The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  “Because I decided not to get on the train.”

  Pembroke nodded, then after a minute said, “Actually, you never intended to take that train, did you? You discovered something of immediate value. That’s why you flashed the high beams. You thought we’d meet you at the station and take you to Van Dorn’s.”

  “Could be.”

  Pembroke nodded again, then said, “Well, that’s not my business unless someone makes it so. But I will get you an audience with George.”

  “That’s all I want.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry about the foul-up. Did you think I left you hanging on purpose?”

  Abrams flipped his cigarette away. “While I was in the tunnel, the thought crossed my mind.”

  “I’m on your side, Abrams. You did me an immense favor by staying alive. My career could have been ruined.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Do you want to work for me?”

  “What’s your work product?”

  “Corpses. I suppose you know that. The pay is excellent.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’d be very good. Speak Russian, ex-policeman—”

  “Blue Cross, major medical?”

  “Of course. I’m incorporated under the laws of New York State. British Technologies. Prestigious address in Rockefeller Center. Secretary, water cooler—”

  “Gun rack. I’ll think it over.”

  “Good.”

  They came within sight of the gates to the Russian estate across the road. The gates were clear of demonstrators tonight, and police vehicles were lined up on the shoulders. Pembroke said, “The police will be curious about your appearance.”

  Abrams took off his jacket, threw it in a clump of bushes, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He peeled off his bloody socks, then took a handkerchief from Pembroke and wiped his hands and face. “Do I look suburban and summery?”

  “Well . . . in the dark. Let’s go, then.”

  They continued past the police cars, getting a few hard, appraising stares. After a few minutes they came within sight of Van Dorn’s driveway and Pembroke said, “It’s rather a good party, and after you’re debriefed, you should stay and enjoy yourself. I’ll fix you up with some clothing.”

  “Is Claudia there?”

  Pembroke drew on his cigarette and glanced at Abrams. He replied lightly, “Yes, but Katherine is there as well. Be careful, old man. You haven’t come this far to get knifed by a jealous woman.” He laughed.

  Abrams stopped to pick out a piece of gravel that had worked itself into the wound on his foot. “Is Thorpe there?”

  “No.”

  Abrams continued walking. “Where is he?”

  “Don’t know, really.” Pembroke flipped away his cigarette. “You know, Abrams, I wonder if we didn’t make a mistake by not killing him when we had the opportunity.”

  “When did we get incorporated?”

  “Well, I mean—”

  “Listen, Pembroke, I’ve never killed in cold blood, but I would have killed Thorpe. Yet you, who’ve made killing a cottage industry, did not kill the man who deserved it most.”

  Pembroke didn’t respond immediately, then nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. Sometimes one can be too professional and ignore instinct.”

  Abrams wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead. The night was still, and the walk was beginning to wear on him. Days that began at dawn never boded well for him. Days that included mayhem, lovemaking, and hard thinking left him weary. He yawned.

  Pembroke said, “Joan Grenville told me about Claudia. I wish I’d known sooner.”

  “Everyone wishes they’d known everything sooner,” Abrams said. “I wish I’d known this morning who won this afternoon’s Metropolitan at Belmont. So what? What are you going to do about Claudia? Or is she already done?”

  “She’s among the living. It’s not my business to decide what to do about her, nor yours.”

  “I never thought it was mine.”

  Pembroke added, “I’m surprised O’Brien and Company took her in. I’ve never yet had a good experience with an ex–Eastern Bloc resident.” He thought a moment, then said, “But perhaps she’s been turned, or has been a double all along. That’s why you can’t go about knocking people off until you know the facts.”

  “Well, as of Friday night when she set me up to be pushed off the roof, she was working for them.”

  Pembroke nodded to himself. “I wondered who lured you up to the roof. Your story seemed to lack details. I actually thought it might have been Joan, even Katherine.”

  “No, it was Claudia.”

  “Interesting . . . but don’t discount the possibility that she set you up in order to establish her bona fides with Thorpe and/or the Russians. Sometimes one agent has to sacrifice another to establish credibility.”

  “You people play a nasty game.”

  “Oh, don’t I know it. That’s why I keep out of that end of it, Abrams. Killing people is much less confusing. My father liked the intrigue. I find it too morally ambivalent for my taste.”

  “Your father was in intelligence?”

  “Yes, recently retired.”

  They continued along the road, up a gentle rise. Abrams said suddenly, “Is James Allerton at Van Dorn’s?”

  Pembroke regarded him for some seconds, then answered, “No. He went back to Washington. Why do you ask?”

  “Is he with the President this weekend?”

  Pembroke considered the question, then replied, “I’m not certain. The President is at Camp David, according to the newspapers. Why is it necessary to know if Allerton is with the President?”

  Abrams considered his response a moment, then said, “It may be necessary to contact the President. I thought if Allerton was with him, then Van Dorn may actually be able to get through to Allerton quickly. . . .”

  “Is it urgent?”

  Abrams looked at him. “I think so. But you’re not interested in that end of it.”

  Pembroke smiled politely. “Normally I’m not. But when people start suggesting that a working knowledge of Russian may prove useful for daily existence, then my interest is aroused.”

  Abrams replied, “I’ll speak to Van Dorn.”

  They walked silently for another minute, then crossed the road between the slow-moving traffic and passed through the entrance to Van Dorn’s estate. A security guard sitting in a parked car recognized Pembroke and waved them on. Abrams followed Pembroke up the rising drive and saw the big lighted house as they turned a bend. From the rear of the house another salvo of rockets rose into the clear, windless night sky and exploded in red, white, and blue showers of sparks. Abrams said, “Can I trust Van Dorn?”

  Pembroke replied, “My God, I hope so.” He added, “I believe he’s running the show now.”

  “Why shouldn’t I go to the FBI?”

  “You may if you wish. Or the CIA. Both are very close by. If you decide to go, I’ll run you over with my car—I mean, I’ll drive you over.” He laughed.

  Abrams glanced at him and understood his meaning clearly. “Let’s talk to Van Dorn.”

  47

  Viktor Androv stood in front of a north-facing gable window, his back to the three other men in the room. He stared toward George Van Dorn’s house. Balls of fire appeared over the distant tree line and rose lazily above the horizon of Long Island Sound, then burst apart into the moonlit sky. Androv imagined that he was watching a miniature of the explosion that would soon light up most of the North American continent for a few brief but fateful seconds.

  Androv said, “At least he isn’t blaring his music. Well, after tonight we’ll never be bothered by him again.”

  Androv turned from the window and faced Alexei Kalin, who stood at attention across the large darkened attic room. “So, Alexei, where did we go wrong, my friend? You had three trained men with you in the tunnel. You had two cars, each with two men, for a total of . . . let’s see . . . eight men, including yourself, all of you agents of th
e Komitet Gossudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the most feared state security agency in the world. And you were asked to bring here, for interrogation, one Jew. Correct?”

  Kalin nodded stiffly. “Correct.”

  “So . . . so it was not a particularly difficult mission, was it, Alexei?”

  “No, it was not.”

  “But instead of delivering me one Jew, you return with one dead man, whose poor wife is downstairs waiting for you to tell her where her husband is. Also, you present me with the unfortunate Feliks, who seems to have been beaten and knifed by his comrades, and Vasili, who appears to be suffering from great mental agitation. And look at you. You’re filthy.”

  Kalin stared straight ahead.

  “Perhaps you can explain to me how the Jew accomplished this.”

  “I have no explanation.”

  Androv said with biting sarcasm, “No? There is no logical explanation for this deplorable failure? At least tell me that the Jew had divine intervention. Tell me that Moses descended on you swinging his staff in the dark. I would sooner believe that than believe that one Jew outwitted and outfought four men of the KGB. Please, Alexei, let me report to Moscow that there is a God and He works for the Jews.”

  Kalin’s face was set in the immobile expression required for these dressing downs. Kalin knew that whatever Androv finally told Moscow would exonerate both him and Androv. Feliks and Vasili would not fare so well. Kalin, of course, would then be owned by Androv until the debt was repaid, or until the tables could be turned. That was the way the system worked.

  Androv ended his harangue and added, “I’m only sorry that our distinguished guest had to witness this.”

  Henry Kimberly sat in a plastic-molded swivel chair, his legs crossed and his fingertips pressed together. He was dressed in casual slacks, blue blazer, and loafers. He said in Russian, “Please don’t consider me more than a loyal party man.”

  Androv protested, “But you are. Before this week is out you will be the most famous man in America. Perhaps in the world. You will be the new American President.”

  Henry Kimberly said nothing.

  Androv turned back to Kalin. “Well, Alexei, sit down. We have another bungler joining us. Your friend Thorpe.” He looked again toward Kimberly. “Are you eager to meet your daughter’s lover?”

  Kimberly seemed somewhat surprised at the question. He replied, “Not particularly.”

  Androv sat heavily in another swivel chair. “If you would like, Henry, we can arrange to have her brought here tonight.”

  Henry Kimberly sat motionless in his chair. He thought about Katherine as he had last seen her, a little girl of two. He suddenly recalled the signed picture he had sent her, right before his “death,” and he remembered that someone—Thorpe, he guessed—had told Kalin that the picture was hanging in Katherine’s office. He also thought about his daughter Ann, and remembered her letters to him and his to her. He’d had to leave all his mementos behind at Brompton Hall when he left for Berlin. He’d had to leave Eleanor behind as well, and his parting had been rather temperate, his last words being, “I’ll see you in about two weeks, Ellie. The war will be over by then and we’ll open that bottle of ’Thirty-seven Moët.”

  He had put some of his affairs in order, as men do when they are going out on risky business, but had done nothing or taken nothing with him that would lead anyone to suspect that he knew he was never coming back. In fact, he remembered with a touch of amused irony, he had borrowed a hundred dollars from George Van Dorn before he left for Berlin. With interest, he owed Van Dorn about four thousand dollars.

  Androv coughed pointedly, and said, “The decision regarding your daughter is entirely yours, Henry. But you should know that by now Karl Roth has poisoned everyone next door.”

  Kimberly did not seem moved by this news.

  Androv continued, “We chose an extremely rare substance for which no antidote is known in the West. But our Technical Operations Directorate has developed such an antidote. If we get your daughter here within four hours, she can be saved.” He looked at Henry Kimberly. “Please advise me.”

  Kimberly said, “What does her fiancé advise?”

  Androv smiled slowly, then replied, “Ah, young men are fickle. He no longer loves her, but would not mind if she lived to see the wave of the future wash over her little sand castles. I believe he wants to keep her as a maidservant. He’s a nasty young man.”

  Kimberly nodded, then replied, “If you can save her without jeopardizing the mission, or”—he nodded toward Kalin—“or any more men, then do so. But I have no desire to see her. If she is brought here, keep her away from me.”

  Androv said, “Yes, it might be upsetting to you if you met. And you have important work to do—”

  “Please don’t anticipate my psychological reaction to anything.”

  “Forgive me.” Androv regarded Kimberly for some time. After a month under the same roof, Androv could not understand the man’s motivations, much less his wants, needs, fears, or aspirations. Yet Kimberly was in many ways like other Western defectors he’d met in Moscow: strangers in a strange land, stuck in a previous time frame.

  Kimberly turned from Androv and addressed Alexei Kalin. “How well do you know this Peter Thorpe?”

  Kalin sat up. “I’m his control officer.”

  “Do you like him? Or is he, as Viktor suggested, a nasty young man?”

  Kalin replied diplomatically, “He is rather . . . odd. But he can be charming with the ladies.”

  Kimberly nodded. “Takes after his natural father. James Allerton was no ladies’ man.” He smiled, then asked Kalin, “Is this the type of man I’d want around me as an aide?”

  Kalin’s eyes went to Androv, and it was Androv who answered, “This is the type of man who should be liquidated.” He added quickly, “But you will want to decide for yourself, of course. Let’s have him come up. I’ve also invited some others whom you’ve met only briefly.” He pressed the intercom button. “Send them up.”

  Androv looked down the length of the long attic that lay over the central wing of the house. The sloped walls were lined with electronic consoles whose lighting provided most of the room’s illumination. At the far end of the attic, nearly one hundred feet away, a lone man, the communications duty officer, sat hunched over the radio that was in continuous contact with the Kremlin.

  Androv said, “Gentlemen, I do not know the precise time of the Stroke, but I think it will be before dawn.” He pointed across the room. “Do you see those two steady green lights?” The two men turned and saw two burning green lights in the distant dimness, like cats’ eyes glowing in the night. Androv continued, his voice heavy, “That is the highest alert status we’ve ever had from Moscow—it means the Stroke is imminent. There’s a third green light that will begin blinking when the final countdown begins. When all three lights are steady green, the Stroke is only minutes away.”

  48

  The heavy metal door to the attic opened, silhouetting a tall man dressed in a military uniform. He entered, followed by another Russian with swept-back hair and dark glasses, and dressed in a brown business suit. Peter Thorpe came in last. The two Russians stood aside, one of them closing the door.

  Androv stood and made the introduction. “Major Henry Kimberly, please meet Major Peter Thorpe.”

  Kimberly stood and took Thorpe’s hand. “How do you do?”

  Thorpe could not hide his surprise at meeting a man he thought had been dead for forty years, then forced his features into an emotionless mask. He looked into Kimberly’s clear blue eyes and replied, “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

  Androv said offhandedly, “That may be the last pleasure you experience, Thorpe.”

  Thorpe looked at Androv, a mixture of anger and apprehension in his eyes, but he said nothing.

  Androv addressed Kimberly. “Henry, you may remember these two gentlemen. This is Colonel Mikhail Karpenko of the Eighth Directorate of the KGB, which, as you know, is responsible for sate
llite communications, ciphers, and diplomatic transmission. This room is his domain.”

  Karpenko, a tall, cadaverous bald-headed man with veins popping on his skull, bowed his head stiffly.

  Androv continued, “And this is Valentin Metkov, of Department Five of the First Chief Directorate, known unofficially as the Department of Mokrie Dela—Wet Affairs.” Androv turned to Thorpe. “Coincidentally, what your CIA comrades call ‘wet stuff.’ Murder.”

  Metkov pursed his thin lips and nodded to himself, as if he were discovering this information for the first time.

  Androv motioned Karpenko, Metkov, and Thorpe toward swivel chairs. He saw that Karpenko and Metkov had both glanced at the green lights on the far console. Androv said, “Yes, the time is drawing near.”

  Thorpe thought Alexei Kalin, who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence, looked moody and sullen. Thorpe also noticed that Kalin was disheveled and there was a bruise on his cheek. At Langley, Thorpe would have concluded that the man had gotten into a scrape. Here, it was quite possible that Kalin’s boss had had him beaten. These people were crude by the standards Thorpe was accustomed to. He felt an unfamiliar fear grip at his throat.

  The talking stopped and Androv leaned back in his chair. He frowned at Thorpe. “Well, Peter, you were told never to come here, but here you are. Ordinarily this would be an inexcusable breach of security. However, as it turns out, tonight is the night of the Stroke, and I may consider a pardon if you can convince me that you’re not an imbecile.”

  Thorpe’s face reddened. In all his clandestine meetings with the Russians, it had been he who had been rude, abrasive, and arrogant. His only meeting with Androv, two years before, had ended with Thorpe lecturing Androv about the personal hygiene of one of Androv’s couriers. But now he was in the wolf’s lair, and apparently he’d shown up on the last night of his usefulness. Rotten luck.

  Androv said, “For a man with so much to say, you’re very quiet. Perhaps you are an imbecile.”

  Thorpe knew that he had to be cautious, without being apologetic. He would not, could not, grovel. He put a tone of annoyance in his voice. “I want to know why the timetable has been moved up without your informing me. I want to know what you intended to do to insure my safety.”