“I’m flattered,” Abrams said. He turned to Styler and said abruptly, “I didn’t see you at the OSS dinner Friday night.”
Styler smiled slowly, “I never go. I’m out of that business.”
Except today, thought Abrams. Styler was holding a one-day-only Memorial Day sale. Abrams said, “But you are acquainted with Mr. O’Brien.”
Styler remained silent for some time, then a strained look passed over his face. He said softly, “I don’t know how much your personal feelings for Pat O’Brien play into this… I assume you’re acting out of larger motivations… and if I were a cunning man, I wouldn’t tell you this right now… ”
Abrams set his drink on an end table and leaned forward.
Styler read the expression on his face and nodded. “Pat O’Brien flew out of Toms River, New Jersey, last night to make a parachute jump. The aircraft crashed in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Only the pilot’s body was found on board. The authorities assume that Mr. O’Brien jumped at some earlier time. There are search parties out. But the Pine Barrens cover a large area… ”
Abrams nodded.
Styler moved to the door. “I’ll meet you out front later. A brown Lincoln.” He left.
Tanner stood. “Please follow me.”
Abrams took his drink and followed Tanner through a communicating door that led into an office space that held six cubicles. Tanner said, “There’s your cubicle. A Mr. Evans will be with you shortly. He knows you as Smith. I’ll see you later.” He turned and left.
Abrams went inside the open cubicle that had his name on the glass partition and found a plain gray steel desk with his nameplate on it. He sat in the swivel chair and went through the desk drawers, finding them crammed with the Edwards and Styler version of the same junk he had in his desk at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose.
On the floor was a briefcase with his initials. He opened it. Inside was the thick file marked The Russian Mission to the U.N. vs. George Van Dorn.
Abrams rocked back in his chair and sipped on his Scotch. Ostensibly the dozen or so employees of this law firm had been well instructed regarding his employment history with them. Still, that was another possible source of exposure.
Abrams thought also about Pat O’Brien. Was he dead? Kidnapped? If kidnapped, would he expose Abrams? Abrams hoped for both their sakes that he was alive or dead; but nothing in between.
Abrams glanced at his watch. Mr. Evans, he supposed, was his briefing officer. Jonathan Harker, he reflected, did not have a briefing officer, or mission control people. But, then again, Count Dracula did not have KGB agents in his castle.
Abrams thought of the events of the last few days, the last few months, and then of the last few years, and wondered where he had gone wrong. He consoled himself with the knowledge that even a man like Huntington Styler could get suckered into this bad business.
Abrams heard footsteps outside his cubicle and slipped his hand into the pocket that held his revolver.
A tall, lanky man in late middle age stood in a slouched posture at the cubicle opening. He had one hand in his pocket, the other held an attaché case. He looked at Abrams but said nothing.
Abrams had the impression of a rather sad traveling salesman who’d been on the road a week too long.
The man nodded, as though to himself, then said, “You know what?”
“No. What?”
“Electronics suck.”
“Right. I always knew that.”
The man moved in a shambling gait into the small cubicle and stood facing Abrams across the desk. “Are you Smith?”
“Right.” Up close the man resembled Walter Matthau and sounded like Humphrey Bogart.
The man pulled his hand from his pocket and reached across the desk. “Evans.”
Abrams released the hold on his .38, stood, and shook hands with Evans.
Evans sprawled out in a chair facing Abrams, and said, “Over ninety percent of the intelligence this country collects is through electronics. But you know what?”
Abrams sat. “No. What?”
“It doesn’t take the place of eyes and ears.”
“Nose and throat.”
“Well, nose too. And brains. And balls. And heart. You have those?”
“I’m complete.”
“Good.” Evans thrust both hands in his trouser pockets and looked idly around the small room. “What a shitbox. Who could work here?”
“A guy named Abrams.”
Evans looked back at Abrams. “You speak Russkie, right?”
“Right.”
“Who would want to learn a shit language like that?”
“Little Russian kids.”
Evans nodded absently, then said, “Look, Smith, I’m going to talk to you for an hour. I’m going to show you the architectural plans of that Russkie mansion. I’m going to teach you how to be a spy.”
“Good. Do we need the whole hour?”
“Maybe. You’ve got some background. Right?”
“Right. Are you going to tell me what it is I’m supposed to find out in there.”
“No. You wouldn’t understand it anyway. Neither would I. It’s electronics. But I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to look for.”
“Okay.”
“Radios and televisions.”
“Radios and televisions?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why?”
“How do I know? Also, look for ground-fault interrupters.”
“Okay. They’re easy to spot.”
Evans smiled slowly. “That’s those electrical outlets you see in new bathrooms and kitchens, Smith. They detect a surge of current or something, and a button pops so you don’t get a short or electrocute yourself or whatever.”
“Okay.”
“See if they have them in place of the regular outlets in other rooms.”
“Okay.”
“Check the doors and windows for interlocking metal weather stripping.”
“Maybe you need a building inspector instead of a spy.”
“The weather stripping should be plated with a noncorrosive metal that’s highly conductive of electricity — tin, silver, gold, or platinum. Scrape some off with a knife. You got a harmless little knife that they won’t confiscate?”
“No.”
Evans threw a small penknife across the desk, then fished around in his pockets and came up with a listless-looking cigarette that seemed to match his posture. He lit it with a bent paper match. “Also, you have to try to get up close to get a look at their antennas. Most of them are on the roof, but they’ve got the big one on the north lawn. At the base of that antenna you might see a surge arrestor coupled with an electrical filter. Unless they’ve buried them.”
“I can always dig. Do you have a pocket shovel?”
Evans thought a moment, then said, “There was a tree surgeon a few months back who got too close to that antenna and they nearly took his head off. Whatever is at the base there is probably aboveground, but hidden with bushes.”
“What does this thing look like?”
Evans drew a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and skimmed it across the desk.
Abrams opened the paper and stared at a badly done line drawing. “Looks like something I did in grade school.”
“Funny you should say that. It was done by a seventeen-year-old kid, under hypnosis.”
Abrams looked up at Evans.
“Memory drugs, too, if you want the whole truth.”
Abrams said nothing.
Evans added, “Some local delinquent who gets his jollies fucking around on the Russian estate. He hid in the bushes around the antenna once. That’s all you have to know. Except that we want a verification of what the kid saw.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But you know what?”
“No. What?”
“It’s none of your business.”