Katherine looked at Van Dorn. “George . . . what will happen afterward? After the EMP attack? I mean . . . if there’s no nuclear exchange . . . what happens next? Surrender? Occupation? What?”
“That’s rather negative thinking, Katherine.”
“Nonetheless,” said Abrams, “it’s a good question.”
Van Dorn glanced at Abrams, then at Katherine, and saw how things stood with them. He smiled, and Katherine seemed chagrined. Abrams tried to look impassive. Van Dorn walked to the wall safe and returned with a manila file folder. He opened it and extracted a sheaf of papers, laying them on the desk facing Abrams. “Can you read that?”
Abrams looked at the typed Cyrillic letters. He read, “‘A Report on the State’s Appropriation and Administration of the Garment Industry in New York.’” He looked at Van Dorn quizzically.
Van Dorn said, “Not in and of itself interesting reading. What’s interesting is the fact that such a report even exists.”
Katherine glanced at the thick file. “Where did you get this?”
Van Dorn allowed himself a smile. “From a local juvenile delinquent.” He explained about Stanley Kuchik and added, “The kid said there were dozens of file cabinets full of papers. If he had been able to read Russian, he might have grabbed something more interesting, perhaps their plans for the court and legal system . . . not that it matters.”
Abrams turned a few pages of the report. There was some element of coincidence here, he thought; his parents had been active in the garment workers’ movement, and they would have approved of this expropriation.
Van Dorn slid a few photographs out of the file and pushed them across the desk. “The kid takes pictures, too. These are the electrical panels in the basement. No real surprises there. But the CIA found it fascinating that we could get in and out of Ivan’s basement.” Van Dorn chuckled. “I didn’t tell them we came on these by pure chance.” He pushed another photo toward Abrams. “Do you recognize the fat one?”
Abrams nodded. “Androv. The so-called cultural affairs attaché.”
“Yes, and the man walking beside him has been identified as Valentin Metkov of the KGB’s Department Five. Murder Incorporated.”
Katherine stared at the faces in the photo. Androv looked so benign, and Metkov so sinister. But there seemed to be no correlation between how they looked and how they behaved.
Van Dorn continued, “Metkov is not a trigger man, he’s a high-ranking officer who directs mass liquidations. He’s worked in Poland, Afghanistan, the Soviet Republic of Lithuania—wherever the KGB has a free hand to deal with the enemies of the Soviet state. I never thought I’d see him in America. He is a harbinger of death.”
“Who’s a harbinger of death?”
Everyone turned toward the door as Ann Kimberly strode across the room. “Who’s a harbinger of death, George? Not me, I hope?”
There was an astonished silence, then Van Dorn said, “One of my neighbors, Valentin Metkov of Department Five, is planning to murder us all, Ann.”
“Well, George, you’ve been begging for it for years.” She smiled, “Hello, Kate. I guess I arrived at the right time. Is this your new boyfriend, Tony? Hello. Did I miss much? Get me a drink, will you, George? I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
55
Ann Kimberly sat on the edge of the coffee table with a bourbon in her hand. She said, “Do I sound like a suspicious fiancée? I feel a bit of a fool making the hop over to look for my boyfriend.”
Katherine, who was standing in front of her, replied, “No, it’s not foolish. Peter would disappear for weeks, but Nick’s job and his . . . his nature argue against his dropping out of sight.”
Van Dorn had little sensitivity for this female chatter. Nicholas West was among the most protected men in the nation. He said, “As a result of all that’s going on, the Company probably just pulled him in for his own protection. You’ll get word soon.”
Ann wanted to point out that she wasn’t some hysterical young girl; that she was the first person listed on Nicholas West’s contact sheet, and she was in the business. But she said instead, “Let’s get on to what’s on your minds.” She leaned forward. “Tell me all about it.”
Van Dorn exchanged a quick glance with Katherine, then Katherine turned to her sister and said, “The first thing I have to tell you is that our father is alive.”
Ann did not appear to react, but Abrams, standing to her side, saw her glass begin to slip from her hand before she clenched it tighter.
Katherine went on, “He’s next door, Ann. He’s a defector. A traitor.”
Ann said, “He is Talbot.”
Katherine replied, “He is Talbot.”
Ann nodded to herself thoughtfully, as though storing the information for some future reference. She said, “There are two others, you know.” She looked up at Van Dorn. “Did you get a telex from England a few hours ago?”
Van Dorn nodded. “From our contact in MI5.” He opened the file drawer of his desk and pulled out the deciphered message. He read, “‘In reply to your inquiry: Long-distance call from New York, routed through local exchange, Tongate, to Brompton Hall seven P.M. your time. Duration eight minutes. Call from Brompton Hall to New York at seven forty-three P.M. your time. Duration six minutes. Both calls, New York party at UN Plaza Hotel. Request further?’” Van Dorn looked up and said, “About fifteen minutes after the call was made from Brompton Hall, neighbors reported a fire.” He turned to Abrams. “I think I know what happened, but maybe you can try to reconstruct it. I’d feel better if I heard it from a cop.”
Abrams was not flattered at being asked to perform, but he said, “The person at the UN Plaza Hotel was James Allerton.” He saw Van Dorn nod. “Allerton would have liked to cover traces of those calls, but time was short and he was feeling a little nervous. So he took a chance no one would check. The time of his call to Brompton Hall corresponds to the time in New York when he could have first received the news about the diary and the Wingate letter. Probably from Thorpe, who got it from Katherine.” He kept his eyes fixed on Van Dorn.
Van Dorn said, “We’re not certain Allerton and Thorpe knew about each other. But the news did come to Allerton somehow as a result of Thorpe’s conversation with Katherine, and the timing is right. Go on.”
Abrams thought a moment, then said, “Allerton spoke for eight minutes to Lady Wingate or her nephew. He was probably trying to determine if his name was mentioned in the diary in any negative context.” Abrams paused, then went on, “This presupposes that Allerton believed the diary was real, though I’ve been told recently, it wasn’t.” He glanced at Katherine, then said to Van Dorn, “Allerton never knew he and Kimberly were on the same side of the fence—which is usually how these things work.”
Van Dorn nodded. “Allerton was badly frightened, which was the idea of the diary. Or, to use the other metaphor, the werewolf sensed danger, but unlike natural wolves he didn’t run from it, he ran at it.”
Abrams lit a cigarette and drew on it, then continued, “Allerton must have convinced Eleanor Wingate that he was working with Carbury, O’Brien, and Katherine, and that they were concerned about her safety, or something along those lines. Allerton was, of course, after the Photostat of the diary.”
Abrams watched the smoke rise from his cigarette. He was aware of the absolute stillness in the room. He was aware, too, that there was a startling contrast between the gentleman he had met at the OSS dinner and seen on television, and the man he was now describing; but that was the nature of the werewolf. Abrams said, “Allerton sent someone to Brompton Hall and so did O’Brien. The timing is close and it’s hard to say who got there first, but Eleanor Wingate let both of them in.” Abrams remembered a line from the letter and observed, “She must have been just as confused then as she had been in 1945, when two different men showed up at Brompton Hall on the identical mission of recovering Henry Kimberly’s papers.”
Van Dorn nodded again, “In any event, Allerton’s man murd
ered Eleanor Wingate, her nephew, and O’Brien’s man. He may have . . . interrogated them first and recovered the diary Photostat. Then he called Allerton and reported. Fifteen minutes after that call, the house went up in flames.” He looked at Abrams. “It’s reassuring that you’ve come to the same conclusions.” He added, “We couldn’t convict James Allerton on the evidence of the phone calls, but we can kill him.”
Abrams didn’t reply directly to the suggestion of homicide, but said, “And James Allerton is at this moment with the President at Camp David?”
Van Dorn laughed without humor. “I’m afraid so. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about.”
Ann said, “What do we have to worry about, George?”
“Lots of things. The third Talbot, for one thing. But I have no evidence that he’s even alive.” He looked at Ann.
She replied, “I think he is. But I’d rather not comment at this time. Before you tell me what else is on your mind, let me tell you that there has been no unusual radio traffic between Moscow and Washington, Manhattan, or Glen Cove. Very banal stuff going out on the air—administrative junk. Androv’s home leave has been approved, for instance. Low-level diplomatic codes, not much high-grade tricky stuff. I did a computer analysis, and it seems that whenever this phenomenon has occurred in the past—nearly every time between the Berlin blockade in 1948 and the present—it usually, but not always, means the bastards are up to something. We call it QBSHF: Quiet Before Shit Hits Fan.”
Van Dorn observed, “They haven’t been very quiet here.”
Ann continued, “Also, I caught a break tonight and shared a cab with the sexiest Russian I’ve ever laid eyes on.” She explained briefly, then added, “When I see an obviously high-level courier skulking around in a cab like that, his attaché case not handcuffed to him, trying to look unofficial, then I get a little suspicious. For two cents I would have mugged him.” She smiled. “But he looked tough. And not every courier is carrying the game plan for World War Three, is he?”
Van Dorn replied, “No, but I think this one was.”
“Well, had I known . . . but let’s hear it, then, George.”
“Right—” The phone rang and Van Dorn picked it up and listened. He gave his identification phrase, answered, and asked a few questions, then hung up shortly. He said, “Well, they wouldn’t give me much over an unsecured line, but they wanted me to know the alert status has been upgraded and the President has been informed.” He looked at the screen in front of the alcove. “They’ll telex encoded details later.” Van Dorn looked at Ann. “Well, are you in the mood for more bad news?”
“I thrive on it, George. Shoot.”
Abrams watched Ann Kimberly as Van Dorn gave her a background briefing. She asked a few questions and made a few succinct comments. Abrams saw she was quick, intelligent, and knowledgeable. She was also good-looking. Her coloring was like her sister’s, but her hair was shorter, and her body fuller. She was also, he knew, about three years older. Whereas Katherine radiated a sense of the outdoors, Ann looked as if she spent too much time in underground facilities, and what tan she had, he guessed, came from hickory-smoked bourbon.
As for personality, Ann Kimberly was somewhat more breezy and outgoing than her sister, and more prone to banter and profane observations. She had already told Van Dorn he’d gotten too heavy and that Kitty was looking for a lover, and suggested his parties were boring.
Also, she did not seem particularly worried as Van Dorn presented the news that America might come under attack at any moment; but Abrams could see she believed him.
He wondered how Ann Kimberly and Nicholas West ever got together and how they had stayed together. It struck him that Ann Kimberly and Peter Thorpe were more suited to each other than Thorpe and Katherine, at least on the surface.
Ann rattled the ice cubes in her glass and helped herself to the tray of hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table, as she carried on a fast dialogue with Van Dorn.
Van Dorn said, “Then the President can’t order a nuclear strike?”
“That’s right, George. The President would not have the ability to send out what’s called an Emergency Action Message, not after we’ve gotten an electronic lobotomy.” Ann stood and looked around the room, then said, “But I’ll give you all a piece of information classified Highest State Secret. The military foresaw this EMP problem and they’ve convinced the President that if any such complete blackout occurs, the lack of communications will be the signal to go. It’s called ALARM—Auto-Launch Response Mode. That’s even a quicker response than LAW—Launch on Warning.” She added, “The fucking military would have to speak English if they didn’t have their acronyms.” She took a deep breath and said, “To put it more poetically, the silent radios would, ironically, be the last call to arms.”
She looked at the three faces that were staring at her, and added, to be sure they understood, “A communications blackout equals a launch. Boom! Auf wiedersehen, world, as they say in merry old Germany.” She drained off her drink and held it out to Van Dorn. “A short one, George. Danke.”
Van Dorn took her glass and moved slowly to the bar.
Abrams looked at her, focusing on her eyes. At first he thought she was a little drunk, or mad, but then thought she just didn’t give a damn. But they made eye contact, and he saw she cared very much. It must be, he thought, the way her colleagues spoke of nuclear annihilation, as though they were discussing some past war, not the next one. Auf wiedersehen indeed. Not if he could help it.
Van Dorn said, “I assume the Russians know this.” He handed Ann her drink.
She held up her glass. “Here’s to good Kentucky whisky.” She tipped the glass back and took a swallow, then regarded Van Dorn. “Yes, they were told this. Otherwise what good would the threat be as a deterrent? But either they didn’t believe it, or they decided to take a goddamned shot at it anyway. Our nuclear response to an EMP blackout would be weakened, but not that weak. We have the subs and the European nukes.”
Ann walked to the French doors and looked up into the sky. The sheets of heat lightning had broken up into crackling bolts, and a wind was picking up off the sound. A distant thunder rolled into the quiet study. “God is trying to tip us off.”
She turned and faced the room. “Well, that’s the grim picture. You were worried about instant and total defeat, without a shot fired. Have no fear. We’ll get our nuclear war.” She stared down into her glass and swirled the amber liquor. “Classic case of underestimating your enemy’s will to fight back. Mass delusion in Moscow. Assholes.” She looked up. “So, all indications are that tomorrow’s sunbeams will shine through motes of nuclear debris.”
Van Dorn let out a long breath. “Maybe not. I assume the President is speaking to the Soviet Premier right now. If he lets them know that we’re on to them, they may call it off.”
Ann did not respond.
Van Dorn continued, “The President can inform the Soviets that he’s given all the nuclear forces the go-ahead to launch as soon as one of our missile-detecting satellites picks up a single Soviet launch.”
Ann was shaking her head. “They won’t see any launch, not from the Soviet Union, not from a Soviet sub, nor from anywhere.”
Van Dorn took a few steps toward her. “What do you mean? How are they going to detonate that nuclear device over the center of the United States?”
Ann replied, “Satellite, of course.”
Van Dorn was silent for a moment, then blurted, “Damn it! Of course—”
Ann went on, “It’s simplicity itself. Tumbling now through the black voids are thousands of satellites of every sort and description, passing freely across the unprotected frontiers of space. One type of Soviet satellite is called Molniya, which aptly enough means lightning. There are dozens of these fairly innocuous Molniya communications satellites crisscrossing North America every day. One of these Molniya satellites is of particular interest to my people at the National Security Agency. Molniya Number Thirty-six.”
/> Ann walked away from the French doors and sat on the edge of Van Dorn’s desk. She continued, “Molniya Thirty-six was launched from the Soviet rocket base at Plesetsk about a year ago. It has a highly elliptical orbit with an apogee of about twenty-five thousand miles—way out there—and a perigee of only four hundred miles. The ostensible reason for this highly unusual orbit is to prolong communications sessions, which is partly true. But with an orbit like that, it is also conveniently out of range of our snooping satellites and our killer satellites for a good deal of its journey. Its twenty-five-thousand-mile apogee is somewhere over Lake Baikal in central Siberia.” She added, almost offhandedly, “Its four-hundred-mile perigee is over America—around Nebraska, to be exact.”
No one spoke, and Ann walked back to the coffee table, picking up the nearly empty tray of hors d’oeuvres. She said, “My people at the NSA have determined by electronic means that there is not the normal load of communication equipment on board Molniya Thirty-six. Deduction: The extra space is filled with something else. To wit: a few pounds of enriched plutonium.” She picked out a piece of smoked salmon and ate it. “Molniya Thirty-six is most probably what we call an SOB—a satellite orbital bomb. SOB’s are outlawed by a 1966 UN treaty, but I guess Ivan lost his copy of it.”
She searched through the tray again and found another smoked salmon. “Good food, George. Do you still have that crazy Nazi working for you?”
Van Dorn replied in a distracted tone, “He’s not a Nazi. He’s a German Jew.”
“I thought he was an old SS man.”
“No, he pretended to be one. Look, Ann, are you sure—”
Abrams interrupted. “What’s the orbit time of this Molniya?” He pronounced it with the proper Russian accent and Ann glanced at him. She answered, “Well, that’s the good news. The orbiting time around the earth is long—twelve hours and seventeen minutes, give or take a few minutes.” She looked down into her glass and shook the ice cubes, then drank the remainder of the bourbon. “The bad news is that I don’t recall offhand when it’s due over Nebraska again.” She handed Van Dorn her glass. “Very light this time. Mostly soda.”