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.”