Ann said to him, “Don’t be frightened. We won’t harm you.” She glanced at Pembroke, then back at the young man. She said, “You will repeat, word for word, the message you delivered to Viktor Androv from Moscow.”
Nikolai Vasilevich drew himself up straight and shook his head firmly. “I will not. You may as well shoot me.”
Ann translated the remark.
Pembroke drew his silenced automatic pistol, cocked it, and aimed it at Karpenko’s face. He said, in passable Russian, “Smert Komitet Gossudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti—Death to the KGB,” then fired three bullets into the unconscious man’s face, turning his features into an unrecognizable mass of gore.
Nikolai Vasilevich stared down at the splattered face and skull and went pale, his legs beginning to tremble.
Pembroke turned the gun on the young man and said in English, “Death to all KGB swine.”
Nikolai Vasilevich shook his head quickly and spoke in English. “No. No. I am not KGB. I am a soldier. GRU — military intelligence.”
Ann put her hand on his shoulder and said in Russian, “You’re too young to die, Nikolai. I swear to you, you will not be harmed if you cooperate.” She stared into his hazel eyes and he stared back, then nodded.
Ann said, “Word for word. I can tell when you’re reciting your message and when you’re deviating. Speak.”
Nikolai Vasilevich stood, head and eyes fixed straight ahead, and recited in a monotone, as he’d done for Viktor Androv. When he finished, Ann summarized in English, then said to Pembroke, “So it is Molniya, and it is tonight. But we knew that. What we didn’t know is that Talbot Three will be here — or is already here.”
Pembroke nodded thoughtfully, then stared at the Russian, who was sweating now. He said, “It’s no longer customary to kill the bearer of bad news, but—”
Ann put her hand on his rising pistol. “No, Marc.”
He looked at her sharply.
“I promised.” She added, “Besides, he’s sexy.”
Pembroke smiled slowly, then said to Sutter, “Stow him under this staircase.”
Sutter produced a Syrette and approached the Russian. The man took a step back. Sutter said, “Sleepy time, Ivan. Let’s see some skin.”
Ann spoke to him soothingly in Russian and the man hesitated, then held out his arm.
Sutter rammed the Syrette in with more force than necessary, then led the Russian to the small closet beneath the staircase and stuffed him inside as he began to pass into unconsciousness.
Pembroke looked up the narrow, dimly lit staircase, which ended at a top landing. Beyond the landing was a steel door that he knew led to the south end of the main attic. There were three other attic staircases, all ending in steel doors that were cross-barred on the other side. He said softly to Ann, “The Holy Grail is beyond that door.”
She smiled at him. “Keep it. I’m interested in the radios. I must speak to Washington and Moscow sometime before midnight.”
Pembroke looked at his watch and replied, “We shall do our best.”
Llewelyn was at the top of the stairs, fixing charges of plastic explosives around the steel casement frame.
Ann said, “You must keep the shooting to a minimum up there. Those electronics are crucial.”
“I understand.”
She looked at him closely. “If we succeed here, I don’t want a massacre, Marc. I just want to get out.”
“And if we don’t succeed?”
She stared into his eyes as she spoke. “Then, as George said, we’ll take as many with us as we can. There will be no reason to leave here.”
Pembroke nodded. “How do you want your father? Dead or alive?”
She spoke without hesitation. “I want him put back in his grave where he belongs.”
“Thorpe?”
“Alive. I want him alive.”
“Any other instructions?”
“Yes. If Talbot Three is actually here, find him.”
Pembroke nodded, then said, “Before I’m through here, this house will give up all its secrets.”
64
The big Sikorsky helicopter headed south toward the coastline of Long Island. The jumpmaster, Farber, called out, “Target, three miles due south!” He added, “Winds gusting from the north to nine miles an hour at sea level. Ten to fifteen miles up here. Partial cloud cover, obscuring a three-quarter moon. Rain clouds tracking this way. Target is well lit and easily identifiable. Don’t land on George’s property by mistake or he’ll shoot you.” Farber laughed, then called out, “Line up!”
Grenville stood and approached the sliding door. Behind him were Pembroke’s men, Stewart and Collins. Behind them the old boys, Johnson and Hallis. Grenville knew enough about tactical parachute jumps to know that the buddy system was very important. Stewart and Collins were buddies. He guessed that Johnson and Hallis were buddies too. Only Tom Grenville seemed to be missing a buddy.
The cabin lights suddenly went out and the lights from the cockpit dimmed to near darkness. The pilots drew blackout shades around their side windows and shut off the outside navigation lights, a move that Grenville thought was highly dangerous. Farber seemed to read his thoughts and said, “Don’t worry, boys, no one else is crazy enough to be flying at this altitude tonight.”
The blackened helicopter stopped its forward motion and hovered nose up into the wind. The buffeting became worse and the cabin pitched steeply to port and starboard. The men held on to overhead straps. Farber called out, “Target one mile, due south.”
Grenville checked his equipment and adjusted the sling of his M-16. He peered out the door window. The sky was still flashing jagged lightning, and dark clouds passed by the windows.
Farber shouted, “Altitude five thousand, five hundred feet. Target one hundred feet above sea level, give or take a chimney or two.”
Grenville decided he did not like Farber’s humor. He also decided in a clear flash of reason that he wasn’t going to jump. He turned and found himself staring into Stewart’s black eyes, which reflected the thin moonlight coming through the window.
Suddenly, Farber rolled the sliding door open and a blast of frigid air flew into the darkened cabin. The noise of the rotor blades was deafening, and Grenville couldn’t hear himself speaking to Stewart, telling him to get the hell out of his way.
Stewart smiled at him. Farber gave a thumbs-up and flashed a green penlight. Stewart reached out and pushed Grenville through the open door.
Tom Grenville felt that there was no longer any floor beneath his feet, a feeling that always made him unhappy. He felt himself tumble head over heels, then righted himself and spread his arms like a bird, experiencing the exhilaration of free fall. He soared above the moonglow on the Long Island Sound, the wind carrying him toward the coastline a mile below and a mile forward. He thought, I didn’t collide with the fucking pontoon, Stewart.
He looked back and saw that Stewart and Collins were soaring above him. Then Johnson dived out of the cabin, followed by Hallis.
In the dark cabin, Farber watched Hallis clear the helicopter, then grabbed the handle of the rolling door.
A hatch on the bulkhead of the aft stowage compartment dropped open and a man emerged. Farber sensed the movement and looked up as the shadow approached. The black-clad man in a parachute harness stood in front of Farber, who was holding the door half-open. The man said, “Hello, Barney.”
Farber’s eyes widened in surprise as the man reached out and seized Farber, who had no parachute, and pushed him out the open door. The man dived after him.
Tom Grenville looked down at the approaching coastline. He hoped they would spot the Russian house, though he wasn’t certain he himself was going to aim for it. Like other combat parachutists who had come to their senses on the way down, he could miss his target and explain that he mistook the lights of the country club for the Russian mansion.