O’Brien went back to his scanning, then the viewer went black. “Damn it. Do you have another quarter, Abrams?”
“No, I don’t.”
O’Brien began walking back the way they’d come, and Abrams walked beside him. O’Brien said, “Well, the point is that I may fire you, at the end of the month. You will be hired by Edwards and Styler, who are attorneys in Nassau County. Garden City. They’re representing the Russians in their suit against Van Dorn.”
“That sounds rather unethical, since I’m working for you and Mr. Van Dorn now. Don’t you think so?”
“Eventually the Russians will abide by Edwards and Styler’s request to visit the estate on a day they are being harassed by Van Dorn. They didn’t grant Huntington Styler’s request to visit today, but probably will the next time Van Dorn plans to have a party. Probably Memorial Day. You’ll accompany the Edwards and Styler attorneys, then report back to me on the substance of what was discussed.”
“Look, if George Van Dorn is in fact harassing the Russians, then he deserves to be sued, and to lose. In the meantime, the Russians should get an injunction against him to cease and desist.”
“They’re working on that through Edwards and Styler. But Judge Barshian, a friend of mine, incidentally, is having difficulty making up his mind. There is a fine line between harassment and Mr. Van Dorn’s constitutional and God-given right to throw a party now and then.”
“I’m sorry, but from what I’ve read, Mr. Van Dorn appears to me as though he’s not a good neighbor. He’s acting out of pettiness, spite, or some misdirected patriotism.”
O’Brien smiled slightly. “Well, that’s the way it’s supposed to appear, Abrams. But there’s more to it than a civil case.”
Abrams stopped walking and looked out over the north end of Manhattan toward Central Park. Of course there was more to it than a civil case. The questions about his speaking Russian, his patriotism, his days on the Red Squad, and all the other seemingly disjointed and irrelevant conversation were not irrelevant at all. It was how O’Brien played cards. “Well,” he said, “what am I supposed to do once I’m in their house?”
“Pretty much what Jonathan Harker did in Dracula’s castle. Get nosy.”
“Jonathan Harker died.”
“Worse. He lost his immortal soul. But since you’re going to be a lawyer, like Mr. Harker, that may be a distinct advantage in your career.”
Abrams smiled in spite of himself. “What else can you tell me about this?”
“At the time, nothing further. It may be a while before I discuss it with you again. You will discuss it with no one. If we proceed, you will report directly to me and no one else, regardless of what claims anyone may make that they are acting on my behalf. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Fine. In the meantime, I’ll get you those language tapes. If nothing comes of this, at least you will have sharpened your Russian.”
“For your Jewish emigré clients?”
“I have no such clients.”
Abrams nodded, then said, “I do have to study for the bar.”
O’Brien’s tone was unexpectedly sharp. “Mr. Abrams, there may not be any bar exam in July.”
Abrams stared at O’Brien in the subdued light. The man seemed serious, but Abrams knew there was no point in asking for a clarification of that startling statement. Abrams said, “In that case, perhaps I should study Russian. I may need it.”
O’Brien smiled grimly. “It could very well come in handy by August. Good night, Mr. Abrams.” He turned and walked toward the elevators.
Abrams watched him for a second, then said, “Good night, Mr. O’Brien.”
2
Peter Thorpe looked down from the hired helicopter. Below, the three-hundred-year-old village of Glen Cove lay nestled on the Long Island Sound.
The weekend retreat of the Russian Mission to the United Nations came into view, an Elizabethan mansion of granite walls, slate roofs, mullioned windows, gables, and chimney pots. It was laid out in two great wings to form a T, with the addition of a third, smaller wing attached to the end of the T’s southern cross. Formerly called Killenworth, the estate had been built by the arch-capitalist Charles Pratt, founder of what later became Standard Oil, for one of his sons. The house had over fifty rooms and was set on a small hill surrounded by thirty-seven acres of woodland. A few other surviving estates of Long Island’s Gold Coast sat amid the encroaching suburbs, including five or six other Pratt estates, one used as a nursing home. Peter Thorpe had been at the nursing home several times, but not to visit the elderly.
Also visible below, in what had once been Gatsby country, was a large group of protestors gathered in front of the gates to the Russian estate.
Thorpe looked back at the skyscrapers of Manhattan Island and stared for a while at the United Nations building. He asked the pilot, “Have you ever flown any Russians out?”
The pilot nodded. “Once. Last summer. Do you believe that place? Jesus. Hey, where’s your castle?”
Thorpe smiled. “The one directly north of the Russians’.”
“Okay . . . I see it—” A star cluster suddenly burst off the port side of the helicopter and the startled pilot shouted, “What the hell —?” and yanked on the collective pitch stick. The helicopter veered sharply to starboard.
Thorpe laughed. “Just some fireworks. My host must be starting his annual counter–May Day celebration. Swing out and come in from the north.”
“Right.” The helicopter took a new heading.
Thorpe looked down at the traffic along Dosoris Lane. The local mayor, Thorpe knew, was violently anti-Russian and was leading his constituents in a battle against their unwelcome neighbors.
In fact, Glen Cove had a long history of doing battle with the Russians ever since they’d bought the estate after World War II. Red-baiting village cops in the 1950s used to stop everyone coming or going through the gates and write tickets for any minor infraction, though the tickets were never paid. There had been a period of detente, roughly corresponding to the period of Soviet-American detente, but the Red-baiting fifties had clearly returned, not only in Glen Cove but in the nation.
Recently, in retaliation against the mayor’s summary banning of Russians from all village recreational facilities, Moscow had banned American diplomats from the Moskva River or something equally inane. Pravda carried a long feature article condemning Glen Cove as a bastion of “anti-Soviet delirium.” The article, which Thorpe had read in translation at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, had been as idiotic as Mayor Dominic Parioli’s ramblings that precipitated it.
Thorpe reflected smilingly that Glen Cove also had given the State Department a headache. But finally, last summer, the federal government agreed to pay the village the $100,000 or so in annual property taxes that they lost because of the tax-exempt status of the Russian estate. In return, Mayor Parioli had agreed to lay off. But from where Thorpe sat now, twelve hundred feet above the village, it didn’t appear that Glen Cove was living up to its end of the treaty. Thorpe laughed again.
The pilot said, “What the hell’s going on down there?”
Thorpe replied, “The populace is exercising its rights of freedom of speech and freedom of assembly.”
“Looks like a fucking free-for-all from here.”
“Same thing.” But to be fair to the village, Thorpe thought, circumstances had changed since the Glen Cove–Washington accord. There were persistent reports in the national press of sophisticated electronic spying equipment in the Russian estate house. Local residents complained of TV interference, which was to them as alarming as the electronic spying that caused it.
The purpose of the electronics, though, was not to wipe out Monday-night football. The real target of the electronic spying was Long Island’s defense industry: Sperry-Rand, Grumman Aircraft, Republic Aviation, and the dozens of high-tech electronic and microchip companies. Thorpe knew that the Russians were also eavesdropping on Manhattan’s and
Long Island’s large diplomatic communities.
The question was always raised, “Where did the Russians get all this high-technology spying equipment?” And the official State Department answer was always the same: through their diplomatic pouches, which were not always “pouches” but often large crates protected from search and seizure by the protocols of diplomacy. Yet, Thorpe knew this was not true. Nearly all the equipment they used to spy on the local defense industry had come from that industry itself. It had been bought through a series of dummy corporations and delivered by helicopter right into the Russians’ backyard. Some of the very, very sensitive stuff that couldn’t be bought had been stolen and transported around in a purposely confusing manner, which included trucks, boats, and finally helicopter. Thorpe said to the pilot, “When you flew the Russians out here, did they have crates with them?”
The pilot shrugged, then replied, “Yeah, and enough luggage to take a two-year cruise. Boxes of food, too. But I didn’t know they were Russians and neither did the dispatcher. I was just supposed to pick up a party at the East Side Heliport and take them out to a Long Island estate. Anyway, they had these boxes and steamer trunks all over. So they dump this shit onboard and tell me to fly to Kings Point, which I do. Then, before I land, they say go on to Glen Cove, so I go. Then they point out this place below and I land. This van was waiting—some kind of deli catering van. A bunch of guys unload real quick and wave me off. Christ, I still didn’t know they were Russians until about a month later I see an aerial picture of the place in the Times. There was some flap over taxes and beach passes or something. Never got a tip, either.”
Thorpe nodded. “What was written on that deli van?”
The pilot looked quickly at Thorpe. “I don’t know. Can’t remember.”
“Did anyone speak to you about that trip?”
“No.”
Thorpe rubbed his chin. The man was suddenly less communicative, which could mean several things. Thorpe said, “You didn’t contact the FBI? They didn’t contact you?”
The pilot snapped, “Hey, enough questions. Okay?”
Thorpe pulled out his wallet. “CIA.”
The pilot glanced at the ID. “Yeah. So what? I used to fly lots of CIA in ’Nam. They weren’t as nosy as you.”
Thorpe smiled. “What did they tell you? The FBI, I mean.”
“They told me not to talk to you guys. Hey, I don’t want to get in the middle of some shit. Okay? I said too much already.”
“I’ll keep it quiet.”
“Okay . . . clear it with them if you want to know anything else. Don’t tell them I spoke to you, though. I didn’t know you were CIA. Jesus Christ, what a bunch of characters.”
“Take it easy. Just fly.”
“Yeah. Christ, I feel like a cabbie picking up muggers all the time. Russkies, FBI, CIA. What next?”
“You never know.” Thorpe sat back as the helicopter began its vertical descent. This mini-war between the village and the Russian estate had a comic-opera quality to it. More comical perhaps was the open hostility of another local land baron, George Van Dorn, Thorpe’s weekend host. Peter Thorpe looked down at the adjoining estates, two small fiefdoms, sharing a common, semi-fortified border, worlds apart in political philosophy and engaged in some sort of bizarre medieval siege warfare. Some of it was amusing, he thought, some of it was not.
A fountain of colored balls from a Roman candle rose into the sky over the helicopter bubble. Thorpe said, “No evasive action necessary, chief.”
The pilot swore. “This could get dangerous.”
Thorpe pointed out to the pilot Van Dorn’s illuminated landing pad, formerly the tennis court. Van Dorn had proclaimed tennis to be a sport of sissies and women. Thorpe, who played tennis, had suggested to Van Dorn that the sissies and women should be accommodated if they were his houseguests, but to no avail.
There was a radio frequency painted on the court in luminescent numerals. The pilot asked incredulously, “Am I supposed to radio for permission to land?”
“You’d better, chief.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. . . .” He switched frequencies and spoke into his helmet microphone as he hovered, “This is AH 113, overhead. Landing instructions. Over.”
A voice crackled back and Thorpe heard it from the open speaker. “This is Van Dorn station below. Have you in sight. Who is your passenger?”
The pilot looked annoyed as he turned to Thorpe.
Thorpe smiled. “Tell them it’s Peter, alone and unarmed.”
The pilot repeated Thorpe’s words in a surly tone.
The radio operator replied, “Proceed to landing pad. Over.”
“Roger, out.” The pilot switched back to his company frequency, then said to Thorpe, “Now I know two houses to avoid.”
“Me too.” Thorpe could see the Van Dorn house clearly now, a long white clapboard colonial, very stately, but not quite as grand as his enemy’s castle. Thorpe felt the warmer air from the ground entering the cockpit, and smelled the early-blooming flowers. From the empty but lighted swimming pool, two men were firing skyrockets, like a mortar crew, thought Thorpe, dug in against possible counterfire. “If the Russians could get a fireworks permit,” he said to the pilot, “they might shoot back.”
“Yeah,” growled the uneasy pilot, “and if I had my old Cobra gunship again, I’d waste the fuckers, and these assholes too.”
“Amen, brother.”
The helicopter came to rest on the tennis court.
3
Stanley Kuchik felt the sweat collecting under his shirt. He wondered what the Russians would do to him if they caught him here on their property. For decades the students at Glen Cove High, down Dosoris Lane from the Russian estate, had passed those forbidding walls and portals on their way to and from school. There had been stories of students penetrating into that foreign land, but they were always students in some distant misty past. There was, some speculated, a sense of inadequacy based on the knowledge that none of them, boy or girl, had found the courage or enterprise to redress the insult of those mocking walls.
But now came Stanley Kuchik, with the right stuff. Tonight he was going to prove that even if he wasn’t exactly the biggest kid in the class, he was the bravest. Ten of his buddies had seen him scale the fence between the YMCA grounds and the Russian property, and watched him disappear into the trees. His mission was clear: Obtain irrefutable proof of his deep penetration into enemy territory and rendezvous at Sal’s Pizza any time before 10:00 P.M. He knew that if he blew it, he might as well apply for his working papers, because he’d never again set foot in Glen Cove High.
Stanley raised his binoculars and focused on the big mansion about two hundred yards off. Purple shadows darkened the broad north terrace, but he could see some activity around the house. A few men and women sat in lawn chairs and someone was serving drinks. He wished they would all go inside.
He checked his Marine K-Bar knife to make sure it hadn’t slipped from its sheath, then ran his fingers over his camouflage paint—actually his mother’s green eye shadow, supplemented by a few swirls of brown eye pencil. The stuff held up pretty good in all kinds of weather, even when it was real hot and he sweated a lot. He wore his Uncle Steve’s tiger fatigues from ’Nam and his own black Converse sneakers.
He finished the Milky Way, stuffed the candy wrapper into his pouch pocket, and retrieved a Snickers. He froze. Two men were coming toward him on a gravel path ten yards off. He listened for dogs, but there weren’t any and he breathed a little easier. Even if the men spotted him, he could outrun them. He did the hundred-yard dash in ten flat pretty consistently, which he knew he could improve if he had a few Russkies behind him.
Stanley lay perfectly still as the two figures emerged between the plantings on the path. He recognized the short fat one with buggy eyes: Froggy. He’d seen Froggy in town a few times and on the beach once. Froggy had even spoken to Stanley’s freshman class a couple of years back. He was a cultural-affairs guy or somet
hing and spoke pretty good English. When the Russians used to be allowed to play tennis on the village courts, most of them hardly ever threw the ball back when you asked. But Froggy would waddle all over to get your ball, grin, and toss it back. Froggy was okay. Stanley tried to remember his name. Anzoff or Androv or something. Yeah. Androv. Viktor Androv.
The other man was one of those slicky boys: swept-back hair, a suit that looked like Stanley’s old First Holy Communion outfit, and dark glasses. The guy looked tough, though. Probably a killer, Stanley thought. A man from SMERSH.
The two men were babbling on in Russian, and Stanley could make out the word Amerikanski over and over again. He shifted his body slightly, pulled open his field bag and brought out a Minolta Pocket Autopak 470 camera. He framed his subjects and got off three quick shots. He returned his equipment to the bag and waited until they were a full minute out of sight before he got into a sprinting position. He listened. Everything was quiet.
Stanley dashed across an open piece of ground, covering about fifty yards in less than six seconds. He dove into a small, weed-clogged depression and lay still. He felt very exposed, but there was no other concealment around. He looked for listening bugs but couldn’t see any, although he thought this should be an obvious place for one. As his respect for the Russians’ security lessened, his cockiness grew. Well, he thought, maybe their security was good. They just hadn’t reckoned on Stanley Kuchik.
Stanley had been awed by his Uncle Steve’s stories about his escape-and-evasion course in Panama, and he had given Stanley his old field manuals on infiltration, recon patrols, and outdoor survival. Stanley had taken to it very naturally, when he’d practiced in the woods near his house, as though some feral instinct had been awakened by the pictures of men creeping through the bush.
He peered over the rim of the depression. The Russkies showed no signs of going inside yet. He didn’t think they would. It was still warm and pleasant. He’d have to proceed right under their noses.