Androv did not rise. He said, “Gentlemen, Mr. Kalin. You know Mr. Styler and Mr. Tanner?”
Kalin nodded perfunctorily to the men present and pushed a wingback chair toward the circle of seats. Abrams noticed that he had positioned it between Androv and himself, but a few feet back from them.
Androv nodded toward Abrams. “Did I tell you, Alexei, that Mr. Abrams is the son of famous American Communists?”
“Yes.” Kalin took his seat.
Abrams eyed Alexei Kalin closely. The man was hard-looking, his face the sort that one did not easily forget. In fact, Abrams did recognize him from Fordham night school. One of the things that Abrams had learned as a cop was that men who wore a gun carried themselves in a subtly different way from men who did not. And one of the things that had struck him about Kalin on the few occasions he’d seen him was the strong possibility that he wore a shoulder holster. Abrams was fairly certain he was wearing one now.
Kalin set his attaché case on his lap and opened it. He shuffled through some papers, then said, “We can begin.”
Styler and Tanner opened their briefcases and brought out the ubiquitous yellow legal pads. Abrams used a small notebook that was a carry-over from his police days. Androv said, “Mr. Abrams is also a classmate of yours, Alexei.”
Kalin glanced up. “Yes, I have seen him.”
Androv looked at Abrams. “Yes? No?”
Abrams replied, “Yes, I recognize Mr. Kalin.”
“Mr. Abrams is a former New York City policeman, Alexei.” Androv spoke between bites of pastry. He turned to Abrams. “What did you say your duties were?”
Abrams replied, “I had many jobs on the force.”
Kalin sat motionless, staring down into the attaché case. He took a pen and appeared to write, but Abrams was certain he was playing with the dials, which had notches so they could be adjusted with a pen.
Androv again addressed Abrams. “It is unfortunate that immigrants to this country did not teach their children their native tongue. You speak no Russian at all, Mr. Abrams?”
Abrams replied indirectly, as instructed by Evans. “My parents, like many other immigrants, wanted their children to be Americanized. They used their native language to keep secrets from their children.”
Androv laughed. “What a pity.”
Styler cut in. “Perhaps we should discuss the case.”
Androv smiled. “Mr. Abrams is a curiosity for us. But—” He slapped his knees. “Alexei, let’s see what you learned at the Catholic school.”
Kalin looked up from his attaché case and addressed Styler in an unfriendly tone. “What do you intend to do about that incident of May Day?”
Styler replied, “You mean your claim that Van Dorn fired a pistol at four of your staff—”
“Yes, yes. And they harbored this boy who came on the property to steal.”
Styler cleared his throat. “Van Dorn tells a different story. I’d suggest we proceed separately with that. That’s a criminal matter.”
Kalin’s voice was impatient. “But it is important that this boy be questioned. We must serve him with a summons. Have you yet found his name and address?”
Tanner replied, “Yes.”
Kalin spoke sharply. “Well, what is it?”
Tanner picked out a sheet of paper. “Kuchik. Stanley Kuchik. He lives on Woodbury Lane. He’s a junior at the high school.” Tanner passed the paper to Androv, who glanced at it and gave it to Kalin.
Abrams did not think it was a terrific idea to give them the boy’s name and address, but they had little choice if they were to keep the Russians’ confidence. Abrams’ mind was working the way O’Brien’s had, and he wondered if the boy had just become cheese for a rattrap. Why not? They’d hypnotized him and given him truth drugs. If they were through debriefing him, he could be recycled as bait. Abrams was having some difficulty discerning the white hats from the black hats. He had to keep reminding himself that he was on the side of truth and justice.
Androv again addressed Abrams. “How would you proceed against this young hooligan?”
Abrams looked up from his notebook. He wanted to ask how Androv would proceed. Gun or knife? He said instead, “Since I haven’t passed the bar exam, I’d rather not offer a legal opinion.”
Androv replied, “But you are knowledgeable, no? How long have you worked for Mr. Styler?”
Abrams thought the segue was awkwardly done. He began to reply, then sneezed into his handkerchief. He used the bronchial spray, cleared his throat, and replied in a cracking voice, “Two years.”
Kalin glanced up from his attaché case.
Androv said, “Do you have a cold?”
“Allergy.”
“Ah, something in this room?”
“Probably.”
“It must be Mr. Kalin, then.” Androv laughed.
Abrams smiled and turned to Kalin. “What is your feeling on those punitive damages?”
Kalin, without glancing up, replied, “The figure seems small compared to what one reads in the papers.”
Which, Abrams thought, was interesting, considering Kalin had not been in the room when Tanner mentioned $500,000.
Kalin, realizing his mistake, glanced up at Abrams but did not look toward Androv.
Androv said, “I think we will have to send Mr. Kalin back to school.”
The meeting continued for another ten minutes, during which time Androv digressed now and then to ask Abrams a few more pointed questions. Abrams either answered evasively or answered after using one of the two drugs. Abrams could not tell if Kalin was happy or disappointed with his analyzer results. He could also not determine with any assurance whether Androv or Kalin were buying any of this. Androv’s manner had grown progressively preoccupied.
Finally, Androv cut off Tanner in midsentence. “What is keeping that madman from his capers?” He looked at his watch, then lifted his heavy bulk from his chair and marched to the window. He stared thoughtfully into the distance for a few seconds, then turned and faced the room. “He must know that you are here. So he won’t bother us until the police report to him that your car has gone.” He advanced a few steps. “You may as well leave. Park in the high school and wait for the fireworks and loudspeakers so you can satisfy yourselves. Thank you for coming on your holiday, gentlemen. Good evening.”
Abrams rose and said, “I’d rather we see it from your perspective.”
Androv stared at him. “I have a busy evening.”
“We can wait here and entertain ourselves.”
“That is against regulations.”
Kalin closed his attaché case and stood. “There is nothing further to discuss or see.”
Tanner said uneasily, “I guess we’ve got enough—”
Styler interrupted and addressed Androv. “We’ve gone to some trouble to get here, and we’d like to see for ourselves the exact nature of Van Dorn’s harassment.”
Abrams suppressed a smile. Styler had balls. Abrams glanced at his watch. Van Dorn would not begin for at least fifteen more minutes.
Androv began speaking in a voice that was not only frosty but had, Abrams thought, an edge of frenzy about it. “Gentlemen, let’s be frank. This is a high-security area as you know, and I don’t have the personnel to assign to keep you company this evening.” He made a sweeping motion toward the door. “Good night.”
Kalin began leading the way. Styler, Tanner, and Abrams began to follow, then Abrams turned back to Androv. “I’d like to use the rest room.”
Androv seemed to have calmed down. “Yes, of course.” He pointed to a doorway at the far end of the gallery. “Through there. You will see a door marked Powder Room.” He added, “Do not get lost, please.”
Kalin seemed to be on the point of accompanying Abrams, but Styler engaged him in conversation. Abrams left his briefcase on the chair and walked to the door Androv had indicated.