The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yes.”

  “Could my adoptive father, James Allerton, be the dear friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any theories on the other two? Could one or both still be alive?”

  “The one described as a high-ranking officer in OSS counterintelligence.”

  “And the one described as a potential politician?”

  “Don’t know . . . I have no information on him.”

  “What is the name of the high-ranking officer?”

  “I . . . I’m not certain . . . I have several names that would fit . . .”

  “Give me the names.”

  West said, “Give me a treat.”

  Thorpe laughed, then said, “Do you want your pipe?”

  “Yes.”

  Thorpe took West’s pipe from the instrument table and packed the tobacco tightly. He put the stem in West’s mouth and held a lighter to the bowl.

  West drew deeply.

  Thorpe said, “This is not your tobacco, of course. That was laced with nicotine alkaloid. So if you’re wondering why you’re not dying, that’s the reason.”

  West squinted up at Thorpe as he continued to draw on the pipe.

  Thorpe said, “You held out on me, you sneaky bastard. I asked you about poisons.”

  West suddenly bit into the stem of the pipe, crunching it between his teeth.

  Thorpe pulled the pipe out of West’s mouth and said, “No, no, Nick. I changed the stem, too. Do you think I’m as big an asshole as you are? I’ve been around the block, buddy. Now you’ve lost your smoking privileges.” He set down the pipe.

  West’s body was shaking as tears rolled down his face.

  Thorpe grabbed West’s ear and pulled his face toward him. “Look, bozo, I’m a pro. You’re an amateur. You can’t beat me, so forget it. You are utterly helpless and defenseless. You are at my mercy. You will lose your soul here, and your heart. When I’m through with you, your ego will be nonexistent. You will not even have enough free will left to commit suicide. But I’ll save you the trouble. Kate will not be so lucky. I’m going to let her live on, as sort of a domesticated house pet.”

  West raised his head and spoke softly. “You will pay for this . . . somehow, in some way . . . you will be punished. . . .”

  Thorpe smiled. “When a prisoner starts getting mystic and religious, that’s a sign that he’s about had it. I’ll break you sooner than I thought.”

  West put his head back on the table and began to sob.

  Thorpe gathered the contents of the dispatch case and shut off the polygraph. “I’m afraid I have to go out again. Amuse yourself. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Thorpe reached out and held the dial of the transformer. “Not telling me that pipe smoking may be dangerous to your health was a lie of omission, which unfortunately does not always register on the analyzers. Nonetheless, it was a lie—”

  “No! No! Please!” West’s body began to quiver in response to a low-voltage charge passing through it. His screaming came out as a teeth-chattering stutter, as though he were freezing.

  Thorpe smiled as he continued the mild shock. “That’s almost comical. You should see yourself . . . well, you will on the reruns. Kate will see it too. And Eva. And the Russians will get a laugh out of this one. God, Nick, you look like a half-wit.”

  Thorpe shut off the electricity. “When I return you will tell me more about Talbot and Ann Kimberly. You will tell me what you know of O’Brien and his friends, including Katherine Kimberly, George Van Dorn, and the rest of those arrogant bastards. Also, you will tell me what you know of the Russians in Glen Cove. Your answers may determine whether or not these coming Fourth of July fireworks, picnics, and speeches will be the last.”

  35

  Abrams watched her as she ran ahead of him. She had a nice stride; long, easy, and graceful.

  Abrams glanced around, but no one seemed to be following on foot, or by vehicle. They were near the southern end of Fourth Avenue, having traveled most of the distance from his apartment by subway. The route that Katherine had laid out, and had given to Thorpe, included a series of park runs, connected by subway, with little street running in between. It was, he thought, as if she’d picked dangerous territory on purpose. And, of course, she had.

  The odd thing, he thought as he ran behind her, was that neither of them had openly acknowledged that what had started as a running date on Saturday, had become something very like police decoy duty today.

  This was partly due to the sensitive topic involved. But it was also due to this refined way of speaking, where one did not say things, but indicated, implied, intimated, or alluded to them. This annoying manner of communication, he observed, was common to lawyers, corporate types, and genteel people in general. He preferred the way cops spoke.

  Abrams felt the blood pounding through his veins and sensed the beginning of the runner’s high. He liked Brooklyn running; it was flat and laid back, unlike Manhattan running, which was flat but fanatical.

  Brooklyn was brownstone running, quaint residential streets, with no skyblocking skyscrapers. Brooklyn was also the Borough of Churches, and Abrams was always able to orient himself by the dozens of familiar steeples whose clocks also gave him the time.

  They turned into 67th Street and followed a strip of grassy panhandle toward Owl’s Head Park, their first possible rendezvous with Peter Thorpe.

  Abrams looked up. Katherine was a good hundred yards ahead of him, and he called to her, “Stay close!”

  She called back, “Run faster!”

  Bitch. He increased his stride.

  Abrams’ original intention had been to take her through the Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods where the men turned away from barelegged women runners. Why he had intended to do this, he couldn’t say for sure. In any case, she’d planned the route based more on tactical considerations than sight-seeing or social studies. Still, if they ever ran together again, that’s where he’d take her. Abrams closed the distance as they approached the park.

  Another place he’d wanted to take her was one of the new Russian Jewish neighborhoods with their signs in Cyrillic lettering, and the combination of Yiddish and Russian spoken on the bustling streets. These, he recognized, were his real roots, and he was fascinated by the vitality of the neighborhood, the proliferation of emigré businesses and shops.

  They entered the park along a path, and he followed her as she cut across the grass, and began the arduous run up the large hill that dominated the park. He felt the sweat collecting around his shoulder holster and the chafing of the holster straps against his skin. He thought of Peter Thorpe, and wondered when they would meet, and how it would happen. The preferred method seemed to be death by misadventure.

  Abrams looked up. Katherine stood at the summit of the hill, silhouetted against the clear blue sky. Seagulls circled overhead, and beyond the seagulls was a gray helicopter.

  Abrams sprinted up the last twenty yards and stopped on the summit. He bent over and breathed deeply, then straightened up and looked around the sweeping, grassy hill planted with well-spaced trees and bushes. “We seem to be alone.”

  She nodded as she caught her breath. She scanned the other slopes. “Early . . . we’ll take ten minutes here. . . .”

  “Right.” Abrams looked north at the panoramic view of New York harbor, the Statue of Liberty, and the sunlit skyscrapers of lower Manhattan seemingly rising from the water. He turned and looked at Katherine, hair disarrayed, without makeup, sweating, her mouth open, sucking in air. He said, “You’re very beautiful.”

  She laughed and tugged on his sweaty shirt. “You look very handsome yourself.”

  They began walking in a circle around the crest of the hill. Katherine said, “This place is a mess.”

  Abrams nodded. The park was a study in urban decay and neglect. There were broken bottles everywhere, unworkable water fountains, smashed trash receptacles, dog droppings, uncared-for trees, and graffiti on every poss
ible surface. This, he imagined, was probably what Rome’s fabled parks looked like after the barbarians got the upper hand.

  Katherine, who was watching him, seemed to sense what he was thinking. She said, “This park needs a good cleaning. It also needs better policing, tighter control.”

  Abrams looked at her. She was speaking in that obscure way again, the park being a metaphor. He replied, “Perhaps. But not too much of that. There is a vitality here of people, pursuing their own lives, unburdened by government interference. The price of nearly absolute freedom is borderline anarchy.”

  “A little law and order wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Whose law? Whose order? Fascists and Communists have in common the desire to get everyone into lockstep. I don’t want to get into lockstep.”

  She smiled. “Okay. No more politics. Ready to run?”

  “No. Let’s walk awhile.”

  She began walking down the hill. “I’ll get you into shape before the summer’s over.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

  They walked in silence for a while, then she said, “The next place Peter might meet us is under the Verrazano Bridge.”

  Abrams didn’t reply.

  They walked south along a narrow asphalt path that ran parallel to the Shore Parkway. A stiff wind began blowing off the bay, churning up whitecaps. She spoke as though she were continuing a conversation, “I mean, we have no solid proof, and what we have could be explained by the fact that he is CIA.” She waited, then added, “Your perceptions may be colored by personal considerations.”

  Abrams did not reply for some time, then said, “My perceptions are influenced by fifteen years of detective work.” He added, “You people ask me to find the murderer or kidnapper of Randolph Carbury. I suspect I did. Now I’m just trying to stay alive.”

  She said nothing.

  Abrams looked out in the bay. A few private boats sailed along close to the shoreline. Overhead, the helicopter made another pass. A few joggers and dog walkers appeared on the strip of park. Abrams motioned toward the rising parachute-jump tower of Coney Island in the far distance. “I used to spend hours at the shooting gallery there. These little toy ducks would move across a tank of water and I’d blast away at them.”

  “I’ll bet the local girls fell all over you when you got those Kewpie dolls.”

  “I had to turn my rifle on them to keep them away. Anyway, when I grew up, I was assigned to decoy duty, dressed as an old man, trying to attract muggers. I walked through the parks around Coney Island, like a little toy duck. That’s very bad duty. But rewarding. I attracted a lot of muggers. Then I’d do what the little toy ducks never did to me. I’d pull my gun.”

  She said, “And here you are again. That must be a lousy feeling.”

  “Yes, well, you can take the boy out of Brooklyn, the man out of the police force, and all that . . . listen to what I’m going to tell you. There are basically five ways to hunt—baiting, trapping, stakeouts, beating the bush, and decoying. It depends on the animal you’re after, the season of the year, and the terrain. With the human animal, you can use all methods, or combinations of methods, in any season and terrain. Just keep in mind that when the human animal approaches, he may take any form, including the guise of a friendly animal. He may wave a cheery hello, or ask for a cigarette. But you must realize you are being attacked, and in that split second of realization you have to act, because a second later it’s too late.”

  “But what if you do bodily harm to a man who really is only asking for a cigarette?”

  “That’s what the split second is for.”

  They continued along the shore for some time. Katherine said, “You’re a complex man. Tough, gentle, streetwise, naive, political, apolitical, educated, anti-intellectual, committed and uncommitted.”

  “I’ve played many roles.”

  “So, who is Tony Abrams?”

  “Beats me. What’s today? Monday? I’m carrying a gun . . . so today . . . no, it’s my day off . . . so—”

  “Cut it out.”

  They walked awhile in silence, then Abrams said, “Do you know a bartender at the University Club named Donald?”

  Katherine replied, “I’m only allowed in the ladies’ lounge, so I elect not to go at all.”

  “Well, nevertheless, Donald was mugged and murdered early this morning.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Abrams added, “Also, a man believed to be Carbury’s double was found in the lower harbor”—he pointed toward the Narrows—“about there, probably. That’s where most of the floaters are found. The currents, I guess.”

  She said nothing, but began running again. Abrams followed, finding that his legs and lungs were in better shape than he thought.

  They followed the curving shoreline as it swung south and east. Ahead, the Verrazano Bridge rose majestically, spanning the Narrows from Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, to Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. Abrams reflected on how simple national defense had been not so long ago: two stone forts, with artillery batteries that flung five-hundred-pound balls in a crossfire over the approaches to New York harbor. What could be more logical than nineteenth-century military science?

  Now, however, national defense began in outer space, and ended in deep missile silos. And the complexities of the system were such that if every adult human brain and hand in the nation were put to work manning that system, it would not be enough. He said suddenly, “Computers.”

  She turned her head toward him as she ran. “What?”

  “That’s what O’Brien may have been hinting at. They may have found a way to destroy or neutralize all the computers—military, financial, industrial . . . is that possible?”

  She began to slow down, then returned to a walk. After a full minute she said, “Possible . . . yes . . . I’ve heard talk of that . . . the NSA, the people Ann works for, supposedly has a secret book of national access codes . . . not really a book, but a pulse-modulated tape. . . .” She looked at him. “This is very sensitive—”

  “Then keep it to yourself.”

  She went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The NSA sets security standards for military and civilian computers. Therefore, they have inside knowledge of them, and theoretically they can break any computer code in the country. Though this would be illegal.”

  “So of course they don’t do that.”

  “Well, there’s always been some discussion about the idea of having all computers accessible to a central command post in times of national emergency, such as war or a stock market crash. The theory is that the President could command and control better. You get the idea.”

  “Yes, I do. Sounds risky.”

  “Well, it would be if somehow all computers could be accessed simultaneously and all computer language translated into one language. Then it’s at least theoretically possible that someone with evil intent could . . . cause complete havoc.”

  “Sounds pretty grim.”

  “It would be disastrous.” She looked at him. “What made you think of that?”

  Abrams shrugged. “I don’t know. It must have been something I heard, or deduced. It fits O’Brien’s picture, which excluded nuclear or chemical war.” He tapped his forehead. “My personal computer—sometimes it makes computations without me knowing it’s even working.”

  She said, “It could be divine inspiration. Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes. Human beings aren’t capable of causing all this misery themselves.”

  “Cynic.”

  They walked silently, listening to the water washing the shore. She said, “I’ll explore that further. Any other thoughts on the subject?”

  “No. I’ll have to wait for another divine message. I hear voices sometimes.”

  She smiled. “Do you? What do these voices say?”

  “Lately they’ve been saying I should go to Miami for a month.”

  “Really? What language do they speak to you in?”

  He smiled at the standar
d interrogation used by priests, rabbis, and psychiatrists on the subject of voices. “They speak a sort of English with a Brooklyn Jewish accent. Sometimes I think it’s not God, but one or more of my dead relatives. That was their advice for all life’s problems. Go to Miami.”

  “Are you going?”

  “No, it’s off-season. My relatives would turn in their graves. I may go to Maine. Why don’t you come with me?”

  She said unexpectedly, “All right.”

  “The catch?”

  “You know.”

  He nodded. “First things first.”

  “Yes . . . and here comes a priority item.”

  Abrams looked up quickly. Under the bridge, two men on horseback had emerged from the bridge’s shadow and were trotting toward them. Abrams said, “Keep walking.”

  The riders drew closer, and Abrams could see that they were not mounted police. He could also see that neither of them was Peter Thorpe. He had gambled that Thorpe would reveal himself personally, but now he wondered if the risk they were taking was worth it. “Damn it,” he said to her. “Okay, draw your gun but keep it out of sight.”

  Katherine drew the small pistol as she walked and tucked her hand in her waistband.

  Abrams dropped behind her so that he was blocked from view and drew his .38 revolver. He held it pressed close to his leg as he moved off to the side again. He looked around. There were a few joggers down toward the water. Some people sat on benches, a young couple walked a Great Dane, and a man was surf casting in the bay.

  Katherine looked around also. She said, “Are these people all civilians?”

  “We’ll see soon enough.”

  She kept walking beside him, watching the riders closing in, glancing at the other people scattered around the shore area. She said, “How do we know when the split second has arrived?”

  “It’s instinct. You’ll know. I never shot an innocent civilian yet. If you’re not sure, follow my lead.”