The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  Abrams turned and looked up at the massive house. All the windows on the upper stories were dark, but on closer examination he could see that blackout curtains had been drawn over them. He walked back to the French doors and stared down the long, dimly lit hall. The television camera was not clearly visible, but even if it was focused on him, he hadn’t committed that capital offense yet. But he was about to.

  Abrams knelt and examined the weather stripping on the French doors, then drew his penknife. He scraped the metal stripping under the bottom edge of the door, letting the scrapings of bright metal plating fall into a handkerchief. He folded the handkerchief carefully and put it in his trouser pocket, then stood and closed the French doors, rebolting them. He waited, his heart beating heavily in his chest, but nothing happened. Actually, he knew that, even if they were listening or watching, they’d let him finish—let him, as Androv would say, cut his capers. And in the process, cut his own throat.

  Abrams looked at his watch. Two minutes had passed. He walked to the music room doors and stood to the side. He listened for a few seconds and heard the sound of a television. He peered through the sheer curtains into the room and saw the young security woman sitting with her back to him, smoking a cigarette and having a drink. She was watching some moronic game show on a large seven-foot screen that looked like a late-model Sony. At least, thought Abrams, she wasn’t watching him on the screen. He began to believe he was going to pull this off.

  This commons room was painted in a high-gloss enamel of avocado green, which Abrams thought would look better on a refrigerator or electric can opener. The furniture was red vinyl, split in all the right places, and the room had that special ill-used look that Abrams associated with police squad rooms and government waiting rooms. To the left he could see the door that led back to the gallery. He couldn’t imagine why Androv had circumvented this rather dreary commons room, unless it was to protect his American guests’ aesthetic sensibilities from severe shock. Then Abrams spotted, in the corner opposite the Sony, another television set. It was an old design with a highly polished mahogany cabinet, but Abrams instinctively recognized that it was not an old American model but what passed for a contemporary style in Russia.

  His eyes began to take in the whole room through the spaces in the gauzy curtains. The wall receptacles appeared to be of the new ground-fault type. Next to the fireplace on the near right wall stood an old Philco radio console, the size of a jukebox.

  Well, he thought, there’s the radio and television in question. Though why there should be a primitive Russian television set in the same room as a seven-foot Sony was a bit of a mystery. And why anyone but a nostalgia buff or antiques collector would keep a monstrous vacuum-tube Philco radio was stranger still.

  Abrams focused on the young woman again. As he watched, she stood, carrying her drink, walked to the television, and switched it to videotape. Presently the screen lightened to a taped version of the Bolshoi, about midway through Giselle. The woman turned to go back to her chair and Abrams could see she was a little unsteady on her feet. As she came toward the chair and closer to him, he began to edge away from the door, but then he noticed her face. She had, he thought, one of the saddest expressions he could imagine, and tears rolled down her face. She gulped down her drink, wiped her eyes, and sank back into the chair, covering her face with her hands. Odd, he thought.

  Abrams turned, crossed the passageway, and approached the glass-paneled living room doors. He listened again but heard nothing, and the room appeared to be dark. He edged closer to the doors and looked through the glass pane and sheer curtains, shielding his eyes against the glare of the passageway’s wall sconces. As he moved his other hand down to the brass doorknob, Abrams suddenly froze and held his breath. Slowly, he turned toward the narrow staircase as his right hand went into his pocket and found his penknife.

  The figure coming down the dimly lit stairs stopped and stared at him.

  Abrams stared back, then stepped to the foot of the stairs and looked up. He said softly, “Zdravstvoui.”

  The girl, about five or six years old, clutched at a rag doll and replied in a frightened tone, “Please, don’t tell anyone.”

  Abrams put on a reassuring smile. “Tell anyone what?”

  “That I came upstairs,” she whispered.

  “No, I won’t tell anyone.”

  The girl smiled tentatively, then said, “You talk funny.”

  Abrams replied, “I am not from the same part of Russia as you.” He looked at the doll. “How pretty. May I see it?”

  The girl hesitated, then a bit nervously took another step down the stairs.

  Abrams extended his arm slowly and the girl handed him the doll. Abrams examined it appreciatively. “What is your doll’s name?”

  “Katya.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “Katerina.” She giggled.

  Abrams smiled, and still holding the doll, said, “Where are you going, Katerina?”

  “Down to the basement.”

  “To the basement? Do you play down there?”

  “No. Everyone is down there.”

  Abrams began another question, then stopped. He stayed silent for some seconds, then said in a quiet voice, “What do you mean, everyone is down there?”

  “I went upstairs to get Katya. But everyone is supposed to stay in the basement.”

  “Why is everyone supposed to stay in the basement?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are your parents down there?”

  “I told you—everyone is there.”

  “Are you going back to your apartment in New York tonight?”

  “No. We must all sleep here tonight.” She smiled. “There is no school tomorrow.”

  Abrams passed the doll back to the girl. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you. Hurry back downstairs.”

  The girl pressed the doll to her chest and scurried down the remaining steps past him. She opened the small basement door and disappeared, leaving the door open.

  Abrams stared down the dimly lit stone stairway, then quietly closed the door. He stood motionless for a while and thought. Something is wrong here. Very wrong.

  Abrams hesitated, glanced at his watch, then walked quickly back to the living room door. Slowly, he pushed the door open.

  The large living room sat hushed in pale moonlight, and the bulky furniture cast moon shadows over the flowered rug, somehow reminding Abrams of prehistoric animals grazing in a primeval clearing.

  He took a step into the room and stopped short. Not ten feet from him was the profile of a man sitting in an upholstered chair.

  The man was very still, his hands resting in his lap, and at first Abrams thought he was asleep, then he noticed the glint of an open eye. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, a wispy stream of smoke rising silhouetted against the moonlit bay window across the room.

  Abrams remained motionless and drew a silent breath through his nose, smelling now the foul acrid smoke of the Russian cigarette. It did not seem possible that the man hadn’t heard him enter, but then as Abrams’ eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed the earphones over the man’s head. The man was listening to something, jotting notes, and Abrams intuitively knew he was monitoring the conversation in the gallery.

  The man finally seemed to sense the presence of an intruder and turned his face toward Abrams, removing the earphones as he did. The two men stared silently at each other, and Abrams saw now that the man was very old. The man spoke in a peculiarly accented Russian. “Who are you?”

  Abrams replied in English, “I have lost my way. Excuse me.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “I have taken a wrong turn. Good night.”

  The man did not reply but snapped on a green-shaded reading lamp.

  Abrams found that he could not turn away, but continued to stare. Even after forty years the American’s Russian was not good, and that struck him, irrelevantly, as odd. Even after forty years, the face was recogniza
ble as the one he had seen on her office wall. But even if he had never seen that photograph, he would know those large, liquid blue eyes, because they were her eyes.

  Abrams understood and accepted the fact that he was looking at the face of the warrior who had returned from the dead, at the face of Henry Kimberly, at the face of Talbot.

  BOOK VI

  BATTLE LINES

  43

  Marc Pembroke stood at the window, dressed only in his tan trousers. He focused his binoculars on the Russian mansion, nearly half a mile across the hollow. “This may seem a primitive way to gather intelligence, but one can learn things peeking from windows.”

  Joan Grenville stretched and yawned on the bed. “I’d better get downstairs before I’m missed.”

  “Yes,” Pembroke replied. “An hour is rather a long time to be gone to the loo.” He knelt in front of the open screenless window and steadied his elbows on the sill, adjusting the focus. “There’s a chap in a third-floor gable. He’s got a tripod-mounted telescope and he’s staring back at me.”

  “Can I turn on the lights to get dressed?”

  “Certainly not.” Pembroke scanned with the binoculars. “I can see the forecourt clearly, but I don’t see the Lincoln’s headlight beams yet. They won’t be leaving for a while, I expect.”

  Joan Grenville sat on the edge of the bed. “Who won’t be leaving where?”

  “Abrams is leaving the Russian estate. At least, I hope he is. If there’s trouble, they’re to flash their high beams.”

  Joan Grenville stood and came beside him. “What sort of trouble? What’s Tony Abrams doing there?”

  “It’s a legal matter.”

  “Oh, bullshit. How many times have I heard that from Tom and his idiot friends?”

  “You’re refreshingly without depth, Mrs. Grenville. One gets tired of all these still waters that run deep. You’re a frothy, fast-moving, and shallow stream. I can touch bottom with you.”

  She giggled. “You did. Twice.”

  Pembroke smiled as he refocused on his Russian counterpart. “Ivan does not believe his good luck in spying a beautiful naked woman bathed in moonlight. He’s rubbing his eyes and drooling.”

  Joan Grenville glanced out the window. “Can he really see me?”

  “Of course. Here, hold these and watch for a flash of high beams.”

  She took the binoculars and stood in front of the window.

  Pembroke finished dressing and walked to the door.

  She giggled again. “The Russian is waving at me.”

  “Watch for the damned headlights or I’ll throw you out the window.”

  She nodded quickly. There was something in his voice that suggested he meant that literally. Without turning, she asked, “Where are you going?”

  “As the Duke of Wellington said when asked to impart a piece of enduring military wisdom, ‘Piss when you can.’” He left.

  Joan Grenville shrugged and kept her eyes to the binoculars. “‘Piss when you can’ indeed. He probably had to use the phone more than he had to use the john. These people even lie about the weather.”

  * * *

  Karl Roth stood at the long table in the spacious kitchen and surveyed the cellophane-covered trays of food. “There’s something here for everyone.”

  Maggie Roth turned from the sink and glanced at the trays heaped with meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, nuts, and pastries. Small labels identified the special dietary items, including kosher meats. “You’ve gone to some trouble, Karl. Even hiring two extra serving girls. We’ll not make any profit on this one.”

  “Van Dorn is a good customer. Sometimes you have to give a little extra. For public relations.”

  She laughed. “You’re the best bloody Communist capitalist I know.”

  Karl Roth’s eyes darted nervously around the busy kitchen. “Maggie, watch your tongue.”

  She looked at the wall clock. “We should begin serving soon.” She walked to the table and peeled back a cellophane covering.

  Karl Roth held up his hands. “No, Not yet.”

  A passing busboy reached out and deftly filched a steak tidbit, popping it in his mouth.

  Roth bellowed, “Keep your filthy hands off!”

  “Stay cool, pop.” The boy walked off.

  Maggie Roth said, “Karl, what are you so jumpy about?”

  He didn’t answer, but glanced at the wall clock as he hovered protectively over the food-laden table.

  She said, “It’s really past time. Get the girls to pull off the wrappings and let’s serve.”

  “No.” He began rubbing his hands together and Maggie could see he was very agitated. She shrugged and went back to the sink.

  The swinging door opened and Claudia Lepescu entered the noisy kitchen, carrying a drink and wearing a clinging black knit dress. She looked at Karl Roth and said, “Are you the caterer?”

  Roth stared at her for several seconds, then nodded quickly.

  Maggie Roth turned her head and stared at Claudia, taking in the clothing, which she thought was inappropriately dressy for an outdoor party. She wondered what sort of accent that was. Like many immigrants, she didn’t particularly care for foreigners. Karl, too, she reflected, was usually curt with fellow Europeans. Now, however, he was making little shufflings and scrapings of servitude toward this woman. Odd. Maggie turned back to the sink.

  Claudia said, “Please leave me your card. I could use your services.”

  Again Roth nodded, but said nothing and averted his eyes from hers.

  Claudia walked to the table and peeled back the cellophane on a tray of hors d’oeuvres, taking one and putting it in her mouth. “Very good. You should serve these before they get stale.”

  Roth’s head bobbed up and down and he began taking off the remainder of the cellophane from the trays.

  Claudia wandered aimlessly around the kitchen.

  Karl Roth knelt under the table where he had stacked several boxes, found a small parcel taped closed, and ripped it open. He retrieved a plastic spray bottle and stood. He shook the bottle vigorously and began spraying the trays of food with a light misty mixture of oil and water.

  Maggie looked over her shoulder and said, “That’s not necessary, Karl. Everything is fresh.” She shot a look at Claudia.

  Roth replied in a distracted tone. “It makes everything look better. . . . You should read the trade journals instead of your stupid movie magazines.”

  Maggie watched him and noticed his hand shaking.

  Roth finished the spraying, went to the sink, and emptied the remaining contents of the bottle down the drain. He rinsed the bottle and placed it in the trash compacter, then washed his hands with soap.

  Maggie walked deliberately to the table and picked up a piece of smoked salmon, raising it to her mouth.

  Roth hesitated, then came up quickly behind her and grabbed her hand. Their eyes met and she said softly, “Oh, Karl . . . you fool. . . .”

  Claudia stood some distance off and watched, then began moving toward Maggie Roth.

  * * *

  Katherine Kimberly turned the corner of the long second-floor hallway and saw Marc Pembroke emerging from a passage that led to the back service stairs. She watched him for a moment as he approached the door to his room, then called out and walked up to him. “I’ve been looking for you. May I speak with you a moment?” She indicated his door.

  “Actually, no. I’m rather busy.”

  She shot a glance at the closed door. “We can go to an empty room.”

  He hesitated, then followed her down the hallway and entered a storage room piled high with boxes and holiday decorations. She snapped on an overhead light and said, “Do you have Joan Grenville in your room?”

  “A gentleman does not tell, and a lady should not ask.”

  “I ask because her husband holds a sensitive position in my firm.”

  “I see. Well, yes, I admit I pumped her in more ways than one. But she’s rather uninformed. Tom doesn’t tell her much.
”

  Katherine said evenly, “Who exactly do you work for?”

  Pembroke seemed a bit impatient and glanced at his watch. “Oh, different people. You, at the moment. O’Brien, to be exact.”

  “And what do you do for us, Marc?”

  “Well, I’m not involved with intelligence gathering, analysis, or anything clever like that. I kill people.”

  She stared at him.

  “Really. But I only kill villains. To answer your next question, I decide who are villains.”

  She drew a deep breath, then asked, “What do you know about these recent deaths?”

  “I know I didn’t do them. Except for your fiancé’s friends this morning.”

  “Yes, I wanted to thank—”

  He waved his hand. “I’m billing your firm for that. You’ll see that it’s paid, won’t you?”

  She ignored the question and asked, “And you had nothing to do with Arnold Brin’s death?”

  “In a way I did. I should have protected him. I wish I’d known you had him working on something—”

  “Are you trying to blame me?”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean to—”

  “And if you had the job to protect him, why didn’t you?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t my job. I mean I wasn’t hired to do that. I was supposed to do that. He was my father.”

  She drew an involuntary breath. “What? Arnold Brin . . . ?”

  “Actually Brin was his nom de guerre, but he kept it after the war. Our family name is not Pembroke, either, but that’s not relevant.”

  She looked at him closely in the dimly lighted room, focusing on his eyes, then his mouth. “Yes . . . yes, you are his son.”

  “So I said. Archive work is dreadfully boring, and unremunerative. But it does give one some good leads to villains. I began my career bumping off old Nazis for the Israelis. Then I ran out of Nazis and I switched to Eastern Bloc targets.”

  “Are you working now for Mr. O’Brien? Or are you working to avenge your father’s death?”

  “There’s no money in vengeance.” Pembroke walked to a small dusty window and stared out at the distant Manhattan skyline silhouetted by the last traces of dusk in the western sky. He added, “However, as it happens, Mr. O’Brien’s needs and my desires coincide. But I am a professional, and though your fiancé was the proximate cause of my father’s death, I did not kill him. I’m after his bosses.”