Abrams wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead. The night was still, and the walk was beginning to wear on him. Days that began at dawn never boded well for him. Days that included mayhem, lovemaking, and hard thinking left him weary. He yawned.
Pembroke said, “Joan Grenville told me about Claudia. I wish I’d known sooner.”
“Everyone wishes they’d known everything sooner,” Abrams said. “I wish I’d known this morning who won this afternoon’s Metropolitan at Belmont. So what? What are you going to do about Claudia? Or is she already done?”
“She’s among the living. It’s not my business to decide what to do about her, nor yours.”
“I never thought it was mine.”
Pembroke added, “I’m surprised O’Brien and Company took her in. I’ve never yet had a good experience with an ex — Eastern Bloc resident.” He thought a moment, then said, “But perhaps she’s been turned, or has been a double all along. That’s why you can’t go about knocking people off until you know the facts.”
“Well, as of Friday night when she set me up to be pushed off the roof, she was working for them.”
Pembroke nodded to himself. “I wondered who lured you up to the roof. Your story seemed to lack details. I actually thought it might have been Joan, even Katherine.”
“No, it was Claudia.”
“Interesting… but don’t discount the possibility that she set you up in order to establish her bona fides with Thorpe and/or the Russians. Sometimes one agent has to sacrifice another to establish credibility.”
“You people play a nasty game.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. That’s why I keep out of that end of it, Abrams. Killing people is much less confusing. My father liked the intrigue. I find it too morally ambivalent for my taste.”
“Your father was in intelligence?”
“Yes, recently retired.”
They continued along the road, up a gentle rise. Abrams said suddenly, “Is James Allerton at Van Dorn’s?”
Pembroke regarded him for some seconds, then answered, “No. He went back to Washington. Why do you ask?”
“Is he with the President this weekend?”
Pembroke considered the question, then replied, “I’m not certain. The President is at Camp David, according to the newspapers. Why is it necessary to know if Allerton is with the President?”
Abrams considered his response a moment, then said, “It may be necessary to contact the President. I thought if Allerton was with him, then Van Dorn may actually be able to get through to Allerton quickly. . .”
“Is it urgent?”
Abrams looked at him. “I think so. But you’re not interested in that end of it.”
Pembroke smiled politely. “Normally I’m not. But when people start suggesting that a working knowledge of Russian may prove useful for daily existence, then my interest is aroused.”
Abrams replied, “I’ll speak to Van Dorn.”
They walked silently for another minute, then crossed the road between the slow-moving traffic and passed through the entrance to Van Dorn’s estate. A security guard sitting in a parked car recognized Pembroke and waved them on. Abrams followed Pembroke up the rising drive and saw the big lighted house as they turned a bend. From the rear of the house another salvo of rockets rose into the clear, windless night sky and exploded in red, white, and blue showers of sparks. Abrams said, “Can I trust Van Dorn?”
Pembroke replied, “My God, I hope so.” He added, “I believe he’s running the show now.”
“Why shouldn’t I go to the FBI?”
“You may if you wish. Or the CIA. Both are very close by. If you decide to go, I’ll run you over with my car — I mean, I’ll drive you over.” He laughed.
Abrams glanced at him and understood his meaning clearly. “Let’s talk to Van Dorn.”
47
Viktor Androv stood in front of a north-facing gable window, his back to the three other men in the room. He stared toward George Van Dorn’s house. Balls of fire appeared over the distant tree line and rose lazily above the horizon of Long Island Sound, then burst apart into the moonlit sky. Androv imagined that he was watching a miniature of the explosion that would soon light up most of the North American continent for a few brief but fateful seconds.
Androv said, “At least he isn’t blaring his music. Well, after tonight we’ll never be bothered by him again.”
Androv turned from the window and faced Alexei Kalin, who stood at attention across the large darkened attic room. “So, Alexei, where did we go wrong, my friend? You had three trained men with you in the tunnel. You had two cars, each with two men, for a total of… let’s see… eight men, including yourself, all of you agents of the Komitet Gossudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the most feared state security agency in the world. And you were asked to bring here, for interrogation, one Jew. Correct?”
Kalin nodded stiffly. “Correct.”
“So… so it was not a particularly difficult mission, was it, Alexei?”
“No, it was not.”
“But instead of delivering me one Jew, you return with one dead man, whose poor wife is downstairs waiting for you to tell her where her husband is. Also, you present me with the unfortunate Feliks, who seems to have been beaten and knifed by his comrades, and Vasili, who appears to be suffering from great mental agitation. And look at you. You’re filthy.”
Kalin stared straight ahead.
“Perhaps you can explain to me how the Jew accomplished this.”
“I have no explanation.”
Androv said with biting sarcasm, “No? There is no logical explanation for this deplorable failure? At least tell me that the Jew had divine intervention. Tell me that Moses descended on you swinging his staff in the dark. I would sooner believe that than believe that one Jew outwitted and outfought four men of the KGB. Please, Alexei, let me report to Moscow that there is a God and He works for the Jews.”
Kalin’s face was set in the immobile expression required for these dressing downs. Kalin knew that whatever Androv finally told Moscow would exonerate both him and Androv. Feliks and Vasili would not fare so well. Kalin, of course, would then be owned by Androv until the debt was repaid, or until the tables could be turned. That was the way the system worked.
Androv ended his harangue and added, “I’m only sorry that our distinguished guest had to witness this.”
Henry Kimberly sat in a plastic-molded swivel chair, his legs crossed and his fingertips pressed together. He was dressed in casual slacks, blue blazer, and loafers. He said in Russian, “Please don’t consider me more than a loyal party man.”
Androv protested, “But you are. Before this week is out you will be the most famous man in America. Perhaps in the world. You will be the new American President.”
Henry Kimberly said nothing.
Androv turned back to Kalin. “Well, Alexei, sit down. We have another bungler joining us. Your friend Thorpe.” He looked again toward Kimberly. “Are you eager to meet your daughter’s lover?”
Kimberly seemed somewhat surprised at the question. He replied, “Not particularly.”
Androv sat heavily in another swivel chair. “If you would like, Henry, we can arrange to have her brought here tonight.”
Henry Kimberly sat motionless in his chair. He thought about Katherine as he had last seen her, a little girl of two. He suddenly recalled the signed picture he had sent her, right before his “death,” and he remembered that someone — Thorpe, he guessed — had told Kalin that the picture was hanging in Katherine’s office. He also thought about his daughter Ann, and remembered her letters to him and his to her. He’d had to leave all his mementos behind at Brompton Hall when he left for Berlin. He’d had to leave Eleanor behind as well, and his parting had been rather temperate, his last words being, “I’ll see you in about two weeks, Ellie. The war will be over by then and we’ll open that bottle of ’Thirty-seven Moët.”