The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  Katherine sat on a packing crate and stared at Marc Pembroke’s profile. Subconsciously she had always compared him to Peter, but now the contrasts were striking and obvious. Peter was charmingly amoral. Marc was charmingly immoral. Peter, like an infant or an animal, hadn’t the vaguest idea of right or wrong; Marc did, and chose to kill. By the standards of conventional theology, psychology, and jurisprudence, Peter was innocent, Marc was culpable. Yet, by those same standards, Peter was beyond help or reason, while Marc Pembroke could be saved. She thought of him standing at the gravesite and suspected she was looking at a reluctant killer, like a soldier who in times of peace would not take up arms. She said, “I like you. I wish you’d reconsider archive work. There’s an opening.”

  She saw the trace of a smile pass over his lips. He turned to her but didn’t reply. He glanced at his watch again, then said, “Well, I must run. We’ll continue this another time.”

  She stood, blocking his way. “Wait. What do you know of Tony Abrams’ mission? Where is he?”

  “Close by, actually.”

  “Next door?”

  Pembroke nodded.

  “What is he doing there?”

  Pembroke did not reply.

  “Is he safe?”

  “I rather doubt it. But if you’ll step aside, I can go and try to find out.”

  She remained standing in front of him. “If he’s not safe, will you . . . can you do something?”

  “No. The Iron Curtain begins at the next property line.”

  “But—”

  “Please step aside. I have pressing business to attend to.” He added, as though he suddenly realized she was actually his employer, “I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “You’ll keep me informed?”

  “Certainly.”

  She walked to the door and opened it for him. Pembroke moved toward it, then hesitated. He said, “I never ask, you know. I mean, about the larger picture. But is it true, Kate, that this is the last throw of the dice?”

  She replied carefully, “That’s what some people seem to think.”

  He nodded. “Yes, O’Brien did too.”

  “Yes, he—what do you mean, did?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to put him in the past tense. He’s fine as far as I know.”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds. Pembroke seemed to notice her for the first time, and his distraction turned to close scrutiny. She was wearing white linen slacks and a white silk shirt with the top three buttons open. She looked sophisticated yet sensual. He said, “Look here, I don’t have the time to proposition you properly now, but later . . . if there’s any time left for any of us, I shall.”

  She found herself breaking eye contact with him, which was not her habit in these situations. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m already involved.”

  “Oh, but he’ll be dead shortly.”

  She looked quickly at him. “What—? Who—?”

  “Thorpe.”

  “Oh.” She let out a breath. “No, I meant . . . someone else.”

  He looked surprised, then nodded. “I see . . . yes, of course. I’m not paying attention. Well, Abrams is a fine fellow. Do him a favor and give him the archive job.” He turned and left.

  Katherine watched him as he walked toward his room. Marc Pembroke, for all his guile, was not a good liar. He had some news about Pat O’Brien, and she suspected it was not good news. She was neither shocked nor stunned. She’d expected it. She’d also expected that if O’Brien was ever sick and dying, missing, or dead, the news would be held back for as long as possible, in much the same way that the death of a great general might be kept secret to avoid panicking the troops and giving comfort to the enemy.

  She felt herself shaking and leaned back against the doorjamb.

  No, she thought, it was no accident that the past had returned, or that there were so many coincidental relationships, personal and familial. It had been contrived by Patrick O’Brien and his friends. Marc Pembroke probably had at least a vague understanding that he had been maneuvered since childhood to perform a function. O’Brien’s recruiting and manipulation had been more far-reaching than she’d imagined. His corporation had many subsidiaries. She thought of something an English jurist had written in the seventeenth century: Corporations cannot commit treason, nor be outlawed, nor excommunicate, for they have no souls. Also, they were ostensibly immortal. And though Patrick O’Brien might be dead, she hoped there was enough life force left in the wounded, immortal, and soulless being of his creation, so that inertia at least would carry it forward toward its last encounter with its enemy.

  44

  Mike Tanner drove the Lincoln into the dimly lit parking lot of the Glen Cove train station. The conversation had been confined to legal matters as instructed by Evans, who had warned that the Russians liked to plant bugs in their guests’ cars, “just to hear them talking about what a swell time they had.”

  The Lincoln stopped and Abrams opened the passenger-side door. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.” He took his briefcase and closed the door.

  Styler slid out the rear. “I’ll walk you.” He took Abrams’ arm and they stepped a few feet from the car. “What happened in there?”

  “I saw a ghost.” He began walking slowly toward the tracks.

  “You looked it. My God, you’re still pale.” He added, “You’re not home free yet. Are you being covered?”

  Abrams turned to him as they walked, and regarded the older man closely. This was the first time Styler had actually acknowledged the fact that there was a mortal danger inherent in the situation. Abrams replied, “I imagine so.”

  Styler said, “I hope they saw the high beams flash.”

  Abrams replied, “If they were looking, they did.”

  Styler glanced at his watch. “You have about ten minutes until the city-bound train comes.” He motioned ahead toward a flight of descending stairs. “That’s the pedestrian underpass that takes you to the westbound side.”

  Abrams looked across the tracks at the station house, a small Victorian-style building that was dark and closed for the evening. On the platform in front of the station house, four people stood under a lamppost: a young couple and two teen-age boys, waiting for the train to Manhattan. There was no one on the eastbound platform directly in front of him. Abrams had not realized he was on the wrong side of the tracks, and having realized it, had not fully appreciated the fact that he could not cross over them but would have to take the tunnel to the other side.

  Styler peered down the dark concrete staircase. “We’ll wait here until we see you board.”

  “No. Go on. You’ve been told to clear out.” Abrams moved toward the stairs.

  Styler nodded. “I know one shouldn’t question orders, but we can take you back to Garden City and you can catch the train there.”

  “No, I’ve been instructed to take this train at this station, and if I start getting tricky I’ll lose any protection that’s been planned.” Also, he thought, if Androv had something planned, it might be interesting to see what it was. He wondered what had happened to his resolve to be more careful.

  Abrams put out his hand and Styler took it. Abrams said, “I hope I was of some help on the case.”

  Styler smiled. “I think you lost us that client, Abrams.” His smile changed to an expression of concern. “Good luck.” He walked back toward the car.

  Abrams began to descend the steps. He heard the Lincoln pull away over the graveled blacktop. As he went farther down, he could smell the damp, fetid air. He reached the bottom step and looked into the underground passageway. It was about fifty yards long, and of the six or seven overhead lights, only one, in the middle, was still working, though it lit up most of the tunnel. He took the last step and waited for his eyes to become adjusted to the dim light.

  Obviously the place was used by kids as a hangout. There were a few broken beer and wine bottles on the concrete floor, and Abrams spotted a flaccid rubber sheath that
in his youth had been called a Coney Island whitefish. The gray concrete walls were covered with graffiti of a uniquely obscene variety, much better than the semiliterate walls of Brooklyn. Better schools in the suburbs, he thought. A cricket chirped somewhere close by.

  Abrams began walking ahead, at a normal pace, through the long concrete tunnel. He was nearly halfway through it when he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps to his front. A figure appeared out of the gloom, then another. Two men in business suits. He stopped.

  Behind him he made out the soft footfalls of someone who was trying not to be heard, then a second person joined the first; then they both dropped all pretense and began advancing at a normal pace.

  Abrams turned his head and saw two men coming toward him. They were in leisure suits that looked, even from this far off in the bad lighting, very unstylish. The thought would have been irrelevant except for the associated thought: Russians.

  Abrams turned and resumed his walk toward the westbound tracks. The two men to his front moved into the brighter area nearer the single light, and Abrams could see that the man closest to him was tall and blond. At first he believed it was Pembroke. But it was Kalin.

  Kalin stopped and called out. “So, there you are, Abrams.” His voice boomed in the damp narrow tunnel and the cricket stopped chirping. “I was looking for you on the other side. Androv said you may ride with us back to Manhattan.”

  Abrams did not reply, but slowed his pace.

  Kalin said, “Please hurry. The car is this way. Come.”

  Abrams heard the footsteps behind draw closer, probably to within forty feet. Abrams continued slowly toward Kalin. The man with him had stayed some distance back. Kalin said, “Come, come, Abrams. Don’t dawdle.”

  Abrams picked up his pace. Kalin put his hands in his pockets. “It will be quicker this way.”

  Abrams replied, “I’m sure it will be.” He drew his revolver as he walked.

  Kalin’s eyebrows rose in a look of mock surprise, then a nasty smile spread across his hard face as he went for his own pistol.

  Abrams had examined his revolver in the car and it looked as if it had not been tampered with. Now he was sure that if he squeezed the trigger, it would misfire or the powder charge would have been spiked with nitroglycerin and it would blow up in his hand. He let out a blood-curdling scream and charged forward.

  Kalin took a second or two to recover his composure, then raised his pistol. “Halt!”

  Abrams stopped in his tracks, directly beneath the overhead light.

  “Hands up!”

  Abrams raised his hands and quickly thrust the barrel of his revolver up through the thick glass of the light, shattering the bulb with a dull pop. He dove for the wall and flattened himself against it.

  There was no sound in the black tunnel. Abrams stood still, controlling his breathing. He reversed the revolver in his hand, making it into a bludgeon, then lowered his briefcase silently and retrieved his penknife, opening the two-inch blade. He waited.

  He suspected they didn’t have flashlights, or they would have used them by now. But they’d have blackjacks and perhaps knives. The KGB never left home without them.

  Abrams carefully slipped his shoes off and began edging along the wall toward the westbound tracks. Darkness, he reminded himself, more than guns, was the great equalizer. He heard no movement from the Russians, not even breathing.

  Abrams’ left foot came down on a shard of glass and it sliced into his arch. He drew a quick breath through his nostrils and stopped moving. Carefully, he raised his foot and pulled out the glass, feeling the warm blood soaking his sock. He flung the fragment toward the eastbound exit and heard it tinkle on the concrete floor, but it produced no reaction. They were, he thought, well disciplined. But what did he expect?

  Abrams’ natural impulse was to make a break, but he knew that if they didn’t have flashlights, he could possibly sit it out. Time was basically on his side. They couldn’t stand there in a pedestrian underpass of the Long Island Rail Road forever. But he could.

  Kalin must have come to the same conclusion. He called out softly to his men, and Abrams was able to understand the orders: the two men on the eastbound side—Feliks and Vasili—were to kneel in the tunnel, which was only eight feet wide, join hands, and touch the walls with their free hands, in effect blocking that side of the tunnel. Kalin and his partner, Boris, were going to move in along the walls. The space between them was going to be covered by taking Boris’ suit jacket and holding the arms outstretched between them, dragging the hem along the floor. A hammer-and-anvil technique. Abrams thought that was quite clever.

  He was fairly certain now that Kalin didn’t know he understood Russian. But whether he did or not, Kalin had to give his men orders, and therefore give Abrams warning.

  Abrams heard Kalin’s and Boris’ footsteps approaching and estimated they were about ten feet away. He could hear their breathing as they drew nearer, then heard the jacket dragging along the concrete floor. He thought he smelled them too: their breaths, their sweat, and a cloying lavender cologne. Abrams backtracked, edging the opposite way along the wall, toward Feliks and Vasili.

  Kalin said, “How close are we to you? Say something.”

  Abrams assumed the question was not directed at him, but he was interested in the answer.

  One of the two men replied, “You sound close. Five meters.”

  Kalin replied, “He’s right here. Between us. Be alert now.” Kalin switched to English. “Abrams, listen to me. We don’t want to harm you. We want to speak to you. May we speak to you?”

  Abrams thought that Kalin had picked a funny place to chat. That’s what happened when you crossed a KGB man with a lawyer: you got a killer who wanted to discuss the pros and cons of slitting your throat in the dark.

  He realized he had to make a move before the space between the hammer and anvil closed. He glanced toward the stairs on either side. Now that he’d been in the darkness so long, he could see something he hadn’t noticed before: There was a dim light from the parking lots that could be faintly seen on the steps. If he somehow made it past the Russians and got as far as the end of the tunnel, he’d be silhouetted against the light falling on the steps—a duck in a shooting gallery.

  He edged back a few more feet as Kalin and Boris approached. He estimated that he had less than three feet left in which to maneuver.

  So, he thought, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, he had to fight. And he had to do it here and now, close in where they’d be afraid to use guns, knives, or blackjacks. His one advantage was the fact that when the fight started, he could be sure he had no friends to worry about in the dark. They did not have this assurance.

  Abrams thought of his mother’s advice to get an inside job and wondered if this counted. He wondered, too, what his parents would say if they knew their comrades were trying to kill their son.

  Abrams took a long step away from the wall and positioned himself toward the center of the tunnel. He swung his briefcase high and flung it toward the eastbound steps. Abrams pivoted toward Kalin and Boris, dropping to one knee as the briefcase slapped heavily on the concrete floor and skidded.

  Boris fired over the heads of Abrams, Feliks, and Vasili, toward the sound of the briefcase. Abrams saw the tongue of orange flame, heard the muffled cough of the silencer, and listened to the bullet whistle above and strike the steps and ricochet, causing a loud echoing. The smell of burnt cordite hung heavily in the damp, still air.

  Abrams pointed his penknife three feet below the place where he’d seen the muzzle flash, and sprang forward. He felt the small knife slice into what he guessed was Boris’ abdomen. Even before he heard the surprised groan, he withdrew back into a crouch.

  Boris’ voice sounded shaky. “I’m cut! Blood. Oh . . . I’m stabbed. Blood!”

  “Shut up, Boris.” Kalin’s voice. “Pick up your end of the jacket.”

  Abrams realized he had a hole in the net and moved in a crouch between Boris and
Kalin.

  But Kalin had anticipated this and had dropped back, centering himself like a middle linebacker, arms outstretched, weaving left and right, a blackjack in one hand, his pistol in the other.

  Abrams’ forehead touched the cold steel of the gun, and Kalin sensed it and brought his blackjack down hard. Abrams felt the heavy blow on his right shoulder and let out an involuntary gasp as his penknife fell to the floor. A sharp kick caught him on his thigh as he fell back. He whispered in Russian, “No. It’s me.”

  Kalin hesitated. Abrams stood quickly and swung the butt of his pistol at shoulder height. He felt it graze off something, and heard Kalin utter a sharp cry.

  Abrams moved back against the wall, fighting back the shooting pain in his right shoulder. He knew he had to get his hands on one of their guns, but even as he thought it, he heard Kalin’s voice: “Put away the pistols! Knives and blackjacks only. Move in.”

  Abrams thought Kalin sounded as if he was in some pain, but his voice was steady. The man was good.

  Abrams listened and heard Boris a few feet away, on the floor, breathing irregularly. That was one gun that was still available. Abrams got down on all fours, fingertips and toes, to make the least amount of noise. He moved toward Boris and suddenly felt a warm wetness on his fingers, a great deal of it, pooling across the cold concrete. He must have severed the man’s iliac artery.

  Abrams made contact with Boris’ leg, and moved his hands quickly over his body, feeling the blood-soaked abdomen, then locating his arms and hands, but he could not find the pistol. Kalin and the other two had drawn closer and were guiding themselves toward the sound Abrams was making in his frantic effort to find Boris’ pistol.

  Abrams braced himself on one knee, grabbed the limp body of Boris by the shoulders and, together, they rose to a standing position. Abrams shoved the dying man toward Feliks and Vasili, hearing the collision of bodies, followed by shouts, the pounding of blackjacks, and the sound of knives grating against bones. Abrams joined the melee, swinging his pistol and bringing the butt down again and again, oblivious to everything except the motion of his arm, the thud of the wooden-handled pistol—splintered now—and the confused cries of three, then two, then one man. Abrams backed off and braced himself against the wall. He assessed the damage to his own body and discovered a superficial slice on his neck and innumerable places on his body where the two blackjacks had hit him. He felt suddenly dizzy and lowered himself to one knee.