Abrams nodded to himself. Unless the procedure had changed, the six or seven buses would have left the Pioneers camp in Oyster Bay and made a stop at the estate in Glen Cove. The exact purpose of this stop was unknown, but it probably was an administrative routine to pick up adult monitors, or do a head count. When it came to kids, Russians were not much different from everyone else.
In any event, thought Abrams, the buses always pulled into the walled service court, where any loading and unloading could not be observed with usual snooping devices. Abrams thought that if tonight was in fact different from all other weekend nights, then the children had been unloaded from the buses at the Glen Cove estate and escorted into the basement. He spoke into the phone, “How about the buses with the adults?”
Linder said, “They arrived maybe fifteen minutes after the kids’ buses. There were four buses in that group. They also pulled right into the garage.”
Abrams pictured the large iron overhead garage door. As the buses drew up to the building, the door would open, and the buses would cross the sidewalk and disappear down the ramp into the underground garage. The police booth where Linder stood was less than ten feet from the garage opening. Abrams said, “Were the buses full?”
She replied, “They have one-way glass.”
“I know. Listen, Officer Linder, you’ve been watching these buses pull in and out for a while. Now, think a moment. Were they full?”
Linder replied almost immediately. “No. No, they were not full.” She added, “I think they were almost empty.”
Abrams let her continue without prompting.
She said with growing certainty, “Something struck me as odd when they pulled in, and it sort of stuck in my mind. And now that you ask—when they moved across, the sidewalk toward the garage . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, all the buses bounced like they were pretty light. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
She added, “And as they pulled into the garage, the clearance on the top was very tight.” She repeated, “Tight. Close.”
Abrams said nothing.
Officer Linder spoke tentatively, as though she realized she’d stuck her neck out. “Is . . . is there anything else?”
Abrams said softly, “No, no. That’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The phone clicked, and Spinelli said, “Well?”
“Well, Spinelli, you heard it.”
“Yeah. I heard it. So maybe the ambassador looked a little out of it. Maybe he has hemorrhoids. Maybe the buses did arrive empty. Maybe the ambassador gave them all another day out in the country.”
“Could be,” said Abrams. “Why should they have to work on a Tuesday after a three-day weekend? Why not just send their baggage back to town on the big gray bus, and send a dozen minibuses in empty?”
“Well, we don’t know the buses were empty, Abrams.”
“She knew.”
“Yeah. . . . Okay, so maybe most of the Russkies are hiding out in Glen Cove. Okay, they want everybody to think they’re all back at ground zero here. So, okay, when does la bomba drop, Abrams?”
Abrams remained silent for some time, then said, “Am I being paranoid?”
Spinelli, too, let some time pass before he answered in a subdued tone, “No. This stinks. I’ll make a quick verbal report. Anything else new besides World War Three?”
“No, that’s about it. Slow night. How about you, Dom?”
“Well, I have a few things for you . . . I don’t know how important they are anymore.”
Abrams could hear a definite edge of anxiety in his voice. “Go on, Dom.”
Spinelli cleared his throat. “Well, this guy West did a vanish. Two-dozen fucking people watching his ass and he’s gone. This guy O’Brien is still missing. Autopsy on the pilot shows the back of his skull fractured, probably with a rubber club. What else . . . ? Oh, Arnold Brin’s death. The ME says murder. And you’re still alive.”
“Right.” Abrams looked at Katherine. She made no pretense of not listening; there was no reason to feign polite disinterest when the subject was Armageddon and the time was now.
Spinelli added, “Also, you called for a book at the main library. The Odyssey. I didn’t know you read Greek, much less owned a library card. You want to tell me about that?”
“It’s by Homer.”
“Who gives a shit?” Spinelli could be heard drawing on a cigar, then said, “Look, Abrams, I can see this is out of my league. I can’t get anywhere with the FBI, CIA, State Department intelligence, or even you. Everybody is asking me things, but nobody is telling me anything. So who cares?” Spinelli let out a long breath. “Look, if there’s anything I can do, call me. See you later, Abrams.”
“Right.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s not as bad as it sounds, Dom. Thanks.” He hung up, then turned slowly to Katherine, who was looking at him attentively.
She said, “I caught the drift of that.”
Abrams nodded.
“They’re all next door.”
“Most of them. A few sacrifices went back to Manhattan.”
“My God. . . .” She stood and walked quickly to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. She said softly, “I wish Pat O’Brien were here.”
Abrams replied, “I think O’Brien would be the first to say we’d done all we could.”
“Yes, I think we are past the time for planning, development, and intelligence gathering. We’re in the operations stage, whether we’re ready or not. I think perhaps it’s time for Marc Pembroke. I think it’s time we paid a visit next door.”
52
A taxi from Kennedy Airport to this part of Long Island was difficult enough to find on a holiday evening, Ann Kimberly thought. And, one having been found, it was harder to believe anything more coincidental than sharing the taxi with a Russian whose destination was also Dosoris Lane, albeit the Iron Curtain end of the street.
Ann crossed her legs and openly regarded the young Russian on the far side of the seat. He was very good-looking, she thought, with curly auburn hair, long eyelashes, hazel eyes, and a cupid bow mouth.
She had noticed him on the Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt, and they had both wound up at the special passport-control desk, avoiding both the baggage claim and customs. They’d then hurried out to the taxi stand, he arriving first. She had watched him out of curiosity, professional and personal, as he approached a few cabbies. But he seemed to be having trouble finding a taker. Then he’d unluckily approached one of the Soviet Jewish emigrés who seemed to predominate in the long-haul cab business. The Jewish cabbie had seized the opportunity to vent some venom in his native tongue, and looked as if he were working himself up to striking the young Russian.
Ann had stepped in to rescue the Russian and after some conversation had discovered that they had the same destination. She had finally gotten a cab and escorted the hesitant man into it.
As she watched him now, she made some observations: Like her, he had no luggage with him, but that might not be significant—his things might have been shipped through the diplomatic pouches. He had an overnight bag of an unfortunate red vinyl, and an attaché case of good pigskin. Government issue. Her own overnight bag said Vuitton, though that meant nothing to him, and her government attaché case was not high-quality leather. He, she assumed, was going to Dosoris Lane to speak to his people; she was going to speak to hers.
They had made some perfunctory and necessary conversation at the outset of their journey, mostly regarding the necessity of sharing a taxi. Then he had retreated into a defensive sort of silence.
She said in slow but passable Russian, “Have you been to Glen Cove before?”
He looked at her, smiled nervously, and nodded.
She said, “Are you staying long in America?”
He seemed to weigh his answer carefully, as if the question were important. He finally replied in studied English, “I will work here.”
“I work in Munich.”
“Ah.”
She wondered why he hadn’t been met, though that was not too unusual. Since the Russian staff cars were almost always followed by the FBI, this was a way to get couriers in and out of the country without too much attention. The passport-control officer at Kennedy would alert the FBI to a Russian diplomatic passport, of course, but she hadn’t noticed anyone following.
Ann Kimberly regarded the Russian’s attaché case lying in his lap. There was no doubt in her mind that whatever was in there was very high-grade stuff. She counted it a personal victory that the Soviets did not feel they could broadcast everything over the radio. Their codes were good, but not that good. She said to the Russian, “It’s very warm here.”
He replied, “Very humid.”
She almost laughed at the banality of the exchange. “Washington is worse. Munich is more pleasant.”
“Yes.”
His taciturn behavior, she decided, was a combination of traditional Russian suspicion, bureaucratic reserve, and the shyness of a young man who finds himself in the forced company of an older and more sophisticated woman.
She said, “I was in Moscow once. Leningrad twice. Where are you from?”
The young man looked unhappy at these questions. It must have occurred to him, she thought, as it had occurred to her, that this chance meeting had the look of a setup. Yet, it wasn’t. At least not on her part. The Russian replied, “I am from Saratov.”
She nodded. “On the Volga.”
His eyes widened just a bit, she noticed, then he turned toward the window. She found she couldn’t take her eyes off his attaché case, and she had noticed him glancing at her case also. She reflected that an attractive man and woman sharing a cab shouldn’t keep looking at each other’s attaché case. She smiled.
The Russian craned his neck to take in the passing scenery. He glanced at his watch.
Ann Kimberly looked ahead and saw the traffic beginning to slow. On the horizon she saw skyrockets arching into the air. She reached over and tapped the Russian, and he turned with a start, one hand coming down on the attaché case. She pointed out the front windshield, unable to remember the Russian word for fireworks. “A celebration. A day to honor the dead of all wars. Like your May ninth Victory Day.”
He seemed distressed rather than pleased at her familiarity with his language and country. He smiled tightly. “Yes. A celebration today.”
“My name is Ann Kimberly. What is your name?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Nikolai Vasilevich,” giving his first and patronymic names but not his last name.
Ann said, “My fiancé is named Nikolai—Nicholas in English.”
He seemed not in the mood for any more coincidences. “Yes?”
She stared into his eyes until he turned away. She wondered why he was going to the Glen Cove weekend house instead of to East 67th Street. She said, “You are with the United Nations?”
He had ceased to be surprised at her questions. He nodded. “Yes, I am with the United Nations.” This time he did not look away but looked her over. He smiled, tentatively. After a few seconds, he said, “Will you be here long?”
She replied, “Perhaps.” Ann Kimberly reflected that there was little she didn’t know about the Soviet delegation to the UN. It was made up of about one-half legitimate foreign service people with their dependents, one-fourth foreign service people who had been co-opted by the KGB, and one-fourth hard-core KGB agents, with a smattering of GRU people—Soviet military intelligence staff.
Ann sat back in her seat and made eye contact with the young man again. He had none of the arrogance of a KGB man, nor the savoir faire of a foreign service man. She nodded to herself. He might be GRU, a military courier, strong, disciplined, wary, intelligent; he carried as much in his head as he did in the attaché case. Probably more. The paper in his case would be flash paper and would incinerate in a second, the stuff in his head could be destroyed as quickly with the cyanide pill he carried. He would be armed, but not with a conventional pistol. Some gadget out of the Fourteenth Department. She glanced at his attaché case again and thought, Whatever he is carrying, he is prepared to protect it with his life. She crossed her legs and put her head back.
The taxi came to a stop and the driver turned his head. “I think those fireworks drew a crowd up ahead.”
Ann replied, “I’ll walk from here.” She looked at the Russian. “It would be better to walk, Nikolai. I’ll show you the way.”
He looked anxiously at his watch and seemed to vacillate.
She prompted, “It’s faster. About five minutes to the Soviet delegation house. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”
He nodded, but made no move.
She smiled slowly, then shrugged. She took a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and put it on his attaché case.
He looked down at it.
Ann took her bag and attaché case and opened the curbside door, then looked back over her shoulder. She hesitated, then indulged herself in two impulses. She said, “You’re very good-looking, Nikolai Vasilevich. You should defect. The American women would faint over you.” She added, “Give my regards to Viktor Androv.” Ann winked at the gaping young man and left the taxi.
She moved up the line of slow-moving traffic, then crossed Dosoris Lane as a policeman held up traffic for her. Within a few minutes she came abreast of the gates to the Russian estate and peered up the drive at the guardhouse. She continued another few hundred yards and turned into the gates of Van Dorn’s estate.
She walked up to the parked car and the guard turned on his interior lights. She identified herself with her passport. Though her name was not on the guest list, he dimly remembered her and knew her sister, Katherine. He said, “I’m sorry I can’t drive you, Miss Kimberly. Should I radio for a car?”
“No, I’ll walk.” She hesitated, then said, “Has Nicholas West arrived yet?”
The guard scanned his typed list. “No, ma’am.”
She nodded, then turned toward the driveway. Nicholas was not at the Princeton Club, his office, or in his apartment. A duty officer at Langley had been vague. She was suspicious, but not in the way that lovers are suspicious.
She drew in a long breath of the warm night air as she climbed the driveway. She turned a bend and saw the big white house on the crest of the hill.
She had decided to take this sudden journey for a variety of reasons: Nick, Katherine’s phone calls, a Teletype message from O’Brien requesting a piece of sensitive information. But there was an element of intuition involved as well. Her job at the NSA station in Munich had been to snatch ethereal messages from the air and decipher them. Somehow, over the years, that technical skill had transcended itself to include an almost telepathic ability. She knew there was something in the air that needed deciphering now, and it wasn’t going to be a routine message.
53
The French doors leading to the side patio swung open, and George Van Dorn entered his study. He looked at Abrams, seeming more surprised at the white linen suit and sandals than at the bandaged foot, the abrasions on Abrams’ face, or the fact that he was alive.
Van Dorn nodded to Katherine, then addressed Abrams. “You wanted to see me?”
Abrams replied, “Possibly.”
Van Dorn had done enough debriefing to understand the psychological state of an agent just returned from a bad assignment. The attitude was often arrogant, taciturn, and insubordinate. Van Dorn said, “Sit down, Abrams. I’ll freshen your drink.”
“I’ll stand and I’ll pass on the drink.”
Van Dorn sat behind his desk. “How do you want to begin?”
“I’d like to begin by asking you if there should be anyone else present.”
“There should be, but he’s not available.”
Katherine said, “I know about Pat O’Brien.”
Van Dorn looked at her, but said nothing.
Abrams continued, “What I discovered is important. I want to be certain my report is going to reach
official channels.”
“You can be sure it won’t unless I think it should.”
Abrams replied, “How do I know you’re not one of them?”
“You don’t know. You do know I fit the Talbot profile, so your suspicion is justified.”
Abrams considered a moment, then responded, “I didn’t say you could be Talbot. I’ve already met Talbot.”
Van Dorn smiled. “Did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
Katherine interjected, “Tony, I think you can speak freely.”
Abrams said, “All right, I don’t have many options.”
Van Dorn didn’t seem particularly offended at having to be vouched for. He said to Abrams, “Pembroke filled me in about the train station. That was a desperate move on their part.” He added with a slight smile, “What did you do to piss them off, Abrams?”
Abrams replied, “I only did what your friend Evans asked me to do.” He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and opened it on Van Dorn’s desk. “This looks like gold.”
Van Dorn picked up a pinch of the metal scrapings. “It does. Good work. Window or door?”
“French door. What does this mean?”
Van Dorn ignored the question and asked his own. “Did they see you take this scraping?”
“No.”
“Then how did they get on to you? Lie detector?”
“They caught me snooping.”
Van Dorn nodded. “All right, what else did you find?”
“Well, I was told to check the outlets, radio and television sets, and the outside antenna.”
Van Dorn asked a few questions and made a few notes, then looked up. “Nice job, Abrams. Balls.” He glanced at Katherine. “Guts.” He said to Abrams, “But that’s not why they decided to murder you in the railroad underpass. What did you do, or see, that got them murderous?”
Abrams walked to the side wall, took a picture off its hook, and laid it on Van Dorn’s desk. He pointed to the image of Henry Kimberly as he stared at Van Dorn.
Van Dorn’s gaze went between Abrams’ face and the face in the picture, then back to Abrams, but he said nothing.