He stared out the multipaned window. Beyond these hills, to the west and north, he could see the moonlit water of the Sound. Navigation lights of boats and ships blinked and moved across the calm water, and that reminded him that Peter Thorpe was still out there somewhere. He realized that Thorpe could conceivably wind up here tonight, anytime.
Androv looked at the three men, who had each picked a different window from which to look. “Well, let us sit and talk. When it begins, you will know it.”
Abrams examined the copper-clad casement window. There was a screen on the inside and the window cranked out. It was tightly closed now, and he could not see the weather stripping. He looked down at the terrace below, and said, “What’s that?”
Androv turned back and moved shoulder to shoulder beside Abrams. “Oh, that is a curiosity. It is what it looks like. A swastika set into the tilework.”
Abrams shielded his eyes against the glare of the window. “May I open this?”
Androv hesitated a moment, then said, “Of course.”
Abrams cranked. The window opened.
Androv added, “That was done, I am told, in about 1914, before the advent of the Nazis. It is the traditional gammadion — a symbol of good luck in the Orient and among American Indians. No one hates that symbol more than the Jews, except perhaps the Russians. So do not take offense.”
“Of course not. It just took me by surprise.” Abrams’ eyes ran over the sill and jambs. The weather stripping was plated with a bright, untarnished metal of what could have been platinum or white gold. Had he had his penknife, he still would not be able to get a scraping unless the interior screen were removed and Androv were removed. He said, “Should we leave this open to hear when Van Dorn’s barrage begins?”
“That’s not necessary.” Androv was already closing the window.
Abrams looked out across the brightly lit lawn and saw the towering antenna, held in place by guy wires. At the base of the antenna was the heavy planting of bushes that Evans had mentioned. Closer to the house and the terrace was the flagpole, surrounded by a circular hedgerow. Abrams could see the grating of the storm drain he’d been asked to verify.
At the edge of the woodline to the west, he spotted two men with a leashed dog. One man was speaking into what must have been a walkie-talkie, the other was shouldering what had to be a rifle. There was something surreal about this whole place he thought. The atmosphere was that of Kafka’s Castle, in which one never knew who would answer the telephone or if it would be answered at all. A place where one had the instinctive feeling that every unseen room and corridor was filled with silently waiting men; that all the dark and dimly appreciated places held perilous shadows. A glimpse here, a sound there, a smell, a feeling, confirmed that one was not alone.
“Come,” said Androv a bit impatiently, “let us be seated.” He motioned them to a grouping of chairs around a coffee table and directed each of them to a seat.
Abrams sat in a club chair, Tanner and Styler on a small settee, and Androv took a large upholstered armchair, his back to the windows.
Abrams regarded Androv for a moment. According to what was known of him, he was what was called in intelligence parlance the Chief Legal Resident. Or to use Abrams’ Red Squad description, Androv was the head of the KGB in New York, hiding behind a diplomatic post. This was not a great secret. What was a mystery was why he was bothering with this matter. Conclusion: He suspected a scam. Further conclusion: Whatever the Russians were up to, it was important enough to cause the KGB honcho to spend some time on it.
Androv was speaking. “I have asked Mr. Kalin, as our resident legal advisor, to join us. My function is one of community relations, so you will have to put up with me as well. Justice in this country is sometimes as much public relations as it is blind.”
Androv pulled out a box of Russian cigarettes, Troika Ovals, and offered them around in a gesture that Abrams thought was very Russian. Abrams took one of the proffered cigarettes and lit the loosely packed, foul-smelling Oval. On his first draw he sucked about an inch of tobacco into his mouth and had to pick it out.
“Do you like these?” Androv asked.
“They have a distinctive taste,” Abrams replied.
Tanner suppressed a smile.
Abrams marveled at the possibility that a country that couldn’t make a cigarette had found a way to destroy the most technologically advanced society the world had ever seen.
Androv looked at his watch. “Mr. Kalin takes courses at Fordham and thinks he understands American law.” Androv chuckled. “He is picking up all the worst habits of American lawyers. Lateness, for instance.”
Styler and Tanner put on obligatory smiles, then Styler opened his briefcase and flipped through some papers. “If we can’t obtain an injunction against Van Dorn for this July Fourth, then, as we told Mr. Kalin, we suggest you not come out here.”
Androv replied, “We told Mr. Tanner some weeks ago that we will not come for the three-day weekend if that is what you wish.”
Abrams looked closely at Androv. There was a discrepancy here between what Androv said and what O’Brien had discovered. Discrepancies were often suggestive of lies. There were two good reasons for the Russians to stay away: legal and practical. Therefore, if they intended to show up for Van Dorn’s bombardment, there must be one good reason for that. Conclusion: They had to be out of Manhattan. They had to be at their estate because this place was somehow safe. Further conclusion: No place else was safe that weekend.
The conventional wisdom in defense thinking was that when the time came, it would be on a holiday. Christmas or New Year’s Eve was the favored theory. But the Fourth of July was a nice, perverse symbolic possibility.
Tanner leafed through a file and said matter-of-factly, “We’re thinking in terms of punitive damages in the area of five hundred thousand dollars, plus whatever costs you incur.”
Androv’s mind, like his eyes, seemed focused on Abrams. He looked at Tanner. “What? Oh, that can wait for Mr. Kalin.” Androv rose and walked slowly across the room. He pulled a bell cord and remained standing beside it.
Presently a man in a white busboy tunic appeared at the hallway door pushing a serving cart. Androv walked beside the cart and announced, “Please help yourselves,” then served himself first and sat with a glass of tea and a plate heaped with cheap, store-bought pastry.
Abrams watched him. Androv suddenly appeared to be distracted, as though he had thought of something more pressing. He noticed that Androv kept glancing at his watch.
Abrams heard Androv speak softly to the busboy in Russian. “Tell Kalin to enter.”
Which to Abrams seemed more like a stage direction than an order to locate Kalin.
Styler, Tanner, and Abrams rose and walked to the cart. Beside the samovar was the relish tray with their metal items, minus, Abrams noticed, Tanner’s car keys. Each man reclaimed his own things, then each took a Russian tea glass with a metal handle and drew tea from the samovar.
Androv made desultory conversation between mouthfuls of sticky pastry.
Abrams said, “Are you returning to Manhattan tonight?”
Androv glanced at him. “Yes, why do you ask?”
“I thought I could get a ride with you.”
“You live in Brooklyn.”
“I’m staying in Manhattan this evening.”
“Are you?” Androv seemed momentarily disconcerted, then said, “I’m sorry, but we will be discussing classified matters.”
“I don’t speak Russian.”
Androv gave him a cold stare. “The car is full.”
“I’ll take the train, then.”
The door that led to the music room opened and a very tall and thin blond man, almost Scandinavian-looking, entered carrying an attaché case.