Styler leaned over the front seat. “A few days later the Russians began looking for a lawyer. That’s how we eventually became involved.”
Abrams glanced at the file. The way Huntington Styler had specifically become involved was by writing an Op-Ed piece for the Times, roundly condemning Van Dorn for his spite parties. Abrams had no doubt the piece had been planted. He said, “Will the house be full this coming July Fourth weekend?”
Tanner hesitated, then said, “That’s a good question.”
Abrams looked at him. “Meaning what?”
Tanner glanced at Abrams as he negotiated through the heavy traffic. “Well, I counseled the Russian’s legal advisor, a man named Alexei Kalin, whom you’ll meet, that all the Russian diplomats, staff, and dependents in the New York area should make other plans—”
“To show,” interrupted Abrams, “that they are discommoded by Van Dorn’s harassment.”
“Yes. If over a hundred men, women, and children have to change their plans and stay in Manhattan because of Van Dorn, then we’ve got a real strong point for our case.”
“True. So what did Kalin say?”
Tanner moved the Lincoln up within sight of the Russian gates. “Kalin said he’d check; then a day later he called back and said they would cooperate with us and not come out that weekend.”
Abrams asked, “Then why is there a question?”
Tanner did not reply, but glanced into the rearview mirror at Styler.
Styler spoke. “We have information that, despite their promise to stay away from the Glen Cove house, they intend to be here July Fourth weekend.”
Abrams turned in his seat. “What sort of information?”
Styler said, “Well, as you know, Pat O’Brien has… had… the ability to discover these things through the most mundane ways — diplomatic staffs or their wives and children, are often sources of security breaches. Casual remarks to other diplomats, tradespeople; children saying something to their American friends. That sort of thing. Of course, that doesn’t mean that the Russian staff isn’t misinformed themselves, but small signs seem to point to the fact that they believe they’ll all be in Glen Cove that weekend.”
Abrams thought that the Russians considered this case a necessary nuisance. Necessary because they had been backed into a corner and had no choice but to proceed with it after Van Dorn’s outrages. Not to proceed would look odd. And a nuisance, because they did not like these attorneys coming onto their property, or telling them to stay in Manhattan over the July Fourth weekend. This presented a dilemma. They had to cooperate on the one hand, but on the other hand they had other things on their mind; perhaps a much better way to settle their case against Van Dorn — and the rest of the country.
Styler said, “This case gives Mr. O’Brien a unique opportunity to see how the Russians react to certain stimuli. You understand what I’m saying.”
“Yes.”
Styler added, “Enough said.”
As they edged closer to the gates, Tanner put on his left-hand turn signal. A traffic policeman approached and Tanner lowered the window. The sounds of the demonstrators filled the car. The policeman stuck his head in the window. “Where you heading?”
Tanner pointed. “There.”
“What’s your business there?”
Abrams could tell that Tanner was considering a lawyer’s version of “It’s none of your fucking business” but instead produced a letter written in English on Soviet UN stationery.
The policeman scanned the letter without comment.
Abrams looked out the windshield. There were over a hundred demonstrators around the gates, and the scene looked much like the one he’d viewed on the late news the night of May First, after his fateful interview with O’Brien on the roof of the RCA Building.
The policeman handed the letter back to Tanner and signaled to another officer up the road, who stopped oncoming traffic.
Tanner pulled into the opposing lane, then made his left-hand turn and headed into the gates, which had swung open.
Two burly Russian guards in brown uniforms with red trimming stood in the gravel drive. Their right arms were raised in a way that reminded Abrams of a Fascist salute. Tanner stopped.
A third man, dressed in civilian clothing, approached and spoke in good English. “What is your business, please?”
Tanner produced another letter on Soviet UN stationery, written in Russian. Abrams noticed a profusion of stamps, seals, and several signatures. There was, Abrams thought, something disturbing about a country that couldn’t make do with one seal and one signature.
The Russian took the letter and went to a nearby guardhouse. Abrams could see him pick up the telephone. The two guards remained in a blocking position on the drive. Tanner snorted. “Look at those fools. Do they think we’re going to try to sneak up the driveway? This is like some grade-B movie.”
Styler added, “It is rather inane. That man knew we were coming, and has a description of us right down to our license plate.”
Abrams interrupted. “I’d like to try to hear what he’s saying.”
The car was instantly silent. The civilian was standing at the open door of the guardhouse, speaking loudly into the telephone with all the blissful assurance of a man who believes he can’t be understood.
The man hung up and returned to the car, handing Tanner the letter.
Abrams could smell cheap cologne. The shirt was dirty, the tie stained, and the suit ill-fitting. The man was a Russian icon. This was like a grade-B movie.
The man gave Abrams a nasty sort of look, as though he were reading his mind, then said to Tanner, “Proceed up the drive, at ten kilometers. You will see a parking yard. Go beyond this and stop at the main entrance.”
Tanner mumbled a thank-you and began moving up the gravel drive. He said to Abrams, “Could you make out what he said on the phone?”
“Just normal security chatter. He said, ‘Styler, Tanner, and the Jew have arrived.’”
There was a silence in the car as it rolled up the long, S-shaped drive. The lighted house was visible now, a long, gabled structure of gray stone, multileveled to conform with the contours of the hilltop. The drive was overhung with trees, darkening it, but the borders were lit by short, squat Japanese lanterns.
Abrams reminded himself that although he was technically on Soviet soil, he was a long way from the Gulag. On the other hand, Evans’ cheery remark about the lime pit in the basement had to be considered more than flippancy. More to the point, the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade were short one member.
The car moved up the gradual incline, swinging past the north side of the house and through the parking yard. Tanner pulled into a large forecourt, brightly illuminated by modern security lighting. Abrams studied the east-facing facade. There was a half story exposed above ground level that had once been servants’ quarters and that Evans had said served a similar function, though the Russians who lived there now were not called servants.
Three rising bays protruded from the stone facade, each holding long casement windows. The right-hand bay indicated the location of the dining room and above that a large bedroom. The left bay was the original study now used as the security office. Above that was another bedroom. The large middle bay was the entrance. The third floor was a gabled garret entirely devoted, according to a Soviet defector, to electronic spying.
Tanner stopped the car directly in front of the entrance and shut off the engine. Outside in the warm night the sound of insects penetrated into the plush interior, and the car’s engine ticked as it cooled.
Abrams took his revolver and shoulder holster from his briefcase and stuffed them into the glove compartment.