The Talbot Odyssey
Page 26
She slapped one magazine in the butt of the pistol, and put the other in her zippered pants pocket. She reached behind and slipped the gun in the holster, drawing it out to get the feel of it, then sliding it back in.
Abrams watched her, then said, “I know you’re used to your own cannon, but that’s the best I could do.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
The conversation, thought Abrams, had a bizarre quality to it, as though he had given her a cheap wristwatch and she was trying to hide her disappointment. “Who taught you about guns?”
“Peter.” She didn’t elaborate, but said, “What are you carrying?”
Abrams tapped his chest. “My thirty-eight in a shoulder holster. Sit down a minute.”
She sat on the couch, again taking in the room.
Abrams sat in a tan leather chair. “When I was on the force, I made some good investments.”
She seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I looked surprised.”
“Well, the police internal affairs people looked even more surprised when they paid an unexpected visit. They literally took the place apart searching for bag money.”
Again she seemed ill at ease. “But you were able to explain . . . ?”
Abrams sat back. “Marcy’s father was a stockbroker. She never knew I had dealings with him.” He smiled.
She smiled in return.
“Anyway, the internal affairs people were satisfied, but I was pulled out of intelligence, put back into uniform, and assigned to Staten Island to watch the birds. I realized I was not going anywhere and about that time Mr. O’Brien offered to put me on full time, so I left the force.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“Do you? Well, that job offer couldn’t have been better timed.”
There was a long silence in the room, then she said, “You aren’t suggesting that Mr. O’Brien had anything to do with—”
“I’m suggeting that Mr. O’Brien could get the Pope framed on charges of heresy if it suited his purpose.”
“Well . . .” She remembered the misfortunes that had befallen her ex-husband. “Well . . . he’s not malicious. I mean, there’s always a reason—”
“I’m sure of it. But there is no excuse. Not for manipulating people’s lives. Anyway, there’s no proof, is there? And no hard feelings, really.”
She changed the subject. “You have good taste in decorating.”
“Actually, Cousin Herbie is a decorator. Uncle Sy is in the furniture business, Aunt Ruth is in rugs. . . . You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t.” She stood. “I think we’d better go.”
He remained seated. “Isn’t Peter going to meet us here?”
“I don’t think so. Later.”
He stood. “Wait.” He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of brown liquid. “My own recipe.”
She held up her glass and looked at it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Apples, bananas, cornflakes, and . . . I forget. Whatever is around goes in the blender.”
“Some recipe.” She sipped it. “Not too bad.”
Abrams emptied his glass. “Great. Well, the facilities are down that hall.”
She nodded. “I’ll be a minute.”
He watched her as she disappeared into the hallway. She was, he knew, in a state of turmoil. Her lover might be a traitor and a murderer. People around her were dying, and her own life was probably in danger. To add to the excitement, she truly believed the world was coming to an end. And probably, he thought, she’d already figured out that he wanted to take her to bed. This, he admitted, might not be the best possible time to broach that subject. Yet he knew he had to.
She returned. “I’m ready.” She looked at him.
Abrams remembered something O’Brien had told him in a candid moment: She’s approachable. But as in warfare, you have to find a point of approach. He considered several, remembering another martial adage: In war, there is no room for two mistakes. “Katherine . . .”
She was studying his face and said, “No, Tony. One thing at a time.”
“I’m only considering one thing at this time.”
“One person at a time. Okay?”
“Sounds reasonable.”
She smiled slowly. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“Neither do you.” He indicated the door.
She moved toward it, then turned suddenly.
He took her in his arms and kissed her.
After some time, she pulled gently away. “We have things to do . . . first things first.”
“World War Three, or whatever the hell it is, can wait.”
“No . . . come . . .” She smiled. “Let’s go burn off some frustration.”
Abrams nodded as he followed her to the door. Peter Thorpe was his major frustration at the moment, and Abrams thought that he would find some pleasure in burning him off.
34
Nicholas West sensed the presence of someone near him and opened his eyes, squinting into the blinding light.
Thorpe’s form hovered above him. Thorpe said, “So, how are you, buddy?”
West shook his head. “Suffering.”
“It’s all relative. Well, let’s begin.” Thorpe drew up the stool and sat.
West turned his head to both sides. “Katherine . . . ?”
Thorpe smiled. “Not yet. But she’s coming. She’s coming.” Thorpe lit a cigarette.
West said, “My pipe . . .”
“Yes, I’ll get you your pipe, after we’ve discovered some truths.” Thorpe blew smoke in West’s face, then said, “What did Ann do for the National Security Agency?”
West ran his tongue over his dry cracked lips. “Water . . .”
“Christ, Nick, if you stall one more time . . .” Thorpe slid off the stool and went to a refrigerator, returning with a paper cup of ice chips. He dropped a few chips into West’s open mouth, then said, “What is—was—Ann’s job with the NSA?”
West mumbled something and Thorpe drew closer. “What?”
West spit in Thorpe’s face.
Thorpe drew back and said, “You son of a bitch!” He wiped his face with a handkerchief.
West said, “Lies equal pain, truth equals pleasure.”
Thorpe’s face reddened, then he broke into a smile. “All right, you little nerd. The worm turns. Is that it, Nick?”
West replied, “Your technique is bad. I hate you, I resent you, and I will resist you.”
Thorpe looked at the analyzers. “True statement. But these are early innings. Your heroics won’t last very long. Now, tell me about Ann.”
West hesitated, then said, “She’s involved with breaking codes.”
Thorpe nodded. “Russian codes. Specifically, she listens to traffic between Moscow and the Soviet diplomatic missions in New York, Washington, and Glen Cove. True?”
“True.”
“About six weeks ago, Ann Kimberly’s section notified the CIA and other intelligence agencies in Washington of an interesting occurrence. To wit: On the evening of April twelfth of this year, all radio traffic between Moscow and Glen Cove ceased for about six seconds, then resumed.”
Thorpe studied West’s face, then added, “As you probably know, radio codes between sensitive locations are continuous, even if nothing is actually being said. This is a security procedure so that people listening in will not draw any inferences from an increase or decrease in radio traffic. So, this six-second break was noteworthy, though not earthshaking. After the NSA’s routine report, the FBI reported back that there was a severe electrical storm on Long Island that evening, and that the Russian house, on the highest point in the area, was struck by lightning. End of mystery.”
West licked his lips, but said nothing.
Thorpe went on. “But wait. According to the NSA and others familiar with advanced electronics, something was not kosher. So, further inquiries were made. And lo and behold, a man out on his sloop, racing for the harbor during the storm, actual
ly saw the lightning that struck the Russian house.”
Thorpe leaned over and put his elbows casually on the edge of the gurney. “Only it didn’t strike the house, Nick. It struck an antenna that was planted in the ground some distance from the house. The man saw this as the lightning struck and flashed. Furthermore, being familiar with that antenna as a landmark, he swears that it had a very tall extension atop it that he never saw before or since. What do you conclude, Nick?”
West said, “Lightning rod.”
“Correct. They were trying to attract lightning to that rod. True?”
“True.”
“Then why the hell did the power go out, Nick? The rod should have been grounded, not connected in some way to the house power. Even the stupid Russkies know how a lightning rod works.”
West said nothing.
Thorpe continued, “Well, I told my Russian friends that this occurrence had not gone undetected, and they got pretty upset. They asked me to pursue this further. Highest priority.”
West remained silent.
Thorpe flipped his cigarette on the floor, then said, “Of course, the remarkable thing was that after they attracted that huge power surge on purpose, their lights, radios, and apparently everything else were not damaged. And, in fact, everything was functioning again within six seconds. Conclusion: They were playing Ben Franklin, experimenting with electricity. But for what purpose? Nick?”
West said hesitantly, “The NSA . . . came to a private conclusion. . . . They told all other agencies involved to forget it. . . . Their conclusion was classified State Secret—”
“I know that, damn you. I never saw that conclusion. But perhaps you did. Perhaps Ann was privy to that conclusion. You had one quick meeting with her in Washington April twenty-ninth. Sometime between your passionate embraces, she told you the conclusion. What was it?”
West said nothing.
Thorpe reached for the transformer dial. “A stall equals a lie. Three seconds, two, one—”
“Wait! Wait! She said . . . They were testing . . . surge arrestors . . . like circuit breakers . . . they wanted to . . . to make their electrical and electronic systems invulnerable to electrical storms. . . . So there would be no lengthy interruption of radio communication.”
Thorpe was studying the analyzers. He finally spoke. “True, as far as it goes. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Otherwise my friends in Glen Cove wouldn’t be so nervous about it. What else did Ann say?”
“Nothing.”
Thorpe twisted the dial and held it.
West’s body arched off the table. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His bladder released into the tube, and his heart rate dropped dangerously.
Thorpe shut off the current. “Well, I’ve been itching to give you a big blast. But now you’re useless for a few minutes.”
West’s body settled onto the table, twitching, his muscles in spasm. His skin was pale and dry and his eyes were rolled back so that only the whites showed.
Thorpe said, “I’m fairly certain this experiment in Glen Cove had something to do with the Stroke—that’s what the Russians call their plan to destroy America, or, as they put it, to bring eternal peace to the world. . . . Nick?”
West’s face had gone ash-gray, and his breathing was irregular.
Thorpe looked at the heart monitor. “Oh, Christ.” He stood quickly and took a hypodermic needle from the instrument table and plunged it into West’s shoulder. “There. That ought to bring you back to the land of the living.”
Thorpe waited anxiously for several minutes, watching the heart monitor. “It would be my luck that your little chicken heart would stop . . . and don’t go into convulsions on me, you wimp. . . .” Thorpe waited, then said, “West! Can you hear me?”
West nodded slowly.
“Good. Ready for more conversation?”
West shook his head. “You . . . almost . . . killed me. . . .”
“Almost doesn’t count. Actually, it’s difficult to kill someone with the amount of volts this puts out. I tried it once. You’ll get your bullet when the time comes. I promise you that.”
“Now . . . I want . . . it now.”
“Oh, no. You are a coward.” Thorpe sat on the stool again. “Okay, I’ll speak awhile, and you listen.” Thorpe made an adjustment in the polygraph. “Think about what I’m saying. First, Moscow is concerned that parts of their plan may have been exposed. One way that could have happened is through NSA electronic snooping. So you’re going to tell me what Ann has told you.”
“Ann . . . is not . . . dead . . . you would have . . . kidnapped. . . .”
“We tried. But she died. Suicide, actually. Very badly bungled. Two more for Siberia.” He laughed.
“You . . . for Siberia . . .”
“Shut up. Anyway, another way this plan could be compromised is through the CIA in pursuit of its mission to uncover such nasty schemes. With the help of your high authorization code, my computer is right now scanning Langley’s computer for key words and names that will let me know if there is any suspicion of Moscow’s Operation Stroke.” Thorpe stared at the polygraph paper and saw that West was very agitated. He said, “Will anything show up?”
West’s tongue lolled in his mouth, then he said, “There’s . . . plenty in there . . . about you. . . .”
Thorpe nodded. “Rest assured, I’m scanning for that also, my friend. In fact, I may just have to go on an extended sabbatical very soon.”
“You . . . are like me . . . you know too much. You have no friends . . . no place to hide.”
“There’s always China.” He laughed. “But to continue—another source of trouble is O’Brien’s old-boys network. They are on to something. But they’re being led to believe that some Arab terrorist group is going to obliterate Wall Street with a small nuclear weapon. Not a bad idea, but no cigar.”
Thorpe stretched his arms and legs. “I’m having sympathetic muscle cramps.” He laughed, then added, “Actually, Nick, I don’t think O’Brien and Company completely bought that. Neither did my people in the Company. You see, Nick, as far as I can determine, the Russians have an obsession with the concept of troika—the three-horse sleigh. They are fascinated by the trinity—three acting as one.”
West stared at Thorpe and tried to think clearly. Thorpe was on to something. Just as Thorpe had always underestimated him because of his physical frailty, so, because of Thorpe’s physical power, he, West, underestimated Thorpe’s powers of deduction, intuition, and comprehension.
Thorpe cracked his knuckles and looked down at West. “Therefore,” he continued, “they actually formulated three independent plans to cripple or destroy America. The first was the nuclear destruction of the financial center. The second, which I was led to believe, was the accessing of all American computers—civilian and military—and the simultaneous destruction, altering, or stealing of everything stored in the memory banks.”
Thorpe rubbed his chin reflectively, then said, “And now, Nick, you and I have touched on this third plan, which I believe is the one they are going with. The other two plans seemed real to those of us who discovered them, because they were and perhaps still are real options. Nothing lies like the truth. And so all the resources of Western intelligence, including you and me, Nick, and including private analysts such as O’Brien and Company, were mobilized to uncover the details of these two plans. But somewhere along the line, O’Brien got to thinking. He realized there was a third plan. And he began operating on that premise. He received information that the Russians were acquiring certain exotic types of Western electronic technology. He alerted the government to his initial findings. And that warning leaked back to the Russians. So, we all find ourselves in a quandary. The Russians are trying to figure out how much the United States really knows and how good their defenses are. The United States is trying to figure out if the blow is going to come to the face, the stomach, or the groin, or not at all. And wondering if maybe they shouldn’t strike first.”
West drew a deep breath. “You’re mad. . . . Why do you feel this need to dominate . . . ?”
“Why do you feel the need not to?” Thorpe lit a cigarette and drew it thoughtfully, then said, “Anyway, the final problem in Moscow is this Talbot business.” Thorpe reached down and picked up a leather dispatch case. “This is what Colonel Carbury was carrying.” He upturned the case and dumped the contents across West’s stomach and chest. “A diary and personal letters from the late Ann Kimberly to the late Major Henry Kimberly. The late Mr. O’Brien and his people would have found this diary very useful in uncovering Talbot, who was, after all, one of their own.”
Thorpe lifted the diary from West’s chest. “Or should I say three of their own? Yes, like you, Henry Kimberly concluded that there were perhaps three highly placed traitors. We will read this diary together and try to deduce what Major Kimberly deduced.” Thrope tapped the diary on West’s forehead. “Pay attention.”
“Go to hell.”
Thorpe continued, “Kimberly seemed to know who these traitors were, but he never wrote the names, using only the expressions Talbot One, Two, and Three, like some ancient Hebrew who would not write or say the name of God.”
Thorpe opened the diary and read an entry: “‘I have narrowed down the names of OSS officers who could have been responsible for betraying us to the Russians. One of them is a close Donovan aide, and known to me. The other, a ranking officer in OSS counterintelligence, is a dear friend. The third is an OSS officer in the political section, a man who will assuredly go on to a political career after the war. Which one is Talbot? Perhaps all of them.’” Thorpe looked up. “End of entry.”
Thorpe put the diary aside. “You know, Nick, if this diary had found its way into O’Brien’s hands, or the hands of the CIA, it would have precipitated a massive investigation that may have led to the identity of Talbot. But once again, God was on the side of the atheists, and this message from the grave will remain undelivered.” Thorpe looked down at West, then focused on the analyzers. “Did you follow what I said?”