“Nor the bombs bursting in air, I’m sure. Neither can you see that our flag is still there — above Van Dorn’s fort. But I assure you it is.”
Abrams stood straight and glanced at his watch.
O’Brien said, “Well, even Dracula needed a good lawyer. Poor Jonathan Harker. He learned that after you are invited into a sinister castle, you sometimes have difficulty getting out.”
Abrams knew he should have been thrilled at the opportunity to stand on this roof with the boss, but he was becoming a bit impatient with O’Brien’s musings. He said, “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
O’Brien smiled. “There are very few employees in the firm who would admit that to me. They usually smile and nod until I get to the point.”
Abrams leaned back against the railed enclosure. A few tourists were still walking around. The sky was pink and the view was pleasant.
O’Brien went back to his scanning, then the viewer went black. “Damn it. Do you have another quarter, Abrams?”
“No, I don’t.”
O’Brien began walking back the way they’d come, and Abrams walked beside him. O’Brien said, “Well, the point is that I may fire you, at the end of the month. You will be hired by Edwards and Styler, who are attorneys in Nassau County. Garden City. They’re representing the Russians in their suit against Van Dorn.”
“That sounds rather unethical, since I’m working for you and Mr. Van Dorn now. Don’t you think so?”
“Eventually the Russians will abide by Edwards and Styler’s request to visit the estate on a day they are being harassed by Van Dorn. They didn’t grant Huntington Styler’s request to visit today, but probably will the next time Van Dorn plans to have a party. Probably Memorial Day. You’ll accompany the Edwards and Styler attorneys, then report back to me on the substance of what was discussed.”
“Look, if George Van Dorn is in fact harassing the Russians, then he deserves to be sued, and to lose. In the meantime, the Russians should get an injunction against him to cease and desist.”
“They’re working on that through Edwards and Styler. But Judge Barshian, a friend of mine, incidentally, is having difficulty making up his mind. There is a fine line between harassment and Mr. Van Dorn’s constitutional and God-given right to throw a party now and then.”
“I’m sorry, but from what I’ve read, Mr. Van Dorn appears to me as though he’s not a good neighbor. He’s acting out of pettiness, spite, or some misdirected patriotism.”
O’Brien smiled slightly. “Well, that’s the way it’s supposed to appear, Abrams. But there’s more to it than a civil case.”
Abrams stopped walking and looked out over the north end of Manhattan toward Central Park. Of course there was more to it than a civil case. The questions about his speaking Russian, his patriotism, his days on the Red Squad, and all the other seemingly disjointed and irrelevant conversation were not irrelevant at all. It was how O’Brien played cards. “Well,” he said, “what am I supposed to do once I’m in their house?”
“Pretty much what Jonathan Harker did in Dracula’s castle. Get nosy.”
“Jonathan Harker died.”
“Worse. He lost his immortal soul. But since you’re going to be a lawyer, like Mr. Harker, that may be a distinct advantage in your career.”
Abrams smiled in spite of himself. “What else can you tell me about this?”
“At the time, nothing further. It may be a while before I discuss it with you again. You will discuss it with no one. If we proceed, you will report directly to me and no one else, regardless of what claims anyone may make that they are acting on my behalf. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Fine. In the meantime, I’ll get you those language tapes. If nothing comes of this, at least you will have sharpened your Russian.”
“For your Jewish emigré clients?”
“I have no such clients.”
Abrams nodded, then said, “I do have to study for the bar.”
O’Brien’s tone was unexpectedly sharp. “Mr. Abrams, there may not be any bar exam in July.”
Abrams stared at O’Brien in the subdued light. The man seemed serious, but Abrams knew there was no point in asking for a clarification of that startling statement. Abrams said, “In that case, perhaps I should study Russian. I may need it.”
O’Brien smiled grimly. “It could very well come in handy by August. Good night, Mr. Abrams.” He turned and walked toward the elevators.
Abrams watched him for a second, then said, “Good night, Mr. O’Brien.”
2
Peter Thorpe looked down from the hired helicopter. Below, the three-hundred-year-old village of Glen Cove lay nestled on the Long Island Sound.
The weekend retreat of the Russian Mission to the United Nations came into view, an Elizabethan mansion of granite walls, slate roofs, mullioned windows, gables, and chimney pots. It was laid out in two great wings to form a T, with the addition of a third, smaller wing attached to the end of the T’s southern cross. Formerly called Killenworth, the estate had been built by the arch-capitalist Charles Pratt, founder of what later became Standard Oil, for one of his sons. The house had over fifty rooms and was set on a small hill surrounded by thirty-seven acres of woodland. A few other surviving estates of Long Island’s Gold Coast sat amid the encroaching suburbs, including five or six other Pratt estates, one used as a nursing home. Peter Thorpe had been at the nursing home several times, but not to visit the elderly.
Also visible below, in what had once been Gatsby country, was a large group of protestors gathered in front of the gates to the Russian estate.
Thorpe looked back at the skyscrapers of Manhattan Island and stared for a while at the United Nations building. He asked the pilot, “Have you ever flown any Russians out?”
The pilot nodded. “Once. Last summer. Do you believe that place? Jesus. Hey, where’s your castle?”
Thorpe smiled. “The one directly north of the Russians’.”
“Okay… I see it—” A star cluster suddenly burst off the port side of the helicopter and the startled pilot shouted, “What the hell —?” and yanked on the collective pitch stick. The helicopter veered sharply to starboard.
Thorpe laughed. “Just some fireworks. My host must be starting his annual counter — May Day celebration. Swing out and come in from the north.”
“Right.” The helicopter took a new heading.
Thorpe looked down at the traffic along Dosoris Lane. The local mayor, Thorpe knew, was violently anti-Russian and was leading his constituents in a battle against their unwelcome neighbors.
In fact, Glen Cove had a long history of doing battle with the Russians ever since they’d bought the estate after World War II. Red-baiting village cops in the 1950s used to stop everyone coming or going through the gates and write tickets for any minor infraction, though the tickets were never paid. There had been a period of detente, roughly corresponding to the period of Soviet-American detente, but the Red-baiting fifties had clearly returned, not only in Glen Cove but in the nation.
Recently, in retaliation against the mayor’s summary banning of Russians from all village recreational facilities, Moscow had banned American diplomats from the Moskva River or something equally inane. Pravda carried a long feature article condemning Glen Cove as a bastion of “anti-Soviet delirium.” The article, which Thorpe had read in translation at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, had been as idiotic as Mayor Dominic Parioli’s ramblings that precipitated it.