The Talbot Odyssey (70 page)

Kimberly asked, “How did you do it?”

O’Brien smiled. “With mirrors. I’m a magician, an illusionist, also an acrobat, and a juggler.” O’Brien continued, “It’s a tough act, my friend. In the past year, for instance, I had to satisfy the OSS that I was working on what they knew to be an extremely important matter, while at the same time I had to protect Moscow’s Operation Stroke, about which I knew little.”

Kimberly nodded appreciatively.

O’Brien went on. “To make matters worse, Van Dorn, Arnold Brin, and a few others had zeroed in on some aspects of the Stroke, and were pushing me hard to find out more. I dragged some red herrings across their path—a nuclear explosion on Wall Street and a plot to access and erase all American computers—but it kept coming back to EMP. The old boys are good, Henry.”

“Yes, they are. And the diary?”

O’Brien smiled wide. “That was both a stroke of genius and an act of lunacy. I was desperate by that time. I dropped that diary on them in the hope that the old search for Talbot would consume their energies and obsess their psyches as it did four decades ago. I knew who Talbot was. It was I. I didn’t know it was you, too.”

Kimberly smiled slightly. “You set off a chain reaction with that, didn’t you, Patrick?”

O’Brien smiled in return.

“Yes. First that idiot Thorpe nearly killed me. Then Tony Abrams, who was pushed on me by your daughter, turned out to be cleverer than I thought. I decided to have Abrams killed rather than let him nose around. I used Claudia”—he nodded toward the body—“to set Abrams up. She thought she was working for Moscow. Abrams assumed it was Thorpe who tried to have him killed. Things are not as they appear in this wilderness of mirrors. I kept telling everyone that, and they all kept nodding, but no one seemed to understand that I was talking about myself.” He laughed.

Kimberly stared at O’Brien for a moment, then spoke. “How did you get here?”

O’Brien smiled. “I jumped in from a Sikorsky helicopter.”

“You
are
courageous, Patrick. But you always were.”

“Yes, it’s how I stayed alive when others died. I’m also ruthless.” He looked at Kimberly. “And unashamedly power-hungry. I want to be king.”

Kimberly stared back at him. “I am the heir apparent.”

“So Androv tells me now.” O’Brien shrugged, then glanced out the window. He said, “You know, Henry, if Operation Stroke succeeds, if Molniya explodes and spreads a wave of electromagnetic destruction across this continent, then, notwithstanding what’s happened in this house tonight, you and I will be the most powerful men in America.”

Kimberly said, “We have another compatriot who is to be rewarded with power. James Allerton. Did Androv tell you?”

O’Brien made a sound of contempt. “Androv did, but I knew long before that. Allerton is weak. Nearly senile. If it weren’t for his national reputation, Moscow would have discarded him years ago.”

“But they haven’t. And he is to form part of our troika.”

O’Brien’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “There’s a Secret Service man at Camp David whom I’ve spring-loaded to see that no matter what happens tonight, James Allerton will not leave there alive.”

Kimberly glanced at the pistol in O’Brien’s hand. He said evenly, “That leaves only you and me, and that’s one too many, isn’t it?”

O’Brien nodded absently, as though he’d missed the implication. He said, “You see, Henry, if the Americans win this round, then I can resurface as a hero who narrowly escaped death. But I can’t do that if you or Androv fall into their hands.”

“It was my misfortune to open this door.”

“Fortune has little to do with it. I always suspected the existence of the third man, and I’d planned to eliminate him at the first opportunity. The fact that it’s you, my old friend, makes it more difficult for me, but nonetheless, necessary.”

Kimberly said, “In other words, if Moscow wins tonight, you want to be President. If Moscow loses, you want to be head of the old boys again, until such time as Moscow does succeed.”

“Correct. And you, Henry, are an obstacle in either case.”

Kimberly said, “We can escape together. Go to Moscow.”

“I don’t want to go to Moscow. Tomorrow I want either to be in my old office at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose, or in the Oval Office.” He looked closely at Kimberly. “No senior intelligence chief worthy of the name should ever have to be a fugitive. There should always be another office from which he can practice his trade. That’s the reward for living as we must.”

Kimberly said, “Moscow will not reward you. They’ll find out you killed me . . . and Androv.”

O’Brien motioned toward Claudia’s body. “Battle deaths cover murder well. You remember.”

Kimberly’s eyes fixed on the gun again. “Patrick . . . This is not . . . This is disloyal. . . . They want me alive . . . Moscow wants—”

“What do I care what Moscow wants? They create traitors and they expect loyalty from us. Moscow is only a means to an end for me. The fastest, indeed the only, way to Washington for me, as for you, was via Moscow. Just as the last Roman emperors were made and unmade by the barbarians, so will the barbarians in Moscow crown me Emperor of America.”

Kimberly’s voice was sharp. “And depose you at their pleasure. You might be more secure if we shared power.”

“Perhaps—if there were power to share. But that may not be. I may be back in Rockefeller Center tomorrow to the amazement and relief of my staff. I have to plan for all contingencies, Henry. No hard feelings, old soldier.”

“No—” Kimberly reached for the pistol in his jacket. O’Brien fired his silenced automatic into Henry Kimberly’s heart, and Kimberly toppled backward like a felled tree, crashing to the floor.

O’Brien looked down at his former law partner and comrade-in-arms. “And then there was one.”

Tony Abrams moved down the first-floor staircase and saw that the body of Valentin Metkov had been removed. Abrams passed cautiously through the splintered panel door into the ruined security office. Davis’ body lay among the rubble, but the guards had removed Lara’s body.

Abrams felt he was following the trail of death and it was leading him back to where he had begun, in Patrick O’Brien’s office long ago. He could not fathom O’Brien’s motives for recruiting him then, and they were even less clear now.

Abrams looked into the hallway. No one was visible, but he heard voices in the distance. He slipped into the hall, moved quickly to Androv’s door, and saw that the lock was shot away. He held his rifle up and hit the door with his shoulder.

Patrick O’Brien was on his knees, rummaging through Androv’s desk. He looked up quickly, then reached for the pistol on the desk top.

Abrams leveled his rifle, and O’Brien slid his hand back. O’Brien said, “I didn’t think any of you would come down here again.”

Abrams said nothing but just stared at the man.

O’Brien stood slowly. “Who gave me away?”

“I figured it out.”

O’Brien smiled, an almost pleasant smile. “No, you didn’t, Tony. At least give me the satisfaction of thinking I was the most clever double agent this country has ever seen.”

Abrams nodded. “You were. Now you’re not.”

O’Brien nodded. “How do you feel? Angry? Betrayed? Foolish?”

“Yes. You’re very convincing.”

“It’s a matter of believing in what you’re doing and saying while you’re doing and saying it. When I worked for the old boys, I did my best. When I worked for the Russians, I did my best. Don’t feel too badly. I hoodwinked nearly every one of the so-called intelligence greats in this country and Britain for nearly forty years.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “At first it was young idealism. Then I wanted out, but they tried to kill me. Shot me on a hunting trip in Utah. I survived, obviously, but while I lay there in the hospital, I realized that they were ruthless, and that while we were once ruthless against the Nazis, we had gone very soft. That was the expression they used in those days. Remember that? America has gone soft. And it was true. The Russians—the Communists—were getting their way all over the world then. By 1948 it seemed just a matter of time before they took over. I joined the ruthless side.” He smiled. “The tide turned the other way, but I was happy by then, or at least at peace with my double life. I have no wife or children and I devoted myself to the game. Having been the victim of an assassination attempt, I was never again under suspicion the way I’d been during the war.”

Abrams glanced down at the body of Claudia, then he saw the sprawled body of Henry Kimberly partially hidden behind the desk. “Is that your work?”

“Yes.”

Abrams stared at O’Brien. He said, “Killing doesn’t seem to disturb you.”

“All the killings in the cloak-and-dagger world since the last war don’t equal the deaths in one small battle. If nations confined themselves to letting spies kill one another, we’d all be better off. This is the sacrifice we make on the altar of the god of war to keep him from killing more of us. If we’d won tonight, there would never again be the chance of war on this earth. But now, thanks to you, Van Dorn, and your friends, we’re back to the nuclear brink.”

“I think I’d rather live on the brink than in the hole.”

“Easy to say now. Tell me that five years from now when there’s another crisis.”

“You won’t be around five minutes from now.”

O’Brien looked at him intently. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Why not?”

“Because the American intelligence establishment wants me. Every spy sings when he’s in a cage. I could sing for ten years and not repeat a song.”

Abrams nodded. He knew this was true. The more highly placed the criminal or the traitor, the more likely it was they’d make a deal with him.

O’Brien seemed to relax, and dropped into a conversational tone. “My one real mistake in recent years was not killing Van Dorn. But I thought he’d drink himself to death.” He laughed.

“He may. But it won’t do you any good.”

“No.” O’Brien turned and looked out the window, then said to Abrams, “We may still see that flash in the sky.”

“We may. Tell me, why did you think it was necessary to fake your death? You would have been more useful to them on the scene.”

O’Brien laughed. “I didn’t intend to fake my death. That idiot, Thorpe, nearly killed me. What I faked was a heart attack before I opened my chute. Most parachutists whose chutes don’t open suffer heart failure before they hit the ground.”

“What do you plan to come up with this time?”

“Nothing . . . I’m ready to go with you. The CIA will make you a god, Tony. You’ll never want for anything as long as you live.” O’Brien stepped from behind the desk. “Here—there’s a passage in this paneled wall that leads to the security office, so we don’t have to go out into the hall again.”

Abrams motioned with his rifle and O’Brien went to the paneled wall to the right of the fireplace. He pulled on a wall sconce and a hidden door swung open. He turned to Abrams. “You know, I often tried to imagine how it would end. But I never imagined this.” He thought a moment, then said, “Do you know what I feel? I feel embarrassed. I’m not looking forward to facing Kate or Van Dorn or the others.”

Abrams came closer to O’Brien. “Move.”

O’Brien went through the concealed door first, followed by Abrams. They walked through the security office, passed the body of Davis, and went on through the second concealed door, stopping at the base of the stairs. O’Brien said, “If it makes any difference to you, I actually was fond of you.”

Abrams thought,
That was the one thing I didn’t want to hear
. He looked around the small foyer and listened. It was quiet. He said, “I’ve decided to save you the embarrassment; I won’t drag it out and make you suffer, though you deserve to suffer.”

O’Brien opened his mouth to speak.

Abrams lifted his rifle and fired. Patrick O’Brien fell back on the staircase, a surprised look on his face.

Abrams stared at him a long time, then went to find Joan Grenville, thinking,
I knew. I knew all along it was him. We all
knew, but none of us can bring ourselves to believe that Daddy is a
liar, or that God is a fake, or that the minister is an atheist. That
was his strength. He did not have to deceive us, we deceived
ourselves.

Cameron and Sutter had found two bottles of vodka, and Tom Grenville had found a mobile hydraulic hoist that was used to lift repair personnel to the flat roof. They sat now on the roof, with Stewart and General Johnson, passing the bottles around, looking into the clear night sky, waiting. Pembroke was still below because they did not want to move him, and Ann was still on the radio, with Abrams assisting her. Katherine was also below tending to Pembroke.

There was a sound from the hydraulic hoist and Joan Grenville rose from the hatch like an apparition in a Greek play. She stepped off the lift’s platform. “Hello, Tom.”

He looked up from the bottle. “Hello, Joan.” He took another swig, then said, “What are you doing here?”

“I slipped my trolley. May I have that?”

He passed her the bottle and she took a long drink and passed it back. She said, “That’s awful stuff.”

“Real Russian vodka. Spoils of war.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re beautiful,” said Stewart. “I’m drunk.”

Joan glanced at him appraisingly, then turned to Tom. “I told you we should have stayed home tonight.”

He said, “Business is business. How many times do I have to explain to you where the money comes from?”

She sat down on the roof. “What are we waiting for?”

Sutter answered, “For the helicopter extraction. Also, we’re waiting for the world to end. Look west, young lady.”

Joan said, “Which way is west?”

“There,” said Sutter, and pointed.

Joan looked toward the western horizon. “I can see Manhattan from here.” She looked at Stewart. “May I have another?”

He replied, “Is your leg broken? Mine is. It was very painful until a little while ago.” He passed her the bottle grudgingly.