The Talbot Odyssey
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Authors: Nelson DeMille
Nelson DeMille
For forty years Western intelligence agents have known a terrible secret: the Russians have a mole—code-named Talbot—inside the CIA. At first Talbot is suspected of killing European agents. Then a street–smart ex-cop uncovers a storm of espionage and murder on the streets of New York, while in a Long Island suburb a civic demonstration against the Russian mission masks a desperate duel of nerves and wits. Engineered by Talbot, a shadow world of suspicion and deceit is spilling onto the streets—leading to a new Soviet weapon and a first—strike war plan threatening the foundations of American government. For the U.S., time is running out. For Talbot, the time is now.
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.
THE TALBOT ODYSSEY
. Copyright © 1984 by Nelson DeMille. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
“Eve of Destruction,” words and music by P. F. Sloan © Copyright 1965 by MCA Music, a Division of MCA Inc., New York, New York. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
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P
RAISE FOR
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ILLE AND
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“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
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Published by
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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.
THE FIRST OF MAY
“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?”