The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  Stanley knew that today was a Russian holiday. The Russians from the UN would be all over the place soon. He’d already spotted about a dozen walking around the gardens, plus the ones on the terrace. He’d planned this for some time . . . M-day minus six, M-day minus five . . . but now he thought he might have been foolhardy. Nuts, actually.

  At least he hadn’t spotted any kids. Sometimes the Russkies brought their kids with them. The kids could be a pain because they ran wild in the woods and fields. When they weren’t around, he’d heard, they went to some kind of camp a few miles away, called Pioneer Camp, which was like a Boy Scout or Girl Scout camp. But he bet that instead of doing camp things, they learned how to spy.

  Stanley thought about that for a while, then remembered his mission. He crept forward toward the open end of a drainage culvert where it stuck out below the steep drop in the lawn. The earth stank here and was covered with swamp grass and bulrushes. This was the farthest he’d ever come on the Russian property.

  Stanley hesitated, then raised himslf up to the open culvert. He squeezed headfirst into the slimy clay and began crawling upgrade. He knew none of the other kids in the junior class could fit in the pipe. Being small had a lot of advantages.

  As he got closer to the house, he saw that some weeping willow roots had found their way between the pipe joints. He used them to pull his way through at first, but at one point the roots were so thick he had to cut them away with his K-Bar. He heard chirping ahead and saw little red eyes looking back at him. He struck the pipe with the knife’s pommel and growled, “Beat it! Go away!” His heart was pounding and his mouth was sticky.

  Stanley remained motionless and took stock. He had less than three inches on either side of his shoulders, and although he was not claustrophobic, he was beginning to get nervous. What if he got stuck? The fetid air was making him nauseous, and the total darkness was giving him the creeps. He felt oppressively confined and had the sudden urge to stand, break free, run in the open air. Sweat covered his body and he began shaking. He thought about going back but didn’t think he could get through those roots feetfirst. “Well, jerk, you can’t stay here.”

  He resumed his crawl until he reached a juncture of several pipes. The air was better here and he took a long breath. He looked up into a vertical shaft that ran about twenty feet to the surface. There was a metal grating at the top, and he could see the first evening stars twinkling in the sky. “Piece of cake.”

  He knelt on one knee and unclipped his flashlight from his web belt, turned it on, and pointed it up the shaft. He saw the first iron rung leading to the surface. He replaced his flashlight, took a long breath, and began the ascent, hand over hand, until he reached the metal grate. He pushed up on it and it scraped noisily across the concrete rim. He listened for a few seconds, then stuck his head up and looked around. A white flagpole rose up from the ground not ten feet away. There he spotted what he was after: the dark red flag of the USSR.

  The flagpole was surrounded by a circular hedgerow about four feet high. He was concealed within the plantings, unless someone was looking down from an upstairs window. He scanned the second-story windows and the third-story gables, but could see nothing. He hoisted himself out of the shaft and low-crawled through the trailing pachysandra until he reached the base of the flagpole, then rolled over on his back. He drew his K-Bar knife and took a long breath. He listened.

  He heard music coming through the partly opened French doors leading out to the terrace. Pretty bad music, he thought irrelevantly. The night was fairly still, though, and he wondered if they would hear the flag falling as the rope slipped through the pulleys. He put the knife to the halyard, but hesitated. Maybe he would just get the hell out of there. But then he looked up at the red flag with the yellow hammer and sickle, and the five-pointed star, snapping in a brief gust of wind, and he knew he couldn’t go back without it.

  Suddenly there was a noise like a rifle shot, and he almost lost control of his bladder. He lay in the damp pachysandra, waiting. Overhead there was another loud report, and a shower of sparks—red, white, and blue—rained down. More rockets began bursting overhead, and Stanley laughed softly. Crazy old Van Dorn, giving it to the Russkies again. And he had no doubt where all the Russian eyes were turned. He sliced easily through the halyard and the weight of the flag pulled the severed rope through its pulleys.

  The flag floated down slowly at first, then grew larger as he stared up at it. It settled over his entire body. It was made of some sort of lightweight bunting. He’d expected something heavier. The flag also smelled funny. Still, he had it.

  Stanley lost no time. He cut the flag loose, twisted it tightly into a rope and tied it securely around his waist. He slipped through a space on the blind side of the hedge, away from the terrace, then raised himself into a sprinting stance, ready to run like hell across the lawn. Then the floodlights came on. “Oh, Christ!”

  Even though the first rule of patrolling was never to go back the same way you came in, Stanley turned and slowly crawled back to the open storm drain. He quickly lowered himself down, pulling the grate cover back into place. “Okay . . . okay . . . you got lucky. . . .”

  Halfway down the vertical shaft he heard a voice yell down to him, “Stop! Halt! We shoot.” A powerful light beam shone down the shaft. Stanley dropped the last ten feet and hit the muddy bottom of the shaft. He ducked quickly into a culvert opening headfirst as he heard the grate being lifted. “Holy Mary . . .” He realized he was in the culvert that led toward the mansion. He had no choice but to keep moving.

  4

  The traffic on Dosoris Lane was snarled, and with good reason, thought Karl Roth. There was an international incident brewing and everyone wanted to see it, or take part in it. He edged his old panel truck up a few feet, then spoke with a trace of a Middle-European accent. “We will be late.”

  Maggie Roth, his wife, glanced into the back of the van. “I hope the food doesn’t spoil.” She too had an accent, which her American neighbors found charmingly British, but which to Londoners was identifiable as Wapping Lane Jewish.

  Karl Roth nodded. “It is hot for May the first.” The panel truck’s engine-temperature gauge began to climb. “Damn it. Where do all these cars come from?”

  Maggie Roth replied, “They are the cars of the exploited working class, Karl. Coming from the tennis courts, the golf club, and the yacht club.” She laughed. “Also, Van Dorn is having another spite party.”

  Karl Roth frowned, then said, “Androv sent word that he has a surprise for us.”

  She laughed again, but without humor. “He could surprise us by paying his bloody bills on time, couldn’t he?”

  Roth smiled nervously. “Please be civil to him. He has asked us to stay for a drink. This is a big celebration for them.”

  She grumbled, “He could have asked us to stay for the whole party. Instead, we go through the servants’ entrance like beggars and stand in the kitchen helping with the food. Classless society my foot.”

  Roth let out a breath of exasperation. “It would be noted by the FBI if we stayed too long.”

  “They’ve already noted your comings and goings. They’re bloody well on to something, I’ll tell you.”

  He snapped, “Don’t say that! Do not mention anything to Androv.”

  “Don’t worry on that account. Do you think I want to end up like Carpins—?”

  “Quiet!”

  The van moved up a few more feet. Suddenly a rocket arched into the gathering dusk and exploded in a red, white, and blue shower of sparks that lit up the purple sky. Several people along the road cheered and auto horns began honking.

  Roth sneered. “More provocation. That came from Van Dorn’s estate—that reactionary swine.”

  “He pays his bills,” remarked Maggie Roth. “And why didn’t we get the job on his party, Karl? We could have handled both. Van Dorn likes you. You’re so bloody obsequious toward him. Yes, Mr. Von Dorn, no, Mr. Von Dorn. It’s Van Dorn anyway, Karl. Ma
ybe he’s wise to the fact that you snoop around when you go there. Or maybe he just thinks you’re popping one of the maids.” She laughed. “If he knew what you really were . . .”

  Karl Roth let out another sigh of exasperation. Maggie must watch herself, he thought. The van moved ahead a few more feet. Angry shouting could be heard now up the road. Police cars were parked on the right shoulder, and on the left he could see the huge ornate wrought-iron gates of the Russian estate. People with picket signs were blocking the entrance and the police were trying to keep order.

  From his high vantage point Roth could see several limousines trying to get into the gate entrance. The police were stopping each one and checking licenses and registrations. Roth said, “More harassment.”

  “Where’s our registration? I don’t want a bloody ticket. We don’t have diplomatic immunity.”

  “There. In the glove compartment. My God, what a mess!”

  Another rocket arched high into the air and exploded with a loud report. Maggie Roth tittered. “Mr. Van Dorn is aiming them to explode over the Russians.”

  “Why do you find that amusing?”

  “But it is. Don’t you think so?”

  “No.”

  She stayed silent for some time, then said, “Do you realize we’ve delivered them enough food over the past six months to last out a long siege?”

  He didn’t reply.

  She added, “And all that canned stuff and dried stuff. Those bastards only buy the best—the freshest—now they want tins, dry foods. . . . Well, Karl, what’s it all about, then?”

  Again he didn’t reply.

  Her tone was sharp. “Bloody beggars are planning World War Three, that’s what they’re about. Well, Glen Cove is safe, isn’t it, Karl? They wouldn’t drop a bomb on their own people, would they—”

  “Shut up!”

  She retreated into a moody silence, then mumbled, “I hope the damned mayonnaise has spoiled and they all get food poisoning.”

  5

  Stanley Kuchik lay on his back in the upward-curving culvert, his arms above his head and his head bowed under an immovable metal grate. Tears formed in his eyes. “Stupid . . . moron . . . Stanley, you asshole. . .”

  He looked up at the grate, all that separated him from the cellar of the mansion. He thought about trying to go back, but if he got caught somewhere below, he’d die there and rot and his stink would be awful and they’d call a plumber who would use a Roto-Rooter and . . . ugh!

  He knew that the Russians would be waiting for him where the culvert opened into the bulrushes, but after a while they’d figure out that he’d gone this way instead. They’d be down here soon and yank him out and shoot him. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. . . .” In anger and frustration he balled his hands into fists and beat against the grate, tears running freely down his face as he sobbed.

  He heard something that sounded like a sharp clink, and stopped. Tentatively he pushed against the grate and it lifted. He cocked his arms and pushed up like a shot-putter, throwing the heavy grate into the air with a strength he didn’t know he had. The grate crashed to the concrete floor a few feet away.

  Before the adrenaline gave way to the paralyzing muscle fatigue he felt, Stanley grabbed the sides of the opening, pulling and kicking at the same time, heaving himself up and out of the hole, then tumbling onto the floor.

  He lay there on the cold concrete for several seconds, breathing heavily, feeling his muscles flutter and his body shake. He drew a deep breath and stood unsteadily. “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”

  Stanley brushed himself, straightened his clothes, and checked his gear. Everything was in place including the tightly girthed flag.

  He looked quickly around. He was in the boiler room. Three huge furnaces stood across the room along with three hot-water tanks and oil tanks.

  He opened a crudely made wooden door and passed into an unlit room. He found an overhead pull chain and turned on a single light bulb. He looked around. Stacks and stacks of boxes filled with canned foods lined the walls and formed aisles in the immense space. “Christ, they could feed an army.”

  He turned on his flashlight and walked through the storage space, reading the familiar brand names until he came to a door. He listened, but could hear nothing. He opened the door and entered a room filled top to bottom with steel file cabinets. He selected one at random and pulled open a drawer, shining his light on the file tabs marked with Cyrillic lettering. He extracted a sheaf of papers and stared at the top one. “Crazy goddamned language . . .” He stuffed the entire sheaf into his field bag and continued walking.

  He could see basement windows, opening out to window wells, but there were bars over all of them. He knew he had to find a cellar door that led outside. He could faintly hear music, talking, and laughing in the room above. He continued prowling around the cluttered area.

  His flashlight picked out something on the wall, and he steadied the beam on it, then walked toward it. He played the beam around the area and counted three large electrical panels. He opened one of them. Inside were two rows of modern circuit breakers. They were all marked in Russian, leading Stanley to believe that it had not been an American electrician who installed the new system. Stanley retrieved his Minolta and slid the close-up lens into place. He stood directly in front of the electrical panel and held the camera cord straight out to measure fifty centimeters. He framed the panel, stood perfectly still, closed his eyes, and hit the shutter button. The camera flashed. He moved to the next two panels and shot two more pictures. Now he had proof that he’d been in the mansion itself.

  Stanley played his flashlight around and spotted something on the floor to the right of the electrical panels. He quickly moved closer to it and knelt. It was a big brute of a generator, American-made, bolted to the concrete above another floor drain. It wasn’t running and Stanley suspected that it kicked on automatically when there was an interruption in electrical service. He shined his light farther down the wall. There was a huge oil tank in the corner, probably diesel oil, he thought, to run the generator. “Christ, these guys don’t take any chances.”

  He stood and played the light around, then moved across the room. Rising from the floor was an electric water-well pump, connected by a two-inch pipe to the water main overhead. The pump wasn’t running either, and Stanley guessed that it turned on if the generator did, or if the village water was shut off. Stanley scratched his head thoughtfully. “Food . . . fuel . . . electricity . . . water. . . . Real shitheads. . . . Ready for anything.” He began walking again.

  He passed through an opening in a wooden wall and came to a room full of lawn furniture and gardening tools. He scanned the walls with his flashlight and finally spotted a set of stone steps leading up to an overhead door. “Okay, Stanley, time to go home.”

  He unlatched the doors and pushed on the left-hand one. It opened with a squeak and he stepped up into the cool night air behind a stand of hemlock.

  He found his last candy bar, an almond Cadbury, very expensive but his favorite. He chewed thoughtfully on the chocolate as he surveyed the hundred yards of brightly lit lawn. Beyond the lawn was a thick tree-line. He finished the chocolate, licked and wiped his mouth and fingers, and got into a four-point sprinter’s crouch. He waited, looked, listened, took a deep breath, and mumbled, “Okay, feet, do your thing.” He shot out of his stance, tearing at top speed across the open lawn toward the trees. He was less than five yards from the edge of the woods when he heard a dog bark, followed by a growl.

  “Halt! Stop!”

  “Sure—yeah—right.” He crashed through the undergrowth, into the woods. He came to a nearly vertical rise in the ground and took it in three long strides.

  As he continued to run, the low-hanging branches of the maples whipped at his face and arms, and he felt a gash open above his right eye. A pine bough raked him across the mouth and he stifled a cry of pain. “Oh, screw this! Jesus Christ, never again . . . never. . . .”

  One of Van Dorn’s
Roman candles shot into the air and Stanley could see where it was fired from, so he changed course slightly and guided toward it.

  There were easier ways out of the Russian estate, but Van Dorn’s place was his closest, and therefore best, chance. His only chance, really.

  As he maneuvered through the woods, the maple and oak gave way to laurel and rhododendrons, and he knew he was approaching the borders of Russian territory. He ran into a coil of barbed wire and sliced his hand. “Jesus H. Christ!” He took his wire cutters and snipped out an opening, then passed carefully through. In the distance he thought he saw lights from the Van Dorn estate.

  He could hear the Russians calling out behind him. And the dogs barking. A low stone wall suddenly rose up and he jumped it on the run, then slowed to catch his breath. He had technically crossed into neutral territory, an unused right-of-way that separated the two estates. No-man’s-land. He took a few steps toward Van Dorn’s place, but he found he was very shaky. A cold sweat covered his body and he was nauseous. He heaved and brought up some chocolate and acid. “Aaahh!” He took a few long breaths and began moving, half running, half walking.

  Behind him he heard a sound like a shot and he ducked. Then the sky was lit with a parachute flare. The Russians had tripped one of their own flares, by accident or on purpose, but he was out of the circle of light and kept moving. He wondered if the flare would attract any friendly attention. But he didn’t want any attention, he just wanted to make it on his own and keep his rendezvous at Sal’s Pizza.

  He came to a wooden stockade fence, with pointed pickets at the top, over ten feet high. The boundary of Van Dorn’s property. Stanley slapped at the fence. “Fucking Berlin Wall. . . .” About three inches of cedar separated him from freedom.

  He began trotting east along the wall. He saw a rise in the land near the fence. From the top of the rise to the top of the fence was not the impossible ten feet but a more manageable seven or eight feet. He cut back toward the Russian estate to give himself a running start, then swung back toward the small mound of earth. A half-moon had risen above the distant trees and cast a pale light over the long and narrow right-of-way. Stanley looked to his left and saw six Russians and two dogs approach at an angle to his intended path. He knew he had only one shot, if that.