“Thorpe.”
“Oh.” She let out a breath. “No, I meant… someone else.”
He looked surprised, then nodded. “I see… yes, of course. I’m not paying attention. Well, Abrams is a fine fellow. Do him a favor and give him the archive job.” He turned and left.
Katherine watched him as he walked toward his room. Marc Pembroke, for all his guile, was not a good liar. He had some news about Pat O’Brien, and she suspected it was not good news. She was neither shocked nor stunned. She’d expected it. She’d also expected that if O’Brien was ever sick and dying, missing, or dead, the news would be held back for as long as possible, in much the same way that the death of a great general might be kept secret to avoid panicking the troops and giving comfort to the enemy.
She felt herself shaking and leaned back against the doorjamb.
No, she thought, it was no accident that the past had returned, or that there were so many coincidental relationships, personal and familial. It had been contrived by Patrick O’Brien and his friends. Marc Pembroke probably had at least a vague understanding that he had been maneuvered since childhood to perform a function. O’Brien’s recruiting and manipulation had been more far-reaching than she’d imagined. His corporation had many subsidiaries. She thought of something an English jurist had written in the seventeenth century: Corporations cannot commit treason, nor be outlawed, nor excommunicate, for they have no souls. Also, they were ostensibly immortal. And though Patrick O’Brien might be dead, she hoped there was enough life force left in the wounded, immortal, and soulless being of his creation, so that inertia at least would carry it forward toward its last encounter with its enemy.
44
Mike Tanner drove the Lincoln into the dimly lit parking lot of the Glen Cove train station. The conversation had been confined to legal matters as instructed by Evans, who had warned that the Russians liked to plant bugs in their guests’ cars, “just to hear them talking about what a swell time they had.”
The Lincoln stopped and Abrams opened the passenger-side door. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.” He took his briefcase and closed the door.
Styler slid out the rear. “I’ll walk you.” He took Abrams’ arm and they stepped a few feet from the car. “What happened in there?”
“I saw a ghost.” He began walking slowly toward the tracks.
“You looked it. My God, you’re still pale.” He added, “You’re not home free yet. Are you being covered?”
Abrams turned to him as they walked, and regarded the older man closely. This was the first time Styler had actually acknowledged the fact that there was a mortal danger inherent in the situation. Abrams replied, “I imagine so.”
Styler said, “I hope they saw the high beams flash.”
Abrams replied, “If they were looking, they did.”
Styler glanced at his watch. “You have about ten minutes until the city-bound train comes.” He motioned ahead toward a flight of descending stairs. “That’s the pedestrian underpass that takes you to the westbound side.”
Abrams looked across the tracks at the station house, a small Victorian-style building that was dark and closed for the evening. On the platform in front of the station house, four people stood under a lamppost: a young couple and two teen-age boys, waiting for the train to Manhattan. There was no one on the eastbound platform directly in front of him. Abrams had not realized he was on the wrong side of the tracks, and having realized it, had not fully appreciated the fact that he could not cross over them but would have to take the tunnel to the other side.
Styler peered down the dark concrete staircase. “We’ll wait here until we see you board.”
“No. Go on. You’ve been told to clear out.” Abrams moved toward the stairs.
Styler nodded. “I know one shouldn’t question orders, but we can take you back to Garden City and you can catch the train there.”
“No, I’ve been instructed to take this train at this station, and if I start getting tricky I’ll lose any protection that’s been planned.” Also, he thought, if Androv had something planned, it might be interesting to see what it was. He wondered what had happened to his resolve to be more careful.
Abrams put out his hand and Styler took it. Abrams said, “I hope I was of some help on the case.”
Styler smiled. “I think you lost us that client, Abrams.” His smile changed to an expression of concern. “Good luck.” He walked back toward the car.
Abrams began to descend the steps. He heard the Lincoln pull away over the graveled blacktop. As he went farther down, he could smell the damp, fetid air. He reached the bottom step and looked into the underground passageway. It was about fifty yards long, and of the six or seven overhead lights, only one, in the middle, was still working, though it lit up most of the tunnel. He took the last step and waited for his eyes to become adjusted to the dim light.
Obviously the place was used by kids as a hangout. There were a few broken beer and wine bottles on the concrete floor, and Abrams spotted a flaccid rubber sheath that in his youth had been called a Coney Island whitefish. The gray concrete walls were covered with graffiti of a uniquely obscene variety, much better than the semiliterate walls of Brooklyn. Better schools in the suburbs, he thought. A cricket chirped somewhere close by.
Abrams began walking ahead, at a normal pace, through the long concrete tunnel. He was nearly halfway through it when he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps to his front. A figure appeared out of the gloom, then another. Two men in business suits. He stopped.
Behind him he made out the soft footfalls of someone who was trying not to be heard, then a second person joined the first; then they both dropped all pretense and began advancing at a normal pace.
Abrams turned his head and saw two men coming toward him. They were in leisure suits that looked, even from this far off in the bad lighting, very unstylish. The thought would have been irrelevant except for the associated thought: Russians.
Abrams turned and resumed his walk toward the westbound tracks. The two men to his front moved into the brighter area nearer the single light, and Abrams could see that the man closest to him was tall and blond. At first he believed it was Pembroke. But it was Kalin.
Kalin stopped and called out. “So, there you are, Abrams.” His voice boomed in the damp narrow tunnel and the cricket stopped chirping. “I was looking for you on the other side. Androv said you may ride with us back to Manhattan.”
Abrams did not reply, but slowed his pace.
Kalin said, “Please hurry. The car is this way. Come.”
Abrams heard the footsteps behind draw closer, probably to within forty feet. Abrams continued slowly toward Kalin. The man with him had stayed some distance back. Kalin said, “Come, come, Abrams. Don’t dawdle.”
Abrams picked up his pace. Kalin put his hands in his pockets. “It will be quicker this way.”
Abrams replied, “I’m sure it will be.” He drew his revolver as he walked.
Kalin’s eyebrows rose in a look of mock surprise, then a nasty smile spread across his hard face as he went for his own pistol.
Abrams had examined his revolver in the car and it looked as if it had not been tampered with. Now he was sure that if he squeezed the trigger, it would misfire or the powder charge would have been spiked with nitroglycerin and it would blow up in his hand. He let out a blood-curdling scream and charged forward.
Kalin took a second or two to recover his composure, then raised his pistol. “Halt!”
Abrams stopped in his tracks, directly beneath the overhead light.
“Hands up!”
Abrams raised his hands and quickly thrust the barrel of his revolver up through the thick glass of the light, shattering the bulb with a dull pop. He dove for the wall and flattened himself against it.