The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  A front was moving through, and a warm breeze blew from the south. The sky was clearing, and a half-moon was setting in the western sky. Abrams looked around at the surrounding buildings, all of which towered over the four-story town house. A few windows were still lit.

  Claudia said, “This is beautiful. I love to make love outdoors.”

  Abrams smiled.

  “Go on. You first.”

  Abrams began to climb the wet ladder. He said over his shoulder, “Slippery. Be careful.”

  She stopped climbing at the third-floor landing. “I have brandy in my room. Go on. I’ll be a minute.”

  Abrams continued up the ladder past the darkened fourth-floor window. He peered over the parapet. The flat roof was covered with gravel for drainage, but puddles gleamed in the low spots. There was no stairwell shed, no skylights or ducts, and he had a clear view except for a wide brick chimney in the center of the roof.

  Abrams climbed over the low parapet and dropped to the roof. He walked gingerly over the rough gravel and circled the chimney, then found a relatively dry area and dropped the two pillows. He stood looking out into the backyards below, the soft wind caressing his body. Yes, he thought, this will be different. Very nice.

  He heard the sound of crunching gravel and sloshing water to his left and spun around. Two rappelling lines swung from the higher roof down the wall of the adjoining building. In the dark he saw two black-clad shapes in ski masks moving quickly toward him. One held a long jimmy bar, the other a black bag, which Abrams took to be a case of burglar tools. But in an instant he knew they were anything but burglars. They were very professional killers.

  Abrams was about ten feet from the fire escape ladder and an equal distance from the pillow where his revolver lay tucked inside. The men were less than fifteen feet from him. Abrams lunged in three long strides and dove for the pillow. The gravel scraped his naked body as his hand shot into the right pillowcase. He seized the revolver by the barrel. He had no time to bring it out, and he worked it around, grasping the butt, his finger slipping into the trigger guard. He prepared to squeeze off a round through the case, but the closer of the two men loosed a violent kick that caught him on the side of the head. The other man came up quickly and swung the long steel jimmy at his elbow, paralyzing his right arm. Abrams felt a flash of searing pain travel to his shoulder and almost passed out. He thought again, Pros.

  They pinioned his arms to his sides and rolled him over on his back. One man pressed a gloved hand over Abrams’ mouth. The other held up something that Abrams thought was a club. The first man knelt on his chest and pried open his jaws as he held his nostrils shut.

  Abrams could see that the club was actually a bottle, and he felt the cold liquid hit his lips and splash across his face. He tried to cough it back, but it slid down his open throat. It took a few seconds before he identified the burning sensation and the faint smell that somehow reached his olfactory nerves. It wasn’t poison or acid but Scotch whisky. His brand, he guessed. So it wasn’t to look like murder but like a drunken tumble from the roof. He began to struggle but felt a hand clamp on to his testicles and twist. He stopped moving.

  They held him pressed against the rough gravel for what seemed like a long time but was, he thought, probably a few minutes. He felt the effects of the alcohol on his brain and tried to fight it. Suddenly the two men turned him on his stomach, seized his arms and legs, and began running toward the edge of the roof.

  Abrams saw the low parapet coming up quickly, and beyond the parapet the emptiness of a four-story fall.

  He waited until they slowed, a few feet from the edge. He felt the imperceptible loosening of their grip as they prepared to hurl their burden out into space. At that last moment Abrams twisted violently, breaking the hold on his right arm. His shoulder dropped and collided with the brick parapet wall, causing the two men to lose their grip on him.

  Abrams wrenched free and fell to the rooftop, spinning around into a crouching defensive position, his back to the brick parapet. The two men hovered over him but hesitated a split second. Abrams sprang out of his crouch, grabbing two handfuls of gravel and flinging them into the men’s faces. His left foot shot out and caught the closest man in the groin. The other man lunged at him while he was off-balance and delivered a clenched fist to the side of his jaw, knocking him off his feet.

  Abrams lay on his back, stunned. The man dove at him, his hands outstretched and reaching for his throat. Abrams planted his bare feet in the man’s stomach, lifting him high into the air, and the man’s forward momentum catapulted him over the parapet. The quiet night was broken with a shrill, piercing scream.

  Abrams sprang to his feet. The second man was already running toward the dangling rappelling lines. Abrams began to follow, but the alcohol slowed him and he felt a growing pain where his shoulder had hit the wall. His right arm was still numb from the blow on the elbow, and the sharp gravel cut into his feet.

  The man was halfway up the rope as Abrams reached it. Abrams grabbed the rope and jerked it violently, but the man, wearing crepe soles and leather climbing gloves, hung on and disappeared onto the higher roof.

  Abrams turned and walked unsteadily back to where the two pillows lay. He retrieved his revolver and began descending the fire escape.

  Claudia was on the top landing. She looked at him in the dim light. “What happened to you? You smell of whisky. . . .”

  He stared at her. “I slipped.” He took her arm and led her down the fire escape into the bedroom. He said, “You forgot the brandy.”

  “I couldn’t find it.”

  Abrams pulled on his suit trousers. “Where’s the comforter?”

  Claudia didn’t respond, but asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Brooklyn, where it’s safe.”

  “But . . . we haven’t . . .”

  “I think I’ve lost the desire. Good night.”

  “What . . . ?” She reached out and touched his scraped elbow. “You have cuts all over you.”

  “Good night.” He noticed his voice was slurred.

  She hesitated, then turned quickly and left.

  Abrams waited, then took his revolver and went out into the hallway. He mounted the stairs and went to Joan Grenville’s room. He opened the door without knocking and found her under the covers, sleeping in a sitting position, her bare breasts peeking out over the bedsheets. Her lamp was on, and a book lay on the covers. He was surprised to find she snored.

  Abrams saw that she had a bolt lock on her door, and he threw it shut, then checked the window latch. He sat in an easy chair, his revolver on his lap, and closed his eyes.

  His thoughts seemed a bit jumbled, but through the alcohol he concluded that if he had any doubts about the reality of what he’d heard so far, he had none now. Like a soldier new at the front or a rookie cop on a bad beat, he’d been lucky to survive his first day. Luck or chance would play no part in his future survival. He’d be harder to kill, but they wouldn’t stop trying.

  He had one distinct advantage over everyone now. He knew the name of one of the enemy: Countess Claudia Lepescu. But he didn’t know where to turn with this interesting knowledge. In contrast to his police work, he had no brothers, no partners. He was alone. He began to appreciate the sheer terror and loneliness of intelligence work.

  He looked at Joan. How, he wondered, did she fit? His instincts told him she was what she seemed to be. She might even be useful if she weren’t so useless.

  The obvious thing to do, he thought, was to put a lot of distance between himself and these people. But something inside him—maybe something as uncomplicated as simple patriotism—told him to see it to the end. He wondered who Talbot’s next victim would be. Whoever it was, he assured himself, it wouldn’t be Tony Abrams.

  BOOK IV

  REVELATIONS

  27

  At 8:30 A.M., Katherine Kimberly entered the town house on 36th Street with her own key. She glanced into the sitting room and saw Tom Grenville
sprawled on the couch, his dinner jacket and shoes lying on the floor.

  She went into the small back kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

  Tony Abrams, dressed in his dark business suit, came through the rear door that led out to the courtyard. He watched her, her back to him, pouring cream into a small pitcher. She was dressed in a white sweat shirt, khaki trousers, and jogging shoes. Like most business associates one sees on a weekend for the first time, Katherine looked, he thought, not like Katherine. He said, “Good morning.”

  She turned and smiled at him. “You are awake. You look awful. Rough night?”

  He looked into her eyes for any sign that she was surprised or disappointed he was still alive. He said, “I’ve had worse.” He found two coffee mugs in a cupboard. “I was concerned about you.”

  She opened her handbag and extracted an automatic pistol.

  Abrams looked at the piece, a Browning .45. He had expected something a bit smaller, but he could tell by the way she gripped the pistol that she was comfortable with it. He said, “You heard about Brompton Hall of course?”

  She returned the automatic to her bag. “Yes. The dead have been identified. Lady Eleanor Wingate, her nephew Charles Brook, and Mr. O’Brien’s friend Ronald Hollings. Autopsies are being performed.”

  Abrams poured two cups of coffee. He asked, “Were you alone last night?”

  “That’s a leading question.”

  Abrams stared at her, then said, “Am I on the case or not?”

  She replied coolly, “I went back to my apartment on Carmine Street. I was alone. You were in the car when—”

  “You may have been discreet about it. Why didn’t you go back to the Lombardy?”

  She seemed annoyed. “I didn’t feel like staying there.”

  “Did Thorpe suggest you go home?”

  She nodded.

  Abrams sipped on his coffee. “Do you have your own room there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your street clothes and things were there. Then doesn’t it seem odd that he should send you home, all the way down to Carmine Street? Didn’t he know you had an appointment with me in midtown this morning?”

  “My, you are a cop.” She took some coffee. “No, it didn’t seem odd. The apartment at the Lombardy, if you must know, is what’s odd. It’s a CIA safe house, or substation or something. One doesn’t question the accommodations or lack of them.”

  Abrams nodded, then put down his cup. “How’s your stomach this morning?”

  “My stomach . . . ? Fine. . . .”

  Abrams walked to the back door and motioned her to follow.

  She went with him into the courtyard. Below the rear dining room window was a white wrought-iron bench with two legs broken off. On the bench was sprawled, faceup, a black-clad body. The body’s back was arched over the bench to such a degree that it was obviously broken, and the head was touching the paving stones.

  Katherine stared at the figure.

  Abrams said, “A burglar, by the looks of the outfit.”

  Katherine glanced up at the top of the four-story town house, but said nothing.

  Abrams bent over the body and pulled back the ski mask. The deathly white skin contrasted against the dark black stubble on the face and the dried red blood around the mouth. The face was that of a man in his mid-thirties, and the features could be described as vaguely Slavic. Abrams peered into the open, blood-caked mouth, then pulled off the mask, revealing a thick growth of swept-back black hair. “Along with the haircut, and what I can see of the dental work, I’d make an educated guess that the man is foreign. You don’t recognize him, do you?”

  Katherine came closer and stared into the dead man’s face. “No. . . .” She turned quickly and walked back to the kitchen.

  Abrams followed. They sipped on their coffee in silence, then Katherine spoke. “What were you doing on the roof?”

  “I never said I was on the roof.” He picked up the telephone and dialed Captain Spinelli at home. “Abrams here.”

  Spinelli’s voice sounded groggy. “I don’t have anything new on Carbury.”

  “Come to 184 East Thirty-sixth Street. Corpse in the backyard.”

  “Oh, Christ, Abrams, what the fuck is going on with you?”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At said address.”

  “Is this related to Carbury?”

  “Well, this house belongs to, or is used by, O’Brien et al., and some of those folks are sleeping here. What do you think, Sherlock?”

  “I think I want to grill your ass. Stay there.”

  “I’ll speak to you.” He hung up.

  Abrams and Katherine left the town house. The day was clear and mild, and smelled of the night’s rain. Abrams looked at her in the full sunlight. She had probably gotten less than five hours’ sleep, but showed no signs of it.

  Katherine sensed he was studying her in some new way. She said, “Why don’t we walk?”

  Neither spoke until they reached Lexington Avenue, where they waited for a light. She said, “What do you suppose that man was after?”

  “The silverware.”

  They crossed the avenue and turned north. Traffic was light and the city had that Saturday-morning look of sleeping off a collective hangover. They turned west into 42nd Street. Katherine said. “You’ll like Arnold. He’s eccentric and devious.”

  “What do you expect to find there?”

  “You never expect to find anything in the archives. Yet, everything is there. What’s missing is as important as what’s on file. It’s a matter of deduction, intuition, and luck. Are you good with archives?”

  “No one has ever asked me that. I’ll think about it.”

  They walked silently through the Grand Central Station area, which Abrams thought of as some sort of prewar time warp, barely changed since he was a youth—stately banks, older hotels, shoeshine stands, news vendors, tobacconists, Brooks Brothers, the Yale Club. Very masculine. Wasp Central he called it; trains from Connecticut and Westchester disgorging tons of preppies and hale-fellows-well-met. Rus in urbe. Scarsdale and Westport in midtown. You almost expected to see Holden Caulfield eating a chicken salad on white at the Oyster Bar. Abrams said, “I don’t trust Peter Thorpe.”

  Katherine didn’t respond immediately, but when she spoke, there was no reproach in her voice. “Of course you don’t. Who does? He’s an intelligence officer. He lies, cheats, and steals. But we don’t speak of trust in this business. We speak of loyalty. Peter is loyal.”

  “To whom?”

  “To his country.” She looked at him. “Any suggestion to the contrary would be a very serious matter.”

  Abrams replied, “It would be imprudent of me to make such a suggestion.” He changed the subject. “By the way, thanks for suggesting I sleep at the town house. That was convenient.”

  “I thought it might be. Feel free to use it any time.”

  They walked to Fifth Avenue and crossed to the north corner beside the Public Library. Abrams noticed black markings on the sidewalk: an arrow pointing south at a stenciled silhouette of the Empire State Building. Beside the arrow were the words GROUND ZERO, 0.4 MILES. Katherine noticed it and said, “What drivel.”

  He’d seen these all over the city, with arrows pointing toward the Empire State Building and the distance given. “People are afraid,” said Abrams.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” said Katherine, “except fear itself.”

  “Oh, I think a ten-megaton missile falling on Thirty-fourth Street would give me the jitters.”

  “This nuclear hysteria feeds on itself.”

  “Mr. O’Brien is very worried about something,” he said.

  “Not nuclear missiles.”

  “What then? Fluoride in the water?”

  “Something . . . not biological or chemical warfare . . . something more lethal . . . I can’t imagine what.”

  “Neither can I.”

  They continued up
Fifth Avenue toward Rockefeller Center. He said, “What happens to Talbot if you find him?”

  “What do you think?”

  “And if Talbot turns out to be Patrick O’Brien, for instance?”

  She answered without hesitation, “It wouldn’t matter if it turned out to be my best friend. He dies. She dies. They die.”

  Abrams looked at her. He said, “Back in the thirties, E. M. Forster wrote, ‘If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.’”

  “Idiotic.”

  “But interesting. The whole concept of treason is interesting. Read the Declaration of Independence. It was the most treasonous document of its time. King George had every legal right to hang all fifty-six traitors who signed that document.”

  She stopped walking at the entrance to the Rockefeller Center promenade. “All right. What’s the point? That we have no legal right to dispose of Talbot?”

  “That’s your problem. A moral problem. My point is a practical one. Talbot does not have corruption in his heart, or guilt in his eyes, as James Allerton suggested. He does not lose his soul when the full moon is upon him, or grow hair, or stink of blood. He wears a halo and smells of roses.”

  “But you said you could see guilt in a man’s eyes—”

  “But my observation was to make a contrary point. Criminals look guilty. Talbot is not a criminal, he is a patriot. Ask him.”

  “I see. . . .”

  “My parents . . . yes, they were traitors . . . but they were people who fed the poor when they were able, took in indigent friends and relatives, laughed, made love, and made potato pancakes. Talbot is a blue-blooded version of that. He could very well be O’Brien, Allerton, George Van Dorn, or a dozen others I met last night. His progeny could be . . . anyone.”

  She nodded. “Okay . . . thanks for bringing some cold, hard objectivity into this.”

  “That’s what I was hired for.” He turned into the promenade and walked toward the RCA Building. She walked beside him. Abrams said, “I don’t trust you either.”