The Talbot Odyssey

27

At 8:30 A.M., Katherine Kimberly entered the town house on 36th Street with her own key. She glanced into the sitting room and saw Tom Grenville sprawled on the couch, his dinner jacket and shoes lying on the floor.

She went into the small back kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

Tony Abrams, dressed in his dark business suit, came through the rear door that led out to the courtyard. He watched her, her back to him, pouring cream into a small pitcher. She was dressed in a white sweat shirt, khaki trousers, and jogging shoes. Like most business associates one sees on a weekend for the first time, Katherine looked, he thought, not like Katherine. He said, “Good morning.”

She turned and smiled at him. “You are awake. You look awful. Rough night?”

He looked into her eyes for any sign that she was surprised or disappointed he was still alive. He said, “I’ve had worse.” He found two coffee mugs in a cupboard. “I was concerned about you.”

She opened her handbag and extracted an automatic pistol.

Abrams looked at the piece, a Browning .45. He had expected something a bit smaller, but he could tell by the way she gripped the pistol that she was comfortable with it. He said, “You heard about Brompton Hall of course?”

She returned the automatic to her bag. “Yes. The dead have been identified. Lady Eleanor Wingate, her nephew Charles Brook, and Mr. O’Brien’s friend Ronald Hollings. Autopsies are being performed.”

Abrams poured two cups of coffee. He asked, “Were you alone last night?”

“That’s a leading question.”

Abrams stared at her, then said, “Am I on the case or not?”

She replied coolly, “I went back to my apartment on Carmine Street. I was alone. You were in the car when—”

“You may have been discreet about it. Why didn’t you go back to the Lombardy?”

She seemed annoyed. “I didn’t feel like staying there.”

“Did Thorpe suggest you go home?”

She nodded.

Abrams sipped on his coffee. “Do you have your own room there?”

“Yes.”

“And your street clothes and things were there. Then doesn’t it seem odd that he should send you home, all the way down to Carmine Street? Didn’t he know you had an appointment with me in midtown this morning?”

“My, you are a cop.” She took some coffee. “No, it didn’t seem odd. The apartment at the Lombardy, if you must know, is what’s odd. It’s a CIA safe house, or substation or something. One doesn’t question the accommodations or lack of them.”

Abrams nodded, then put down his cup. “How’s your stomach this morning?”

“My stomach…? Fine… ”

Abrams walked to the back door and motioned her to follow.

She went with him into the courtyard. Below the rear dining room window was a white wrought-iron bench with two legs broken off. On the bench was sprawled, faceup, a black-clad body. The body’s back was arched over the bench to such a degree that it was obviously broken, and the head was touching the paving stones.

Katherine stared at the figure.

Abrams said, “A burglar, by the looks of the outfit.”

Katherine glanced up at the top of the four-story town house, but said nothing.

Abrams bent over the body and pulled back the ski mask. The deathly white skin contrasted against the dark black stubble on the face and the dried red blood around the mouth. The face was that of a man in his mid-thirties, and the features could be described as vaguely Slavic. Abrams peered into the open, blood-caked mouth, then pulled off the mask, revealing a thick growth of swept-back black hair. “Along with the haircut, and what I can see of the dental work, I’d make an educated guess that the man is foreign. You don’t recognize him, do you?”

Katherine came closer and stared into the dead man’s face. “No… ” She turned quickly and walked back to the kitchen.

Abrams followed. They sipped on their coffee in silence, then Katherine spoke. “What were you doing on the roof?”

“I never said I was on the roof.” He picked up the telephone and dialed Captain Spinelli at home. “Abrams here.”

Spinelli’s voice sounded groggy. “I don’t have anything new on Carbury.”

“Come to 184 East Thirty-sixth Street. Corpse in the backyard.”

“Oh, Christ, Abrams, what the fuck is going on with you?”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Where are you?”

“At said address.”

“Is this related to Carbury?”

“Well, this house belongs to, or is used by, O’Brien et al, and some of those folks are sleeping here. What do you think, Sherlock?”

“I think I want to grill your ass. Stay there.”

“I’ll speak to you.” He hung up.

Abrams and Katherine left the town house. The day was clear and mild, and smelled of the night’s rain. Abrams looked at her in the full sunlight. She had probably gotten less than five hours’ sleep, but showed no signs of it.

Katherine sensed he was studying her in some new way. She said, “Why don’t we walk?”

Neither spoke until they reached Lexington Avenue, where they waited for a light. She said, “What do you suppose that man was after?”

“The silverware.”

They crossed the avenue and turned north. Traffic was light and the city had that Saturday-morning look of sleeping off a collective hangover. They turned west into 42nd Street. Katherine said. “You’ll like Arnold. He’s eccentric and devious.”

“What do you expect to find there?”

“You never expect to find anything in the archives. Yet, everything is there. What’s missing is as important as what’s on file. It’s a matter of deduction, intuition, and luck. Are you good with archives?”

“No one has ever asked me that. I’ll think about it.”

They walked silently through the Grand Central Station area, which Abrams thought of as some sort of prewar time warp, barely changed since he was a youth — stately banks, older hotels, shoeshine stands, news vendors, tobacconists, Brooks Brothers, the Yale Club. Very masculine. Wasp Central he called it; trains from Connecticut and Westchester disgorging tons of preppies and hale-fellows-well-met. Rus in urbe. Scarsdale and Westport in midtown. You almost expected to see Holden Caulfield eating a chicken salad on white at the Oyster Bar. Abrams said, “I don’t trust Peter Thorpe.”

Katherine didn’t respond immediately, but when she spoke, there was no reproach in her voice. “Of course you don’t. Who does? He’s an intelligence officer. He lies, cheats, and steals. But we don’t speak of trust in this business. We speak of loyalty. Peter is loyal.”

“To whom?”

“To his country.” She looked at him. “Any suggestion to the contrary would be a very serious matter.”

Abrams replied, “It would be imprudent of me to make such a suggestion.” He changed the subject. “By the way, thanks for suggesting I sleep at the town house. That was convenient.”

“I thought it might be. Feel free to use it any time.”

They walked to Fifth Avenue and crossed to the north corner beside the Public Library. Abrams noticed black markings on the sidewalk: an arrow pointing south at a stenciled silhouette of the Empire State Building. Beside the arrow were the words GROUND ZERO, 0.4 MILES. Katherine noticed it and said, “What drivel.”

He’d seen these all over the city, with arrows pointing toward the Empire State Building and the distance given. “People are afraid,” said Abrams.

“There’s nothing to fear,” said Katherine, “except fear itself.”

“Oh, I think a ten-megaton missile falling on Thirty-fourth Street would give me the jitters.”

“This nuclear hysteria feeds on itself.”

“Mr. O’Brien is very worried about something,” he said.

“Not nuclear missiles.”

“What then? Fluoride in the water?”

“Something… not biological or chemical warfare… something more lethal… I can’t imagine what.”

“Neither can I.”

They continued up Fifth Avenue toward Rockefeller Center. He said, “What happens to Talbot if you find him?”

“What do you think?”

“And if Talbot turns out to be Patrick O’Brien, for instance?”

She answered without hesitation, “It wouldn’t matter if it turned out to be my best friend. He dies. She dies. They die.”

Abrams looked at her. He said, “Back in the thirties, E. M. Forster wrote, ‘If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.’”

“Idiotic.”

“But interesting. The whole concept of treason is interesting. Read the Declaration of Independence. It was the most treasonous document of its time. King George had every legal right to hang all fifty-six traitors who signed that document.”

She stopped walking at the entrance to the Rockefeller Center promenade. “All right. What’s the point? That we have no legal right to dispose of Talbot?”

“That’s your problem. A moral problem. My point is a practical one. Talbot does not have corruption in his heart, or guilt in his eyes, as James Allerton suggested. He does not lose his soul when the full moon is upon him, or grow hair, or stink of blood. He wears a halo and smells of roses.”

“But you said you could see guilt in a man’s eyes—”

“But my observation was to make a contrary point. Criminals look guilty. Talbot is not a criminal, he is a patriot. Ask him.”

“I see… ”

“My parents… yes, they were traitors… but they were people who fed the poor when they were able, took in indigent friends and relatives, laughed, made love, and made potato pancakes. Talbot is a blue-blooded version of that. He could very well be O’Brien, Allerton, George Van Dorn, or a dozen others I met last night. His progeny could be… anyone.”

She nodded. “Okay… thanks for bringing some cold, hard objectivity into this.”

“That’s what I was hired for.” He turned into the promenade and walked toward the RCA Building. She walked beside him. Abrams said, “I don’t trust you either.”

She forced a smile. “Do you mean professionally or personally?”

“Both.”

“How about Nick?”

“Academic background. Shaky from a security point of view. Never trust an egghead. Also, he’s stayed too long on a job he doesn’t seem to like. Very suspicious.”

“The Grenvilles? Claudia?”

“Joan Grenville’s energies are directed toward betraying Tom Grenville. Tom Grenville gives the outward impression that his idea of oral sex is talking to E. F. Hutton. But underneath, there’s a quite different sexual persona, and this may be indicative of other types of impersonation. As for Claudia, never trust a foreigner.”

They walked around the skating rink. Katherine stopped in front of the RCA Building. “Do you think I had something to do with that man last night?”

“The thought occurred to me.”

“But I’ve been pushing for you to join us.”

“True. But if I were under suspicion, I too would push for an outside man. Diverts suspicion. But I’d be certain he met his end if he seemed too sharp.”

“You’re not that sharp.” She smiled.

Abrams held the door open for her and they entered the lobby of the RCA Building.

Abrams said, “But for the sake of argument, if someone did try to murder me, then that would prove I was real sharp, wouldn’t it?”

She suppressed a laugh. “Maybe. By the way, murder, as you know, is a legal word connoting wrongdoing. If someone tried to kill you, they may be, as you suggested, just patriots doing their duty to the people.”

He smiled tightly and thought, Bitch.

28

The main concourse level of the RCA Building was pristine Art Deco, thought Abrams, another prewar time warp but strangely modern after half a century, like a set in a Flash Gordon movie.

The lower concourse had a coffee shop where Abrams sometimes sat and watched the skaters in the sunken rink through a plate glass window. The upper mezzanine held shops, as did the main concourse. Abrams had once noticed a shop that specialized in military artifacts and Americana: pictures, statues, plaques, and such. There were bronze busts of General Donovan for sale, whose principal customers he thought, must be young attorneys at Donovan Leisure, O’Brien, Kimberly, or one of the dozen or so other firms with OSS connections. Presumably these upward-bound lawyers placed the bust in a small office shrine tucked between file cabinets. Abrams smiled at the thought of a lunch-hour group of young lawyers genuflecting in front of the bust.

Katherine said, “Is that a smile I see? Did you just remember something unpleasant? Perhaps a close friend is sick?”

Abrams looked at her and let his smile widen. “God knows why, but I like you.”

“Makes my day.” She walked to the elevator and stopped at a small desk. She wrote their names and destination in the weekend book. They rode up and got off on the forty-fourth floor, which was wholly occupied by O’Brien’s firm. A private guard in the corridor nodded to her in recognition and indicated yet another sign-in book on a rostrum. Abrams said, “I’m glad I didn’t stop in to use the bathroom.”

Katherine seemed not to hear as she studied the book. A few attorneys had come in, she noted, and Arnold had signed in at 8:00 A.M.

She and Abrams walked down the long, turning corridor and stopped in front of the steel door marked DEAD FILES. She knocked.

Abrams said, “Will Arnold let me in?”

She smiled. “I’ll use my charm.” She knocked again. From behind the door they heard the shrill whistle of a teakettle, a furiously boiling teakettle that should be taken off the burner.

Abrams reached out and turned the knob. The door opened with its familiar unoiled creak. Abrams peered inside.

Katherine brushed quickly past him and stepped into the room. Abrams pulled her back and drew his revolver. Neither spoke. The copper kettle sat on a glowing red electric ring, steam shooting from its spout.

Katherine’s eyes adjusted to the uneven illumination and focused on the body lying in a pool of lamplight beside the camp table. Abram’s eyes darted around the dimly lit stacks of file cabinets. They both listened, but there was no sound except the whistling kettle.

Abrams kept his revolver by his side and approached the body.

Arnold Brin, dressed in shirt sleeves and gray slacks, lay on his stomach, his head to one side and his cheek resting on a disarrayed tie. The tie, noticed Abrams, was a blue hue that closely matched the color of Arnold’s face. Arnold Brin’s tongue protruded from his open mouth and touched the tie. The eye that Abrams could see was wide open. Abrams knelt beside the body and touched the cheek. “Warm. About an hour, or less.”

Katherine felt her legs shaking and slumped into a chair, then, realizing it was Arnold’s, quickly stood and leaned back against a file cabinet. “Oh…” her voice was barely audible. “… Oh, my God…”

Abrams looked back at the camp desk. Tea things were strewn around, and a bakery bag of tea biscuits lay on the floor beside the desk. Abrams got down on all fours, his eyes inches from the dead man’s face. He reached behind, took the desk lamp and set it on the floor. He examined the open eye, then forced open Arnold’s stiffening jaws, peered inside, sniffed, then stood, replacing the lamp.

Katherine still stood against the cabinet, her eyes shut, and Abrams could see moisture around her lids. He surveyed the table again, examining the kettle, the porcelain pot, and loose tea. He picked up one of the biscuits and smelled it. “It was probably suffocation, but I don’t think it was brought on by poison.”

Katherine opened her eyes. “What…?”

“Apparently what happened”—Abrams shut off the electric burner—“he never brewed the tea, obviously. That might have saved him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He began eating one of those large dry biscuits, without butter or jam… His mouth and perhaps throat were dry — saliva output is diminished in older persons. Perhaps his throat muscles hadn’t done any food-swallowing since last night… in people his age this is not an uncommon accident.”

“Accident?”

“He choked to death on a biscuit. I can see part of it lodged in his throat.”

She stared at Abrams, then at Arnold. She didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Do you believe that?”

“No. He was murdered. One of the best I’ve seen.” Abrams rubbed his chin, then said, “He was held by at least two men who probably wore padded gloves so they wouldn’t leave fingerprints or marks on his skin. They may have put alum in his mouth to dry him up, and maybe poured a topical anesthetic in to dull the senses in his throat. Probably, though, they just held his esophagus in a tight grip so he couldn’t swallow. They rammed the biscuit down his throat and held him until he suffocated to death. Nice people.”

Katherine took a deep breath.

Abrams said matter-of-factly, “The medical examiner will have a bad time with this one. But if he knows he’s looking at murder, he may turn something up.” Abrams lit a cigarette. “I wonder why these people are bothering with phony accidents?” He thought a moment, then said, “Probably to buy time. So all the alarms don’t start going off automatically.”

She nodded, “Partly true. But also, the preferred method is to make it look like an accident. There’s a certain pride… in coming up with refinements… It’s standard tradecraft.”

“Really? Are there awards?” He threw his cigarette down and stepped on it. “Well, this is the fourth time there’s been no clear evidence of murder. Carbury vanished without a trace, Brompton Hall burned, Arnold accidentally choked. Christ, even a cop can see a pattern here.”

She looked at him. “The fourth?”

“Oh… my drunken stumble from the roof.”

“You were on the roof. That man tried to kill you.”

Abrams nodded.

“What… how the hell did you get on the roof?”

“Fire escape.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It might be more revealing to question how I came to be at the town house in the first place.”

She hesitated, then said, “Claudia suggested it to me. She likes you.”

Abrams didn’t answer.

Katherine added, “To be honest and more precise, Mr. O’Brien and Peter also suggested you stay there, quite independently of Claudia and each other, I presume.”

Abrams again said nothing.

Katherine seemed to be coming out of the shock of seeing Arnold’s body. Her tone was curt. “But what brought you to the roof?”

“Fate.”

She said, “You know… Tony… it’s not always a good policy to keep your own counsel. Sometimes people need help.”

“I suppose, Kate, that anyone who deals with you people needs all the help he can get. But not from the source of the problem.”

She seemed put off, but said evenly, “Why would anyone want to kill you?”

“I don’t know, but it’s always flattering.” Abrams picked up the telephone on Arnold’s desk and dialed the town house.

A man’s voice answered, “Yeah?” which was, Abrams knew, how a detective answered the phone at the scene of the crime. Abrams said, “Captain Spinelli.”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Abrams.”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

“Yeah.”

Spinelli came on the line. “How’d this happen, Abrams?”

“Beats me. Listen, I hate to ruin your Saturday, but I have another corpse.”

“Get off it.”

“RCA Building. Firm of O’Brien, et al. Room marked ‘Dead Files.’ The guard will direct you. Sign in.”

There was a long silence, then Spinelli said, “What the fuck is going on with you? What are you, Abrams, some kind of dark cloud?”

“Let’s have lunch.”

“My ass. You stay away from me. No… stay there.”

“Sorry, have to run. Listen, it looks like an accidental food choking, but it’s not. Tell the ME, okay? And remember, this is still funny stuff. Watch your ass. Arrivederci.” He hung up and turned to Katherine. “Is it worth looking for files, or should we assume they’re gone?”

She was studying the file sign-out book. “Arnold removed fourteen files”—she looked around Arnold’s work area—“but they’re not here.”

Abrams nodded.

Katherine thought a moment. “Arnold knew at least one of the people or he wouldn’t have unlocked the door.”

“True.”

“Someone who had access to this room.”

“How many people is that?”

“Dozens. English, Americans, some French, and even a few Germans. Plus a team of Israeli Nazi-hunters.”

“Do you have that list?”

She looked at Arnold. “He kept it in his mind. Every group had only their partial list.”

Abrams thought a moment, then said, “He didn’t know he was in danger immediately. He spoke to the person or persons he let in… They would have exchanged words about the stack of files he was collecting. Perhaps they let him complete the task. They knew what he was doing, why he was here on a Saturday. They knew you’d be along shortly.”

Her eyes suddenly darted into the dark recesses of the aisles of cabinets. She spoke in a hushed tone. “Could they still be here?”

He shook his head. “I doubt it.” He thought again. “At some point, Arnold may have sensed he was in danger… and he may have—” Abrams stared at the desk a moment, then carefully moved some of the papers and tea things on the desk. “Nothing here… they would have spotted any message he tried to leave.” Abrams turned over the body, quickly and expertly examining the pockets, shoes, socks, and clothing. “Nothing I can find… ”

Katherine stood near him. She said, “Maybe we should… look around.”

“No. Let’s go before New York’s finest arrive.”

They left the room and walked quickly down the brightly lit corridor. At the elevator bank, Katherine approached the guard. “Did anyone other than Arnold Brin go down this corridor?”

The guard shook his head. “But then, there’re fire stairs down there too.”

Katherine looked at the sign-in book. Four names appeared over hers and Abrams’: Arnold Brin’s and the three attorneys’. “Are these men still in the office?”

“I think so. I never saw them leave.”

“Thank you.” She looked at Abrams as they waited for the elevator. “Arnold would not have let any of those three men in.”

Abrams nodded. “It doesn’t seem difficult to get past that guard. Do you know him?”

“Yes. He’s been here for years… which doesn’t mean very much.”

“No,” said Abrams, “it doesn’t.” He thought a moment. “Cops ask questions like that — new employees, new domestic help… prime suspects. In your game, people are planted two decades before to unlock a door or throw a light switch at a critical moment.”

“That’s somewhat exaggerated, but—”

“Still, Spinelli will check out the guard and the three attorneys.”

The elevator came and they entered. Katherine said, “I feel terrible about Arnold. He wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t asked him to come in.”

“Right.”

She looked at him. “You could be more sympathetic.”

“It was a stupid comment. If today weren’t Saturday, it would be Friday. If Hitler’s father had used a condom, Arnold wouldn’t be in charge of World War Two British archives in Rockefeller Center. So what?”

They rode down in silence and stepped off on the mezzanine. Abrams said, “I don’t want to run into Spinelli in the lobby.” They walked to the west end of the mezzanine, descended by a staircase, and exited onto Sixth Avenue. They began walking south.

The sun was warmer, and the avenue was beginning to come alive. Tourists with cameras were heading toward Radio City Music Hall and joggers jostled with pedestrians. Abrams glanced at Katherine’s jogging shoes and saw they were well worn. “Do you run?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever do Brooklyn?”

“Yes. Prospect Park. Sometimes across the Brooklyn Bridge to the Heights Promenade.”

Abrams said, “I can do the Prospect Park run, about twelve miles. Let’s run it someday.”

“How about Monday morning?”

“Am I getting Memorial Day off?”

“Sure.” She smiled.

They walked in silence for a few blocks, then Katherine said, “Well, what now?”

He took a while to answer, then replied, “I have to get back to the town house, get my tux and return it to Murray’s. Then I have to get back to Brooklyn, check my mail, pack a few things if I’m staying on Thirty-sixth Street, and—”

“That’s so… banal… mundane.”

“Most of life is like that.”

“People are dead. There’s a threat to national security—”

“Napoleon, on campaign in Austria, sent a long letter to his tailor in Paris complaining about the fit of his underwear. Life goes on.”

“I suppose. Listen, I’m having lunch with Nick. Join us.”

“Can’t.”

“I’d like to discuss these new developments: Brompton Hall, Arnold’s death, the attempt on your life.”

“We’ve discussed too much already. Let’s wait for Spinelli’s reports and whatever they’ve got in England. I’d rather deal in facts for a change of pace.”

She nodded. “Well… can’t you think of anything we should be doing in the meantime?”

“I have something at the dry cleaners, too. Also, we should try not to get murdered. Look over your shoulder a lot.”

They stopped at 42nd Street. Abrams said, “I’m going back to the town house. Where are you heading?”

“If someone tried to kill you there, why are you going to stay there?”

“Would I be safer in my place?”

“No.”

“So? Take it easy, okay? Call me about the run tomorrow.”

“Wait.” She took a slip of paper from her bag and handed it to him.

He looked at it. In her handwriting was written JFE 78-2763.

She said, “That was written in Arnold’s hand in the file sign-out ledger. It is not a file number. Does it mean anything to you?”

Abrams stared at the slip of paper. “Looks like… something familiar… I can’t think of what, though.”

Katherine said, “His murderers were sloppy not to read his file ledger. You were right — Arnold realized something was wrong, and tried to leave a message. There’s no other reason for him to put those letters and numbers on a page that I was supposed to sign for the files.”

“Sounds logical.”

“You know what those letters and numbers are, Abrams. Don’t bullshit me.”

He smiled and handed the paper back. “Call me Tony.”

“I’ll call you worse than that if you start playing games with me. I’m being straight with you. Do the same with me.”

He held up his hand. “Okay. Cool down. It’s a library call number.”

“Of course. So let’s go to the library and see what book it calls.”

“Which library?”

“The obvious one. Turn left. Walk.”

They turned east into 42nd Street and covered the block to Fifth Avenue quickly. They mounted the steps of the main library between the reclining lions.

Once inside the towering bronze doors, they climbed up the broad staircase, past the second-floor landing, and up to the third-floor Main Reading Room. Abrams gave the librarian the call number.

They waited for their book to be pulled from the stacks. Abrams said, “Tell me about your sister Ann.”

Katherine thought awhile, then replied, “She’s older than me, a bit more serious and scholarly, never married—”

“I’m not looking for a date,” he said brusquely. “What does she do?”

Katherine glanced at him. This reversal of the pecking order was somewhat disconcerting. She said, “Ann works for the National Security Agency. Codes, ciphers, cryptography… things like that. Electronic spying. No cloak and dagger, just radios and satellites.”

Before he could reply, their number flashed in red lights on the large indicator board and they walked quickly to the desk. Katherine picked up a massive green leatherbound volume. They looked at the gold embossed letters on the cover.

Abrams said, “Graecum est — non potest legere. It’s Greek to me.”

Katherine looked at him. “Oh, I’d hoped you weren’t going to say that.”

“Sorry. Seemed appropriate.”

“Well, you don’t need Greek to read the title—He Odysseiatou. It’s Homer’s Odyssey.” She opened the book and flipped through the pages. The text, too, was in classical Greek, and there were numerous markings in the margins and a few odd scraps of paper that she left in place.

Abrams said, “Did Arnold read Greek?”

“I saw a Greek book on his desk once. That’s one of the reasons I thought he might not be a clerk sergeant. I always suspected he was a ranking intelligence officer, which would indicate that the files had more importance than some of us thought.”

Abrams watched her examining the book and said, “The clue is not that particular book. The clue, if there is one, has to be the title, The Odyssey. Or the author, Homer.” He thought a moment. “Do those names have any significance to you? Someone’s code name?”

“No…”

“How about the protagonist, Odysseus, or by his Latin name, Ulysses?”

She shook her head.

“Then,” said Abrams, “perhaps the plot… the story line. Odysseus, after the fall of Troy, sets sail for home… He meets with misadventures… Circe, Sirens… and all that. He’s presumed dead, but ten years later he returns. Is that about it?”

“Basically… then there’s the end of the story… after ten years of war and another ten of wanderings, his wife Penelope doesn’t recognize him. But he’s left his bow at home and only he had the ability to draw it. He shoots an arrow through twelve axheads to prove to her it’s he.” She thought, then shook her head. “But I don’t know what Arnold had on his mind.”

“Well, you’re familiar with the cast of characters. Think about it. A piece of advice — think about it alone.”

She nodded, then looked at her watch. “I have about an hour before lunch. I’ll go on your errands with you.”

“To Brooklyn? Do you have a passport?”

“Don’t let Peter’s idiot jokes get to you.”

Abrams returned the book to the librarian, and began walking toward the card catalog room.

Katherine fell in beside him. “You handled yourself quite well with him. Ignore him.”

Abrams thought that to ignore Peter Thorpe was like ignoring a dark shadow at your window. They entered the hall and moved toward the staircase. He said, “I deduce that your things are still at the Lombardy. Why don’t we go there and collect them?”

She hesitated, then said, “All right. But… you can’t go up.”

“Can you get me up?”

“No.”

“Perhaps when no one is there. Do you have a key?”

“No.”

“Can you try to get me in there?”

There was a long pause, long enough to indicate to Abrams that her loyalty to Thorpe was not one hundred percent. She said, “I’ll think about that.”

They walked through the reception area and out onto the sun-splashed library steps where people sat, read, and played radios.

Abrams said, “How important were those missing files?”

“Apparently very important or they wouldn’t have murdered Arnold Brin.”

Abrams lit a cigarette and stared down into Fifth Avenue. “That’s a logical conclusion. But I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“They may know less than we do. They have a secret — Talbot’s identity. We are trying to discover that secret. They can’t know exactly how close we are to their secret. Therefore they’ve got to cover every angle.”

“Yes… you did say Talbot or his friends would kill again.”

“And again, and again. Half the mob murders in New York are committed to shut someone up who didn’t know anything to begin with. For some organizations it’s easier to blast away at all possible sources of danger, rather than approach the problem rationally. I, for instance, know very little, yet someone tried to remove me from the equation.”

“You said you were flattered.”

“That was glib. Motive is important. Find the motive and you’ll find a suspect.”

“What’s the motive? Are you a possible source of danger to them?”

“I keep thinking it was more personal than political.”

“Personal?”

Abrams nodded. “Just about my only contact with your friends was last night. Maybe I stepped on someone’s toes at the dance.”

“That’s very unlikely.”

“Only in theory. In practice, people who kill, kill for the most unlikely and petty of reasons. When you cross the path of a killer, and you do or say something wrong, he considers you dead meat. You breathe and walk only because he needs a little time to plan your death. He feels incredibly alive knowing he has this power of life and death.”

“Were we at the same function last night?”

“As you know, some killers are outwardly charming, wear dinner jackets, and make jokes. But inwardly they are brooding individuals who are very sensitive to imagined insults or perceived threats to their existence. Then they turn psychotic, vengeful, and murderous. This is often manifested by an outward show of cordiality toward the marked victim. Did I meet anyone like that last night?”

She didn’t answer.

Abrams threw down his cigarette. “You know, if I could think of someone like that — even if I wasn’t certain — I might follow their rules and protect myself in the most direct manner, by eliminating that threat. I mean, why take a chance?”

“I think I’d better leave you to your errands.”

“Yes, well, be careful.”

She started down the steps, hesitated, then turned. Abrams saw that her face was quite pale. She said, “Look… one thing we don’t do in this firm is to make unilateral decisions. Before you… take any direct action… please consult me.”

He nodded.

Katherine turned and walked up Fifth Avenue.

Abrams sat on the steps beside an old drunk with a bottle of wine. The drunk asked, “Got four bits?”

Abrams put two quarters in the man’s hand.

“Thanks, bub.” Then with the easy social grace of derelicts he said, “Name’s John. What’s yours?”

“Odysseus, a.k.a. Ulysses.”

“Some name. Got a cigarette?”

Abrams gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. “You know, John, the human mind is capable of some incredible things. Even your mind, John. Otherwise you wouldn’t have survived so long on the streets.”

The old drunk nodded. “How about a dollar?”

“Arnold Brin, I’m told, had a fine mind. I suppose he came here a lot. Like you. He, though, was not a survivor like you. He saw death approaching, but he overcame that basic instinct for survival, and instead of trying to make a break, he had the presence of mind to leave a message that might enable others to survive.”

The drunk stood, swayed, and sat again. Several radios were playing loudly, each tuned to a different station. A group of students sat under the south lion and read. Abrams leaned toward the drunk. “The Odyssey, John. The story of Odysseus. Boiled down to one line, it’s the tale of a warrior who, after the war is won, and after many years of wandering, returns home from the dead. Now what was Arnold trying to tell us, John?”

The drunk stood again, and took a tentative step. “Beats me.”

“You’re not trying, John.”

“Beats me.” The drunk navigated the steps to the sidewalk.

Abrams stood. Coming up the steps was a homicide detective whom he recognized. With him was a man who was not a cop, but might be FBI. Well, Abrams thought, the clue itself was obvious to the trained police eye, but the meaning of the clue would not be obvious to an outsider. Abrams turned away and let the two men pass, then stepped down to the sidewalk and headed south.

Arnold, he reflected, was writing to the initiated. He was writing in shorthand to people who shared common experiences and thought processes. Or who had learned enough to make all the mental leaps and inferences necessary to draw a conclusion. Abrams, too, had come to a conclusion, had deduced a possible and logical meaning to the message; though as logical as it might be, it was so unlikely, he could not bring himself to believe the answer he had arrived at.

29

The old twin-engine Beechcraft leveled off at 15,000 feet. The pilot, Sonny Bellman, checked his airspeed indicator: 160 knots. He spoke into the PA microphone. “Pine Barrens dead ahead. About ten minutes to jump site.”

Patrick O’Brien nodded to himself. They were about thirty miles west of Toms River, New Jersey. Ten more minutes would bring them over the most desolate area of the barrens.

O’Brien looked out the fuselage window. The night was clear but not moonless. In fact, the half-moon was quite bright, he saw, lighting up the starry sky and casting a bluish luminescence across the flatlands below. This was not a night for tactical jumps, but a good night for sport. He sat cross-legged and leaned back against the fuselage.

These Sunday-evening jumps were for him a sort of religious experience, a memorial to the dead, and a cleansing ritual. He’d land in the pristine Pine Barrens, make a small fire, and spend the night thinking, talking to himself, remembering and forgetting. Before dawn he would radio his position to an old friend, a retired farmer, and the man would come out in a motor home and meet him at a designated spot on the closest road.

O’Brien would shower in the vehicle and change into a suit, having already shaved and eaten breakfast in the woods. Usually he would share a cup of coffee with the old man. By the time they reached the Holland Tunnel, O’Brien would be ready to do battle, an ironic reversal of the wartime sequence of events.

O’Brien knew in his body, mind, and heart that there would be no more jumps after this summer, and so he savored these dwindling Sunday nights the way an old man savors most everything he knows is coming to an end.

O’Brien was brought out of his reverie as he heard and felt the decrease in the engine’s power. He sensed they were approaching the 120-knot jump speed.

His eyes surveyed the dark empty cabin, lit only by the red glow of the no-jump lamp. In the eerie redness he fancied he saw the fuselage walls lined with men and women, hooked to static lines, like nooses, and swathed in black shrouds. Their waxy white faces all turned slowly toward him and he saw their eyes glowing red. O’Brien shut his eyes and shook his head. After some time, he glanced up at the bulkhead that separated the cabin from the cockpit, then looked at his watch. Bellman should be giving him the green light soon.

O’Brien stood and checked his harness as he moved toward the door. The Beechcraft had been modified for sky divers and the door had been fitted with roller tracks, rather than the conventional swing-out hinges. Also, the normal eight seats had been removed to accommodate about twelve standees. The Beechcraft also had an autopilot so that the pilot could come back and shut the door after a jump, eliminating the necessity of a jumpmaster or copilot.

O’Brien stood at the door and looked out the small oval window. The craft banked to the left as a cloud passed in front of the moon, throwing a black shadow over the desolate landscape. A light twinkled here and there, and O’Brien was reminded of the signal lights from the partisans on the ground.

One never knew who was actually controlling those signal lights. Certainly, he thought, one of the most frightening experiences of modern man was taking off from a blacked-out airstrip in a plywood aircraft whose worthiness was always in question; then running a gauntlet of enemy fighters, sometimes running through anti-aircraft fire over occupied territory; then, if you’d made it that far, jumping from the relative safety of the aircraft into a bleak, inhospitable landscape and floating down, much too slowly, to an uncertain reception.

And having survived those terrors, one had to complete the mission and get the hell out. And for secret agents, capture did not mean POW camp. It meant a concentration camp, torture, interrogation, and nearly always a newly raked sandbox where you knelt for the bullet in the back of the neck. There was, however, always the L-pill.

Yet, he had survived. Others had not. There was no accounting for it. But having survived, he felt he owed something. He owed it to those who ended their lives in battle, in the torturer’s chamber, with cyanide, or in the sandbox, to continue the mission. Right after the war there had been scores to settle with certain Gestapo and SS gentlemen. But within a year he and his friends had met the ultimate enemy: the Soviet state security forces.

O’Brien looked at his watch again: ten seventeen. He wondered why Bellman hadn’t flashed the green light. O’Brien rechecked his gear: knife, rucksack, and canteens.

How many jumps, he thought, can a man make before his luck runs out? Every one, they said, except the last one.

Sonny Bellman turned to the man in the right-hand seat. “Approaching jump time.”

The man nodded, stood, and squeezed behind his seat to retrieve his parachute pack.

Bellman said, “I wonder if he’s going to be angry at me.”

The man said, “Mr. O’Brien enjoys surprises.”

“He likes to jump alone. But I suppose it’s all right.”

“No one will mention it to you. I promise.” Peter Thorpe raised a heavy rubber mallet and swung it down viciously at the base of the pilot’s skull. Bellman made a short sound of surprise, then slumped forward toward the control yoke. Thorpe yanked him back, then reached over and engaged the autopilot. The aircraft continued to track straight ahead, holding course, speed, and altitude.

Thorpe looked at his watch and yawned. “Christ, what a weekend.”

He strapped on his parachute, opened the door, and entered the cabin.

The light from the open cockpit door caught O’Brien’s eyes and he turned toward it, squinting. The door closed again, throwing the cabin in near darkness except for the single red light.

Thorpe moved wordlessly toward O’Brien.

O’Brien said, “Bellman? What’s wrong?”

Thorpe yawned again. “Jesus, Pat, why would you want to jump into the Pine Barrens on a Sunday night?” Thorpe stopped a few feet from O’Brien. “Most people your age are playing checkers.”

O’Brien put his hand on his survival knife. “What are you doing here?”

“Everybody has a shtick—that means panache — mine don’t always go over so well. I thought I’d cultivate yours.” He chuckled softly. “Do you mind?”

“I mind that you didn’t ask.”

“Sorry, Pat.” Thorpe peered out the side window. “Blue moon. Should be full in a few weeks. There’s a shooting star. Make a wish.”

O’Brien glanced at the cabin door a few feet away.

Thorpe turned quickly toward him. “Listen, Pat, this Talbot business has me worried.”

O’Brien didn’t reply, and the drone of the engines outside seemed to fill the cabin. The moon shone through the windows now, and Thorpe’s body cast elongated shadows on the far wall.

Thorpe said, “In fact, Patrick, you worry me.”

“You ought to be worried. We’re very close.”

“Are you? I wonder.”

O’Brien spoke in a controlled voice. “What is your motive?”

Thorpe shrugged. “I’m not certain. Not political. I mean, who in their right mind would side with those morons? Really, did you ever meet such a drab, boring bunch of ill-bred clods? I’ve been to Moscow twice. Jesus, what a shithole.”

“Then why?” O’Brien unclipped the strap of his knife sheath.

Thorpe saw the movement in the red light. “Forget it, Pat.”

O’Brien said, “Just tell me why.”

Thorpe scratched his head, then said, “Well, it’s very complex. It has to do with danger… Some men jump from airplanes… others race cars… I commit treason. Every day is an adventure when you commit a capital offense. When you know that each day could be your last. You remember?”

O’Brien said, “You’re sick, Peter.”

“Probably. So what? Insanity, like a drug addiction, has to be fed. The Company provides food, to be sure, a veritable feast for most appetites. But not for mine. I need the ultimate nourishment. I need the blood of an entire nation.”

“Peter… listen, if you want to alter history — and I suppose that is your ultimate motive — you can do it by helping us foil their plans. You could become a triple. That would be the crowning act of—”

“Oh, be quiet. You’re too glib. Damned lawyer. Listen, how often do you get the chance to see a nation die? Think of it, Patrick — a highly developed, complex civilization succumbing to its own advanced technology. And I can stand on a hill and watch — watch the end of one human epoch and the beginning of another. How many people throughout the ages have been in so unique a position to cause such a sudden and catastrophic shift in the course of this planet’s history?”

O’Brien listened to the droning of the engines, then spoke in a voice that suggested he’d accepted what Thorpe said, but had a last discomforting thought.

“All right, Peter. But what kind of world will it be? Could you live in such a world?”

Thorpe waved his hand in a motion of dismissal. “I’m pretty adaptable.” He laughed.

“And what would you do for an encore? There’d be nothing left for you. No one to betray—”

“That’s enough!”

O’Brien wanted to ask how this would all come about, but as a trained intelligence officer who knew he was facing his own death, there was no reason to indulge himself by satisfying his curiosity. He was not going to be able to report or act on the information, and the more he asked Thorpe, the more Thorpe would know how little or how much O’Brien already knew.

Thorpe seemed to read O’Brien’s mind. “How far along are you, Patrick?”

“I told you. Close. You won’t pull it off.”

“Bullshit.” Thorpe rubbed his chin, then said, “Katherine once told me, and I’ve heard elsewhere, that you’re one of the best natural intelligence men on either side. You’re brave, resourceful, cunning, imaginative, and all that… So… I know you’re good… but how good? I mean, if you suspected me, why didn’t you act before I got to you? I should have been snatched, drugged, tortured, and interrogated at least a year ago. Are you slowing up, old-timer? Did you let Katherine’s feelings for me get in the way? Or perhaps you didn’t suspect me. Yes, that’s it. You really don’t know anything.”

“I’ve been on to you for years, Peter.”

“I don’t believe—”

The Beeehcraft hit a small air pocket and bounced. Thorpe lost his balance and fell to one knee. O’Brien, who had hoped and stalled for that air pocket, immediately lunged toward the door.

Thorpe drew a gun from under his Windbreaker, aimed, and fired. A loud, deafening report filled the cabin.

O’Brien, his hand on the door lever, lurched forward, collided with the door, and careened back, toppling onto the deck. Thorpe aimed and fired again. A short, popping sound echoed in the cabin.

O’Brien lay sprawled on his back at Thorpe’s feet, holding his chest. Thorpe knelt beside him, and shone a flashlight on the chest wound. Thorpe spoke softly, almost comfortingly. “Just relax, Pat. The first one was a rubber stun bullet. Probably cracked a rib. The second was a sodium pentothal capsule.” Thorpe saw where the gelatin capsule had hit the thick nylon harness strap. He ran his hand under O’Brien’s shirt and felt a wetness where the skin had been broken. “I think you got enough of it.”

Thorpe rocked back on his haunches. “We have some talking to do, my friend, and about two hours’ fuel left to do it — and about six more drugs to go through if necessary.”

O’Brien felt the drug taking hold in his brain. He shook his head violently, then grabbed for his knife and brought it out in an uppercut motion, slicing through Thorpe’s left nostril.

Thorpe fell back, his hand to his face, the blood running between his fingers. “Bastard… you sneaky…”

O’Brien began to rise, then stumbled back. He sat braced against the fuselage, holding his knife to his front.

Thorpe aimed his gun again. “Would you like to find out what the third bullet is? It’s not lead, but you’ll wish it was.”

O’Brien’s arm dropped and his knife rested in his lap.

Thorpe pressed a handkerchief to his nose and waited a full minute, then said, “Feel better, Patrick? Okay, that was my fault for underestimating you. No hard feelings. Let’s begin. What is your name?”

“Patrick O’Brien.”

“What is your occupation?”

“Lawyer.”

“Not quite, but close enough.” Thorpe asked a few more warm-up questions, then said, “Do you know a man named Talbot?”

“Yes.”

“What other name does he go by?”

O’Brien did not speak for some time, then answered, “I don’t know.”

Thorpe made a sound of annoyance, then asked, “Were you on to me?”

“Yes.”

“Were you really?” He thought a moment, then removed a Syrette from his pocket. “I don’t think you got enough sodium pent. Let’s try something different.” He moved cautiously toward O’Brien, reached out with his free hand, and pulled the knife away. With his other hand he pushed the Syrette against O’Brien’s shoulder. The spring-loaded needle pumped five cc’s of Surital into O’Brien’s body.

Thorpe knelt a few feet from O’Brien. “Okay, we’ll give that a minute or so.” Thorpe found his cigarettes and put one in his mouth. The gun still trained on O’Brien, he took his Dunhill lighter and struck a flame.

O’Brien saw Thorpe’s eyes close reflexively and made his move. He half stood, reached out, and pulled the door handle. The handle disengaged and the door began to slide open, letting in a powerful rush of cold air along with the rumbling sound of the two engines.

Thorpe lunged for O’Brien and caught his ankle as O’Brien back-rolled into the opening. Thorpe yanked on the man’s leg, twisting as he did, and began to pull him in.

O’Brien let out a moan of pain but continued to arch back farther, getting his upper torso and arms into the powerful slipstream.

Thorpe braced his legs on either side of the open door and pulled with all his strength, swearing loudly over the din, “You old bastard! You foxy son of a—” Thorpe felt himself losing the battle against the slipstream as more of O’Brien’s body was dragged out into space. O’Brien kicked at him with his free leg.

Finally, Thorpe screamed, “All right, you son of a bitch! Die!” He slid his feet away from the doorframe and felt himself yanked headlong out into the slipstream, still holding O’Brien’s ankle.

Thorpe looked up instinctively and saw the Beechcraft’s navigation lights disappearing into the blue moonlit night.

They both fell, at the terminal velocity of 110 miles an hour, 161 feet per second, at which rate, Thorpe knew, they had less than 80 seconds to pull the rip cords.

Thorpe clutched at O’Brien’s leg and craned his head upward. He saw O’Brien’s right hand going for his rip cord. Thorpe wrapped both arms around O’Brien’s leg and twisted his body in a sharp torquing motion, causing them both to spin.

O’Brien’s arms were outstretched now and he tried to bring them back to his body. Thorpe saw the man’s fingers clawing toward the rip cord on his chest. Thorpe reached up and grabbed the cross harness running across O’Brien’s abdomen and pulled himself up until they were chest-to-chest and face-to-face. Thorpe wrapped his arms around O’Brien’s shoulders and drew him close into a bear hug. Thorpe stared into O’Brien’s face, inches from his own. He shouted, “Do you know who Talbot is?”

O’Brien’s eyes were half shut and his head began to loll sideways. He mumbled something that Thorpe thought sounded like “Yes.”

Thorpe shouted again. “What is Talbot’s name!” Thorpe saw O’Brien’s features contort into a twisted expression of pain and his teeth sink into his lower lip, drawing a stream of blood over his face. Heart attack.

Thorpe looked down. They had dropped, he estimated, over ten thousand feet. They had a mile or so to go. Thorpe looked back at O’Brien’s chalk-white face and was certain that Patrick O’Brien would never pull his rip cord. Thorpe shouted into O’Brien’s ear. “Geronimo and all that shit! Happy landing!”

He released his grip on O’Brien and they began to drift apart. O’Brien’s unrestrained arms flew up over his head. Thorpe reached out and gave him a vigorous shove, sending him tumbling away.

Thorpe looked at the ground that was coming at him very fast. “Oh, shit!” He yanked on the rip cord and looked up.

In a split second, he thought, depending on how the chute came out and opened, he might be too late. If it didn’t open at all, it was much too late for the emergency chute.

The black nylon chute shot upward nicely, like a plume of smoke, then billowed as the canopy began filling with air. Thorpe forced himself to look down. About three hundred feet. Two seconds to splat. Thorpe felt an upward jerk as he heard the snap of the canopy fully spread out. He looked down to see where O’Brien would fall, but lost sight of him in the dark ground clutter of the forest below. He thought he heard the sound of snapping wood followed by a thud.

Thorpe was fully decelerated now and floated about seventy-five feet from the earth. He spotted a small sandy clearing amid the moonlit scrub pine and tugged hard on his risers, sliding toward the nearby patch of open ground.

Thorpe tucked his legs up, and hit. He shoulder-rolled, then jumped to his feet and pulled the quick-release hook. The chute drifted a few feet off in the gentle breeze. He brushed the sand from his hands and face. “Not bad.” He felt that incredible high that comes after a safe landing. “Damned good.”

As he gathered his parachute, he gave a passing thought to O’Brien. The man was a worthy opponent. He’d expected more trouble from the pilot and less from O’Brien, considering his age. But old foxes were tough foxes. That’s how they got to be old.

He wondered what the authorities would make of an aircraft that crashed in the foothills of the Pennsylvania Alleghenies, without warning, far off-course, and with its passenger a mushy heap in New Jersey. His laughter broke the stillness of the spring night.

Thorpe stuffed his parachute into its pack and extended the aerial of a homing transmitter. He sat on a mound of sand, dabbed at his bloody nose, then broke out a bag of chocolate kisses and waited for the helicopter.

This night had two final victims to claim, and like a slaughterer in an abattoir, he had to work fast before the sheep became panicky and stampeded.

At least, he thought, he was helping to eliminate suspects.

30

The small LOH helicopter carrying Peter Thorpe landed at the West 30th Street Heliport on the Hudson River. Thorpe finished changing into sport jacket, tie, and slacks.

The pilot, under contract to Lotus Air, a CIA proprietary company, knew neither his passenger’s name nor his mission. Neither had he exchanged a single word with him, nor had he even looked at him. If in a week, or a year, the news reported a body found with an unopened parachute in the Jersey Pine Barrens, the pilot would put two and two together and come up with zero.

The LOH swung out over the river and disappeared into the night. Thorpe watched, then took the pack containing his gathered parachute, clothing, and rock weights, and dropped it in the river.

He walked the dark, desolate streets by the riverfront and entered a telephone booth. He dialed the Princeton Club and was connected to West. “Nick, how are you?”

“Fine.”

“Look, what are you doing now?”

“I thought I’d turn in. I have to get an early shuttle to D.C. tomorrow.”

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“I’m really not up for a drink.”

“We’ll make it an early evening. I’m really in the mood for a Negroni, and I hate to drink alone.”

There was a short silence, then West’s voice came back on the line. “All right… yes… where… when?”

“Meet you at my club. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Thorpe hung up.

Peter Thorpe entered the Yale Club and sat on a small sofa beside West, who was staring at a martini on the coffee table. Thorpe ordered a Negroni and gave West a sidelong glance. He said, “I was afraid you wouldn’t remember the code word.”

West looked at Thorpe, and focused on the small butterfly bandage covering his left nostril, but didn’t comment on it.

Thorpe spoke softly. “Look, Nick, this Talbot thing has really stirred up a hornet’s nest. You should lay low for a while.”

West nodded, then found his voice and said, “Who… them or us?”

“Our people. Langley has been on full alert all weekend. You know how it is. They start making decisions right and left, getting themselves all hyper. They made a decision about you.”

“What…?”

“Well, they don’t actually plan to eliminate you, but they will put you in the mountains… you may be there some time.”

West’s eyes seemed more alert. “Then maybe I should just report in and—”

“No. Don’t do that.”

“But… I don’t mind being put on ice.”

“If you knew what they do to people in the mountains, you might think differently.”

West stared at Thorpe with a mixture of curiosity and dread. “What…?”

Thorpe said, “Finish your drink.” The Negroni came and Thorpe tasted it. “Not bad. I’ve never had one. Look, Nick, for the sake of appearances can you try to smile a bit and get some color in your face?”

West sipped on his martini.

Thorpe said, “Are you carrying?”

“No.”

“Vest?”

“No… I don’t wear that.”

“How about a signal transmitter?”

West touched his belt buckle. “Micro-miniature. I can be tracked by air, auto, or ground receiver.”

“Is it activated now?”

“No. Why should it be?”

“How do you activate it?”

West licked his lips. “You just grip it, top and bottom, and squeeze. It’s got spring bars, like a wristwatch.”

“Are you wired for sound?”

“No.”

Thorpe knew West wasn’t wired, because Thorpe was carrying a bug alert and it hadn’t picked up anything.

He stared at West for some time, then said, “L-pills?”

West nodded. “Always.”

“Where? What form?”

West hesitated, then tapped his class ring.

Thorpe glanced at West’s Princeton ring. “Pill compartment?”

“No… the stone… cyanide suspended in rock sugar, colored with dye to match onyx. Thin coat of polyurethane to keep it shiny and keep it from melting… You bite it—”

“And death is, as they say, instantaneous.” Thorpe smiled. “What will those jokers think of next? Is that the only poison?”

West shook his head. “A conventional capsule. I forgot it. It’s in my room.”

Thorpe smiled. “You’d forget your ass if it wasn’t nailed on.”

“Tell me more about the mountains,” West said.

Thorpe stared straight ahead as he spoke. “You go into the mountains as Nicholas West. You come out somebody else.”

“That’s the New Identity Program.”

“Not quite. They go a bit further than plastic surgery and a new driver’s license, my friend. Electric shock treatment, drugs, and hypnosis. By the time they’re through with your brain, you’re neutralized.”

West stared, wide-eyed.

Thorpe continued. “This is the new meaning of neutralized. No more wet stuff for our own people if you haven’t committed a crime. Just a little memory alteration so you’re not a walking encyclopedia anymore.”

West slumped back onto the sofa. “Oh… Good Lord… they can’t do that.”

“Right. It’s illegal, and they’d never violate your civil rights. But let’s suppose they would. Then what you have to do is go underwater for a while. Keep your brain out of their hands.”

West finished his martini. “When… when do I have to—”

“When? Tonight! There is no tomorrow.”

West said, “My things…?”

“Things? What things?”

“You know… clothes… books…”

Thorpe laughed. “If you let them take you to the mountains, you won’t even remember your name, let alone what you own. Don’t worry about idiot details. On the other hand, you do need some insurance policies for yourself. If you had insurance, tucked away, spring-loaded to be released under certain circumstances, then you could call your own shots.”

West rubbed his face. “I can’t get any insurance now.”

Thorpe considered a moment, then said, “Maybe you could get into your office early in the morning, act natural, collect some documents — maybe some computer printouts — then run.”

West was quiet for a long time, then looked up. “Maybe, if I could access my department’s computer from here… from your computer at the Lombardy…”

Thorpe nodded slowly, but said nothing.

West glanced at him. “I guess that’s the way to do it.”

“Seems like it.”

“But… how could we… I… do that? The entry would leave an audit trail, leading right back to you.”

Thorpe replied, “Would it?”

“Yes. It’s very secure. It will record your entry, plus the information that was accessed, and identify your computer station. Langley will see it immediately.”

Thorpe spoke in a casual tone. “Once I’m into your computer, I can do whatever the hell I goddamned please. If I can get in, I can erase all evidence of my penetration on my way out.”

West looked at him for a long time, then said, “The computer won’t allow that. It will tell them—”

Thorpe smiled. “I make buddies with computers real fast, once I shake hands with them.” He lit a cigarette. “You see, it’s like the difference between rape and seduction. Both involve penetration, but one is violent and clumsy, the other tender. After I fuck your computer, it won’t tell the cops. Okay? Let me worry about my technique.”

West nodded in acquiescence.

“Look, Nick, the only real problem we’ve got is if they’ve had the foresight to negate your access code — the modern equivalent of confiscating your key to the executive washroom.”

West forced a weak smile.

Thorpe continued, “But if we act soon — tonight — I think we can reasonably assume no one has thought to tell the computer that you are persona non grata. Tomorrow it will be one of the first things they do. Step one in making you an unperson.”

West nodded and brought his drink to his lips. His hand was shaking. “Just tell me,” he said softly, “why are you taking this risk for me?”

Thorpe leaned over the coffee table. “I’m not a nice guy, Nick. But some of the people we work for are not nice either.” He let out a deep breath. “If I let them scramble your brains and put you to work washing the windows on the farm, then I couldn’t live with myself… I mean, I couldn’t face Katherine, or Ann…”

West’s face dropped at the mention of Ann. He ordered another martini from a passing waiter.

Thorpe continued, “Also, quite honestly, I want to pick your computer’s brain. As it turns out, my wishes coincide tonight with your needs.”

“Why do you want to pick my computer’s brains?”

“As I told you several times, Nick, I need information on the old boys to recruit for my Domestic Contact Service.”

West nodded. He’d always thought that these computerized dossiers of amateur spies were being unreasonably withheld from Thorpe. West said, “But I would require that I be present when you access the computer.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Thorpe stubbed out his cigarette. “I know you’re loyal, Nicko. But you’ve read enough case histories to know that even loyalty is not insurance against some of those fucked-up paranoids in a position to do you harm. Your loyalty should end when theirs does. They’re not the government or the nation. You know that, Professor.”

West ran his hands over his face and finally said, “But… why…?” His voice was filled with anguish. “What did I do?”

“Oh, Christ, Nick, we’ve been over this a dozen times. You didn’t do anything. So fucking what? You know too much. So do a lot of other people, but in your case they get very nervous. You’re not real Company. You were recruited by a fluke whim of some past director, and everyone forgot about you and your department until one day they realized you had too much on some of the bosses. That’s the bottom line. The Moscow-wants-Nick shit is just a cover to justify getting rid of you.”

West looked nervously around the big lounge. “Please, Peter. Lower—”

“Oh, calm down. This is the Yale Club, for Christ’s sake. Half the illegal business in the nation is conducted in this lounge.” Thorpe stood. “Well, think it over. I’m not pushing. It’s not that important to me.”

West grabbed Thorpe’s arm. “All right. All right. Just tell me what to do. Where can I go tonight?”

Thorpe took a key from his pocket and looked around. He said, “Room 1114. That’s where you can go. There’s a man up there. An actor. He knows nothing. His main attribute is that he looks like you, God help him and his career. Change clothes with him. He’ll leave here, pipe in mouth, and with luck he’ll draw off anyone who’s watching you. That probably includes a dozen CIA, KGB, and O’Brien goons. With more luck, he’ll get into your room at your club undetected and no one will realize we’ve done a bait-and-switch until morning. Buys lots of time.”

West stood, then said suddenly, “That’s how Carbury disappeared.”

“So what? You want originality? This works. I got suckered with it once myself. You just sit in Room 1114 until someone comes for you. There’s no phone in the room, so you won’t be tempted to call out. I left you a spy novel to read.” Thorpe smiled.

West nodded and Thorpe dropped a key into West’s jacket. Thorpe patted his shoulder. “Take it easy, Nick. See you at the Lombardy before dawn. Follow instructions.”

Thorpe watched West walk forlornly to the elevator bank. The elevator came and West got on without anyone seeming to take notice.

Thorpe descended the staircase and stopped at the landing. In the lobby, he picked out a man and a woman reading. They could be working for anyone. Thorpe smiled to himself. Spies watching spies. It occurred to him, too, that the FBI and the NYPD might also be represented tonight, compliments of Tony Abrams. Undoubtedly the police were on his case, not West’s. The thought of being followed by city detectives was distasteful. A frown passed over his face. Abrams. Who the hell would have figured a wild card like that? Abrams had been a soft target on Friday night. But now he was a hard target. A concrete reinforced missile silo. Yet he was vulnerable. He was vulnerable through Katherine.

Thorpe waited on the landing overlooking the lobby and surveyed the people below. By now everyone knew that he and West had had a drink together on the evening of what was to be West’s disappearance. But that could not be helped.

Nicholas West was a man who was hard to get at. Thorpe was one of the few people who had access to him and to some extent had his confidence. Kidnappings of protected people were difficult, which is why it was better sometimes to let a man kidnap himself.

The man who looked like West came down the stairs wearing West’s clothes and smoking a pipe. He fell in beside Thorpe without a word. They quickly descended to the lobby, Thorpe at an oblique angle in front of the man at first, then the man drawing abreast as they crossed the lobby to the doors, blocking himself from direct view. None of the people seated stared, but within a few seconds the man and the woman rose to follow.

Outside, Thorpe spotted at least two more, but in the street lighting he knew that no one doubted they were following Thorpe and West. They headed toward the Princeton Club. Thorpe felt, rather than saw, a veritable parade behind him. He hoped they didn’t trip over each other. He laughed. Christ, what a circus. He said to the man next to him, “I’ll get you into the room at the Princeton Club, but you’ve got to change your appearance and get out before dawn. Did that jerk give you his key?”

The man nodded. “Who was that other guy in the room? I didn’t expect anyone else in there. He never said a word. Looked sort of tough.”

“He’s another actor. Actors all over the place these days.”

Thorpe looked up the street. New York went about its business while he was acting out a comedy that would turn to tragedy very soon. Thorpe wondered what the city would look like after the July Fourth weekend. He was sorry he wouldn’t be in town to see it.

Peter Thorpe walked into the University Club lounge. There were only two men sitting at a small table, and Thorpe recognized them as members. He sat on a barstool. “Donald, you still here?”

The bartender turned and smiled, then checked his watch. “Another five minutes. We close at midnight tonight. What’s your pleasure, Mr. Thorpe?”

“Oh, just a club soda.”

Donald nodded. “Good Sunday-night drink. How was your weekend?”

“It had its ups and downs.”

Donald put a small bottle of Schweppes on the bar and opened it. “I think I saw you on the news. The camera did a shot of the crowd at the armory. Some party!”

“Right.” Thorpe poured the club soda into an ice-filled glass. “Listen, I’m in arrears here. Don’t put that on a chit.” He slid a dollar across the bar and Donald palmed it and stuffed it in his pocket.

Thorpe said, “Has anyone spoken to you about that Edwards guy?”

Donald nodded gloomily. “Cop named Spinelli. Hey, I didn’t tell him about the envelope.”

Thorpe said, “Oh, you could have. I have to speak to Spinelli anyway, and I’ll tell him. So, if you did, no problem.” Thorpe squeezed a lemon wedge in his glass.

Donald poured himself a Coke. “Well… I didn’t know, and I figured you wanted it on the q.t. So I didn’t say anything. I wanted to check with you first. Then I could say later I just forgot. You know?”

“Sure. I appreciate it.” Thorpe drained off the club soda.

Donald looked around and spoke quietly. “What’s with this Edwards guy? His name’s Carbury, right? You knew that.”

Thorpe shrugged. “I don’t really know much—” Thorpe suppressed a belch. “Excuse me. That felt good… No, I don’t really know. They think he got mugged. Maybe stuck.”

“Oh, Jesus. That don’t look good. I mean a high-class Englishman and all. Gives the city a bad name.” He shook his head sadly, then said, “There was nothing about it in the papers.”

“Really? By the way, when did Spinelli speak to you?”

“Oh… Friday night. When the cops got here to look at Edwards’ room. He only asked me a few questions. But then he came back Saturday afternoon, about four. When I got on duty. This time he was a little more pushy. He had a whole bunch of questions, and I got the feeling he spoke to you already. But then I thought it might’ve been that guy you were with Friday night. You remember?”

Thorpe nodded. “But you say you didn’t mention I was looking for this guy Edwards?”

“No. Honest. Hey, fuck them. That’s none of their business. Right? I figured you could tell them if you wanted them to know. Members’ privacy got to be protected. Right?”

“Right. When is your appointment downtown?”

Donald looked a bit surprised and uncomfortable. “Tomorrow. My day off. Who needs it?” Donald changed the subject. “Hey, that July Fourth thing. I’d like to work that… but, you know, we get triple time on a holiday.”

“No kidding? I might do it myself.” Thorpe laughed. “Well, no problem. Do you drive?”

“No, I guess I need transportation, too.”

“You got it.” Thorpe looked at his watch. “Well, that’s it for me.” He slipped Donald a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

Thorpe slid off the barstool. “Where you heading?”

The bartender shrugged. “Home, I guess. Nothing happening on a Sunday night.”

“No, there isn’t. Subway, cab, or bus?”

“Subway. North Bronx.”

“Be careful. Banjos and bongos.”

“Hey, tell me about it.”

“I just did.”

31

Katherine Kimberly sat up straight in bed, her heart beating rapidly as her hand groped for the Browning automatic on the night table. She stopped moving and remained motionless, trying to get her bearings. Telephone. Damned telephone. She took a long breath and picked up the receiver. “Yes?” She looked at her clock. It was a few minutes before six.

Thorpe’s voice came on the line. “Good morning. Did I wake you?”

She cleared her throat. “No. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

Thorpe laughed. “Terrible joke. Are you running today?”

“Yes. Where were you last night? I tried to reach you until midnight.”

“Ah, the wicked walk at night. Old Latin proverb.”

“Latin or otherwise, it doesn’t answer the question.”

“The question cannot be answered over an unsecured telephone, my sweet. When are you going to learn the business?”

“Don’t lecture me.”

“Sorry. Listen, are you going to Van Dorn’s bash?”

She sat back against the headboard and took a glass of water from the night table. She finished it, then said, “You called me at six to ask that?”

“I didn’t want to miss you. I knew you’d be running. It starts at about four. Fireworks and music begin at sundown.”

“Oh, God… ”

“I enjoy the show. Listen, I’ve got my boat at the South Street Seaport. Meet me at… let’s say, four.”

“I guess you don’t want to drive?”

“No, I want to float. Beat the holiday traffic. We can be at Glen Cove Marina in forty minutes.”

She said, “Do you know if Pat O’Brien is going? I haven’t heard from him.”

Thorpe replied, “You know, if he wasn’t an older man, and your boss, I’d be jealous of your attentions toward him.”

“I’m fond of him.”

“Everyone is. He’s a gentleman. I try to emulate him. Anyway, I spoke to him yesterday. He can’t make it.”

“Oh… how about Nick? How many people will the boat hold?”

“I can get five in. But Nick had an early meeting in Washington, holiday notwithstanding. He must be on the way to the airport by now. Don’t you want to ride alone with me?”

“I just think that you ought to offer someone a lift. Maybe the Grenvilles.”

“They ran back to the suburbs as soon as the police got through with them Saturday morning.”

“What do you think of what happened?”

Thorpe didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Suspicious. We’ll discuss it later. Anyway, I’ll offer Claudia a lift.”

Katherine looked out her bedroom window. There was a hint of dawn penetrating the alleyway outside her building. She said, “You heard about Arnold, too, of course.”

“Of course. The police are looking for you.”

“I’ll see them in my office Tuesday.”

“Real lawyer. Where are you running this morning?”

“Brooklyn.”

Thorpe said, “Are you running alone?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, be careful of muggers.”

“I haven’t yet met a mugger who could keep up with me.” She hesitated, then said, “Tony Abrams is running with me.”

Thorpe didn’t respond for a second, then said, “Ah, that’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know he ran. Why him? He’s not your speed, you know.”

“I’m running right by his place.”

She let the silence drag out, then said, “You’re welcome to come along. It might do you some good.”

“You’re welcome to lift weights with me, practice karate, and navigate the obstacle course at the Farm.”

“I’m not in the mood for one-upmanship. Also, I think your behavior Friday night was crude and uncalled-for. What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m under some pressure—”

“Also, you weren’t around Saturday night, and all day Sunday. And now you call me at six — where are you anyway?”

“The Lombardy. Actually, I’m in the damned garret. With the computer. I’ve been working all night. All weekend. I’ll explain it to you later.”

She drew a deep breath. “Okay… I’ll see you at four.”

“Wait. I may be able to join you. When and where do you start?”

“City Hall at about seven. Then over the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Too early. Then where?”

“I should be at Tony Abrams’ place by eight. He’s at 75 Henry Street. If you’re going to meet me, do it there, or later.” She gave him the route she expected to follow.

Thorpe said, “I thought Abrams was staying at Thirty-sixth Street.”

She didn’t answer for a few seconds, then said, “I think he’s moving around.”

“Why? Scared?”

“Cautious. You should be too.”

“And you. You can stay here at the Lombardy after tonight.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll run into you in Brooklyn. If not, the Seaport at four.”

Katherine hung up and got out of bed. She pulled on a short kimono and went into the small living room. She bent over the couch. “Tony.” She shook him.

Abrams opened his eyes and she could tell he hadn’t been asleep. She said, “I’ll shower first.”

“Okay.” He sat up and yawned.

She said, “I’m sorry about the couch.”

He stretched. “What were our options?”

“Well… I could have slept on the couch… ”

“There was barely room for me. And why let a good bed go to waste?”

“You know what I mean.”

He put his legs over the side of the couch, keeping the blanket partly wrapped around him. He rubbed his eyes, yawned again, and said, “Did anyone try to kill you during the night?”

She smiled. “No.”

“Me neither. I would have welcomed the excitement.”

“I’ll be finished shortly.” She turned and reentered the bedroom through a paneled door.

Abrams stood in his shorts and touched his toes a few times. He retrieved his shoulder holster and revolver from under his pillow and laid them on the end table. He walked over to the small galley kitchen and found a pitcher of orange juice in the refrigerator. He poured some into a paper cup, then surveyed the room.

It was small, but tastefully done in a few good contemporary pieces. In an alcove was a desk piled high with paperwork. It was, he realized, a transparent acrylic desk and must have cost thousands. The building, which he knew Katherine owned, was ancient, at least a hundred years old, and there was not much to recommend the neighborhood except the fact that the realtors had named it West Greenwich Village, which was, he thought, stretching the geography a bit far.

Abrams walked to the single window, a double-hung sash that looked too warped to be workable, and glazed with glass that had swirls and bubbles in it. “Jesus, this place was old when Indians lived on the next block.” The room also had a tilt, like the house on 36th Street.

Abrams looked down into the narrow street. It was picturesque. He peered up and down the block. The streetlights were still on, though a thin morning sunlight provided most of the illumination. The street looked quiet enough, and no one seemed to be hanging around.

He speculated on what this place said about Katherine Kimberly. He had pictured her as an East Side bitch whose major outdoor activity was watching the displays change in Bloomingdale’s windows. Then he found out she was a runner, simpatico with O’Brien, whom Abrams respected, and all sorts of other positive things. “Just goes to show you…” There was, however, still Thorpe.

He sipped his orange juice as he regarded the interesting tilt to the room. The Kimberlys must have a penchant for crooked houses, he thought. A shrink might say that was a clue to why she was here — a nostalgic reminder of a happier childhood. Perhaps, too, the Village reminded her of Georgetown, where she’d lived with her mother.

Abrams heard a noise behind him and spun around.

Katherine stood at the bedroom door. “Oh… I’m sorry…”

“That’s all right. This is what I run in.”

She suppressed a smile and kept her eyes on his face. Boxer shorts. Plain white. She thought of Peter’s multicolored bikini underwear. She said, “I wanted to tell you to help yourself. I see you have. Make coffee if you want. There’s… well… something in the refrigerator.”

“Yes, a light bulb, and it’s burned out.”

She laughed. “I don’t do much cooking. There are eggs.”

Abrams looked at her. He’d had conversations like this before, but they were postcoital conversations. This was not, and so it was clumsier. He said, “I’ll have something when I get home.”

She hesitated, then said, “Peter may join us somewhere along the route. I hope that’s all right.”

“He’s your fiancé, not mine.”

“It won’t be awkward. I mean, I run with other men.” She laughed. “That didn’t sound right.”

Abrams finished his juice, then said, “I’ll take a taxi to my place and meet you about eight.”

“Fine. If you walk down to Houston and Seventh, you can get a cab at this hour.”

Abrams remembered a girl who had this sort of useful information printed, with a map, for her one-night stands. “Thanks.”

She began to turn away, then asked suddenly, “Would you like to go to George Van Dorn’s Memorial Day party this afternoon?”

Abrams shook his head. “One O’Brien function a weekend is enough.”

“Well, think it over. All right? You can go out with Peter and me — by speedboat.” She shook her head. “Oh, that sounds like I’m trying to bribe a child. What I mean is, it only takes about forty minutes by boat. You can take the train home if you’re bored… There will be people you know… Why do I sound so patronizing?”

He walked across the living room and put his paper cup on the sink. She didn’t sound patronizing, he thought. She sounded flustered. He said, “Actually, I have another engagement.”

“Oh… well, I’d better get moving.” She went into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, then reopened it again. “Where’s my head this morning? Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“No,” he answered, “go ahead. I’m fine for the next fifteen minutes or so. I can warm up for the run. Uphill, downhill.”

She glanced at the uneven floor, gave him a look of mock annoyance, then disappeared again into the bedroom.

Abrams heard the shower go on. He picked up the telephone and dialed. “Spinelli. Abrams.”

Captain Spinelli’s voice came on the line, groggy and hoarse. “Well, the Wandering Jew. Where the fuck are you, Abrams? Why weren’t you at your place?”

“I slept at Thirty-sixth Street.”

“Like hell you did. Where are you?”

“Down in the West Village.”

“Where in the West Village?”

“Apartment 4B. Listen, what did the ME determine as Arnold Brin’s cause of death?”

“Accidental choking.” Spinelli cleared his throat. “No evidence of foul play.”

“There were files missing.”

“Impossible to prove or to tie it in. What difference does it make? We know it was murder. How come you’re not murdered yet?”

“The weekend’s not over. Anything on the Thirty-sixth Street jumper?”

“Yeah. There was a scuffle on the roof. Three men. But I guess you know that. We got your prints on the fire escape, fella.”

“Well, I had sense enough to climb down. How about the body?”

“Foreigner. Probably East European, though the clothes were all American brands. What happened up there? Who would want to kill you? Except me?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Meanwhile, keep an eye on Claudia Lepescu.”

“We’re keeping an eye on everyone — everyone we can find. I’m trying to get a line on this Kimberly broad. Would you believe we can’t even find an address for her? Even Ma Bell has nothing on her. Everybody has a phone. Right? So she’s using an alias. Can you believe a classy lawyer has an alias? We tried to run down a few other characters in this script, but there’s nothing on them. Everyone must have an alias. Friggin’ lawyers. But it’s more than that. Right? Who are these people you’re working for, Abrams? Where do they live?”

“O’Brien lives on Sutton Place, but I’m not sure of the address. Van Dorn has an estate in Glen Cove. The Grenvilles mentioned Scarsdale. Thorpe is at the Lombardy. Kimberly is at 39 Carmine Street. Check the Bar Association.”

“They’re shut down for the weekend. But I’m going to be at O’Brien’s office bright and early Tuesday morning and I want everyone there. Including you, ace.”

“Listen, did you call the CIA about Thorpe?”

“Yeah. They’re stonewalling. Wait until they need a favor. Assholes. The FBI is cooperative, but they seem a little jumpy about this. Anyway, I checked Thorpe out through normal channels on the off chance he made a police file… ”

Abrams could hear the sounds of Spinelli lighting up one of his deadly black panatelas, followed by a coughing fit. “Draw deep,” he said.

“Fuck you.” He got the cough under control, then said, “Nassau County DA file. About seven years ago. Thorpe and his wife, Carol, boating on Long Island Sound. She was lost at sea. There was a Coast Guard report also.”

“Conclusions?”

“What the hell could they conclude? Accident. Boating accidents are near-perfect murders. According to something I read, the CIA has disposed of at least three people in Chesapeake Bay that way. Christ, they’ve taken out a trademark, copyright, and patent on it.”

“Still, it could have been an accident.”

“Absolutely. Only Peter and Carol knew for sure. Peter testified at the Coast Guard hearing. Carol was never found. They had a ceremony at sea for her. The husband was visibly upset. No indictment.”

Abrams stayed silent for some time, then said, “I guess you can’t use that one too often.”

“No. You’re allowed one every seven years or so. One wife, one business partner, one brother-in-law. Law of averages. So I did check Coast Guard reports for about twenty years back. Nothing. Then I realized that not all waterways come under Coast Guard jurisdiction. So I checked with some state governments. Maryland had what I wanted. Chesapeake Bay inlet, 1971. Man overboard. Captain Peter at the helm. He comes about to rescue the unfortunate man and… oh, no, he runs over the guy’s head. But all is not lost. The man is still alive. Captain Peter reverses the screws, as they say, and accidently backs into the poor bastard, giving him a shave, a haircut, and a lobotomy. Anyway, this accident looked a lot like Company business. There were no legal proceedings.” Spinelli paused, then said, “This man is a cold-blooded killer.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Yeah. Anyway, how is James Allerton involved in this? That’s one reason everyone seems so jumpy. That’s the James Allerton, right?”

“Right. Allerton is actually Thorpe’s adoptive father.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. Allerton is also a friend of the missing Colonel Carbury. Did you find any trace of Carbury?”

“No, but I know how he disappeared. It was a double.”

“You found the double?”

“Sure did.”

“Who hired him?”

“I asked him, but he’s not talking.”

“Dead?”

“Bingo. Tugboat found him as a floater. Lower harbor, heading for France. It came through homicide as an apparent suicide, but I’m real sharp, Abrams. All unidentified stiffs and suspicious deaths were going through me. Long story, but the prints were on file for a cabaret license. I checked with Actors Equity, and someone who knew him came down and made a positive ID. The stiff is a guy named Larson.”

“How did you connect him to Carbury?”

“Well, he’s an actor, for one thing. Also, we got a wire photo of Carbury from England and a description — height, weight, age. This guy Larson could pass for him. Larson wasn’t wearing Carbury’s clothes, though. On the other hand, the ME feels that Larson was dressed after he was dead. He was probably drowned in a bathtub or a bucket of water, stripped, dressed in his own clothes, and tossed in the river.” Spinelli paused. “We’re dealing with very foxy people here. Serious people.”

“Right.” Yet, he thought, for all this cleverness and all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, it all boiled down to a city homicide squad doing their job. “Nice work, Spinelli.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Abrams. Maybe that’s why I’m a captain and you’re still in school.”

“Maybe. Listen, did you speak to the bartender again? Donald?”

“We had an appointment for this morning at nine, but Donald came in early. Around one A.M. He’s on the slab next to the actor. Mugged up in The Bronx. Pelham Bay, IRT station. Ice pick through the top of his head.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“Right. Hey, the ice pick was a nice touch, though — get it? Bartender… ice pick… Well, anyway, how come you’re still alive? How we gonna find you, Abrams? Crushed to death under a mountain of subpoenas?” Spinelli laughed loudly.

Abrams trailed the telephone cord to the refrigerator and poured another cup of juice. He took a long drink, then said, “Nicholas West. You watching him?”

“Yeah. Everybody’s watching that sucker. Who the hell is he?”

“A man with lots of answers.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not even allowed to talk to him. Anyway, he’s tucked in at the Princeton Club.”

“Okay, how about—”

“Hold on. Now it’s your turn, Abrams. Fill me in on what you know. What’s this with the O’Brien firm, for instance? Why is all this shit going down on my turf? Why not Newark, or Berlin or someplace?”

“This phone may not be secure.”

“Oh, cut the shit.”

Abrams realized he wasn’t going to tell Spinelli anything about O’Brien and the OSS Veterans, and this surprised him, but not completely. He heard the shower shut off. “I have to run—”

“Your place is staked out, you know. So is Thirty-sixth Street.”

“I know. Stake out 39 Carmine, too. Thanks.”

“Yeah. Thanks my ass. As soon as you go home to get your socks, I’m pulling you in. I have a warrant for your arrest. You’ll be better off in the slammer anyway.”

Abrams finished the orange juice. “Look, cancel the warrant and I’ll be in your office at nine tomorrow morning.”

“I had an appointment with the bartender at nine this morning. You people keep turning up early in the morgue.”

“I have things to do today. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

Spinelli let a long time go by before responding. “Okay. Tomorrow at nine.” He hesitated, then said, “Hey… Tony… watch yourself. Okay?”

“Okay.” Abrams hung up and stood in the middle of the living room. He heard Katherine’s hair dryer go on. He figured he should put his pants on to walk through her bedroom to the shower. On the other hand, she’d already seen him in his shorts, and he didn’t want to appear unduly modest or shy. The logistics of these things got sort of muddled.

The hair dryer went off and she came to the door wearing the kimono. “Are you going to shower? I’ll dry my hair in the bedroom. There are shaving things in the bathroom… I have disposable razors and toothbrushes.”

“Does one have my name on the handle?”

“Possibly. Look under T.” She went back into the bedroom and he heard the dryer go on again.

Abrams hung his holster over his shoulder and went into her bedroom. She was sitting at the vanity with brush and dryer and took no notice of him. He saw the bathroom door and went in, closing it behind him. The bathroom at least was modern, which was to say circa 1955.

He slipped off his shorts and stood in front of the mirror. Neatly laid out on the sink top were the disposable razor and toothbrush along with a can of aerosol shaving cream. There was a bottle of aftershave lotion sporting a little man playing polo. A haberdasher had tried to explain to him once why the little polo player was worth about twenty to thirty dollars more than, say, an alligator or a penguin. He sniffed the bottle. It was definitely Thorpe’s scent.

Abrams shaved, then showered. He dried himself, passed on the aftershave lotion in favor of some witch hazel, then wrapped himself in the bath towel. Boxer shorts in one hand, gun and holster in the other, he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.

She was standing in front of her dresser wearing only a pair of running shorts and holding a T-shirt in her hands. They held eye contact without speaking for what seemed like a long time, then Abrams turned and walked out of the bedroom.

Abrams sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. He had, he reflected, come a long way since Friday morning when he’d arrived at work to find a small stack of terse memos and notes on his desk, all signed Kimberly.

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Katherine called out, “May I come in?”

“Sure.”

She entered the living room, dressed in white cotton shorts and the blue T-shirt, carrying her shoes and socks. She looked him up and down, dressed in the green bath towel. “You won’t get far in that.” She smiled, then sat in the armchair and pulled on her sweat socks. Abrams found himself looking at her legs.

After a few seconds of silence, they both said simultaneously, “I’m sorry—” then both smiled.

Abrams said, “I should have knocked.”

“Well, I should have… dressed when I heard the shower running.”

“We’ll get it together next time.”

She tied her running shoes. “I see you hung your clothes neatly on my kitchen table. Why don’t you get dressed behind me while we talk?”

“Right.” Abrams walked to the small round table in the corner and began dressing.

She said, “We can’t both hide out here forever.”

“No, but there is a certain safety in numbers.” He tucked his shirt in and slipped his shoulder holster on. “I suggest that whoever is still alive by tonight stay at the house on Thirty-sixth Street. The police are watching it.”

She nodded. “That sounds sensible. Claudia will enjoy the company.”

Abrams didn’t respond. He walked around the armchair and sat on the couch across from her. He put on his socks and shoes.

She stood, stretched, and touched her toes. “Well, this will be a good run. I’ll meet you at your place in about an hour.”

“Fine.” He stood and slipped on his jacket. “Is there a group that meets at City Hall?”

“Yes. People leave in groups between seven and eight. I’ll be all right.”

He unbolted the door and looked into the small hallway, then turned back to Katherine. “Take a taxi to City Hall.”

“Of course.” She stood and looked at him. “Tony… you know, I’m starting to feel guilty about dragging you into this.”

He smiled. “I had no plans for the long weekend anyway.”

She didn’t respond.

Abrams looked at her. “Where do you think we might meet Peter Thorpe?”

She stared back at him, then replied, “Anywhere along the route.”

“Well, we’ll keep a sharp eye out for him.”

She nodded.

Abrams pulled the door closed behind him, drew his revolver, and began walking down the four flights of stairs.

32

Peter Thorpe walked the length of the long, dimly lit garret and stood beside the hospital gurney. He looked down at Nicholas West, who lay naked on the table, bathed in bright light, a black strap securing his legs, another across his chest and arms.

Beside the table were two intravenous stands, a heart monitor, a rolling cabinet that held medical instruments, and two electrical consoles. There were tubes and wires running from West’s body. Anyone coming onto the scene would think they were seeing a terminal patient; in fact, they were.

Thorpe put on a pair of black wraparound sunglasses and regarded West for a few seconds, then asked, “How are you, Nicko?”

West managed to nod his head as he squinted into the blinding spotlight.

“Good.” Thorpe bent closer to West. “Could be worse, you know.”

Thorpe’s head cast a shadow over West, and West was able to open his eyes for the first time in many hours. He stared up at the face hovering over him and focused on the black, curved sunglasses, trying to recall, in his drug-clouded mind, the name of an animal, then mumbled, “A mole… you’re a mole… ”

Thorpe laughed, then said, “When I was a boy, Nick, I used to follow those raised mole tunnels across the lawn. Sometimes I’d be rewarded at the end of a tunnel. I would see some slight movement… I’d carry a spade with me, and I’d drive that spade into the sod where the mole was burrowed, and cut the little guy in half.”

West said nothing.

Thorpe smiled. “The image of that blind, stupid mole, thinking he was safe in his pathetic tunnel, eating his grubs, but leaving an unmistakable trail, always stayed with me, Nick. And when that spade severed him in half, I wondered what passed through his feeble brain. Why did nature provide so inadequately for his survival? Is there a spade poised above my head? We’ll discuss that.”

Thorpe moved back, and the blinding spotlight fell full on West’s face again, forcing him to shut his eyes. Thorpe smiled, then turned to Eva. “How are his vital signs?”

The big Polish woman nodded. “He is a healthy man. Good blood pressure, heart rate, breathing.” Eva checked the catheter inserted in West’s penis, then stooped down and pointed to the urine-holding bag. “His water is clear.”

Thorpe glanced at the lower shelf of the gurney. There was also a jar for collecting aspirated fluids from the lungs, and a rectal tube running through a hole in the gurney. Eva said, “There is no more solid waste.”

Thorpe reached up and snapped off the spotlight. West opened his eyes and the two men stared at each other for some time. Finally, Thorpe spoke. “Poor Nick. But you always knew, didn’t you, that you were doomed to wind up naked on a table like this?”

West nodded. “… knew…”

Thorpe leaned closer to West. “Did you ever think it would be my table?”

West opened his mouth and his words came out in slow, labored syllables. “Peter… please… don’t do this to me… ”

“Why not?” snapped Thorpe. “I’ve done it to people who deserved it less than you.” Thorpe added, “To people I’ve respected more than you.”

“Peter… for God’s sake… I’ll tell you whatever you want to know… please, this is not necessary… ”

Thorpe looked at the red digital LCD readout. “The voice-stress analyzer says that was a lie, Nick.” He looked at the polygraph paper. “And the lie detector says the same thing. You know what happens when you fib.”

West shook his head violently. “No! No! No!”

“Yes, yes yes.” Thorpe nodded to Eva, who was waiting expectantly with two alligator clips in her hands. She attached the clips to West’s scrotum.

Thorpe moved the dial of the direct-current transformer.

“No! No! N—” West’s face suddenly contorted into an agonized grimace and he screamed as his body convulsed. “Ahhh… Ahhh!”

Thorpe turned off the transformer. He said to West, “You know, Nick, it was I who perfected this method of interrogation. It’s unofficially called the Thorpe Method. I always wanted something sinister named after me. Like Monsieur Guillotine’s little gadget, or Lynch’s law… ”

West’s eyes were rolled back and saliva ran from the corners of his mouth.

Thorpe went on, “It’s a combination of mild drug doses, coupled with electric shock. I combine this with physical restraint to give the subject a feeling of helplessness.” He yawned, “God, I’m tired.”

“… Ooooh…”

Thorpe seemed not to hear. “Also, you’re given a balanced diet of sugars, vitamins, and protein so your brain won’t start shorting out. Do you realize that starved prisoners can’t remember things they’re being asked about, even if they wanted to talk? I also use some experimental memory drugs. Very advanced technique.” Thorpe put his hand in his pocket and jingled some change. “And, of course, I have the voice and polygraph analyses so that you only get a jolt when you’re lying. ‘The professional interrogator must suppress his natural sadistic tendencies. To inflict pain for its own sake is counterproductive. It builds resentment and resistance on the part of the prisoner.’ You only get it when you deserve it.” He looked at Eva, then at West. “We must be modern. Agreed?”

West tried to speak, but his tongue seemed out of control and he made unintelligible sounds.

Thorpe patted West’s thigh. “There, there. Cat got your tongue? Just relax a minute.”

Eva said, “He is stalling. The electric shock makes him lose his tongue, but he pretends it is for longer than it is.”

“Perhaps. But within a few days I’ll have my way with him. When he’s broken, he’ll talk and talk and even volunteer information we haven’t thought to ask for.” Thorpe motioned to a video camera suspended on a boom. “And it will all be recorded in color and quality sound.”

Eva snorted. “Americans are too in love with their gadgets.”

Thorpe laughed as he pushed the rewind button on a video recorder, then hit the play button.

Eva grabbed West’s head in a powerful grip and pulled back his eyelids.

A video monitor above West’s face came to life and West’s voice came out of a speaker: “No! No! N—!” followed by the sound of West’s piercing scream.

West stared up at the image of himself screaming and twisting in agony.

Thorpe shut off the player. “You see what I did to you, Nick? How would you like to watch hours of reruns like that? It’s almost as bad as the real thing, isn’t it, pal? Look at you. You’re sweating like a pig.”

Eva made a noise of disgust.

Thorpe grinned. “Another refinement in the Thorpe Method is the use of pleasure to reinforce truth. For instance…” He poked West in the ribs. “Pay attention. Now, answer carefully. Is anyone other than you familiar with the contents of the Talbot file?”

West blinked and shook his head, then remembered that he had to answer in complete sentences. “No… except Ann… She is familiar with the Talbot file… No one else.”

Thorpe kept his eyes on the two lie-analyzers. Then nodded. “Very good, Nick. Thank you.” He nodded to Eva.

Eva loosened West’s chest strap a notch and West took long, deep breaths. She poured mineral oil from a bottle and massaged it into West’s sweaty shoulders.

Thorpe hit a button on the console and the soft strains of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” filled the room. Thorpe said, “You have such saccharine taste in music, Nick.”

Thorpe turned to Eva, who was now massaging West’s legs. “I tell you, Eva, I’ve seen it work a dozen times. Everyone tries to avoid pain, but that does nothing to satisfy the human psyche or to get the prisoner on your side. The body and mind also need pleasure.” Thorpe shut off the music. “That was torture to me.” He laughed.

West cleared his throat. “Monster…”

Thorpe smiled. “Another Thorpe Method, Mr. West, is to let the prisoner vilify you. In the bad old days that would have gotten you a broken jaw. But as long as the analyzers show that you really believe that, you won’t receive any pain.”

“I do.”

Thorpe nodded. “Also, I sometimes use sex if I feel the prisoner requires it as a reward for truth.” He bent over West and said in a stage whisper, “Don’t worry. If I use sex, it won’t be her.” He laughed. “That’s no treat. I know — I have to service her once a week.”

Eva looked flustered, but she smiled tightly as she wiped her oily hands on a towel.

Thorpe came closer to West. “Okay, Professor, let’s continue. Why did you discount O’Brien as Talbot?”

West replied, almost dreamily, “He was being set up… no real evidence… he was being maneuvered into compromising situations… by Talbot… ”

“How can you be so sure?”

“They tried to kill O’Brien… after the war… real attempt… hunting accident in Utah… bullet in the stomach… almost died… ”

“I never knew that.”

“Secret… in the files… ”

“So why can’t you deduce who it was who tried to frame O’Brien during the war? Why don’t you know who Talbot is?”

“Guess… guess… three people… not one… Trinity… probably unknown to each other.”

Thorpe rubbed his chin, then bent closer to West. “Could one of them be my father?”

West stared at Thorpe for a long time, then closed his eyes and drifted off.

Eva passed a vial of smelling salts under West’s nose. West turned his face and Eva slapped him.

Thorpe repeated the question.

West nodded. “Yes… yes… it’s possible… ”

“How close was O’Brien to the truth?”

“He thought he was close.”

Thorpe glanced at the analyzers. “That was a tricky way to answer, Nick. Don’t get tricky on me.”

Eva said, “You see, these gadgets can be fooled.”

Thorpe smiled. “For a while. That’s how I beat the Company’s yearly interrogation. But coupled with torture, time, and technique, the Thorpe Method works.”

Eva picked up a surgical scalpel from the instrument table. “If I remove one testicle, he will do whatever is necessary to protect the other one.”

West turned his head toward her. “No!”

Thorpe said impatiently, “I’m the interrogator, not you, Eva. Leave.”

Eva threw her scalpel down and stomped off.

Thorpe glanced at West and could see the terror in his eyes. Thorpe smiled. The final refinement in the Thorpe Method was this Damocles sword, or scalpel, hanging over the prisoner.

West said softly, “Peter, please… I can’t think straight with her near me… ”

“Now, now.” Thorpe put his hand on West’s arm. “We won’t give her any reason to use the scalpel.”

West nodded.

Thorpe pulled up a stool and sat beside the gurney. “All right, Professor, another method of mine is to let you ask some questions. Shoot.”

West stared at Thorpe for some time, then asked, “Who do you work for?”

“The KGB, of course.” He smiled. “I’m actually a major. The Russians love ranks. They think I’m honored to be a major. They’re more rank conscious than the Nazis were.”

“If you’re a KGB officer, why don’t you know who Talbot is?”

“They won’t tell me that. They want me to see if I can discover it. If I can, then the CIA, or you, or O’Brien, can also.”

“Who do you suspect?”

Thorpe smiled. “My father, for one. But I think Pat O’Brien is — was — on to someone else, who, as farfetched as it sounds, may also be Talbot.”

“O’Brien—”

“Is dead, Nick. Next question.”

West stayed silent for some time, then asked, “Carbury…?”

“I confess.” Thorpe lit a cigarette. “After I had the double lead off Kate’s private detectives, he was vulnerable. I picked the lock in his room, and when he returned to dress for dinner, I bashed his head in with a walking stick. I stuffed him in a plastic trash bag, along with the stick and his tuxedo, and dropped him out the window into the alley. He was collected later by friends of mine. Fortunately, he had his briefcase with him. I’ll show you what was in it later. Unfortunately, however, I overlooked the blood on my cuff. Mr. Abrams did not overlook it. Mr. Abrams will pay with his own blood. Next question.”

“You… madman…”

“Question!”

West licked his lips, then said, “Why is Talbot so important… Why is Moscow ordering murders on American and British soil to protect him?… Why not get him out of the country…?”

Thorpe replied, “Obviously, Nick, they need him in the country.”

“Why?”

Thorpe shrugged. “I’m not certain. But I do know that America’s days are numbered. Most probably the end will come on the July Fourth weekend. That much I had to be told so I’d be prepared… and safe.”

“First strike?”

“No.” Thorpe dropped his cigarette on the floor. “I thought perhaps you knew something.”

“No.”

Thorpe’s hand was already on the dial and he gave West a massive electrical shock.

West bellowed at the top of his lungs and his body strained against the straps. He bit his tongue and blood ran over his lips. “Oh… oh… no…” Tears formed in his eyes and Thorpe wiped them away with a handkerchief. “There, there… why do you make me do that?”

West was sobbing. “Peter… please… try to understand… I’m conditioned to respond… give me a second chance… before you do that… ”

Thorpe shook his head. “I’m reconditioning you, Nick. The child psychology books and animal behavior books all say that one must be consistent with rewards and punishments. The Torturer’s Handbook—yes, there is such a thing; I helped rewrite it — says the very same thing. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And I promise you, I’ll stick to the book. I’ll never lose my temper with you, never act out of personal motivations, whether they be evil or benign. I’ve had other friends on this table.”

“My God…”

“Now what do you know of the Soviet plan?”

West drew a deep breath and replied, “I think… it has to do with… Peter, listen… listen to me… They’re going to kill you… they won’t let you live knowing… this…”

Thorpe stared at the analyzers, then said softly, “You believe that, don’t you?” He looked at his watch. “I don’t have any more time for you right now.” He slid off the stool. “First things first, which is one of Katherine’s favorite aphorisms. The first thing I have to do is finalize the plans to kidnap her.”

West managed to raise his head. “Who…?”

“Katherine. While I’m at it, I’ll kill Abrams.”

“Tony Abrams…? Why?”

“I don’t like him. But from a practical standpoint, he could become a problem. Anyway, you’ll have company soon. Kate will be lying next to you by this evening. What a chorus you’ll make. Stereophonic singing.”

“You’re sick. Everyone knows it. Ann knows it, I know it—”

Thorpe reached for the dial, but hesitated, then took a deep breath and moved his hand away. “You will not bait me, you little shit.”

“Temper…”

Thorpe leaned over West so that their faces were inches apart. “Let me give you a little news about your beloved Ann—”

“Ann…”

“Is dead.”

“No. No.”

“Yes… And I’m going to kill you, too. And I don’t care that you know, because your knowledge of Ann’s death, and your own forthcoming death, will in no way alter the outcome of your debriefing.”

“You… you didn’t… couldn’t… She is not dead.”

“She is.” Thorpe put his finger on West’s forehead and pushed. “That’s where I’m going to put the bullet in your head. Do you believe that?”

“Y-y-yes.”

Thorpe looked at the polygraph and voice analyzer. “That is one of the few questions that will produce an inconclusive response.” He tapped West’s forehead. “Believe it. Right here. Bang! And that’s a favor because I have nothing against you personally. For people who’ve crossed me, death takes two weeks.”

West stared at Thorpe, then said, “How could you… to Katherine…?”

Thorpe straightened up and began moving away. “On a professional level, she has information that I’d like to have. Personally, I’d like to see the arrogant bitch strapped on a table howling her guts out. What a film that would make.”

“Peter… if you have any soul… any heart at all—”

“I don’t. And speaking of balls, keep an eye out for Eva.”

“Peter… Katherine doesn’t know anything I don’t know.”

“We’ll find out. By tonight you’ll both be trying to outscream each other to get my attention.”

“Ann is not dead!”

“Stop worrying about the Kimberly girls, West. There’s nothing you can do for them. Or for anyone, including yourself.”

Thorpe walked to the doors then turned back. “Within a few hours I’ll have the first edited videotapes of you and Katherine delivered to Glen Cove. My Russian friends will be both enlightened and amused by them. They wanted you themselves, but as with most things they do, they torture badly.”

West’s voice carried across the room, surprisingly strong. “They’re going to kill you, you fool.”

“Not as long as I have you. Not as long as they need me. And I’ll be certain they need me until—”

“The end. Then they’ll liquidate you. You have no place in their plans.”

“There’s always a place for a man like me, Nicko.” Thorpe stayed silent for some time, then said, “Within a few weeks, based partly on what you and Katherine tell me, we will know for certain if and how we can proceed. We will know if America is to live or die. But as for you two, you can consider yourselves already dead. Speak to you later, pal.”

33

Katherine Kimberly ran onto the Brooklyn Bridge’s boardwalk and began the uphill climb. The morning had dawned clear and cool, and the view was magnificent. The boards beneath her feet were resilient and, as always, she reveled in their springiness. She began the downhill portion and picked up her speed.

A few vehicles passed in either direction and she found herself looking more at them than at the view. A brown van came up behind her and she heard it slow. She increased her stride and looked back over her shoulder. The van drew abreast of her and kept pace. She began an all-out sprint and caught up to a small group of joggers.

The van drew abreast again and a man looked out the open passenger-side window. He called out. “Hey! Want a ride?”

She glanced at him and in a split second, based on instinct and experience, knew he was harmless. She ignored him and kept running. The van pulled ahead and disappeared.

Katherine stayed with the group and followed the exit ramp around Cadman Plaza, then ran south on Henry Street. A few early risers watched idly. A truck driver whistled. A small boy fell in beside her and asked in the local dialect, “Youse runnin’?”

Katherine smiled at the obvious question.

“Hey, can I run witch youse?”

“Sure… no. No, it’s not safe.” She put on a burst of speed and outdistanced the boy.

The few other runners she had stayed with turned into Cranberry Street and headed for the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Katherine continued alone down Henry Street at too fast a pace, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. She was sweaty, and found her breathing to be much harder than it should have been.

She saw Abrams’ building ahead, an expensive highrise set among the brownstones. She increased her stride. As the landscaped entrance to the building came up, she cut diagonally across the forecourt and pushed through the glass doors. She leaned against the foyer wall and caught her breath, then glanced at her chronograph: 4.62 miles in 39 minutes. Not bad.

Katherine pushed at the inner glass doors, but they were locked. She turned to find Abrams’ buzzer, but a man inside the lobby opened the door for her. She hesitated, then slid past him and crossed the lobby quickly. She pushed the elevator button and waited. The man stood in the center of the lobby staring at her. The elevator came and she rode up to the sixth floor.

Katherine rang the bell of apartment 6C. The peephole slid back, then the door opened. “Come in.”

She exhaled a long breath and stepped into a small foyer.

Abrams said, “Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so… but there’s a man in your lobby. Brown suit, tall—”

“Cop.” He glanced at her. “Anything wrong?”

She forced a smile. “I got myself worked up.” She realized she was glad to be there. She felt safe with him. She looked at his tattered blue sweat suit, splattered with paint stains. The sweat shirt said NYPD GYM. “Is that Brooklyn chic?”

“Right. It signals to the muggers that I’m poor but armed.” He led her into the living room. She glanced around. This was not what she’d expected.

He followed her gaze but said nothing.

She turned back to him. “Are you armed?”

“Yes. You too. Lift your shirt.”

She hesitated, then hiked her T-shirt up. Abrams took a nylon gun belt from the coffee table, wrapped it around her waist, and pressed the Velcro fastener together. “How’s that feel?”

She drew a deep breath. “Fine.”

He produced a holster and clipped it on the belt near the small of her back.

She pulled down her shirt.

Abrams handed her a small silver automatic. “It’s a 7.65 Beretta, unloaded. Play with it.”

She operated the slide, checked the safety and the trigger pull. “It’s light.”

“Jogger’s Special. It won’t bother you much.”

“Will it bother anyone else?”

He smiled. “It doesn’t have much stopping power, and it’s pretty inaccurate, but it’s otherwise reliable.” He handed her two magazines of seven rounds apiece. “Aim for the midsection, and keep squeezing off rounds. It’s a fast reload.”

She slapped one magazine in the butt of the pistol, and put the other in her zippered pants pocket. She reached behind and slipped the gun in the holster, drawing it out to get the feel of it, then sliding it back in.

Abrams watched her, then said, “I know you’re used to your own cannon, but that’s the best I could do.”

“It’s fine. Really.”

The conversation, thought Abrams, had a bizarre quality to it, as though he had given her a cheap wristwatch and she was trying to hide her disappointment. “Who taught you about guns?”

“Peter.” She didn’t elaborate, but said, “What are you carrying?”

Abrams tapped his chest. “My thirty-eight in a shoulder holster. Sit down a minute.”

She sat on the couch, again taking in the room.

Abrams sat in a tan leather chair. “When I was on the force, I made some good investments.”

She seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I looked surprised.”

“Well, the police internal affairs people looked even more surprised when they paid an unexpected visit. They literally took the place apart searching for bag money.”

Again she seemed ill at ease. “But you were able to explain…?”

Abrams sat back. “Marcy’s father was a stockbroker. She never knew I had dealings with him.” He smiled.

She smiled in return.

“Anyway, the internal affairs people were satisfied, but I was pulled out of intelligence, put back into uniform, and assigned to Staten Island to watch the birds. I realized I was not going anywhere and about that time Mr. O’Brien offered to put me on full time, so I left the force.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“Do you? Well, that job offer couldn’t have been better timed.”

There was a long silence in the room, then she said, “You aren’t suggesting that Mr. O’Brien had anything to do with—”

“I’m suggeting that Mr. O’Brien could get the Pope framed on charges of heresy if it suited his purpose.”

“Well…” She remembered the misfortunes that had befallen her ex-husband. “Well… he’s not malicious. I mean, there’s always a reason—”

“I’m sure of it. But there is no excuse. Not for manipulating people’s lives. Anyway, there’s no proof, is there? And no hard feelings, really.”

She changed the subject. “You have good taste in decorating.”

“Actually, Cousin Herbie is a decorator. Uncle Sy is in the furniture business, Aunt Ruth is in rugs… You know how it is.”

“No, I don’t.” She stood. “I think we’d better go.”

He remained seated. “Isn’t Peter going to meet us here?”

“I don’t think so. Later.”

He stood. “Wait.” He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of brown liquid. “My own recipe.”

She held up her glass and looked at it suspiciously. “What is this?”

“Apples, bananas, cornflakes, and… I forget. Whatever is around goes in the blender.”

“Some recipe.” She sipped it. “Not too bad.”

Abrams emptied his glass. “Great. Well, the facilities are down that hall.”

She nodded. “I’ll be a minute.”

He watched her as she disappeared into the hallway. She was, he knew, in a state of turmoil. Her lover might be a traitor and a murderer. People around her were dying, and her own life was probably in danger. To add to the excitement, she truly believed the world was coming to an end. And probably, he thought, she’d already figured out that he wanted to take her to bed. This, he admitted, might not be the best possible time to broach that subject. Yet he knew he had to.

She returned. “I’m ready.” She looked at him.

Abrams remembered something O’Brien had told him in a candid moment: She’s approachable. But as in warfare, you have to find a point of approach. He considered several, remembering another martial adage: In war, there is no room for two mistakes. “Katherine…”

She was studying his face and said, “No, Tony. One thing at a time.”

“I’m only considering one thing at this time.”

“One person at a time. Okay?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

She smiled slowly. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“Neither do you.” He indicated the door.

She moved toward it, then turned suddenly.

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

After some time, she pulled gently away. “We have things to do… first things first.”

“World War Three, or whatever the hell it is, can wait.”

“No… come…” She smiled. “Let’s go burn off some frustration.”

Abrams nodded as he followed her to the door. Peter Thorpe was his major frustration at the moment, and Abrams thought that he would find some pleasure in burning him off.

34

Nicholas West sensed the presence of someone near him and opened his eyes, squinting into the blinding light.

Thorpe’s form hovered above him. Thorpe said, “So, how are you, buddy?”

West shook his head. “Suffering.”

“It’s all relative. Well, let’s begin.” Thorpe drew up the stool and sat.

West turned his head to both sides. “Katherine…?”

Thorpe smiled. “Not yet. But she’s coming. She’s coming.” Thorpe lit a cigarette.

West said, “My pipe…”

“Yes, I’ll get you your pipe, after we’ve discovered some truths.” Thorpe blew smoke in West’s face, then said, “What did Ann do for the National Security Agency?”

West ran his tongue over his dry cracked lips. “Water…”

“Christ, Nick, if you stall one more time…” Thorpe slid off the stool and went to a refrigerator, returning with a paper cup of ice chips. He dropped a few chips into West’s open mouth, then said, “What is — was — Ann’s job with the NSA?”

West mumbled something and Thorpe drew closer. “What?”

West spit in Thorpe’s face.

Thorpe drew back and said, “You son of a bitch!” He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

West said, “Lies equal pain, truth equals pleasure.”

Thorpe’s face reddened, then he broke into a smile. “All right, you little nerd. The worm turns. Is that it, Nick?”

West replied, “Your technique is bad. I hate you, I resent you, and I will resist you.”

Thorpe looked at the analyzers. “True statement. But these are early innings. Your heroics won’t last very long. Now, tell me about Ann.”

West hesitated, then said, “She’s involved with breaking codes.”

Thorpe nodded. “Russian codes. Specifically, she listens to traffic between Moscow and the Soviet diplomatic missions in New York, Washington, and Glen Cove. True?”

“True.”

“About six weeks ago, Ann Kimberly’s section notified the CIA and other intelligence agencies in Washington of an interesting occurrence. To wit: On the evening of April twelfth of this year, all radio traffic between Moscow and Glen Cove ceased for about six seconds, then resumed.”

Thorpe studied West’s face, then added, “As you probably know, radio codes between sensitive locations are continuous, even if nothing is actually being said. This is a security procedure so that people listening in will not draw any inferences from an increase or decrease in radio traffic. So, this six-second break was noteworthy, though not earthshaking. After the NSA’s routine report, the FBI reported back that there was a severe electrical storm on Long Island that evening, and that the Russian house, on the highest point in the area, was struck by lightning. End of mystery.”

West licked his lips, but said nothing.

Thorpe went on. “But wait. According to the NSA and others familiar with advanced electronics, something was not kosher. So, further inquiries were made. And lo and behold, a man out on his sloop, racing for the harbor during the storm, actually saw the lightning that struck the Russian house.”

Thorpe leaned over and put his elbows casually on the edge of the gurney. “Only it didn’t strike the house, Nick. It struck an antenna that was planted in the ground some distance from the house. The man saw this as the lightning struck and flashed. Furthermore, being familiar with that antenna as a landmark, he swears that it had a very tall extension atop it that he never saw before or since. What do you conclude, Nick?”

West said, “Lightning rod.”

“Correct. They were trying to attract lightning to that rod. True?”

“True.”

“Then why the hell did the power go out, Nick? The rod should have been grounded, not connected in some way to the house power. Even the stupid Russkies know how a lightning rod works.”

West said nothing.

Thorpe continued, “Well, I told my Russian friends that this occurrence had not gone undetected, and they got pretty upset. They asked me to pursue this further. Highest priority.”

West remained silent.

Thorpe flipped his cigarette on the floor, then said, “Of course, the remarkable thing was that after they attracted that huge power surge on purpose, their lights, radios, and apparently everything else were not damaged. And, in fact, everything was functioning again within six seconds. Conclusion: They were playing Ben Franklin, experimenting with electricity. But for what purpose? Nick?”

West said hesitantly, “The NSA… came to a private conclusion… They told all other agencies involved to forget it… Their conclusion was classified State Secret—”

“I know that, damn you. I never saw that conclusion. But perhaps you did. Perhaps Ann was privy to that conclusion. You had one quick meeting with her in Washington April twenty-ninth. Sometime between your passionate embraces, she told you the conclusion. What was it?”

West said nothing.

Thorpe reached for the transformer dial. “A stall equals a lie. Three seconds, two, one—”

“Wait! Wait! She said… They were testing… surge arrestors… like circuit breakers… they wanted to… to make their electrical and electronic systems invulnerable to electrical storms… So there would be no lengthy interruption of radio communication.”

Thorpe was studying the analyzers. He finally spoke. “True, as far as it goes. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Otherwise my friends in Glen Cove wouldn’t be so nervous about it. What else did Ann say?”

“Nothing.”

Thorpe twisted the dial and held it.

West’s body arched off the table. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His bladder released into the tube, and his heart rate dropped dangerously.

Thorpe shut off the current. “Well, I’ve been itching to give you a big blast. But now you’re useless for a few minutes.”

West’s body settled onto the table, twitching, his muscles in spasm. His skin was pale and dry and his eyes were rolled back so that only the whites showed.

Thorpe said, “I’m fairly certain this experiment in Glen Cove had something to do with the Stroke — that’s what the Russians call their plan to destroy America, or, as they put it, to bring eternal peace to the world… Nick?”

West’s face had gone ash-gray, and his breathing was irregular.

Thorpe looked at the heart monitor. “Oh, Christ.” He stood quickly and took a hypodermic needle from the instrument table and plunged it into West’s shoulder. “There. That ought to bring you back to the land of the living.”

Thorpe waited anxiously for several minutes, watching the heart monitor. “It would be my luck that your little chicken heart would stop… and don’t go into convulsions on me, you wimp… ” Thorpe waited, then said, “West! Can you hear me?”

West nodded slowly.

“Good. Ready for more conversation?”

West shook his head. “You… almost… killed me… ”

“Almost doesn’t count. Actually, it’s difficult to kill someone with the amount of volts this puts out. I tried it once. You’ll get your bullet when the time comes. I promise you that.”

“Now… I want… it now.”

“Oh, no. You are a coward.” Thorpe sat on the stool again. “Okay, I’ll speak awhile, and you listen.” Thorpe made an adjustment in the polygraph. “Think about what I’m saying. First, Moscow is concerned that parts of their plan may have been exposed. One way that could have happened is through NSA electronic snooping. So you’re going to tell me what Ann has told you.”

“Ann… is not… dead… you would have… kidnapped… ”

“We tried. But she died. Suicide, actually. Very badly bungled. Two more for Siberia.” He laughed.

“You… for Siberia…”

“Shut up. Anyway, another way this plan could be compromised is through the CIA in pursuit of its mission to uncover such nasty schemes. With the help of your high authorization code, my computer is right now scanning Langley’s computer for key words and names that will let me know if there is any suspicion of Moscow’s Operation Stroke.” Thorpe stared at the polygraph paper and saw that West was very agitated. He said, “Will anything show up?”

West’s tongue lolled in his mouth, then he said, “There’s. plenty in there… about you… ”

Thorpe nodded. “Rest assured, I’m scanning for that also, my friend. In fact, I may just have to go on an extended sabbatical very soon.”

“You… are like me… you know too much. You have no friends… no place to hide.”

“There’s always China.” He laughed. “But to continue — another source of trouble is O’Brien’s old-boys network. They are on to something. But they’re being led to believe that some Arab terrorist group is going to obliterate Wall Street with a small nuclear weapon. Not a bad idea, but no cigar.”

Thorpe stretched his arms and legs. “I’m having sympathetic muscle cramps.” He laughed, then added, “Actually, Nick, I don’t think O’Brien and Company completely bought that. Neither did my people in the Company. You see, Nick, as far as I can determine, the Russians have an obsession with the concept of troika — the three-horse sleigh. They are fascinated by the trinity — three acting as one.”

West stared at Thorpe and tried to think clearly. Thorpe was onto something. Just as Thorpe had always underestimated him because of his physical frailty, so, because of Thorpe’s physical power, he, West, underestimated Thorpe’s powers of deduction, intuition, and comprehension.

Thorpe cracked his knuckles and looked down at West. “Therefore,” he continued, “they actually formulated three independent plans to cripple or destroy America. The first was the nuclear destruction of the financial center. The second, which I was led to believe, was the accessing of all American computers — civilian and military — and the simultaneous destruction, altering, or stealing of everything stored in the memory banks.”

Thorpe rubbed his chin reflectively, then said, “And now, Nick, you and I have touched on this third plan, which I believe is the one they are going with. The other two plans seemed real to those of us who discovered them, because they were and perhaps still are real options. Nothing lies like the truth. And so all the resources of Western intelligence, including you and me, Nick, and including private analysts such as O’Brien and Company, were mobilized to uncover the details of these two plans. But somewhere along the line, O’Brien got to thinking. He realized there was a third plan. And he began operating on that premise. He received information that the Russians were acquiring certain exotic types of Western electronic technology. He alerted the government to his initial findings. And that warning leaked back to the Russians. So, we all find ourselves in a quandary. The Russians are trying to figure out how much the United States really knows and how good their defenses are. The United States is trying to figure out if the blow is going to come to the face, the stomach, or the groin, or not at all. And wondering if maybe they shouldn’t strike first.”

Thorpe looked down at West. “When we are through here, Nick, we will know who, how, and where. We already know when — July Fourth. We know why — because as a result of a sort of political Darwinism, the world today has been reduced to two dominant species. Only one of them can survive.”

West drew a deep breath. “You’re mad… Why do you feel this need to dominate…?

“Why do you feel the need not to?” Thorpe lit a cigarette and drew it thoughtfully, then said, “Anyway, the final problem in Moscow is this Talbot business.” Thorpe reached down and picked up a leather dispatch case. “This is what Colonel Carbury was carrying.” He upturned the case and dumped the contents across West’s stomach and chest. “A diary and personal letters from the late Ann Kimberly to the late Major Henry Kimberly. The late Mr. O’Brien and his people would have found this diary very useful in uncovering Talbot, who was, after all, one of their own.”

Thorpe lifted the diary from West’s chest. “Or should I say three of their own? Yes, like you, Henry Kimberly concluded that there were perhaps three highly placed traitors. We will read this diary together and try to deduce what Major Kimberly deduced.” “The one described as a high-ranking officer in OSS counter

“Go to hell.”

Thorpe continued, “Kimberly seemed to know who these traitors were, but he never wrote the names, using only the expressions Talbot One, Two, and Three, like some ancient Hebrew who would not write or say the name of God.”

Thorpe opened the diary and read an entry: “‘I have narrowed down the names of OSS officers who could have been responsible for betraying us to the Russians. One of them is a close Donovan aide, and known to me. The other, a ranking officer in OSS counterintelligence, is a dear friend. The third is an OSS officer in the political section, a man who will assuredly go on to a political career after the war. Which one is Talbot? Perhaps all of them.’” Thorpe looked up. “End of entry.”

Thorpe put the diary aside. “You know, Nick, if this diary had found its way into O’Brien’s hands, or the hands of the CIA, it would have precipitated a massive investigation that may have led to the identity of Talbot. But once again, God was on the side of the atheists, and this message from the grave will remain undelivered.” Thorpe looked down at West, then focused on the analyzers. “Did you follow what I said?”

“Yes.”

“Could my adoptive father, James Allerton, be the dear friend?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any theories on the other two? Could one or both still be alive?”

“The one described as a high-ranking officer in OSS counter-intelligence.”

“And the one described as a potential politician?”

“Don’t know… I have no information on him.”

“What is the name of the high-ranking officer?”

“I… I’m not certain… I have several names that would fit…”

“Give me the names.”

West said, “Give me a treat.”

Thorpe laughed, then said, “Do you want your pipe?”

“Yes.”

Thorpe took West’s pipe from the instrument table and packed the tobacco tightly. He put the stem in West’s mouth and held a lighter to the bowl.

West drew deeply.

Thorpe said, “This is not your tobacco, of course. That was laced with nicotine alkaloid. So if you’re wondering why you’re not dying, that’s the reason.”

West squinted up at Thorpe as he continued to draw on the pipe.

Thorpe said, “You held out on me, you sneaky bastard. I asked you about poisons.”

West suddenly bit into the stem of the pipe, crunching it between his teeth.

Thorpe pulled the pipe out of West’s mouth and said, “No, no, Nick. I changed the stem, too. Do you think I’m as big an asshole as you are? I’ve been around the block, buddy. Now you’ve lost your smoking privileges.” He set down the pipe.

West’s body was shaking as tears rolled down his face.

Thorpe grabbed West’s ear and pulled his face toward him. “Look, bozo, I’m a pro. You’re an amateur. You can’t beat me, so forget it. You are utterly helpless and defenseless. You are at my mercy. You will lose your soul here, and your heart. When I’m through with you, your ego will be nonexistent. You will not even have enough free will left to commit suicide. But I’ll save you the trouble. Kate will not be so lucky. I’m going to let her live on, as sort of a domesticated house pet.”

West raised his head and spoke softly. “You will pay for this… somehow, in some way… you will be punished… ”

Thorpe smiled. “When a prisoner starts getting mystic and religious, that’s a sign that he’s about had it. I’ll break you sooner than I thought.”

West put his head back on the table and began to sob.

Thorpe gathered the contents of the dispatch case and shut off the polygraph. “I’m afraid I have to go out again. Amuse yourself. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Fuck you.”

Thorpe reached out and held the dial of the transformer. “Not telling me that pipe smoking may be dangerous to your health was a lie of omission, which unfortunately does not always register on the analyzers. Nonetheless, it was a lie—”

“No! No! Please!” West’s body began to quiver in response to a low-voltage charge passing through it. His screaming came out as a teeth-chattering stutter, as though he were freezing.

Thorpe smiled as he continued the mild shock. “That’s almost comical. You should see yourself… well, you will on the reruns. Kate will see it too. And Eva. And the Russians will get a laugh out of this one. God, Nick, you look like a half-wit.”

Thorpe shut off the electricity. “When I return you will tell me more about Talbot and Ann Kimberly. You will tell me what you know of O’Brien and his friends, including Katherine Kimberly, George Van Dorn, and the rest of those arrogant bastards. Also, you will tell me what you know of the Russians in Glen Cove. Your answers may determine whether or not these coming Fourth of July fireworks, picnics, and speeches will be the last.”

35

Abrams watched her as she ran ahead of him. She had a nice stride; long, easy, and graceful.

Abrams glanced around, but no one seemed to be following on foot, or by vehicle. They were near the southern end of Fourth Avenue, having traveled most of the distance from his apartment by subway. The route that Katherine had laid out, and had given to Thorpe, included a series of park runs, connected by subway, with little street running in between. It was, he thought, as if she’d picked dangerous territory on purpose. And, of course, she had.

The odd thing, he thought as he ran behind her, was that neither of them had openly acknowledged that what had started as a running date on Saturday, had become something very like police decoy duty today.

This was partly due to the sensitive topic involved. But it was also due to this refined way of speaking, where one did not say things, but indicated, implied, intimated, or alluded to them. This annoying manner of communication, he observed, was common to lawyers, corporate types, and genteel people in general. He preferred the way cops spoke.

Abrams felt the blood pounding through his veins and sensed the beginning of the runner’s high. He liked Brooklyn running; it was flat and laid back, unlike Manhattan running, which was flat but fanatical.

Brooklyn was brownstone running, quaint residential streets, with no skyblocking skyscrapers. Brooklyn was also the Borough of Churches, and Abrams was always able to orient himself by the dozens of familiar steeples whose clocks also gave him the time.

They turned into 67th Street and followed a strip of grassy panhandle toward Owl’s Head Park, their first possible rendezvous with Peter Thorpe.

Abrams looked up. Katherine was a good hundred yards ahead of him, and he called to her, “Stay close!”

She called back, “Run faster!”

Bitch. He increased his stride.

Abrams’ original intention had been to take her through the Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods where the men turned away from barelegged women runners. Why he had intended to do this, he couldn’t say for sure. In any case, she’d planned the route based more on tactical considerations than sight-seeing or social studies. Still, if they ever ran together again, that’s where he’d take her. Abrams closed the distance as they approached the park.

Another place he’d wanted to take her was one of the new Russian Jewish neighborhoods with their signs in Cyrillic lettering, and the combination of Yiddish and Russian spoken on the bustling streets. These, he recognized, were his real roots, and he was fascinated by the vitality of the neighborhood, the proliferation of emigré businesses and shops.

They entered the park along a path, and he followed her as she cut across the grass, and began the arduous run up the large hill that dominated the park. He felt the sweat collecting around his shoulder holster and the chafing of the holster straps against his skin. He thought of Peter Thorpe, and wondered when they would meet, and how it would happen. The preferred method seemed to be death by misadventure.

Abrams looked up. Katherine stood at the summit of the hill, silhouetted against the clear blue sky. Seagulls circled overhead, and beyond the seagulls was a gray helicopter.

Abrams sprinted up the last twenty yards and stopped on the summit. He bent over and breathed deeply, then straightened up and looked around the sweeping, grassy hill planted with well-spaced trees and bushes. “We seem to be alone.”

She nodded as she caught her breath. She scanned the other slopes. “Early… we’ll take ten minutes here… ”

“Right.” Abrams looked north at the panoramic view of New York harbor, the Statue of Liberty, and the sunlit skyscrapers of lower Manhattan seemingly rising from the water. He turned and looked at Katherine, hair disarrayed, without makeup, sweating, her mouth open, sucking in air. He said, “You’re very beautiful.”

She laughed and tugged on his sweaty shirt. “You look very handsome yourself.”

They began walking in a circle around the crest of the hill. Katherine said, “This place is a mess.”

Abrams nodded. The park was a study in urban decay and neglect. There were broken bottles everywhere, unworkable water fountains, smashed trash receptacles, dog droppings, uncared-for trees, and graffiti on every possible surface. This, he imagined, was probably what Rome’s fabled parks looked like after the barbarians got the upper hand.

Katherine, who was watching him, seemed to sense what he was thinking. She said, “This park needs a good cleaning. It also needs better policing, tighter control.”

Abrams looked at her. She was speaking in that obscure way again, the park being a metaphor. He replied, “Perhaps. But not too much of that. There is a vitality here of people, pursuing their own lives, unburdened by government interference. The price of nearly absolute freedom is borderline anarchy.”

“A little law and order wouldn’t hurt.”

“Whose law? Whose order? Fascists and Communists have in common the desire to get everyone into lockstep. I don’t want to get into lockstep.”

She smiled. “Okay. No more politics. Ready to run?”

“No. Let’s walk awhile.”

She began walking down the hill. “I’ll get you into shape before the summer’s over.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

They walked in silence for a while, then she said, “The next place Peter might meet us is under the Verrazano Bridge.”

Abrams didn’t reply.

They walked south along a narrow asphalt path that ran parallel to the Shore Parkway. A stiff wind began blowing off the bay, churning up whitecaps. She spoke as though she were continuing a conversation, “I mean, we have no solid proof, and what we have could be explained by the fact that he is CIA.” She waited, then added, “Your perceptions may be colored by personal considerations.”

Abrams did not reply for some time, then said, “My perceptions are influenced by fifteen years of detective work.” He added, “You people ask me to find the murderer or kidnapper of Randolph Carbury. I suspect I did. Now I’m just trying to stay alive.”

She said nothing.

Abrams looked out in the bay. A few private boats sailed along close to the shoreline. Overhead, the helicopter made another pass. A few joggers and dog walkers appeared on the strip of park. Abrams motioned toward the rising parachute-jump tower of Coney Island in the far distance. “I used to spend hours at the shooting gallery there. These little toy ducks would move across a tank of water and I’d blast away at them.”

“I’ll bet the local girls fell all over you when you got those Kewpie dolls.”

“I had to turn my rifle on them to keep them away. Anyway, when I grew up, I was assigned to decoy duty, dressed as an old man, trying to attract muggers. I walked through the parks around Coney Island, like a little toy duck. That’s very bad duty. But rewarding. I attracted a lot of muggers, Then I’d do what the little toy ducks never did to me. I’d pull my gun.”

She said, “And here you are again. That must be a lousy feeling.”

“Yes, well, you can take the boy out of Brooklyn, the man out of the police force, and all that… listen to what I’m going to tell you. There are basically five ways to hunt — baiting, trapping, stakeouts, beating the bush, and decoying. It depends on the animal you’re after, the season of the year, and the terrain. With the human animal, you can use all methods, or combinations of methods, in any season and terrain. Just keep in mind that when the human animal approaches, he may take any form, including the guise of a friendly animal. He may wave a cheery hello, or ask for a cigarette. But you must realize you are being attacked, and in that split second of realization you have to act, because a second later it’s too late.”

“But what if you do bodily harm to a man who really is only asking for a cigarette?”

“That’s what the split second is for.”

They continued along the shore for some time. Katherine said, “You’re a complex man. Tough, gentle, streetwise, naive, political, apolitical, educated, anti-intellectual, committed and uncommitted.”

“I’ve played many roles.”

“So, who is Tony Abrams?”

“Beats me. What’s today? Monday? I’m carrying a gun… so today… no, it’s my day off… so—”

“Cut it out.”

They walked awhile in silence, then Abrams said, “Do you know a bartender at the University Club named Donald?”

Katherine replied, “I’m only allowed in the ladies’ lounge, so I elect not to go at all.”

“Well, nevertheless, Donald was mugged and murdered early this morning.”

She didn’t reply.

Abrams added, “Also, a man believed to be Carbury’s double was found in the lower harbor”—he pointed toward the Narrows—“about there, probably. That’s where most of the floaters are found. The currents, I guess.”

She said nothing, but began running again. Abrams followed, finding that his legs and lungs were in better shape than he thought.

They followed the curving shoreline as it swung south and east. Ahead, the Verrazano Bridge rose majestically, spanning the Narrows from Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, to Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. Abrams reflected on how simple national defense had been not so long ago: two stone forts, with artillery batteries that flung five-hundred-pound balls in a crossfire over the approaches to New York harbor. What could be more logical than nineteenth-century military science?

Now, however, national defense began in outer space, and ended in deep missile silos. And the complexities of the system were such that if every adult human brain and hand in the nation were put to work manning that system, it would not be enough. He said suddenly, “Computers.”

She turned her head toward him as she ran. “What?”

“That’s what O’Brien may have been hinting at. They may have found a way to destroy or neutralize all the computers — military, financial, industrial… is that possible?”

She began to slow down, then returned to a walk. After a full minute she said, “Possible… yes… I’ve heard talk of that… the NSA, the people Ann works for, supposedly has a secret book of national access codes… not really a book, but a pulsemodulated tape… ” She looked at him. “This is very sensitive—”

“Then keep it to yourself.”

She went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The NSA sets security standards for military and civilian computers. Therefore, they have inside knowledge of them, and theoretically they can break any computer code in the country. Though this would be illegal.”

“So of course they don’t do that.”

“Well, there’s always been some discussion about the idea of having all computers accessible to a central command post in times of national emergency, such as war or a stock market crash. The theory is that the President could command and control better. You get the idea.”

“Yes, I do. Sounds risky.”

“Well, it would be if somehow all computers could be accessed simultaneously and all computer language translated into one language. Then it’s at least theoretically possible that someone with evil intent could… cause complete havoc.”

“Sounds pretty grim.”

“It would be disastrous.” She looked at him. “What made you think of that?”

Abrams shrugged. “I don’t know. It must have been something I heard, or deduced. It fits O’Brien’s picture, which excluded nuclear or chemical war.” He tapped his forehead. “My personal computer — sometimes it makes computations without me knowing it’s even working.”

She said, “It could be divine inspiration. Do you believe in God?”

“Yes. Human beings aren’t capable of causing all this misery themselves.”

“Cynic.”

They walked silently, listening to the water washing the shore. She said, “I’ll explore that further. Any other thoughts on the subject?”

“No. I’ll have to wait for another divine message. I hear voices sometimes.”

She smiled. “Do you? What do these voices say?”

“Lately they’ve been saying I should go to Miami for a month.”

“Really? What language do they speak to you in?”

He smiled at the standard interrogation used by priests, rabbis, and psychiatrists on the subject of voices. “They speak a sort of English with a Brooklyn Jewish accent. Sometimes I think it’s not God, but one or more of my dead relatives. That was their advice for all life’s problems. Go to Miami.”

“Are you going?”

“No, it’s off-season. My relatives would turn in their graves. I may go to Maine. Why don’t you come with me?”

She said unexpectedly, “All right.”

“The catch?”

“You know.”

He nodded. “First things first.”

“Yes… and here comes a priority item.”

Abrams looked up quickly. Under the bridge, two men on horseback had emerged from the bridge’s shadow and were trotting toward them. Abrams said, “Keep walking.”

The riders drew closer, and Abrams could see that they were not mounted police. He could also see that neither of them was Peter Thorpe. He had gambled that Thorpe would reveal himself personally, but now he wondered if the risk they were taking was worth it. “Damn it,” he said to her. “Okay, draw your gun but keep it out of sight.”

Katherine drew the small pistol as she walked and tucked her hand in her waistband.

Abrams dropped behind her so that he was blocked from view and drew his .38 revolver. He held it pressed close to his leg as he moved off to the side again. He looked around. There were a few joggers down toward the water. Some people sat on benches, a young couple walked a Great Dane, and a man was surf casting in the bay.

Katherine looked around also. She said, “Are these people all civilians?”

“We’ll see soon enough.”

She kept walking beside him, watching the riders closing in, glancing at the other people scattered around the shore area. She said, “How do we know when the split second has arrived?”

“It’s instinct. You’ll know. I never shot an innocent civilian yet. If you’re not sure, follow my lead.”

“Okay… Did a mugger ever get the drop on you during that split second?”

“A few times. Sometimes you get a second chance though.”

The two horsemen were less than a hundred yards distant now.

Katherine replied, “You got your second chance when you walked off that roof alive.”

“Right. Sometimes you get a third chance, too.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too. Get ready.”

36

The drugs seemed to have worn off, and Nicholas West lay perfectly still, able to think clearly for the first time in many hours.

He thought about secrets and how to keep them from Peter Thorpe, and from Thorpe’s Soviet bosses. West wanted to believe that the mind was capable of overcoming nearly any adversity, including pain, suffering, drugs, and all the tools of the torturer’s trade. He believed that given the time, he could go into a protective self-hypnosis, which would reduce the pain and confuse the polygraph and voice analyzer. He knew, too, that he was more intelligent than Peter Thorpe, that Thorpe had serious personality flaws, not to mention more fundamental problems of the mind.

On the other hand, West realized, Thorpe was, as he’d said, a professional. There was a serious question in West’s mind as to whether or not he could defeat Thorpe, or at least stall him for any length of time.

West also thought about Ann, Patrick O’Brien, and Katherine. Thorpe was a one-man reign of terror, a man who had conjured up a living nightmare for those around him, and who would do the same for a nation of 240 million people.

West tried to determine what his duty and obligation were in this situation. The Company’s manual on the subject was explicit: If captured in a Communist country, stick to your cover no matter what. If tortured, and unable to resist, use every means available to kill yourself.

But this wasn’t a Communist country — yet. The manual went on: In those rare instances where an agent or other employee is held incommunicado by foreign and/or enemy agents in a friendly country, he must make every effort to escape the confines of his imprisonment, or as circumstances permit, make contact with the outside. If possible he must kill or capture one or more of his captors. Suicide is permissible as a last resort only if captivity will lead to the compromising of fellow agents or the divulgence of sensitive information under torture.

West thought about that. Rational advice. But probably not written by a man who had ever been strapped to a table and attached to electrodes. And not written for a man who was primarily a historian and former college teacher.

“A penny’s worth of electricity for your thoughts, Nicko.”

West looked quickly to his right.

“The polygraph shows some deep and dark thinking.” Thorpe pulled up the stool and sat. “I spoke to my friends in Glen Cove. They’re not satisfied with the results of our preliminary discussions. If the quality doesn’t improve soon, they want you delivered to them.”

West cleared his throat. “You’re lying. You’re trying to frighten me. Put the voice analyzer where I can see it, so I can tell when you’re lying to me.”

Thorpe laughed loudly. “Well, that’s what happens when the truth drugs wear off and you have time to think clearly. You’ll need some sodium pent to soften you up again.” He reached out and turned an adjustment key on the intravenous tube. “Nobody likes a smartass, Nick.”

West said, “Peter, the drugs aren’t—”

Thorpe had his eye on the analyzers and his hand on the electrical transformer. “Aren’t what, Nick? Aren’t necessary? Go on, finish the sentence.”

“Aren’t… I mean, they…”

Thorpe laughed. “You have to learn you can’t make offhand, half-assed remarks, Nicko. Now go on and finish the sentence.”

“I… I meant the drugs are useful… to make me… more talkative… and to lower my resistance… ”

“Right you are.” Thorpe moved his hand from the transformer. “Look, I don’t have the time right now to keep jolting you, so why don’t you confine your remarks to truthful answers? That’s a piece of good advice. Okay?”

Thorpe lit a cigarette and made some adjustments in the two analyzers. “All right… What should we talk about now? Talbot? No… that can wait for Kate. Actually, I did speak to my pals in Glen Cove. They’re interested in the fact that you know something about their little electrical experiment. So why don’t we talk about that? First—”

“Peter, if I told you all I knew, which is not much, and if you put that together with whatever else you discover, then you might arrive at the answer to what the Soviets have planned.”

“So? That’s the point. They want to know what the CIA knows.”

“But they would not let you live once you knew. There probably aren’t ten people in the Soviet Union who know what this is about. It’s the biggest secret in the world — the ultimate plan to destroy America. You may not know that secret.”

“Are we back to trying to scare me? You know, Nick, I thought about that. And I think that James is Talbot. And I don’t think he’d let them kill his only son.”

West actually smiled. “How can you be so naive? What do you mean to him? Anyone who could betray his friends and his country for nearly half a century is heartless. How many people has James Allerton killed or caused to be killed? You’re a rank amateur compared to that man.”

Thorpe drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “Perhaps. I can see why the Russians might want me out of the way until July Fourth, but I’m too valuable for them to do away with me. I think I have to lay low awhile. After the Stroke I will emerge in a position of power.”

“As what? Commissar of the insane asylums?”

Thorpe seemed not to hear. He said, “But thank you for thinking of me, Nick. That’s what you’re here for. To use your fabled brain in my service.”

“I thought it was in the service of your masters.”

Thorpe threw down his cigarette. “You do need to be softened up.” He increased the flow of sodium pentothal. “What you really need is a good gut-wrenching, backbreaking, bladder-releasing surge of electricity. Just give me an excuse.” Thorpe tugged on the clips attached to West’s scrotum. “Your balls are not surge arrestors. They’re conductors.” He laughed. “So, tell me about surge arrestors.”

West’s face went pale, then he found his voice and said, “Surge arrestors… are like circuit breakers. They trip off when there’s a surge in electricity… they protect electrical components… After the surge has passed… they are switched back on… ”

“And the Russians have fitted out their Glen Cove house with these?”

“Apparently.”

“Why? And don’t say to protect against lightning.”

West swallowed dryly. “Water—”

“Talk!” Thorpe reached for the transformer.

West said quickly, “EMP… Lightning reproduces the effects of EMP… lightning can be used to test EMP protective devices… ”

“Hold on. What the hell is EMP?”

“Electromagnetic pulse. The Compton effect… Like an electrical storm… It would destroy every computer in the country… every microchip circuit would burn out. Wipe out all telephone communications… all radios and televisions… electronic controls in planes, cars, boats, missiles… instruments in laboratories, electronics in factories, hospitals… the entire energy grip would burn out… air traffic control… nothing left… Everything would be in shambles… every circuit in the country burnt out… the end of technology… crippled economy… crippled defense capability.”

Thorpe stayed silent for several seconds, then said, “Jesus Christ.” He leaned closer to West. “Are you certain?”

“Yes… it’s been known for some time. The effects of electromagnetic pulse… disastrous… America is rushing to protect vital systems… but … no one can be sure the protection would work… difficult to reproduce the effects of EMP in a test situation… lightning is the closest thing… ”

“But how can the Russians produce EMP, West? How?”

“Easy… but it would be risky for them… it might cause us to launch a nuclear retaliation… no choice but to retaliate… if the President could communicate the order to strike. EMP is the biggest threat to national security… O’Brien had a suspicion… because of Russian procurement of EMP protection technology… Fiber optics… surge arrestors… Faraday shields… cable shields… EMP filters and chokes… systems to harden all their electrical and electronics.”

“Listen to me, West. How can the Russians cause an electromagnetic storm all over the country, simultaneously?”

“Easy…” West’s voice cracked and he began coughing. “Water… for God’s sake, Peter…”

Thorpe grabbed a covered container with a spout and held it to West’s lips.

West sipped slowly, then looked up at Thorpe. “I can’t go on. Can’t think. My muscles are going into contraction… sores on my back and buttocks… painful… ”

“I’ll have Eva massage you with oil, front and back. Nice treat. Now go on.”

“No. I have to stretch… I have to move, for God’s sake. To scratch. The itching is driving me insane.”

Thorpe replied, “I gave you Atarax — an anti-itching drug—”

“I’m suffering…”

Thorpe put down the water cup and glanced at the analyzers. “Where do you itch?”

West’s face reddened. “My genitals… all over…”

“Oh, well, that’s where I draw the line. I’ll get Eva—”

“No. Please, Peter. Just let me sit up one minute… I answered your questions… ”

Thorpe glanced at his watch. “All right, that will be quicker than getting her.” He unfastened West’s chest strap, leaving his leg strap secured.

West tried to move, but it took several tries before he could get up into a sitting position. “Oh… God… Thank you… Peter…”

“Think nothing of it. Now, how can an EMP storm be produced that would blanket the whole country?”

West was flexing his muscles, then began to scratch himself.

“West! Talk!” Thorpe reached for the transformer.

West looked at him. “You can’t do that. I’m not secured to the table. My back might arch and break.”

“Not if I give you a mild one. Enough to knock you back on the goddamned table. Answer my question.”

West stared at the alligator clips clamped to his scrotum. “Okay… a low-yield nuclear weapon… exploded about three hundred miles above Omaha… There would be no radiation or destructive effects on the ground… Just a flash of light… but within milliseconds, electromagnetic pulses would begin to destroy every piece of electronics from coast to coast.”

Thorpe looked at him. “Is this a theory or reality?”

“Reality. It’s called the Compton effect. Gamma rays from a nuclear blast high in the atmosphere interact with Compton electrons and produce EMP… The effect produces a hundred times more voltage than a lightning bolt — but it’s invisible and silent, and it covers the entire country, from coast to coast. It happened in the Pacific during the last atmospheric testing before the test-ban treaty over twenty years ago… But electronics in those days were primitive… mostly vacuum tubes, which are very resistant to EMP… also there was not much out there to pick up the EMP… but in Hawaii, eight hundred miles away, street lights went out… radios and televisions went out… Today, nearly all circuitry is based on silicon chips… These are easily destroyed by EMP… ”

Thorpe said, “But I don’t see how the Russians could deliver even a small warhead three hundred miles above Omaha without the President’s finger pulling the nuclear trigger.”

West rubbed his forehead. “They must have a way… ”

“I can’t imagine… ” He looked at West. “But you know what it is. And you’re going to tell me—”

West suddenly reached out and pulled the electric clips away. Thorpe lunged at him instinctively and grabbed at his hand. West, still holding the clips, clasped Thorpe’s hand in his own, the two clips pressed between their joined palms. West yanked Thorpe’s hand toward him, causing the gurney to roll sideways a few feet. West lunged out with his free hand and turned the transformer dial.

A surge of electricity passed through both their bodies. Both men screamed and Thorpe tried to break West’s grip, but their hand muscles tightened in electrical contraction. They both shook and bounced in grotesque spasms.

Finally, Thorpe’s flailing arm hit the wires and ripped the alligator clips from between their pressed palms.

West fell back on the table, his body twitching. Thorpe slumped to the floor, tried to stand, then fell on his face. Both men lay quivering and moaning.

West took several long, deep breaths, then by sheer force of will made his muscles respond to the signals from his brain. He rose into a sitting position again, slowly, like a corpse with rigor mortis. After what seemed like a long time, his arms reached out and his torso bent forward. His shaking hands rested on the buckle of his leg strap. His fingers began to respond and he worked the belt loose.

West could hear Thorpe whimpering on the floor, and every few seconds he heard a crackling electrical sound as the swinging alligator clips came into contact with each other.

West knew somewhere in his stunned mind that he had to work fast, but everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The room looked very dim, but he knew that was a result of the shock to his optic nerves. His heart beat heavily, slowly. There seemed to be no fluids left in him; his eyes were dry, his mouth felt like paste, his skin like dust.

Slowly, West pulled his legs, then his feet, loose from the straps. He ripped out the IV tubes and pulled the polygraph electrodes from his chest and forehead. With one painful motion he slid the catheter from his penis, then reached under his buttocks, finding that the anal tube had already come lose. He heard Thorpe mumbling obscenities from the floor. West found his own voice and said, “You… you… filthy… you unspeakable horror.”

West slowly swung his legs over the side of the gurney and looked down. Thorpe was struggling to his feet and had gotten into a kneeling position. Both men stared at each other. West could see that Thorpe’s bladder had released. West said, “What you did to me…”

Thorpe made a deep animal-like sound.

West slid down from the gurney and planted his bare feet on the cold floor.

Thorpe, still kneeling, reached his shaking hand into his jacket and began drawing out his revolver.

West dropped to his knees, took hold of the swinging wires, and thrust them out, touching the two live clips to Thorpe’s face.

Thorpe let out a piercing scream and toppled backward, his hands to his face, the revolver lying on the floor between him and West. West crawled toward the revolver.

Suddenly the door of the garret burst open and Eva stood silhouetted in the lighted doorway. She let out a loud bellow, like an enraged animal, and charged across the room.

West glanced up as his hand fumbled for the gun. His eyes focused on something above Eva’s head. Then he recognized the blurry whirling of a whip.

37

The two horsemen were less than fifty yards off now, heading straight toward them on the path, and closing fast. Abrams said, “Spread out. Wide.”

Abrams veered off to his left and moved along the rise that bordered the Shore Parkway. Katherine went to her right, almost down to the water’s edge. Abrams thought that some aspects of military logic did not undergo much change, especially infantry tactics that were an extension of basic survival instincts and common sense. The horsemen would now either have to deploy and give themselves away prematurely, or keep driving straight through, putting themselves at a disadvantage in terms of who had the better field of fire.

The horsemen drew nearer and Abrams could see they were men in their early thirties, dressed in jeans and Windbreakers. They both held the reins with two hands and he watched for sudden movements that would indicate they were going for weapons or reining the horses in.

The riders were still at a full gallop as they came within ten yards. Abrams stopped and knelt on one knee. Katherine saw him and did the same.

Abrams looked at the few other people scattered around. They were either innocent bystanders or they were very good at acting the part. He kept the .38 between his thighs, both hands wrapped around the grip. The rider closest to him came abreast, let loose of the reins with one hand and raised his arm.

Abrams brought his revolver up. The rider, halfway through a wave, stared wide-eyed, his mouth open, then shouted something and both men spurred their horses.

Abrams stood and holstered his gun. He said to himself, “Another New York horror tale enters the annals.” He drew a deep breath.

He walked down to the narrow path and watched Katherine approaching. He noticed she was pale and shaking, and he put his arm around her shoulder. “I think we’re taking a cab back. Come on.” He began leading her up the slope toward the parkway.

She pulled away. “No. We’re going on. Peter may be waiting for us.”

Abrams said, “This is not a good idea anymore. Too chancy. Too many people around now.”

She looked at him and replied coolly, “There’s a great deal at stake. We’re armed, we’re together, and we’re expecting trouble. I don’t want to get run over by a car one night… I want to meet this head on. Don’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes… okay… I’d prefer a known rendezvous with fate.”

“Let’s go.” She turned and began jogging. He followed. They passed under the concrete piers of the Verrazano Bridge, and continued past Fort Hamilton, around Gravesend Bay, then entered Bensonhurst Park, a distance of three miles that they covered in just under forty-five minutes. They walked through the park.

Abrams took several long breaths as he looked around. To the north there was a very reduced Manhattan skyline, to the west Staten Island, and to the south and east a great pasture of black asphalt from which rose a seaside shopping mall dominated by a discount department store. Abrams said, “Welcome to Bensonhurst.”

Katherine forced a smile. “Homesick?”

“Sure.” He looked at her. “Should we stay awhile?”

She nodded. “This is another rendezvous point I arranged with Peter.”

They walked the paths in silence for some time. Finally, Katherine said, “I usually go into the mall and use the facilities. I’ll buy you an orange juice.”

“Okay. They might be having a Memorial Day sale on the large cup.”

They walked across the crowded parking field toward the mall. Katherine said, “I spoke with my sister yesterday — there’s a secure phone with a voice scrambler in Mr. O’Brien’s office.”

“Just your normal law firm voice-scrambler phone. What did she say?”

“According to Ann, there was no one code-named Odysseus, or Ulysses, who might have been involved in this business. There was a Homer, an Englishman, who did turn out to be a Soviet spy, but he’s dead and buried. Ann tried to call Nick about this, but she couldn’t get hold of him. They both have the same information anyway. I think we’ve reached a dead end there.”

Abrams said, “I thought one of those names might have some esoteric meaning to people in the know.”

“I also asked Pat O’Brien about it, but he said basically the same thing.” She paused, then added, “I decided I had to trust him.” She looked at Abrams, then continued, “But… he seemed very… quiet afterward. I think he knows something.”

Abrams nodded, then said, “I gave it some thought… and if those names don’t mean anything, then it has to be the theme of the story.”

“You mean a warrior who wanders for many years after the war, then returns home after being believed dead?”

“Yes.”

Katherine nodded. “Arnold was trying to give us a clue to his killer, or killers. Or a clue to Talbot himself.”

“Yes. Is there any warrior — a leader, an officer who has returned from the dead? Anyone who can be generally described as an Odysseus?”

She nodded. “There were a number of people in the OSS who were missing in action, then turned up alive after the war. But Ann ran that through her computer and discovered that most of them are dead now. The remainder are not involved in intelligence or government work of any sort. There are four who are, but they’re very unlikely candidates to be involved in this business.”

Abrams did not speak.

She looked at him for some time, then said, “There’s something on your mind.”

He replied, “Well… how about a man who has not yet returned from the dead?”

She stared at Abrams, then replied, “Those who have not returned from the dead are dead.”

He said, “Of course. I meant a man who was listed as missing in action but whose remains have not been found or identified. Perhaps someone who disappeared under unusual circumstances.”

She stayed silent for a moment, then said, “You know, there’s a scene in The Odyssey where Odysseus is wandering in the netherworld and sees the spirit of the hunter Orion forever pursuing the spirits of the animals he had hunted when alive. And Odysseus says of Orion, ‘Himself a shadow, hunting shadows.’” She held Abrams’ eyes and said, “That’s how I think of Arnold sometimes. That’s how I think of my father, too. Shadows forever pursuing shadows.”

Abrams said nothing for some time, then decided to let this oblique response pass, to not pursue any more shadows himself.

They entered the large mall, crowded with shoppers. Katherine commented, “Do you find it odd to walk among people when you know a great secret that they don’t know? Something so cataclysmic that it will put an end to this commonplace scene very soon. Do you have a sense of heightened perception?”

Abrams said, “I’m not sure we know much more than anyone in this mall. Unless, of course, Peter Thorpe is in the mall.”

She looked around. “I don’t see him. Do you see anyone you know?”

“No. I’m thirsty. Are you buying?”

“I don’t seem to have any money with me.”

“I see you’ve been dealing with O’Brien long enough to have picked up some of his bad habits, such as hitting me for loose change.”

She smiled.

Abrams bought two orange juices from the stand and handed her one. “I don’t want to miss Mr. Thorpe. What’s our schedule?”

“I told him we’d be entering Prospect Park by eleven thirty. We’ll take the subway up.”

He glanced at his watch. “We have some time.” He walked over to a game arcade and deposited a quarter into a machine. It was a space-invader game, and Katherine could see that Abrams was adept at it. She said, “I see where you spend your time.”

Abrams was concentrating on the game. “These little green bastards are trying to invade the earth, Kate — take that… and that!”

She laughed. “I can’t believe this.”

“Eye-hand coordination… quick think… snap decisions… Watch out!… Zap!”

She looked at the video screen. “Oh… they’re moving faster…”

“Have no fear… earth is safe when Tony Abrams is at the helm.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” The game ended and he straightened up. “Take a shot at it.”

She stood tentatively at the controls. Abrams pushed the button and the game began. She said, “I don’t understand this.”

“Just keep blasting away.”

She moved the controls erratically. “The green aliens are winning.”

“Keep blasting.” Abrams had begun playing the game next to her. “This is a good one. Enemy missiles are falling on my cities.”

“Sounds charming. Is there a counterespionage game?”

“No… too hard to program… oh, damn it, there goes Pittsburgh.”

“No loss. How do I stop these little green men?”

“Keep blasting… ” Abrams stared at his video screen and took his hands off the controls. Missile after missile arched and whistled across the screen, vaporizing the cities in video mushroom clouds accompanied by a loud audio blast. He said quietly, “You know, sometimes I think that the real world doesn’t exist to any greater extent than that world exists. Human destiny may be determined by a video game tape played by colossal beings on a twenty-thousand-foot screen. The history of mankind could be a series of programmed possibilities stored in a memory chip; a few moments of idle recreation for other beings. The end of this world will come when the quarter runs out. Or perhaps the tape will break… we might see a big black rip in the sky, a short, snappy jerk. The End.”

She looked at him. “You’re in a philosophical mood.”

He turned away from the video games. “Running excites my brain… Let’s head out.”

They left the mall and walked to the BMT station on Bay Parkway. Katherine said, “We’ll run Prospect Park, then that’s it.”

“Well, I hope Thorpe can join us there.”

“Yes, this is the last possible rendezvous point. He’s done the park with me a few times and knows the route.”

“Good. We’ll keep a sharp eye out for him.”

She glanced at him as they descended the stairs of the subway station.

They stood well back from the edge of the platform and waited for the train. Abrams scanned the few people on the platform. After a minute of silence he said, “There’s always that one percent chance he’s working solely in the interests of the United States government.”

She replied in a low voice, “I give it a fifty-fifty chance.”

“You’re very generous. But the net result is the same — as long as I’m not a hundred percent certain, I won’t summarily execute him.”

She turned to him sharply. “You will not do that under any circumstances.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have no proof. It’s not your right—”

“Hold on. You’re the one who told me you would kill your best friend if he turned out to be Talbot.”

“Peter Thorpe is obviously not Talbot… he may be an accomplice… Anyway, people like Peter, if they have turned, are interrogated, not shot.”

“Well, I think it should be the other way around. I’d think you’d want to talk to Talbot and find out what he’s been up to for these last forty years or so. Thorpe, on the other hand, is low-level. Also, his behavior defies anything we know about human abnormality. Because he’s not…”

“Not what?”

“Not abnormal. I’ve seen his type before. Picture a psychiatrist trying to cure a lion of his nasty habit of ripping living things apart. The lion is confused. His behavior is instinctive. The lion does not believe he is nuts. And he isn’t. He’s a lion, doing his thing. And if he’d been raised in a penthouse on Park Avenue, it would make no difference in his behavior. If you dropped in to chat with him when he was hungry or cross about something, he’d rip you apart and not lose any sleep over it. Lions are not guilty of murder, and some people with strong killing instincts are not guilty either. Nonetheless, a bullet in the heart is the correct way to deal with dangerous animals. The person who fires the bullet should not lose any sleep over it either.”

Katherine said softly. “Do you believe that?”

“I believe I believe it. But I’ve never acted on it.”

“Don’t. Not unless your life is in danger.”

“It is. That’s the point.”

“I mean immediate danger. Clear and imminent danger, as we say in law.”

“Ah, we’re back to that split second.”

“It always returns to that.” She glanced at her watch, then put a lighter tone in her voice. “Teach me how to play Space Invaders.”

“That takes a long time.”

“Good.”

He nodded, then said, “First things first. Right?”

“Right.”

The train pulled into the platform and they boarded.

38

West’s hand found the butt of the revolver. Simultaneously, he heard the air crack around his ears and a burning pain seared his bare shoulders. West raised the pistol with one hand, but could not summon the strength to squeeze the trigger.

A second crack of the long whip raked his neck. The gun exploded in his hand and the room was filled with a deafening roar.

Behind him he heard Eva scream.

West’s hand contracted again to squeeze off another round, this one aimed at Thorpe’s face a few feet from his. West’s fingers tightened and his trigger finger pulled back, but there was no explosion. West focused on his hand. The gun was gone and he realized it had recoiled out of his numb and nearly paralyzed hand, though he still felt its presence in his grasp.

Thorpe slid forward and retrieved the revolver. He steadied himself in a kneeling position and leveled the gun at West. “You… shit… ”

West felt the room spinning as he tried to stand. He heard the whirring sound of the whip again but barely felt it as it sliced across his chest.

Eva struck again, three times in quick succession, until West dropped in a heap to the floor.

West turned his face quickly away from the smell.

Eva grabbed his ear and turned him back toward the smelling salts.

West’s eyes opened and he found himself looking down at the floor. Slowly he realized he was lying on the gurney again, facedown, his head hanging over the edge. His calves were strapped, but there was no strap restraining his upper torso. Tentatively, he raised himself to his hands and knees.

He felt a ripping flash of pain across his shoulder blades, and collapsed. Another strike of the whip fell on his buttocks and he felt the warm blood trickle over his cold skin.

Thorpe’s voice, shaky and tremulous, reached him through his pain. “So, Nicholas… so… you are much smarter than I thought… and braver than I imagined… Why do I always underestimate you?”

West turned his head and saw Thorpe sitting in a chair, his color ashen, and his clothes and hair disheveled. He noticed again that Thorpe’s light trousers were stained with wetness. West wondered how long he had been unconscious, then the pungent smell of cordite registered, and he knew it hadn’t been very long. He also noticed that there were no wires leading from his body, that all the equipment had been pushed well away from the gurney.

Thorpe said, “Eva will practice her specialty for a while.” He stood. “I’ll be back in a few hours with Katherine. It’s been my experience that people who can endure pain and hold out under torture crack very quickly when someone they’re close to is being tortured. You’ll see what I mean.”

West swallowed several times, then found his voice. “Be sure… be sure to clean yourself… before you go… ”

Eva struck with the whip and West howled.

Thorpe smiled, then said to Eva, “I want him alive and conscious when I return.”

Eva replied, “He will be a different man when you return.”

Thorpe moved toward the door.

West called out, “Peter… you blew it, Peter… you’re an amateur… You’re not as smart as you think… ”

Eva raised the whip, but Thorpe held up a hand and stared at West. There was something in West’s voice that he didn’t like. “What are you talking about?”

“They’ll kill you for letting me die.”

“You’re not going to die. Yet.”

“Yes. I’m going to die. Now.” West suddenly yanked a small tuft of hair from the top of his head and stuffed it in his mouth.

Thorpe lunged across the room and thrust his fingers down West’s throat. West bit down hard and Thorpe screamed, drawing two bloody fingers out of West’s mouth.

West chewed the hair and let out a long sigh, then his body convulsed for a few seconds. He lay still, his tongue protruding and his eyes wide open. The bitter-almond smell of cyanide drifted from his mouth and nostrils, causing Thorpe to move quickly back. “Oh… you son of a bitch! You did it! You bastard… Nick… Nick!”

Thorpe moved cautiously closer to West and examined the small bald spot on the top of his head where the hair implant had been. “I’ll be goddamned. What the hell won’t they think of next?”

Eva stared at the body.

Thorpe thought a moment, then said, “Well, I won’t underestimate you again, Nick.” He watched Eva as she flexed the whip. He could tell she felt cheated, frustrated. He said, “Whip him.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“Whip him. There’s a drug that reproduces the effects of cyanide, but only causes a deep coma.”

She nodded and raised the whip, slashing a deep wound across West’s lower back.

Thorpe stepped forward and examined the wound. There was no sign of blood circulation. “Damn it!”

Eva stared at Thorpe, an accusing look in her eye, which gave way to bewilderment. “I do not understand… the hair…?”

Thorpe gave her a sharp look. “Yes, you stupid cow. Cyanide suspended in artificial hair. Have you ever heard of that?”

“No.”

Thorpe sat down and rubbed his forehead. “Oh, Christ.” He glanced up at Eva. “We checked his teeth, anus… nostrils… pipe and tobacco… didn’t you check his hair?”

She nodded. “With a comb and ultraviolet light. But I noticed nothing.”

Thorpe licked his lips. “Goddamn it. We’re in trouble.”

“Me? You are the interrogator. You are the one who released his arms the first time, causing all this…” She waved her arm around.

Thorpe nodded and wiped a line of perspiration from his upper lip. He thought a moment, then said, “But you wanted his upper torso and arms free for the whipping. You said you liked to see them thrash around… try to cover their back and head with their arms, bite their knuckles…” He looked at her. “This was your show.”

She swallowed. “Well… yes… but…”

Thorpe seemed deep in thought, then he looked up at her. “Actually, Eva, what happened is this — while I was gone, you released his arms and chest, turned him over, and began whipping him, against my orders. He couldn’t stand the pain and committed suicide—”

“No! It was you!” She realized the danger she was in, and took a step back. She shouted, “No! Do not kill me!” She dropped her whip and put her arms out in a protective gesture.

Thorpe stood, drew his revolver, and aimed it at her face, then fired at point-blank range.

Eva’s head snapped back and her arms shot out as she backpedaled, trying to regain her balance. She fell, then as Thorpe watched, incredulous, she got to her feet.

Eva stood with both hands covering her face, as though she were weeping into them, but instead of tears, blood flowed through her fingers. “Oh… oh… what has happened?”

Thorpe stepped up close to her and examined the exit wound behind her ear; a mass of blood, grayish fluid, and splintered bone and cartilage. He realized the shot had been badly placed. “Oh, shit!” He considered putting another bullet in her head, but that would look amateurish to the people who would have to dispose of the body.

Eva sank to her knees, one hand over her eye, the other now behind her ear, squeezing the entry and exit wounds in a vise. The blood was running down her neck and arms, dripping onto the floor.

Thorpe looked at the trail of blood on the floor and realized he would have to mop it up himself. “Christ, woman, die!”

“Help me. Please… who has done this? West has done this… ”

Thorpe laughed. “Poor Nicko, gets the blame for everything.”

Eva remained on her knees, but showed no sign of dying soon. She moaned, “West has tricked us… We will tell Androv…”

Thorpe smiled again. “I have my story for Androv. You can give him yours when you meet in hell.” Thorpe pulled her to her feet, and half carried her across the room. He reached out and unlatched a thick steel door, opened it, and stood her inside a butcher’s freezer. He hefted her up and snagged her dress on a meat hook, then released her.

Eva hung a few inches from the floor, her legs twitching and her arms flapping. Thorpe wiped his bloody hands on the hem of her dress.

He stepped back and glanced to the right. On another hook hung the frosty-blue body of Randolph Carbury.

Thorpe said to himself, “Getting crowded in here.” He turned and went back to the gurney, retrieved West’s body and carried it to the freezer, dumping it on the floor.

Eva was moaning softly, “Oh, my God… do not leave me here with the dead… ”

Thorpe stepped out of the freezer and slammed the door shut. “Well, it’s just one of those days… ”

He surveyed the dimly lit garret, then checked his watch. “Time to go jogging.”

39

Abrams and Katherine emerged from the BMT station at Fort Hamilton Parkway and ran north, entering the five-hundred-acre Prospect Park along South Lake Drive.

Abrams breathed in the cooler, cleaner air of the heavily treed park. The terrain features had been created by the last Ice Age terminal moraine, and that, coupled with heavy plantings, offered a diversity of landscape and hiding places. But Abrams knew every inch of the park and knew where the surprises could be expected.

They turned north on East Lake Drive, ran up Breeze Hill and past the boathouse, and approached the zoo, set in an expanse of gardens. They slowed to a walk on the steep rise called Battle Pass Hill and stopped on the hill’s summit.

Abrams looked west into the Long Meadow, a sweep of grassland that could pass for a rural valley. Katherine looked north and west into an open area called the Vale of Cashmere, covered with resting migratory birds. She said, “This is a good spot to take a break. Good all-around view.” She sat on a patch of grass and caught her breath.

Abrams knelt beside her, wiping the perspiration from his face with his sleeve.

She said, “I think this is the spot where Washington’s command post was during the Battle of Long Island.”

Abrams nodded. “He picked a good place to keep an eye on the muggers.”

She smiled, then looked around. “I don’t see any muggers… There’s a fair-sized holiday crowd.”

“Right. I don’t think Thorpe likes crowds. Let’s take the subway back to my place.”

She thought a moment, then said, “Let’s finish the park.”

Abrams fell back on the grass. “The park will finish me.”

“You’re doing fine. You shouldn’t lie down.”

He didn’t answer, but looked up silently and watched the sky. After a few seconds he said, “I’ve seen that helicopter before.”

She looked up and watched a small gray helicopter disappear to the north. “Yes. I’ve seen it before too.” She stood. “Let’s go. You’ll get muscle cramps.”

Abrams got slowly to his feet. “I think I liked masquerading as an old man better than this.”

“We’ll walk awhile,” Katherine said.

They began following the path down the long hill. She said, “That may have been a police helicopter.”

“Possible. But I don’t recognize the model. They use Bell copters. That was something else.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you have police backup?”

“I’m not a policeman.”

They walked in silence, then he said, “You realize that he could get to you anytime? On the boat out to Glen Cove, for instance. Or he could smother you with a pillow in bed.”

She looked at him. “What are you getting at?”

“Actually, though, I don’t think he intends to kill you. He probably wants to kidnap and interrogate you.”

She thought of the garret room above the apartment, then said, “But he could have just asked me to come to the Lombardy for a drink.”

Abrams replied, “‘Will you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly; ’tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.’” Abrams added, “Would you have gone at this point in your relationship?”

“I would have gone at any point, if I thought there was something to be learned or gained.”

“But you’d be covered before you went. And if you didn’t come out, Thorpe would be exposed.” Abrams concluded, “My theory is that Thorpe is using you to get at me. To get two birds with one stone. Time is short for him. I’m to be killed, by the way, because I’m not worth interrogating.”

She replied in a slightly taunting tone of voice, “That’s quite a piece of deduction, or do you hear those voices again?”

He smiled. “No, but I am getting into his head. He’s clever, but predictable.”

She stayed silent awhile, then nodded. “So… Peter has used me as bait to draw you out, and you’ve used me as a decoy to draw him out.”

“Something like that.”

She glared at him. “At least you’re honest. Look, you don’t care much about the national-security aspect of this, do you?”

He replied, “I’ll give that more thought when my life is out of danger. For now the first law is not salus populi suprema lex, but lex talionis—the law of retaliation—vendetta.” He pronounced it with an Italian accent.

She forced a smile. “Well, I’ll never try to push you off a roof.”

“I take it personally. I’m not very professional when it comes to my life.”

They came to the Memorial Arch at Grand Army Plaza. She said, “I told Peter that if he hadn’t joined us by this point, I’d take the subway back to Manhattan from here. Would you like to come back to my place?”

He looked at her, and her meaning was clear enough. “I would.”

She nodded. “We’ll wait five minutes.”

Abrams waited in silence, checking his watch more often than he needed to. He looked back in the direction from which they’d come. “Well, here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail.”

She turned and saw Thorpe running toward them, dressed in a tan and blue jogging suit.

Abrams said, “If you normally kiss, then kiss.”

“I’m not a very good actor.”

Thorpe slowed and trotted up to them. “Well, the marathon man and the long-distance lady. You both look beat. Good run?”

Katherine kissed him on the cheek. “Yes. What happened to your nose?”

Thorpe touched his fingers to his bandaged nostril. “I had it where it didn’t belong, as usual.”

Abrams said, “What happened to your fingers?”

Thorpe glanced at his two bandaged fingers. “The same thing that happened to my nose. Why are you always so excited by the sight of my blood?”

“Blood makes me curious.”

“Typical cop.”

Katherine interjected, “You look pale.”

“Hey, what is this? Dump-on-Peter day?” Thorpe looked around the park. “Damned awful place to run — baby strollers, little savages on bicycles, skateboard freaks, and dogs who eat joggers.” He scratched his head, then said brightly, “Hey, let’s run Greenwood Cemetery. I did that once. Five hundred acres of stiffs.”

Abrams said, “Cemetery running is illegal.”

Thorpe smiled. “Come on, Tony. I’ll bet you’ve run cemeteries. They’re great for solitude.”

Katherine said, “Won’t there be a lot of people there? It’s Memorial Day.”

Abrams replied, “It’s an old cemetery. The last interment was probably sixty years ago. They don’t get many visitors.”

Thorpe clapped his hands and began jogging in place. “Okay, troops, follow me.”

Abrams and Katherine followed. They ran down the avenue alongside the park for twenty blocks, until they came to the high wrought-iron fence of Greenwood Cemetery.

Thorpe looked up and down the block. “Okay, gang, we’re in the clear.” He shimmied up the fence and dropped into the cemetery. “Come on.” He looked at Katherine and Abrams through the bars. “Well?”

Abrams helped Katherine up, grasping her legs, then pushing up on her rear. Thorpe said, “Watch that, Tony.” As Katherine climbed down into the cemetery, Thorpe reached up and helped her, and Abrams could see he felt for and discovered the pistol.

Abrams climbed up and dropped to the other side. Thorpe reached out to steady him, but Abrams brushed him off.

They began walking through the graves until they came to a single-lane road. Abrams had run these somber acres, the final resting place of half a million souls, including such notables as Currier and Ives, Horace Greeley, Boss Tweed, Henry Ward Beecher, and Samuel F. B. Morse. And Thorpe was right about one thing: cemetery running was the best. The old graveyard was not only serene, it was a treasurehouse of Victorian Gothic Revival funerary. Statues, urns, tombstones, arches, and wrought iron crowded every acre of this place where time had stopped.

They began trotting slowly along the road lined with lonely mausoleums. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the cemetery. Thorpe recited, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest mother-fucker in the valley.”

“Peter,” exclaimed Katherine, almost playfully, “that’s vulgar.”

“So is death, which is why it’s second only to sex as a topic for jokes.”

Abrams, running a bit behind, looked from one to another. He could see how Peter Thorpe held a perverse fascination for some women. Katherine seemed almost to enjoy his boorishness, even now. But, he reminded himself, she could feel nothing for him any longer, and was playacting, as ordered.

They came to a fork in the path and Thorpe called out, “Left one.”

They ran between the black-granite and white-marble headstones for about a thousand yards, Thorpe setting the pace. Katherine fell back, and Abrams was dropping even farther behind.

Katherine called out, “Peter… too fast! We’re pretty beat.”

Thorpe shouted back, “Oh, Kate, you’re fine. Tony has got to push himself a little.”

After a few hundred more yards Thorpe slowed, then began walking. Katherine, then Abrams, caught up, both breathing heavily, and perspiring.

They walked in silence. Abrams tried to listen for anything out of the ordinary, but the blood was pounding in his ears. He felt very fatigued, very vulnerable here in this place of infinite ambushes.

Thorpe took up the role of guide. “This landscape architecture was very typical of the Romantic movement. Does anyone feel romantic?” He motioned toward a field of tombstones. “Tony, do all these crosses make you nervous?”

Abrams didn’t reply.

Thorpe continued, “Have you ever seen so many guardian angels? Do you have a guardian angel, Tony?”

“We may soon find out.”

Thorpe smiled, then looked to his left. About fifty yards in from the drive was an open grave, a fresh mound of earth beside it. Two long-handled shovels were stuck in the loose earth. Thorpe cut across the grass and stood beside the open hole. “Look at this. The stone is over a hundred years old, but the hole has just been opened.” He knelt and peered into the deep grave as Abrams and Katherine approached. “Empty… I think they can disinter the bones after a certain amount of time. Sell the plot to somebody else. Not exactly a final resting place.”

Katherine said, “Let’s move on.”

Thorpe said, “There must be a funeral today.”

Abrams observed, “Then the old tombstone would be gone.”

“True,” replied Thorpe. He read the words carved in the black granite. “‘Quentin Mosby — born April 21, 1843, died December 6, 1879.’ He was younger than us. They didn’t hang around too long in those days, did they?” He stood and looked at Abrams. “Why do we expect to live so long?”

“Because we watch ourselves.”

Thorpe nodded. He said, “By the way, I hope you’re prepared for trouble. Things are getting a little tense this weekend.”

“I hadn’t noticed anything unusual.”

“But you are armed?”

Abrams stared at Thorpe, and Thorpe stared back. They both understood that the time had arrived. Thorpe seemed almost to nod in acknowledgment.

Abrams looked around. Three men were approaching from different directions, working their way between the gravestones. They were dressed in the green work clothes of gravediggers.

Katherine watched the men draw closer. She said, “Peter, who are those men?”

Thorpe shrugged, “How should I know, Kate. I guess they’re who they appear to be.”

Katherine said, “Let’s go.” She turned back toward the drive and saw three more men standing on the edge of the grass.

Thorpe said, “We seem to have gotten ourselves in the middle of a funeral.”

The three men who were approaching stopped, each one less than twenty feet away, forming a half circle around the grave. Each man took up a position beside a tombstone.

Abrams saw that the three men on the drive had spread out. He also saw that Thorpe had moved beside the headstone over the open grave. Everyone was in position. Abrams could see no way out of this one.

40

Abrams stood perfectly still. Strangely, the blood in his head stopped pounding, his heart slowed to a normal rate, and his breathing became regular. He felt the numbing fatigue of the long run lifting, and his senses became acute. He smelled the freshly dug earth, the sweaty bodies near him, and the faint fragrance of flowers. He saw clearly the fixed expressions on the faces of the six men around him, and the inscrutable expression of Peter Thorpe. The perspiration was cooling on his skin, and he was keenly aware of the shoulder holster on his chest. Somewhere, a bird sang in a distant tree. He stole a glance at Katherine and their eyes met for a brief second, just long enough to transmit assurances and confidence in each other.

Thorpe cleared his throat and said softly, “This looks a bit suspicious. If I were paranoid, I would say we were surrounded by men whose intentions are questionable.”

“I would say you were right.”

Katherine added, “I would say we should draw our guns.”

Thorpe looked at her. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a gun, but I assume Tony does.” He nodded toward the grave. “Perfect fox-hole. Ready?”

Abrams took Katherine’s arm in a restraining gesture, and looked down into the grave. “The law requires only six feet. This looks nearly eight. Good grave, lousy foxhole.”

Thorpe shot Abrams a look of unmistakable hatred. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“It’s your show, Pete. You call it.”

Thorpe regarded Abrams closely, then said, “Well, let’s just stay cool. They may only want to chat.”

“All six of them?”

Thorpe didn’t answer, but wiped his forehead with his sweatband.

The six men began moving simultaneously, as though they’d gotten a signal. They closed in around the grave, stopping only a few feet short of Abrams, Katherine, and Thorpe. They didn’t speak, or make any overt threatening movement.

Abrams glanced at Katherine. She looked deathly pale, but he had to admire her composure in the face of death. He looked at Thorpe, who appeared to be lost in thought. The reason for this grotesque standoff, Abrams knew, was that Thorpe was a man who kept all his options open. He did not intend to reveal himself until he was certain that this was not a trap, that the tables could not be somehow turned.

Thorpe’s eyes moved back and forth between Abrams and Katherine. He spoke curtly, “Well, Tony?”

Abrams understood the question. He took Katherine’s arm and spoke directly to Thorpe. “Yes, there is a car waiting to pick us up.”

Thorpe looked around. “I don’t see any car. I think they forgot you.”

“I think not.” Abrams tapped his pants pocket. “Radio tracking transmitter.” He added, “Helicopter close by.”

Thorpe glanced into the sky. “I don’t see a helicopter, either.”

Abrams stared at the six men and caught their eyes, one at a time. “Gentlemen, I’m leaving. I suggest you do the same.”

One man, who seemed to be the leader, was staring at Abrams’ NYPD sweat shirt. His eyes shifted to Thorpe.

Abrams held Katherine’s arm and they turned toward the drive and started walking away.

She said softly, “Are we covered?”

“I think so. Spinelli is probably waiting for Thorpe to make his move.”

“Are we going to get away with this?”

“You have to act as though we are. Keep walking.”

“Wait!” Thorpe ran up beside them as they approached the drive. He said, “There are six men there. I think we should cooperate with them, at least until the cavalry arrives.” He said to Abrams abruptly, “May I see that transmitter?”

Abrams laughed at him. “Actually, no.”

Thorpe reddened, then said, “I don’t think you have one. I think you’re alone.”

Abrams could tell that Thorpe was torn between caution and action. Abrams realized this charade could not go on much longer without someone committing himself. Thorpe seemed on the verge of doing just that. Abrams said, “When in doubt, take the safe way out. There will be other days, Pete.”

Thorpe rubbed his jaw, then nodded, as though conceding the point. “Okay… ” He pulled a large bandanna from his pocket and Abrams caught a glimpse of the small flat automatic inside it.

Abrams swung, catching Thorpe off guard. He hit hard on the point of Thorpe’s jaw and sent him reeling against a giant oak tree. Thorpe bounced off the tree and Abrams’ fist smashed again into Thorpe’s face. Thorpe fell to the ground.

Katherine already had positioned herself behind a gravestone. Abrams could hear the cap gun — like sounds of the 7.65 as she emptied its seven-round magazine in quick succession in the direction of Thorpe’s men.

Abrams threw himself in a prone position on the grass a few feet from where Katherine lay, and fired twice. The reports of the gunfire reverberated through the gravestones and echoed throughout the cemetery, making the pistol fire sound like a small war.

Katherine quickly slammed the second magazine into the butt of the pistol, but before she could fire, Abrams called out, “Hold it.”

They both peered up through the rows of gravestones and hedges. No one was visible, and as far as Abrams could determine, no one had returned the fire. Abrams rose to one knee, holding his revolver with both hands.

Katherine stared straight ahead, her automatic held to her front in a prone firing position. “I think they’re gone.”

“Could be.” He rose up into a crouch and looked at the unconscious body of Peter Thorpe lying faceup on the edge of the drive. Abrams debated with himself for a second or two, then glanced at Katherine, who was scanning the rows of tombstones. He placed the muzzle of his revolver between Thorpe’s eyes and cocked the hammer.

“Don’t.”

Abrams turned his head, expecting to see one of Thorpe’s men. Instead he looked up into a pair of cold eyes the same color as the blue-gray barrel of the Uzi submachine gun pointed at him.

Two more men appeared from behind a mausoleum, also carrying automatic weapons. All the weapons had big ugly silencers fitted to them. The men were young and hard-looking, and seemed self-assured.

“Stand up.”

Abrams and Katherine stood. Abrams noticed that they wore ankle-height black basketball sneakers, and their clothing appeared to be normal casual wear, though the colors were on the dark, muted side. Abrams recognized the attire as subtly paramilitary; urban guerrillas of some sort who were dressed to mingle in the crowds or engage in a firefight.

“I’ll take that.”

Abrams caught the hint of an accent. He handed the man his revolver, butt first.

The man motioned with the barrel of his Uzi. Abrams and Katherine walked back toward the grave.

Abrams came through the rows of tombstones, and saw three more men, similarly dressed and also holding silenced automatic weapons, standing around the open pit. One of them cocked his finger at Abrams.

Abrams moved closer and looked down into the grave. Thorpe’s six men lay at the bottom, sprawled atop each other, their bodies ripped and riddled with what could only have been bursts of automatic fire.

Katherine took a step closer. She looked into the pit, put her hand to her mouth, and turned away.

One of the men spoke. “I thought it a good idea for you to see this, so you understand we are not playing at games here.”

Abrams recognized the accent as English. Simultaneously, Katherine looked at the man speaking. “Marc!” She turned to Abrams. “This is… an acquaintance of mine — Marc Pembroke.”

Marc Pembroke did not acknowledge her but made a motion to his men, who began filling in the grave.

Abrams regarded the man’s icy demeanor, then looked back into the pit. He thought, With acquaintances like that, who needs strangers trying to kill you?

Pembroke said, “You’ve nearly botched things up, you know. It’s fortunate that Pat O’Brien asked me to keep an eye out. He said you might pursue private initiatives.”

Abrams said, “We were out for a run.”

Pembroke ignored him and looked at Katherine. “You ought to have known better.”

“Don’t lecture me. I don’t even know what your role is in any of this. But I will ask Mr. O’Brien.”

Pembroke began to reply, but then looked back at Abrams. “You have an important duty to perform this afternoon, Mr. Abrams. You had no right risking your life in this idiotic business.”

Abrams replied, “Well, now I’m free to risk my life in the idiotic business of this afternoon.”

Katherine looked at him quizzically.

Pembroke watched the grave fill with dirt, then without looking up said, “Why don’t you just be off, then? We’ll tidy things up here.”

Katherine hesitated, then said, “Peter…?”

Pembroke gave her an annoyed look. “Peter Thorpe is not to be molested in any way. He’s been given a little something to keep him asleep… ” He looked at Abrams, then continued. “When he recovers consciousness he will find himself lying safely in a mausoleum. This grave will be covered with sod, and we will be gone. With any luck at all, Mr. Thorpe will be confused and frightened enough not to mention the incident to his controllers. It is important that Peter Thorpe maintain his Soviet contacts until we are ready to pull him in. Good day to you both.” He turned his back on them.

Abrams took Katherine’s arm. One of Pembroke’s men handed them their guns and they walked down to the tree-lined drive. Thorpe was gone. Abrams could easily believe that when he awoke in a dark vault, he would be confused. Abrams was confused himself, and he’d been awake for the whole thing.

They left the cemetery through the main gate on 25th Street. Katherine said, “What happened to your police backup?”

Abrams looked up from his thoughts. “What? Oh… I suppose your British buddy took care of them.”

“I was beginning to think you were bluffing.”

“So was I.” He looked at her. “You understand that Pembroke would have let us die had things gone a little differently.”

She nodded.

“You’re all a bit strange. Do you know that? Or have you stopped noticing?”

“I know.” She looked at him. “What important duty do you have this afternoon?”

“You’re the last person I’d tell.”

She smiled. “Well, welcome to the group, Mr. Abrams.”

He grumbled something, then said, “You’re a bad influence on me.”

They walked slowly, absorbed in their own thoughts. Abrams took her arm, tentatively, and she drew closer to him. They covered the block to Fourth Avenue and stood at the stairs to the BMT subway station. Abrams said, “This is the line we took down to Owl’s Head Park. We’ve come full circle.”

“Yes, we have. This will get me back to Manhattan, won’t it?”

“Yes, I’ll ride with you as far as Borough Hall. You get off at — look, my place or yours?”

“Neither,” she replied.

He looked at her.

“The house on Thirty-sixth Street,” she said quickly. Her words came out in a rush. “It’s safe… ”

He felt his chest pounding. “Okay—”

“We’ll have to sleep in separate rooms, though… You can come to me at night… or I’ll come to you… ”

“We should decide so we don’t wind up alone in the wrong rooms.”

She laughed and threw her arms around him, burying her head in his chest. He felt her sobbing. She got her voice under control and said, “This has been one of the most awful days… one of the best days… Be careful this afternoon. Whatever it is, be careful.”

Abrams saw that people were going around them to get to the subway stairs. “Maybe we should take a taxi — go to our places, pack—”

“Yes. Good idea.” She straightened up and composed herself.

They stood at the curb and waited for a passing cab. Abrams said, “Thorpe?”

She replied, “I feel nothing.”

“Anger? Betrayal?”

“No, nothing… foolish, perhaps. Everyone else seemed to know about him.”

“Are you still going to Van Dorn’s this afternoon?”

“Of course. It’s business.”

He nodded. “Is it possible Thorpe will actually show up?”

She considered awhile, then said, “Knowing him, it’s possible. It’s business for him, too.”