Abrams smiled.
“Go on. You first.”
Abrams began to climb the wet ladder. He said over his shoulder, “Slippery. Be careful.”
She stopped climbing at the third-floor landing. “I have brandy in my room. Go on. I’ll be a minute.”
Abrams continued up the ladder past the darkened fourth-floor window. He peered over the parapet. The flat roof was covered with gravel for drainage, but puddles gleamed in the low spots. There was no stairwell shed, no skylights or ducts, and he had a clear view except for a wide brick chimney in the center of the roof.
Abrams climbed over the low parapet and dropped to the roof. He walked gingerly over the rough gravel and circled the chimney, then found a relatively dry area and dropped the two pillows. He stood looking out into the backyards below, the soft wind caressing his body. Yes, he thought, this will be different. Very nice.
He heard the sound of crunching gravel and sloshing water to his left and spun around. Two rappelling lines swung from the higher roof down the wall of the adjoining building. In the dark he saw two black-clad shapes in ski masks moving quickly toward him. One held a long jimmy bar, the other a black bag, which Abrams took to be a case of burglar tools. But in an instant he knew they were anything but burglars. They were very professional killers.
Abrams was about ten feet from the fire escape ladder and an equal distance from the pillow where his revolver lay tucked inside. The men were less than fifteen feet from him. Abrams lunged in three long strides and dove for the pillow. The gravel scraped his naked body as his hand shot into the right pillowcase. He seized the revolver by the barrel. He had no time to bring it out, and he worked it around, grasping the butt, his finger slipping into the trigger guard. He prepared to squeeze off a round through the case, but the closer of the two men loosed a violent kick that caught him on the side of the head. The other man came up quickly and swung the long steel jimmy at his elbow, paralyzing his right arm. Abrams felt a flash of searing pain travel to his shoulder and almost passed out. He thought again, Pros.
They pinioned his arms to his sides and rolled him over on his back. One man pressed a gloved hand over Abrams’ mouth. The other held up something that Abrams thought was a club. The first man knelt on his chest and pried open his jaws as he held his nostrils shut.
Abrams could see that the club was actually a bottle, and he felt the cold liquid hit his lips and splash across his face. He tried to cough it back, but it slid down his open throat. It took a few seconds before he identified the burning sensation and the faint smell that somehow reached his olfactory nerves. It wasn’t poison or acid but Scotch whisky. His brand, he guessed. So it wasn’t to look like murder but like a drunken tumble from the roof. He began to struggle but felt a hand clamp on to his testicles and twist. He stopped moving.
They held him pressed against the rough gravel for what seemed like a long time but was, he thought, probably a few minutes. He felt the effects of the alcohol on his brain and tried to fight it. Suddenly the two men turned him on his stomach, seized his arms and legs, and began running toward the edge of the roof.
Abrams saw the low parapet coming up quickly, and beyond the parapet the emptiness of a four-story fall.
He waited until they slowed, a few feet from the edge. He felt the imperceptible loosening of their grip as they prepared to hurl their burden out into space. At that last moment Abrams twisted violently, breaking the hold on his right arm. His shoulder dropped and collided with the brick parapet wall, causing the two men to lose their grip on him.
Abrams wrenched free and fell to the rooftop, spinning around into a crouching defensive position, his back to the brick parapet. The two men hovered over him but hesitated a split second. Abrams sprang out of his crouch, grabbing two handfuls of gravel and flinging them into the men’s faces. His left foot shot out and caught the closest man in the groin. The other man lunged at him while he was off-balance and delivered a clenched fist to the side of his jaw, knocking him off his feet.
Abrams lay on his back, stunned. The man dove at him, his hands outstretched and reaching for his throat. Abrams planted his bare feet in the man’s stomach, lifting him high into the air, and the man’s forward momentum catapulted him over the parapet. The quiet night was broken with a shrill, piercing scream.
Abrams sprang to his feet. The second man was already running toward the dangling rappelling lines. Abrams began to follow, but the alcohol slowed him and he felt a growing pain where his shoulder had hit the wall. His right arm was still numb from the blow on the elbow, and the sharp gravel cut into his feet.
The man was halfway up the rope as Abrams reached it. Abrams grabbed the rope and jerked it violently, but the man, wearing crepe soles and leather climbing gloves, hung on and disappeared onto the higher roof.
Abrams turned and walked unsteadily back to where the two pillows lay. He retrieved his revolver and began descending the fire escape.
Claudia was on the top landing. She looked at him in the dim light. “What happened to you? You smell of whisky… ”
He stared at her. “I slipped.” He took her arm and led her down the fire escape into the bedroom. He said, “You forgot the brandy.”
“I couldn’t find it.”
Abrams pulled on his suit trousers. “Where’s the comforter?”
Claudia didn’t respond, but asked, “Where are you going?”
“Back to Brooklyn, where it’s safe.”
“But… we haven’t…”
“I think I’ve lost the desire. Good night.”
“What…?” She reached out and touched his scraped elbow. “You have cuts all over you.”
“Good night.” He noticed his voice was slurred.
She hesitated, then turned quickly and left.
Abrams waited, then took his revolver and went out into the hallway. He mounted the stairs and went to Joan Grenville’s room. He opened the door without knocking and found her under the covers, sleeping in a sitting position, her bare breasts peeking out over the bedsheets. Her lamp was on, and a book lay on the covers. He was surprised to find she snored.
Abrams saw that she had a bolt lock on her door, and he threw it shut, then checked the window latch. He sat in an easy chair, his revolver on his lap, and closed his eyes.
His thoughts seemed a bit jumbled, but through the alcohol he concluded that if he had any doubts about the reality of what he’d heard so far, he had none now. Like a soldier new at the front or a rookie cop on a bad beat, he’d been lucky to survive his first day. Luck or chance would play no part in his future survival. He’d be harder to kill, but they wouldn’t stop trying.
He had one distinct advantage over everyone now. He knew the name of one of the enemy: Countess Claudia Lepescu. But he didn’t know where to turn with this interesting knowledge. In contrast to his police work, he had no brothers, no partners. He was alone. He began to appreciate the sheer terror and loneliness of intelligence work.
He looked at Joan. How, he wondered, did she fit? His instincts told him she was what she seemed to be. She might even be useful if she weren’t so useless.
The obvious thing to do, he thought, was to put a lot of distance between himself and these people. But something inside him — maybe something as uncomplicated as simple patriotism — told him to see it to the end. He wondered who Talbot’s next victim would be. Whoever it was, he assured himself, it wouldn’t be Tony Abrams.
BOOK IV
REVELATIONS
27
At 8:30 A.M., Katherine Kimberly entered the town house on 36th Street with her own key. She glanced into the sitting room and saw Tom Grenville sprawled on the couch, his dinner jacket and shoes lying on the floor.