The Talbot Odyssey (11 page)

The man’s face went pale, and he swallowed. “Hey . . . hey . . .” He stared at the muzzle of the pistol. “Hey.”

“I learned that when you want something reasonable from a man, something that is no skin off his nose, and that man is being
obstinato
—a stubborn jackass—then you have to take a direct approach. Look at me, Frank, don’t look at the gun. That’s right. Tell me about Colonel Randolph Carbury.”

Frank was nodding in agreement. “Sure . . . sure . . . he’s registered under Edwards . . . room 403 . . . two days ago . . . from London . . . checking out Monday. . . . That’s all I know. Okay?”

“Visitors? Women?”

The man kept nodding but answered, “Don’t think so.”

“Anything in the safe?”

“Safe . . . ? Oh, I think there is. . . . Yeah, I saw a briefcase that had his name on the tag. . . .”.

“Phone calls?”

“I don’t know . . . one long-distance . . . from London.”

“Stay in much? Go out a lot?”

“Mostly goes out, I think. . . .” The man knew he was talking to a professional. “Okay?”

“What’s the staff verdict?”

“Oh . . . nice guy. Quiet. Polite. No trouble. Likes his drink, though. Okay?”

“Okay. Let’s go to his room.”

“Hey . . . come on . . . what’s this all about?”

“I’m doing a credit check on him. Move.”

Frank turned toward the elevator. “I don’t have a key. Honest to God.”

“Sure you do.” Abrams put his revolver in his pocket. “No funny stuff, Frank, and it’s going to be all right.” They entered the elevator and rode up to the library floor, then passed through a door into a small corridor with five numbered doors.

Frank found his master key and approached 403. Abrams took his arm and held him back. There was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, and he could hear a radio playing. Abrams took the key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open a few inches. The room was lit, and a security chain was draped across the small crack.

Frank whispered urgently, “He’s inside.”

Abrams reached through the crack and knocked away the chain, which was held to the lock stud track by a piece of tape. “Old trick, Frank. Calm down.” He nudged the man inside and closed the door.

The room was furnished with good solid mahogany pieces, though rather old and scarred. Abrams said, “Stand right here.” He made a quick but thorough examination of the bedroom, closets, and bathroom, not expecting to find anything that a man like Carbury would want to conceal. The fact that Carbury had taken the trouble to make it appear someone was in the room did not mean he was hiding something. It only meant he was trying to discourage anyone from entering the room to wait for him. Standard procedure, but it showed the man was taking personal precautions. Abrams turned to Frank. “Has he ever taken that briefcase out of the safe?”

“Not that I know of.”

Abrams looked at the open closet. The tuxedo suggested that Carbury did intend to show up at the armory tonight.

Frank was becoming edgy. “Please . . . look . . . if he catches us up here, it’s my job—”

“Now you’re worried about your job. Before it was your life. Worry about your life again.”

“Right.”

Abrams looked at his watch. Carbury would be thinking about a shower by now. “Okay, Frank, let’s beat it.”

They left the room, and Abrams reached around the door and retaped the security chain. Frank relocked the door, and they took the elevator back to the ground floor.

Abrams stood at the service exit. “Thanks, Frank. Listen, do you think this will affect the committee’s decision on my membership application?”

Frank smiled gamely. “No, sir.”

“Good. Good. Don’t tell them about the basement of the pork store, okay? Or the illegal entry, or me pulling a gun on you.
Capice?”
He put his finger to the man’s lips.
“Omerta.”

Frank nodded enthusiastically and moved off as quickly as he could without actually running.

Abrams left by the service door, and found himself in an areaway filled with trash bins. He walked down a dark alley toward the front of the building and came out through a stone arch onto 54th Street. He crossed the street and approached an unmarked van. A private detective sat in the driver’s seat. Abrams said, “Anything new?”

The detective, an ex-policeman like himself, named Walter, squinted in the bad light. “Nah. But it sounds to me like somebody wants to grease this guy Carbury, right? That could get hairy.”

Abrams lit a cigarette. “He’ll be carrying a briefcase. Keep an eye on that briefcase.”

“What’s this all about, Abrams?”

“I don’t know. But be prepared to do whatever you have to do to protect him and whatever he’s carrying. The firm is solidly behind you.”

“Yippee.”

Abrams moved away from the van and crossed Fifth Avenue, making his way through the hurrying pedestrians. He wondered if he’d overstepped himself on this assignment. It seemed, though, that Katherine Kimberly was very anxious about this, and he had only reacted accordingly. He realized that he too was anxious, not about Carbury but about Katherine Kimberly’s evaluation of his work.

But what the hell did she know about this type of work? She sat in her forty-fourth-floor ivory tower and gave him assignments with as much self-assurance as his old captain had. . . . It never occurred to her that she should confide in him. Yet, instead of feeling resentful, he played her game and helped her understand the investigative end of the business, even covered for her a few times. This was a type of loyalty that he’d given to only a few of the very best commanders he’d worked for.

He thought perhaps he was interested in her, but he knew he couldn’t be, because nothing could come of it but pain. And no rational man wanted pain. Therefore, he was curious but not interested.

After a time he looked up and was surprised to find he had covered almost twenty blocks and was approaching the street where the town house was located. He walked up to a pay phone, thinking as he dialed the Lombardy that he had never been a guest in a town house before, and certainly never had a tuxedo delivered to one. He remembered a favorite line from Thoreau: “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”

Katherine Kimberly entered the lobby of the Lombardy Hotel. The concierge, Maurice, rushed forward with words of greeting, adding, “Monsieur Thorpe is in, madame.” Maurice took her umbrella, then escorted her to a back corner of the lobby, opened an elevator with a key, and ushered her in.

As she rode up she reflected, not for the first time, that
she
did not have a key to the elevator or to the apartment. Peter’s explanation had been simple and rather direct, yet whimsical, as was his manner: “My heart is yours, my possessions are yours, but the suite belongs to my father and is leased to the government for a dollar a year, as is my father himself. No one but Company people may have a key.”

The elevator stopped at the twenty-second floor, which was the first floor of the penthouse triplex. She stepped into a small mintgreen hallway.

A voice boomed out over a speaker. “Stand in front of the television camera, and put your hands on your head!”

Katherine’s face showed a mixture of impatience and amusement. “Open the damned door.”

The door buzzed and Katherine opened it, entering a large anteroom. She passed into a very long two-story-high sitting room. On opposite sides were balconies that served as hallways to the second-story rooms. The balconies were connected by a catwalk that spanned the length of the spacious room. She looked around as she dropped her bag and briefcase on the sofa, then removed her raincoat. Hidden stereo speakers were playing a medley of theme songs from James Bond movies. She smiled. “Peter! Idiot!”

She walked to the bar, where a pitcher of martinis stood alongside two chilled glasses, and poured a full glass for herself. The French doors that led to the terrace suddenly opened and a gust of cool air blew in. Through the billowing curtains walked Peter Thorpe, clad only in a pair of threadbare jeans.

She stared for some time at his muscular body silhouetted against the towering lighted buildings beyond. “Are you
crazy?
”

Thorpe’s blue eyes narrowed in a malevolent glare. “Sloppy tradecraft, Miss Kimberly. If you were a Red agent, you’d be dead.” He shut the French doors, then advanced toward her. “See this?” He held up a partly peeled lemon. “This is an anthrax grenade. Catch!” He threw it underhand at her. She fielded it with one hand and, in a swift motion, shot it back at him.

The lemon thumped against his bare chest. She laughed in spite of her annoyance. She said, “Why were you standing in the rain half-naked?”

“I didn’t want to get my suit wet.” He smiled and embraced her.

“You’re very strange, Peter. Must be the red hair.” She tousled his long damp hair.

Thorpe worked his hands down the back of her shirt. “Did you have a good day?”

“An interesting day.”

They kissed, then Thorpe buried his face in her neck. “Do we have time for a quick dance?”

She smiled. “No. But we’ll make time for a slow dance.”

“Good.” He kissed her neck, then took the martini tray from the sideboard.

She picked up her bag and followed him up the spiral staircase. Thorpe looked back over his shoulder. “What made the day interesting?”

She started to reply, then thought better of it. Peter was altogether too curious about what went on at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. She said, “Just a lot of activity over the reunion tonight. A good number of out-of-towners and foreigners dropping by.”

They reached the balcony overlooking the sitting room. Thorpe said, “There’s nothing more insufferable than ex-spies.”

“They’re interesting people. You’ll enjoy the evening.”

“Perhaps. But I get a little weary of hearing how great the OSS was, and how screwed up the CIA is.”

“No one ever said that.”

“Your nose is getting longer, Kate.” He smiled. “Maybe I’m just sensitive. My father used to bore me for hours with stories of how the OSS won the war.”

She took his arm.

He added, “My boss is an old OSS man and he’s recruited dozens of others.” He stood in front of his bedroom door. “The dining rooms at Langley serve prunes and Geritol now.” He laughed.

She said, “Experienced men and women can be useful.” She opened the door and he entered first, setting the tray on the bureau.

He said, “It’s not the experience that concerns me . . . some of those old OSS characters were very weird. Very strange backgrounds. . . .”

She looked at him. “Meaning?”

He hesitated, then said, “You know . . . security risks.” He sipped on a martini. “There was a radical fringe in the OSS . . . they wouldn’t pass a normal security check by today’s standards. Yet they’re being brought back in on a special basis . . . that bothers me.”

“No more shoptalk.”

“Right.” He set his glass down and pulled off his jeans, throwing them on a chair.

Katherine began to undress.

Thorpe turned down the sheets of his double bed, then watched her hang her clothes in his closet. “We should get married.”

She turned and smiled. “You’re right. But who’d have us?”

He smiled back and lay down on the bed. “Come here. I want to show you my new decoding device.”

“I see it. Does it work well?” She approached the bed.

“It has to be turned on.”

“It looks like it just turned itself on.” She laughed and came into the bed beside him.

Katherine heard a phone ringing insistently somewhere, but she could not have cared less. There was a protracted silence, then the phone rang again. She felt the dreamy fog lifting, and her senses awakened as Peter sat up next to her in the bed. The yellow light on the telephone was blinking, indicating it was not his private number. “Switchboard call—the hell with it,” he said.

“It could be for me.”

He looked at her. “Then you answer it.”

Katherine raised herself onto her elbow and reached for the receiver. The switchboard operator said, “Mr. Abrams for Miss Kimberly.”

“All right.” There was a click, and she spoke. “Katherine Kimberly . . .” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat. “Yes?” She looked around the spacious second-floor bedroom. On the outside wall was a fireplace. The mantel clock showed they’d been asleep almost an hour.

Abrams hesitated, then said, “I took your advice and dropped in at the club.”

“Is he registered there?”

“Yes. But not officially. He’s been there since Wednesday . . . leaving Monday.”

Katherine watched as Thorpe got out of bed and began doing sit-ups, apparently with no interest in her conversation. But she knew him well enough to know he was listening. She spoke in a quieter voice. “All right, instruct the detectives to stay close to him until he reaches the armory.”

“I’ve done that, obviously.”

She took a few seconds to control her annoyance, then said, “Of course. See you at the armory, then.”

“Right.” He hung up.

She sat back in the bed, her long bare legs crossed.

Thorpe finished his sit-ups. “Who was that?”

“Tony Abrams.”

“Oh, super sleuth.” He rolled into a push-up position. “I met him once. Remember?”

“You were rude to him.”

“Was I?” He began his push-ups. “I’ll apologize next time I see him.”

“Good. That will be this evening.”

Thorpe stopped in mid push-up. “Oh, Christ, Kate, you didn’t invite him, did you?”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t fit. You’ll just make him unhappy to be there.”

She didn’t respond.

Thorpe balanced himself back on his shoulder blades and began a series of leg exercises.

She watched him. He had an exhibitionist streak in him, and probably a voyeuristic bent as well. Peter, she thought, was pure animal energy: his presence in a room was sometimes like that of a tame tiger cub, clawing and gnawing at a bone, threatening and potentially dangerous. Yet at other times he could be gentle and loving. He was a complex man, an intriguing man. But spies, like actors, were capable of personality metamorphoses. There were Peter Thorpes that she liked and Peter Thorpes that she didn’t like. But, she thought, he . . . or they . . . were never boring.