He passed through into a large passageway, dimly lit by wall sconces, and quickly checked his watch. He had, at best, five minutes before they sent someone to find him. He looked up at the cornices and spotted a television camera over the door through which he had just passed. He walked a few feet to the right toward the powder room door, then turned back, but the camera was not following him.
Abrams opened the powder room door, turned on the light, and looked around the small windowless enclosure, which held a single toilet, a washbasin, a vanity and chair. There seemed to be no air vent, and the place could stand a cleaning. He backed out, pulled the door closed behind him, and stood silently in the passageway.
Evans had not wanted him to take the risk of carrying the floor plans, but he remembered enough of them to know where he was. Across from the powder room was a narrow staircase, labeled on the plans Private stairs, which led up to the bedrooms. Beneath the staircase was a small door that led down to the basement.
Farther down the passage were two sets of double doors, directly across from each other. They were glass-paned doors, covered with sheer curtains. The doors to the right opened into the south end of the living room. The doors to the left were another entrance to the music room. At the far end of the passageway was a large set of French doors that opened onto the south terrace.
Abrams walked quickly to the French doors, unbolted them, and pushed them open. He heard no alarms, but that did not mean that a silent alarm had not gone off in the security office. Still, he hadn’t committed a capital offense yet. He walked out into the clear, moonlit night. The stepped terrace dropped off to the pool below, and to the left was the stone-walled service court, used now as a parking yard. Abrams could not see over the wall even from his vantage point, but he could see the court was brightly lit, and he suspected the Lincoln had gotten a careful search there.
Abrams turned and looked up at the massive house. All the windows on the upper stories were dark, but on closer examination he could see that blackout curtains had been drawn over them. He walked back to the French doors and stared down the long, dimly lit hall. The television camera was not clearly visible, but even if it was focused on him, he hadn’t committed that capital offense yet. But he was about to.
Abrams knelt and examined the weather stripping on the French doors, then drew his penknife. He scraped the metal stripping under the bottom edge of the door, letting the scrapings of bright metal plating fall into a handkerchief. He folded the handkerchief carefully and put it in his trouser pocket, then stood and closed the French doors, rebolting them. He waited, his heart beating heavily in his chest, but nothing happened. Actually, he knew that, even if they were listening or watching, they’d let him finish — let him, as Androv would say, cut his capers. And in the process, cut his own throat.
Abrams looked at his watch. Two minutes had passed. He walked to the music room doors and stood to the side. He listened for a few seconds and heard the sound of a television. He peered through the sheer curtains into the room and saw the young security woman sitting with her back to him, smoking a cigarette and having a drink. She was watching some moronic game show on a large seven-foot screen that looked like a late-model Sony. At least, thought Abrams, she wasn’t watching him on the screen. He began to believe he was going to pull this off.
This commons room was painted in a high-gloss enamel of avocado green, which Abrams thought would look better on a refrigerator or electric can opener. The furniture was red vinyl, split in all the right places, and the room had that special ill-used look that Abrams associated with police squad rooms and government waiting rooms. To the left he could see the door that led back to the gallery. He couldn’t imagine why Androv had circumvented this rather dreary commons room, unless it was to protect his American guests’ aesthetic sensibilities from severe shock. Then Abrams spotted, in the corner opposite the Sony, another television set. It was an old design with a highly polished mahogany cabinet, but Abrams instinctively recognized that it was not an old American model but what passed for a contemporary style in Russia.
His eyes began to take in the whole room through the spaces in the gauzy curtains. The wall receptacles appeared to be of the new ground-fault type. Next to the fireplace on the near right wall stood an old Philco radio console, the size of a jukebox.
Well, he thought, there’s the radio and television in question. Though why there should be a primitive Russian television set in the same room as a seven-foot Sony was a bit of a mystery. And why anyone but a nostalgia buff or antiques collector would keep a monstrous vacuum-tube Philco radio was stranger still.
Abrams focused on the young woman again. As he watched, she stood, carrying her drink, walked to the television, and switched it to videotape. Presently the screen lightened to a taped version of the Bolshoi, about midway through Giselle. The woman turned to go back to her chair and Abrams could see she was a little unsteady on her feet. As she came toward the chair and closer to him, he began to edge away from the door, but then he noticed her face. She had, he thought, one of the saddest expressions he could imagine, and tears rolled down her face. She gulped down her drink, wiped her eyes, and sank back into the chair, covering her face with her hands. Odd, he thought.
Abrams turned, crossed the passageway, and approached the glass-paneled living room doors. He listened again but heard nothing, and the room appeared to be dark. He edged closer to the doors and looked through the glass pane and sheer curtains, shielding his eyes against the glare of the passageway’s wall sconces. As he moved his other hand down to the brass doorknob, Abrams suddenly froze and held his breath. Slowly, he turned toward the narrow staircase as his right hand went into his pocket and found his penknife.
The figure coming down the dimly lit stairs stopped and stared at him.
Abrams stared back, then stepped to the foot of the stairs and looked up. He said softly, “Zdravstvoui.”
The girl, about five or six years old, clutched at a rag doll and replied in a frightened tone, “Please, don’t tell anyone.”
Abrams put on a reassuring smile. “Tell anyone what?”
“That I came upstairs,” she whispered.
“No, I won’t tell anyone.”
The girl smiled tentatively, then said, “You talk funny.”
Abrams replied, “I am not from the same part of Russia as you.” He looked at the doll. “How pretty. May I see it?”
The girl hesitated, then a bit nervously took another step down the stairs.
Abrams extended his arm slowly and the girl handed him the doll. Abrams examined it appreciatively. “What is your doll’s name?”
“Katya.”
“And what is your name?”
“Katerina.” She giggled.
Abrams smiled, and still holding the doll, said, “Where are you going, Katerina?”
“Down to the basement.”
“To the basement? Do you play down there?”
“No. Everyone is down there.”
Abrams began another question, then stopped. He stayed silent for some seconds, then said in a quiet voice, “What do you mean, everyone is down there?”
“I went upstairs to get Katya. But everyone is supposed to stay in the basement.”
“Why is everyone supposed to stay in the basement?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are your parents down there?”
“I told you — everyone is there.”
“Are you going back to your apartment in New York tonight?”