The driver woke with a start. “What? Where?” His hand automatically went for the ignition key and he started the engine. “What? Where you goin’?” He looked in the rearview mirror. “Where you at?”
“Behind the preposition. Move out.”
“Move out where?”
“Van Dorn’s. Big place on Dosoris Lane. Let’s go.”
The driver put the cab in gear and began moving slowly. “You okay, man?”
“I dropped my toothbrush. Move faster.”
The cab swung toward the parking lot exit. “Want a light on?”
“No. Just drive.”
“Who you runnin’ from, man?”
“The Russian secret police.”
The driver whistled. “Whew — them dudes fuckin’ with you?”
“They’re always fucking with me.” Abrams made himself comfortable on the floor. The cab turned north on St. Andrew’s Lane.
The driver said, “Van Dorn’s, you say? No sweat findin’ that dude. Follow the fireworks.”
Abrams looked up at the window and saw star clusters bursting in the northern sky. Abrams said, “Are we being followed?”
The driver checked his rearview mirror. “Headlights… don’t know if he’s followin’ or followin’.”
“Well, assume he’s followin’ and step on it.”
The cab lurched ahead and gathered speed, swinging north on Dosoris Lane.
Abrams toyed with the idea that the driver wasn’t straight, but decided he’d been unduly influenced by too many spy movies. “What’s your name?”
“Wilfred.”
Abrams held his wallet up over the back of the seat. “NYPD, Wilfred. Blow the stop lights and signs.”
The driver glanced at the badge and ID. “Okay, man. But this is Nassau County.”
“Don’t sweat the geopolitics. We’re all Americans.”
The driver increased his speed, slowed for a red light, then went through it. He glanced in his rearview mirror and said, “They’s followin’.”
“What are they driving?”
Wilfred looked in the rearview mirror, then the sideview mirror. “Looks like a black Ford. Four men.”
The cab suddenly came to a halt. Abrams said, “What’s happening, Wilfred?”
“Traffic jam. Always catch it here when the fireworks start goin’.”
“Is that joker still behind us?”
“Kissin’ my bumper.”
“Cops up ahead?”
“Way up.”
Abrams rose and looked back through the rear window. A black car was, as Wilfred said, almost bumper to bumper with the cab. He could see four men silhouetted through the windshield. He turned and looked at the line of traffic. About a hundred yards ahead were police cars. Abrams gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks, Wilfred. You don’t look Russian. I never should have doubted you.”
Wilfred nodded. “You gonna ’rest them dudes?”
“Not right at this moment.” Abrams opened the door and got out on the curb side. He began walking along the shoulder of the road, passing the line of stalled traffic. A few people in the cars looked at him. He heard a car door slam behind him, followed by quick footsteps in the gravel. A man came up behind him and said, “There you are.”
Abrams kept walking as he replied, “If you’re the cavalry, you’re a little late.”
Pembroke fell into step beside him. “Sorry, old man. You left Ivan’s a bit earlier than we thought. Traffic to the station was dreadful. Holiday evening. No excuse, though.”
Abrams didn’t reply.
Pembroke continued, “Actually, I had put a chap on the train a few stations back to watch over you.”
“Thoughtful of you. How about a cigarette?”
Pembroke gave him one and lit it for him, then said, “You look a bit disheveled. They went for you in the underpass, did they? I knew they wouldn’t knock you off in their house, of course, but I thought they’d go for you on the train, or back in Manhattan.”
“Well, they had other ideas.”
Pembroke said, “I know you’re annoyed, and I do apologize.” He looked down and said, “You’re limping. Are you going to make it without your shoes?”
“Can I get into Van Dorn’s with dirty socks?”
Pembroke smiled. “I’ll sneak you in the servants’ entrance.”
“Swell.”
They walked a while longer, then Pembroke said, “Why did you decide to come back here?”
“Because I decided not to get on the train.”
Pembroke nodded, then after a minute said, “Actually, you never intended to take that train, did you? You discovered something of immediate value. That’s why you flashed the high beams. You thought we’d meet you at the station and take you to Van Dorn’s.”
“Could be.”
Pembroke nodded again, then said, “Well, that’s not my business unless someone makes it so. But I will get you an audience with George.”
“That’s all I want.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry about the foul-up. Did you think I left you hanging on purpose?”
Abrams flipped his cigarette away. “While I was in the tunnel, the thought crossed my mind.”
“I’m on your side, Abrams. You did me an immense favor by staying alive. My career could have been ruined.”
“Mine too.”
“Do you want to work for me?”
“What’s your work product?”
“Corpses. I suppose you know that. The pay is excellent.”
“No, thanks.”
“You’d be very good. Speak Russian, ex-policeman—”
“Blue Cross, major medical?”
“Of course. I’m incorporated under the laws of New York State. British Technologies. Prestigious address in Rockefeller Center. Secretary, water cooler—”
“Gun rack. I’ll think it over.”
“Good.”
They came within sight of the gates to the Russian estate across the road. The gates were clear of demonstrators tonight, and police vehicles were lined up on the shoulders. Pembroke said, “The police will be curious about your appearance.”
Abrams took off his jacket, threw it in a clump of bushes, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He peeled off his bloody socks, then took a handkerchief from Pembroke and wiped his hands and face. “Do I look suburban and summery?”
“Well… in the dark. Let’s go, then.”
They continued past the police cars, getting a few hard, appraising stares. After a few minutes they came within sight of Van Dorn’s driveway and Pembroke said, “It’s rather a good party, and after you’re debriefed, you should stay and enjoy yourself. I’ll fix you up with some clothing.”
“Is Claudia there?”
Pembroke drew on his cigarette and glanced at Abrams. He replied lightly, “Yes, but Katherine is there as well. Be careful, old man. You haven’t come this far to get knifed by a jealous woman.” He laughed.
Abrams stopped to pick out a piece of gravel that had worked itself into the wound on his foot. “Is Thorpe there?”
“No.”
Abrams continued walking. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know, really.” Pembroke flipped away his cigarette. “You know, Abrams, I wonder if we didn’t make a mistake by not killing him when we had the opportunity.”
“When did we get incorporated?”
“Well, I mean—”
“Listen, Pembroke, I’ve never killed in cold blood, but I would have killed Thorpe. Yet you, who’ve made killing a cottage industry, did not kill the man who deserved it most.”
Pembroke didn’t respond immediately, then nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. Sometimes one can be too professional and ignore instinct.”