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 prosciutto 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.