“What the hell is going on now? Marc!”
“A legal matter.” He hurried toward the door and threw it open.
Kitty Van Dorn — a firm believer in the adage that if you want something done right, do it yourself — was standing poised to knock. She smiled, “Oh, Marc, George would like to see you if you’re feeling—” She spotted Joan Grenville standing naked in the room and let out a low moan, a curious mixture of disappointment and despair, as though somehow the party were irrevocably ruined by this selfish, bestial conduct under her very roof. “Ooohh…”
Pembroke excused himself formally, and brushed past her into the hallway.
Joan Grenville smiled nervously. “Oh, Kitty…”
Kitty Van Dorn put her hand to her forehead, turned, and staggered down the hall.
Stanley Kuchik sat cross-legged in a far corner of the empty swimming pool, a tray of pastry on his lap and three bottles of beer lined up against the pool wall. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his busboy jacket and belched.
“Hey!” called a man at the deep end of the empty pool. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be working?”
Stanley looked down at the sloping end of the Olympic-size pool, dimly illuminated by the recessed lighting in the tiled walls. “I’m on a break.”
“You’re jerking off.”
“No, I’m on a break.”
“Sure. Get your ass over here and give us a hand or I’ll run you off.”
“Shit.” Stanley set aside the tray, grabbed a bottle of beer, and moved sulkily down to the far end of the pool. About three fourths of the pool floor was covered with boxes, wires, and clusters of small rocket launchers, loaded and ready to go.
The man who had called him said a bit more kindly, “I’m Don. This is Wally and Lou. What’s your name?”
“Kuchik. Stanley.”
“A Polack.”
“No, Slovakian.”
“Same difference.”
Stanley looked at the three men. They were old. Mid-thirties, he guessed. They wore dark jeans and khaki-colored tank-top T-shirts. They were all sweating.
Don said, “We’re pyrotechnicians. You know what that means?”
Stanley looked around the area and scrutinized the boxes with Chinese lettering. “I guess it means you shoot fireworks.”
“Smart kid. See those barrels? When we start shooting, you take the wrappings, cardboard boxes, and all the leftover shit and stuff it in those barrels. If you do okay, you can fire a salvo.”
Stanley was torn between his innate curiosity and his inherent laziness. “Okay. But I got to get back in a while.”
“Right. You can start now. Get those empty cartons and crush them. But don’t touch nothing else, don’t push no buttons. And no smoking.”
“Okay.” Stanley began flattening boxes and stuffing them into the big wooden barrels.
After a while he wandered back to the center of the pool, where an old army camouflage tarp covered what appeared to be a stack of boxes. Stanley caught a glimpse of a small wooden crate peeking out from the tarp. He moved closer to the crate and stared down at the black stenciled letters: 81MM HEAT.
He continued staring at the crate for some time, thinking, They must use these crates to store things, because that’s not what’s inside.
He looked around surreptitiously, then peeled the tarp farther back. Dozens of crates were stacked to form a chest-high wall. Stanley crouched down and peered further into the tentlike enclosure. Sitting on the concrete floor of the pool was a long metal tube pointing up at a forty-five-degree angle. The tube sat on a round base plate and was supported by a bipod. It was, in fact, Stanley knew, an eighty-one-millimeter mortar, and it was pointed toward the Russian house. “Jesus H. Christ.”
46
Abrams crouched against the wall. The situation had not improved dramatically. Neither had it deteriorated, however. The train hadn’t passed overhead; he assumed it was late. Time and space seemed frozen in this black, noiseless place, and his only awareness of movement or life was his breathing and the beating of his heart.
Abrams decided he needed help, and since none seemed to be at hand, he’d invent an imaginary friend — a dangerous one. He crouched into a tight ball and called out, “Pembroke? Is that you?” His voice echoed in the tunnel. Abrams waited, but drew no fire. He called again, “Yes, they’re down here. Can you block the other exit?” He paused, then said, “Good. I’ll sit tight.”
Abrams listened and heard the unmistakable sounds of Kalin and Vasili beating a hasty retreat, carrying their casualties.
Abrams resisted, then gave in to a childish impulse. He called back into the tunnel in near perfect Russian, “Kalin, tell Androv the Jew sends his regards.” Abrams waited a second longer, then despite his pains and light-headedness, dashed up the steps, taking them four and five at a time, until he knew he was not in view from the tunnel. He stopped near the top step and peered out onto the parking lot.
A black Ford was visible in the lot ahead, its front end facing him; it bore diplomatic license plates. Abrams assumed the car belonged to the Russians. He could see the head of the driver through the windshield and another man sitting beside him. That was the car that was going to take him for a ride if he had come along peacefully.
He rose a bit higher and scanned the hedges planted around the tracks and platform, but he didn’t see anyone. He heard a sound and became rigid, listening. The Manhattan-bound train was rumbling down the tracks.
Abrams climbed the last few steps and mounted the low platform. He glanced back at the Russians in the car They’d spotted him. One man was watching him, and Abrams could see in the dim light that the driver was holding something to his face — a radio microphone. Abrams began walking toward the darkened station house about fifty yards away. There were ten people there now, standing on the platform. Behind him the train’s whistle sounded two short blasts and the track rumbled.
Across the tracks he saw another black Ford moving parallel to him through the opposite parking lot. He could make out a face in the passenger-side window staring at him and thought it might be Kalin.
Abrams stopped about five yards from the group of people and eyed them. They all looked straight. Kalin had never expected him to get this far. Several people on the platform were stealing glances at him. He realized he had blood on his face, hands, and shirt. Also, he was shoeless. He hoped that a good citizen would summon a cop.
Abrams took stock: He’d lost the briefcase, but there was nothing in it except the file on the Russian Mission versus Van Dorn. He’d lost his licensed revolver, and that would cause him some legal problems, assuming anyone would be interested after the bombs fell, or whatever was going to happen. But he hadn’t lost his life, and that was a plus.
He wondered if they’d gotten Sam Hammond in the tunnel, on the train, or in Penn Station. He wondered too where the hell his backup was. Had they left him out in the cold on purpose? No, they would want him live to be debriefed. If they knew he had met Henry Kimberly, they’d have sent a limousine for him.
The train whistle blasted again and its headlight shone in a beam down the tracks. It slowed with a screech of airbrakes and came to a stop.
Abrams walked through the boarding and unboarding passengers, then stepped up to the connecting decks between the last two cars. There were two short blasts of the whistle and the train moved off, gathering speed. Abrams waited until he came abreast of the station house, which blocked the Russians’ view from the parking lot. He jumped off the moving train back onto the platform, shoulder-rolled, and sprang up into a crouch. He made his way quickly to the far side of the old station house and found a parked cab at the taxi stand. The driver, a young black man, was sleeping behind the wheel. Abrams, still in a crouch, opened the rear door and slid in quickly. He lowered himself to the floor, reached up, and shook the driver’s shoulder. “Let’s go!”