The Talbot Odyssey

16

Peter Thorpe and Nicholas West entered the ballroom, which was actually the regimental drill hall, a four-story-high structure slightly larger than a football field. The wide expanses were spanned by elliptically shaped wrought-iron trusses, and two tiers of arched windows were cut into the side of the sloping ceiling. The area was brilliantly lit by immense chandeliers. Galleries that could seat over a thousand people overlooked both ends of the hall. Thorpe stared into the dark upper reaches of the gallery above the dais. There were no guests up there, but every ten yards or so a Secret Service man had been posted with binoculars. The sniper rifles, Thorpe knew, were lying on the benches.

Thorpe looked out across the ballroom. The hall was hung with red, white, and blue bunting, and three huge flags — American, British, and French — were suspended above the dais, as was a large sepia-toned picture of the OSS founder, General William “Wild Bill” Donovan.

There were, Thorpe estimated, close to two hundred tables, set with silver, china, and crystal on blue tablecloths. “Where’s our table?” asked Thorpe.

“Table fourteen. Near the dais.”

Thorpe looked at the raised dais that ran along the north wall. He recognized Ray Cline, an ex-OSS officer and former CIA Deputy Director for Intelligence.

The Marine honor guard was trooping the colors, and the assembled crowd stood as the colors were presented. The Army band began the national anthem, and the nearly two thousand men and women sang.

West stood at attention and joined in.

Thorpe looked back toward the dais. To Cline’s left was Michael Burke, ex-OSS officer and past president of both the Yankees and Madison Square Garden Corporation. Next to Burke was Charles Collingwood, the newscaster and chronicler of OSS activities during the war, and beside Collingwood was Clare Boothe Luce. To her left was Richard Helms, ex-OSS officer, former CIA Director, and the man who had recruited West. Thorpe turned to West. “There’s your old boss, Nick. Be sure to thank him for the job.”

West stopped singing and mumbled something that sounded like an obscenity.

Thorpe smiled. “He got out and you’re still in.”

The anthem ended, and the band began playing “God Save the Queen.” Thorpe said, “Hey, that reminds me — Colonel Randolph Carbury — know him?”

West stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve heard of him. Why?”

“He’ll be here tonight. More to follow.”

West nodded.

The band ended the British anthem and began “La Marseillaise.” Thorpe looked back toward the dais. Flanking the President of the United States were Geoffrey Smythe, president of the OSS Veterans, and Thorpe’s adoptive father, James Allerton, the guest of honor. Standing to Allerton’s left was Bill Casey, ex-OSS officer and present CIA Director. Beside Casey was William Colby, also an ex-OSS officer and former CIA Director. “The alumni have done well,” remarked Thorpe.

The French anthem was finished, and the Archbishop of New York began the invocation.

Thorpe parodied the words of the Cardinal’s prayer. “Lord God, protect us from werewolves in the night.” He turned to West, who was staring at him. Thorpe said, “Have you heard his howl recently?”

West didn’t answer.

“More to follow.”

The Cardinal finished his invocation, and everyone took their seats. Geoffrey Smythe began his welcoming remarks. Thorpe said to West, “I didn’t mean to spook you before.”

West almost laughed. “You scared the hell out of me.” He glanced at Thorpe. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not at all. You’re in great danger.”

“Cut it out.”

“Sorry, sport. Listen, as for the KGB, it’s a matter of keeping on your toes. As for the Company, you have to buy yourself some insurance. You understand?”

West nodded. “Something like… ‘In the event of my untimely death or disappearance, the following documents and affidavits will go to The New York Times and The Washington Post… ’”

“That’s it.”

West nodded again.

Thorpe said, “I’ll help you with the details.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Just your friendship.” He smiled and took West’s arm. “Let’s go face the wrath of a lady kept waiting. You take the rap. I’m in enough trouble.”

Katherine Kimberly looked at Thorpe approaching, an annoyed expression on her face.

Thorpe said, “Nick was stacked up over La Guardia.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.

West added, “Sorry, it was my fault. Got to talking in the lounge. How are you, Kate?” He leaned over and kissed her.

She took his hand and smiled at him. “Have you heard from Ann?”

“Last night. She’s well. Sends you her love.”

West looked around the table. “Mr. O’Brien, good seeing you again.” They shook hands.

West looked at Patrick O’Brien. He was a man in his sixties, with a full head of whitish-blond hair, a ruddy face, and dark blue penetrating eyes. West knew he kept himself in exceptional physical shape and still jumped, as he said, from perfectly sound aircraft that didn’t need jumping from. The jumps were made when the spirit moved him, into the Jersey Pine Barrens, alone and at night — clear but sometimes moonless nights of the sort that one had needed to make the jumps into occupied Europe.

O’Brien nodded at the couple sitting at the table. “You both know Kitty and George Van Dorn, of course.” Thorpe and West greeted them and took their seats.

Katherine motioned across the table. “And this is my friend Tony Abrams, who works at the firm.”

Abrams reached across the table and shook hands with West. He leaned toward Thorpe, but Thorpe was pouring from a bottle of Stolichnaya. Thorpe looked up perfunctorily and said, “Yes, we’ve met.” Thorpe held up a glass brimming with clear liquid. “Someone was thoughtful enough to remember my preference for Russian vodka. Na zdorovie.” He drained off half the glass and let out a sigh.

Thorpe addressed the table. “You may find it odd that I, a patriot and cold warrior, should drink Russian vodka.” He looked directly at Abrams. “I drink Russian vodka in the same spirit that prehistoric warriors drank the blood of their enemies.”

“A display of contempt?” said Abrams. “Or for courage?”

“Neither, Mr. Abrams. I like the taste.” He licked his lips and laughed.

Abrams said, “Speaking of blood, you’ve got something on your right cuff, Mr. Thorpe.”

Peter Thorpe set the glass down and looked at his French cuff. A reddish-brown stain showed on the polished cotton near the black onyx cuff link. He rubbed it between his fingers, then said, “Looks like blood, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” said Abrams.

Katherine dipped the corner of a napkin in a glass of water. “Soak it before it sets.”

Thorpe smiled as he took the napkin. “There are three lines common to all the women of the world: Take out the garbage, I’ve got a headache, and soak it before it sets.” Thorpe blotted the stain. “Decidedly blood.”

Katherine spoke with a detectable coolness in her voice. “Did you cut yourself?”

“Cut myself? No, I did not cut myself.”

George Van Dorn spoke from across the large table. “Then perhaps, Mr. Thorpe, considering your profession, you’ve cut someone else.” He smiled.

Thorpe smiled back.

Kitty Van Dorn interjected, “It’s probably ketchup.”

Thorpe rolled his eyes in a mock gesture of disdain. “Ketchup? Madame, I haven’t seen a bottle of ketchup since my school days. Now, Katherine is thinking lipstick, but I must exonerate myself and say blood. I know blood when I see blood.” He looked at Abrams. “You’re very observant, Mr. Abrams. You ought to be a detective.”

“I was.”

The West Point Cadet Glee Club had assembled near the dais and began a medley of songs.

Thorpe raised his voice above the noise and spoke to Abrams. “Weren’t your parents some sort of Bolshevist agitators? Leon and Ruth Abrams? Got arrested leading a violent garment workers’ strike, I think?”

Abrams stared at Thorpe. His parents had had some notoriety in their day and had been mentioned in some of the books on the subject of the American labor movement, but they weren’t well enough known for Thorpe to remember them or make the connection based on a common family name. “Yes, Leon and Ruth were my parents. Are you a student of the labor movement?”

“No, sir, I am a student of Reds.”

Katherine kicked Thorpe’s ankle.

Thorpe said to her, “This is interesting. Colorful. Tony is the son of American folk heroes.” He turned to Abrams. “Why Tony?”

Abrams smiled thinly. “My name is Tobias, the diminutive of which is Toby. But where I grew up everyone had names like Dino or Vito. So Toby became Tony.”

“America the melting pot. And you melted right in there.”

There was an embarrassed silence at the table, then Thorpe said, “Are your parents still Communists, Mr. Abrams?”

“They’re dead.”

“So sorry. Did they keep the faith?”

“My mother’s parents returned to Russia during the Depression. They were arrested during the Stalin purges. Presumably they died in the camps.”

Thorpe nodded. “That must have shaken your parents’ faith in the justice and brotherhood of the Revolution.”

“Most probably.” Abrams lit a cigarette. “My father’s family, who had never left Russia, were killed by the Germans around 1944—about the same time your natural parents were killed by the Germans. Small world.”

Thorpe regarded Abrams closely. “How did you know about my parents?”

“I read it. I’m a student of the OSS.”

Thorpe poured another vodka and looked at Abrams. “You know, Abrams, you might just be what that firm needs.”

“I haven’t been asked to join.”

“Oh, you will be. What the hell do you think you’re doing here? Why do you think—”

Katherine interjected, “Peter, did you happen to see Colonel Carbury on your way in? He’s not at his table.”

“I’d barely recognize him. All Englishmen look alike.” He played with a cocktail stirrer and snapped it between his fingers. “Maybe he got stuck somewhere.” Thorpe leaned back in his chair and seemed to retreat into himself.

The cadets stopped singing, and waiters brought the fish course.

West said to Abrams, “You work with Kate?”

“I’m an itinerant process server.”

Katherine added, “Mr. Abrams is studying for the July bar.”

“Good luck,” said West. “My fiancée — Kate’s sister, Ann — is an attorney also. She works for an American firm in Munich.”

Thorpe came out of his reverie and sat up. “She works for the National Security Agency, Abrams. Whole damned family is full of spooks.”

Katherine said sharply, “You’re in an unusually foul mood, Peter.” She stood. “Excuse me. Mr. Abrams, will you walk me to the lounge?”

Abrams rose and followed her.

Thorpe seemed to pay no attention. He mumbled, “Whole damned room’s full of spooks. Do you know how you can tell when a spook is present?” He held up his salad bowl. “The salad wilts. Christ, we need an exorcist.”

Kitty Van Dorn announced that she and her husband were going table-hopping. George Van Dorn’s alcohol-clouded eyes suddenly looked clear and he stared at Thorpe, then said, “You’re here to see your father honored. See that you do.” He took his wife’s arm and they moved off.

Thorpe seemed to ignore the reprimand and said to Patrick O’Brien, “Pass the Stoli, please.”

O’Brien looked at him sternly. “That’s quite enough, Peter. We have something important to discuss later.”

Thorpe’s eyes met O’Brien’s, and Thorpe turned away. “I guess I should eat something… ” He dug into his poached salmon.

O’Brien, West, and Thorpe ate without speaking. West watched Thorpe out of the corner of his eye. He was not unhappy that they might become brothers-in-law. Thorpe, though, was a strange man. His full name was Peter Jean Broulé Thorpe, after his natural parents, an American father and French mother, both OSS agents. It was, reflected West, understandable that Katherine should be drawn to him spiritually and emotionally because of their similar backgrounds, even if their personalities were quite different.

Thorpe looked up from his food. “I feel better.”

O’Brien leaned toward West. “Has Peter briefed you about this Carbury business?”

“Only that Colonel Carbury is in New York—”

Thorpe said, “I’m not fully briefed either.”

O’Brien gave them both an edited outline of the events of the day, and added, “Katherine and I both believe this is related to Talbot.”

West nodded. “That’s what Peter indicated.”

O’Brien stared at Thorpe for some time. “Did Katherine tell you that?”

Thorpe shook his head. “Yes… No… I made my own conclusions based on my reading of the Wingate letter.”

“I see.”

Thorpe added quickly, “The point is that Carbury should be here — in this room — to enlighten us further. I think Abrams blew it.”

O’Brien said curtly, “Katherine and Abrams took good precautions.” He pushed aside his plate. “Carbury may have decided to avoid a known destination. He may have slipped past our people and will send word later to meet him in a safe—”

Thorpe cut in. “This is the safest place in America tonight. And besides, on a personal level, he’d want to be here.”

O’Brien nodded slowly. “Yes… Perhaps he’s still some where in the club — though we’ve had him paged under the name Edwards.”

Thorpe smiled. “Damned if I’d answer a page call when I’m on assignment.”

O’Brien nodded again. “So let’s just assume he has undertaken standard precautions and will show up in his own good time, or we can assume—”

“The worst scenario,” said Thorpe. “My experience has usually been that late people are dead people. But I’ll allow for a kidnapping.” Thorpe chewed on a stalk of celery.

Katherine approached with Abrams, and the three men stood. Katherine said, “I spoke to the Burke Agency. The detectives followed Carbury here… or thought they did. One of them was honest enough to admit that the man they were following — tall, thin, elderly mustached man in a tux, carrying a briefcase — may not have been the man who was pointed out to them by an employee of the club. When they saw this man up close in the lobby here, they suspected they were following a herring. The man, however, did present an invitation and go through the metal detectors. The detectives couldn’t follow and left to make their report.”

Thorpe said, “I told you all Englishmen looked alike.”

Everyone took their seats. O’Brien spoke. “Carbury must have sent a look-alike out to draw off anyone who was watching him. Unfortunately, he drew off the people who were protecting him.”

Abrams cleared his throat. “There is another possibility. The look-alike was not employed by Carbury, but by someone else.”

Thorpe nodded. “That’s a possibility. This may call for a blackbag job.” He looked at Abrams. “An illegal entry.”

Abrams looked at the people around him. Clearly this was an important case — and not one for which they had been retained, but a house case, a case of some personal concern for them. Clearly, too, the use of a red herring showed some planning and organization by someone and smacked of a high degree of professionalism. Yet neither O’Brien, Katherine, Thorpe, nor West seemed particularly surprised by this. No, he concluded, this was not a stockfraud case.

O’Brien spoke. “I don’t want the detectives doing it… One of us.” He turned to Abrams. “Do you think you could get into his room?”

Abrams shrugged. “Maybe”

O’Brien looked at Thorpe.

Thorpe smiled. “Sure. What a team. Pete and Tony out on a black bag together. Christ, how the mighty have fallen.”

Katherine said, “The detectives have gone back to the club. Let’s give it some time.”

The main course was served, and Kitty and George Van Dorn returned. The discussion turned to the subject of the people present. Kitty Van Dorn motioned toward the dais. “The President looks well tonight.”

Thorpe stared up at the nearby dais. “Yes, he looks very lifelike. It’s that new embalming fluid.”

Katherine leaned over and spoke softly into his ear. “If you don’t behave, I’m going to have you thrown out.”

Thorpe took her hand and squeezed it, then looked back at the dais and caught the eye of Bill Casey. The man looked, as usual, dour. Casey gave Thorpe a sign of recognition but not a particularly friendly one, Abrams noticed. It was, thought Abrams, more like the look a cop on the beat gives to the neighborhood juvenile delinquent.

Thorpe grinned at his boss, then spoke softly to Katherine. “If ever a man was capable of turning into a werewolf, it’s Bill Casey.”

Katherine fought back a smile.

Thorpe leaned closer to her ear and said earnestly, “He fits the general profile. So do Cline, Colby, and Helms… So do a few dozen other people here, including your boss and my father. Jesus, doesn’t that scare the hell out of you? It does me.”

Katherine looked at Patrick O’Brien, then at James Allerton sitting beside the President, engaged in conversation with him.

Thorpe followed her gaze and said, “Yes. ‘Someone who may be close to your President.’”

Katherine stared at him. “No.”

Thorpe smiled. “Possible.”

“No.”

“Absolutely beyond the realm of the imagination?”

Katherine turned away and poured a drink.

17

Abrams found himself standing beside Katherine at the long bar set up in a corner of the ballroom. He ordered a drink for himself, avoiding any overtures toward conversation, turned, and looked around the hall. A few men and women wore officer’s dress uniforms, and there were foreign uniforms as well. Even though the invitation specified black tie, some men wore white ties and tailcoats. Abrams thought this was the kind of crowd that went home and slipped into a tuxedo to get comfortable.

Abrams brushed an imaginary speck from his shirt and checked his clothing. In some indefinable way, it looked rented — except for the damned shoes.

Katherine asked, “Where was the tuxedo from?”

Abrams looked up quickly. “What? Oh, Murray’s, on Lexington… Why?”

“I just wondered if he’d brought it from England.”

“Oh, Carbury… No, his was from Lawson’s. Down in the Wall Street area. The ticket showed it was fitted two days ago.”

She took a few steps from the bar and he followed. She asked, “What was he doing all the way down there?”

“Renting a tux, for one thing.” He sipped his drink.

She looked at him closely. “Is there anything else? Any detail you may have—”

“No.”

She held his eyes for a few seconds, then said, “I appreciate the risk you took. Especially considering you don’t know what this is about.”

“The less I know, the better.”

She said, “Actually, I haven’t told anyone you were in Carbury’s room.” She smiled. “I told you I’d protect you.”

Abrams said, “I’m not overly cautious by nature, but I would like to be able to present myself to the state bar this summer without a criminal record.”

“I’m quite sensitive to your position.” She hesitated, then added, “I didn’t tell you to break and enter… and I’m wondering why you did it.”

He avoided the question by returning to the earlier one. “You also wondered if I found anything I’m not telling you about.”

“You did forget to tell me where the tux was from.”

He stared at her, then smiled. “Yes, I did forget.” He thought, And you forgot to tell O’Brien I broke into Carbury’s room, and I think O’Brien may have forgotten to tell you he’s asked me to go to Glen Cove Monday, and there will be a lot more convenient lapses of memory before this is over.

She said thoughtfully, “I suppose Peter put you in a sour mood. I won’t apologize for him. But I am sorry that happened.”

“Peter Thorpe has no influence on my mood.”

She didn’t reply, and Abrams could see her mind was already on something else. She was carrying her program and she unexpectedly handed it to him.

Abrams took it, glanced at her, then opened it. There were three sheets of a photostated handwritten letter inside. He glanced over the first page and saw it was a personal letter to her. He looked at Katherine.

“Go on. Read it.”

He began reading, and as he read, he understood that she had made an important decision about him. He finished the letter and passed it back inside the program.

She waited a few seconds for him to speak, then said, “Well?”

“No comment.”

“Why not?”

“It’s out of my league.” He finished his drink.

“Think of it as a criminal case — a problem of police detective work.”

“I’ve already done that. It’s still out of my league.”

“Well, at least give it some thought.”

“Right.” He put his glass on the bar. The letter, if genuine, partially confirmed his suspicions about the firm he was working for. He stepped back toward her and said in a quiet voice, “One question. O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose is a CIA front, right? What do you call it — a proprietary company?”

She shook her head.

Abrams was taken aback, and he knew his face showed it. “Then who the hell are you?”

She again shook her head.

Abrams rubbed his chin. “This, you’ll agree, is bizarre.”

“Perhaps.” She reached toward the bar and picked up the guest list. She said, “First, alphabetically, James Jesus Angleton, former OSS officer, former head of CIA counterintelligence. Considered the father of American counterintelligence. As a result of his close association with the British double agent Philby, and his failure to spot Philby for what he was — and also because of some other odd occurrences — there was some suggestion that Jim himself was a Soviet agent. If true… well, it’s too frightening to even think about. Anyway, Jim was fired by Bill Colby for reasons that remain unclear. Next possible suspect—”

“Hold on.” Abrams regarded her closely. He had the impression she’d gone from low gear to second and was about to shift into high. He said, “I’m not interested in suspects. I thought I made that clear.”

She looked put off. “Sorry… You’re right, though. I’ve been out of touch with… ordinary people.” She considered a moment. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you… and perhaps I’ve already said too much. Excuse me.” She handed him the guest list and walked off.

Abrams went back to the bar and leafed through his guest list. There were a good number of people with French and Middle-European names, former resistance fighters, he imagined. There were British knights and their ladies, a Romanov couple, and other titled people, including his new friend Countess Claudia. He looked over his shoulder at the Grenville table, but Claudia’s back was to him. The band began playing, and he decided to ask her to dance, but she stood with Tom Grenville, and they moved to the dance floor.

Abrams ordered another drink and turned his attention to the tables around him. If there was a collective mood in the place, he thought, it could be described in one word: proud. There was some arrogance, to be sure, and even sentimentality, but the general feeling was one of “job well done.” The years had not dimmed the memories; age and infirmity were barely noticeable in the swaggering walks or the assured, resonant voices. It didn’t matter that the roll call got shorter each year or that the world was not the same as it had been in 1945. In this place, on this night, thought Abrams, it was again V-E Day.

Katherine tapped her finger against his program, startling him out of his reverie. She stood beside him and said, “Looking for someone in particular?”

“No.” He added, “Want a drink?”

“No, thank you. Did I seem a bit abrupt when I left?”

“You seemed annoyed.”

She forced a smile. “Our conversations often end that way, don’t they?”

He seemed to hesitate and she sensed he was wavering between excusing himself and asking her to dance, so she said, “Let’s adjourn to the dance floor.”

The band was playing “As Time Goes By.” She fit easily into his arms, and he felt her body press against his, smelled her hair, her soap, her perfume. They danced somewhat self-consciously at first, then he relaxed and she relaxed, and in stages the proximity of their bodies was not so awkward.

She said, “You’ve never married?”

“No… engaged once.”

“May I ask what happened?”

Abrams was looking at Claudia dancing nearby with Grenville. He looked back at Katherine. “Happened…? Oh, there was a political difference of opinion. So we separated.”

“That’s odd.”

“She was a 1960s radical, flower child… whatever. An anti-war and civil rights activist. Then she was into whales, followed by American Indians and the environment, or the other way around. Then the ERA, then the antinuclear things. Whatever was going down, Marcy was right there with a picket sign and a T-shirt. Her life chronologically paralleled the evening news. Like artists who have blue periods, she had whale periods… Indian periods… you understand?”

“Activism and idealism don’t appeal to you?”

“No ‘ism’ appeals to me. I saw too much of it as a child. It ruins lives.”

“It sometimes helps mankind.”

“It stinks. Take it from me, it stinks.”

They danced in silence for a while, then she said, “So you left her? Because she was so committed—”

“She left me. Because I confessed that I was a lifelong Republican.” He smiled. “The idea of sleeping with a Republican made her, as she said, nauseous.” He gave a short laugh.

She thought a moment, then said, “But you loved her in spite of all that.”

Abrams never imagined that the subject of love and other people’s relationships could possibly interest Katherine Kimberly. “There was never a dull moment. Can you imagine coming home from work in a police uniform and finding the living room full of black revolutionaries?”

“No, not really.”

“It got tense.” He laughed again.

She smiled. “I’m glad you can find it amusing now.”

“You don’t know what amusing is until you’ve made love wrapped in a Cuban flag with the heat off in the dead of winter to protest oil prices, and wondering if she’s going to smell the hamburger on your breath because you’re supposed to be boycotting beef, and a picture of Che is staring down at you with those eyes like Christ, and two lesbian houseguests are sleeping in the living room…” He looked at Katherine quickly and saw a tight expression on her face. “I’m sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m trying to keep from laughing.”

They danced until the music ended. He took her arm and they walked back toward the bar. Abrams opened the guest list. “I see your sister is supposed to be the eighth person at our table.”

“She couldn’t make it. I was going to tell you that you could bring a guest, but it slipped my mind. If you’re not looking for someone in particular, perhaps you’re looking for suspects.”

“I’m just interested in these names. Impressed, to be honest.”

She ordered a white wine. “Anything you’d like to know?”

“Yes. Why is everyone here?”

She smiled. “It’s an annual dinner. Tonight we’re honoring James Allerton, Peter’s father, who is the recipient of the General Donovan Medal. And, of course, we’re honoring the memory of the dead and the memory of General Donovan, who is referred to in conversation simply as the General, as you may have noticed. Do you find this interesting?”

Abrams looked at her, her back against the bar, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. Very unlike what he was used to in the office. He said, “The phrase ‘old-boys network’ keeps coming into my head.”

She exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke. “There is no network here — this is a very mixed group. The only common denominator is a shared period of comradeship some forty years ago. The OSS ran the gamut from prostitutes to princes, from criminals to cardinals.”

Abrams thought there wasn’t as much in between as she might suppose. He said, “It’s entertaining to think that someone here — perhaps more than one person — may be a Soviet agent.” He looked out over the hall.

“Eleanor Wingate did not actually say that… Why did you say ‘entertaining’?… You mean intriguing.”

“I’m entertained.”

She thought a moment. “You don’t like us much, do you? I suppose it would make you happy to expose someone highly placed. The police, I understand, get a good deal of satisfaction from laying low the mighty.”

“Only on television. In real life you wind up testifying in court and being cross-examined by somebody from O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose who rips you to shreds.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “If, as I understand it, the suspect or suspects fit a certain profile, why did you tell Mr. O’Brien?”

“I trust him.”

Abrams shook his head. He said, “And I assume you’ve shown Thorpe the letter?”

“Yes. He doesn’t qualify as a suspect, of course. Neither do you.”

“I’m glad Mr. Thorpe and I have so much in common. Have you told or are you going to tell anyone else?”

“There are more people in… our circle of friends who will be told this evening.”

“You’re making it difficult for yourself.”

“Internal investigations are always difficult. That’s why I’d like your help.”

“Why me?”

She leaned toward him. “You’re intelligent, resourceful, an exdetective, I trust you, and I like you.”

“Am I blushing?”

“No, you’re pale.”

“Same thing.”

She waved her hand. “I rest my case. Would you like to dance?”

“We’d look silly. The band has stopped playing.”

She looked around. “Oh…” She laughed.

He said, “Can I ask you an obvious question, Miss Kimberly? Why don’t you turn this over to professionals?”

“That’s complicated. Why don’t you ask Mr. O’Brien later?… And you can call me Katherine.” A half smile formed on her lips.

“Yes, we have danced. What should I call you on Tuesday in the office?”

“If we’re dancing, Katherine. Otherwise, Miss Kimberly.”

Abrams wasn’t certain he liked her brand of humor.

18

Abrams saw Thorpe sitting by himself. He walked to the table and sat down.

Thorpe stared openly at Abrams, then commented, “Only you and me, Tony.”

“You and I.”

“That’s what I said, only I can say it the way I want because I’m a Yale graduate, whereas you have to watch your English.”

“True.” Abrams began eating.

Thorpe pointed his knife in Abrams’ direction. “What did Kate tell you? And don’t say ‘About what?’”

“About what?”

Thorpe half stood. “Listen to me, Abrams—”

“Your face is red and you’ve raised your voice. I’ve never seen a Yalie do that.”

Thorpe leaned across the table and struck his knife against Abrams’ glass. “Watch yourself.”

Abrams went back to his food.

Thorpe sat and didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Look… I really don’t care that you’re Jewish—”

“Then why mention it?”

Thorpe’s voice took on a conciliatory tone. “I don’t care about your background, your parents, the New York police force, who are not my favorite people, your humble station in life, your wanting to be a lawyer — and I don’t even care about your sitting here, but—”

Abrams glanced up from his food. “How about me mentioning the blood on your cuff?”

“—but I do care that my fiancée is trying to involve you in this business. It is not your business, Mr. Abrams, and in fact it may very well be no one’s business. I think it’s all a crock of crap.”

“So why worry about it? Have you tried this chicken?”

“Listen closely, then forget what I tell you. Katherine and O’Brien and a few others are amateur detectives — dilettantes. You know the type from your police days. They get themselves worked up over intrigue. Don’t encourage them.”

Abrams put down his knife and fork and placed his napkin on the table.

Thorpe went on, “If there’s anything to this, it should be handled by professionals — like me — not by—”

Abrams stood. “Excuse me. I need some air.” He left.

Thorpe drummed his fingers on the table. “Bastard.”

After a few minutes Nicholas West returned to the table.

Thorpe glanced at him. “I still want to see those books, Nick.”

West showed an uncharacteristic annoyance. “No business tonight.” He mixed a drink.

Thorpe began talking, but West was paying little attention. He was thinking about Thorpe. As head of the Domestic Contact Service, Thorpe ran what amounted to the largest amateur spy ring in the world. The operation had grown so large that Thorpe, it was said, had a computer in his apartment that held the names of thousands of civilians, their overseas itineraries, occupations, capabilities, reliability, and areas of expertise. And the whole operation cost relatively little, a real plus with this administration. Everyone who volunteered to “do a little something for his country” did it without compensation, their only rewards being the thrill of it and a pat on the back from Thorpe or one of his debriefing officers.

Thorpe saw that West wasn’t paying attention and poked his arm. “Okay, no business,” he said. “When are you flying to Munich to see your betrothed?”

“I can’t get approval for Munich. Ann is coming here in late June or early July for home leave.”

“Oh, when’s the big day?”

“Unscheduled.”

“It must be frustrating living together in separate countries. Anyway, I’m eager to be your brother-in-law. Then you’ll trust me.”

“When are you getting married?”

“How about a Fourth of July double wedding? That would be fitting for all the patriots and spooks. Maybe we’ll use the Glen Cove estate. Yes, that might be nice.”

West smiled. “You mean Van Dorn’s estate, don’t you? Not the Soviet estate?”

Thorpe smiled in return, but didn’t answer.

Waiters brought the dessert to the table, and West dug into a chocolate soufflé.

West looked up from his food. “Not to break my own no-business rule, but this Talbot thing sounds ominous. I hope it doesn’t touch off one of those witch-hunting hysterias in the Company again.”

Thorpe shrugged. “Christ, what would these people do without their bogeyman? Talbot. Bullshit. If there were a Talbot, he’d be about a hundred and five years old by now.” Thorpe leaned toward West. “Do you know who Talbot is? I’ll tell you. He’s the devil in our heads. He’s the fiend, the monster, the nightmare… ” Thorpe lowered his voice. “He doesn’t exist, Nick, never did. He’s what those old-timers blame for all their fuckups.”

West nodded slowly. “You could be right.”

Thorpe began to reply, but Katherine came back to the table and sat. She spoke in a worried tone: “We’ve called all over, and there’s no sign of Carbury.”

Thorpe did not seem particularly concerned. He said, “I’ll call my people and have them contact the FBI.”

Katherine replied, “I also want Tony to use his police contacts. Where is he?”

“It’s Friday night, isn’t it? He probably went to temple.”

Katherine’s voice was angry. “You’ve been rude all evening — to everyone. What the hell set you off?”

Thorpe looked contrite. “I guess I had a bad day. I’ll apologize to everyone.”

She let out an exasperated breath. “That doesn’t make it right.” She looked at Nicholas West, who seemed embarrassed. “Do you and Ann fight?”

West forced a smile. “Sometimes.”

“Then maybe it’s us — the Kimberly women. My mother is a bitch.” She turned to Thorpe. “I accept your apology.”

Thorpe brightened and raised his wineglass. “All for one and one for all.”

They touched glasses and drank. West glanced at Katherine, then Thorpe. West was in the position of knowing more about Peter Thorpe than Thorpe’s lover knew: West had read Thorpe’s personnel file and his officer evaluation reports. He had done this under the excuse of historical research, but really out of a personal concern for Katherine Kimberly.

One evaluator, he remembered, had characterized Thorpe as “an enthusiastic heterosexual.” Someone had scribbled in the margin, This means he chases women. West imagined that Katherine understood this and accepted it.

West looked at Thorpe’s eyes as he spoke to Katherine. That’s where the madness showed itself in brief glimpses, like the doors of a furnace that swing open, then snap shut again, leaving you with the impression of a blazing turmoil but no positive proof. West recalled something else in Thorpe’s file, a CIA psychologist’s report, written in the clear English favored by the Company over the psychobabble of civilian psychoanalysts. After an extensive interview — probably a drug-aided one — the analyst had written: “He at times behaves and sounds as if he’s still in Skull and Bones at Yale. He enjoys clandestine assignments but approaches even the most dangerous ones as if they were fraternity pranks.”

The psychiatrist had added an insight that West thought was disturbing: “Thorpe suffers greatly from ennui; he must live on the edge of an abyss in order to feel fully alive. He considers himself superior to the rest of humanity by virtue of knowing important secrets and belonging to a secret and elite organization. This is evidence of an immature personality. Further, his relationships with his peers, though good-natured, are superficial, and he forms no strong male bonds. His attitude toward women is best described as outwardly charming but inwardly disdainful.”

West stared at Thorpe. It was obvious, at least to West, that Peter Thorpe was a man fighting some monumental inner struggle, a man whose mind was in a state of turmoil over some serious matter.

West had passed a casual remark to this effect to Katherine, but it hadn’t gone over well and he’d dropped it. Ann, however, had been more receptive. Ann had other information — informal conversations with agents, hearsay, and the like — and though she was not specific, West could tell she was concerned.

West knew what he had to do next: request all the operation reports filed by Thorpe himself as well as the reports and analyses of all operations with which Thorpe had been associated. West had put this off, but the time had come to fully evaluate Peter Thorpe.

Thorpe suddenly turned to West. “You look pensive, Nick. Something on your mind?”

West felt his face flush, and he was unable to turn away from Thorpe’s arresting stare. He had the uncomfortable impression that Peter Thorpe knew what he had been thinking. West cleared his throat and said, “I was just wondering — if Carbury was found dead, would you believe in the existence of Talbot?”

Thorpe’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned very close to West and spoke softly. “If you found a sheep in the woods with its throat ripped out, Nick, would you credit it to wolves or werewolves?” Thorpe smiled, a slow smile that was itself wolflike, thought West. Thorpe said, “New York is not the most unlikely place for a man to wind up with a shiv in his heart.”

West tried to stop himself, but his eyes were drawn to the spot on Thorpe’s cuff.

Thorpe smiled even wider at him, a huge smile with his lips drawn back, showing a set of large white teeth. West stood and excused himself.

Thorpe turned back to Katherine, who was pouring herself coffee. He said, “That man is very high-strung. He makes me jumpy.”

“I’ve never known you to be jumpy about anything.”

“Nicholas West makes a lot of people in the Company jumpy.”

“You sound as though you have a guilty conscience.”

“I have no conscience, guilty or otherwise.”

“Then you must be hiding something.” She smiled.

Thorpe did not smile back. He said, “If I were, it wouldn’t stay hidden long from that inoffensive little man — would it?”

Katherine regarded him closely. “No.”

Thorpe nodded to himself as though he had made a decision about something. He said, “Actually, I’m worried about him. There are too many people who want him out of the way.” Thorpe lit a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke. “To use a familiar analogy, Nicholas West is like a head of cattle grazing too long in the fields of intelligence archives until he’s grown very fat. The farmer who owns him wants to butcher him; the wolves in the woods want him in their stomachs.” He looked at Katherine. “Poor Nick.”

19

Patrick O’Brien’s round table was assembled again. West was speaking to Katherine, O’Brien was talking to Kitty and George Van Dorn, Claudia had taken the empty seat and was speaking with Abrams. Thorpe sat silently. A few people were dancing to 1930s big-band tunes. Abrams watched Thorpe. The man had been drinking heavily all night, but was clearly sober.

Abrams looked back at Claudia and responded to a question. “No, my parents didn’t teach me Russian.”

“What a pity. I know Russian. We could have had secret conversations.”

“About what?”

“Whatever. I’ll teach you a few words and I’m sure it will start to come back to you.”

Abrams didn’t respond, and she changed the subject. She spoke animatedly about her life in America, touching Abrams’ arm from time to time. At one point she asked, “Am I touching you too much?” To which he replied, “Not too much, but not in the right places.”

She laughed.

Abrams let his mind slip back to when he had been taken by O’Brien around the great hall and introduced to some of O’Brien’s friends and clients. Most of them, like John Weitz, Julia Child, and Walt Rostow, were rich, famous, powerful, or all three. Abrams did not wonder why he had been afforded this rare honor. There was a certain psychology of recruitment common to most clandestine organizations he’d been involved with, from the Mafia to the Weather Underground; you began by running errands, then advanced to committing indiscreet acts. Then you were introduced to the inner circle, followed by introductions to VIP’s who may or may not be part of the group but who you are led to believe are simpatico. Then, finally, when you’re psychologically ready, you’re sent on a mission to prove yourself. A mission you’d been told was coming, but which you could not have conceived of participating in just a few short months or weeks before. In this case, the Glen Cove mission was how he was supposed to “make his bones,” as his Italian friends would say.

Claudia broke into his thoughts. “I think you should spend the night at the town house.”

Abrams looked at her. “Do you? There may not be room. I suppose the Grenvilles are staying?”

Claudia smiled at him. “Forget Joan Grenville, my friend. These Wisps are not for you.”

“Wasps.”

The ballroom suddenly became quiet as the president of the OSS Veterans, Geoffrey Smythe, rose and stood at the podium. Smythe welcomed everyone and introduced the dais.

When he finished his introductory remarks, he said, “It is my special honor this evening to introduce our guest speaker, who is probably the only man in America who truly needs no further introduction. Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces.”

The military-oriented crowd stood and held up their glasses, making the traditional toast: “To the Commander-in-Chief!” Sustained applause followed as the President took his place at the podium.

The President spoke for some time, interrupted by much applause. He concluded, “And, finally, I’ve sent a presidential message to all senior personnel within the CIA expressing my desire to see revived the esprit de corps, the dedication, the flair and the daring of the old OSS. Thank you.”

Abrams looked around the room. Bill Casey, whose position on the dais was close by, had a small smile on his face. Clearly, thought Abrams, the good times had returned.

William Colby, chairman of the award committee, stood at the podium and said, “The purpose of this gathering is to honor the memory of the founder of the Office of Strategic Services and to present the General Donovan Medal, which it is my honor to do at this time.”

Colby referred to a written text. “The Veterans of the OSS present the Donovan Medal to an individual who has rendered distinguished service in the interests of the United States, the Free World, and the cause of freedom. This year, we are especially proud to present the Donovan Medal to a man who was present at the birth of the OSS, a man whose career in many ways paralleled that of General Donovan.”

Colby glanced to his left, then said, “James Allerton is the founder of the Wall Street law firm of Allerton, Stockton, and Evans. He has been a friend and counselor to the Dulleses, to General Donovan, and to every American President from Roosevelt to our present chief of state.

“President Roosevelt commissioned James Allerton a colonel during the Second World War, and as colonel he served on General Donovan’s staff. After the war, President Truman appointed him as one of the drafters of the National Security Act which gave birth to the CIA. President Eisenhower appointed him ambassador to Hungary.

“In 1961 he was appointed by President Kennedy to the Securities and Exchange Commission. But James Allerton was at heart an intelligence officer, and feeling the old pull of the shadowy world of cloak and dagger, which we all understand”—Colby waited for the slight laughter to subside—“James Allerton offered his services to Mr. Kennedy in that capacity and was appointed a presidential military intelligence advisor.

“Since that time, James Allerton’s counsel has been sought by every President on matters of extreme sensitivity in the areas of intelligence and national security planning.”

Colby continued, “James Allerton now serves on the staff of the National Intelligence Officers, which as you know is a small group of senior analysts known unofficially in Washington as the Wise Men, and advises the President on matters of extreme national and world importance.”

Colby’s voice began building to the final introduction. “James Allerton’s long career has embodied those qualities of public service and private enterprise that are stressed by the Veterans of the Office of Strategic Services in awarding the Donovan Medal. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce a dear personal friend, the Honorable James Prescott Allerton.”

The assembly rose, and a long, sustained applause rolled through the great hall. Allerton stood and walked along the dais to the podium. The tall, gaunt figure was slightly stooped, but he carried himself with great dignity. His eighty-odd years barely showed on his ruddy face framed with thick white hair, but his deliberate movements were unmistakably those of an octogenarian.

Colby slipped the blue ribbon over Allerton’s head and straightened the gold medal that rested on his chest. The two men shook hands, and Allerton stood alone at the podium.

Tears ran from his clear blue eyes, and he wiped them with a handkerchief. The applause died away and everyone sat.

James Allerton thanked Colby and the award committee, and acknowledged the President and the dais.

Abrams watched Thorpe closely as his father spoke in a voice that was strong and still carried the accents which suggested prep schools, Ivy League colleges, and the vanished world that had existed before World War II in places like Bar Harbor, Newport, Hyannis, and Southampton.

Being the son of a famous father had its well-known drawbacks, and actually following in his career footsteps was fraught with dangers, psychological and otherwise, Abrams thought.

When Allerton had been Thorpe’s age, reflected Abrams, he must already have been on Donovan’s staff as a colonel, helping to win a great war, changing the world, master of his fate and the fate of countless others. But those were different times, thought Abrams. Even men and women who had the potential of greatness within them were doomed to obscurity and frustration in an age that did not call for greatness. Abrams thought he had a small insight into Peter Thorpe’s character, or lack of it.

Abrams returned his attention to the dais as James Allerton spoke eloquently of his years with the OSS. Abrams could see that the audience was deeply moved by his reminiscences.

Then Allerton stopped talking and bowed his head a moment. When he looked up, he slowly surveyed the assembly of veterans and guests for some time before his voice broke the stillness again. He said, “The world lost literally millions of good men and women in those awful six years of war, and we are the poorer for it. But we remember them… each and every one of them, in different ways, every day. We remember them tonight.” James Allerton drew a long breath, then nodded, touched his medal, and said, “Thank you.” He abruptly turned from the podium and took his seat. The people in the hall stood, almost in unison. There was silence for a long moment, then a burst of applause rang out.

The President stood, walked up to Allerton, and embraced him amid more ovations. Everyone on the dais was facing Allerton and applauding. Hands were being shaken all around.

Abrams had no previous experience from which to judge, but he thought this dinner must be the most successful yet. Nearly everything that anyone might want to hear was said by someone or another. He tried to empathize, to feel what they felt — triumph, vindication, rejuvenation — but he could never feel it. Either you had been there or you had not.

The closest he could come to the experience, he thought, was the twentieth-year reunion of his high school class. He had made the newspapers that day for a homicide arrest, and he’d been introduced at the reunion and given a short speech at the Italian restaurant where it had been held. Afterward, he went home with an old girl friend, recently divorced, and slept with her. He’d felt about as good then as he’d ever felt since. Nothing earthshaking, nothing of world import, but for him it was a complete experience.

Abrams sat down before the others and finished his drink. Admittedly he felt like an outsider, but was he an outsider who wanted in or an outsider who wanted to remain out? He looked at the people around him, then focused on Patrick O’Brien. Earlier, O’Brien had opened the door a crack and given him a glimpse into another world, a world of conspiracy and secrets.

It seemed to be his fate, he thought, to get involved with one netherworld or another. First it was the Red Devils; then the undercover assignments on the force.

Nearly everyone in the hall was in motion now, going from table to table, passing down the dais and shaking hands. A phalanx of Secret Service men moved the President out a side exit.

Peter Thorpe caught Abrams’ eye and nodded toward the door.

Abrams stood. Time for their black-bag job.

20

Peter Thorpe stood at Randolph Carbury’s door. He spoke softly. “You carry?”

Abrams replied, “Not tonight.”

“No, even I couldn’t get a piece past that crew tonight.” Thorpe held the key he’d gotten from the room manager, who stood some distance away. Thorpe said, “I hear a radio. Sign says ‘Do Not Disturb.’”

“Disturb.”

Thorpe unlocked the door and pushed it open a few inches. “Chained.”

Abrams saw the chain he’d retaped in place. He said, “Looks like he’s in.”

Thorpe called: “Colonel Carbury?”

Abrams said, “Shoulder it.”

Thorpe shrugged, stepped back, and rammed the door with his shoulder. The taped chain flew away and Thorpe stumbled into the room, losing his balance and falling onto the floor.

Abrams smiled and stepped inside. He fingered the hanging chain. “Taped it when he left. Old trick. Are you all right?”

Thorpe’s face was red as he got to his feet.

Abrams retrieved the keys and flipped them to the room manager. “Take a walk.”

Thorpe looked at Abrams as though wondering if he’d been set up.

Abrams regarded Thorpe closely, wondering if Thorpe knew about the tape but was playacting his role.

They both looked around the quiet room. Thorpe said, “Well, no sign of violence here.” He walked into the bathroom and called back, “No stiff here, either.”

Abrams noticed an empty tuxedo bag on the bed. “Carbury dressed for dinner.”

Thorpe came back into the bedroom and knelt beside the bed. “This is about the only place you could stash a stiff in this room.” He peered under the bed. “Carbury? You there?” He stood. “Well, he seems to have gone out.”

Abrams said to Thorpe, “Just stand there so you don’t leave fingerprints, lint, and hair all over. I’ll toss the room.”

Thorpe smiled. “Tony in action. Don’t you need a magnifying glass and deerstalker hat?”

Abrams searched the room for the second time that evening. Thorpe made a few remarks, but Abrams didn’t respond. Abrams completed his search and said suddenly, “Have you been here tonight?”

“How about you?”

“I was in the club. But I couldn’t get up here. Answer my question.”

Thorpe walked to the window and looked out into the street. “As a matter of fact, I took out a book from the library, had a drink. Check it out.”

“Coincidence?”

Thorpe turned his head and smiled at Abrams. “Neither you nor I believe in coincidence. Not in our business. I was here for the same reason you were.”

Abrams seemed lost in thought.

Thorpe said, “What are you thinking, ace?”

Abrams looked at him. “You know.”

“Tell me, Tony.”

“It’s the blood on the cuff, Pete.”

“I know. I know.” Thorpe shook his head as though he were considering an abstract problem that had nothing to do with him. “What can we make of that?”

“We think it’s sloppy and amateurish.” Abrams moved closer to Thorpe.

Thorpe said, “Keep your distance.”

Abrams stopped. He smiled. “This sounds sort of silly, but I want your cuff. Rip it off.”

Thorpe smiled in return. “Come and take it.” He threw off his rain cloak.

Abrams shrugged. “I thought you’d say that.” He also removed his raincoat and stepped closer to Thorpe, realizing he wanted not only the cuff but a piece of Thorpe as well.

Thorpe put up his fists. “Yale boxing team, Abrams. You’d better be good.”

Abrams moved in, left shoulder first, a flat-footed stance, his fists protecting his face. Thorpe did the same. But Abrams did not think for one moment that Thorpe intended to box, so when Thorpe’s left leg shot out, with the toe of his shoe pointed directly at Abrams’ groin, Abrams was able to react. He dropped his hands and intercepted Thorpe’s foot. But Thorpe’s kick was so powerful that Abrams found himself lifted off the floor, still clutching Thorpe’s shoe and ankle. Abrams fell back on the floor, and Thorpe pulled his foot out of his shoe, then kicked off his other shoe.

Abrams quickly got to his feet and backed off. Thorpe smiled slowly. “Smart. If I had caught you with that kick, you’d be singing falsetto for a month. Well, do you still want the cuff?”

Abrams nodded.

Thorpe feigned a look of disappointment. “How am I going to explain to Katherine what you’re doing in the hospital?” He moved closer to Abrams, jabbing and feinting as he did.

Abrams backed toward the door.

Thorpe came almost within kicking distance.

Abrams’ right hand was behind his back, fumbling with the doorknob. Thorpe smiled and took a quick step forward to position his kick. Suddenly, Abrams’ other hand also grabbed the knob, and Thorpe saw too late what was coming. Abrams’ feet left the floor, his body pivoting from the leverage of his grip on the knob. His heels caught Thorpe in the midsection and sent him sprawling backward onto the bed, then off the side to the floor.

Abrams knew the blow was not a disabling one and followed up quickly with a rush, then stopped short.

Thorpe stood with a very long and thin black knife in his hand. He spoke as he caught his breath. “This is ebony… Passes the metal detectors and X rays… Can puncture your heart with it. Want to see?”

Abrams’ eyes darted around, and he spotted a heavy table lamp.

Thorpe shook his head. “Don’t. Look.” He held out his hand with the knife and pulled back the jacket sleeve. “Spot’s gone. Attendant in the men’s room had Carbona, God bless his Spanish soul. Military establishments are fanatical about personal appearance.”

Abrams kept his eyes on the knife.

Thorpe lowered it and slid it into the seam along his trousers. “Truce?”

Abrams nodded.

Thorpe patted the seam where the knife lay. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink. We could both use one.” Thorpe put his shoes on. They retrieved their raingear and left.

They waited silently in the corridor for the elevator. Thorpe lit a cigarette, then spoke as though to himself. “Cops look for things like motive, opportunity, clues… like the cuff, for instance. In my business, we have different needs. We don’t care to know the actual name of the culprit. That’s meaningless. We want to know the name of his employer. We do not try to perfect a case against a murderer. We always find that the motive for a murder or kidnapping is a perfectly legitimate one… from our perspective. So we don’t talk about legalities. Police think in terms of crime and punishment. We think in terms of sin and retribution.”

Abrams said nothing.

Thorpe went on. “The National Security Act of 1947 did not give us powers of arrest. That was supposed to keep us in line. Silly idea. What do you do with people you can’t arrest and try in a special court?”

Abrams lit a cigarette.

Thorpe continued. “We’re supposed to have the FBI arrest them, then watch a federal prosecutor fuck up the case. Or have a defense lawyer try to drag out all sorts of information which pertains to national security. Well, we don’t go that route.”

The elevator came, and Thorpe motioned Abrams inside. Abrams shook his head. Thorpe shrugged and got in alone. The doors closed. Abrams took the next elevator.

As Abrams rode down, he thought: If Thorpe did kill Carbury, why did he? Thorpe’s personality, as far as Abrams could ascertain, was that of a man who would commit murder as part of his workaday job, for reasons he himself didn’t fully understand or even care about. Thorpe, though, was also the type who would kill anyone who posed even the remotest threat to the personal well-being and happiness of Peter Thorpe. Was it, then, an official sanction or a private enterprise?

Abrams joined Thorpe on the second level, and Thorpe ushered him into the oak-paneled lounge. Thorpe said, “Have you ever heard of the Special Homicide Squad?”

Abrams stood at the bar but didn’t respond.

Thorpe stood beside him, his foot on the rail. “A handful of New York cops who come together only when it appears that a corpse met his end as a result of… official sanction. These detectives, coincidentally, all have special training at a farm in Virginia. You following me? So don’t go beating on doors downtown with this. You may knock on the wrong door.”

The bartender, Donald, approached. “Hey, Mr. Thorpe. Shindig over already?”

“Right.”

“How’d the President look?”

“Terrific. Catch it on the eleven o’clock news. Donald, this group needs alcohol. Stolichnaya, and buy yourself one. My friend drinks Scotch.”

Donald said to Abrams, “What do you want with that Scotch?”

“A glass.”

Donald moved off.

Thorpe lit another cigarette. “My stomach is starting to ache.”

“Must have been the fish.”

Thorpe smiled. “You’re good, Abrams. I’ll give you that.”

Neither spoke for some time, then Thorpe said, “So what do you think of the old boys?”

Abrams answered in measured tones. “Harmless enough old duffers. Like to talk power and politics. They’re out of it, though.”

“That’s what I used to think. Fact is, they’re not. I use them in my business.”

Abrams thought that O’Brien would say he used Thorpe. “What is your business?”

“Something called the Domestic Contact Service… What kind of clearance do you have, Abrams?”

“Six feet two inches.”

Thorpe laughed. “I like you. I’m sorry about before, at dinner.”

“Thank you.” Abrams regarded Thorpe closely. When Thorpe had been baiting him, Abrams knew he wasn’t in any personal danger. Now he knew he was in extreme danger.

The drinks came. Thorpe held up his glass. “Death to the enemies of my country.”

“Shalom.”

Both men fell silent. The bartender leaned over and spoke quietly to Thorpe. “That guy got your message.”

Thorpe nodded and winked.

Donald said in a normal voice, “Hey, I’ve been thinking… that thing you said about the Fourth of July—”

“Right. We need a good bartender. Long Island estate. Can you make it?”

Donald seemed momentarily confused. “Yeah… sure…”

Thorpe turned to Abrams. “Can you keep a secret? I’m going to ask Kate to marry me. Plan on a July Fourth wedding.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Thorpe absently trailed his stirrer through a puddle on the bar. Abrams looked around the room. Very clubby. Horse prints on the walls. Green-shaded lamps. A few men stood at an oyster bar in the corner. Abrams straightened up and buttoned his raincoat. “Let’s go.”

Thorpe held his arm. “Have you discussed any of this with anyone outside of the firm?”

Abrams thought that was the required question before the bullet in the head. He pulled away from Thorpe and walked to the door. Thorpe followed. They descended the stairs, and Abrams went into a phone booth. He came out a few minutes later.

Thorpe said, “Did you alert the police?”

Abrams nodded. “Might as well. Make O’Brien happy.” They walked outside and stood under the gray awning. The rain was still falling on the dark streets. Thorpe finally spoke. “Are you staying in town tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want to go back to the armory?”

“If that’s where you’re going.”

A doorman hailed a passing taxi, and they both climbed in. Thorpe pulled two long cedar-wrapped cigars from his pocket. “Ramon Allones. Hand-rolled in old Habana. I get them from a Canadian businessman who does work for me.” He passed one to Abrams. Thorpe said, “Russian vodka and Cuban cigars. What would the internal security people say to that?”

Abrams examined the cigar. “I don’t know, but my Uncle Bernie would say shtick.”

“Stick?”

“Shtick. That’s Yiddish for affectation. Like that raincape you’re wearing. Or the gold Dunhill lighter.”

Thorpe looked annoyed. “No. That’s panache. Flair.”

“Shtick.”

“I don’t think I like Yiddish.” He lit his cigar, then offered Abrams a light.

Abrams shook his head. “I’ll save it for an occasion.” He slipped the cigar in his coat and said, “You never suggested we look in the club safe.”

“What? Oh… for the diary… Christ.” He leaned toward the driver.

Abrams reached out and pulled him back in his seat. “Don’t waste my time.”

Thorpe smiled. “At least play the game. We have to tell O’Brien we checked the safe.”

“You’re sloppy, Thorpe. No attention to detail. If you want to play the game, at least remember what you’re supposed to do and say.”

Thorpe nodded. “I insulted your intelligence. I apologize.” He flipped his ash on the floor.

Abrams said, “Was the diary worth it?”

“Worth what?” Thorpe thought a moment, then said, “Believe me when I tell you, this is a matter of extreme national security. Carbury was going to turn over a very sensitive piece of evidence to a bunch of amateurs, several of whom are high security risks, though we couldn’t make him understand that.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Of course not. He’ll be fine.”

Abrams nodded. Dead.

Thorpe said, “Is this getting you dizzy, sport? Wish you’d stayed home?”

“No, it was a nice evening.”

Thorpe smiled. “The night is still young and fraught with adventure.”

Abrams lit a cigarette. “Is it?”

“Count on it.”

Abrams sat back. A man, he thought, might be known by the company he keeps, but a woman can’t always be judged by the lovers she takes.

21

Katherine Kimberly glanced anxiously toward the doors at the far end of the Colonel’s Reception Room.

Nicholas West came across the room with two brandy glasses. “Here. Relax.”

She sipped the brandy. The reception room, on the ground floor of the armory, looked out over Park Avenue. It was stuffy and noisy, filled with men, women, and tobacco smoke. An array of after-dinner cordials sat on a long sideboard. The furniture was French black walnut, the paneling oak, and the rug a pastel Oriental. A huge portrait of George Washington by Rembrandt Peale hung over the marble fireplace. On the opposite wall hung a portrait of George VI, which seemed, Katherine noticed, to have drawn the Britishers to that side of the room.

One of them, Marc Pembroke, caught her eye and approached. She hadn’t seen him since the May Day party at Van Dorn’s estate. There’d been some trouble, she’d heard, over Pembroke and Tom Grenville’s wife, Joan. But that was probably more Joan’s fault than Pembroke’s.

Pembroke greeted Katherine and West. He asked, “Have you any news of Carbury?”

Katherine shook her head. She was not sure of Pembroke, but O’Brien had once indicated that it was all right to speak to him, within limits. Pembroke had access to the dead files, and he was tight with Arnold.

Pembroke also shook his head. “This is rather distressing.”

Pembroke, Katherine knew, had lived and worked in New York for a very long time. He had an office in the British Building in Rockefeller Center, a short walk from Katherine’s building. The sign on his door said BRITISH TECHNOLOGIES, but neither she nor anyone seemed to know for whom he worked. She remembered the shoulder holster she’d seen on the drive out to Van Dorn’s.

Pembroke asked, “Where’s Peter?”

Katherine replied, “He left, but he’ll be back shortly.”

“I’d like to speak to him later.”

“I’ll tell him.” Marc Pembroke and Peter had a business relationship. In some ways, she thought, Pembroke reminded her of Peter, but this did not inspire confidence or closeness. Marc Pembroke was the kind of man whom women noticed and men avoided. There was something incredibly hard about him, and she had not been at all surprised at the gun holster. She would have been surprised if he didn’t have one; she would have bet heavily that he’d used the gun.

Pembroke and West were speaking, and Katherine excused herself and walked over to Patrick O’Brien. He was standing by the rain-splashed window, looking out onto Park Avenue. She came up beside him. O’Brien said, “Regarding Tony Abrams, I think he’d be helpful. Did you speak to him?”

“Yes. He’s reluctant. A bit confused about who we are, but we need someone with his credentials. Someone with no personal bonds to any of us, who will evaluate the evidence objectively. Someone,” she added, “who could not possibly be on the other side.” She smiled suddenly. “I think he’d actually enjoy exposing one of us as a traitor.”

O’Brien glanced at her but said nothing.

Katherine recalled the day she had graduated from Harvard Law School, her father’s alma mater. Patrick O’Brien had unexpectedly shown up and offered her a position in her father’s old firm. She had accepted and moved to New York.

She had married a client, Paul Howell, and lived in his apartment on Sutton Place. Patrick O’Brien had been polite to him but did not like him. Eventually, Katherine discovered she did not like him either. He said he would fight a divorce. Patrick O’Brien spoke to him. Paul Howell became more obstinate. Subsequently, a series of misfortunes befell Howell, including an investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission for stock fraud. Then there was a computer malfunction in his brokerage house that wiped out a day’s worth of trading records. A short time later several of his best brokers left and took their accounts with them. There were other misfortunes, much like a series of divine plagues. One day Paul called her at the office and shouted, “They won’t renew the lease on my apartment! Make him stop this.”

“Who?” She thought he’d lost his mind.

“O’Brien! Who the hell do you think?”

She was stunned and said nothing.

He’d shouted again, “You can have your goddamned divorce!”

And within a few months she’d gotten it. Paul Howell had moved to Toronto, and she’d never heard from him again.

Katherine looked at O’Brien, who was sipping on a cup of coffee. “If Tony Abrams refuses to work with us, I don’t think we should hold it against him.”

O’Brien smiled in that fatherly way and patted her arm. “As long as you didn’t reveal too much of the Company business to him.”

“I didn’t.” She remembered, too, that day, nearly five years ago, when she’d walked into O’Brien’s office unannounced, her heart beating and her mouth dry, and spoken the words that had led her to this time and place: “Can I belong, or do you have to be an OSS veteran?”

O’Brien had replied without hesitation, “You can belong. We need young people.”

She had asked him, “Are you in charge?”

His features had remained impassive, inscrutable, very unlike his usually expressive face. “We are equals among equals.”

“What are the objectives?”

“To bring the chickens home to roost. To repay the stab in the back. To avenge the dead, including your father. To find the traitors still in our midst. To find the worst traitor, a man code-named Talbot, and kill him. And ultimately to complete the larger mission we were assigned in 1942—to put an end to any power that is dedicated to our destruction.”

“That assignment was terminated by Truman in 1945.” She pointed to a framed document on the wall, signed by Harry S Truman.

“We don’t recognize that termination order. We were born of necessity, we live of necessity, we are immortal. Not in the physical sense, of course, but in the context of the immortal corporation. We may have to reorganize from time to time, take on partners, hire and fire, but we don’t go out of business. Not until we’ve finished what we set out to do.”

Her mind had reeled under the impact of what he was saying, though she had suspected it for some years. He had let her see small glimpses of it and had waited patiently until she had made the right conclusions and the right decision. She had asked him something of the logistics, the how, why, and where of it all.

O’Brien had replied, “Do you think we couldn’t see what was going to happen after the war? When they were through with us, like all governments who use people, they intended to throw us back on the scrap heap. But they miscalculated. They didn’t fully understand what talent they’d assembled. The war acted as a catalyst, brought us together within one organization.

“We saw them sharpening their knives to finish us after we’d finished the Nazis. So we took precautions. We began to go underground. We kept files and records in various places. Some are right here in these offices. We formed close contacts with the British intelligence services, which, we knew, would survive into the postwar world. And we stole money. Yes, we stole. We had a section called Special Funds. We had a worldwide banking system of more than eighty different currencies. There was over seventy-five million dollars of those funds, a huge fortune in those days. Congress and the President gave us this money grudgingly, with no strings and without regard, as they said, ‘to the provisions of law and regulations relating to the expenditure of government funds.’ They had no choice, really. You can’t run an outfit that is supposed to engage in assassinations, kidnappings, sabotage, economic warfare, and other unsavory pursuits, without unvouchered funds. Also”—a small smile broke across his face—“we actually made money on some of our operations. We were, after all, mostly businessmen and lawyers.”

He had stepped closer to her and said quietly, “Over the last thirty-five years we’ve accomplished a good deal of what we set out to do, though I can’t give you details. But I will tell you we’ve uncovered and eliminated a number of Americans and Britishers who were working for the other side.” He had put his hand on her shoulder. “Do you still want to belong?”

“Do you know who killed my father? I mean… it wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“It wasn’t an accident. The persons who arranged his death also arranged the deaths of other good men and women, including, I believe, the parents of your new friend, Peter Thorpe. They nearly got me, too. And they nearly got the Free World after the war. Eventually, we will know all there is to know about them.”

She had stood and said, “I never knew my father… I always felt cheated… but I consoled myself with the fact that he died in the war, the way others had. But this is different. I’m not vindictive by nature, but I’d like to—”

O’Brien had nodded. “There are personal scores to settle as well as political scores. Either motivation is good. Are you with us?”

“Yes.”

That night she’d called her sister, Ann, who was in Bern at the time, and asked, “Do you belong?”

After a brief hesitation, Ann replied, “Yes.”

“Me too.”

Katherine looked now at Patrick O’Brien standing at the window with a fixed stare on his face. There seemed to be some special quality to these men and women that had kept them mentally alert and physically sound. Yet they understood, as O’Brien said, that they were mortal, and so they’d begun to recruit. Nicholas West was one recruit. Somehow the fact that he belonged made it seem all right for her. Nick was level-headed, careful, not likely to get involved with something that was reckless or unsavory.

Katherine thought of Peter. He belonged only in a peripheral way, and that, she knew instinctively, was a good decision on O’Brien’s part.

An unbidden image of Tony Abrams flashed through her mind. Abrams didn’t really want in, and she liked that. O’Brien, too, preferred reluctant recruits.

She thought of the Van Dorns. George Van Dorn was in the group, though by the nature of the group one never acknowledged such a fact except in the most oblique way. Katherine did not particularly like George Van Dorn, and she sensed that O’Brien found something peculiar about him. If she had to propose a candidate for a man who could have been a traitor for over forty years, it would be George Van Dorn.

She thought of Tom Grenville, James Allerton, and all the people she’d become involved with over the years. In the conventional world, people were judged by certain accepted standards. In the shadow world, no one was who he or she seemed, and therefore no judgments could be made, except a final one.

One thing Patrick O’Brien had told her from the beginning, which she thought about now: “You understand,” he’d said, “that we could not have eliminated so many of our enemies and caused them to suffer so many setbacks without incurring casualties of our own. You must be aware, Katherine, that there is an element of personal danger inherent in this game we are playing. You’ve attended some funerals of men and women who did not die natural deaths.”

She looked at O’Brien now and spoke. “Do you think Carbury is dead?”

“Of course.”

“Is this the beginning of something?”

“Yes, I believe it is. Something very terrible is in the wind. We’ve sensed it for some time. Actually, we have some hard information that the Russians don’t expect us to be around after this summer.”

She looked at him. “Don’t expect… who not to be around…?”

“Us. America. They seem to have discovered a way to do it — with minimal or no damage to themselves. It’s obviously some sort of technological breakthrough. Something so far advanced that we have no defense. It was inevitable that one side or the other should skip a few generations of technology. So far we’ve advanced side by side, one side or the other taking a short lead, like a long horse race. But we have reason to believe they’ve created a sort of time warp that will put them into the next century within a few months. It happens. History is full of such examples — the ironclad Monitor’s blowing the Confederates’ wooden ships out of the water at will. Our atomic bombs that obliterated two great cities in a few seconds… ”

She tried to formulate several questions, but no words came out.

O’Brien said, “We know their plan depends on a person or persons who will open the gates of the city in the night, a sergeant of the guard. Someone with a key.”

She said, “Someone like Talbot.”

He nodded.

She spoke softly, “We were so close… the diary… the papers… ”

O’Brien waved his hand in a motion of dismissal. “That’s not important.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wrote the diary — or had it written. It’s not your father’s. I’m sorry. The diary was bloody red meat, and I knew if there was a beast about, he’d smell it and reveal himself. He did. Unfortunately, Randolph Carbury, who was holding the meat, got eaten too. But now we have a trail to follow, the spoor of the wolf in the wet earth.”

Katherine set her brandy glass down on the windowsill. “What was in the diary?”

“I had one of our old forgers do the whole thing with different inks of the period. The blank diary was bought in a London antiques store. The dispatch case was mine. The workman who found it in Eleanor’s muniment room was one of my people. She believed it was genuine. Nearly everyone who came into contact with it believed it.”

“But… who did you name? Did you name Talbot…?”

O’Brien rubbed his chin. “How could I? If I could name him, I’d kill him. The diary is mostly conjecture. But if Talbot is reading the diary right now, then he is very uncomfortable. He knows that photocopies must exist, and he will reveal more of himself in his search for them.”

Katherine said suddenly, “Eleanor Wingate is in danger.”

A strange look passed over O’Brien’s face, then he said, “She’s dead. Brompton Hall has been burned.”

Katherine stared at him. “You knew that was going to happen.”

“I did send a friend to look after her, but apparently he’s been killed with her, and her nephew. As for Carbury, he knew the material was bogus, and he made a timely visit to Brompton Hall on the day it was found. He inspired Eleanor’s letter to you. He knew the danger of carrying the material but was, apparently, unable to protect himself against it.”

“I tried to protect him.”

“Yes. But you or Eleanor Wingate told someone about it, and that’s why he’s dead.”

“I told Peter.”

“I know.”

She said nothing for a long time, then spoke. “Peter may have passed the information through normal channels.”

“He may have. I suppose he did. But we have at least flushed something out of the woods.”

“There are people dead.”

“That lends authenticity to it.” He looked at her. “I always told you this was a dangerous business. It’s going to become more dangerous and very bloody very soon. I suggest you carry a pistol.”

She nodded. She supposed she knew that beneath the surface of this organization, beneath the amateur spying, the old-boys network of information gathering, industrial spying, economic sabotage, or whatever game they played with the Eastern Bloc, was this potential for sudden violence. It had been part of their original mandate; the passage of forty years had not given them reason to discount violence as a legitimate option. She said to O’Brien, “I’m worried about Ann.”

“Worry about yourself. Ann understands more than you the danger she’s in.”

“And Nick.” She thought of this gentle man with the same apprehension one might feel when thinking of a child playing in traffic.

“He’s in danger from several sources. I’ve hired private guards for him.”

She looked at O’Brien. She had this comforting, childlike feeling that Patrick O’Brien could lick anyone on the block. But it followed then that the most dangerous Talbot she could imagine was Patrick O’Brien.

22

Abrams and Thorpe entered the Colonel’s Reception Room. In an uncharacteristic display of hospitality, Thorpe went to the sideboard and brought back a cognac for Abrams. Thorpe smiled and raised his glass. “To truth.”

Abrams did not drink.

Patrick O’Brien and Katherine Kimberly walked over to them. O’Brien said, “Did you find anything at the club?”

Thorpe replied, “Carbury did dress for dinner. We asked around but no one seems to remember him leaving. I had the manager check the safe. Nothing there. There was nothing revealing in his room.”

O’Brien turned to Abrams. “Did you call your police contacts?”

“Yes. I told them it might be a matter of national security. They’ll contact the FBI. They may want more information.”

O’Brien nodded. “Give them what they need, within limits. Don’t bring the firm into it.”

Nicholas West approached and the five people spoke for a few minutes, then O’Brien caught James Allerton’s eye. Allerton excused himself from a group of well-wishers and joined them. Allerton leaned over and kissed Katherine. “You look lovely as always.” He turned to Thorpe. “I didn’t embarrass you, did I, Peter?”

“No more than usual, James.”

Allerton ignored the remark and took West’s hand. “Nicholas. I’m delighted you could come. Is Ann with you? Or is she still in Bern?”

“No, sir… in Munich.”

Allerton looked at O’Brien. “Good Lord, Patrick, this is like déjà vu, isn’t it? The old armory, the old faces, even the old songs. Bern. Can’t think of Bern without thinking of Allen Dulles, can we?”

West cleared his throat. “Actually, she’s been transferred… Munich, I think — I mean Munich for sure.”

Allerton smiled pleasantly and turned to West. “Prestigious post, Bern. Good spot. Center of things, still. It was the window on Europe in those days—”

O’Brien interjected, “James, we’d like to have a meeting—”

“No business tonight. That’s the rule. It can wait until lunch tomorrow.” He smiled at Katherine. “Well, when are you going to make me a grandfather, young lady?”

Katherine forced a smile. “Mr. Allerton, let me introduce—”

Allerton went on. “I should say, when is this oafish son of mine going to marry you?” He turned to West. “And you. What are you waiting for? Go to Bern tomorrow and marry this girl’s sister.”

Katherine said, “Let me introduce Tony Abrams. He’s with our firm.”

Allerton seemed to notice Abrams for the first time. He extended his hand, and his eyes passed over Abrams. Then he fixed him with an appraising look. “Are you having a good time?”

Abrams felt the dry, bony hand in his own. “Yes, sir.” He thought it was the kind of question he’d be asked if he were a sixteen-year-old at a christening. “Congratulations on your medal. Interesting speech.”

Allerton smiled politely and turned away. He seemed to notice the expressions of everyone’s faces. “Is it serious?”

O’Brien nodded.

“Well, come then. There’s an empty room down the hall. Excuse us, Mr. Abrams. Have a drink.”

“Thank you.”

Katherine touched Abrams’ arm as she passed. “Don’t go far.”

Abrams watched Allerton, O’Brien, Thorpe, West, and Katherine wind their way through the crowd. He muttered to himself, “Yes, sir, I’m having a good time.” He went to the sideboard, poured out the brandy Thorpe had given him into a trash can, and chose a Strega, remembering the homemade variety the Italian men used to distill. He poured the yellowish liquid into a tall, fluted glass, braced himself, and downed half of it. He felt the water forming in his eyes even before he felt the fire hit his stomach. “Mama mia…”

He wandered around the room, recognizing some of the faces from newspapers or television, a few from history books, some from the office. Clare Boothe Luce was holding court, seated in a small chair surrounded by mostly older men and women. Sterling Hayden, the actor, whom O’Brien had said was an OSS agent in Van Dorn’s unit, was speaking with the Van Dorns and the Grenvilles. Joan Grenville noticed Abrams and smiled. Claudia was nowhere to be seen.

Abrams left the reception room and made his way to a pay phone in the lobby. The metal detector was gone, as were the Secret Service men, and people wandered about more freely, without that self-consciousness and paranoia that the presence of armed men always engenders. Abrams called the Nineteenth Precinct and got Captain Spinelli on the line. Abrams said, “Anything interesting since I spoke to you?”

Spinelli answered, “We have an all-points out. Bureau is on it. Phil told me you wanted a make on this guy Carbury this afternoon. What the hell’s going down, Abrams?”

“He’s missing. That’s all you have to know.”

“Like hell. I hear noise there. Where are you?”

“Down the block having cocktails with Arthur Goldberg, Bill Casey, and Clare Boothe Luce.”

“You sound drunk… oh, you’re at the armory. Is there a connection there? Is the President still there?”

“He’s gone. There’s no connection except that Carbury was on his way here.”

“What’s the national security angle here?”

Abrams noticed a man behind him who seemed to want to use the telephone. A few other people stood nearby. He spoke to Spinelli in Italian, heavily accented with the Barese dialect, filling him in on some background.

Spinelli cut in, “Your Italian stinks, Abrams. Come down here now and sign this missing person’s report.”

Abrams ignored him and continued in Italian, “Keep me out of it.”

Spinelli in turn ignored Abrams. “Did you or that guy with you — Thorpe — touch anything in the room?”

“No, we floated around. Listen, Thorpe is Company.”

“Company…? Oh, that Company. You sure?”

“Sure.”

“What are you into?”

“Evil things. Proceed carefully with Thorpe. Check him out with whoever is the liaison these days. Watch yourself on this one, Dom.”

“Okay… thanks… ”

“Thank me by keeping me posted.” Abrams hung up and returned to the Colonel’s Reception Room.

O’Brien was there looking for him. He motioned Abrams onto a settee and sat beside him. O’Brien said, “Kate is briefing Mr. Allerton, Peter, and Nick. Let’s talk for a moment.”

“Okay.”

“What do you think of our friends?”

“I had a good time. Thank Miss Kimberly for inviting me. Look, it’s past midnight, and I think I’m going to leave.”

O’Brien didn’t seem to hear. He said, “She thinks very highly of you.”

“Of me personally, or of my work?”

O’Brien smiled. “Your work as a process server is hardly anything to elicit admiration.” O’Brien glanced around the room. “Have you had an opportunity to speak to anyone here?”

“No, but it looks like General Donovan assembled quite a group. Hitler never had a chance.” Abrams lit a cigarette. “It’s too bad the CIA can’t get so much talent.”

O’Brien nodded. “In wartime you can recruit millionaires, superachievers, geniuses in the arts and sciences… but in peacetime, what sort of man or woman do you get for a modest-paying career position in intelligence work? On the opposite side, the KGB are very well paid and enjoy privileges and prestige that exceed those of the average Soviet citizen. They get the best of the best.” O’Brien shook his head. “If one could compare education and IQ levels in both organizations, the CIA would come off second best. That’s a fatal fact that has to be faced.”

“Like our amateur sports teams playing their so-called amateurs.”

“That’s a fair analogy.” O’Brien glanced around the room, then said, “You haven’t changed your mind about your visit to Glen Cove in light of what you’ve learned this evening?”

“I said I’d go.”

“Fair enough. You’ll meet the Edwards and Styler attorneys at their offices at four P.M., Monday, Memorial Day. You’ll be briefed by a friend of mine. You’ll arrive with the attorneys at the Russian estate about seven P.M. George Van Dorn’s party will be in full swing by then.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do once I’m in?”

“You’ll be told that day.”

Abrams looked at O’Brien closely.

O’Brien answered the unasked question. “Even if you’re caught snooping, they’re not going to murder you. It’s Russian territory, but it’s not Russia. But don’t get caught.”

“One more question — something doesn’t add up here. If the Russians have something big in the works, as you obliquely suggested — something that will cancel the July bar exam and, by insinuation, will cancel all of us, then why are they bothering with a petty lawsuit?”

O’Brien replied, “You were an undercover cop. Answer your own question.”

Abrams nodded. “They must appear to be going on with business as usual.”

“Correct. To do nothing about Van Dorn’s or Mayor Parioli’s harassment would be highly suspicious. So we are presented with an opportunity, part serendipitous, part planned, to get a peek inside their command post.”

“I see. And my credentials, my bona fides, are in order?”

“I have never sent a man or woman on a job unless their cover was perfect.”

Abrams knew, as O’Brien knew, that the only perfect cover was the one in your bed that you pulled over your head as a child to make the bad things go away.

O’Brien, as was his habit, made one of his abrupt changes of topic. “I’d like you to stay at the town house tonight. Katherine will call on you tomorrow morning, and you’ll go to the office. There’s a records room there, and you can give her a hand looking for a few things. Wear your gun.”

Abrams looked at him.

“She may be in danger. You’ll watch after her, won’t you?”

This particular shift from the prosaic to the intriguing caught him off guard. “Yes, I’ll look after her.”

O’Brien took two cordials from a passing waiter and handed one to Abrams. He said, “We’d like you to join the firm.”

Abrams stared at him. “I’m flattered.” He recalled very vividly how he felt when he’d been asked to join the Red Devils, and this was not a totally irrelevant thought. He remembered being both flattered and frightened.

O’Brien said, “As you must have surmised by now, the OSS has never really disbanded. And, I assure you, we are not conspiratorial paranoiacs. We don’t promote secrecy for its own sake, like many clandestine societies. There are no secret handshakes, oaths, membership cards, symbols, ranks, or uniforms. It is more a feeling of the heart and mind than an actual organization.”

Abrams lit a cigarette and flipped the match into an ashtray. He realized he was hearing things that, once heard, would put him in a compromising position. He considered leaving, but didn’t.

For the next ten minutes O’Brien described the nature and substance of his group. When he was done, Abrams looked at O’Brien and their eyes met. Abrams said, “Why me?”

O’Brien said, “You understand crime. Find us the murderer or kidnapper of Randolph Carbury, and the things we are interested in will start to fall into place.”

Abrams didn’t reply.

O’Brien looked at his watch, then stood. “There would be a good deal of personal danger. If you want to discuss this further, we can join the others in a private room at the other end of the armory. The room itself is quite interesting. May I show it to you?”

Abrams sat for a long time, then said, “Can I have more time to think about it?”

“You can go home and sleep on it. But I suspect you won’t sleep very well.”

Abrams took a long sip of his cordial and stood. “Let’s see the room.”

23

Abrams followed Patrick O’Brien into a huge columned chamber that was vaguely reminiscent of an Egyptian throne room. Around the upper perimeter of the walls was a running frieze depicting warriors from different periods of history. The ceiling was black, crisscrossed with beams inlaid with silver. Classical statuary stood at intervals around the dimly lit room.

Abrams’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw a large fireplace made of blue cobalt-glazed tile. In the center of the room was a thick Persian rug, and sitting in the center of the rug was a large ornate table that looked somewhat like a sacrificial altar. Stainedglass windows let in a diffused light from the street.

Two red-coated busboys were in the dimly lit room, arranging chairs around the fireplace. A waiter wheeled in a coffee service. The three men left silently.

James Allerton sat facing the fireplace. Katherine sat opposite him, with Thorpe and West to her left. O’Brien waved Abrams into a chair near the hearth and took the remaining chair beside him.

Abrams was surprised that it was West who spoke first and greeted him. West said, “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us for coffee.”

Abrams said, “I never turn down coffee.” He suspected that the state of the art of saying one thing and meaning another was very high with these people.

West spoke again. “I know you were reluctant, and I was too. But I’ve never regretted my decision. We’re all sort of like amateur armchair detectives.” He patted the arms of his chair for emphasis. “Think-tankers,” he added. “Dollar-a-year volunteers, like during the war. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Abrams thought that West was either understating the facts or was himself not fully aware of the scope of the group. He realized then, in a moment of insight, that if he stayed with them for the rest of his life, he’d never know more than a small part of the whole. Moreover, he might never know or even feel that he belonged to anything more sinister than a coffee klatch. Unless, of course, they asked him to do something like blowing someone’s brains out.

Abrams regarded James Allerton, who seemed slightly unhappy. Katherine passed him a quick smile. Abrams looked across at Thorpe, who was staring openly at him, as though trying to think of the best way to dispose of his body.

Patrick O’Brien spoke. “Let’s begin. We need a bit of background. Nick?”

West tapped the Wingate letter lying on his lap. “This seems to fit the facts as we know them. First, there were three filed reports on Henry Kimberly’s death, and no two of them agree.”

West looked at Katherine. “I haven’t ever told you all of this. Ann knows… Anyway, the last and official version is that Major Kimberly was in Berlin leading an advance party of OSS officers a day after the city had fallen to the Russians. That would be May 3, 1945.”

West paused, out of the historian’s habit, Abrams imagined, of ending a thought with a date. West continued, “Major Kimberly’s cover was that of a quartermaster officer in search of accommodations for the coming American occupying staff. In fact, he was there to retrieve about a dozen agents he’d had parachuted into the Berlin area. He was concerned about their welfare, especially in regard to the Russians.”

Patrick O’Brien nodded and added, “It was a dangerous mission. Berlin had fallen, but the surrender of Germany hadn’t been signed, and there were still roaming bands of SS fanatics plying their murderous trade along the highways and among the ruins. There was also the possibility, as we were discovering, of being detained by our Red Army allies.” O’Brien stared into the fire for some time, then said, “I told Henry to be careful. I mean, my God, we knew the war had less than a week to run. No one wanted the distinction of being the last casualty. I suggested the quartermaster cover. No use waving the OSS insignia in front of the Russians’ noses. Henry, too, was wary of the Russians.”

James Allerton spoke for the first time. “In that respect, he was not so naive as many of us in those days, myself included.” He looked at Katherine. “But he felt a deep obligation to his agents… hence the fateful mission to Berlin.” Allerton nodded to West.

Nicholas West continued, “There was, according to the mission report on file, one agent in particular whom Major Kimberly wanted to recover — Karl Roth, a German Jewish refugee and a Communist who was working for the OSS. Another agent had radioed that Roth had been picked up by the Russians, then released. When Roth was queried by radio, he explained his release by saying he convinced the Russians he was a Communist. Roth’s radio apparently was still under his control. His message went on to say that the Russians had asked him to work for them as a double within the OSS. He agreed, he said, in order to get out of their clutches.”

O’Brien interjected, “This was not the first indication we had that the Russians were trying to turn our agents who had Communist backgrounds. Henry thought this was ominous in regard to any postwar intelligence service we might establish.”

West finished his coffee and said, “There is one last radio message on file from Karl Roth. In it he reports that he’s sick and starving. He asks, ‘When are you coming?’ He gave his location — a railroad shed near Hennigsdorf. Roth had been assigned to the Alsos mission. He said he’d located two German scientists but needed help in bringing them out. Roth had two strikes against his credibility by this time: his Communist background and the fact that he had failed to report his contact with the Russians and had to be queried about it. On the other hand, he had reported that the Russians tried to turn him, but that’s something he’d expect the OSS to assume anyway.”

O’Brien interjected, “No one in OSS London felt confident in deciding Roth’s fate: come to his aid or cut him loose? We radioed all the details to Henry and told him to make the decision but to proceed with caution.”

Abrams listened as West and O’Brien continued the background briefing. Already he could see where it was leading. It was leading to the here and now. It was a story rooted in a turbulent past, a time when the world was in shambles, a time when forces were set in motion that would culminate in a final Armageddon that these people obviously felt was close at hand.

West said, “Karl Roth was not heard from after that message, until he surfaced again in 1948. He reported to the American occupation forces in Berlin stating he’d been rearrested by the Russians and held prisoner for three years. He claimed his back pay and benefits, but his original hiring contract with the OSS had been lost, and no one knew quite what to do with him. His bona fides were established by ex-OSS men, and he was given some money. He was never properly debriefed, however, and his three-year disappearance was never satisfactorily explained.”

Abrams glanced slowly around the room again, which he had come to think of as some sort of celestial chamber. His eyes passed from Allerton to O’Brien and he was reminded of two ancient priests guarding the nearly forgotten secrets of an arcane religion.

West added, “Roth applied for intelligence work with the American and British occupation authorities in their respective zones, but was turned down. Roth then went to England, found his war bride — a girl he’d married when he lived in London running a green grocer business — and eventually was allowed to emigrate to America, again claiming this was promised to him by the OSS.”

Thorpe smiled. “And now Karl Roth is assistant to the President on matters of nuclear strategy.”

West look around the darkened room, then glanced at O’Brien and Allerton. He said, “As it turns out”—he looked at Thorpe—“Roth and his wife own a delicatessen on Long Island.”

Thorpe smiled again. “Well, that’s not exactly what I thought you were leading up to, Nick.” Thorpe reflected a moment. “Maybe he would be interested in my section. Sort of a shaky and shady background, though… ”

Katherine said, “This man should be debriefed.”

O’Brien poured himself more coffee. “I’ll see to it.” He plucked absently at his black bow tie, then said, “The Alsos mission had some successes, but the Russian equivalent of Alsos was doing even better. They seemed to be one step ahead of us in locating and snatching German nuclear physicists. If you consider that most of these scientists were trying to reach us and not them, then it’s odd that the Russians were doing so well. And since Alsos had the absolute highest priority and security, Henry and I, and others, concluded that someone — perhaps more than one person — very highly placed either in Eisenhower’s headquarters, in Alsos itself, or in the OSS, was telling the Russians what, where, when, how, and who.” O’Brien leaned forward. “Eventually we became fairly certain that the main leak was in the OSS. It was one of us. Someone we saw every day, with whom we ate and drank… ”

Allerton seemed to come out of a deep reverie. “Yes… that was when we came up with the fanciful code name for this double agent: Talbot. Lawrence Talbot — you know, the fellow who turned into a werewolf by the light of the moon… Popular movie at that time.” Allerton smiled. “For the intellectuals among us, talbot is also the old Anglo-Saxon word for a ravaging wolf. So, then, we began an operation to expose him and… eliminate him. We called it Silver Bullet—”

O’Brien cleared his throat. “Actually, it was called Wolfbane.”

“Yes, that was it, Patrick.” Allerton stroked his long nose. “Time dims things that seemed so important once.”

“Silver Bullet,” said O’Brien, “was the joint British/American name for the termination of the operation.” O’Brien took something from his pocket. “One of our more flamboyant officers had this fashioned by a London silversmith.” He held up a gleaming .45-caliber silver bullet. “This was to be fired into Talbot’s brain.”

No one spoke for some time, then O’Brien added, “Talbot was the worst sort of traitor. He didn’t confine his treachery to stealing and passing on secrets like the majority of traitors. He actively sent men and women to their deaths. I picture him sometimes on an airstrip in England, striding around the tarmac at dusk, patting agents on the back, embracing the women, adjusting parachute harnesses, wishing them luck… and all the while knowing…” O’Brien looked at Allerton.

James Allerton said softly, “You would think a man like that… a man who had lost his soul… could be easily spotted… his eyes should reveal the corruption in his heart.”

Abrams listened. He had become to them as unobtrusive as a trusted servant; they knew he was listening, but they didn’t expect him to talk back until they addressed him. It was, he thought, not unlike a detective’s brainstorming session. He glanced at Katherine, wondering if the mention of her father was painful.

West picked up the story again. “Henry Kimberly reported in by radio twice a day for a week, then radioed what was to be his next to last encoded message, which is still in the file. It said”—West recited with no hesitation—“‘Most important: Re Alsos: Have made contact with grocer’—that was Karl Roth—‘Grocer has reported the location of two pixies’—that was the atomic scientists. ‘Will recover same.’” West paused, then said, “Henry Kimberly’s last message, a day later, reported that he’d established contact with the Russian authorities for the purpose of searching Gestapo files and interrogating captured Gestapo officers who might have information about missing OSS agents. The last lines of his message read, ‘Red Army helpful. Gestapo has revealed the arrest and execution of most of our mission. Names to follow. Trace and locate bodies of them. Will continue recovery operation.’” West looked at Allerton. “Do you remember that, sir?”

Allerton nodded. “Yes. That was the last we heard of Henry. There was some suspicion, of course, that it was the Russians who got to our agents, not the Gestapo. We feared that Henry was going to suffer the same fate.”

O’Brien said, “Henry signed that radio message with his code name, Diamond. If we suppose he was sending under Russian control, then he should have used the signature Blackboard, which was a distress signal meaning ‘I am captured.’”

Thorpe said, “Why would you suppose he was sending under Russian control?”

O’Brien answered, “We’ll get to that. But if Henry was captured and yet signed his encoded message Diamond, that told us that the Russians knew that Diamond was his code name, and therefore he could not use the distress code name Blackboard. The OSS operator who received his message recognized Henry’s wrist — his style of telegraphing — so we can assume it was he who was sending, but with a gun to his head.”

Allerton interjected, “It was frightening to think that the Russians knew Henry’s code name, which was picked just ten minutes before he crossed the Russian lines. And that they knew code names like Grocer and Pixie.”

O’Brien nodded, then added, “We thought the Russians might be persuaded to let him go. A strong note was personally delivered to Red Army headquarters in Berlin. The reply said, ‘Major Kimberly unknown here.’” O’Brien spoke directly to Katherine. “I hitched a ride on one of the first American flights into Berlin. By the time I arrived, there was another message from Red Army headquarters saying that Major Kimberly and the three officers with him had been killed when their jeep hit an undiscovered German land mine — a very common accident that we and the British also used, to dispose of unwanted people. Anyway, I claimed the bodies… the ashes, I should say. The Russians cremated for reasons of expediency and sanitation… ” He looked into Katherine’s eyes. “I never gave you all the details… ”

For the first time Katherine knew that the grave in Arlington contained an urn filled with ashes. She said, “How do you know it was my father?”

O’Brien shook his head. “We hope it was, that he didn’t die in the Gulag.”

She nodded. She knew that the Russians at that time usually sent healthy males to the Soviet Union to repair the devastation resulting from the war. She tried to imagine this man who was her father, young, proud, daring, reduced to a slave in a strange land, for no reason other than he’d gone on a mission of mercy. With each passing week and month he’d feel the life leaving his body. And he’d know, of course, that he’d never go home. She looked up and spoke in a barely controlled voice. “Please go on.”

It was West who spoke. “Major Kimberly had undoubtedly dropped the quartermaster cover in order to inquire about his agents. But under no circumstances would he have revealed to the Russians the Alsos mission or Karl Roth’s connection with it. Therefore, those last two radio messages, which were sent under duress and which mentioned these facts, were his way of saying the Russians already knew about Alsos and Roth, just as they knew our codes.”

Thorpe spoke. “I think you’re making too much of this highlevel-mole theory. I don’t have the facts you have, but it seems to me that the mission was blown by the field agents. It’s fairly obvious that Karl Roth, for one, blew the whistle. That’s where the leaks were. Not in London or Washington.”

West looked at Thorpe closely. “Good analysis. In fact, that was the official conclusion at the time… However, if you assume that Major Kimberly’s message was sent under the direction of the helpful Red Army, then you should look at the message more closely. He was, after all, a trained intelligence officer, and from all accounts a brave and resourceful man. So you try to read a code within the encoded ciphers — you look for non sequiturs, clumsy sentence structure, that sort of thing.” West paused, then said, “‘Trace and locate bodies of them.’ That’s not even good radio English—”

Thorpe sat up straight. “Talbot.”

West nodded. “Nowhere does the code word Talbot exist in my research, but it existed in the private conversations of Henry Kimberly, Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Allerton, and a few others. Major Kimberly, in the course of his interrogation at the hands of the Russians, was told or deduced from the extensiveness of the questions that there was a highly placed traitor in the OSS. Any good agent could conclude that. The radio message gave him one last chance to reach and to warn his friends.”

Allerton rubbed his face. “I saw that radio message, and I knew of Talbot… but, by God, I never made the connection… I was a lousy spy.”

Abrams wondered. His experience with codes was almost nil, but that particular line had struck him when West first read it. First-letter codes were rudimentary, the sort of thing children or lovers do in letters. It was hard to believe that neither Allerton nor O’Brien had picked it up forty years ago. Abrams concluded that they had but neither had mentioned it to the other. Interesting.

West produced a briar pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He said, “None of this is what we would call most immediate intelligence, except that”—he lit his pipe and recited from Eleanor Wingate’s letter—“‘the diary, which names people who may still be with your government or who are highly placed in American society… At least one of those named is a well-known man who is close to your President.’” West looked up.

O’Brien turned to Abrams. “What do you think up to this point?”

Abrams thought the clues were old, the trail cold, the evidence circumstantial, and the theories stretched; as a criminal case, it was a bust. The culprit had escaped detection at the time and, even if he were exposed, would never be tried. But as a personal vendetta, it had possibilities, though this group would not use the word vendetta. That was a word whose meaning and substance he had come to appreciate in Bensonhurst and on the force. Long memories, long grudges. But O’Brien and Allerton would put it more delicately. The result, however, was the same. He remembered the silver bullet.

“Mr. Abrams?”

“I think you will find your man this time.”

O’Brien leaned forward. “Why?”

“Because he knows you’ve picked up the scent again and he’s running. He’s killed Carbury. To use the favored analogy, the forest is smaller and thinner than it was forty years ago. The number of animals inhabiting it are diminished. The wolf — the werewolf — leaves a clear trail now. I think, too, he will kill again.”

O’Brien stared off into the darkness of the huge room. The fire caused shadows to leap around the walls intermittently, illuminating the running frieze, giving the warriors the impression of movement. O’Brien said, “Yes, he will kill again. He has to.”

24

The long limousine pulled away from the darkened armory, made a U-turn, and headed south on Park Avenue. Peter Thorpe, sitting in a jump seat, lit a cigarette and said to West, “I have the impression, Nick, you’ve been working on this problem for some time. Long before the appearance — and disappearance — of Colonel Carbury. However, I don’t recall your mentioning it in any previous conversations of our group.”

West, in the second jump seat, fidgeted with his pipe. “The nature of the problem… the implications of the Talbot profile… would suggest that any of the old OSS hands, in or out of the CIA, or the government, could be… the wrong person with whom to discuss this… ”

Thorpe smiled at O’Brien and Allerton sitting facing him at the left end of the long wraparound seat in the rear. He said to West, “Present company excluded, of course.”

West avoided everyone’s eyes. “Included, of course.” He nodded toward Abrams and Katherine sitting on the right end of the wraparound seat. “Except you, Kate, and Mr. Abrams.”

Thorpe smiled slowly. “Why do we always underestimate you, Nick?”

West continued, “Ann is the only one I’ve discussed it with. In fact… it was how we met.” He relit his pipe.

Tony Abrams watched him closely. West, he thought, was a man who could easily be underestimated. His size, his manner, his whole being, judged by the primitive instincts of his fellow man, signaled a non-threat. But by the standards of late-twentieth-century cerebral man, West’s mind was a danger; a danger to traitors and bullshitters, and to people with nerve and flair but with average minds, like Peter Thorpe. Intuitively, Abrams knew that Thorpe was afraid of West.

The limousine moved slowly through the Friday-night traffic. There was a silence until O’Brien said, “It’s totally impossible that the American government, intelligence services, and military, which are the three highest targets of the KGB in that order, have not been penetrated. Damn it, half the people in the armory tonight, including two past CIA directors and the present director, could conceivably fit Eleanor Wingate’s description.” O’Brien looked around. “Do I sound paranoid?”

Katherine marveled at how O’Brien could manufacture evidence, then agonize over it as though it were real. But, she thought, though the evidence was fake, the actions and reactions of the people whom O’Brien was studying would be real. Carbury’s death or disappearance was real, and the deaths at Brompton Hall were real. O’Brien was a master of illusion, and she regarded him with equal parts of admiration and anxiety.

West said, “The important questions are, how high up do these Soviet penetrations go, and what would be the objective of these penetrations… if they existed?”

O’Brien shook his head. “I can only tell you that something ominous is in the air. I believe the Russians have discovered a way to achieve their ultimate objective.”

Thorpe said, “You mean a nuclear strike?”

“No.” O’Brien waved his hand in a motion of dismissal. “That is not and never was one of their options any more than it is one of ours.”

“Then what?” asked Katherine. “Biological? Chemical?”

O’Brien did not respond.

Katherine said, “How do Colonel Carbury and the Wingate letter relate to any of that?”

O’Brien replied, “As it relates at all, it would have to be that the person or persons revealed in the diary as possible moles are somehow necessary to the Soviet plan.” O’Brien shrugged. “We need more facts. Let’s table it for now.”

Abrams could not help making the comparison between O’Brien’s heavy-handed hints at Armageddon and the police game of telling a suspect they knew all about him and his accomplices, then letting the guy walk so they could see where he went. It followed that O’Brien really suspected that someone in this car was a conduit whose opening flowed into Moscow. Yet Abrams couldn’t help thinking that Patrick O’Brien was a little too good to be true. Too glib. Too many answers to unasked questions. Too unruffled by the suggestion that he might be Talbot.

Incredible, Abrams thought. This was really happening. Abrams felt he’d walked into a tornado that afternoon and landed in Oz. He thought if he went home and slept, when he awoke, the tuxedo wouldn’t be on the floor beside his bed. There’d be no hangover, and he’d go to work Tuesday and Katherine Kimberly would hand him a summons to serve on some poor schnook who had run afoul of an O’Brien client, and life would go on in its slightly tedious way. That’s what he thought, except it wasn’t true.

What was true was that he was involved in ways he could not even have imagined at lunchtime. What was also true was that the car reeked of conspiracy, suspicion, and fear. Professionally, one might speak of fear for the life of one’s country, but, notwithstanding this low-key, genteel conversation, Abrams sensed the more fundamental fear these people had for their own lives.

Abrams could almost hear his father’s voice. “Don’t join anything. Don’t carry anybody’s card. It’s nothing but misery. I know.”

Or his mother’s more basic advice. “When you see people whispering, run the other way. Only you and God should whisper to each other.”

Expected advice from Communists turned Zionists, he thought. Good advice. It was too bad, he reflected, he never listened to it. He was, after all, the son of famous conspirators. They didn’t take their own advice until they were in their fifties. He had some years to go. Unless O’Brien was right, in which case he and everyone might only have weeks or months.

25

The limousine crept along in the heavy traffic. James Allerton was asking who knew of Carbury’s mission; a good, basic question, thought Abrams.

Katherine said, “I told Mr. O’Brien. Then I told Peter.” She looked around the car.

Allerton said kindly, but pointedly, “No one else?”

She hesitated. “No… Well… Arnold in archives… I mean, I asked him for Colonel Carbury’s file. But I had the impression he knew Carbury was in New York.”

Thorpe looked at Abrams. “How much did you know?”

“I knew I had to follow a man named Carbury.”

Thorpe rubbed his chin. “All in all, Kate, you could have shown better judgment.”

She flushed angrily. “Don’t be absurd. I showed damned fine judgment.”

“But you didn’t have to tell anyone, including me, until after you had the diary. Now you’ve tainted us.”

She stared at him defiantly. “Carbury himself or Lady Wingate could have been the cause of the security breach. Information progresses geometrically, and we have no way to check on who was told, here or in England. So let’s keep the paranoia among us down to a minimum.”

Thorpe seemed chastised. He took Katherine’s hand. “I apologize.”

The limousine stopped in front of the Lombardy. Thorpe raised Katherine’s hand to his lips and kissed it. He climbed out of the car and said to Allerton, “Are you staying here?”

Allerton shook his head. “You know I dislike that apartment. I’ve taken a room at the United Nations Plaza.”

Abrams watched Katherine, but she made no move to leave with Thorpe. Thorpe turned away without a farewell and entered the Lombardy.

The limousine drove off and a few minutes later stopped at the UN Plaza Hotel. Allerton reached into his pocket and pulled out the medal he’d received. He stared at it, then looked at O’Brien. “This should have been yours.”

O’Brien laid his hand on the old man’s arm. “No, James, you deserve it.”

Allerton smiled and his eyes became moist. “When I was young, I thought we had fought the war to end all wars. Then when I was middle-aged, there was another. And now in my final years the war drums are beating again… ” He looked at Katherine, West, and Abrams. “You take all this insanity as the normal state of affairs. But I assure you there was a time when civilized men and women thought war was no longer possible.”

Katherine leaned over and kissed Allerton on the cheek. “I’ll see you before you return to Washington.”

A doorman helped Allerton out and the limousine moved off. West directed the driver to the Princeton Club.

When the car stopped on 43rd Street, West addressed O’Brien. “Thank you for inviting me. I hope I was of some help.”

“As always. Be careful… ”

“I have protection.”

“So did Randolph Carbury. Good night.”

The car headed back east and stopped in front of a Sutton Place apartment building. O’Brien got out, then put his head back into the car. “Well, Abrams? Welcome to the firm. Watch yourself. Good night, Kate.” He shut the door.

The limousine headed south again. After a long silence, Katherine said to Abrams, “I’d like you to stay at the house on Thirty-sixth Street.”

“Where are you staying?”

“In my apartment in the West Village.”

Abrams let the silence hang, then nodded. “Okay.”

“I’ll meet you at the house in the morning. We’ll go to the office. The dead files.”

“Fine.”

The car turned into 36th Street. Katherine said, “I’m glad you’re in on this.”

Abrams lit a cigarette. After a while Katherine said, “Sometimes I believe we are born with an instinct for revenge. It’s nearly as strong an instinct as survival or sex. Some of the people you met tonight will not be at peace until the old scores are settled. What’s your motive?”

“Sex.”

She looked at him dubiously, then smiled. The limousine stopped in front of the town house. Abrams opened the door.

She said, “Be careful tonight.”

Abrams paused at the door. Most people, he reflected, said, “Good night”; this group was heavily into “Be careful.” He said, “If there’s a killer on the loose, you may be wise to stay here… or at the Lombardy.”

“I like sleeping in my own bed. See you later. Early.”

Abrams closed the door and watched the car pull away.

He lifted the brass knocker and brought it down on the strike plate. Claudia opened the door almost immediately. “You kept me up. Everyone is in already.”

“Who’s everyone?” He entered the foyer.

“The Grenvilles and Van Dorns. Did you have a good time?”

“No.”

“I saw you outside. Why isn’t she staying with that lunatic Thorpe at that horrible apartment in the Lombardy?”

“Maybe she is. What’s horrible about that apartment?”

“Everything… when you go to the bathroom there, the toilet bowl analyzes your urine and sends the results to the CIA. I spent a week there when I came from Rumania. I was afraid to undress with the light on. Or off. They have things to see in the dark.”

Abrams hung his raincoat on the foyer hook. “A CIA place?”

She didn’t answer.

He said, “Same room?”

“I’ll show you up.”

Abrams walked by the sitting room and saw Joan Grenville curled up on the couch. She smiled as Abrams went by.

Abrams followed Claudia down the hall. It was nearly 3:00 A.M. and his body craved sleep. He watched Claudia’s undulating rear as she walked. Given his choice between sleep and sex, considering his age and general health, he thought he could stay awake a bit longer.

There was a small old S-shaped telephone desk in the narrow hall, the type his parents had in their hall, a special place to hold the valuable instrument. The telephone rang and Abrams reached it before Claudia. It was O’Brien. His voice was calm and unemotional. “Telex here from England. Brompton Hall has been destroyed by fire.”

“Right.” Abrams had the impression that O’Brien knew this some time ago. But sometimes it was better to pretend that a source of information was still viable and record people’s reactions. Then you hit them with the startling new development and do another check of reactions. Abrams said, “Bodies?”

“Three. Pending further identification.”

“What time did it happen?”

“About one A.M. their time. Eight P.M. our time. About when we realized Carbury was overdue.”

Abrams said, “Can you deduce anything from that?”

“Yes, I can. After Katherine first spoke to me about Carbury, I called a friend in Kent and asked him to drop by Brompton Hall and watch over things. This was about five P.M. New York time. My friend called from Brompton Hall about seven P.M. and everything was all right there. By eight P.M. it was not all right.”

Abrams said, “Perhaps your friend was the reason it was not all right at Brompton Hall.”

“Possible, but more likely he will be among the dead. Lady Wingate and her nephew will be the other two.”

Abrams nodded. “We don’t seem to have much luck covering our witnesses.”

“No. Listen, Abrams, don’t get a good night’s sleep.”

“Right.”

“I have to call the others.” He hung up.

Claudia said, “Bad news?”

Abrams replaced the receiver in the cradle. “As Thoreau said about news, when you’ve read about one train wreck, you’ve read about them all.”

“What does that mean?”

Abrams yawned. “Ask Thoreau.”

“Henry Thoreau? He’s dead.”

“Really? I didn’t even know he was sick.”

“Stupid joke.”

“Right.”

“Who was that?”

“It was for me.”

She turned toward the stairs.

Abrams tried to fit this new information into a framework, but his mind was nearly numb. All he could make of it was that it signified a ruthlessness, and a willingness to murder, plus the wherewithal to carry out complex and daring international operations. Telexed death warrants and people in place to execute the warrants. KGB. CIA. O’Brien’s network. Could be anyone, he thought. It also signified a certain desperateness on the part of the killers, and that was the only bright spot in the picture.

26

Abrams followed Claudia up the tilted staircase. She turned to him on the landing. “Good night.” She started up the next flight of stairs.

Abrams was annoyed. He said, “I’m going downstairs to have a drink.”

She smiled.

Abrams stood on the landing, then approached the door to his room. He listened, then opened it, standing off to the side. He reached in and snapped on the light. There was no place a person could hide except under the bed, and he kept his eyes fixed there as he entered and retrieved his revolver from the top drawer of the bureau. He opened the cylinder, checked the six bullets, peered down the barrel to see if it was clear, felt the hammer and firing pin to make certain no one had done any filing, then dry-fired a few times. Satisfied he still had a lethal weapon, he reloaded and snapped the cylinder in place. Abrams dropped the revolver into his side pocket.

He walked downstairs and joined the Grenvilles in the sitting room. The fire was dead and the lights were out, but several candles lit the room. Abrams looked at Joan Grenville, half reclining on the couch, a drink in her hand. She arched her eyebrows in a quizzical look, as though to ask, thought Abrams, “Why aren’t you fucking Claudia?”

Abrams poured himself a glass of warm club soda. He noted that Tom Grenville was asleep in a wingback chair.

Joan Grenville said, “I love candlelight. Especially in a house built before electricity.”

Abrams sat on the couch and Joan had to move her feet. Abrams said, “There’s always been electricity.”

“You know what I mean.”

She sipped on her drink, then said, “Aren’t you tired?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have an enjoyable evening?”

“Relative to what?”

She looked at her husband and called out, “Tom, wake up!”

Grenville didn’t stir.

Joan turned to Abrams. “He’s passed out. Other people sleep, he goes into a coma.”

Abrams looked at Grenville. He appeared to be really out, but his physical presence was inhibiting. Abrams said to Joan Grenville, “Are you a member of the group?”

She didn’t answer for some time, then said, “No.” She paused again, then said, “I’m into aerobics.”

Abrams smiled.

She added. “And tennis. Things that prolong one’s life-span. How about you?”

“I smoke, carry a gun, and get involved in dangerous situations.”

“You’d fit right in. I could give you a warning, but it would be pointless.”

“Does your husband belong?”

“I’m not at liberty to speak about any of that.”

“Are you afraid?”

“You’re damned right.” She stretched out her legs and one foot came to rest on his thigh.

There was, thought Abrams, a certain amount of sexual tension present in any houseguest situation. He remembered when his second cousin, Letty, slept in his parents’ spare room. After a week of clumsy signaling, unneeded nocturnal trips to the kitchen and bathroom, they’d finally made it on the couch at 3:00 A.M. Abrams nodded toward Grenville. “I’ll help him up, if you want.”

She didn’t answer but placed both feet on his lap. Abrams took one foot in his hands and massaged it.

“That feels good. I hate high heels.”

Abrams realized he had little physical desire for her, and what there was had to do with things far more complex than instinct.

Abrams glanced again at Tom Grenville, sprawled in the chair. It seemed, or perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, that Grenville was awake. He considered this for a moment, then a noise brought him to full alertness and he froze.

Joan Grenville heard it too, and she looked up at the ceiling. Someone was walking in Abrams’ room directly overhead.

Abrams got up from the couch and went to the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. He stood outside his door and listened. Someone was still inside. He drew his revolver, stepped to the side, and pushed open the door. He peered cautiously around the jamb.

Claudia was sitting on the bed, with her legs drawn up to her breasts, leafing through a magazine. She was wearing a loosely tied white silk robe. Abrams said softly to himself, “Jesus Christ. There’s no end to the madness.”

Claudia glanced at him. “Come in and close the door.”

Abrams stepped into the room and drew the door shut. He slipped his .38 into his pocket. He said tersely, “What makes you think I want you here?”

She tossed aside the magazine and sat up straighter. Her robe fell open and Abrams could see her breasts, olive-colored and full. She looked serious. “I am no whore. I don’t go with many men. I like you. I think you like me.”

Abrams turned and slipped out the door, colliding with Joan Grenville, who had obviously been listening. Abrams said, “Sorry, Mrs. Grenville. Look, I seem to have a calendar conflict… ”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. “If you can, come to me afterward. Third floor. Second on the right. I’ll leave it unlocked. Wake me. Any time before dawn.”

“Right.” He watched her mount the stairs, then went back into his room. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a drawer. His notebook hadn’t been moved, and neither had any of his other odds and ends.

Claudia was leaning forward. “Do you think I came here to steal from you?”

He walked to the bed. “I was looking for my prayer shawl.” He placed his revolver on the night table. Then he ripped off his tie and shrugged out of his dinner jacket. The shirt studs gave him trouble, and he ripped the front open, then tore the cuffs loose. “Damned stupid outfit…” He finished undressing, then climbed onto the high bed and knelt beside her, drawing her robe open. Her body was full, her hips wide. He caressed her legs, arms, and buttocks, and could detect her taut muscle tone. He wondered what kind of work she’d done in Rumania. “Do you do aerobics?”

“What is that? Flying? Why do I have trouble understanding you?”

“Beats me.” He leaned over and kissed her, then his mouth moved down her body.

Claudia suddenly pulled away and drew her robe around her. “Come. Follow me.” She rolled out of bed and gathered a heavy comforter from the footboard, draping it around her shoulders.

Abrams watched her as she walked to the window and threw up the sash. She turned back to him. “Come. There is a fire escape. The rain has stopped, and it’s a beautiful night. Have you ever made love al fresco?”

Abrams shrugged and looked around for something to wear. She called out, “Just bring the pillows. Come.” She slipped through the window and stood on the fire escape. Abrams grabbed two pillows, dropped his revolver into the pillowcase of one, and joined her on the fire escape.

A front was moving through, and a warm breeze blew from the south. The sky was clearing, and a half-moon was setting in the western sky. Abrams looked around at the surrounding buildings, all of which towered over the four-story town house. A few windows were still lit.

Claudia said, “This is beautiful. I love to make love outdoors.”

Abrams smiled.

“Go on. You first.”

Abrams began to climb the wet ladder. He said over his shoulder, “Slippery. Be careful.”

She stopped climbing at the third-floor landing. “I have brandy in my room. Go on. I’ll be a minute.”

Abrams continued up the ladder past the darkened fourth-floor window. He peered over the parapet. The flat roof was covered with gravel for drainage, but puddles gleamed in the low spots. There was no stairwell shed, no skylights or ducts, and he had a clear view except for a wide brick chimney in the center of the roof.

Abrams climbed over the low parapet and dropped to the roof. He walked gingerly over the rough gravel and circled the chimney, then found a relatively dry area and dropped the two pillows. He stood looking out into the backyards below, the soft wind caressing his body. Yes, he thought, this will be different. Very nice.

He heard the sound of crunching gravel and sloshing water to his left and spun around. Two rappelling lines swung from the higher roof down the wall of the adjoining building. In the dark he saw two black-clad shapes in ski masks moving quickly toward him. One held a long jimmy bar, the other a black bag, which Abrams took to be a case of burglar tools. But in an instant he knew they were anything but burglars. They were very professional killers.

Abrams was about ten feet from the fire escape ladder and an equal distance from the pillow where his revolver lay tucked inside. The men were less than fifteen feet from him. Abrams lunged in three long strides and dove for the pillow. The gravel scraped his naked body as his hand shot into the right pillowcase. He seized the revolver by the barrel. He had no time to bring it out, and he worked it around, grasping the butt, his finger slipping into the trigger guard. He prepared to squeeze off a round through the case, but the closer of the two men loosed a violent kick that caught him on the side of the head. The other man came up quickly and swung the long steel jimmy at his elbow, paralyzing his right arm. Abrams felt a flash of searing pain travel to his shoulder and almost passed out. He thought again, Pros.

They pinioned his arms to his sides and rolled him over on his back. One man pressed a gloved hand over Abrams’ mouth. The other held up something that Abrams thought was a club. The first man knelt on his chest and pried open his jaws as he held his nostrils shut.

Abrams could see that the club was actually a bottle, and he felt the cold liquid hit his lips and splash across his face. He tried to cough it back, but it slid down his open throat. It took a few seconds before he identified the burning sensation and the faint smell that somehow reached his olfactory nerves. It wasn’t poison or acid but Scotch whisky. His brand, he guessed. So it wasn’t to look like murder but like a drunken tumble from the roof. He began to struggle but felt a hand clamp on to his testicles and twist. He stopped moving.

They held him pressed against the rough gravel for what seemed like a long time but was, he thought, probably a few minutes. He felt the effects of the alcohol on his brain and tried to fight it. Suddenly the two men turned him on his stomach, seized his arms and legs, and began running toward the edge of the roof.

Abrams saw the low parapet coming up quickly, and beyond the parapet the emptiness of a four-story fall.

He waited until they slowed, a few feet from the edge. He felt the imperceptible loosening of their grip as they prepared to hurl their burden out into space. At that last moment Abrams twisted violently, breaking the hold on his right arm. His shoulder dropped and collided with the brick parapet wall, causing the two men to lose their grip on him.

Abrams wrenched free and fell to the rooftop, spinning around into a crouching defensive position, his back to the brick parapet. The two men hovered over him but hesitated a split second. Abrams sprang out of his crouch, grabbing two handfuls of gravel and flinging them into the men’s faces. His left foot shot out and caught the closest man in the groin. The other man lunged at him while he was off-balance and delivered a clenched fist to the side of his jaw, knocking him off his feet.

Abrams lay on his back, stunned. The man dove at him, his hands outstretched and reaching for his throat. Abrams planted his bare feet in the man’s stomach, lifting him high into the air, and the man’s forward momentum catapulted him over the parapet. The quiet night was broken with a shrill, piercing scream.

Abrams sprang to his feet. The second man was already running toward the dangling rappelling lines. Abrams began to follow, but the alcohol slowed him and he felt a growing pain where his shoulder had hit the wall. His right arm was still numb from the blow on the elbow, and the sharp gravel cut into his feet.

The man was halfway up the rope as Abrams reached it. Abrams grabbed the rope and jerked it violently, but the man, wearing crepe soles and leather climbing gloves, hung on and disappeared onto the higher roof.

Abrams turned and walked unsteadily back to where the two pillows lay. He retrieved his revolver and began descending the fire escape.

Claudia was on the top landing. She looked at him in the dim light. “What happened to you? You smell of whisky… ”

He stared at her. “I slipped.” He took her arm and led her down the fire escape into the bedroom. He said, “You forgot the brandy.”

“I couldn’t find it.”

Abrams pulled on his suit trousers. “Where’s the comforter?”

Claudia didn’t respond, but asked, “Where are you going?”

“Back to Brooklyn, where it’s safe.”

“But… we haven’t…”

“I think I’ve lost the desire. Good night.”

“What…?” She reached out and touched his scraped elbow. “You have cuts all over you.”

“Good night.” He noticed his voice was slurred.

She hesitated, then turned quickly and left.

Abrams waited, then took his revolver and went out into the hallway. He mounted the stairs and went to Joan Grenville’s room. He opened the door without knocking and found her under the covers, sleeping in a sitting position, her bare breasts peeking out over the bedsheets. Her lamp was on, and a book lay on the covers. He was surprised to find she snored.

Abrams saw that she had a bolt lock on her door, and he threw it shut, then checked the window latch. He sat in an easy chair, his revolver on his lap, and closed his eyes.

His thoughts seemed a bit jumbled, but through the alcohol he concluded that if he had any doubts about the reality of what he’d heard so far, he had none now. Like a soldier new at the front or a rookie cop on a bad beat, he’d been lucky to survive his first day. Luck or chance would play no part in his future survival. He’d be harder to kill, but they wouldn’t stop trying.

He had one distinct advantage over everyone now. He knew the name of one of the enemy: Countess Claudia Lepescu. But he didn’t know where to turn with this interesting knowledge. In contrast to his police work, he had no brothers, no partners. He was alone. He began to appreciate the sheer terror and loneliness of intelligence work.

He looked at Joan. How, he wondered, did she fit? His instincts told him she was what she seemed to be. She might even be useful if she weren’t so useless.

The obvious thing to do, he thought, was to put a lot of distance between himself and these people. But something inside him — maybe something as uncomplicated as simple patriotism — told him to see it to the end. He wondered who Talbot’s next victim would be. Whoever it was, he assured himself, it wouldn’t be Tony Abrams.