Pembroke and Llewelyn jumped down from the van, administered the coup de grace to the Russians with a single shot to their heads, then dragged them into the trees. Sutter helped them right the Lambretta and roll it through the tree line. The three men jumped back in the van. “Move out.”
Roth put the van in gear and the wheels crunched slowly through the gravel.
Ann broke the silence. “I suppose we couldn’t have let them go past.”
Pembroke regarded her for a moment. “No, they were going right for the guardhouse.”
She said, “We could have captured them.”
Pembroke replied curtly, “We’re running a bit late.”
Llewelyn added, “That was a break to run into them. There’ll be other guard posts put out of business tonight and we don’t want a mobile officer of the guard running about checking his posts.”
Ann didn’t reply.
Pembroke said to her, “This is new to you, I know. Later, if things don’t work out for us, you’ll wish we’d taken a few more with us. This is a bloody awful business. But it is a business.”
The van completed the final turn in the rising S-curved drive and the Russian mansion came into view, silhouetted against the turbulent sky. A few windows were lit on the first and second floors, and all the attic gables were lit. Pembroke remarked, “Ivan is working late tonight.”
Sutter turned from the rear-door windows and said, “We’ll put their lights out and lay them down to sleep.”
Pembroke nodded, then said, “How are you holding up, Karl?”
Roth drew a deep breath and nodded, but said nothing. He glanced at his dashboard clock and wondered when they would begin dying of the poison. He hoped it was soon.
The van entered the long forecourt and turned toward the house.
Pembroke said, “Ladies and gentlemen, before you is Killenworth. We’ll stop here awhile and stretch our legs. Don’t forget to take your rifles with you.”
Roth shook his head. Madness.
58
Tom Grenville considered himself a good company man, and he understood that in the oblique style of corporate communication, suggestions from superiors were in fact orders, much like when he was a lieutenant JG in the Navy. The captain’s wish is your command.
So when George Van Dorn had commented that golf was not a sport he approved of, Tom Grenville had given it up, though he loved golf.
But George was not really an unfair or arbitrary person. He had a constructive alternative: Guns, not golf clubs, he declared, belonged in the hands of a man. Consequently, Grenville had taken up skeet shooting, hunting, and competition target shooting.
Then, one day at lunch about a year ago, Grenville recalled, O’Brien and Van Dorn had asked him if he had ever considered parachuting. Grenville had no more considered parachuting than he’d considered shooting Niagara Falls in a barrel, but he’d answered enthusiastically in the affirmative.
When the moment of truth had come, Grenville had some understandable reservations about his first jump. He realized, however, that almost all the old OSS crew were former paratroopers, and many, like O’Brien, still jumped. Formerly closed doors would be open to a young man who could share a jump with Patrick O’Brien and his friends.
Van Dorn had seemed pleased, and so had O’Brien and the other senior partners in the firm. Grenville now knew why.
He looked around the dimly lit cabin of the big Sikorsky amphibious rescue helicopter. The jumpmaster, Barney Farber, was an old friend of O’Brien’s and Van Dorn’s, and Farber’s company, one of the Long Island defense-related electronics firms, actually owned the former Navy Sikorsky.
Two more old boys sat on the bench opposite him: Edgar Johnson, a recently retired paratroop general, and Roy Hallis, a semiretired CIA agent.
This entire operation, Grenville understood, had been planned and was being controlled by the old boys. And it would not be complete without a few of them along for the actual flight. Grenville glanced at Johnson and Hallis in the weak light. They were both World War II vets, but they didn’t look much past sixty. This was their last mission, their last jump, he thought. Perhaps it was the last time the OSS alumni would directly participate in an operation. Even they got too old to make combat jumps. Grenville found himself staring at them. They looked psychologically prepared for a firefight, which was more than Grenville could say for himself.
In fact, he felt queasy. The Sikorsky, sitting on its pontoons in the middle of Long Island Sound, was rocking badly. The wind had picked up and waves slapped against the hull. Grenville had never been seasick on a parachute jump before.
Next to Grenville sat two of Pembroke’s people: Collins and Stewart. They looked particularly gruesome in black, he thought.
Stewart, sitting next to him, said, “Have you ever done a night jump, lad?”
Grenville had done one at O’Brien’s suggestion. He answered, “A few.”
Stewart said, “It’s easier from a stationary helicopter.”
“Yes—”
“Except in weather like this. A fixed-wing aircraft will hold fairly steady. A chopper can roll and yaw.”
Grenville nodded unhappily.
Stewart went on, “It’s like trying to jump off a pitching boat. Be careful you don’t collide with the pontoon. Saw that happen to a lad once in the South Atlantic.”
Grenville nodded again. The South Atlantic, he’d learned, meant the Falklands. Stewart seemed intimately knowledgeable about every mishap and calamity that could befall a human being.
Stewart added, “Broke his neck.”
Grenville felt his stomach heave, but took comfort in the fact that the greasepaint hid the true color his face had probably turned.
Collins lit a cigar and the smoke filled the cabin. He spoke in a strong Irish brogue. “This wind’ll blow yer arse all over the feckin’ terrain if ye pop yer chute too soon, lad.”
Grenville nodded miserably.
Collins advised, “Wait till the last second, then give it another few seconds to be sure, then say a quick Hail Mary and pull yer cord.” He laughed.
The jumpmaster put his hands over his headphones, listened, then spoke into his mouthpiece. “Roger.” He stood and said, “The word is go.” He ducked into the cockpit, tapped the pilot, and gave a thumbs-up. The Sikorsky’s idling engine revved with a deafening roar.
Grenville felt the big bird straining to break water, then the rocking stopped as the hull and pontoons cleared the turbulent sea. The rocking was replaced by a swaying motion as the Sikorsky ascended into the wind. Grenville turned his head and peered through the large square window behind him. They were already at a hundred-feet altitude, but his stomach was still at sea level.
Stewart spoke over the roar of the engine. “Damned moon’s three-quarter full and the clouds are too thin to mask it. They’ll spot us for sure, Tom.”
Grenville pressed his fingers against his eyes.
Stewart added ominously, “I could do without the damned lightning, too. Ever seen a chutist hit by lightning, Tom?”
“Not recently.”
“What’s that, lad? Can’t hear you!”
Grenville stared at him for a few seconds, then shouted, “I said I love to jump at night in a fucking storm! I love it!”
Collins roared with delight, “Oh, Tom, me boy, we’ll make a commando of you before the night’s out.”
Grenville stood and moved to the door. He held on to the airframe and stared out into the night as the helicopter rose higher through the turbulence. He didn’t want to be a commando. He wanted to be a senior partner in the firm, and he was willing to work hard to achieve his goal. But sometimes Van Dorn and O’Brien asked too much. A night jump into an armed enemy position was really too much.
59
Joan Grenville paced around the small cellar room, lit brightly with rows of fluorescent tubes. Above was an enclosed tennis court that had once been part of Killenworth but now belonged to the local YMCA. A high chain link fence,
topped with barbed wire, separated the Christians from the atheists.
Joan remembered that Tom had mentioned that the FBI supposedly headquartered themselves in the Y’s main building, but she’d seen no sign of anyone but the OSS.
Stanley Kuchik, sprawled on a large crate, watched her pacing. “You scared, Mrs. Grenville?”
She shot a glance at him. “For the tenth fucking time, call me Joan, and for the fifth fucking time, yes, I’m scared.”
Stanley had never heard an older woman swear like this one did. In fact, there was a lot about Joan Grenville that interested him. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. The black body-suit fitted like skin. He said, “Hey, you can stay here if you want. I can handle this.”
Joan gritted her teeth. “Stanley . . . stop treating me like . . . an adolescent. I am a grown woman. I can do anything you can do, and better.”
“Sure, Mrs.—okay, Joan.” Stanley smiled at her. “I guess this is a two-man job.”
Joan pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”
Stanley asked, “Are you one of Van Dorn’s secret agents?”
She lowered herself onto a bench. “I guess I am now.” She put her head in her hands, remembering Van Dorn’s blackmail threats. And Tom, the jerk, had just sat there.
But then Van Dorn had come up to her and put his hands on her shoulders, and said, “Joan, we both know you wouldn’t do what I’m asking because of threats. But your country is in danger. You’re needed.” He explained briefly, then asked, “Will you help your country?”
Stanley broke into her thoughts. “How did you get hooked up with this crazy bunch?”
She looked at him. “My country needs me.”
Stanley hesitated, then said, “I do it for kicks. This is my tenth mission.”
Joan looked at him dubiously, and the word bullshit was on her lips, but then it struck her that her life might well depend on this horny adolescent. She gave him a look that conveyed wonder and awe. “That’s incredible.”
Stanley flushed. “Stick close to me and I’ll get you back okay.”
You damned well better. She gave him a wide smile. “Okay.” Joan reflected on what Van Dorn had told her, and it sounded very scary. She did not want the party to end. She was not committed to much in life, but she was deeply committed to fighting for the continuation of the party. Patriotism, she reasoned, came in many forms.
Stanley glanced at the military watch they’d given him, then tugged at the black body-suit. It was some kind of stretch material, and it looked like something a ballet dancer would wear, but the guy who outfitted him said it was a cat-burglar outfit, so maybe it was okay. Stanley felt the pistol tucked into the elastic pouch on his abdomen. He said, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
Joan came out of her thoughts. “What . . . ? No, certainly not.” She added, “But I’m capable of it.” She thought she’d like to shoot Tom, George, and Marc, not necessarily in that order.
The door at the top of the stairs opened and two sets of footsteps echoed on the concrete stairs. Stanley drew his pistol. Joan snapped, “Put that away.”
A man and a woman appeared, both well advanced in years, but with quick movements and alert expressions. They wore expensive warm-up suits, but Joan knew they weren’t looking for tennis partners. The woman, Claire Goodwin, advanced on Joan and extended her hand. “How are you, Joan?”
Joan stood and took the older woman’s hand. “Just fine, Claire.”
Claire said, “I didn’t see much of you at George’s.”
“I was lying down upstairs.”
“Poor dear. Do you know Gus Bergen?”
Joan took the man’s hand. “Yes, we’ve met.” Bergen, she recalled, had been on the ill-fated Hanoi mission with Tom’s father during the war.
Bergen said, “What’s Tom up to these days?”
“He’s taken up parachuting.”
Bergen smiled and turned to Stanley, who was standing. “Hello, young man.”
Stanley shook hands with Bergen and Claire. Claire said, “I’ve heard some good things about you.”
Stanley mumbled something and glanced at Joan.
Joan had heard some good things about Claire, too, like the fact that Claire had slept with half the German diplomatic corps in Switzerland during the war. For God and country, of course. Joan thought she should have been given an assignment like that instead of this. She felt ill-used.
The four people spoke for a few minutes, then Bergen looked at his watch. He said, “Well, it’s time to get moving.”
The small room fell silent.
Bergen continued, “You’ve both been briefed on what to do inside there. Now I’m going to show you how to get inside.”
Bergen moved to the far wall and pointed to a round hole near the top of the concrete foundation. “That’s an old service conduit that runs from here to the main house. It once contained the pipe from the mansion’s steam plant, water pipes, wiring, and such. Since the partition of the estate, the YMCA provides the utilities for this tennis building, of course.”
Stanley stared up at the opening, which he hadn’t noticed before. It looked no bigger than a pizza, large size.
Claire said, “It’s free of pipes now. Gus had to use midgets to do the work.” She added, “Gus is a member of the local Y board.”
Stanley nodded appreciatively.
Joan thought, Member of the YMCA. Midgets. Conduit to the Russian house. Typically bizarre. She stared up at the opening and said, “There are still wires coming out of there.”
Bergen replied, “Cables, actually. You see, it’s several hundred yards to the basement of the main house, all upgrade. Nearly an impossible crawl. So I’ve installed an electric pulley.”
Stanley smiled. These old dudes had it together.
Bergen and Claire Goodwin briefed them for a few minutes, then Bergen said, “Any questions?”
Stanley shook his head.
Joan asked, “How are you so sure it opens into an unused room?”
Bergen looked at Stanley. “You were in the boiler room once, weren’t you, son?”
Stanley nodded. “Nobody there then.”
Joan shrugged sulkily.
Bergen looked at her. “You don’t have to go, of course.”
Joan Grenville glanced at Stanley. He was frightened too, but his budding male ego would propel him into that black hole, with or without her, as surely as if he’d been forced into it at gunpoint. She said, “I do have to go, of course. So let’s go.”
Bergen wheeled a painter’s scaffold to the foundation. “Stanley.”
Stanley Kuchik pulled his black hood over his head. Bergen said, “Good luck.” Stanley climbed to the top of the scaffold, where he saw two small flexible trolleys. He peered into the black, endless tube for some seconds, then lay on his back and positioned the trolley beneath his buttocks. He reached up and held the pulley cable with his gloved hands. “Okay.”
He heard the motor hum and the cable began traveling, pulling him with the trolley beneath him toward the round opening. Like a torpedo, he thought, being rolled into its firing tube.
Joan Grenville said to Bergen quietly, “You must be awfully desperate or insensitive to send that kid on a mission like this.”
Bergen replied coolly, “He’s seventeen. I know men who saw combat at seventeen.”
Joan shrugged. “Well, women and children first.” She climbed up the scaffold and peered inside the small conduit opening. She called in, “Do you have room for one more?”
“Sure,” Stanley’s voice echoed.
Joan looked down at Claire Goodwin and Gus Bergen. She hesitated, then said, “Look, I know this is important. If anything happens to us, remember, we volunteered. So don’t feel bad.”
Claire replied, “We would feel bad if something happened, though not guilty. Good luck.”
Joan looked at them. Tough old birds. Old OSS. They were all screwy. She took a deep breath and lay down on the
trolley, then reached up and grabbed the cable with her gloved hands. “Ready.”
The electric motor hummed again and the cable dragged her into the dark tube. She listened to the sounds of the rubber trolley wheels on the clay pipe, the distant hum of the motor, the creaking of the pulleys, and the rubbing of her shoulders against the sides of the pipe. She cleared her throat and called out softly, “Stanley?”
“Yeah.”
“How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
Joan observed, “This sucks.”
Stanley laughed weakly. “Beats crawling.”
Neither spoke again. The light from the opening faded and the sound of the electric motor grew fainter.
Joan knew she could let go of the cable anytime and the trolley would roll her back to the basement of the tennis building. But she knew she wouldn’t.
Another few minutes, she thought, then we’ll be there. She’d always been curious about that house anyway.
60
George Van Dorn stood at the bay window and watched the skyrockets rise from his empty swimming pool in the distance. He picked up one of three newly installed army field phones on the wide bay sill and cranked it.
Don LaRosa, the senior pyrotechnician, answered.
Van Dorn said, “How are we fixed for rockets, Mr. LaRosa?”
“About three hundred left, Mr. Van Dorn.”
“All right, I want airbursts low over the target. I don’t want the terrain lit too much, but I want noise cover.”
“Okay. Hey, did you hear the motherfucker rocket blow?”
“I believe so.”
“Scared the shit out of your wife’s cat, Mr. Van Dorn.”
Van Dorn glanced at Kitty standing across the room. “I’m happy to hear that, Don. Listen, is the tube ready?”
“Ready any time you are.”
“Plan for midnight. I want a sixty-to-eighty-second time on target—no fewer than twenty rounds of high explosive. Then, when you’ve made kindling wood out of the target, I want about five rounds of Willy Peter to finish off whatever’s left.”