Abrams rocked back in his chair and sipped on his Scotch. Ostensibly the dozen or so employees of this law firm had been well instructed regarding his employment history with them. Still, that was another possible source of exposure.
Abrams thought also about Pat O’Brien. Was he dead? Kidnapped? If kidnapped, would he expose Abrams? Abrams hoped for both their sakes that he was alive or dead; but nothing in between.
Abrams glanced at his watch. Mr. Evans, he supposed, was his briefing officer. Jonathan Harker, he reflected, did not have a briefing officer, or mission control people. But, then again, Count Dracula did not have KGB agents in his castle.
Abrams thought of the events of the last few days, the last few months, and then of the last few years, and wondered where he had gone wrong. He consoled himself with the knowledge that even a man like Huntington Styler could get suckered into this bad business.
Abrams heard footsteps outside his cubicle and slipped his hand into the pocket that held his revolver.
A tall, lanky man in late middle age stood in a slouched posture at the cubicle opening. He had one hand in his pocket, the other held an attaché case. He looked at Abrams but said nothing.
Abrams had the impression of a rather sad traveling salesman who’d been on the road a week too long.
The man nodded, as though to himself, then said, “You know what?”
“No. What?”
“Electronics suck.”
“Right. I always knew that.”
The man moved in a shambling gait into the small cubicle and stood facing Abrams across the desk. “Are you Smith?”
“Right.” Up close the man resembled Walter Matthau and sounded like Humphrey Bogart.
The man pulled his hand from his pocket and reached across the desk. “Evans.”
Abrams released the hold on his .38, stood, and shook hands with Evans.
Evans sprawled out in a chair facing Abrams, and said, “Over ninety percent of the intelligence this country collects is through electronics. But you know what?”
Abrams sat. “No. What?”
“It doesn’t take the place of eyes and ears.”
“Nose and throat.”
“Well, nose too. And brains. And balls. And heart. You have those?”
“I’m complete.”
“Good.” Evans thrust both hands in his trouser pockets and looked idly around the small room. “What a shitbox. Who could work here?”
“A guy named Abrams.”
Evans looked back at Abrams. “You speak Russkie, right?”
“Right.”
“Who would want to learn a shit language like that?”
“Little Russian kids.”
Evans nodded absently, then said, “Look, Smith, I’m going to talk to you for an hour. I’m going to show you the architectural plans of that Russkie mansion. I’m going to teach you how to be a spy.”
“Good. Do we need the whole hour?”
“Maybe. You’ve got some background. Right?”
“Right. Are you going to tell me what it is I’m supposed to find out in there.”
“No. You wouldn’t understand it anyway. Neither would I. It’s electronics. But I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to look for.”
“Okay.”
“Radios and televisions.”
“Radios and televisions?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why?”
“How do I know? Also, look for ground-fault interrupters.”
“Okay. They’re easy to spot.”
Evans smiled slowly. “That’s those electrical outlets you see in new bathrooms and kitchens, Smith. They detect a surge of current or something, and a button pops so you don’t get a short or electrocute yourself or whatever.”
“Okay.”
“See if they have them in place of the regular outlets in other rooms.”
“Okay.”
“Check the doors and windows for interlocking metal weather stripping.”
“Maybe you need a building inspector instead of a spy.”
“The weather stripping should be plated with a noncorrosive metal that’s highly conductive of electricity—tin, silver, gold, or platinum. Scrape some off with a knife. You got a harmless little knife that they won’t confiscate?”
“No.”
Evans threw a small penknife across the desk, then fished around in his pockets and came up with a listless-looking cigarette that seemed to match his posture. He lit it with a bent paper match. “Also, you have to try to get up close to get a look at their antennas. Most of them are on the roof, but they’ve got the big one on the north lawn. At the base of that antenna you might see a surge arrestor coupled with an electrical filter. Unless they’ve buried them.”
“I can always dig. Do you have a pocket shovel?”
Evans thought a moment, then said, “There was a tree surgeon a few months back who got too close to that antenna and they nearly took his head off. Whatever is at the base there is probably aboveground, but hidden with bushes.”
“What does this thing look like?”
Evans drew a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and skimmed it across the desk.
Abrams opened the paper and stared at a badly done line drawing. “Looks like something I did in grade school.”
“Funny you should say that. It was done by a seventeen-year-old kid, under hypnosis.”
Abrams looked up at Evans.
“Memory drugs, too, if you want the whole truth.”
Abrams said nothing.
Evans added, “Some local delinquent who gets his jollies fucking around on the Russian estate. He hid in the bushes around the antenna once. That’s all you have to know. Except that we want a verification of what the kid saw.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But you know what?”
“No. What?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Right. I thought so.”
“None of my business either, Smith. So sit back, listen, and hold the questions.”
Abrams lit a cigarette and sat back. Evans continued his briefing. As he listened, Abrams realized he would have to take some risks if he was to accomplish what was being laid out.
Messrs. Styler and Edwards had wisely excused themselves from this briefing. But to be fair, they were taking a risk just by bringing him.
He looked at Evans, who was staring at him. Evans said, “That house has been subject to more electronic surveillance, low- and high-altitude picture taking, and perimeter surveillance than any spot in the country, including the Russkies’ houses in Manhattan and The Bronx, and their diplomatic and trade buildings in San Francisco and Washington. But you know what?”
“No. What?”
“We’ve never had a pro inside before.”
“Well, I’m not a pro, Evans, and I’m not inside yet.”
“You will be inside. And you’re more of a pro than the tree surgeon, the kid, or that stupid deli guy, or—”
“Who?”
“The deli guy. Delicatessen.”
“What’s his name?”
“What’s it to you, Smith? What’s your name?”
“Is his name Karl Roth?”
“Could be. Probably is. Forget that.”
Abrams nodded.
Evans stared at him a few seconds, then continued. “Anyway, the Russkies have about thirty ways to detect any funny business, so I’m sending you in there clean. Are you clean?”
“All I’ve got is a little Smith & Wesson thirty-eight.”
“You’d better leave that behind.”
“I guess I better.”
“Do you want poison?”
“None for me, thank you.”
“Good. You wouldn’t use it anyway. But I had to ask.”
“Can’t hurt to ask.”
Evans nodded. “Are you going in there under an alias?”
“No.”
“Good. If they got prints from
the questionnaire, they’ve already got a make on you. If they get prints while you’re there, the matching takes days, and you wouldn’t be blown while you’re there. But you wouldn’t want to go back for a second visit.” Evans looked at him closely. “No alias, right?”
“I said no.”
“Okay. Sometimes I get clients who are being set up to be blown for some fucked-up reason. They have a cover story that wouldn’t hold glue, much less water, and they have enough electronics on them to open up a Radio Shack. It’s always best to be clean and to be who you say you are.”
“I am.”
“I don’t care about you personally.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like to lose people.”
“Bad for business.”
“Right.” Evans lifted his attaché case onto the desk and opened it so that the inside faced Abrams. Evans said, “Do you know what that is?”
Abrams looked at the electrical components built into the case. “No.”
“That’s an EBI.”
“EBI?”
“Electronic bullshit indicator. Sometimes called a VSA—a voice stress analyzer.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Good. The Russkies use this on their guests. Theirs is American-made, like this one, of course.” Evans reached around and turned on the analyzer. “It doesn’t have to be hooked to you. They watch this digital display as you talk. It can be hidden in their attaché case like this, so you don’t see it.”
“And it tells them when I’m bullshitting.”
“Right. See, we establish a base number on the display for my normal voice. When I start bullshitting, the machine detects subaudible microtremors that occur with stress and deception. If the digital readout rises fifty percent or more above my normal voice range, which is reading forty-five here, then you’re listening to bullshit. Okay, watch the digital readout.” Evans spoke in apparently the same tone of voice he’d been using. “Smith, I think you’ve got a real good chance to pull this off.”
Abrams watched as the red LCD numbers rose to a hundred and six. “Bullshit.”
“Right.” He looked at Abrams. “Now you talk and I’ll get a base number for your voice.”
Abrams sipped on his Scotch, then said, “Okay, chief, I give up. How am I supposed to protect against that?”
Evans spun the attaché case around so it faced him. He played with the sensitivity dial as he replied, “Mostly keep your mouth shut in there. But what you’re doing now is good too.”
“What am I doing now?”
“Alcohol.” Evans reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. “Cough medicine for your cold. It has alcohol and some other stuff to anesthetize the vocal cords a bit. Confuses the machine.” He pulled another object out of his pocket and rolled it across the desk. “Bronchial mist spray. It’s spiked with helium. Don’t breathe too much or you’ll sound like you got your nuts caught in a revolving door. Use it only if they start asking you really direct questions, hot and heavy.”
Abrams nodded.
Evans sat back, crossed his legs, and rested his hands on his stomach. “Okay, I’m a Russkie. I already fucked around with the papers in my attaché case, but what I really did was get a base number for your voice by shooting the breeze with you about the weather and your nice suit and all that. Now I’m going to pop a stressful question on you.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re going to act a little slow in the head, cough, sneeze, blow your nose, clear your throat, take a swig of cough medicine, or suck up some helium.”
Abrams replied, “That’s going to look like a burlesque act after a while.”
“You’ll get real natural at it when the time comes.”
“And they won’t know what the cough medicine and spray are all about?”
“They probably will if you overdo it. But it’s better than them knowing exactly when you’re lying and when you’re telling the truth. Okay, ready?”
“Sure.”
Evans spoke in a mock Russian accent. “So, Mr. Smith, would you like a tour of our beautiful house?”
Abrams nodded.
Evans laughed. “Don’t appear simpleminded. Answer the question.”
“Yes, I would.”
Evans looked at the display. “Lots of stress, but you see that can be interpreted two ways. One, you’re bullshitting, and you don’t want to see their fucking house, two, you want to see it so bad it’s producing microtremors. No machine is perfect. Have faith.”
“Right.”
Evans cleared his throat and continued, “So, Mr. Smith, what do you think of our case against Van Dorn?”
Abrams replied at length.
Evans nodded, then asked, “What did you do on the police force?”
“I was a traffic cop.”
Evans shook his head. “Jesus, Smith, we’re talking telephone numbers here.”
“Fuck you and your machine.”
“But you’ve got to deal with it. Okay, same question, but go into your act.” Evans again asked the question.
Abrams began to reply, then cleared his throat, put the mister over his nose, and sprayed. He made some heavy-breathing sounds, then said, “I was a traffic cop.” The voice was a bit high-pitched, but not abnormally so.
Evans looked at the digital readout, but said nothing.
“Well?”
Evans did not reply, but asked, “So, Mr. Smith, how long have you been with Edwards and Styler?”
Abrams answered, “About two and a half hours.”
Evans laughed, and peered over the top of the briefcase. “No stress. But the truth can get you into trouble too.”
“It usually does.”
“Right. Okay, we’re going to get you good at this. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Evans and Abrams spent the next half hour working with the voice analyzer. Evans abruptly shut off the machine and closed the attaché case. “Class is out.”
“How did I do?”
Evans lit a cigarette. “Well, I couldn’t make any final judgments about who you are and what you’re up to.”
“But you knew I was up to something?”
“Maybe. You see, Smith, people have stress for different reasons. Some people are nervous just being on Russian soil. Some people lie to be polite. Anyway, if I was a KGB security man operating this machine, I wouldn’t feel confident about pulling my revolver and shooting you on the spot.”
“That’s hopeful.”
Evans yawned, then said, “Electronics suck. Did I say that?”
“Yes.”
“Technology sucks. Takes all the fun out of danger. Takes the soul out of this business.”
“This business never had a soul, Evans.”
Evans leaned forward, folded his arms on the desk, and stared at Abrams. “I used to be able to tell when a man was bullshitting me by watching his face. Now I have to look at a fucking machine instead of his eyes.”
“Right.”
“You know what?”
“No. What?”
“An agent on the ground is worth ten spy satellites and all the NSA’s electronic junk put together.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know.” Evans slumped back in his chair. “But sometimes you need a human being. For analysis. For theory. For judgment. For instinct. For ethics, for Christ’s sake.”
“You lost me on the ethics.”
Evans took a long breath. “Okay, let’s finish this briefing so you won’t be late for your rendezvous behind the Iron Curtain.”
“In that case, take your time.”
Evans smiled. “Right.” For the next twenty minutes Abrams sat and listened. He asked a few questions and received a few answers. Evans showed him the old architectural plans to what had once been Killenworth.
Finally, Evans stood and said, “Listen, I know you’re a little shaky. Who wouldn’t be? Do you know what keeps me cool when I’m on the wrong si
de of the Curtain?”
“No. What?”
“Anger. I build up a hate of those sons of bitches. I keep reminding myself that the Russkies want to fuck up my kids’ lives. They like to fuck us up. That’s what they were put on this earth to do. The Russians are the most fucked-up people God ever created.”
Abrams considered that a moment, then said, “Who are you working for?”
“I don’t know. I’m hired through a series of blinds. I’m ex-CIA. I have a private consulting firm called Executive Information Services.”
“Good meaningless name.”
“Right.” He handed Abrams his card. “We’re a group of ex-intelligence people. Most of my clients are multinational corporations who want to know when the Yahoos are going to take over some shithole country so they can pack up their people, pesos, and property, and beat it.”
“But who are your clients this time?”
“I told you, I don’t know. Could be the Company. They can’t operate in this country, and they don’t always like to go to the FBI. So, since there’s nothing that says they can’t hire private people for domestic work, they do.”
Abrams nodded, then said, “I’ve heard of a group of old boys who don’t hire out their services but work only for themselves.”
Evans’ voice became cool. “That’s not possible, Smith. Who would finance them? What would they do with their work product?”
Abrams shrugged. “Maybe I heard it wrong.”
“You did.” Evans moved toward the door.
Abrams stood. “Do you know a man named Peter Thorpe?”
“Why?”
“He said he had some employment opportunities for me.”
Evans nodded. “That’s another type of arrangement. He runs a loose group of civilians for the Company. No pay. Just trouble.”
“If I lost contact with him, could you put me in touch with him at any given time?”
“I could. I might.”
“How about a man named Marc Pembroke?”
Evans’ normally impassive face took on an uneasy look. “You stay away from that sucker.”
“Why?”
Evans stared off into space for some time, then replied, “Pembroke is a specialist. His work product is corpses. I’ve said enough. Adiós, Smith.”
Abrams came around the desk. “Thanks.”
“You never say thanks until you come back. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Take it easy in there. It won’t look good for me if they hack you up and throw your pieces into the lime pit in the basement.”