“No. We must all sleep here tonight.” She smiled. “There is no school tomorrow.”
Abrams passed the doll back to the girl. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you. Hurry back downstairs.”
The girl pressed the doll to her chest and scurried down the remaining steps past him. She opened the small basement door and disappeared, leaving the door open.
Abrams stared down the dimly lit stone stairway, then quietly closed the door. He stood motionless for a while and thought. Something is wrong here. Very wrong.
Abrams hesitated, glanced at his watch, then walked quickly back to the living room door. Slowly, he pushed the door open.
The large living room sat hushed in pale moonlight, and the bulky furniture cast moon shadows over the flowered rug, somehow reminding Abrams of prehistoric animals grazing in a primeval clearing.
He took a step into the room and stopped short. Not ten feet from him was the profile of a man sitting in an upholstered chair.
The man was very still, his hands resting in his lap, and at first Abrams thought he was asleep, then he noticed the glint of an open eye. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, a wispy stream of smoke rising silhouetted against the moonlit bay window across the room.
Abrams remained motionless and drew a silent breath through his nose, smelling now the foul acrid smoke of the Russian cigarette. It did not seem possible that the man hadn’t heard him enter, but then as Abrams’ eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed the earphones over the man’s head. The man was listening to something, jotting notes, and Abrams intuitively knew he was monitoring the conversation in the gallery.
The man finally seemed to sense the presence of an intruder and turned his face toward Abrams, removing the earphones as he did. The two men stared silently at each other, and Abrams saw now that the man was very old. The man spoke in a peculiarly accented Russian. “Who are you?”
Abrams replied in English, “I have lost my way. Excuse me.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“I have taken a wrong turn. Good night.”
The man did not reply but snapped on a green-shaded reading lamp.
Abrams found that he could not turn away, but continued to stare. Even after forty years the American’s Russian was not good, and that struck him, irrelevantly, as odd. Even after forty years, the face was recognizable as the one he had seen on her office wall. But even if he had never seen that photograph, he would know those large, liquid blue eyes, because they were her eyes.
Abrams understood and accepted the fact that he was looking at the face of the warrior who had returned from the dead, at the face of Henry Kimberly, at the face of Talbot.
BOOK VI
BATTLE LINES
43
Marc Pembroke stood at the window, dressed only in his tan trousers. He focused his binoculars on the Russian mansion, nearly half a mile across the hollow. “This may seem a primitive way to gather intelligence, but one can learn things peeking from windows.”
Joan Grenville stretched and yawned on the bed. “I’d better get downstairs before I’m missed.”
“Yes,” Pembroke replied. “An hour is rather a long time to be gone to the loo.” He knelt in front of the open screenless window and steadied his elbows on the sill, adjusting the focus. “There’s a chap in a third-floor gable. He’s got a tripod-mounted telescope and he’s staring back at me.”
“Can I turn on the lights to get dressed?”
“Certainly not.” Pembroke scanned with the binoculars. “I can see the forecourt clearly, but I don’t see the Lincoln’s headlight beams yet. They won’t be leaving for a while, I expect.”
Joan Grenville sat on the edge of the bed. “Who won’t be leaving where?”
“Abrams is leaving the Russian estate. At least, I hope he is. If there’s trouble, they’re to flash their high beams.”
Joan Grenville stood and came beside him. “What sort of trouble? What’s Tony Abrams doing there?”
“It’s a legal matter.”
“Oh, bullshit. How many times have I heard that from Tom and his idiot friends?”
“You’re refreshingly without depth, Mrs. Grenville. One gets tired of all these still waters that run deep. You’re a frothy, fast-moving, and shallow stream. I can touch bottom with you.”
She giggled. “You did. Twice.”
Pembroke smiled as he refocused on his Russian counterpart. “Ivan does not believe his good luck in spying a beautiful naked woman bathed in moonlight. He’s rubbing his eyes and drooling.”
Joan Grenville glanced out the window. “Can he really see me?”
“Of course. Here, hold these and watch for a flash of high beams.”
She took the binoculars and stood in front of the window.
Pembroke finished dressing and walked to the door.
She giggled again. “The Russian is waving at me.”
“Watch for the damned headlights or I’ll throw you out the window.”
She nodded quickly. There was something in his voice that suggested he meant that literally. Without turning, she asked, “Where are you going?”
“As the Duke of Wellington said when asked to impart a piece of enduring military wisdom, ‘Piss when you can.’” He left.
Joan Grenville shrugged and kept her eyes to the binoculars. “‘Piss when you can’ indeed. He probably had to use the phone more than he had to use the john. These people even lie about the weather.”
Karl Roth stood at the long table in the spacious kitchen and surveyed the cellophane-covered trays of food. “There’s something here for everyone.”
Maggie Roth turned from the sink and glanced at the trays heaped with meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, nuts, and pastries. Small labels identified the special dietary items, including kosher meats. “You’ve gone to some trouble, Karl. Even hiring two extra serving girls. We’ll not make any profit on this one.”
“Van Dorn is a good customer. Sometimes you have to give a little extra. For public relations.”
She laughed. “You’re the best bloody Communist capitalist I know.”
Karl Roth’s eyes darted nervously around the busy kitchen. “Maggie, watch your tongue.”
She looked at the wall clock. “We should begin serving soon.” She walked to the table and peeled back a cellophane covering.
Karl Roth held up his hands. “No, Not yet.”
A passing busboy reached out and deftly filched a steak tidbit, popping it in his mouth.
Roth bellowed, “Keep your filthy hands off!”
“Stay cool, pop.” The boy walked off.
Maggie Roth said, “Karl, what are you so jumpy about?”
He didn’t answer, but glanced at the wall clock as he hovered protectively over the food-laden table.
She said, “It’s really past time. Get the girls to pull off the wrappings and let’s serve.”
“No.” He began rubbing his hands together and Maggie could see he was very agitated. She shrugged and went back to the sink.
The swinging door opened and Claudia Lepescu entered the noisy kitchen, carrying a drink and wearing a clinging black knit dress. She looked at Karl Roth and said, “Are you the caterer?”
Roth stared at her for several seconds, then nodded quickly.
Maggie Roth turned her head and stared at Claudia, taking in the clothing, which she thought was inappropriately dressy for an outdoor party. She wondered what sort of accent that was. Like many immigrants, she didn’t particularly care for foreigners. Karl, too, she reflected, was usually curt with fellow Europeans. Now, however, he was making little shufflings and scrapings of servitude toward this woman. Odd. Maggie turned back to the sink.
Claudia said, “Please leave me your card. I could use your services.”