The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

50

  The attic room was still, and Peter Thorpe heard the low hum of the electronic consoles, and felt the machines’ vibrations in the floorboards. The big, open room reminded him of his own garret in the Lombardy, where he would have preferred to be at the moment. This place, however, was more elaborate. This was the fabled Russian spy center of North America, the subject of press editorials, congressional debates, and television documentaries. This facility also had diplomatic immunity, and his did not. Also, his attic room had to serve as both a communications center and an interrogation room, which was not always convenient. The Russians used their cellar for the messy stuff. This was the advantage of a nice big house in the suburbs over an apartment in town. He smiled grimly at his own forced humor.

  Thorpe looked at his watch. The four Russians had left to put people and systems on alert status and had not yet returned. He turned from the window and saw the communications officer walking down the line of consoles, making entries into a logbook. Henry Kimberly was sitting nearby, ignoring Thorpe and reading a Russian newspaper by the light of a computer’s video display screen.

  Thorpe noticed that odd smell in the room that electronics emitted, and he felt the heat that was generated by the radios and computers.

  Thorpe regarded Kimberly. All was obviously not well in his attic. Thorpe recognized that his own peculiarities of the mind were inherent and inborn. He was certain that Kimberly’s strangeness was acquired. The old term brainwashing came to him. But it was more than that. Forty years, he thought. Not only was the brain washed, but so was the heart and soul.

  In fact, though, they had probably done nothing more to him than they’d done to 270 million other Soviet citizens; they had made him live there.

  Thorpe remembered his two brief, furtive trips to Russia. As he walked the streets of Moscow, he had had the impression that half the population was going to a funeral and the other half coming from one.

  As he looked at Kimberly, he wondered how the Russians were going to present this bloodless man to the American public as their new leader; his speech, his movements, his facial expressions, his whole persona, reminded Thorpe of an alien from another world trying to pass as an earthling. Thorpe was sure the KGB had kept Kimberly abreast of the developments in American life, but the American Training School on Kutuzovsky Prospekt was a poor substitute for the real thing.

  Kimberly sensed that Thorpe was staring at him and looked up from his newspaper. Thorpe hesitated, then asked, “Was it you, or James, or someone else, who sent my parents to their deaths?”

  Kimberly seemed neither surprised nor put off by the question. He replied, “It was I. One of the agents on that jump was a Communist. One of my people. After he hit the ground, he tipped off the Gestapo, anonymously. The twelve people on that jump were all eventually arrested and shot. What difference does it make to you?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to make a moral judgment of me, or any sort of judgment for that matter.”

  “I’m not making judgments. I just wanted to know.” He hesitated again, then said, “James, and others, speak well of them.” He looked at Kimberly.

  Kimberly shrugged. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum—speak only good of the dead. But if it’s the truth you’re after, and I suppose you are, your mother was a French whore, and your father a pompous, spoiled dilettante.”

  Thorpe replied, “That hardly sounds like the type of people who would volunteer to parachute into enemy territory.”

  Kimberly replied, “Their motivations were as confused as yours. It must run in the family.”

  Thorpe bit back a reply and took out a cigarette.

  Kimberly let the silence drag out, then said, “How is she? Does she mention me at all?”

  Thorpe saw his possible salvation in these questions. He answered, “She’s a bit of a bitch, actually. Takes after her mother, I understand. And, yes, she mentions her deceased war-hero father from time to time.” He added, “Katherine and I had a good relationship until recently, regardless of what you may hear to the contrary.”

  Thorpe was amazed at the things he was thinking and saying. It must be, he thought, the shock of knowing America was finished, and that he himself might be finished. He was not contrite over what he had done, only angry at himself for playing a bad hand.

  Kimberly smiled but said nothing.

  Thorpe added, “I can fill you in about Ann, too. I know her. And I can answer other questions you may have about things in general over the next several months.”

  Again, Kimberly smiled. “Someone once wrote that the true genius is the person who can invent his own job. Well, Thorpe, I suppose you’d make a passable presidential advisor. Or perhaps a White House court jester.”

  Thorpe’s eyelids twitched, but he kept control of himself.

  Kimberly leaned back in his chair. “Before you arrived, we were discussing Katherine’s fate. She’s next door.”

  “I know that.”

  “Did you know that they’ve all been poisoned and will begin dying in a few hours?”

  Thorpe’s eyes widened.

  “There is a way to save her. Do you want her?”

  Thorpe had the feeling again that he was navigating a minefield. “Do you?”

  Kimberly’s expression took on a faraway look as he mused aloud. “There are times when I think I’d like to see a reunion of family and friends. There are other times when I want to obliterate the past. . . .” He looked at Thorpe. “Did you know I married a Russian girl over there? She’s still there, of course. Hardly a presentable first lady. I have two sons . . . one is a colonel in the KGB. . . . Do you think it would be a good idea to annihilate the American Kimberly line? That would strengthen the Russian Kimberly family.”

  Before Thorpe could reply, the door swung open and Mikhail Karpenko strode in, followed by Androv and Valentin Metkov. Kalin was not with them, and Thorpe didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Karpenko hurried to the far end of the attic room and spoke to the communications officer. He took a sheet of paper from the officer and walked quickly back to the group. He read from the paper, “Cultural affairs attaché Gordik, arriving Kennedy Airport, eight forty-eight P.M., your time. Will proceed by hired conveyance to Glen Cove. Extend usual courtesies.”

  Androv nodded. “That will be a verbal courier. Obviously, Moscow isn’t taking a chance on transmitting any information that the National Security Agency might decode.” Androv looked at his watch. “Gordik should be here shortly. He’ll deliver the last direct orders we receive from Russia until immediately after the Stroke.” He began moving toward the far end of the attic. “Follow me, please.” Metkov, Karpenko, Kimberly, and Thorpe followed.

  Androv turned into the attic of another wing of the mansion. He threw a switch and the smaller attic area burst into bright, blinding light, revealing an elegantly appointed study set in the far end of the attic. There was a walnut desk, bookshelves, a marble fireplace, and a leaded-glass window in a gabled peak. Above the fireplace hung a large American flag.

  Thorpe’s eyes adjusted to the light and he noticed television cameras and microphones. This study was actually a studio set.

  Androv said to Kimberly, “From here, your voice and your image will go out to the world, via satellite, over all radio and television bands and frequencies.” Androv motioned to the leather chair behind the desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  Kimberly walked around the desk and sat in a high-backed chair. He surveyed the set and commented, “This does look like the type of place from which the voice of authority speaks.”

  Androv nodded. “The set was designed in Moscow by Special Section Four. It’s supposed to convey dignity, tranquillity, authority, and control.”

  Kimberly noticed a clear plastic garment bag hanging on the wall to the side. “Is that what I’m to wear?”

  “Yes, that’s also inspired by SS Four. They decided on a blue-gray three-piece pinstripe. You’l
l look like one of those State Department people,” Androv said.

  Kimberly asked Thorpe, “What do you think, Peter?”

  Thorpe replied, “Americans believe anything they see on television.”

  Kimberly laughed. “So I’ve heard.” He turned to Karpenko. “How much of the population will I reach?”

  Karpenko ran a handkerchief over his perspiring bald head. “We estimate that eighty percent of the population will have access to working radios or televisions. You understand, Major, that only the sets that are on at the time of the Stroke will act as lightning rods for the electromagnetic pulse and be destroyed?”

  Kimberly nodded.

  Karpenko continued, “But there will be no other radio or television stations operating. And switching to auxiliary power will not put them in operation, either, because these stations will not have experienced a simple power loss as in a blackout, but a catastrophic power surge, as if ten million bolts of lightning had struck all at once. The only station in America, southern Canada, or northern Mexico that will be on the air will be ours. Here in this room. The only voice anyone will hear will be the voice of Major Henry Kimberly.”

  Kimberly looked across his desk to where Karpenko stood. He said, “Will I begin broadcasting immediately after the EMP storm?”

  Karpenko replied, “When we see the sky light up. For the first few hours you’ll make periodic identification of yourself only as Major Henry Kimberly and implore the public to remain calm. Let everyone draw whatever conclusions they wish, until it’s time to tell them that you’re their new leader. Do you have any questions—”

  Thorpe interrupted Karpenko. “Excuse me. But hasn’t anyone here ever heard the term ‘thermonuclear war’?”

  It was Androv who answered. “To reply to your sarcasm, Thorpe, the American government will not be at all certain how this happened, but even if they do understand that it was an EMP storm, they will not be sure it was the Soviet Union that caused it.” He gave a small shrug and continued, “In any event, most of the E-3I in this country—the command, control, communications, and intelligence networks—are not yet EMP-proof. America will be struck deaf, dumb, and blind.”

  Thorpe said, “Even a deaf, dumb, and blind man can push a launch button.”

  Androv said, “Yes, but keep in mind three other important factors: One, the President will be in Camp David with your father; two, the President’s little black box will be useless; and, three, America has no EMP-proof missiles, bombers, warships, or fighter planes. Any American nuclear strike initiated by an automatic response would be a greatly weakened strike. Our losses would be acceptable.”

  Henry Kimberly spoke, “Moscow has prepared for every eventuality. So, let us not speak of war, but of victory without war.”

  Thorpe thought to himself, Just like that. Two hundred years of nation-building and there won’t even be a shot fired.

  Androv said, “A great deal depends on James Allerton. When he informs the President and his advisors of the helplessness of the situation, and formally requests the surrender of the United States, there may be some hysterics at Camp David. He may be shot on the spot. He is, however, an accomplished diplomat, and this will be his crowning glory if he can get cooler heads to prevail there. With luck, persuasion, and threats, he will make the President understand that capitulation is the only course of action left that will prevent nuclear destruction.”

  Metkov said, “The President’s last duty will be to read a short prepared statement to the American people announcing . . . a ‘peace treaty’ between the Soviet Union and the United States. He’ll also announce his resignation from the presidency. He will not be heard from again.”

  Androv walked into the studio set, past Kimberly’s desk, and stopped in front of the fireplace. He stared up at the American flag, then reached out and took the corner of it, rubbing it between his fingers as though he were a rug merchant considering a purchase. There was a long silence and Androv finally said, “We could never have beaten them militarily. But as the fates would have it, there was a small gap in the complex structure of their country’s armor. They recognized it, and rushed to fill the gap. We recognized it, and rushed to exploit it. We arrived first; they were too late. Space wars, indeed. Protons and neutrons, laser beams, and killer satellites. We could never have kept up. But on their way to the stars, they forgot to close their one window of vulnerability. And we jumped into it.”

  51

  Katherine sat on the sofa with her legs curled up, staring at the ceiling. Abrams strode impatiently around the study, glancing at her from time to time and looking at his watch. He wondered what was keeping Van Dorn.

  The telephone on the desk rang and someone in another part of the house answered it, then buzzed the study. Abrams picked it up quickly. “Tony Abrams.”

  “Well?”

  “Spinelli? Did you get my message?”

  “No, I just dialed a number at random and got you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Where you asked me to call from—the squad room. I drove all the fuck the way in from Jersey on my day off to call you from this phone. Now, why am I here?”

  “I’ll get to that. Listen, what do you see from the window?”

  “Hold on.”

  Abrams could hear the venetian blinds rattling. He glanced at Katherine and forced a wan smile. She returned a somewhat brighter smile.

  Spinelli came back on the line. “Well, I’ll be damned, Abrams. Did you know that the Russian Mission to the UN was right across the street from the Nineteenth Precinct? I never knew that.”

  Abrams ignored the ill temper in Spinelli’s voice. He said, “Are the buses out there?”

  “Only the big gray bus.”

  “How about the minibuses?”

  “They’re either in the garage, or they haven’t come in from Glen Cove yet.”

  Abrams pictured in his mind the twelve-story white brick apartment building on East 67th Street that housed the Russians’ United Nations offices as well as the entire staff. He said, “Do you see anything that doesn’t look kosher?”

  “Look, Abrams, Russian-watching was your line, not mine.”

  “Well, pretend you’re as sharp as me. What do you see?”

  Spinelli stared down from the second-story squad room. “Okay—the street is relatively quiet. A few pedestrians. The police booth is manned. Three squad cars parked half on the sidewalk. Routine. Looks peaceful.”

  Abrams saw the familiar scene in his mind’s eye: the partly residential street, the Russian building with the cement awning, the forbidding fence in front, and the three remote television cameras sweeping the street. Directly across the street was the firehouse and the Nineteenth Precinct, where Abrams had worked out of the Red Squad. Abrams knew every square foot of that block between Third Avenue and Lexington Avenue. He knew the street’s routine better than he knew his own block in Brooklyn. He said, “How’s the building look?”

  Spinelli replied, “The garage door is closed, front doors are closed, first three floors are dark. Residence floors are pretty well lit, blinds drawn, but I can see some shadows passing by. Ambassador’s suite on the top is lit. What’s up, kid? Should I get the Bomb Squad on the horn?”

  Abrams thought, If they can defuse falling H-bombs, call them. He said, “Where are the FBI guys tonight?”

  “Not here. They may be at the firehouse. Better coffee there.”

  Abrams said, “Dom, can you connect me with the FBI watch? Or the CIA?” Abrams knew the CIA kept several apartments next door to the Russian building and listened through the walls. They also had a third-floor apartment in the building next to the Nineteenth, from which they videotaped the Russian building, day and night, an endless film-record of the building and sidewalk.

  “No. I don’t want to owe them any favors.”

  “Then connect me with the police booth. You can listen in.”

  “Oh, may I?” Spinelli grumbled a string of obscenities.

 
Abrams heard the phone click, then a female voice said, “Police Officer Linder speaking.” Spinelli identified himself, then said, “Okay, Abrams, you’re on.”

  Abrams introduced himself briefly, then asked, “Is this your regular duty, officer?”

  “Yes, sir, on and off for about six months.”

  “Okay, first question—did you see the gray bus unload?”

  The policewoman replied, “Yes, sir. Mostly luggage, as usual. A few men on board helped the porters carry the luggage through the service door in the right of the building. That was over an hour ago.”

  Abrams thought a moment, then said, “How much luggage?”

  She hesitated, then said, “About the same.”

  Abrams did not want to lead the witness, he wanted Officer Linder to report what she’d seen, not what Abrams would have liked her to see. Abrams asked, “Can you tell me if anything struck you as unusual tonight? Anything that was not normal for the last night of a weekend?”

  Officer Linder was silent for some time, then replied, “Well . . . no . . . no, sir. Could you be more specific?”

  Abrams said, “Why don’t you just recount to me what happened since you came on duty. That would be four P.M., correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” She thought, then said, “Well, it’s been pretty quiet since this afternoon. About an hour ago the black Ford Fairlane arrived with the ambassador, his wife, three kids, and a driver.”

  “How did they look?”

  She understood he was looking for her impression. She answered, “The wife and kids looked all right. The wife was smiling and nodded to the cops as she usually does. He looked a little . . . I can’t say exactly . . . just not himself.”

  “Okay, I understand. Were there any more cars?”

  “No, sir. Not tonight. Sometimes there’s only one, though.”

  “Okay, how about the minibuses?”

  Linder answered, “Yes, they arrived. Pulled into the garage.”

  “How many? How were they spaced?”

  Linder replied, “They came in two groups, as usual. The first group arrived about forty-five minutes ago. Six or seven buses. That was the bigger group, so that would be the kids, I guess.”