O’Brien nodded at the couple sitting at the table. “You both know Kitty and George Van Dorn, of course.” Thorpe and West greeted them and took their seats.
Katherine motioned across the table. “And this is my friend Tony Abrams, who works at the firm.”
Abrams reached across the table and shook hands with West. He leaned toward Thorpe, but Thorpe was pouring from a bottle of Stolichnaya. Thorpe looked up perfunctorily and said, “Yes, we’ve met.” Thorpe held up a glass brimming with clear liquid. “Someone was thoughtful enough to remember my preference for Russian vodka. Na zdorovie.” He drained off half the glass and let out a sigh.
Thorpe addressed the table. “You may find it odd that I, a patriot and cold warrior, should drink Russian vodka.” He looked directly at Abrams. “I drink Russian vodka in the same spirit that prehistoric warriors drank the blood of their enemies.”
“A display of contempt?” said Abrams. “Or for courage?”
“Neither, Mr. Abrams. I like the taste.” He licked his lips and laughed.
Abrams said, “Speaking of blood, you’ve got something on your right cuff, Mr. Thorpe.”
Peter Thorpe set the glass down and looked at his French cuff. A reddish-brown stain showed on the polished cotton near the black onyx cuff link. He rubbed it between his fingers, then said, “Looks like blood, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” said Abrams.
Katherine dipped the corner of a napkin in a glass of water. “Soak it before it sets.”
Thorpe smiled as he took the napkin. “There are three lines common to all the women of the world: Take out the garbage, I’ve got a headache, and soak it before it sets.” Thorpe blotted the stain. “Decidedly blood.”
Katherine spoke with a detectable coolness in her voice. “Did you cut yourself?”
“Cut myself? No, I did not cut myself.”
George Van Dorn spoke from across the large table. “Then perhaps, Mr. Thorpe, considering your profession, you’ve cut someone else.” He smiled.
Thorpe smiled back.
Kitty Van Dorn interjected, “It’s probably ketchup.”
Thorpe rolled his eyes in a mock gesture of disdain. “Ketchup? Madame, I haven’t seen a bottle of ketchup since my school days. Now, Katherine is thinking lipstick, but I must exonerate myself and say blood. I know blood when I see blood.” He looked at Abrams. “You’re very observant, Mr. Abrams. You ought to be a detective.”
“I was.”
The West Point Cadet Glee Club had assembled near the dais and began a medley of songs.
Thorpe raised his voice above the noise and spoke to Abrams. “Weren’t your parents some sort of Bolshevist agitators? Leon and Ruth Abrams? Got arrested leading a violent garment workers’ strike, I think?”
Abrams stared at Thorpe. His parents had had some notoriety in their day and had been mentioned in some of the books on the subject of the American labor movement, but they weren’t well enough known for Thorpe to remember them or make the connection based on a common family name. “Yes, Leon and Ruth were my parents. Are you a student of the labor movement?”
“No, sir, I am a student of Reds.”
Katherine kicked Thorpe’s ankle.
Thorpe said to her, “This is interesting. Colorful. Tony is the son of American folk heroes.” He turned to Abrams. “Why Tony?”
Abrams smiled thinly. “My name is Tobias, the diminutive of which is Toby. But where I grew up everyone had names like Dino or Vito. So Toby became Tony.”
“America the melting pot. And you melted right in there.”
There was an embarrassed silence at the table, then Thorpe said, “Are your parents still Communists, Mr. Abrams?”
“They’re dead.”
“So sorry. Did they keep the faith?”
“My mother’s parents returned to Russia during the Depression. They were arrested during the Stalin purges. Presumably they died in the camps.”
Thorpe nodded. “That must have shaken your parents’ faith in the justice and brotherhood of the Revolution.”
“Most probably.” Abrams lit a cigarette. “My father’s family, who had never left Russia, were killed by the Germans around 1944—about the same time your natural parents were killed by the Germans. Small world.”
Thorpe regarded Abrams closely. “How did you know about my parents?”
“I read it. I’m a student of the OSS.”
Thorpe poured another vodka and looked at Abrams. “You know, Abrams, you might just be what that firm needs.”
“I haven’t been asked to join.”
“Oh, you will be. What the hell do you think you’re doing here? Why do you think—”
Katherine interjected, “Peter, did you happen to see Colonel Carbury on your way in? He’s not at his table.”
“I’d barely recognize him. All Englishmen look alike.” He played with a cocktail stirrer and snapped it between his fingers. “Maybe he got stuck somewhere.” Thorpe leaned back in his chair and seemed to retreat into himself.
The cadets stopped singing, and waiters brought the fish course.
West said to Abrams, “You work with Kate?”
“I’m an itinerant process server.”
Katherine added, “Mr. Abrams is studying for the July bar.”
“Good luck,” said West. “My fiancée—Kate’s sister, Ann—is an attorney also. She works for an American firm in Munich.”
Thorpe came out of his reverie and sat up. “She works for the National Security Agency, Abrams. Whole damned family is full of spooks.”
Katherine said sharply, “You’re in an unusually foul mood, Peter.” She stood. “Excuse me. Mr. Abrams, will you walk me to the lounge?”
Abrams rose and followed her.
Thorpe seemed to pay no attention. He mumbled, “Whole damned room’s full of spooks. Do you know how you can tell when a spook is present?” He held up his salad bowl. “The salad wilts. Christ, we need an exorcist.”
Kitty Van Dorn announced that she and her husband were going table-hopping. George Van Dorn’s alcohol-clouded eyes suddenly looked clear and he stared at Thorpe, then said, “You’re here to see your father honored. See that you do.” He took his wife’s arm and they moved off.
Thorpe seemed to ignore the reprimand and said to Patrick O’Brien, “Pass the Stoli, please.”
O’Brien looked at him sternly. “That’s quite enough, Peter. We have something important to discuss later.”
Thorpe’s eyes met O’Brien’s, and Thorpe turned away. “I guess I should eat something. . . .” He dug into his poached salmon.
O’Brien, West, and Thorpe ate without speaking. West watched Thorpe out of the corner of his eye. He was not unhappy that they might become brothers-in-law. Thorpe, though, was a strange man. His full name was Peter Jean Broulé Thorpe, after his natural parents, an American father and French mother, both OSS agents. It was, reflected West, understandable that Katherine should be drawn to him spiritually and emotionally because of their similar backgrounds, even if their personalities were quite different.
Thorpe looked up from his food. “I feel better.”
O’Brien leaned toward West. “Has Peter briefed you about this Carbury business?”
“Only that Colonel Carbury is in New York—”
Thorpe said, “I’m not fully briefed either.”
O’Brien gave them both an edited outline of the events of the day, and added, “Katherine and I both believe this is related to Talbot.”
West nodded. “That’s what Peter indicated.”
O’Brien stared at Thorpe for some time. “Did Katherine tell you that?”
Thorpe shook his head. “Yes. . . . No . . . I made my own conclusions based on my reading of the Wingate letter.”
“I see.”
Thorpe added quickly, “The point is that Carbury should be here—in this room—to enlighten us further. I think Abrams blew it.”
O’Brien said curtly, “Katherine and Abrams took go
od precautions.” He pushed aside his plate. “Carbury may have decided to avoid a known destination. He may have slipped past our people and will send word later to meet him in a safe—”
Thorpe cut in. “This is the safest place in America tonight. And besides, on a personal level, he’d want to be here.”
O’Brien nodded slowly. “Yes. . . . Perhaps he’s still somewhere in the club—though we’ve had him paged under the name Edwards.”
Thorpe smiled. “Damned if I’d answer a page call when I’m on assignment.”
O’Brien nodded again. “So let’s just assume he has undertaken standard precautions and will show up in his own good time, or we can assume—”
“The worst scenario,” said Thorpe. “My experience has usually been that late people are dead people. But I’ll allow for a kidnapping.” Thorpe chewed on a stalk of celery.
Katherine approached with Abrams, and the three men stood. Katherine said, “I spoke to the Burke Agency. The detectives followed Carbury here . . . or thought they did. One of them was honest enough to admit that the man they were following—tall, thin, elderly mustached man in a tux, carrying a briefcase—may not have been the man who was pointed out to them by an employee of the club. When they saw this man up close in the lobby here, they suspected they were following a herring. The man, however, did present an invitation and go through the metal detectors. The detectives couldn’t follow and left to make their report.”
Thorpe said, “I told you all Englishmen looked alike.”
Everyone took their seats. O’Brien spoke. “Carbury must have sent a look-alike out to draw off anyone who was watching him. Unfortunately, he drew off the people who were protecting him.”
Abrams cleared his throat. “There is another possibility. The look-alike was not employed by Carbury, but by someone else.”
Thorpe nodded. “That’s a possibility. This may call for a black-bag job.” He looked at Abrams. “An illegal entry.”
Abrams looked at the people around him. Clearly this was an important case—and not one for which they had been retained, but a house case, a case of some personal concern for them. Clearly, too, the use of a red herring showed some planning and organization by someone and smacked of a high degree of professionalism. Yet neither O’Brien, Katherine, Thorpe, nor West seemed particularly surprised by this. No, he concluded, this was not a stock-fraud case.
O’Brien spoke. “I don’t want the detectives doing it. . . . One of us.” He turned to Abrams. “Do you think you could get into his room?”
Abrams shrugged. “Maybe”
O’Brien looked at Thorpe.
Thorpe smiled. “Sure. What a team. Pete and Tony out on a black bag together. Christ, how the mighty have fallen.”
Katherine said, “The detectives have gone back to the club. Let’s give it some time.”
The main course was served, and Kitty and George Van Dorn returned. The discussion turned to the subject of the people present. Kitty Van Dorn motioned toward the dais. “The President looks well tonight.”
Thorpe stared up at the nearby dais. “Yes, he looks very lifelike. It’s that new embalming fluid.”
Katherine leaned over and spoke softly into his ear. “If you don’t behave, I’m going to have you thrown out.”
Thorpe took her hand and squeezed it, then looked back at the dais and caught the eye of Bill Casey. The man looked, as usual, dour. Casey gave Thorpe a sign of recognition but not a particularly friendly one, Abrams noticed. It was, thought Abrams, more like the look a cop on the beat gives to the neighborhood juvenile delinquent.
Thorpe grinned at his boss, then spoke softly to Katherine. “If ever a man was capable of turning into a werewolf, it’s Bill Casey.”
Katherine fought back a smile.
Thorpe leaned closer to her ear and said earnestly, “He fits the general profile. So do Cline, Colby, and Helms. . . . So do a few dozen other people here, including your boss and my father. Jesus, doesn’t that scare the hell out of you? It does me.”
Katherine looked at Patrick O’Brien, then at James Allerton sitting beside the President, engaged in conversation with him.
Thorpe followed her gaze and said, “Yes. ‘Someone who may be close to your President.’”
Katherine stared at him. “No.”
Thorpe smiled. “Possible.”
“No.”
“Absolutely beyond the realm of the imagination?”
Katherine turned away and poured a drink.
17
Abrams found himself standing beside Katherine at the long bar set up in a corner of the ballroom. He ordered a drink for himself, avoiding any overtures toward conversation, turned, and looked around the hall. A few men and women wore officer’s dress uniforms, and there were foreign uniforms as well. Even though the invitation specified black tie, some men wore white ties and tailcoats. Abrams thought this was the kind of crowd that went home and slipped into a tuxedo to get comfortable.
Abrams brushed an imaginary speck from his shirt and checked his clothing. In some indefinable way, it looked rented—except for the damned shoes.
Katherine asked, “Where was the tuxedo from?”
Abrams looked up quickly. “What? Oh, Murray’s, on Lexington. . . . Why?”
“I just wondered if he’d brought it from England.”
“Oh, Carbury. . . . No, his was from Lawson’s. Down in the Wall Street area. The ticket showed it was fitted two days ago.”
She took a few steps from the bar and he followed. She asked, “What was he doing all the way down there?”
“Renting a tux, for one thing.” He sipped his drink.
She looked at him closely. “Is there anything else? Any detail you may have—”
“No.”
She held his eyes for a few seconds, then said, “I appreciate the risk you took. Especially considering you don’t know what this is about.”
“The less I know, the better.”
She said, “Actually, I haven’t told anyone you were in Carbury’s room.” She smiled. “I told you I’d protect you.”
Abrams said, “I’m not overly cautious by nature, but I would like to be able to present myself to the state bar this summer without a criminal record.”
“I’m quite sensitive to your position.” She hesitated, then added, “I didn’t tell you to break and enter . . . and I’m wondering why you did it.”
He avoided the question by returning to the earlier one. “You also wondered if I found anything I’m not telling you about.”
“You did forget to tell me where the tux was from.”
He stared at her, then smiled. “Yes, I did forget.” He thought, And you forgot to tell O’Brien I broke into Carbury’s room, and I think O’Brien may have forgotten to tell you he’s asked me to go to Glen Cove Monday, and there will be a lot more convenient lapses of memory before this is over.
She said thoughtfully, “I suppose Peter put you in a sour mood. I won’t apologize for him. But I am sorry that happened.”
“Peter Thorpe has no influence on my mood.”
She didn’t reply, and Abrams could see her mind was already on something else. She was carrying her program and she unexpectedly handed it to him.
Abrams took it, glanced at her, then opened it. There were three sheets of a photostated handwritten letter inside. He glanced over the first page and saw it was a personal letter to her. He looked at Katherine.
“Go on. Read it.”
He began reading, and as he read, he understood that she had made an important decision about him. He finished the letter and passed it back inside the program.
She waited a few seconds for him to speak, then said, “Well?”
“No comment.”
“Why not?”
“It’s out of my league.” He finished his drink.
“Think of it as a criminal case—a problem of police detective work.”
“I’ve already done that. It’s still out of my league.”
r /> “Well, at least give it some thought.”
“Right.” He put his glass on the bar. The letter, if genuine, partially confirmed his suspicions about the firm he was working for. He stepped back toward her and said in a quiet voice, “One question. O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose is a CIA front, right? What do you call it—a proprietary company?”
She shook her head.
Abrams was taken aback, and he knew his face showed it. “Then who the hell are you?”
She again shook her head.
Abrams rubbed his chin. “This, you’ll agree, is bizarre.”
“Perhaps.” She reached toward the bar and picked up the guest list. She said, “First, alphabetically, James Jesus Angleton, former OSS officer, former head of CIA counterintelligence. Considered the father of American counterintelligence. As a result of his close association with the British double agent Philby, and his failure to spot Philby for what he was—and also because of some other odd occurrences—there was some suggestion that Jim himself was a Soviet agent. If true . . . well, it’s too frightening to even think about. Anyway, Jim was fired by Bill Colby for reasons that remain unclear. Next possible suspect—”
“Hold on.” Abrams regarded her closely. He had the impression she’d gone from low gear to second and was about to shift into high. He said, “I’m not interested in suspects. I thought I made that clear.”
She looked put off. “Sorry. . . . You’re right, though. I’ve been out of touch with . . . ordinary people.” She considered a moment. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you . . . and perhaps I’ve already said too much. Excuse me.” She handed him the guest list and walked off.
Abrams went back to the bar and leafed through his guest list. There were a good number of people with French and Middle-European names, former resistance fighters, he imagined. There were British knights and their ladies, a Romanov couple, and other titled people, including his new friend Countess Claudia. He looked over his shoulder at the Grenville table, but Claudia’s back was to him. The band began playing, and he decided to ask her to dance, but she stood with Tom Grenville, and they moved to the dance floor.