“My name is Ann Kimberly. What is your name?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Nikolai Vasilevich,” giving his first and patronymic names but not his last name.
Ann said, “My fiancé is named Nikolai — Nicholas in English.”
He seemed not in the mood for any more coincidences. “Yes?”
She stared into his eyes until he turned away. She wondered why he was going to the Glen Cove weekend house instead of to East 67th Street. She said, “You are with the United Nations?”
He had ceased to be surprised at her questions. He nodded. “Yes, I am with the United Nations.” This time he did not look away but looked her over. He smiled, tentatively. After a few seconds, he said, “Will you be here long?”
She replied, “Perhaps.” Ann Kimberly reflected that there was little she didn’t know about the Soviet delegation to the UN. It was made up of about one-half legitimate foreign service people with their dependents, one-fourth foreign service people who had been co-opted by the KGB, and one-fourth hard-core KGB agents, with a smattering of GRU people — Soviet military intelligence staff.
Ann sat back in her seat and made eye contact with the young man again. He had none of the arrogance of a KGB man, nor the savoir faire of a foreign service man. She nodded to herself. He might be GRU, a military courier, strong, disciplined, wary, intelligent; he carried as much in his head as he did in the attaché case. Probably more. The paper in his case would be flash paper and would incinerate in a second, the stuff in his head could be destroyed as quickly with the cyanide pill he carried. He would be armed, but not with a conventional pistol. Some gadget out of the Fourteenth Department. She glanced at his attaché case again and thought, Whatever he is carrying, he is prepared to protect it with his life. She crossed her legs and put her head back.
The taxi came to a stop and the driver turned his head. “I think those fireworks drew a crowd up ahead.”
Ann replied, “I’ll walk from here.” She looked at the Russian. “It would be better to walk, Nikolai. I’ll show you the way.”
He looked anxiously at his watch and seemed to vacillate.
She prompted, “It’s faster. About five minutes to the Soviet delegation house. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”
He nodded, but made no move.
She smiled slowly, then shrugged. She took a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and put it on his attaché case.
He looked down at it.
Ann took her bag and attaché case and opened the curbside door, then looked back over her shoulder. She hesitated, then indulged herself in two impulses. She said, “You’re very good-looking, Nikolai Vasilevich. You should defect. The American women would faint over you.” She added, “Give my regards to Viktor Androv.” Ann winked at the gaping young man and left the taxi.
She moved up the line of slow-moving traffic, then crossed Dosoris Lane as a policeman held up traffic for her. Within a few minutes she came abreast of the gates to the Russian estate and peered up the drive at the guardhouse. She continued another few hundred yards and turned into the gates of Van Dorn’s estate.
She walked up to the parked car and the guard turned on his interior lights. She identified herself with her passport. Though her name was not on the guest list, he dimly remembered her and knew her sister, Katherine. He said, “I’m sorry I can’t drive you, Miss Kimberly. Should I radio for a car?”
“No, I’ll walk.” She hesitated, then said, “Has Nicholas West arrived yet?”
The guard scanned his typed list. “No, ma’am.”
She nodded, then turned toward the driveway. Nicholas was not at the Princeton Club, his office, or in his apartment. A duty officer at Langley had been vague. She was suspicious, but not in the way that lovers are suspicious.
She drew in a long breath of the warm night air as she climbed the driveway. She turned a bend and saw the big white house on the crest of the hill.
She had decided to take this sudden journey for a variety of reasons: Nick, Katherine’s phone calls, a Teletype message from O’Brien requesting a piece of sensitive information. But there was an element of intuition involved as well. Her job at the NSA station in Munich had been to snatch ethereal messages from the air and decipher them. Somehow, over the years, that technical skill had transcended itself to include an almost telepathic ability. She knew there was something in the air that needed deciphering now, and it wasn’t going to be a routine message.
53
The French doors leading to the side patio swung open, and George Van Dorn entered his study. He looked at Abrams, seeming more surprised at the white linen suit and sandals than at the bandaged foot, the abrasions on Abrams’ face, or the fact that he was alive.
Van Dorn nodded to Katherine, then addressed Abrams. “You wanted to see me?”
Abrams replied, “Possibly.”
Van Dorn had done enough debriefing to understand the psychological state of an agent just returned from a bad assignment. The attitude was often arrogant, taciturn, and insubordinate. Van Dorn said, “Sit down, Abrams. I’ll freshen your drink.”
“I’ll stand and I’ll pass on the drink.”
Van Dorn sat behind his desk. “How do you want to begin?”
“I’d like to begin by asking you if there should be anyone else present.”
“There should be, but he’s not available.”
Katherine said, “I know about Pat O’Brien.”
Van Dorn looked at her, but said nothing.
Abrams continued, “What I discovered is important. I want to be certain my report is going to reach official channels.”
“You can be sure it won’t unless I think it should.”
Abrams replied, “How do I know you’re not one of them?”
“You don’t know. You do know I fit the Talbot profile, so your suspicion is justified.”
Abrams considered a moment, then responded, “I didn’t say you could be Talbot. I’ve already met Talbot.”
Van Dorn smiled. “Did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
Katherine interjected, “Tony, I think you can speak freely.”
Abrams said, “All right, I don’t have many options.”
Van Dorn didn’t seem particularly offended at having to be vouched for. He said to Abrams, “Pembroke filled me in about the train station. That was a desperate move on their part.” He added with a slight smile, “What did you do to piss them off, Abrams?”
Abrams replied, “I only did what your friend Evans asked me to do.” He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and opened it on Van Dorn’s desk. “This looks like gold.”
Van Dorn picked up a pinch of the metal scrapings. “It does. Good work. Window or door?”
“French door. What does this mean?”
Van Dorn ignored the question and asked his own. “Did they see you take this scraping?”
“No.”
“Then how did they get on to you? Lie detector?”
“They caught me snooping.”
Van Dorn nodded. “All right, what else did you find?”
“Well, I was told to check the outlets, radio and television sets, and the outside antenna.”
Van Dorn asked a few questions and made a few notes, then looked up. “Nice job, Abrams. Balls.” He glanced at Katherine. “Guts.” He said to Abrams, “But that’s not why they decided to murder you in the railroad underpass. What did you do, or see, that got them murderous?”
Abrams walked to the side wall, took a picture off its hook, and laid it on Van Dorn’s desk. He pointed to the image of Henry Kimberly as he stared at Van Dorn.
Van Dorn’s gaze went between Abrams’ face and the face in the picture, then back to Abrams, but he said nothing.