The Talbot Odyssey (16 page)

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

Katherine asked, “Where was the tuxedo from?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“The less I know, the better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter Thorpe has no influence on my mood.”

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

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

“Go on. Read it.”

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

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

“No comment.”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

“Well, at least give it
some
thought.”

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

She shook her head.

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

She again shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.” He added, “Want a drink?”

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

“You seemed annoyed.”

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

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

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

She said, “You’ve never married?”

“No . . . engaged once.”

“May I ask what happened?”

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

“That’s odd.”

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

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

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

“It sometimes helps mankind.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, not really.”

“It got tense.” He laughed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Why is everyone here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m entertained.”

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

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

“I trust him.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re making it difficult for yourself.”

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

“Why me?”

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

“Am I blushing?”

“No, you’re pale.”

“Same thing.”

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

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

She looked around. “Oh . . .” She laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You and I.”

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

“True.” Abrams began eating.

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

“About what?”

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

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

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

Abrams went back to his food.

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

“Then why mention it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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