He could make out a few people on the lawn and terrace, and he thought of Katherine down there. He wondered what she would think if she knew where he was.
It struck him too that though he never romanticized danger, there must be some sort of potentially fatal defect in his survival instinct or he would never have taken so many jobs where people shot at you. Neither would he be here now. However, from the moment he’d walked out of Katherine’s bedroom, he noticed a subtle change in his attitude and perceptions toward longevity.
He stared out the multipaned window. Beyond these hills, to the west and north, he could see the moonlit water of the Sound. Navigation lights of boats and ships blinked and moved across the calm water, and that reminded him that Peter Thorpe was still out there somewhere. He realized that Thorpe could conceivably wind up here tonight, anytime.
Androv looked at the three men, who had each picked a different window from which to look. “Well, let us sit and talk. When it begins, you will know it.”
Abrams examined the copper-clad casement window. There was a screen on the inside and the window cranked out. It was tightly closed now, and he could not see the weather stripping. He looked down at the terrace below, and said, “What’s that?”
Androv turned back and moved shoulder to shoulder beside Abrams. “Oh, that is a curiosity. It is what it looks like. A swastika set into the tilework.”
Abrams shielded his eyes against the glare of the window. “May I open this?”
Androv hesitated a moment, then said, “Of course.”
Abrams cranked. The window opened.
Androv added, “That was done, I am told, in about 1914, before the advent of the Nazis. It is the traditional gammadion—a symbol of good luck in the Orient and among American Indians. No one hates that symbol more than the Jews, except perhaps the Russians. So do not take offense.”
“Of course not. It just took me by surprise.” Abrams’ eyes ran over the sill and jambs. The weather stripping was plated with a bright, untarnished metal of what could have been platinum or white gold. Had he had his penknife, he still would not be able to get a scraping unless the interior screen were removed and Androv were removed. He said, “Should we leave this open to hear when Van Dorn’s barrage begins?”
“That’s not necessary.” Androv was already closing the window.
Abrams looked out across the brightly lit lawn and saw the towering antenna, held in place by guy wires. At the base of the antenna was the heavy planting of bushes that Evans had mentioned. Closer to the house and the terrace was the flagpole, surrounded by a circular hedgerow. Abrams could see the grating of the storm drain he’d been asked to verify.
At the edge of the woodline to the west, he spotted two men with a leashed dog. One man was speaking into what must have been a walkie-talkie, the other was shouldering what had to be a rifle. There was something surreal about this whole place he thought. The atmosphere was that of Kafka’s Castle, in which one never knew who would answer the telephone or if it would be answered at all. A place where one had the instinctive feeling that every unseen room and corridor was filled with silently waiting men; that all the dark and dimly appreciated places held perilous shadows. A glimpse here, a sound there, a smell, a feeling, confirmed that one was not alone.
“Come,” said Androv a bit impatiently, “let us be seated.” He motioned them to a grouping of chairs around a coffee table and directed each of them to a seat.
Abrams sat in a club chair, Tanner and Styler on a small settee, and Androv took a large upholstered armchair, his back to the windows.
Abrams regarded Androv for a moment. According to what was known of him, he was what was called in intelligence parlance the Chief Legal Resident. Or to use Abrams’ Red Squad description, Androv was the head of the KGB in New York, hiding behind a diplomatic post. This was not a great secret. What was a mystery was why he was bothering with this matter. Conclusion: He suspected a scam. Further conclusion: Whatever the Russians were up to, it was important enough to cause the KGB honcho to spend some time on it.
Androv was speaking. “I have asked Mr. Kalin, as our resident legal advisor, to join us. My function is one of community relations, so you will have to put up with me as well. Justice in this country is sometimes as much public relations as it is blind.”
Androv pulled out a box of Russian cigarettes, Troika Ovals, and offered them around in a gesture that Abrams thought was very Russian. Abrams took one of the proffered cigarettes and lit the loosely packed, foul-smelling Oval. On his first draw he sucked about an inch of tobacco into his mouth and had to pick it out.
“Do you like these?” Androv asked.
“They have a distinctive taste,” Abrams replied.
Tanner suppressed a smile.
Abrams marveled at the possibility that a country that couldn’t make a cigarette had found a way to destroy the most technologically advanced society the world had ever seen.
Androv looked at his watch. “Mr. Kalin takes courses at Fordham and thinks he understands American law.” Androv chuckled. “He is picking up all the worst habits of American lawyers. Lateness, for instance.”
Styler and Tanner put on obligatory smiles, then Styler opened his briefcase and flipped through some papers. “If we can’t obtain an injunction against Van Dorn for this July Fourth, then, as we told Mr. Kalin, we suggest you not come out here.”
Androv replied, “We told Mr. Tanner some weeks ago that we will not come for the three-day weekend if that is what you wish.”
Abrams looked closely at Androv. There was a discrepancy here between what Androv said and what O’Brien had discovered. Discrepancies were often suggestive of lies. There were two good reasons for the Russians to stay away: legal and practical. Therefore, if they intended to show up for Van Dorn’s bombardment, there must be one good reason for that. Conclusion: They had to be out of Manhattan. They had to be at their estate because this place was somehow safe. Further conclusion: No place else was safe that weekend.
The conventional wisdom in defense thinking was that when the time came, it would be on a holiday. Christmas or New Year’s Eve was the favored theory. But the Fourth of July was a nice, perverse symbolic possibility.
Tanner leafed through a file and said matter-of-factly, “We’re thinking in terms of punitive damages in the area of five hundred thousand dollars, plus whatever costs you incur.”
Androv’s mind, like his eyes, seemed focused on Abrams. He looked at Tanner. “What? Oh, that can wait for Mr. Kalin.” Androv rose and walked slowly across the room. He pulled a bell cord and remained standing beside it.
Presently a man in a white busboy tunic appeared at the hallway door pushing a serving cart. Androv walked beside the cart and announced, “Please help yourselves,” then served himself first and sat with a glass of tea and a plate heaped with cheap, store-bought pastry.
Abrams watched him. Androv suddenly appeared to be distracted, as though he had thought of something more pressing. He noticed that Androv kept glancing at his watch.
Abrams heard Androv speak softly to the busboy in Russian. “Tell Kalin to enter.”
Which to Abrams seemed more like a stage direction than an order to locate Kalin.
Styler, Tanner, and Abrams rose and walked to the cart. Beside the samovar was the relish tray with their metal items, minus, Abrams noticed, Tanner’s car keys. Each man reclaimed his own things, then each took a Russian tea glass with a metal handle and drew tea from the samovar.
Androv made desultory conversation between mouthfuls of sticky pastry.
Abrams said, “Are you returning to Manhattan tonight?”
Androv glanced at him. “Yes, why do you ask?”
“I thought I could get a ride with you.”
“You live in Brooklyn.”
“I’m staying in Manhattan this evening.”
“Are you?” Androv seemed momentarily disconcerted, then said, “I’m sorry, but we will be discussing classified matters.”
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“I don’t speak Russian.”
Androv gave him a cold stare. “The car is full.”
“I’ll take the train, then.”
The door that led to the music room opened and a very tall and thin blond man, almost Scandinavian-looking, entered carrying an attaché case.
Androv did not rise. He said, “Gentlemen, Mr. Kalin. You know Mr. Styler and Mr. Tanner?”
Kalin nodded perfunctorily to the men present and pushed a wingback chair toward the circle of seats. Abrams noticed that he had positioned it between Androv and himself, but a few feet back from them.
Androv nodded toward Abrams. “Did I tell you, Alexei, that Mr. Abrams is the son of famous American Communists?”
“Yes.” Kalin took his seat.
Abrams eyed Alexei Kalin closely. The man was hard-looking, his face the sort that one did not easily forget. In fact, Abrams did recognize him from Fordham night school. One of the things that Abrams had learned as a cop was that men who wore a gun carried themselves in a subtly different way from men who did not. And one of the things that had struck him about Kalin on the few occasions he’d seen him was the strong possibility that he wore a shoulder holster. Abrams was fairly certain he was wearing one now.
Kalin set his attaché case on his lap and opened it. He shuffled through some papers, then said, “We can begin.”
Styler and Tanner opened their briefcases and brought out the ubiquitous yellow legal pads. Abrams used a small notebook that was a carry-over from his police days. Androv said, “Mr. Abrams is also a classmate of yours, Alexei.”
Kalin glanced up. “Yes, I have seen him.”
Androv looked at Abrams. “Yes? No?”
Abrams replied, “Yes, I recognize Mr. Kalin.”
“Mr. Abrams is a former New York City policeman, Alexei.” Androv spoke between bites of pastry. He turned to Abrams. “What did you say your duties were?”
Abrams replied, “I had many jobs on the force.”
Kalin sat motionless, staring down into the attaché case. He took a pen and appeared to write, but Abrams was certain he was playing with the dials, which had notches so they could be adjusted with a pen.
Androv again addressed Abrams. “It is unfortunate that immigrants to this country did not teach their children their native tongue. You speak no Russian at all, Mr. Abrams?”
Abrams replied indirectly, as instructed by Evans. “My parents, like many other immigrants, wanted their children to be Americanized. They used their native language to keep secrets from their children.”
Androv laughed. “What a pity.”
Styler cut in. “Perhaps we should discuss the case.”
Androv smiled. “Mr. Abrams is a curiosity for us. But—” He slapped his knees. “Alexei, let’s see what you learned at the Catholic school.”
Kalin looked up from his attaché case and addressed Styler in an unfriendly tone. “What do you intend to do about that incident of May Day?”
Styler replied, “You mean your claim that Van Dorn fired a pistol at four of your staff—”
“Yes, yes. And they harbored this boy who came on the property to steal.”
Styler cleared his throat. “Van Dorn tells a different story. I’d suggest we proceed separately with that. That’s a criminal matter.”
Kalin’s voice was impatient. “But it is important that this boy be questioned. We must serve him with a summons. Have you yet found his name and address?”
Tanner replied, “Yes.”
Kalin spoke sharply. “Well, what is it?”
Tanner picked out a sheet of paper. “Kuchik. Stanley Kuchik. He lives on Woodbury Lane. He’s a junior at the high school.” Tanner passed the paper to Androv, who glanced at it and gave it to Kalin.
Abrams did not think it was a terrific idea to give them the boy’s name and address, but they had little choice if they were to keep the Russians’ confidence. Abrams’ mind was working the way O’Brien’s had, and he wondered if the boy had just become cheese for a rattrap. Why not? They’d hypnotized him and given him truth drugs. If they were through debriefing him, he could be recycled as bait. Abrams was having some difficulty discerning the white hats from the black hats. He had to keep reminding himself that he was on the side of truth and justice.
Androv again addressed Abrams. “How would you proceed against this young hooligan?”
Abrams looked up from his notebook. He wanted to ask how Androv would proceed. Gun or knife? He said instead, “Since I haven’t passed the bar exam, I’d rather not offer a legal opinion.”
Androv replied, “But you are knowledgeable, no? How long have you worked for Mr. Styler?”
Abrams thought the segue was awkwardly done. He began to reply, then sneezed into his handkerchief. He used the bronchial spray, cleared his throat, and replied in a cracking voice, “Two years.”
Kalin glanced up from his attaché case.
Androv said, “Do you have a cold?”
“Allergy.”
“Ah, something in this room?”
“Probably.”
“It must be Mr. Kalin, then.” Androv laughed.
Abrams smiled and turned to Kalin. “What is your feeling on those punitive damages?”
Kalin, without glancing up, replied, “The figure seems small compared to what one reads in the papers.”
Which, Abrams thought, was interesting, considering Kalin had not been in the room when Tanner mentioned $500,000.
Kalin, realizing his mistake, glanced up at Abrams but did not look toward Androv.
Androv said, “I think we will have to send Mr. Kalin back to school.”
The meeting continued for another ten minutes, during which time Androv digressed now and then to ask Abrams a few more pointed questions. Abrams either answered evasively or answered after using one of the two drugs. Abrams could not tell if Kalin was happy or disappointed with his analyzer results. He could also not determine with any assurance whether Androv or Kalin were buying any of this. Androv’s manner had grown progressively preoccupied.
Finally, Androv cut off Tanner in midsentence. “What is keeping that madman from his capers?” He looked at his watch, then lifted his heavy bulk from his chair and marched to the window. He stared thoughtfully into the distance for a few seconds, then turned and faced the room. “He must know that you are here. So he won’t bother us until the police report to him that your car has gone.” He advanced a few steps. “You may as well leave. Park in the high school and wait for the fireworks and loudspeakers so you can satisfy yourselves. Thank you for coming on your holiday, gentlemen. Good evening.”
Abrams rose and said, “I’d rather we see it from your perspective.”
Androv stared at him. “I have a busy evening.”
“We can wait here and entertain ourselves.”
“That is against regulations.”
Kalin closed his attaché case and stood. “There is nothing further to discuss or see.”
Tanner said uneasily, “I guess we’ve got enough—”
Styler interrupted and addressed Androv. “We’ve gone to some trouble to get here, and we’d like to see for ourselves the exact nature of Van Dorn’s harassment.”
Abrams suppressed a smile. Styler had balls. Abrams glanced at his watch. Van Dorn would not begin for at least fifteen more minutes.
Androv began speaking in a voice that was not only frosty but had, Abrams thought, an edge of frenzy about it. “Gentlemen, let’s be frank. This is a high-security area as you know, and I don’t have the personnel to assign to keep you company this evening.” He made a sweeping motion toward the door. “Good night.”
Kalin began leading the way. Styler, Tanner, and Abrams began to follow, then Abrams turned back to Androv. “I’d like to use the rest room.”
Androv seemed to have calmed down. “Yes, of course.” He pointed to a doorway at the far end of the gallery. “Through there. You will see a door marked Powder Room.” He added, “Do not get lost, pleas
e.”
Kalin seemed to be on the point of accompanying Abrams, but Styler engaged him in conversation. Abrams left his briefcase on the chair and walked to the door Androv had indicated.
He passed through into a large passageway, dimly lit by wall sconces, and quickly checked his watch. He had, at best, five minutes before they sent someone to find him. He looked up at the cornices and spotted a television camera over the door through which he had just passed. He walked a few feet to the right toward the powder room door, then turned back, but the camera was not following him.
Abrams opened the powder room door, turned on the light, and looked around the small windowless enclosure, which held a single toilet, a washbasin, a vanity and chair. There seemed to be no air vent, and the place could stand a cleaning. He backed out, pulled the door closed behind him, and stood silently in the passageway.
Evans had not wanted him to take the risk of carrying the floor plans, but he remembered enough of them to know where he was. Across from the powder room was a narrow staircase, labeled on the plans Private stairs, which led up to the bedrooms. Beneath the staircase was a small door that led down to the basement.
Farther down the passage were two sets of double doors, directly across from each other. They were glass-paned doors, covered with sheer curtains. The doors to the right opened into the south end of the living room. The doors to the left were another entrance to the music room. At the far end of the passageway was a large set of French doors that opened onto the south terrace.
Abrams walked quickly to the French doors, unbolted them, and pushed them open. He heard no alarms, but that did not mean that a silent alarm had not gone off in the security office. Still, he hadn’t committed a capital offense yet. He walked out into the clear, moonlit night. The stepped terrace dropped off to the pool below, and to the left was the stone-walled service court, used now as a parking yard. Abrams could not see over the wall even from his vantage point, but he could see the court was brightly lit, and he suspected the Lincoln had gotten a careful search there.
The Talbot Odyssey Page 34