going to do something. Stanley wished that Van Dorn would shut up and let the Englishman do the talking.

Van Dorn said to the Russians, “You’re trespassing on my property. You understand that we have private property in this country? Beat it.”

The tall Russian out front took a step forward and shook his head. “We take flag. Hold boy here. Call FBI.”

“Try it,” said Van Dorn.

There was a long silence, then Marc Pembroke unknotted the flag and pulled it from Stanley’s waist. “Sorry, lad, it is theirs.” Pembroke made a movement to throw it up to them, then held it out. The tall Russian in uniform came up the narrow trail and stopped a few feet from Stanley and stared at the boy.

Stanley stared back and noticed that the Russian’s uniform was tattered, dirty, and covered with burrs. Stanley smiled.

The Russian snatched the flag from Pembroke’s hand and yanked it past Stanley’s face, brushing him. Pembroke pulled the boy away. “All right, incident closed. It was only a prank. We’ll take care of punishing the boy.”

The tall Russian seemed to grow bolder. “We wait here. Boy stays here. We call FBI.”

Pembroke shook his head. “We go, chaps. With boy. I apologize on behalf of the citizens of Glen Cove, the American people, and Her Majesty’s government. Now leave.”

Van Dorn, who had stayed uncharacteristically silent, added in a low, threatening tone. “Get off my property.” He raised both arms and leveled a huge, long-barreled revolver at the tall Russian. He cocked the hammer. “Next time . . . if you cross that fence again . . . bring pallbearers along. You have ten seconds to turn around. Nine, eight . . .”

No one moved. Then the tall Russian said to Van Dorn, “Capitalist swine!”

“Seven, six . . .” Van Dorn fired. Everyone fell to the ground except Van Dorn. The echo of the gun’s blast died away and the night was still.

Pembroke got up into a kneeling position, a pistol in his hand, the other hand pressing Stanley to the ground.

Van Dorn said, “Just a warning. Get moving.”

The four Russians stood and quickly did an about-face. They began picking their way down the dark narrow trail. Van Dorn lowered his pistol, then slid it into a big holster under his jacket. “You can’t let those goons push you around.”

Pembroke holstered his own revolver and helped Stanley to his feet. The boy was visibly shaken but seemed to be nodding in agreement with Van Dorn.

Pembroke looked a bit exasperated. He said sharply to Stanley, “What are you supposed to be, then? A commando?”

Stanley mumbled something that sounded surly. The shock was wearing off and already he felt cheated and angry.

Van Dorn rubbed his hanging jowls, then said brightly, “Hey, I’ve got a Russian flag. Want it?”

Stanley’s eyes widened. “Sure.” He paused, then said, “Where’d you get it?”

Van Dorn laughed. “At the Elbe, Germany, 1945. It was a gift. I didn’t do anything crazy to get it. I think you deserve it. Come on, I’ll buy you a Coke or something, and get you cleaned up before you go home.”

They began climbing the path. Van Dorn said, “You live around here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know your way around in there?”

“Sure.” Stanley was feeling much better. He remembered his pictures, and the Russian file in his field bag. And if Van Dorn gave him the flag, he could show it around . . . but maybe what really happened would make a better story. He had to think about that.

Pembroke said, “Do you do this often? I mean, go into their estate?”

Stanley replied, cautiously, “I’ve jumped the fence a few times, but never got close to the house before.”

Van Dorn commented, “If we hadn’t heard a lot of commotion—dogs and shouting—you’d be
in
their house right now.”

Stanley didn’t believe they could hear anything from so far off, especially with that damned music blaring.

They reached the top of the path and began walking across a flat, open lawn that had a set of rising bleacher seats at one end. Van Dorn said, “This is a polo field. But I guess you know that, don’t you? You’re not the guy who steals my tomatoes, are you?”

“No, sir.” Stanley looked across the polo field. On either side of the bleachers were two high poles, each supporting a loudspeaker. The speakers were silent now, and Stanley wondered if they hid directional microphones aimed at the Russian estate. Maybe that’s how they knew what was happening. On the far side of the lawn he saw the big white-lighted house.

Van Dorn was pulling at his jowls again, then asked, “Hey, how’d you like to do some work on my place? Saturdays. After school. Good pay.”

“Sure.”

“We can talk a little about your adventures.”

Stanley hesitated, then said, “I guess that’s okay.”

Van Dorn put his arm awkwardly around Stanley’s shoulders. “How’d you get so close? To the house, I mean?”

“Drainage culvert.”

Van Dorn nodded thoughtfully. He said with a smile, “You didn’t get in the house, did you?”

Stanley didn’t respond at first, then said, “I think I could.”

Van Dorn’s eyebrows lifted.

Pembroke said, “What’s in that bag you’re carrying?”

“Things.”

They walked for a while, drawing near the big house, where Stanley could see that a party was going on.

Pembroke asked, “What kinds of things?”

“You know, patrol things.”

“What are patrol things, lad?”

“You know. Camouflage paint, flashlight, camera, candy bars, patrol maps. Like that.”

Van Dorn stopped walking. He looked at Marc Pembroke, who was looking back at him. Van Dorn nodded slightly.

Pembroke shook his head.

Van Dorn nodded again, very firmly.

Stanley watched them. He had a funny feeling he had not seen the last of the Russian estate.

THE WINGATE
LETTER

Katherine Kimberly read:

Dear Miss Kimberly,

A curious and perhaps fateful incident has occurred which
prompts me to write you. As you may know, your late father,
Henry, was billeted here at Brompton Hall during the war.
After his death, an American officer came round for his per
sonal effects. The officer was most insistent on recovering every
thing that belonged to your father. This was done, I presumed,
not so much out of a sentimental regard for Major Kimberly’
s
family but for security reasons, as your father, I’m sure you’re
aware, was involved with intelligence work of a sensitive nature.