“Don’t.”
Abrams turned his head, expecting to see one of Thorpe’s men. Instead he looked up into a pair of cold eyes the same color as the blue-gray barrel of the Uzi submachine gun pointed at him.
Two more men appeared from behind a mausoleum, also carrying automatic weapons. All the weapons had big ugly silencers fitted to them. The men were young and hard-looking, and seemed self-assured.
“Stand up.”
Abrams and Katherine stood. Abrams noticed that they wore ankle-height black basketball sneakers, and their clothing appeared to be normal casual wear, though the colors were on the dark, muted side. Abrams recognized the attire as subtly paramilitary; urban guerrillas of some sort who were dressed to mingle in the crowds or engage in a firefight.
“I’ll take that.”
Abrams caught the hint of an accent. He handed the man his revolver, butt first.
The man motioned with the barrel of his Uzi. Abrams and Katherine walked back toward the grave.
Abrams came through the rows of tombstones, and saw three more men, similarly dressed and also holding silenced automatic weapons, standing around the open pit. One of them cocked his finger at Abrams.
Abrams moved closer and looked down into the grave. Thorpe’s six men lay at the bottom, sprawled atop each other, their bodies ripped and riddled with what could only have been bursts of automatic fire.
Katherine took a step closer. She looked into the pit, put her hand to her mouth, and turned away.
One of the men spoke. “I thought it a good idea for you to see this, so you understand we are not playing at games here.”
Abrams recognized the accent as English. Simultaneously, Katherine looked at the man speaking. “Marc!” She turned to Abrams. “This is… an acquaintance of mine — Marc Pembroke.”
Marc Pembroke did not acknowledge her but made a motion to his men, who began filling in the grave.
Abrams regarded the man’s icy demeanor, then looked back into the pit. He thought, With acquaintances like that, who needs strangers trying to kill you?
Pembroke said, “You’ve nearly botched things up, you know. It’s fortunate that Pat O’Brien asked me to keep an eye out. He said you might pursue private initiatives.”
Abrams said, “We were out for a run.”
Pembroke ignored him and looked at Katherine. “You ought to have known better.”
“Don’t lecture me. I don’t even know what your role is in any of this. But I will ask Mr. O’Brien.”
Pembroke began to reply, but then looked back at Abrams. “You have an important duty to perform this afternoon, Mr. Abrams. You had no right risking your life in this idiotic business.”
Abrams replied, “Well, now I’m free to risk my life in the idiotic business of this afternoon.”
Katherine looked at him quizzically.
Pembroke watched the grave fill with dirt, then without looking up said, “Why don’t you just be off, then? We’ll tidy things up here.”
Katherine hesitated, then said, “Peter…?”
Pembroke gave her an annoyed look. “Peter Thorpe is not to be molested in any way. He’s been given a little something to keep him asleep… ” He looked at Abrams, then continued. “When he recovers consciousness he will find himself lying safely in a mausoleum. This grave will be covered with sod, and we will be gone. With any luck at all, Mr. Thorpe will be confused and frightened enough not to mention the incident to his controllers. It is important that Peter Thorpe maintain his Soviet contacts until we are ready to pull him in. Good day to you both.” He turned his back on them.
Abrams took Katherine’s arm. One of Pembroke’s men handed them their guns and they walked down to the tree-lined drive. Thorpe was gone. Abrams could easily believe that when he awoke in a dark vault, he would be confused. Abrams was confused himself, and he’d been awake for the whole thing.
They left the cemetery through the main gate on 25th Street. Katherine said, “What happened to your police backup?”
Abrams looked up from his thoughts. “What? Oh… I suppose your British buddy took care of them.”
“I was beginning to think you were bluffing.”
“So was I.” He looked at her. “You understand that Pembroke would have let us die had things gone a little differently.”
She nodded.
“You’re all a bit strange. Do you know that? Or have you stopped noticing?”
“I know.” She looked at him. “What important duty do you have this afternoon?”
“You’re the last person I’d tell.”
She smiled. “Well, welcome to the group, Mr. Abrams.”
He grumbled something, then said, “You’re a bad influence on me.”
They walked slowly, absorbed in their own thoughts. Abrams took her arm, tentatively, and she drew closer to him. They covered the block to Fourth Avenue and stood at the stairs to the BMT subway station. Abrams said, “This is the line we took down to Owl’s Head Park. We’ve come full circle.”
“Yes, we have. This will get me back to Manhattan, won’t it?”
“Yes, I’ll ride with you as far as Borough Hall. You get off at — look, my place or yours?”
“Neither,” she replied.
He looked at her.
“The house on Thirty-sixth Street,” she said quickly. Her words came out in a rush. “It’s safe… ”
He felt his chest pounding. “Okay—”
“We’ll have to sleep in separate rooms, though… You can come to me at night… or I’ll come to you… ”
“We should decide so we don’t wind up alone in the wrong rooms.”
She laughed and threw her arms around him, burying her head in his chest. He felt her sobbing. She got her voice under control and said, “This has been one of the most awful days… one of the best days… Be careful this afternoon. Whatever it is, be careful.”
Abrams saw that people were going around them to get to the subway stairs. “Maybe we should take a taxi — go to our places, pack—”
“Yes. Good idea.” She straightened up and composed herself.
They stood at the curb and waited for a passing cab. Abrams said, “Thorpe?”
She replied, “I feel nothing.”
“Anger? Betrayal?”
“No, nothing… foolish, perhaps. Everyone else seemed to know about him.”
“Are you still going to Van Dorn’s this afternoon?”
“Of course. It’s business.”
He nodded. “Is it possible Thorpe will actually show up?”
She considered awhile, then said, “Knowing him, it’s possible. It’s business for him, too.”
BOOK V
THE RUSSIAN MISSION
41
Tony Abrams joined the holiday crowds at Penn Station and boarded the three-twenty train for Garden City, Long Island. It was a short ride, but he had ample time to turn over in his mind the events of the morning: Carmine Street, the Brooklyn run, Thorpe, the cemetery. He thought about the Englishman, Marc Pembroke, whom Katherine had identified as another shadowy character with an office in Rockefeller Center and a door that was always locked.
He and Katherine had taken a taxi to his place and picked up a few things including the suit he was now wearing and his identification. They’d gone back to Carmine Street and gathered some of her things. Then they’d ridden up to the town house on 36th Street. During the ride, there was that awkwardness a man and a woman feel when they know they are going someplace to make love for the first time.
The town house was under discreet surveillance, and as Abrams and Katherine approached the door, they were intercepted by a plainclothesman who asked them to identify themselves and their purpose.
“Abrams,” he replied. “I have no purpose.”