“Where you asked me to call from — the squad room. I drove all the fuck the way in from Jersey on my day off to call you from this phone. Now, why am I here?”
“I’ll get to that. Listen, what do you see from the window?”
“Hold on.”
Abrams could hear the venetian blinds rattling. He glanced at Katherine and forced a wan smile. She returned a somewhat brighter smile.
Spinelli came back on the line. “Well, I’ll be damned, Abrams. Did you know that the Russian Mission to the UN was right across the street from the Nineteenth Precinct? I never knew that.”
Abrams ignored the ill temper in Spinelli’s voice. He said, “Are the buses out there?”
“Only the big gray bus.”
“How about the minibuses?”
“They’re either in the garage, or they haven’t come in from Glen Cove yet.”
Abrams pictured in his mind the twelve-story white brick apartment building on East 67th Street that housed the Russians’ United Nations offices as well as the entire staff. He said, “Do you see anything that doesn’t look kosher?”
“Look, Abrams, Russian-watching was your line, not mine.”
“Well, pretend you’re as sharp as me. What do you see?”
Spinelli stared down from the second-story squad room. “Okay — the street is relatively quiet. A few pedestrians. The police booth is manned. Three squad cars parked half on the sidewalk. Routine. Looks peaceful.”
Abrams saw the familiar scene in his mind’s eye: the partly residential street, the Russian building with the cement awning, the forbidding fence in front, and the three remote television cameras sweeping the street. Directly across the street was the firehouse and the Nineteenth Precinct, where Abrams had worked out of the Red Squad. Abrams knew every square foot of that block between Third Avenue and Lexington Avenue. He knew the street’s routine better than he knew his own block in Brooklyn. He said, “How’s the building look?”
Spinelli replied, “The garage door is closed, front doors are closed, first three floors are dark. Residence floors are pretty well lit, blinds drawn, but I can see some shadows passing by. Ambassador’s suite on the top is lit. What’s up, kid? Should I get the Bomb Squad on the horn?”
Abrams thought, If they can defuse falling H-bombs, call them. He said, “Where are the FBI guys tonight?”
“Not here. They may be at the firehouse. Better coffee there.”
Abrams said, “Dom, can you connect me with the FBI watch? Or the CIA?” Abrams knew the CIA kept several apartments next door to the Russian building and listened through the walls. They also had a third-floor apartment in the building next to the Nineteenth, from which they videotaped the Russian building, day and night, an endless film-record of the building and sidewalk.
“No. I don’t want to owe them any favors.”
“Then connect me with the police booth. You can listen in.”
“Oh, may I?” Spinelli grumbled a string of obscenities.
Abrams heard the phone click, then a female voice said, “Police Officer Linder speaking.” Spinelli identified himself, then said, “Okay, Abrams, you’re on.”
Abrams introduced himself briefly, then asked, “Is this your regular duty, officer?”
“Yes, sir, on and off for about six months.”
“Okay, first question — did you see the gray bus unload?”
The policewoman replied, “Yes, sir. Mostly luggage, as usual. A few men on board helped the porters carry the luggage through the service door in the right of the building. That was over an hour ago.”
Abrams thought a moment, then said, “How much luggage?”
She hesitated, then said, “About the same.”
Abrams did not want to lead the witness, he wanted Officer Linder to report what she’d seen, not what Abrams would have liked her to see. Abrams asked, “Can you tell me if anything struck you as unusual tonight? Anything that was not normal for the last night of a weekend?”
Officer Linder was silent for some time, then replied, “Well… no… no, sir. Could you be more specific?”
Abrams said, “Why don’t you just recount to me what happened since you came on duty. That would be four P.M., correct?”
“Yes, sir.” She thought, then said, “Well, it’s been pretty quiet since this afternoon. About an hour ago the black Ford Fairlane arrived with the ambassador, his wife, three kids, and a driver.”
“How did they look?”
She understood he was looking for her impression. She answered, “The wife and kids looked all right. The wife was smiling and nodded to the cops as she usually does. He looked a little… I can’t say exactly… just not himself.”
“Okay, I understand. Were there any more cars?”
“No, sir. Not tonight. Sometimes there’s only one, though.”
“Okay, how about the minibuses?”
Linder answered, “Yes, they arrived. Pulled into the garage.”
“How many? How were they spaced?”
Linder replied, “They came in two groups, as usual. The first group arrived about forty-five minutes ago. Six or seven buses. That was the bigger group, so that would be the kids, I guess.”
Abrams nodded to himself. Unless the procedure had changed, the six or seven buses would have left the Pioneers camp in Oyster Bay and made a stop at the estate in Glen Cove. The exact purpose of this stop was unknown, but it probably was an administrative routine to pick up adult monitors, or do a head count. When it came to kids, Russians were not much different from everyone else.
In any event, thought Abrams, the buses always pulled into the walled service court, where any loading and unloading could not be observed with usual snooping devices. Abrams thought that if tonight was in fact different from all other weekend nights, then the children had been unloaded from the buses at the Glen Cove estate and escorted into the basement. He spoke into the phone, “How about the buses with the adults?”
Linder said, “They arrived maybe fifteen minutes after the kids’ buses. There were four buses in that group. They also pulled right into the garage.”
Abrams pictured the large iron overhead garage door. As the buses drew up to the building, the door would open, and the buses would cross the sidewalk and disappear down the ramp into the underground garage. The police booth where Linder stood was less than ten feet from the garage opening. Abrams said, “Were the buses full?”
She replied, “They have one-way glass.”
“I know. Listen, Officer Linder, you’ve been watching these buses pull in and out for a while. Now, think a moment. Were they full?”
Linder replied almost immediately. “No. No, they were not full.” She added, “I think they were almost empty.”
Abrams let her continue without prompting.
She said with growing certainty, “Something struck me as odd when they pulled in, and it sort of stuck in my mind. And now that you ask — when they moved across, the sidewalk toward the garage…”
“Yes?”
“Well, all the buses bounced like they were pretty light. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
She added, “And as they pulled into the garage, the clearance on the top was very tight.” She repeated, “Tight. Close.”
Abrams said nothing.
Officer Linder spoke tentatively, as though she realized she’d stuck her neck out. “Is… is there anything else?”
Abrams said softly, “No, no. That’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The phone clicked, and Spinelli said, “Well?”
“Well, Spinelli, you heard it.”
“Yeah. I heard it. So maybe the ambassador looked a little out of it. Maybe he has hemorrhoids. Maybe the buses did arrive empty. Maybe the ambassador gave them all another day out in the country.”