Thorpe reflected smilingly that Glen Cove also had given the State Department a headache. But finally, last summer, the federal government agreed to pay the village the $100,000 or so in annual property taxes that they lost because of the tax-exempt status of the Russian estate. In return, Mayor Parioli had agreed to lay off. But from where Thorpe sat now, twelve hundred feet above the village, it didn’t appear that Glen Cove was living up to its end of the treaty. Thorpe laughed again.
The pilot said, “What the hell’s going on down there?”
Thorpe replied, “The populace is exercising its rights of freedom of speech and freedom of assembly.”
“Looks like a fucking free-for-all from here.”
“Same thing.” But to be fair to the village, Thorpe thought, circumstances had changed since the Glen Cove — Washington accord. There were persistent reports in the national press of sophisticated electronic spying equipment in the Russian estate house. Local residents complained of TV interference, which was to them as alarming as the electronic spying that caused it.
The purpose of the electronics, though, was not to wipe out Monday-night football. The real target of the electronic spying was Long Island’s defense industry: Sperry-Rand, Grumman Aircraft, Republic Aviation, and the dozens of high-tech electronic and microchip companies. Thorpe knew that the Russians were also eavesdropping on Manhattan’s and Long Island’s large diplomatic communities.
The question was always raised, “Where did the Russians get all this high-technology spying equipment?” And the official State Department answer was always the same: through their diplomatic pouches, which were not always “pouches” but often large crates protected from search and seizure by the protocols of diplomacy. Yet, Thorpe knew this was not true. Nearly all the equipment they used to spy on the local defense industry had come from that industry itself. It had been bought through a series of dummy corporations and delivered by helicopter right into the Russians’ backyard. Some of the very, very sensitive stuff that couldn’t be bought had been stolen and transported around in a purposely confusing manner, which included trucks, boats, and finally helicopter. Thorpe said to the pilot, “When you flew the Russians out here, did they have crates with them?”
The pilot shrugged, then replied, “Yeah, and enough luggage to take a two-year cruise. Boxes of food, too. But I didn’t know they were Russians and neither did the dispatcher. I was just supposed to pick up a party at the East Side Heliport and take them out to a Long Island estate. Anyway, they had these boxes and steamer trunks all over. So they dump this shit onboard and tell me to fly to Kings Point, which I do. Then, before I land, they say go on to Glen Cove, so I go. Then they point out this place below and I land. This van was waiting — some kind of deli catering van. A bunch of guys unload real quick and wave me off. Christ, I still didn’t know they were Russians until about a month later I see an aerial picture of the place in the Times. There was some flap over taxes and beach passes or something. Never got a tip, either.”
Thorpe nodded. “What was written on that deli van?”
The pilot looked quickly at Thorpe. “I don’t know. Can’t remember.”
“Did anyone speak to you about that trip?”
“No.”
Thorpe rubbed his chin. The man was suddenly less communicative, which could mean several things. Thorpe said, “You didn’t contact the FBI? They didn’t contact you?”
The pilot snapped, “Hey, enough questions. Okay?”
Thorpe pulled out his wallet. “CIA.”
The pilot glanced at the ID. “Yeah. So what? I used to fly lots of CIA in ’Nam. They weren’t as nosy as you.”
Thorpe smiled. “What did they tell you? The FBI, I mean.”
“They told me not to talk to you guys. Hey, I don’t want to get in the middle of some shit. Okay? I said too much already.”
“I’ll keep it quiet.”
“Okay… clear it with them if you want to know anything else. Don’t tell them I spoke to you, though. I didn’t know you were CIA. Jesus Christ, what a bunch of characters.”
“Take it easy. Just fly.”
“Yeah. Christ, I feel like a cabbie picking up muggers all the time. Russkies, FBI, CIA. What next?”
“You never know.” Thorpe sat back as the helicopter began its vertical descent. This mini-war between the village and the Russian estate had a comic-opera quality to it. More comical perhaps was the open hostility of another local land baron, George Van Dorn, Thorpe’s weekend host. Peter Thorpe looked down at the adjoining estates, two small fiefdoms, sharing a common, semi-fortified border, worlds apart in political philosophy and engaged in some sort of bizarre medieval siege warfare. Some of it was amusing, he thought, some of it was not.
A fountain of colored balls from a Roman candle rose into the sky over the helicopter bubble. Thorpe said, “No evasive action necessary, chief.”
The pilot swore. “This could get dangerous.”
Thorpe pointed out to the pilot Van Dorn’s illuminated landing pad, formerly the tennis court. Van Dorn had proclaimed tennis to be a sport of sissies and women. Thorpe, who played tennis, had suggested to Van Dorn that the sissies and women should be accommodated if they were his houseguests, but to no avail.
There was a radio frequency painted on the court in luminescent numerals. The pilot asked increduously, “Am I supposed to radio for permission to land?”
“You’d better, chief.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake… ” He switched frequencies and spoke into his helmet microphone as he hovered, “This is AH 113, overhead. Landing instructions. Over.”
A voice crackled back and Thorpe heard it from the open speaker. “This is Van Dorn station below. Have you in sight. Who is your passenger?”
The pilot looked annoyed as he turned to Thorpe.
Thorpe smiled. “Tell them it’s Peter, alone and unarmed.”
The pilot repeated Thorpe’s words in a surly tone.
The radio operator replied, “Proceed to landing pad. Over.”
“Roger, out.” The pilot switched back to his company frequency, then said to Thorpe, “Now I know two houses to avoid.”
“Me too.” Thorpe could see the Van Dorn house clearly now, a long white clapboard colonial, very stately, but not quite as grand as his enemy’s castle. Thorpe felt the warmer air from the ground entering the cockpit, and smelled the early-blooming flowers. From the empty but lighted swimming pool, two men were firing skyrockets, like a mortar crew, thought Thorpe, dug in against possible counterfire. “If the Russians could get a fireworks permit,” he said to the pilot, “they might shoot back.”
“Yeah,” growled the uneasy pilot, “and if I had my old Cobra gunship again, I’d waste the fuckers, and these assholes too.”
“Amen, brother.”
The helicopter came to rest on the tennis court.
3
Stanley Kuchik felt the sweat collecting under his shirt. He wondered what the Russians would do to him if they caught him here on their property. For decades the students at Glen Cove High, down Dosoris Lane from the Russian estate, had passed those forbidding walls and portals on their way to and from school. There had been stories of students penetrating into that foreign land, but they were always students in some distant misty past. There was, some speculated, a sense of inadequacy based on the knowledge that none of them, boy or girl, had found the courage or enterprise to redress the insult of those mocking walls.
But now came Stanley Kuchik, with the right stuff. Tonight he was going to prove that even if he wasn’t exactly the biggest kid in the class, he was the bravest. Ten of his buddies had seen him scale the fence between the YMCA grounds and the Russian property, and watched him disappear into the trees. His mission was clear: Obtain irrefutable proof of his deep penetration into enemy territory and rendezvous at Sal’s Pizza any time before 10:00 P.M. He knew that if he blew it, he might as well apply for his working papers, because he’d never again set foot in Glen Cove High.