“Shut up! Shut up!”
Neither spoke for some time, then Kimberly said, “May I go now?”
She wiped her eyes. “Go . . . go where?”
“What does it matter? Not back to Moscow, I assure you. I just want to go . . . to walk in the village . . . see my country . . . find some peace . . . I’m not important any longer. No one wants me, either as a hero, or as a villain. I am not a threat . . . I am an old man.”
Katherine cleared her throat, then said coolly, “Who is Talbot Three?”
Henry Kimberly’s eyebrows arched, then he replied, “There is no Talbot Three. . . . Well, there was, but he died many years ago.”
She looked at him closely, then said, “You’re lying.”
He shrugged, then said softly, “May I go? Please.”
“No.”
He didn’t reply immediately, then spoke. “I’m afraid I must leave, Kate. And you won’t shoot me, any more than I’d shoot you.” He added in a tone that suggested the subject was closed, “I’m glad we met. We may meet again.” He began to turn.
Katherine shouted, “No! No, you will not leave.” She cocked the big Browning automatic.
Henry Kimberly looked back over his shoulder. He smiled, then winked at her. “Au revoir, little Kate.” He walked into the darkness of the attic and headed toward the open hatchway.
Katherine watched him, the muzzle of the pistol following his back. Her hands shook and her eyes clouded. A stream of confused thoughts ran through her mind, then suddenly focused on Patrick O’Brien. He had been her real father for all these years, and Henry Kimberly, a man unknown to her, and his friends had murdered him. And O’Brien would not let Henry Kimberly walk away, and would not approve if she did. Henry Kimberly had to pay. She said, or thought she said, “Stop,” but wasn’t sure if she had actually spoken. He kept walking. She fired.
The roar of the .45-caliber silver bullet shattered the silence, then echoed off in distant places. The sound died away, though the ringing remained in her ears and the smell of burnt cordite hung in her nostrils.
She looked across the twenty feet of open space that separated them. Henry Kimberly had turned at the open hatch and stared back. He looked neither surprised that she’d fired at him, nor surprised that she’d missed. They both understood that the act was a catharsis, a symbolic gesture. Kimberly lowered himself into the open hatchway and disappeared.
Katherine found that her legs had become weak, and she sat back in the chair behind the desk; his chair—his desk. His script lay scattered before her.
Katherine put her head down on the desk and wept.
* * *
Marc Pembroke sat in the dark alcove of the gable. He heard running footsteps coming toward him and watched in the half-light as about a dozen men and women, faces pale and eyes watering, filed past, heading for the staircase opposite him. He kept his rifle in the ready position and watched. His breathing had become difficult and he knew he was drowning in his own blood, yet his mind was still clear.
The Russians were not ten feet from him and he saw that some of them carried weapons. The first to arrive were staring down at the collapsed staircase. Below, on the landing, guards shouted up at them.
Pembroke saw the top rails of a ladder rising over the edge of the stairwell. There was some heated discussion over who was going to use it first—the guards who wanted to come up, or the technicians who wanted to get down.
A man in a suit stepped forward and settled the disagreement. Looking pale and shaky, but still arrogant, Viktor Androv pushed aside the crowd and began lowering his corpulent body onto the ladder.
Pembroke unscrewed the silencer from his rifle, then shouted, “Androv! Freeze!” He fired at the ceiling and the crowd hit the floor. He and Androv stared at each other over the clear space, Androv’s head and shoulders visible as he stood on the ladder, Pembroke sitting with his back to the wall in the alcove.
Pembroke said, “Did you know that Arnold Brin was my father?”
Androv’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything, Pembroke fired. The rounds ripped into Androv’s head and neck, and Pembroke saw the little rosettes of crimson blooming on Androv’s white pudgy face like a sudden outbreak of acne. Androv waved his arms in circles, then fell and crashed to the landing below.
Pembroke thought he would rather have killed Androv in a more interesting way. But he was content that amid all this mayhem, fate had put Viktor Androv in his gunsights.
Pembroke coughed and a sharp pain racked his chest. He focused on the people at the stairwell door. They were beginning to scramble down the ladder, but he had no interest in them, nor they in him.
Face after face turned to him, then disappeared below the floor line. The already dark room seemed to be growing darker, and Pembroke’s eyes were becoming unfocused. But one of the faces that sank below his line of vision was clear, and it was the face of someone who could not be there. Pembroke thought he was beginning to hallucinate.
71
Ann Kimberly pressed the gauze pad on her neck as she looked over the rows of electronic consoles, noting radios of every sort and purpose, encrypting and decrypting devices, computers, microwave and satellite transmitters and receivers, as well as monitoring and jamming devices. “Diplomatic mission, my ass. Those bastards.”
She sat before the big SM-35 radio and her eyes ran over the instruments. The radio didn’t seem to be damaged and the power was on. A computer tape transmitted continuous encoded messages to Moscow, mostly random words to cover the real messages and to give the National Security Agency a headache. She found the tape switch and shut it off. This she knew would immediately alert the NSA.
Ann scanned a procedure booklet, written in Russian, on the console. “Damn language is difficult enough to understand when it’s spoken, but these letters . . . What’s this word, Abrams?”
“Confuser.”
“They mean scrambler.” She turned off the voice scrambler so that anyone tuned to the frequency could hear a voice broadcast en clair. She flipped through the booklet.
Sutter had found the switches to the big attic exhaust fans and the air was clearer now, allowing them to remove their gas masks, though everyone’s eyes teared and their skin still burned from the clinging gas.
Cameron was on the telephone talking to George Van Dorn. “Yes, it’s Cameron, Mr. Van Dorn. Hold up on those mortars, if you will. We’ve got things pretty well in hand here. Ann Kimberly is about to begin broadcasting. Yes, sir. No, I’m not under duress. Ivan is under duress. I’m just fine. Yes, I’ll stay with you and give you a running report.”
Abrams looked around the huge room. Never, he realized, did he think all of this was up here, and never did he think he’d live long enough to see it. He looked at the open roof hatch and the broken gable windows, remembering the damage downstairs as well. He said to Ann, “This place doesn’t look very EMP-proof to me.”
She smiled as she turned a knob. “Not anymore.” She leaned forward. “There, I think I’ve got it.” She adjusted the microphone on its flexible boom, then glanced at the digital clocks on the radio. Ten minutes to midnight here and ten minutes to 8:00 A.M. in Moscow. She said to Abrams, “You stay here and help me with my Russian.”
Abrams nodded. He looked out over the room. Sutter was perched on the top of the tallest console, where he had a commanding view of the entire room. Grenville and Johnson were searching the nooks and crannies and breaking all the gable windows to ventilate the gas further.
Ann began to speak in Russian. “To all stations that are listening, this is Ann Kimberly, an American citizen, speaking from the Russian Mission to the United Nations, in Glen Cove, New York. Please acknowledge, Moscow.”
She turned to Abrams. “They’re not going to acknowledge shit, and they know exactly where this broadcast is coming from.” She added, “But now everyone who normally monitors this radio is alerted—the National Security Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and the CIA. The White Hou
se, Pentagon, and Camp David will be instantly tied in. I’ll wait a moment before I broadcast anything momentous.” She asked, “How was my Russian?”
“Not bad . . . but the pronunciation is a little off.”
“In other words, it stinks.” She shrugged. “I listen to a lot of it, but hardly ever have an occasion to speak it.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “Here, take the mike. You were supposed to fill in for me if I got killed anyway.”
Abrams, too, hesitated, then adjusted the microphone to where he was standing.
Ann said, “Okay, this may be the most important radio message ever broadcast in the history of mankind. But don’t be nervous. I’ll coach you. You’re on. Identify yourself.” Ann pushed the transmit button.
Abrams spoke into the microphone. “This is Tony Abrams, an American citizen.” He repeated Ann’s salutation, then took a deep breath and began. “This is a direct message to the leaders in the Kremlin, the White House, the Pentagon, and everyone who is in a position to launch a nuclear weapon.” As Abrams continued speaking, his eyes went to the digital clock several times, then to the adjoining electrical display panel, where he saw three steady green lights glaring in a row.
Abrams continued transmitting. “If the nuclear device aboard the Molniya satellite explodes, the United States will have no recourse but to retaliate with nuclear weapons.” He didn’t know if he was making up defense policy, putting the idea into the heads of the people in Washington, or trying to bluff Moscow into thinking he was speaking for the government. He broadcast for another full minute, then hit the microphone switch and said to Ann, “That’s all I’m going to say.”
Ann looked at him, then nodded. “I’ll speak in English for a while. There are people who understand English around the radio in Moscow by now. Also, I want to address myself to Washington and the NSA at Fort Meade.”
Abrams wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. “I’m going to take a walk. Good luck.” He left.
Ann spoke into the microphone. “This is Ann Kimberly again, and I’m addressing my associates at the National Security Agency. Please acknowledge.”
There was a long silence and Ann repeated the transmission, then a male voice came out of the speaker. “This is Chet Forbes, Ann, at Fort Meade. I read you.”
“I read you, Chet. Give me a status report.”
The voice still sounded hesitant, if not incredulous, but Forbes’ equipment did not lie; he knew he was talking to Glen Cove, and he knew from her voiceprint that he was speaking to Ann Kimberly, an NSA employee. He said, “NORAD is on an alert status of DEFCON 5, prelaunch condition. The Polaris fleet, SAC, and the European nukes have been flashed Red Alerts. The President is at Camp David, and he is in communication with all nuclear commanders.”
Ann spoke in Russian, “Moscow, did you read Fort Meade?”
Moscow did not answer.
Ann took a long breath and lit a cigarette, then said, “Chet, can you get the President to speak to those jokers directly?”
Forbes replied, “The President is attempting to contact the Premier in Moscow.”
Ann said, “Tell Camp David that Presidential Assistant James Allerton is a Soviet agent.”
Forbes stayed silent for a moment, then came back on the speaker. “Understand. Will do.” He paused, then said, “We don’t know how the hell you wound up in Green Acres,” he said, using the NSA code word for the Russian station in Glen Cove, “but from what we’ve been hearing you broadcast to Moscow, we’re glad you’re there.”
“I only hope they’re listening. In the meantime tell every NATO ally and every Warsaw Pact country that if World War Three begins, it began in Moscow.” She paused, then said in Russian, “Are you listening, Mr. Premier?”
But Moscow was still silent.
* * *
Tony Abrams walked quickly into the north wing of the attic and knelt beside Marc Pembroke in the alcove. “Pembroke?”
He opened his eyes slowly. Abrams thought he looked very pale. Abrams said, “How are you doing?”
“Relative to what?”
Abrams smiled. “Listen, Van Dorn’s sending that Sikorsky helicopter to get us all out of here. You’ll be in a hospital soon.”
“Good. That’s where I belong. How is the mission progressing?”
“We’ve won the battle, but the war is still touch-and-go. Ann is broadcasting. It’s up to the Russians now.”
“Too bad. They’re an unpredictable lot of beggers. What time is it?”
“Approaching midnight. At least we won’t have long to wait.”
“No . . . and we’ve accomplished our mission, haven’t we?”
“Yes.”
“I lost some good people. . . . Don’t tell me who, I’ll discover that soon enough. Listen Abrams . . . my job offer still stands. You’re very good.”
“Thanks, but I’m committed.”
“To what? To whom . . . ?”
“The Red Devils.”
Pembroke looked at him. “Never heard of them.”
“Very secret. Okay, I just came by to check your temperature. Will you be all right alone for a while?”
“I’m always alone and I’m always all right. But thanks for dropping in.”
Abrams stood.
Pembroke looked at the open stairwell door. He said, “A few Russkies beat it that way. Only technicians. I let them go—”
“Of course. Just take it easy—”
“Listen, Abrams . . . Androv was with them—” Pembroke coughed, and a clot of blood passed through his lips.
Abrams knelt beside him again.
Pembroke seemed to be trying to remember something, then said, “I shot the bastard. Be a good chap and go see if he’s dead. Be careful, old man . . . guards down there. . . .”
Abrams moved cautiously to the stairwell and peered down. An open hallway door cast a shaft of light into the small foyer below and revealed a collapsed staircase covered with rubble. A ladder extended from the floor up to the attic. There was no sign of life, or of death. Abrams said, “The guards have decamped and taken any bodies with them.”
Pembroke nodded. “They’ve had enough of us. Wonder where they went . . . ?” He thought a moment, then said, “I’m certain I hit the bastard in the head. . . .”
“I’m sure you did.”
Pembroke said, “Joan . . . Joan Grenville is down there . . . in the dumbwaiter. . . . Take a few of my people . . .”
“Yes, she’ll be fine.” He didn’t want to tell Pembroke that there were few people left. He’d go get her. “Stop worrying about these things. We’re not helpless without you.” Abrams looked at his watch. “I have to go.”
“Wait . . . wait . . . Listen, I saw . . . I saw . . .”
“Yes?”
“I . . . I thought I was hallucinating . . . but I wasn’t. . . . My mind is clear. . . .”
“Who did you see?”
“I saw Patrick O’Brien.”
Abrams stood motionless, then stared at Pembroke and Pembroke stared back. Abrams said, “Where did you see him?”
Pembroke motioned with his head. “There.”
Abrams shook his head. “No.”
“Yes. He was dressed in black. . . .”
Abrams stayed silent, then nodded. “Yes, you did.”
“Don’t humor me.”
“No, I believe you.”
Neither man spoke for some time, then Pembroke said, “What are you going to do about it?”
“What would you do about it? The mission is over. You earned your pay. Would you put in overtime and hope to get paid for it?”
Pembroke nodded. “Yes. If I could, I would.”
Abrams drew a deep breath, glanced back at the stairwell, then checked his watch. “Down there, you say?”
“Down there. Look in Androv’s office. That will be where any evidence will be, and he’d want to destroy that before he, too, begins his Odyssey to the nether regions.”
Abrams walked toward the stairwell.
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72
Henry Kimberly walked quickly down the long, deserted first-floor corridor. The smell of burnt cordite hung in the smoke-laden air. Kimberly stopped at the bullet-marked door of Androv’s office. He thought Androv might be here to recover or destroy sensitive files.
Kimberly pushed the door open and entered the dimly lit office. He heard the cocking sound of a pistol near his ear. He stood motionless.
A voice close to his ear said in English, “Henry Kimberly, I presume.”
Kimberly nodded slightly. He turned his head and saw a man in a black jump suit. The two men faced each other and stared. Kimberly’s voice was barely audible as he said, “Patrick . . .”
O’Brien nodded.
Kimberly said, “You’re supposed to be dead.”
O’Brien smiled. “So are you.”
Kimberly’s eyes went to the gun. “If you’re going to kill me, do it and spare me another mawkish reunion.”
O’Brien lowered the pistol and said, “I caught a glimpse of you in the attic. Androv apparently was too preoccupied with dodging bullets to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
O’Brien replied, “I’m one of you.”
Kimberly stared at him, then said softly, “My God . . . No . . . you can’t be . . .”
“Why not? I was under suspicion during the war, and for good reason. You, however, never were the subject of the great werewolf hunt.” O’Brien thought a moment, then added, “It should have been I who disappeared and went to Moscow, Henry. And you should have come home and run the firm. You had family, and you had more prestige and better contacts here . . . but the people in Moscow work in strange ways, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And we never question orders, do we?”
“No, we don’t.” Kimberly glanced around the office and his eyes fell on the body of Claudia Lepescu, then returned to O’Brien. Kimberly said, “Where’s Androv?”