Van Dorn took her glass and made another trip to the bar. He said over his shoulder, “Well, we can find out, I’m sure.”
“No problem. Do you have a computer terminal yet?”
“No, I never got beyond the telex.”
“Oh, George.” Ann picked up Van Dorn’s phone as she took her drink from him with her other hand. “I think I can get through to Fort Meade.” She cradled the receiver on her shoulder and hit the push buttons.
Abrams watched. He’d never seen a twenty-one-digit phone number before. Ann went through an identification procedure of some length. Abrams remembered that someone had once said the National Security Agency was so secret that congressmen said NSA stood for No Such Agency.
Ann got someone on the phone whom she seemed to know. “Yes, Bob, this is Ann Kimberly. I’m in New York, and I need some information. Do you have your little computer in front of you?”
Abrams had also been told that there were fourteen acres of computers at the NSA facility beneath Fort Meade, so the chances of Bob having one in front of him were good.
Ann said, “No, this phone is not secure. But I only want some very low-classification stuff. Okay . . . ?” She nodded to the people in the room, then said into the receiver, “Punch up the Molniya series.” She waited, then continued, “Okay, I need Molniya Thirty-six. Got it? Now I need Molniya’s perigee time and place.” She listened, then said, “Okay . . . okay, Bob. Thanks. . . . No, just playing trivia here. Right. See you.” She hung up and looked at the three people staring at her. She said, “You don’t want to know.”
Van Dorn replied gruffly, “I damn sure want to know.”
Ann looked at her watch, which Abrams took as a bad sign. He wondered if she was looking at the minute hand or the second hand. She raised her head and spoke. “Molniya Thirty-six is traveling in a southwesterly direction, descending now from its apogee, toward earth. Perigee time over Blair, Nebraska, a small town about twenty miles north of Omaha, is 12:06 A.M., Eastern Daylight Time, 11:06 P.M. Central Time, which is, in any case . . . ninety-six minutes from now.” She stared out the bay window, as though, thought Abrams, she was looking for it.
Katherine said, “They may wait for the next orbit. . . .”
“Not likely,” said Van Dorn. “Even Russkies don’t like to sit in the basement for twelve hours.”
Abrams added, “If their mission offices don’t open for business as usual, and the delegation doesn’t show up at the UN tomorrow morning, it would look a little suspicious. No, they’re going for it tonight. This orbit.”
Katherine suddenly blurted, “Those bastards!” She looked at Van Dorn. “We’re partly responsible for this. We should have done more, or done nothing. But we’ve committed ourselves, so we must see it to its end.”
Van Dorn stayed motionless for some time, then said softly, “Yes, I agree. I didn’t intend to let it go with a few phone calls, Kate. We’ll deal directly with the situation next door.” He picked up the telephone and dialed the kitchen, where one of the staff picked up. “Find Marc Pembroke and get him to my study. Immediately.”
Van Dorn put down the receiver and looked at each person. “We may or may not be able to stop this ticking clock, but, by God, there’s no reason why we can’t indulge ourselves in some personal revenge.” He cocked his head toward the window. “Tonight is their last night, too.”
George Van Dorn looked at Ann Kimberly. “All right?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think it matters much if one meets one’s end from a small-caliber bullet or a large nuclear fireball. When you’re dead, you’re dead a long time anyway. If you’ve got a gun, I’ve brought my trigger finger.”
Van Dorn looked at Abrams.
Abrams had a distaste for vigilantism, partly professional, partly cultural. He said, “I’m sure they’re prepared to withstand one hell of an onslaught.”
Van Dorn smiled grimly. “Pembroke and I have already drawn up some plans for an attack.”
Abrams found that odd but not incredible. He tried another tack. “What if it isn’t tonight? How do we explain why we attacked a diplomatic facility and shot up the Soviet Mission to the United Nations?”
Ann replied, “Look, we’re proposing a preemptive strike, not an unprovoked act of aggression.”
Van Dorn plucked at his heavy jowl, then said, “Abrams, if your objections are more practical than moral, please rest assured on that point. We may be amateur spies, but we’re professional soldiers. In fact, I happen to have an eighty-one-millimeter mortar out back.”
Abrams’ eyes widened.
Van Dorn smiled almost sheepishly. “We can level that goddamned house in about ten minutes, then go in and mop up.”
Abrams stared at him.
Van Dorn added, “As fate would have it, my three pyrotechnicians tonight have some mortar training.”
Abrams thought fate had little to do with it. He rubbed his forehead. When this was amateur spying, it was strange enough. Now that it had turned into a discussion of infantry tactics, it had become alarming. The image formed in his mind of the little Russian girl clutching her doll. Katerina and Katya. Where are you going, Katerina? Down to the basement. He shook his head and looked at Van Dorn. “There are women and children in that basement.”
Van Dorn let out a long breath. He spoke softly, almost gently. “There are women and children all over America. If you want to talk about women and children, try to expand your imagination to picture the results of a nuclear war.”
Abrams replied somewhat irritably, “Massacring those people will not prevent any of that.” He added, “If there is an EMP attack, your mortar will still work. Why don’t you hold off until you see what happens at midnight?”
Van Dorn began to reply, but the phone rang and he picked it up. He listened, then said, “Yes, he’s right here.” He held out the receiver to Abrams. “Captain Spinelli.”
Abrams looked somewhat surprised as he took the receiver. He spoke into the mouthpiece. “What’s up, Dom?”
Spinelli replied, “Still partying, Abrams? Well, just a wrap-up on the evening news.”
“I don’t have any news.”
“I do.”
Abrams picked up the telephone and trailed the cord away from the desk toward the fireplace, and turned his back on the three people. He could hear them begin talking in low voices. Abrams said, “Where are you?”
“At the Nineteenth.”
Abrams spoke in a soft tone. “All right, what is it?” he asked without much interest.
“I’ve got a follow-up on that note you left with my man at the Thirty-sixth Street town house.”
Abrams replied, “Oh, right, the Lombardy. That was just a long shot. I didn’t think Thorpe would leave anything lying around. It’s a CIA safe house and other people use it—”
“It’s not a CIA safe house, and nobody else uses it but Thorpe. Thorpe put out that CIA bullshit to cover his ass.”
Abrams said to Spinelli, “So what did you find, Sherlock? Radios, ciphers, Russian tea, and a signed copy of Das Kapital?”
“Well, radios anyway. Listen, we couldn’t get a court order so I called Henly, the CIA liaison here, and fast-talked him. We went to the Lombardy and busted the fucking door down with fire axes. Christ, what a setup this clown has. At the top of a narrow staircase, on the third floor, there was a big black door made out of some synthetic. It was resilient, like rubber. We whacked away at it for about ten minutes. Henly had a hard-on, he was so sure he was going to find something weird behind that door. But the door wouldn’t give. I had to call Emergency Service, who finally blew it with a half kilo of plastic.”
Abrams heard Spinelli lighting a cigar. “And . . . ?”
Spinelli said, “There was this huge attic room that looked like a cross between the flight deck of the Enterprise and the Marquis de Sade’s rec room. There was a trail of blood all over the white tile floor leading to a walk-in refrigerator—like they have in butcher shops. But there wasn’t prosc
iutto hanging in there. No, sir, this sucker is running a holding morgue.”
Abrams glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the three were still deep in conversation and apparently not paying attention to him. He said softly, “Who was in there?”
Spinelli drew a long breath. “Some bad stuff in there, Tony. Three—count ’em: One, the missing Randolph Carbury, skull rearranged with our old friend the blunt instrument. Two, a middleaged woman identified by the Frog concierge as the housekeeper, apparent bullet wound right eye, exit rear right ear. And number three, Nicholas West, tortured, cause of death unknown. You still there?”
Abrams nodded several times, then cleared his throat. “Yes . . . yes . . .”
“Good. Now we’re looking for Mr. Peter Thorpe. Any ideas?”
“No . . . well, maybe. He could be next door here.”
Spinelli let out a whistle. “Well, that’s it for the NYPD.” Spinelli paused, then said, “I think the CIA wants to take it from here anyway.”
“Listen, Dom. . . . Good work. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem, Abrams. I owe you. For what, I don’t know, but I’ll pay you back. What’s that wine you drink?”
“Villa Banfi Brunello di Montalcino, seventy-eight vintage. Go home, Dom. Seriously. Go home.” Abrams hung up and turned around.
Van Dorn looked up from the conversation. “Anything for us, Abrams?”
Abrams put the telephone back on the desk. He hesitated, then said, “The police and the CIA went into Thorpe’s apartment and found Colonel Carbury’s body in a food locker up in the attic.”
Katherine put her hand over her mouth and sank into a chair.
Van Dorn’s voice was low and angry, “That son of a bitch. Wait until I get my hands on that—”
Ann interrupted, “Oh, don’t take it personally, George. Peter has nothing personal against any of us. He’s just bonkers.” She looked at her sister. “Sorry, Kate. I should have warned you.”
“You did. I wasn’t listening.”
Ann turned back to Abrams. “What else did your police friend say?” She held Abrams’ eyes for a few seconds and Abrams understood that she understood. Ann turned away.
Abrams said, “The police and CIA are looking for Thorpe, of course. I told them to try next door.”
Van Dorn snorted, “If Thorpe is there, he’s home free. All the more reason to blow the place up.” Van Dorn lit a cigar stub.
Katherine stood and drew a long breath. She said, “No, George. I agree with Tony that we can’t do that.” She turned to Abrams. “But we absolutely must get into that house. There may be something we can do there to stop this . . .” She hesitated, then said, “My father is in there . . . Peter may be in there . . . I think a personal confrontation—not an artillery barrage—is more in keeping with the spirit of our group.”
Van Dorn said nothing.
Ann added, “As a practical and professional matter, I’d like to get my hands on that communications equipment. That may be the key to shut down their operation.” She turned to Van Dorn. “No artillery, George. We go in there mano a mano.”
Van Dorn nodded. “All right. . . .”
Katherine put her hand on Abrams’ arm. “All right?”
Abrams didn’t think a choice between a mortar barrage and a commando raid was much of a choice, but he could see the point in the latter. He said, “Look, you don’t need my approval. Go ahead. Put a bullet in Androv’s fat belly if you can. But for God’s sake, leave Mr. Van Dorn here on the telephone to try to head off this EMP blast.”
Van Dorn drew heavily on his cigar, then spoke. “I won’t waste time by making a show of telling you I won’t send my people where I wouldn’t go myself. During the war I sent hundreds of men and women out to meet their fate without me. Everyone has a job. Mine tonight is to stay here by the phone and the telex. And to hell with anyone who thinks badly of me.”
Ann put her arms around Van Dorn’s huge shoulders. “Oh, George, no one will think badly of you. If we fail next door, they’ll come here and shoot you anyway.”
Van Dorn smiled grimly as he stepped away from Ann and patted the holster under his pocket. “In 1945 I had a shoot-out with two KGB goons in the Soviet sector of Vienna. We all missed. I won’t miss this time.”
Ann smiled. “Well, George, it’s never too late in life to redeem yourself.” She added, “I’m going next door, of course, because I can work their communications equipment.” She turned to Katherine. “You’re going because you must.” Ann looked at Abrams.
Abrams shrugged. “I’m going because I’ve got a screw loose.”
Katherine smiled at him. “And your Russian is good, and you know the layout.”
Ann said to Van Dorn, “You ought to break up this boring party, George.”
Van Dorn shook his head. “Can’t. That would look suspicious. The invites said until one A.M., and my neighbors somehow have access to that sort of information.” He thought a moment, then added, “I’d like to keep them all here anyway.”
Van Dorn looked at Katherine. “What do you carry?”
She nodded toward her bag. “Browning automatic, forty-five caliber.”
Van Dorn reached into his pocket and produced the silver-plated .45-caliber bullet. “This is melodramatic, I know . . . but we were young then and given to theatrics. Nevertheless, the bullet is real.”
She took it without a word and held it in her clenched hand.
Ann said, “Well, George, if we’re not back by the time the lights go out, I trust you won’t hesitate to fire your artillery.”
“If I don’t see you back here, or hear from you, EMP attack or not, by midnight, I’ll let loose with the mortar.” He looked at the three people. “All right?”
Everyone nodded.
There was a knock on the door and it opened. Marc Pembroke walked in.
Ann smiled at him. “You’re looking fit, Marc. Fit enough to do a job?”
“Oh . . . hello, Ann. Long time.” He turned to Van Dorn. “Tonight, is it?”
“Right.” Van Dorn glanced at Abrams, then said to Pembroke, “There are children in the basement. They’re innocent, of course. There are also women and diplomatic staff down there. Exercise some judgment.”
Pembroke nodded. “A complication but not a problem. When do we shove off?”
Van Dorn looked at his watch. “Can you get ready in thirty minutes?”
“No, but I will.”
“Then gather your people and my people, and bring them here.”
“I’ll fetch them now.” Pembroke turned.
Van Dorn called out, “One more thing. It’s time to settle some old scores, right here in this house. As we discussed.”
Pembroke nodded and left quickly.
Van Dorn went behind his desk and picked up the telephone. He looked at the three people in the room as he dialed, and said, “In the last war, radar gave you as much as an hour’s warning. Today, they’re happy with fifteen minutes. I’ve given them a few hours. I hope to God they’ve been using the time constructively.” He spoke into the receiver. “Hello, Van Dorn here. We’ve gone through fire and through water.” He began speaking to the person on the other end.
Abrams walked over to the wall where the pictures hung in neat rows, and stared at them. Katherine came up beside him. She said, “We’ve actually had about forty years’ warning, haven’t we?”
Abrams didn’t reply.
She said softly, “We haven’t even gotten to know each other yet.”
He glanced at her. “We have a rendezvous for breakfast tomorrow. The Brasserie.”
She smiled. “Don’t be late.” She turned and walked back to her sister.
Abrams continued looking at the pictures, but his eyes were not focused on them. He thought that in many ways events had come full circle. He remembered his parents and their friends meeting in mean rooms, plotting and planning for the day when the workers would throw off their chains. He thought of George Van Dorn exchanging gu
nfire with the future enemy in the streets of Vienna. He contemplated the personality of James Allerton, a half century or more in the service of a foreign power, making him perhaps the country’s longest-enduring traitor. He reflected on the Kimberly diary, and Arnold Brin’s message, and other dead messages, and dead files, and dead matter from the living and the dead; and he thought that somehow the dead past had returned to bury the living and the unborn.
BOOK VII
BOOK VIITHE ASSAULT
56
Claudia Lepescu moved quickly down the narrow path that cut diagonally across the face of the cliff. Above, on Van Dorn’s wide lawn, she heard a man shout to her in a British accent. One of Marc Pembroke’s men.
She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and continued down the dark path, faster now, yet fearful she would fall off the ledge. Behind her, she heard two sets of footsteps enter the path.
Claudia reached the bottom of the incline and ran down the laurel-covered slope, picking up speed until she stumbled and fell. The pursuing men heard her cry out and headed toward her. She sprang to her feet and continued until she came to the stockade fence.
Claudia put her palms against the fence and breathed deeply as she stared up at the jagged points of the pickets, silhouetted against the sky like dragon’s teeth. She turned and rested her back against the fence.
The gusting north wind rustled the branches around her, and dark feathery clouds raced across the white face of the moon. To the northeast a bolt of lightning lit up the sky and she saw the shapes of the two men standing motionless in the distance. One of them called out, “Claudia! We won’t hurt you! Claudia—” A roll of thunder shook the ground beneath her feet and drowned out his words.
She turned and moved unsteadily along the wooden wall, but there seemed to be no way through it. She had been told she could climb the fence from this side because of the horizontal braces nailed to the upright pickets, but the fence was nearly twice as tall as she, and it didn’t seem possible. Behind her, she heard footsteps in the loose gravelly soil.