Suddenly there was a noise like a rifle shot, and he almost lost control of his bladder. He lay in the damp pachysandra, waiting. Overhead there was another loud report, and a shower of sparks — red, white, and blue — rained down. More rockets began bursting overhead, and Stanley laughed softly. Crazy old Van Dorn, giving it to the Russkies again. And he had no doubt where all the Russian eyes were turned. He sliced easily through the halyard and the weight of the flag pulled the severed rope through its pulleys.
The flag floated down slowly at first, then grew larger as he stared up at it. It settled over his entire body. It was made of some sort of lightweight bunting. He’d expected something heavier. The flag also smelled funny. Still, he had it.
Stanley lost no time. He cut the flag loose, twisted it tightly into a rope and tied it securely around his waist. He slipped through a space on the blind side of the hedge, away from the terrace, then raised himself into a sprinting stance, ready to run like hell across the lawn. Then the floodlights came on. “Oh, Christ!”
Even though the first rule of patrolling was never to go back the same way you came in, Stanley turned and slowly crawled back to the open storm drain. He quickly lowered himself down, pulling the grate cover back into place. “Okay… okay… you got lucky… ”
Halfway down the vertical shaft he heard a voice yell down to him, “Stop! Halt! We shoot.” A powerful light beam shone down the shaft. Stanley dropped the last ten feet and hit the muddy bottom of the shaft. He ducked quickly into a culvert opening headfirst as he heard the grate being lifted. “Holy Mary…” He realized he was in the culvert that led toward the mansion. He had no choice but to keep moving.
4
The traffic on Dosoris Lane was snarled, and with good reason, thought Karl Roth. There was an international incident brewing and everyone wanted to see it, or take part in it. He edged his old panel truck up a few feet, then spoke with a trace of a Middle-European accent. “We will be late.”
Maggie Roth, his wife, glanced into the back of the van. “I hope the food doesn’t spoil.” She too had an accent, which her American neighbors found charmingly British, but which to Londoners was identifiable as Wapping Lane Jewish.
Karl Roth nodded. “It is hot for May the first.” The panel truck’s engine-temperature gauge began to climb. “Damn it. Where do all these cars come from?”
Maggie Roth replied, “They are the cars of the exploited working class, Karl. Coming from the tennis courts, the golf club, and the yacht club.” She laughed. “Also, Van Dorn is having another spite party.”
Karl Roth frowned, then said, “Androv sent word that he has a surprise for us.”
She laughed again, but without humor. “He could surprise us by paying his bloody bills on time, couldn’t he?”
Roth smiled nervously. “Please be civil to him. He has asked us to stay for a drink. This is a big celebration for them.”
She grumbled, “He could have asked us to stay for the whole party. Instead, we go through the servants’ entrance like beggars and stand in the kitchen helping with the food. Classless society my foot.”
Roth let out a breath of exasperation. “It would be noted by the FBI if we stayed too long.”
“They’ve already noted your comings and goings. They’re bloody well on to something, I’ll tell you.”
He snapped, “Don’t say that! Do not mention anything to Androv.”
“Don’t worry on that account. Do you think I want to end up like Carpins—?”
“Quiet!”
The van moved up a few more feet. Suddenly a rocket arched into the gathering dusk and exploded in a red, white, and blue shower of sparks that lit up the purple sky. Several people along the road cheered and auto horns began honking.
Roth sneered. “More provocation. That came from Van Dorn’s estate — that reactionary swine.”
“He pays his bills,” remarked Maggie Roth. “And why didn’t we get the job on his party, Karl? We could have handled both. Van Dorn likes you. You’re so bloody obsequious toward him. Yes, Mr. Von Dorn, no, Mr. Von Dorn. It’s Van Dorn anyway, Karl. Maybe he’s wise to the fact that you snoop around when you go there. Or maybe he just thinks you’re popping one of the maids.” She laughed. “If he knew what you really were…”
Karl Roth let out another sigh of exasperation. Maggie must watch herself, he thought. The van moved ahead a few more feet. Angry shouting could be heard now up the road. Police cars were parked on the right shoulder, and on the left he could see the huge ornate wrought-iron gates of the Russian estate. People with picket signs were blocking the entrance and the police were trying to keep order.
From his high vantage point Roth could see several limousines trying to get into the gate entrance. The police were stopping each one and checking licenses and registrations. Roth said, “More harassment.”
“Where’s our registration? I don’t want a bloody ticket. We don’t have diplomatic immunity.”
“There. In the glove compartment. My God, what a mess!”
Another rocket arched high into the air and exploded with a loud report. Maggie Roth tittered. “Mr. Van Dorn is aiming them to explode over the Russians.”
“Why do you find that amusing?”
“But it is. Don’t you think so?”
“No.”
She stayed silent for some time, then said, “Do you realize we’ve delivered them enough food over the past six months to last out a long siege?”
He didn’t reply.
She added, “And all that canned stuff and dried stuff. Those bastards only buy the best — the freshest — now they want tins, dry foods… Well, Karl, what’s it all about, then?”
Again he didn’t reply.
Her tone was sharp. “Bloody beggars are planning World War Three, that’s what they’re about. Well, Glen Cove is safe, isn’t it, Karl? They wouldn’t drop a bomb on their own people, would they—”
“Shut up!”
She retreated into a moody silence, then mumbled, “I hope the damned mayonnaise has spoiled and they all get food poisoning.”
5
Stanley Kuchik lay on his back in the upward-curving culvert, his arms above his head and his head bowed under an immovable metal grate. Tears formed in his eyes. “Stupid… moron… Stanley, you asshole…”
He looked up at the grate, all that separated him from the cellar of the mansion. He thought about trying to go back, but if he got caught somewhere below, he’d die there and rot and his stink would be awful and they’d call a plumber who would use a Roto-Rooter and… ugh!
He knew that the Russians would be waiting for him where the culvert opened into the bulrushes, but after a while they’d figure out that he’d gone this way instead. They’d be down here soon and yank him out and shoot him. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… ” In anger and frustration he balled his hands into fists and beat against the grate, tears running freely down his face as he sobbed.
He heard something that sounded like a sharp clink, and stopped. Tentatively he pushed against the grate and it lifted. He cocked his arms and pushed up like a shot-putter, throwing the heavy grate into the air with a strength he didn’t know he had. The grate crashed to the concrete floor a few feet away.
Before the adrenaline gave way to the paralyzing muscle fatigue he felt, Stanley grabbed the sides of the opening, pulling and kicking at the same time, heaving himself up and out of the hole, then tumbling onto the floor.
He lay there on the cold concrete for several seconds, breathing heavily, feeling his muscles flutter and his body shake. He drew a deep breath and stood unsteadily. “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”