The Talbot Odyssey

  PRAISE FOR

  NELSON DEMILLE AND

  THE TALBOT

  O DYSSEY

  “DeMille deftly handles all the elements of a quickly paced story.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “A story in the grand tradition of action romance. . . . Mr. DeMille is the established master of the ticking-bomb story. . . . At the end the reader will be drained—perhaps still frightened.”

  —Andrew M. Greeley

  “Will keep the reader’s adrenaline flowing full blast from beginning to end. . . . [DeMille] has taken an imaginative and complicated plot and very skillfully made it sound plausible—and chilling.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “DeMille knows how to build suspense to a nail-biting climax.”

  —Newark Star-Ledger

  “A premier storyteller, and his plots are as fresh as today’s headlines. . . . DeMille may be the finest writer in the field of terrorism.”

  —Jackson Sun (Tennessee)

  Books by Nelson DeMille

  BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON

  CATHEDRAL

  THE TALBOT ODYSSEY

  WORD OF HONOR

  THE CHARM SCHOOL

  THE GOLD COAST

  THE GENERAL’S DAUGHTER

  SPENCERVILLE

  PLUM ISLAND

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  A Time Warner Company

  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 Stat
e 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?”

  The viewer made a grating noise and stopped humming. Abrams said, “I’m afraid the time has run out.”

  O’Brien looked at the machine sharply. “That wasn’t three full minutes. Send a letter to the Times, Abrams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Brien put his hands in his pockets. “Gets cold up here.”

  “Perhaps we should go inside.”

  O’Brien ignored the suggestion and said, “Do you speak Russian, Abrams?”

  Abrams glanced at the older man. This was not the sort of question one asked unless one already knew the answer. “Yes. My parents—”

  “Right.” O’Brien nodded. “I thought someone told me you spoke it. We have some Russian-speaking clients. Jewish emigrés down in Brooklyn. Near your neighborhood, I believe.”

  Abrams nodded. “I’m rusty, but I’m sure I could communicate with them.”

  “Good. Would it be too much of an imposition if I asked you to sharpen your Russian? I can get you State Department language tapes.”

  Abrams glanced at him. “All right.”

  O’Brien stared off into the west for several seconds, then said, “When you were a detective, you sometimes had duty protecting the Russian Mission to the UN on East Sixty-seventh.”

  Abrams looked at O’Brien for a second, then said, “As a condition of my severance from the force, I signed an oath not to speak of my past duties.”

  “Did you? Oh, yes, you were in police intelligence, weren’t you? The Red Squad.”

  “They don’t call it that anymore. That sounds too—”

  “Too much like what it is. By God, we live in an age of euphemism, don’t we? What did you call it in the squad room when the bosses weren’t around?”

  “The Red Squad.” He smiled.

  O’Brien smiled too, then went on. “Actually, you weren’t protecting the Russian Mission at all, but spying on it. . . . You pretty much knew the principal characters in the Soviet delegation to the UN.”

  “Possibly.”

  “How about Viktor Androv?”

  “How about him?”

  “Indeed. Have you ever been out to Glen Cove?”

  Abrams turned and stared into the sun setting out over New Jersey. At length he answered, “I was only a city cop, Mr. O’Brien. Not James Bond. My authority ended at the city line. Glen Cove is Nassau County.”

  “But you’ve been out there, certainly.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Did you keep any private notes on these people?”

  Abrams replied with a touch of impatience, “My job was not to watch them the way the FBI watches them. My areas of responsibility were strictly limited to observing the contacts they made with groups and individuals who might be a danger to the City of New York and its people.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “The usual crew. Puerto Rican liberation groups, Black Panthers, Weather Underground. That’s all I was interested in. Look, if the Soviets wanted to steal chemical formulas from a midtown research lab, or steal Ratner’s recipe for cheese blintzes, I could not have cared less. That’s all I can say on that subject.”

  “But as a citizen you would care, and you’d report that to the FBI, which you did on a few occasions.”

  Abrams looked at O’Brien in the subdued light. The man knew entirely too much. Or possibly he was speculating. O’Brien was a superb trial attorney, and this was his style. Abrams did not respond.

  O’Brien said, “Are you prepared for the July bar?”

  “Were you?”

  O’Brien smiled. “That was so long ago, I think I took the test in a log cabin.”

  Abrams had heard that Patrick O’Brien had a disconcerting habit of shifting subjects, seemingly at random, the way a cardsharp shuffles a deck before he deals himself a straight flush. Abrams said, “Were you going to make a point about bombings on Wall Street?”

  O’Brien looked at him. “Oh . . . no. It’s just that today is the first of May. May Day. That reminded me of the May Day celebrations I used to see down in Union Square. Have you ever been to one?”

  “Many. My parents used to take me. I used to go when I was on the force. A few times in uniform. The last few years undercover.”

  O’Brien didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Look out there. The financial center of America. Of the world, really. What would be the effect of a low-yield nuclear weapon on Wall Street?”

  “It might interrupt five minutes of trading.”

  “I’d like a serious answer.”

  Abrams lit a cigarette, then said, “Hundreds of thousands dead.”

  O’Brien nodded. “The best financial minds in the nation vaporized. There would be economic ruin for millions, national chaos, and panic.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Leading to social disorder, street violence, political instability.”

  “Why are we talking about low-yield nuclear weapons on Wall Street, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Just a happy May Day thought. An extrapolation of a swarthy little black-clad Anarchist or Communist tossing one of those bowling ball-shaped bombs with a lighted fuse.” O’Brien pulled out a pewter flask and poured a shot into the cap. He drank. “I have a cold.”

  “You look fine.”

  He laughed. “I’m supposed to be at George Van Dorn’s place out on Long Island. If it should ever come up, I have a cold.”

  Abrams nodded. To be an accomplice to small deceptions, especially one involving O’Brien’s partner, George Van Dorn, he knew, could lead to bigger deceptions.

  O’Brien poured another shot and passed it to Abrams. “Cognac. Decent stuff.”

  Abrams drank it and passed back the cap.

  O’Brien had another, then put it away. He seemed lost in thought, then said, “Information. This is a civilization which rests almost entirely on information—its manufacture, storage, retrieval, and dissemination. We have gotten ourselves to a point in our development where we could not function as a society without those billions of bits of information. Think of all the stock and bond transactions, the commodities exchange, metals exchange, checking- and savings-account balances, credit card transactions, international transfers of funds, corporate records. . . . Much of that is handled down there.” He nodded off into the distance. “Imagine millions of people trying to prove what they lost. We would be reduced to a nation of paupers.”

  Abrams said, “Are we talking about low-yield nuclear weapons on Wall Street again?”

  “Perhaps.” O’Brien walked along the roof and stopped at the railing at the eastern end of the observation deck. He looked down at the Rockefeller Center complex. “Incredible place. Did you know that there are over four acres of rooftop gardens on these buildings?”

  Abrams came up beside him. “I don’t think I knew that.”

  “Well, it’s
a fact. And that will cost you another quarter.” O’Brien took the quarter from Abrams and deposited it in another electronic viewer. He bent over and peered through the lenses, swiveled the viewer, and adjusted the focus. O’Brien said, “Glen Cove is about twenty-five miles and a world away from here. I’m trying to see if I can pick out Van Dorn’s pyrotechnics.”

  “Pyrotechnics?”

  “It’s a long story, Abrams. But in a nutshell, Van Dorn, who lives next door to the Russians, allegedly harasses them. You may have read about it.”

  “I may have.”

  O’Brien swiveled and focused again. “They are going to sue him, in Nassau County Court. They’ve been obliged to retain local attorneys, of course. Have a look.”

  “At the local attorneys?”

  “No, Mr. Abrams, Glen Cove.”

  Abrams bent his tall frame over the viewer and adjusted the focus. The Hempstead Plains rose toward the Island’s hilly North Shore, an area of wealth, privilege, and privacy. Although he could see very little detail at this distance, he knew, as O’Brien suggested, that he was looking at another world. “I don’t see the rocket’s red glare,” he commented.

  “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.