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"I'm not sure what you're saying," Pacey said. "Are you saying you want to
come over to us or something?"
The Russian shook his head. "The war that matters has nothing to do with
flags. It is between those who would set the minds of children free, and those
who would deny them Thurien. The latest battle has been lost, but the war will
continue. Perhaps one day we will talk to Thurien again. But in the meantime
another battle is looming in Moscow for control of the Kremlin, and that is
where I must be." He reached behind him for a package that he had placed on
the bench behind him and passed it to Pacey. "We have a tradition of
ruthlessness in handling our internal affairs that you do not share. It is
possible that many people will not survive the next few months, and I could be
one of them. If so, I would like to think that my work has not been for
nothing." He released the package and withdrew his arm. "That contains a
complete record of all that I know. It would not be safe with my colleagues in
Moscow since their future, like my own, is full of uncertainties. But I know
that you will use the information wisely, for you understand as
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well as I do that in the war that really matters we are on the same side."
With that he stood up.
"I am glad that we met, Norman Pacey. It is reassuring to see that on both
sides, bonds exist that are deeper than the colors on maps. I hope that we
meet again, but in case that is not to be..." He let the words hang and
extended a hand.
Pacey stood up and grasped it firmly. "We will. And things will be better," he
said.
"I hope so." Sobroskin released his grip, turned, and began walking away along
the side of the lake.
Pacey's fingers tightened around the package as he stood watching the short,
stocky figure marching jerkily off to keep its appointment with fate, possibly
to die so that children might laugh. He couldn't let him, he realized. He
couldn't let him walk away without knowing. "Mikolai!"
he called.
Sobroskin stopped and looked back. Pacey waited. The Russian retraced his
steps.
"The battle was not lost," Pacey said. "There's another channel to Thurien
operating right now...in the United States. It doesn't need the relay. We've
been talking to Thurien for weeks.
That was why Karen Heller returned to Earth. It's okay. All the Sverenssens in
the world can't stop it now."
Sobroskin stared at him for a long time before the words seemed to register.
At last he moved his head in a slow, barely perceptible nod, his eyes
expressionless and distant, and murmured quietly, "Thank you." Then he turned
away and began walking again, this time slowly, as if in a trance. When he had
covered twenty yards or so he stopped, stared back again, and raised his arm
in a silent salutation. Then he turned away and began walking once more, and
after a few steps his pace lightened and quickened.
Even at that distance Pacey had seen the exultation in his expression. Pacey
watched until
Sobroskin had vanished among the people walking by the boathouses farther
along the shoreline, then turned away and walked in the opposite direction,
toward the Serpentine bridge.
Chapter twenty-four
Niels Sverenssen's million-dollar home was situated in Connecticut, forty
miles from New
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York City, on the shore side of a twohundred-acre estate of parkland and trees
that overlooked
Long Island Sound. The house framed two sides of a large, clover-leaf pool set
among terraced banks of shrubs. A tennis court on one side and outbuildings on
the other completed the pooi's encirclement. The house was fashionably
contemporary, spacious, light, and airy, with sections of roof sweeping in
clean, unbroken planes from crest almost to ground level in some places to
give the complete structure the lines and composition of an abstract
sculpture, and drawing back in others to reveal vertical faces and slanted
panels of polished brownstone, tiled mosaic, or glass.
The imposing central structure rose two levels and contained the larger rooms
and Sverenssen's private quarters. One wing fell to single level and comprised
six extra bedrooms and additional living space to accommodate the guests of
his frequent weekend parties and other functions. The other was two-storied,
though not as high as the- central portion; it contained offices for
Sverenssen and a secretary, a library, and other rooms dedicated to his work.
There was something odd about the history of Sverenssen's house.
Lyn had flown up to New York accompanied by one of Clifford Benson's agents,
who had introduced her to a local office of the CIA to examine their records
for additional information on
Sverenssen. It turned out that his house had been built for him ten years
previously by the construction division of Weismand Industries, Inc., a large,
diversified corporation. The company was a builder of industrial premises, not
private dwellings, which was no doubt why they had called in several outside
architects and designers as consultants. What made the project even stranger
was that Weismand was based in California; why would Sverenssen have used them
when any number of qualified firms existed in the area?
Further checks revealed that Weismand Industries stock was held mainly by a
Canadian insurance consortium that was closely linked to the same British
banking fraternity that, along with its French and Swiss connections, had
launched Sverenssen's spectacular career upon his sudden return from
obscurity. Had Sverenssen simply been repaying a favor, or were there other
reasons why he felt it necessary to build his house using a company with which
he had close, and presumably confidential, connections? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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