Don LaRosa repeated the fire mission.
Van Dorn added, “I have an amphibious chopper on station to lift your people and your tube out of here immediately. You’ll land at the Atlantic City pier. All arrangements made.”
“Sounds super.”
“Speak to you later.”
Van Dorn hung up. It would be super, he thought, if Mr. LaRosa and his friends could spend the night gambling and whoring until dawn. He wouldn’t half mind joining them.
Kitty said, “What is Willy Peter, George?”
“Just a military expression, dear.” He added, “Actually, it’s white phosphorus. It burns.”
“Oh. That’s awful. Such a beautiful house.”
“War is hell, Kitty.”
“It’s so destructive.”
“Yes, that too.” He walked to a stereo stack unit and turned up the volume. He listened to the sprightly notes of George M. Cohan’s “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which was being blared out from his loudspeakers on the polo field. Van Dorn hummed along as he bobbed his head to the music.
Kitty said, “George, are you really going to blow up those awful people next door?”
Van Dorn turned off the sound. “What? Oh, only if my ground attack fails. Have you arranged things with Dr. Frank and Dr. Poulos?”
“Yes, they’re in the basement aid station, setting up. Oh, Jane Atkins and Mildred Fletcher are assisting. They’re so thrilled to be able to lend a hand. They were both WAC nurses.”
“Well, I’ll try not to disappoint them, Kitty. If there are no casualties, I’ll shoot myself in the foot.”
“Belle La Ponte is a psychiatrist. Should I get her?”
“Why not? We’re all crazy.”
“I mean, she’s an MD—”
“Fine, Kitty. Are the medical supplies satisfactory?”
“I believe so. Dr. Frank seemed very impressed.”
Van Dorn nodded distractedly. He tried to think of what else ought to be done. He turned to one of the other two men in his study, Colonel William Osterman, a man who had been a young lieutenant in OSS’s London headquarters staff. Van Dorn said, “Phase one ought to be completed by now.”
Osterman looked up from the architectural plans and aerial photos of the Russian estate spread out on Van Dorn’s desk. Osterman said, “I would think so. The problem with this plan, George, is that it relies on near perfect timing without radio contact. If one group gets into a mess, the other three groups will get into a mess.”
Van Dorn replied, “Pembroke and his people are very good, Bill. They’re used to this sort of hit-and-run without communications. Sometimes I think they’ve developed telepathy.”
Wallis Baker, a senior partner in the firm, appeared from behind the screened telex alcove carrying a message. “This is a rather long communication from the Joint Chiefs, George.”
Van Dorn motioned him to the desk. “Get it deciphered immediately.”
Baker was already behind the desk with the code book.
The telephone rang and Van Dorn saw it was his published number. He ignored it, but no one else in the house seemed to be picking it up either. Then he realized who it might be and answered it. “Van Dorn residence.”
“Oh,” said the voice, “Mr. Van Dorn.”
Van Dorn looked at the other two men, then at Kitty, then said into the telephone, “Mr. Androv.”
“Yes. I am flattered that you recognized my voice.”
“I don’t know many people with Russian accents. Why are you calling me at this hour, Androv? It’s not polite to call people this late.”
Androv said a bit sharply, “As a man trying to get some sleep, I don’t care for your music or your fireworks. Do you know your rockets are exploding dangerously close to our house?”
“How close is that?”
Androv put on an aggrieved tone. “Mr. Van Dorn, as Community Relations Officer, I have attempted to maintain good relations with my neighbors—”
“No, you haven’t, Androv. I have it on good authority that your people never throw the tennis balls back.”
Androv made a sound of exasperation. “Oh, what does that matter now?”
Van Dorn smiled. He was mildly amused by Androv’s de rigueur phone call. More importantly, the call most probably meant that neither Pembroke’s team nor the team with Katherine and Abrams had been discovered. For his part, Androv had discovered that Van Dorn was definitely at home. There was intelligence to be gathered even from a banal phone conversation. Van Dorn said, “This is our holiday, Mr. Androv. Certainly the protocols of diplomacy demand some respect for the traditions of the host country, sir.”
“Yes, yes. But that music—I must respectfully request of you—”
“I’m not taking requests tonight. You get what’s on the tape. I am not a disc jockey, Mr. Androv.”
“No, no. I mean I must request that you cease that loud music, or I must call the police.”
“I think you’re being unreasonable.”
“I am not. My small staff here is very upset, and my dogs are extremely nervous and high-strung—”
“Then buy well-adjusted dogs, Viktor. Or get them to a shrink.”
Androv ignored this and said, “At what hour may I expect the music and fireworks to cease?”
“At midnight. I promise you, you will not be bothered after midnight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Van Dorn. Have a pleasant evening.”
“And you, Mr. Androv.” Van Dorn hung up and looked at the people in the room. “The nerve of that man calling to complain about my party when he has to stay up anyway to wait for a nuclear detonation.”
Osterman and Baker smiled.
Kitty said, “You were rude to him again, George.”
Van Dorn looked at his wife. “Your standards of etiquette are extravagant, Kitty.” He added, “You’d have required black tie and ushers at the Crucifixion.”
“Still, I think, as Mr. Churchill did, that if you’re going to shoot a man, it costs nothing to be polite.”
Van Dorn smiled at his wife. “You’re quite right.”
She announced, “I must go, but before I do, I want to tell you, George, that I absolutely will not have your Mr. Pembroke or Joan Grenville in this house again.” She paused, then added, “If they are wounded, I will make an exception. Good evening, George. Gentlemen.” She turned and left.
There was a silence in the room, then Colonel Osterman looked at his watch. “This is damned frustrating without radio contact.”
Baker added, “They could all be dead or captured, and we wouldn’t know.”
Van Dorn replied, “Which is the reason for the mortar. The next call I get from Androv’s telephone ought to be from one of our people. If I don’t hear by midnight, then my automatic launch response goes into effect. Then, as I said, Viktor Androv will be bothered by me no more.”
61
Viktor Androv sat at the desk in his office. The former chapel was dark, lit only by a shaded lamp whose light fell on a nearby stained-glass window.
Androv stared at the religious depiction: the inhabitants of Sodom forcing their way into Lot’s house in an attempt to abduct the two beautiful angels, then the angels sending out a blinding flash of celestial light and the Sodomites turning away. He remarked, “Some say the angels were extraterrestrials, and they destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah with a nuclear device.”
Henry Kimberly sat back in the green leather chair. “Four thousand years from now, who knows how tonight will be interpreted.”
Androv leaned across his desk. “Tonight will be interpreted the way the party wishes it to be interpreted. Just as the events of the Bible were interpreted as the priests and rabbis wished them to be interpreted.”
Kimberly said, “There will be no party four thousand years from now, Viktor, and you know that. Neither will there be priests or rabbis.” Kimberly lit a cigarette. “However, as you suggest, the party will write world history for at least the next thousand years.”
Androv shrugged. He stood and went to the side window and threw it open. The north wind entered the chapel and ruffled the papers on his desk. Van Dorn’s loudspeakers could be heard in the distance, and Androv raised his voice as he spoke. “I have given the order that anyone who opens a window or door after eleven thirty will pay with his life.” He fell silent a moment, then said, “It’s a strange phenomenon, this EMP. Like a supernatural miasma, it can enter through keyholes and cracks, through spaces around the doors and windows. A little of it can do a great deal of damage.” He added in a confident voice, “But this house has been inspected a hundred times. It’s as tight as a submarine. It could float.” He laughed.
Kimberly didn’t reply.
Androv looked up into the northern sky. “Molniya is hurtling toward us from the dark reaches of space.”
“Molniya?”
“The satellite that will deliver the nuclear blast. The courier told me. Very ingenious.”
Kimberly nodded appreciatively, then said, “What time?”
Androv continued staring out the window as he replied, “It will reach its low point somewhere over Nebraska a few minutes after midnight.”
Kimberly watched the smoke rise from his cigarette, then said, “What else did the courier tell you?”
Androv replied, “The Premier sends his good wishes to us and to you particularly.” He added, “The Premier also informs us that news of the Stroke is being disseminated now among key people in Moscow.” Androv nodded to himself and said, “Unlike the preparation for a nuclear war, this was so simple that only a few people had to be told. And only a few people had to act. Only one person has to push a nuclear detonator button, and that will be the Premier himself.”
Kimberly stood and walked to Androv. He looked through the window out over the distant tree line. A faint aura of light from Van Dorn’s house outlined the rolling treetops against the blackening sky. Kimberly said, “You know, Viktor, George Van Dorn and I went to the same army schools. The philosophy of the American army is aggressive, not defensive. They are great believers in the spoiling raid, the preemptive attack, the commando strike—like the British.” He gave Androv a sidelong glance. “You ought to deal with Van Dorn before he deals with you.”
Androv pulled the windows shut and walked to his desk. He pushed a button on a console and George Van Dorn’s voice came out of the speaker.
Kimberly listened silently.
Androv said, “That is a recording of George Van Dorn calling the Pentagon. Since he has warned them of our plans, and believes the situation is under control, he is unlikely to try anything against us on his own.”
Androv pushed another button and a woman’s voice came on. Androv said, “That is your daughter, Ann.”
Kimberly said nothing.
Androv continued, “She’s speaking to the National Security Agency. About Molniya.”
Kimberly listened to Ann’s voice for a few seconds, then walked to the desk and pushed the stop button. He turned to Androv. “How did they find out?”
Androv shrugged. “I assume they started with the premise that we wish to destroy them and worked backward. How many solutions are there to a problem? They asked themselves, ‘How would I destroy America with little or no damage to myself?’ They arrived at the answer we arrived at.”
Kimberly nodded slowly.
Androv continued, “So you see, Henry, I haven’t underestimated Van Dorn or his organization. We know they long ago put away the dagger and use only the cloak now. Van Dorn learned something and he called his friends in the military to deal with it. He will not come here with guns blazing.”
Kimberly did not reply for some time, then said, “But he has warned them, Androv. The Americans have an automatic launch response under certain—”
Androv held up his hand. “I know. But let me continue, please. You see, in this country almost every long-distance telephone call is relayed by microwave stations. This is very convenient for us because this house sits in the middle of what is known as ‘Microwave Alley.’ We intercept these microwave calls and listen to the diplomats in New York, as well as the Long Island and Connecticut defense contractors. Every call made to a government agency in Washington is monitored here. Van Dorn, of course, took precautions against this. He installed a fiber optic telephone line that runs into the main AT&T underground cables. His phone, he believes, is virtually untappable, which is why he speaks so freely over it.”
Androv looked at Kimberly. “However, because these secure lines are so few, the telephone exchange has the ability to switch a call to the microwave station. Therefore, if one were to pass a sum of money to a technician at the main telephone exchange, it would be possible to have Mr. Van Dorn’s calls rerouted as microwave calls without his being informed that the call was not secure. That’s how we were able to listen—”
Kimberly interjected, “That won’t do you much good now. The Pentagon is alerted.”
Androv smiled. “It would also be possible to reroute these calls to a place other than the Pentagon, Henry. To have them rerouted here, for instance. In fact, your friend has not been speaking to the Pentagon at all, but to Nikhita Tulov in the attic, who has spent a good number of years of his young life learning how to think and talk like a Pentagon staff officer.”
Kimberly’s face broke into a smile in return. “Touché, Viktor.”
Androv bowed his head in acknowledgment. “We had to let your daughter’s call through because we weren’t prepared to imitate anyone at the NSA. But we were able at least to listen.” He added, “We’ve also managed to intercept Van Dorn’s bothersome telex.”
Androv stared down at his desk and said, “Your daughter is also quite bothersome.” He glanced at Kimberly. “I don’t mean to belabor this issue, but now that she is here in America, I must ask you . . .”
Kimberly waved his hand in a gesture of annoyance. “Oh, do what you want, Viktor. Stop bothering me with these things. If you have a personal grudge against her, act accordingly. If you don’t, then let the state apparatus deal with her as if she were any one of the ten million people on the list of enemies.” Kimberly walked to the door. “I’ll see you upstairs later.” He opened the door of the chapel.
Androv called out, “One more thing, Henry.”
Kimberly turned. “Yes?”
“The courier. He said something which may interest you.” Androv walked toward the door and stood close to Kimberly. He stared at him for a few seconds, then said, “Tonight . . . Talbot Three will be here tonight.”
Kimberly nodded. “I suspected that if Talbot Three was alive and in this country, then he—or she—would be seeking sanctuary from the Stroke. I thought we might meet tonight.”
Androv looked at Kimberly. “Do you have any idea who it could be?”
Kimberly shook his head, then said, “Whoever it is, it will be someone I knew then.”
“Yes, I’m sure of that. One of your blue-blooded Ivy League friends. We will have a reunion in the White House. President Kimberly, Secretary of State Allerton, and Chief of American State Security—who?”
Kimberly’s expression remained impassive. He said, “There’s no use speculating. We’ll see who shows up.”
Androv nodded slowly. “Yes. And we don’t even know how he, or she, will come—by land, sea, or air. But it will be interesting to see who arrives at our doorstep tonight.”
“Most interesting.” Kimberly turned and left.
* * *
Claudia Lepescu felt the pistol caressing the nape of her neck as she knelt in the damp earth, her head bowed. A guard pulled back on the leash of a German shepherd that was growling ominously. Another man held a radio and was making a report. The officer in charge, standing in front of her, spoke loudly in English and it startled her. “Who are you?”
She drew a short breath. “Claudia Lepescu. I work for Alexei Kalin.”
The Russian officer moved his flashlight over her body, then shined it full on her face. “You are not America
n?”
“I am Rumanian.”
“What do you want here?”
“Asylum. Sanctuary.”
“Why?”
“They are after me—”
“Who is after you?”
Claudia said sharply in Russian, “You have all the information you need. Take me to Kalin at once, or it will go badly for you.” As soon as the words were out, she realized she shouldn’t have abused him in Russian so his men could understand. She waited.
The Russian did nothing for some time, then his hand flew out and struck her across the face.
Claudia cried out and put her hand to her cheek.
The Russian barked, “Stand.”
She stood and the shepherd lunged at her, but was pulled up short by its handler.
Another man approached with a flashlight and searched her, passing his hands roughly over her body. She said, “Please, I must see Kalin. I have urgent information.”
The first Russian said, “If it is urgent, you can run.” He snapped an order and two of the uniformed guards fell in on either side of her, their Kalishnikov rifles held across their chests. “Quick, march! Move!”
Claudia, flanked by the two men, began moving at a near run through the trees. She stumbled once and one of the men pulled her to her feet. Stones and twigs dug into her bare feet, and branches whipped across her perspiring body. Occasionally one of the men prodded her along with a rifle jab to her buttocks.
After what seemed an interminable time, they broke out onto the floodlit north lawn, and she saw the huge stone mansion sitting majestically on the hilltop.
They made her run more quickly across the lawn to the rear of the house, then swung around on the terrace until they came to the walled service court.
The Russians slowed to a march and Claudia gasped for breath. She was nearly numb with fatigue and barely aware of being marched through the walled court filled with parked vehicles. They passed through a set of double doors, down a half flight of steps, and walked down a long, dimly lit corridor off which were small doors evenly spaced. Servants’ quarters, she thought vaguely, but the narrow corridor and the small closed doors brought back memories of another place: The jackbooted Russians with their rifles, she dragged between them; two years of her life she wanted badly to forget. It struck her suddenly that this was what the world was coming to: dark, lonely corridors, armed guards, the sound of boots and bare feet on cold floors, and a journey to an unknown place.