Abrams ordered another drink and turned his attention to the tables around him. If there was a collective mood in the place, he thought, it could be described in one word: proud. There was some arrogance, to be sure, and even sentimentality, but the general feeling was one of “job well done.” The years had not dimmed the memories; age and infirmity were barely noticeable in the swaggering walks or the assured, resonant voices. It didn’t matter that the roll call got shorter each year or that the world was not the same as it had been in 1945. In this place, on this night, thought Abrams, it was again V-E Day.
Katherine tapped her finger against his program, startling him out of his reverie. She stood beside him and said, “Looking for someone in particular?”
“No.” He added, “Want a drink?”
“No, thank you. Did I seem a bit abrupt when I left?”
“You seemed annoyed.”
She forced a smile. “Our conversations often end that way, don’t they?”
He seemed to hesitate and she sensed he was wavering between excusing himself and asking her to dance, so she said, “Let’s adjourn to the dance floor.”
The band was playing “As Time Goes By.” She fit easily into his arms, and he felt her body press against his, smelled her hair, her soap, her perfume. They danced somewhat self-consciously at first, then he relaxed and she relaxed, and in stages the proximity of their bodies was not so awkward.
She said, “You’ve never married?”
“No . . . engaged once.”
“May I ask what happened?”
Abrams was looking at Claudia dancing nearby with Grenville. He looked back at Katherine. “Happened . . . ? Oh, there was a political difference of opinion. So we separated.”
“That’s odd.”
“She was a 1960s radical, flower child . . . whatever. An anti-war and civil rights activist. Then she was into whales, followed by American Indians and the environment, or the other way around. Then the ERA, then the antinuclear things. Whatever was going down, Marcy was right there with a picket sign and a T-shirt. Her life chronologically paralleled the evening news. Like artists who have blue periods, she had whale periods . . . Indian periods . . . you understand?”
“Activism and idealism don’t appeal to you?”
“No ‘ism’ appeals to me. I saw too much of it as a child. It ruins lives.”
“It sometimes helps mankind.”
“It stinks. Take it from me, it stinks.”
They danced in silence for a while, then she said, “So you left her? Because she was so committed—”
“She left me. Because I confessed that I was a lifelong Republican.” He smiled. “The idea of sleeping with a Republican made her, as she said, nauseous.” He gave a short laugh.
She thought a moment, then said, “But you loved her in spite of all that.”
Abrams never imagined that the subject of love and other people’s relationships could possibly interest Katherine Kimberly. “There was never a dull moment. Can you imagine coming home from work in a police uniform and finding the living room full of black revolutionaries?”
“No, not really.”
“It got tense.” He laughed again.
She smiled. “I’m glad you can find it amusing now.”
“You don’t know what amusing is until you’ve made love wrapped in a Cuban flag with the heat off in the dead of winter to protest oil prices, and wondering if she’s going to smell the hamburger on your breath because you’re supposed to be boycotting beef, and a picture of Che is staring down at you with those eyes like Christ, and two lesbian houseguests are sleeping in the living room . . .” He looked at Katherine quickly and saw a tight expression on her face. “I’m sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m trying to keep from laughing.”
They danced until the music ended. He took her arm and they walked back toward the bar. Abrams opened the guest list. “I see your sister is supposed to be the eighth person at our table.”
“She couldn’t make it. I was going to tell you that you could bring a guest, but it slipped my mind. If you’re not looking for someone in particular, perhaps you’re looking for suspects.”
“I’m just interested in these names. Impressed, to be honest.”
She ordered a white wine. “Anything you’d like to know?”
“Yes. Why is everyone here?”
She smiled. “It’s an annual dinner. Tonight we’re honoring James Allerton, Peter’s father, who is the recipient of the General Donovan Medal. And, of course, we’re honoring the memory of the dead and the memory of General Donovan, who is referred to in conversation simply as the General, as you may have noticed. Do you find this interesting?”
Abrams looked at her, her back against the bar, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. Very unlike what he was used to in the office. He said, “The phrase ‘old-boys network’ keeps coming into my head.”
She exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke. “There is no network here—this is a very mixed group. The only common denominator is a shared period of comradeship some forty years ago. The OSS ran the gamut from prostitutes to princes, from criminals to cardinals.”
Abrams thought there wasn’t as much in between as she might suppose. He said, “It’s entertaining to think that someone here—perhaps more than one person—may be a Soviet agent.” He looked out over the hall.
“Eleanor Wingate did not actually say that. . . . Why did you say ‘entertaining’? . . . You mean intriguing.”
“I’m entertained.”
She thought a moment. “You don’t like us much, do you? I suppose it would make you happy to expose someone highly placed. The police, I understand, get a good deal of satisfaction from laying low the mighty.”
“Only on television. In real life you wind up testifying in court and being cross-examined by somebody from O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose who rips you to shreds.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “If, as I understand it, the suspect or suspects fit a certain profile, why did you tell Mr. O’Brien?”
“I trust him.”
Abrams shook his head. He said, “And I assume you’ve shown Thorpe the letter?”
“Yes. He doesn’t qualify as a suspect, of course. Neither do you.”
“I’m glad Mr. Thorpe and I have so much in common. Have you told or are you going to tell anyone else?”
“There are more people in . . . our circle of friends who will be told this evening.”
“You’re making it difficult for yourself.”
“Internal investigations are always difficult. That’s why I’d like your help.”
“Why me?”
She leaned toward him. “You’re intelligent, resourceful, an ex-detective, I trust you, and I like you.”
“Am I blushing?”
“No, you’re pale.”
“Same thing.”
She waved her hand. “I rest my case. Would you like to dance?”
“We’d look silly. The band has stopped playing.”
She looked around. “Oh . . .” She laughed.
He said, “Can I ask you an obvious question, Miss Kimberly? Why don’t you turn this over to professionals?”
“That’s complicated. Why don’t you ask Mr. O’Brien later? . . . And you can call me Katherine.” A half smile formed on her lips.
“Yes, we have danced. What should I call you on Tuesday in the office?”
“If we’re dancing, Katherine. Otherwise, Miss Kimberly.”
Abrams wasn’t certain he liked her brand of humor.
18
Abrams saw Thorpe sitting by himself. He walked to the table and sat down.
Thorpe stared openly at Abrams, then commented, “Only you and me, Tony.”
“You and I.”
“That’s what I said, only I can say it the way I want because I’m a Yale graduate, whereas you have to watch your English.”
“True.” Abrams began eating.
Thorpe poi
nted his knife in Abrams’ direction. “What did Kate tell you? And don’t say ‘About what?’”
“About what?”
Thorpe half stood. “Listen to me, Abrams—”
“Your face is red and you’ve raised your voice. I’ve never seen a Yalie do that.”
Thorpe leaned across the table and struck his knife against Abrams’ glass. “Watch yourself.”
Abrams went back to his food.
Thorpe sat and didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Look . . . I really don’t care that you’re Jewish—”
“Then why mention it?”
Thorpe’s voice took on a conciliatory tone. “I don’t care about your background, your parents, the New York police force, who are not my favorite people, your humble station in life, your wanting to be a lawyer—and I don’t even care about your sitting here, but—”
Abrams glanced up from his food. “How about me mentioning the blood on your cuff?”
“—but I do care that my fiancée is trying to involve you in this business. It is not your business, Mr. Abrams, and in fact it may very well be no one’s business. I think it’s all a crock of crap.”
“So why worry about it? Have you tried this chicken?”
“Listen closely, then forget what I tell you. Katherine and O’Brien and a few others are amateur detectives—dilettantes. You know the type from your police days. They get themselves worked up over intrigue. Don’t encourage them.”
Abrams put down his knife and fork and placed his napkin on the table.
Thorpe went on, “If there’s anything to this, it should be handled by professionals—like me—not by—”
Abrams stood. “Excuse me. I need some air.” He left.
Thorpe drummed his fingers on the table. “Bastard.”
After a few minutes Nicholas West returned to the table.
Thorpe glanced at him. “I still want to see those books, Nick.”
West showed an uncharacteristic annoyance. “No business tonight.” He mixed a drink.
Thorpe began talking, but West was paying little attention. He was thinking about Thorpe. As head of the Domestic Contact Service, Thorpe ran what amounted to the largest amateur spy ring in the world. The operation had grown so large that Thorpe, it was said, had a computer in his apartment that held the names of thousands of civilians, their overseas itineraries, occupations, capabilities, reliability, and areas of expertise. And the whole operation cost relatively little, a real plus with this administration. Everyone who volunteered to “do a little something for his country” did it without compensation, their only rewards being the thrill of it and a pat on the back from Thorpe or one of his debriefing officers.
Thorpe saw that West wasn’t paying attention and poked his arm. “Okay, no business,” he said. “When are you flying to Munich to see your betrothed?”
“I can’t get approval for Munich. Ann is coming here in late June or early July for home leave.”
“Oh, when’s the big day?”
“Unscheduled.”
“It must be frustrating living together in separate countries. Anyway, I’m eager to be your brother-in-law. Then you’ll trust me.”
“When are you getting married?”
“How about a Fourth of July double wedding? That would be fitting for all the patriots and spooks. Maybe we’ll use the Glen Cove estate. Yes, that might be nice.”
West smiled. “You mean Van Dorn’s estate, don’t you? Not the Soviet estate?”
Thorpe smiled in return, but didn’t answer.
Waiters brought the dessert to the table, and West dug into a chocolate soufflé.
West looked up from his food. “Not to break my own no-business rule, but this Talbot thing sounds ominous. I hope it doesn’t touch off one of those witch-hunting hysterias in the Company again.”
Thorpe shrugged. “Christ, what would these people do without their bogeyman? Talbot. Bullshit. If there were a Talbot, he’d be about a hundred and five years old by now.” Thorpe leaned toward West. “Do you know who Talbot is? I’ll tell you. He’s the devil in our heads. He’s the fiend, the monster, the nightmare. . . .” Thorpe lowered his voice. “He doesn’t exist, Nick, never did. He’s what those old-timers blame for all their fuckups.”
West nodded slowly. “You could be right.”
Thorpe began to reply, but Katherine came back to the table and sat. She spoke in a worried tone: “We’ve called all over, and there’s no sign of Carbury.”
Thorpe did not seem particularly concerned. He said, “I’ll call my people and have them contact the FBI.”
Katherine replied, “I also want Tony to use his police contacts. Where is he?”
“It’s Friday night, isn’t it? He probably went to temple.”
Katherine’s voice was angry. “You’ve been rude all evening—to everyone. What the hell set you off?”
Thorpe looked contrite. “I guess I had a bad day. I’ll apologize to everyone.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “That doesn’t make it right.” She looked at Nicholas West, who seemed embarrassed. “Do you and Ann fight?”
West forced a smile. “Sometimes.”
“Then maybe it’s us—the Kimberly women. My mother is a bitch.” She turned to Thorpe. “I accept your apology.”
Thorpe brightened and raised his wineglass. “All for one and one for all.”
They touched glasses and drank. West glanced at Katherine, then Thorpe. West was in the position of knowing more about Peter Thorpe than Thorpe’s lover knew: West had read Thorpe’s personnel file and his officer evaluation reports. He had done this under the excuse of historical research, but really out of a personal concern for Katherine Kimberly.
One evaluator, he remembered, had characterized Thorpe as “an enthusiastic heterosexual.” Someone had scribbled in the margin, This means he chases women. West imagined that Katherine understood this and accepted it.
West looked at Thorpe’s eyes as he spoke to Katherine. That’s where the madness showed itself in brief glimpses, like the doors of a furnace that swing open, then snap shut again, leaving you with the impression of a blazing turmoil but no positive proof. West recalled something else in Thorpe’s file, a CIA psychologist’s report, written in the clear English favored by the Company over the psychobabble of civilian psychoanalysts. After an extensive interview—probably a drug-aided one—the analyst had written: “He at times behaves and sounds as if he’s still in Skull and Bones at Yale. He enjoys clandestine assignments but approaches even the most dangerous ones as if they were fraternity pranks.”
The psychiatrist had added an insight that West thought was disturbing: “Thorpe suffers greatly from ennui; he must live on the edge of an abyss in order to feel fully alive. He considers himself superior to the rest of humanity by virtue of knowing important secrets and belonging to a secret and elite organization. This is evidence of an immature personality. Further, his relationships with his peers, though good-natured, are superficial, and he forms no strong male bonds. His attitude toward women is best described as outwardly charming but inwardly disdainful.”
West stared at Thorpe. It was obvious, at least to West, that Peter Thorpe was a man fighting some monumental inner struggle, a man whose mind was in a state of turmoil over some serious matter.
West had passed a casual remark to this effect to Katherine, but it hadn’t gone over well and he’d dropped it. Ann, however, had been more receptive. Ann had other information—informal conversations with agents, hearsay, and the like—and though she was not specific, West could tell she was concerned.
West knew what he had to do next: request all the operation reports filed by Thorpe himself as well as the reports and analyses of all operations with which Thorpe had been associated. West had put this off, but the time had come to fully evaluate Peter Thorpe.
Thorpe suddenly turned to West. “You look pensive, Nick. Something on your mind?”
West felt his face flush, and he was unable to
turn away from Thorpe’s arresting stare. He had the uncomfortable impression that Peter Thorpe knew what he had been thinking. West cleared his throat and said, “I was just wondering—if Carbury was found dead, would you believe in the existence of Talbot?”
Thorpe’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned very close to West and spoke softly. “If you found a sheep in the woods with its throat ripped out, Nick, would you credit it to wolves or werewolves?” Thorpe smiled, a slow smile that was itself wolflike, thought West. Thorpe said, “New York is not the most unlikely place for a man to wind up with a shiv in his heart.”
West tried to stop himself, but his eyes were drawn to the spot on Thorpe’s cuff.
Thorpe smiled even wider at him, a huge smile with his lips drawn back, showing a set of large white teeth. West stood and excused himself.
Thorpe turned back to Katherine, who was pouring herself coffee. He said, “That man is very high-strung. He makes me jumpy.”
“I’ve never known you to be jumpy about anything.”
“Nicholas West makes a lot of people in the Company jumpy.”
“You sound as though you have a guilty conscience.”
“I have no conscience, guilty or otherwise.”
“Then you must be hiding something.” She smiled.
Thorpe did not smile back. He said, “If I were, it wouldn’t stay hidden long from that inoffensive little man—would it?”
Katherine regarded him closely. “No.”
Thorpe nodded to himself as though he had made a decision about something. He said, “Actually, I’m worried about him. There are too many people who want him out of the way.” Thorpe lit a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke. “To use a familiar analogy, Nicholas West is like a head of cattle grazing too long in the fields of intelligence archives until he’s grown very fat. The farmer who owns him wants to butcher him; the wolves in the woods want him in their stomachs.” He looked at Katherine. “Poor Nick.”
19
Patrick O’Brien’s round table was assembled again. West was speaking to Katherine, O’Brien was talking to Kitty and George Van Dorn, Claudia had taken the empty seat and was speaking with Abrams. Thorpe sat silently. A few people were dancing to 1930s big-band tunes. Abrams watched Thorpe. The man had been drinking heavily all night, but was clearly sober.