Nelson DeMille
The Talbot Odyssey
In memory of Clark DeMille
and Morris Wasserman
Acknowledgments
Very special gratitude is due Judith Shafran for her patient and inspired editing.
I’d also like to thank Joseph E. Persico for sharing with me his knowledge of the Office of Strategic Services, Daniel Starer for his careful research, and Herbert F. Gallagher and Michael P. Stafford for their insights into the fraternity of the law.
I’m also indebted to Ginny Witte for her faith, Bernard Geis for his hope, Daniel and Ellen Barbiero for their charity, and the Reverend D.P. Noonan for absolution.
Regarding Persons and Places
The major characters in this novel are entirely fictional. Actual persons of public prominence have been included within the story in appropriate settings.
Men and women of the Office of Strategic Services, living and dead, have been mentioned en passant for purposes of verisimilitude only. Those men and women shown in the story to be alive were so at this writing. The Veterans of the Office of Strategic Services have in no way helped with or endorsed this novel. The organization of OSS Veterans represented in this novel is not meant to represent in any way the actual above-mentioned veterans’ organization.
The weekend home of the Russian Mission to the United Nations in Glen Cove, Long Island, has been described with care and accuracy, though some literary license has been taken. The city of Glen Cove and environs are likewise described with a modicum of literary license.
BOOK I
THE FIRST OF MAY
PROLOGUE
“This is the way the world will end,” said Viktor Androv, “not with a bang, not with a whimper… but with a bleep, bleep, bleep… ” His wide face broke into a grin and he made a gesture toward the electronic consoles that lined the walls of the long, dimly lit garret.
The tall, aging American standing beside him remarked, “Not really end, Androv. Change. And it will, at least, be bloodless.”
Androv walked toward the stairs, his footsteps echoing loudly in the attic room. “Yes, of course,” he said. He turned and studied the American in the half-light. He was still rather handsome for his age, with clear blue eyes and a full head of white hair. His manner and bearing, though, were a bit too aristocratic for Androv’s own tastes. He said, “Come. I have a surprise for you. An old friend of yours. Someone you have not seen in forty years.”
“Who?”
“The grocer. Did you ever wonder what happened to him? He is a capitalist now.” He nodded his head toward the staircase. “Follow me. The steps are badly lit. Careful.”
The thickset, middle-aged Russian led the way down the narrow staircase and into a small wood-paneled room, barely illuminated by a single wall sconce. He said, “It’s unfortunate that you cannot join us at our May Day celebration. But, as we do each year, we have invited Americans who are friendly to us. And who knows? Even after so many years, one of them may recognize you.”
The American did not reply.
Androv went on, “This year, we have invited the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. They will bore everyone with stories of how many Fascists they killed in Spain a half century ago.”
“I’ll be fine in my room.”
“Good. We will send up some wine. And food. The food is good here.”
“So I see.”
Androv patted his paunch good-naturedly. He said, “Well, next May Day, Moscow will be importing much American food under very favorable trade conditions.” He smiled in the dim light, then pushed open a panel on the wall. “Come.” They stepped into a large Elizabethan-style chapel. “This way, please.”
The American crossed the chapel, converted now into an office, and sat in an armchair. He looked around. “Your office?”
“Yes.”
The American nodded to himself. Since he couldn’t imagine a bigger or more elegant office in the mansion, he assumed that the Soviet ambassador to the United Nations had lesser accommodations. Viktor Androv, the chief KGB resident in New York, was obviously top dog.
Androv said, “Your old friend will be here shortly. He lives close by. But there is time for us to have a small drink first.”
The American looked toward the far end of the chapel. Above what had once been the altar hung portraits of Marx, Engels, and Lenin, the Red Trinity. He looked back at Androv. “Do you know when the Stroke will occur?”
Androv poured sherry into two glasses. “Yes.” He passed a crystal glass to the American. “The end will come on the same day it began—” he raised his glass “—the Fourth of July. Na zdorovie.”
The American responded, “Na zdorovie.”
1
Patrick O’Brien stood on the sixty-ninth floor observation roof of the RCA Building in Rockefeller Center and looked off to the south. The skyscrapers fell away like a mountain range into the valley of the shorter buildings downtown, then climbed again into the towering cliffs of Wall Street. O’Brien spoke to the man beside him without turning. “When I was a boy, the Anarchists and Communists used to throw bombs on Wall Street. They killed a few people, mostly workers, clerks, and messengers — people of their own class, basically. I don’t believe they ever got one capitalist in a top hat, or interrupted five minutes of trading on the floor.”
The man beside him, Tony Abrams, whose late mother and father had been Communists, smiled wryly. “They were making a symbolic statement.”
“I suppose you would call it that today.” O’Brien looked up at the Empire State Building three quarters of a mile in the distance. He said, “It’s very quiet up here. That’s the first thing anyone used to New York notices. The stillness.” He looked at Abrams. “I like to come up here in the evening after work. Have you been up here before?”
“No.” Abrams had been with O’Brien’s law firm, O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose, located on the forty-fourth floor of the RCA Building, for over a year. He looked around the nearly deserted roof. It ran in a horseshoe shape around the south, west, and north sides of the smaller top-floor structure that held the elevator. It was paved with red terra-cotta tile, and there were a few potted pine trees planted around. A scattering of tourists, mostly Oriental, stood at the gray iron railings and snapped pictures of the lighted city below. Abrams added, “And I confess I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty, or the Empire State Building either.”
O’Brien smiled. “Ah, a real New Yorker.”
Both men stayed silent for some time. Abrams wondered why O’Brien had asked him to share his twilight vigil. As a process server, pursuing a law degree at night, he had not even seen the old man’s office, much less had more than a dozen words at one time with him.
O’Brien seemed engrossed in the view out toward the upper bay. He fished around in his pocket, then said to Abrams, “Do you have a quarter?”
Abrams gave him a quarter.
O’Brien approached an electronic viewer mounted on a stanchion and deposited the quarter. The machine hummed. O’Brien consulted a card on the viewer. “Number ninety-seven.” He swiveled the viewer so that a pointer indicated the number 97. “There it is.” He stared for a full minute, then said, “That lady in the harbor still gives me the chills.” He straightened up and looked at Abrams. “Are you a patriot?”
Abrams thought that a personal and loaded question. He replied, “The occasion hasn’t arisen to really find out.”
O’Brien’s expression registered neither approval nor disapproval of the answer. “Here, you want a look?”