One of the Russians shouted, “Stop! Halt! Surrender!”
Stanley yelled back in a steady voice, “Up yours!”
The Russians released the dogs, and Stanley turned on his last burst of energy and speed. Both dogs lunged, but overshot him, reeled, and came back. Stanley hit the mound running, then jumped. His momentum took him up and forward, and he smashed into the fence but got his arms around the top of the pickets. The dogs leaped at him and one of them got hold of his sneaker. He kicked free. A Russian shouted, “Stop! Stop! We shoot!”
Stanley yelled back, “Sit on it, schmucko!” He pulled himself up and over the pointed pickets, hung for a moment, then dropped to the ground below, tumbling onto the rocky soil. American soil. End of game.
Stanley stood, turned, and began trotting away from the fence, laughing then crying, and finally howling in the moonlight and dancing. “I made it! I made it!” He jumped into the air and clapped his hands. “Stanley, you are the best!”
He tightened the flag around his waist and began trotting, then something impelled him to turn back toward the fence. The jagged pickets were silhouetted against the evening sky, and atop the ones he’d just scaled, he could see the moonlit shape of a large man coming over the top. “Oh, no! You can’t do that! Back! Stop! Halt! Nyet! Nyet! Private property! America!” Stanley turned and began moving as fast as his leaden legs would carry him.
The terrain was fairly open here except for a few white birches and boxwoods. Elongated moon shadows lay over the fields of wild flowers and Stanley tried to stay in those shadows. The ground rose, gently at first, then more steeply, then it became almost a cliff. “What the hell . . . ?” He started slipping in some sort of goo. Clay. White clay. The Long Island terrain was mostly flat and benign, but there were parts of the island on the North Shore that had been formed by the Ice Age glaciers’ terminal moraine, some fifteen thousand years ago, and this was one of those areas. And it was screwing him up. There were loose rocks, gravel, and this strange, slippery white clay, which, thought Stanley, was like dog turd. He realized very soon that he had picked the wrong spot to reach Van Dorn’s broad lawn.
He heard them again, but without the dogs. He guessed they had helped one another over the fence; at least five of them anyway. The biggest lard-ass stayed behind with the dogs. He wondered what was driving them on. He was running for his life. How much could they pay these guys?
They weren’t calling to him anymore, but he could hear them walking, not behind him but off to the west about forty yards. “Bastards.”
Stanley summoned up the last of his strength and began kicking toeholds in the resilient white clay, clawing at it with his fingertips. “I’ll sue them. I’ll tell Van Dorn . . . they’re trespassing on American property. Fucking nerve . . .”
He heard footsteps pattering on the side of the cliff to his left. They had found a path and were moving rapidly up on it. “Oh . . .” Directly below, about fifteen feet down the cliff, he heard something, and looked back. In the moonlight he saw a Russian who had been placed there to stop him from escaping by sliding back down. The man was holding what looked like a gun, and he was smiling up at Stanley; a very ugly smile, Stanley thought.
Stanley hung on the side of the nearly vertical rise and felt tears forming in his eyes as he realized that, after all this crap, he wasn’t going to make it.
6
A few cars behind Karl Roth’s deli van, a gray chauffeur-driven limousine also edged through the traffic on Dosoris Lane.
Katherine Kimberly, sitting in the rear, regarded the young Englishman at the opposite end of the long seat. Marc Pembroke was undeniably good-looking, though in a slightly sinister way. He possessed all the charm and breeding of his class, but also its cynicism and affected indifference. She remarked, “It ought to open up a bit once we get past the Russian place.”
Pembroke replied politely, “It’s just as well Mr. O’Brien didn’t come with us. At his age the flu can lead to complications.”
“He has a cold.” Katherine thought she detected a tone suggesting that Patrick O’Brien, senior partner in the law firm in which she was a partner, had simply begged off. She studied Pembroke for a moment. He was dressed in a white flannel pinstripe suit, a straw slouch hat, white silk shirt, and red silk tie with matching pocket handkerchief. He wore black-and-white saddle shoes. He might, thought Katherine, have been on his way to one of the surrounding mansions to play a role in a 1920s movie. She didn’t think George Van Dorn would appreciate such foppishness. Yet, in some indefinable way, Pembroke still radiated a hard masculinity. She said, “Mr. O’Brien is usually in excellent health. Last May Day he parachuted from a helicopter and landed on George’s tennis court.” She smiled.
Pembroke stared at the blond-haired woman. She was extremely pretty. She wore a finely cut simple mauve dress that complemented her pale complexion. Her sandals were on the floor, and he noticed her feet were callused, and he remembered that she was an amateur marathon runner.
Pembroke glanced at her profile. She had what they called in the army a command presence. He had heard she was rather good in the courtroom, and he could easily believe it.
She looked up and their eyes met. She did not turn demurely away, as women are taught to do, but stared at him in the same way he was staring at her. Finally he said, “May I give you a drink?”
“Please.”
Pembroke looked at the attractive young couple in the facing jump seats. Joan Grenville was dressed in white slacks with a navy blue boat-neck top. Her husband, Tom, wore a blue business suit of the type favored by his law firm, O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose, for its employees. Pembroke, who was not an employee, wondered if Tom Grenville intended to make points with Van Dorn, a senior partner in the firm, and wear the depressing thing the entire weekend. Pembroke said, “May I give either of you a drink?”
Joan Grenville replied, “If you’re giving, I’m taking.”
Tom Grenville forced a smile and said to Pembroke, “My wife only understands Manhattan idiom.”
“Really?”
Grenville said, “I’ll make the drinks. Scotch all around?” He busied himself at the small bar.
Joan Grenville addressed Katherine in a petulant voice. “We should have gone in the helicopter with Peter.”
Katherine replied, “Even by helicopter, Peter will undoubtedly manage to arrive late.”
Marc Pembroke smiled at her. “That’s no way to speak of your betrothed.”
Katherine realized she had been a bit too candid, and that Pembroke was baiting her. She replied, “Actually I usually arrive too early, then accuse him of being late.”
“The Theory of Time’s Relativity,” said Pembroke, “was first discovered by watching men and women waiting for each other.”
No, thought Katherine, not baited, but led, and she wasn’t going to be led by this charmingly cunning man. She said, “Temperature, too, is relative. Men are usually too warm when a woman feels comfortable. Why don’t you take off your jacket?”
“I prefer to leave it on.”
And with good reason, she thought. She had spotted the pistol.
The limousine moved up a few feet. Grenville handed the drinks around. “We may be the only people in the country celebrating—what is it called?—Loyalty Day. It’s also International Law Day, or something.” He sucked on an ice cube. “Well, most of us at Van Dorn’s will be lawyers, and most of us are loyal, so I suppose it’s fitting.” He bit into his ice cube.
Joan winced. “Don’t do that. God, what a horrid weekend this is going to be. Why does Van Dorn make such a spectacle of himself?” She looked at Marc Pembroke.
Pembroke smiled. “I understand that Mr. Van Dorn never misses an opportunity to make his next-door neighbors uncomfortable.”
Joan Grenville finished her Scotch in a long swallow, then said to no one in particular, “Is he going to blare those speakers toward their estate again? God, what a headache I get.”
Tom Grenville lau
ghed. “You can imagine the headache they get.”
Katherine said, “It’s all rather petty. George lowers himself by doing this.”
Joan Grenville nodded in agreement. “He’s going to do it again, isn’t he? Memorial Day, I mean. Then again on July Fourth. Oh, Tom, let’s be out of town. I can’t stand all this flag-waving, martial music, fireworks, and whatnot. It’s not fun, really.” She turned to Marc Pembroke again. “The English wouldn’t behave like this, would they? I mean, you’re civilized.”
Pembroke crossed his legs and looked closely at Joan Grenville. She stared back at him and the first smile of the evening broke across her face. They held eye contact for several seconds, then Joan reiterated, “I mean, are you civilized or not?”
Pembroke rubbed his lower lip, then replied, “Only recently, I think. Are you staying the weekend?”
The sudden shift in subject caught her off guard. “No . . . I mean, yes. We may. And you?”
He nodded.
Tom Grenville seemed not to notice the currents passing between his wife and the Englishman as he made himself another drink. There was a sharp knock on the window of the stopped vehicle and Grenville lowered it. A helmeted policeman peered in and asked, “Van Dorn’s or the Russians’?”
“Van Dorn’s,” answered Grenville. “Don’t we look like capitalists?”
“You all look the same to me, buddy. Pull out on the shoulder and go around this mess.”
Grenville instructed the driver through the intercom and the limousine pulled out of the line of traffic and moved slowly on the shoulder.
Before they came to the main entrance of the Russian estate, they passed the YMCA, whose enclosed tennis courts as well as a few other buildings had once been part of Killenworth. Grenville said to his wife, “That’s where the FBI headquarter themselves. The CIA uses the Glengariff Nursing Home up the road.”
“Who cares?” replied Joan.
Marc Pembroke said, “How do you know that?”
Grenville shrugged. “Local lore.”
The limousine drew abreast of the main gates to the Russian estate, moving very slowly through the police cars and motorcycles. Katherine thought there must be at least a hundred people picketing, led by the mayor of Glen Cove, Dominic Parioli, holding a huge bullhorn and wearing an Uncle Sam top hat.
Tom Grenville inclined his head toward the demonstrators. “About a fourth of them are FBI agents, with a few CIA, plus some county and state undercover police. Not to mention a KGB spy or two. If it weren’t for all the double agents, Parioli couldn’t muster ten people.” He chuckled softly.
The demonstrators started singing “America,” the police were trying to get the vehicles through the crowd, and rockets were bursting overhead. In the distance, Van Dorn’s speakers could be heard now, also blaring out “America.”
A separate group of demonstrators, made up of members of the Jewish Defense League and Soviet Jewish emigrés, was shouting anti-Soviet slogans, in Russian, through a loudspeaker aimed at the estate house. A group from the local high school was baiting a few grim-looking uniformed Russian guards through the fence.
Joan Grenville finally spoke. “I wish to God everyone would just calm down. This makes me nervous.”
Her husband replied, “We’ll be past here in a minute.”
Katherine responded, “I think Joan was speaking in a larger sense. This makes me nervous too.”
Pembroke nodded and put his drink on the bar. He said, “I think I hear war drums.”
7
Stanley Kuchik hung on to the side of the rising cliff. He didn’t think he could climb another inch, yet he refused to let himself slide down into the arms of the Russian below. Overhead, he heard people walking. He took a long breath and continued up the slippery incline, hardly conscious of what he was doing.
Suddenly, he tumbled onto the narrow footpath. It was several seconds before he realized where he was and was able to take in his surroundings. The first thing he saw was feet and legs. Legs coming up the path toward him, and legs coming down the path toward him. He was trapped. He wondered what they would do to him.
A voice said, “What the hell are you doing here? This is private property.”
Stanley started to reply, then realized the man had spoken in good American English. A man down the path responded breathlessly, “We chase this thief. He steals from us.”
The American said, “What the hell did he steal?”
Stanley raised himself into a sitting position. Two men, Americans, were standing about five feet off to his left on the narrow footpath. Four Russians stood in Indian file about ten feet to his right down the sloping path. The first, a young, hard-looking man dressed in a brown uniform, spoke in an angry voice. “He steals flag. He spies on diplomatic property.”
“Oh, bullshit. Spies, my ass. All you people think about is spies.”
“He has flag. You see?”
Stanley instinctively moved one hand to the knotted flag around his waist. His other hand moved toward his knife.
The American who was speaking answered brusquely, “I don’t see any flag.”
Stanley looked at the American. He was dressed in a suit and was kind of old, with white hair and heavy jowls. Stanley thought it might be Van Dorn himself. No one spoke or moved for a while. Stanley got his fingers around the handle of his knife.
The second American, a young man with blond hair and dressed in a white suit, squeezed around the older man and knelt beside Stanley. He spoke. “Hello. My name is Marc. What’s yours?”
Stanley stared up at him. He wasn’t American after all. Maybe English. He answered, “Stanley.”
“Stanley, that’s quite an outfit you’re wearing.”
Stanley looked the Englishman up and down and wanted to say Look who’s talking, but replied, “Camouflage.”
“So I see. Your face is not naturally green, is it? Are you all right?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, don’t be frightened. You’re safe now.”
Stanley looked at the larger Russian force and nodded dubiously. He said very softly, “They have guns.”
Marc Pembroke nodded and whispered, “I’m sure they do. So just take your hand off that knife. It won’t do any good, you know. We’ll have to talk our way out of this one.”
Stanley did as he was told.
Pembroke said in a normal voice, “Is that a Russian flag around your waist?” He smiled slightly.
The boy nodded.
“Where did you get it, Stanley?”
“From their flagpole.”
Pembroke’s smile widened. “You don’t say.”
The older man moved closer and said gruffly, “You stole that from their flagpole?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you old enough to drink, kid? I’ll buy you a drink.”
“No, sir. Thank you.”
The lead Russian spoke impatiently. “We take flag. We call FBI. This is federal offense.”
Van Dorn reached his hand down and helped Stanley to his feet. “It’s up to you, kid. You want to keep the flag?”
Stanley seemed surprised that he had any say in the matter. “Well . . . I . . .”
Pembroke spoke softly to Van Dorn. “He really can’t keep it, George.”
“Why not?” bellowed Van Dorn. “He stole it. It’s his. That’s what American capitalism is all about.” Van Dorn laughed at his own inanity.
Pembroke looked annoyed. “Don’t be an ass, George. Enough is enough. Be a good neighbor, now.”
“Fuck them.” He rubbed his heavy jowls in thought, then said, “Tell you what, though. I’ll show you all how Communism works. Give me your knife, kid. We’ll cut the goddamned flag into seven pieces and give everyone a piece to wipe their ass with.” He laughed.
Stanley knew better than to go for his knife. Old Van Dorn, he thought, was a weird dude. Stanley looked at the group of Russians, who appeared a little closer now. Stanley thought they looked pretty mad, like
they were going to do something. Stanley wished that Van Dorn would shut up and let the Englishman do the talking.
Van Dorn said to the Russians, “You’re trespassing on my property. You understand that we have private property in this country? Beat it.”
The tall Russian out front took a step forward and shook his head. “We take flag. Hold boy here. Call FBI.”
“Try it,” said Van Dorn.
There was a long silence, then Marc Pembroke unknotted the flag and pulled it from Stanley’s waist. “Sorry, lad, it is theirs.” Pembroke made a movement to throw it up to them, then held it out. The tall Russian in uniform came up the narrow trail and stopped a few feet from Stanley and stared at the boy.
Stanley stared back and noticed that the Russian’s uniform was tattered, dirty, and covered with burrs. Stanley smiled.
The Russian snatched the flag from Pembroke’s hand and yanked it past Stanley’s face, brushing him. Pembroke pulled the boy away. “All right, incident closed. It was only a prank. We’ll take care of punishing the boy.”
The tall Russian seemed to grow bolder. “We wait here. Boy stays here. We call FBI.”
Pembroke shook his head. “We go, chaps. With boy. I apologize on behalf of the citizens of Glen Cove, the American people, and Her Majesty’s government. Now leave.”
Van Dorn, who had stayed uncharacteristically silent, added in a low, threatening tone. “Get off my property.” He raised both arms and leveled a huge, long-barreled revolver at the tall Russian. He cocked the hammer. “Next time . . . if you cross that fence again . . . bring pallbearers along. You have ten seconds to turn around. Nine, eight . . .”
No one moved. Then the tall Russian said to Van Dorn, “Capitalist swine!”
“Seven, six . . .” Van Dorn fired. Everyone fell to the ground except Van Dorn. The echo of the gun’s blast died away and the night was still.