The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  “Okay. . . . Did a mugger ever get the drop on you during that split second?”

  “A few times. Sometimes you get a second chance though.”

  The two horsemen were less than a hundred yards distant now.

  Katherine replied, “You got your second chance when you walked off that roof alive.”

  “Right. Sometimes you get a third chance, too.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Me too. Get ready.”

  36

  The drugs seemed to have worn off, and Nicholas West lay perfectly still, able to think clearly for the first time in many hours.

  He thought about secrets and how to keep them from Peter Thorpe, and from Thorpe’s Soviet bosses. West wanted to believe that the mind was capable of overcoming nearly any adversity, including pain, suffering, drugs, and all the tools of the torturer’s trade. He believed that given the time, he could go into a protective self-hypnosis, which would reduce the pain and confuse the polygraph and voice analyzer. He knew, too, that he was more intelligent than Peter Thorpe, that Thorpe had serious personality flaws, not to mention more fundamental problems of the mind.

  On the other hand, West realized, Thorpe was, as he’d said, a professional. There was a serious question in West’s mind as to whether or not he could defeat Thorpe, or at least stall him for any length of time.

  West also thought about Ann, Patrick O’Brien, and Katherine. Thorpe was a one-man reign of terror, a man who had conjured up a living nightmare for those around him, and who would do the same for a nation of 240 million people.

  West tried to determine what his duty and obligation were in this situation. The Company’s manual on the subject was explicit: If captured in a Communist country, stick to your cover no matter what. If tortured, and unable to resist, use every means available to kill yourself.

  But this wasn’t a Communist country—yet. The manual went on: In those rare instances where an agent or other employee is held incommunicado by foreign and/or enemy agents in a friendly coun try, he must make every effort to escape the confines of his imprison ment, or as circumstances permit, make contact with the outside. If possible he must kill or capture one or more of his captors. Suicide is permissible as a last resort only if captivity will lead to the compromising of fellow agents or the divulgence of sensitive information under torture.

  West thought about that. Rational advice. But probably not written by a man who had ever been strapped to a table and attached to electrodes. And not written for a man who was primarily a historian and former college teacher.

  “A penny’s worth of electricity for your thoughts, Nicko.”

  West looked quickly to his right.

  “The polygraph shows some deep and dark thinking.” Thorpe pulled up the stool and sat. “I spoke to my friends in Glen Cove. They’re not satisfied with the results of our preliminary discussions. If the quality doesn’t improve soon, they want you delivered to them.”

  West cleared his throat. “You’re lying. You’re trying to frighten me. Put the voice analyzer where I can see it, so I can tell when you’re lying to me.”

  Thorpe laughed loudly. “Well, that’s what happens when the truth drugs wear off and you have time to think clearly. You’ll need some sodium pent to soften you up again.” He reached out and turned an adjustment key on the intravenous tube. “Nobody likes a smartass, Nick.”

  West said, “Peter, the drugs aren’t—”

  Thorpe had his eye on the analyzers and his hand on the electrical transformer. “Aren’t what, Nick? Aren’t necessary? Go on, finish the sentence.”

  “Aren’t . . . I mean, they . . .”

  Thorpe laughed. “You have to learn you can’t make offhand, half-assed remarks, Nicko. Now go on and finish the sentence.”

  “I . . . I meant the drugs are useful . . . to make me . . . more talkative . . . and to lower my resistance. . . .”

  “Right you are.” Thorpe moved his hand from the transformer. “Look, I don’t have the time right now to keep jolting you, so why don’t you confine your remarks to truthful answers? That’s a piece of good advice. Okay?”

  Thorpe lit a cigarette and made some adjustments in the two analyzers. “All right. . . . What should we talk about now? Talbot? No . . . that can wait for Kate. Actually, I did speak to my pals in Glen Cove. They’re interested in the fact that you know something about their little electrical experiment. So why don’t we talk about that? First—”

  “Peter, if I told you all I knew, which is not much, and if you put that together with whatever else you discover, then you might arrive at the answer to what the Soviets have planned.”

  “So? That’s the point. They want to know what the CIA knows.”

  “But they would not let you live once you knew. There probably aren’t ten people in the Soviet Union who know what this is about. It’s the biggest secret in the world—the ultimate plan to destroy America. You may not know that secret.”

  “Are we back to trying to scare me? You know, Nick, I thought about that. And I think that James is Talbot. And I don’t think he’d let them kill his only son.”

  West actually smiled. “How can you be so naive? What do you mean to him? Anyone who could betray his friends and his country for nearly half a century is heartless. How many people has James Allerton killed or caused to be killed? You’re a rank amateur compared to that man.”

  Thorpe drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “Perhaps. I can see why the Russians might want me out of the way until July Fourth, but I’m too valuable for them to do away with me. I think I have to lay low awhile. After the Stroke I will emerge in a position of power.”

  “As what? Commissar of the insane asylums?”

  Thorpe seemed not to hear. He said, “But thank you for thinking of me, Nick. That’s what you’re here for. To use your fabled brain in my service.”

  “I thought it was in the service of your masters.”

  Thorpe threw down his cigarette. “You do need to be softened up.” He increased the flow of sodium pentothal. “What you really need is a good gut-wrenching, backbreaking, bladder-releasing surge of electricity. Just give me an excuse.” Thorpe tugged on the clips attached to West’s scrotum. “Your balls are not surge arrestors. They’re conductors.” He laughed. “So, tell me about surge arrestors.”

  West’s face went pale, then he found his voice and said, “Surge arrestors . . . are like circuit breakers. They trip off when there’s a surge in electricity . . . they protect electrical components. . . . After the surge has passed . . . they are switched back on. . . .”

  “And the Russians have fitted out their Glen Cove house with these?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Why? And don’t say to protect against lightning.”

  West swallowed dryly. “Water—”

  “Talk!” Thorpe reached for the transformer.

  West said quickly, “EMP . . . Lightning reproduces the effects of EMP . . . lightning can be used to test EMP protective devices. . . .”

  “Hold on. What the hell is EMP?”

  “Electromagnetic pulse. The Compton effect. . . . Like an electrical storm. . . . It would destroy every computer in the country . . . every microchip circuit would burn out. Wipe out all telephone communications . . . all radios and televisions . . . electronic controls in planes, cars, boats, missiles . . . instruments in laboratories, electronics in factories, hospitals . . . the entire energy grid would burn out . . . air traffic control . . . nothing left. . . . Everything would be in shambles . . . every circuit in the country burnt out . . . the end of technology . . . crippled economy . . . crippled defense capability.”

  Thorpe stayed silent for several seconds, then said, “Jesus Christ.” He leaned closer to West. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes . . . it’s been known for some time. The effects of electromagnetic pulse . . . disastrous. . . . America is rushing to protect vital systems . . . but . . . no one can be sure the protection would work . . . difficult
to reproduce the effects of EMP in a test situation . . . lightning is the closest thing. . . .”

  “But how can the Russians produce EMP, West? How?”

  “Easy . . . but it would be risky for them . . . it might cause us to launch a nuclear retaliation . . . no choice but to retaliate . . . if the President could communicate the order to strike. EMP is the biggest threat to national security. . . . O’Brien had a suspicion . . . because of Russian procurement of EMP protection technology. . . . Fiber optics . . . surge arrestors . . . Faraday shields . . . cable shields . . . EMP filters and chokes . . . systems to harden all their electrical and electronics.”

  “Listen to me, West. How can the Russians cause an electromagnetic storm all over the country, simultaneously?”

  “Easy . . .” West’s voice cracked and he began coughing. “Water . . . for God’s sake, Peter . . .”

  Thorpe grabbed a covered container with a spout and held it to West’s lips.

  West sipped slowly, then looked up at Thorpe. “I can’t go on. Can’t think. My muscles are going into contraction . . . sores on my back and buttocks . . . painful. . . .”

  “I’ll have Eva massage you with oil, front and back. Nice treat. Now go on.”

  “No. I have to stretch. . . . I have to move, for God’s sake. To scratch. The itching is driving me insane.”

  Thorpe replied, “I gave you Atarax—an anti-itching drug—”

  “I’m suffering . . .”

  Thorpe put down the water cup and glanced at the analyzers. “Where do you itch?”

  West’s face reddened. “My genitals . . . all over . . .”

  “Oh, well, that’s where I draw the line. I’ll get Eva—”

  “No. Please, Peter. Just let me sit up one minute. . . . I answered your questions. . . .”

  Thorpe glanced at his watch. “All right, that will be quicker than getting her.” He unfastened West’s chest strap, leaving his leg strap secured.

  West tried to move, but it took several tries before he could get up into a sitting position. “Oh . . . God . . . Thank you . . . Peter . . .”

  “Think nothing of it. Now, how can an EMP storm be produced that would blanket the whole country?”

  West was flexing his muscles, then began to scratch himself.

  “West! Talk!” Thorpe reached for the transformer.

  West looked at him. “You can’t do that. I’m not secured to the table. My back might arch and break.”

  “Not if I give you a mild one. Enough to knock you back on the goddamned table. Answer my question.”

  West stared at the alligator clips clamped to his scrotum. “Okay . . . a low-yield nuclear weapon . . . exploded about three hundred miles above Omaha. . . . There would be no radiation or destructive effects on the ground. . . . Just a flash of light . . . but within milliseconds, electromagnetic pulses would begin to destroy every piece of electronics from coast to coast.”

  Thorpe looked at him. “Is this a theory or reality?”

  “Reality. It’s called the Compton effect. Gamma rays from a nuclear blast high in the atmosphere interact with Compton electrons and produce EMP. . . . The effect produces a hundred times more voltage than a lightning bolt—but it’s invisible and silent, and it covers the entire country, from coast to coast. It happened in the Pacific during the last atmospheric testing before the test-ban treaty over twenty years ago. . . . But electronics in those days were primitive . . . mostly vacuum tubes, which are very resistant to EMP . . . also there was not much out there to pick up the EMP . . . but in Hawaii, eight hundred miles away, street lights went out . . . radios and televisions went out. . . . Today, nearly all circuitry is based on silicon chips. . . . These are easily destroyed by EMP. . . .”

  Thorpe said, “But I don’t see how the Russians could deliver even a small warhead three hundred miles above Omaha without the President’s finger pulling the nuclear trigger.”

  West rubbed his forehead. “They must have a way. . . .”

  “I can’t imagine. . . .” He looked at West. “But you know what it is. And you’re going to tell me—”

  West suddenly reached out and pulled the electric clips away. Thorpe lunged at him instinctively and grabbed at his hand. West, still holding the clips, clasped Thorpe’s hand in his own, the two clips pressed between their joined palms. West yanked Thorpe’s hand toward him, causing the gurney to roll sideways a few feet. West lunged out with his free hand and turned the transformer dial.

  A surge of electricity passed through both their bodies. Both men screamed and Thorpe tried to break West’s grip, but their hand muscles tightened in electrical contraction. They both shook and bounced in grotesque spasms.

  Finally, Thorpe’s flailing arm hit the wires and ripped the alligator clips from between their pressed palms.

  West fell back on the table, his body twitching. Thorpe slumped to the floor, tried to stand, then fell on his face. Both men lay quivering and moaning.

  West took several long, deep breaths, then by sheer force of will made his muscles respond to the signals from his brain. He rose into a sitting position again, slowly, like a corpse with rigor mortis. After what seemed like a long time, his arms reached out and his torso bent forward. His shaking hands rested on the buckle of his leg strap. His fingers began to respond and he worked the belt loose.

  West could hear Thorpe whimpering on the floor, and every few seconds he heard a crackling electrical sound as the swinging alligator clips came into contact with each other.

  West knew somewhere in his stunned mind that he had to work fast, but everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The room looked very dim, but he knew that was a result of the shock to his optic nerves. His heart beat heavily, slowly. There seemed to be no fluids left in him; his eyes were dry, his mouth felt like paste, his skin like dust.

  Slowly, West pulled his legs, then his feet, loose from the straps. He ripped out the IV tubes and pulled the polygraph electrodes from his chest and forehead. With one painful motion he slid the catheter from his penis, then reached under his buttocks, finding that the anal tube had already come lose. He heard Thorpe mumbling obscenities from the floor. West found his own voice and said, “You . . . you . . . filthy . . . you unspeakable horror.”

  West slowly swung his legs over the side of the gurney and looked down. Thorpe was struggling to his feet and had gotten into a kneeling position. Both men stared at each other. West could see that Thorpe’s bladder had released. West said, “What you did to me . . .”

  Thorpe made a deep animal-like sound.

  West slid down from the gurney and planted his bare feet on the cold floor.

  Thorpe, still kneeling, reached his shaking hand into his jacket and began drawing out his revolver.

  West dropped to his knees, took hold of the swinging wires, and thrust them out, touching the two live clips to Thorpe’s face.

  Thorpe let out a piercing scream and toppled backward, his hands to his face, the revolver lying on the floor between him and West. West crawled toward the revolver.

  Suddenly the door of the garret burst open and Eva stood silhouetted in the lighted doorway. She let out a loud bellow, like an enraged animal, and charged across the room.

  West glanced up as his hand fumbled for the gun. His eyes focused on something above Eva’s head. Then he recognized the blurry whirling of a whip.

  37

  The two horsemen were less than fifty yards off now, heading straight toward them on the path, and closing fast. Abrams said, “Spread out. Wide.”

  Abrams veered off to his left and moved along the rise that bordered the Shore Parkway. Katherine went to her right, almost down to the water’s edge. Abrams thought that some aspects of military logic did not undergo much change, especially infantry tactics that were an extension of basic survival instincts and common sense. The horsemen would now either have to deploy and give themselves away prematurely, or keep driving straight through, putting themselves at a disadvantage in terms of wh
o had the better field of fire.

  The horsemen drew nearer and Abrams could see they were men in their early thirties, dressed in jeans and Windbreakers. They both held the reins with two hands and he watched for sudden movements that would indicate they were going for weapons or reining the horses in.

  The riders were still at a full gallop as they came within ten yards. Abrams stopped and knelt on one knee. Katherine saw him and did the same.

  Abrams looked at the few other people scattered around. They were either innocent bystanders or they were very good at acting the part. He kept the .38 between his thighs, both hands wrapped around the grip. The rider closest to him came abreast, let loose of the reins with one hand and raised his arm.

  Abrams brought his revolver up. The rider, halfway through a wave, stared wide-eyed, his mouth open, then shouted something and both men spurred their horses.

  Abrams stood and holstered his gun. He said to himself, “Another New York horror tale enters the annals.” He drew a deep breath.

  He walked down to the narrow path and watched Katherine approaching. He noticed she was pale and shaking, and he put his arm around her shoulder. “I think we’re taking a cab back. Come on.” He began leading her up the slope toward the parkway.

  She pulled away. “No. We’re going on. Peter may be waiting for us.”

  Abrams said, “This is not a good idea anymore. Too chancy. Too many people around now.”

  She looked at him and replied coolly, “There’s a great deal at stake. We’re armed, we’re together, and we’re expecting trouble. I don’t want to get run over by a car one night . . . I want to meet this head on. Don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes . . . okay . . . I’d prefer a known rendezvous with fate.”

  “Let’s go.” She turned and began jogging. He followed. They passed under the concrete piers of the Verrazano Bridge, and continued past Fort Hamilton, around Gravesend Bay, then entered Bensonhurst Park, a distance of three miles that they covered in just under forty-five minutes. They walked through the park.

  Abrams took several long breaths as he looked around. To the north there was a very reduced Manhattan skyline, to the west Staten Island, and to the south and east a great pasture of black asphalt from which rose a seaside shopping mall dominated by a discount department store. Abrams said, “Welcome to Bensonhurst.”