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 House, 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?”