The Talbot Odyssey (17 page)

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.”

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.

Abrams looked back at Claudia and responded to a question. “No, my parents didn’t teach me Russian.”

“What a pity. I know Russian. We could have had secret conversations.”

“About what?”

“Whatever. I’ll teach you a few words and I’m sure it will start to come back to you.”

Abrams didn’t respond, and she changed the subject. She spoke animatedly about her life in America, touching Abrams’ arm from time to time. At one point she asked, “Am I touching you too much?” To which he replied, “Not too much, but not in the right places.”

She laughed.

Abrams let his mind slip back to when he had been taken by O’Brien around the great hall and introduced to some of O’Brien’s friends and clients. Most of them, like John Weitz, Julia Child, and Walt Rostow, were rich, famous, powerful, or all three. Abrams did not wonder why he had been afforded this rare honor. There was a certain psychology of recruitment common to most clandestine organizations he’d been involved with, from the Mafia to the Weather Underground; you began by running errands, then advanced to committing indiscreet acts. Then you were introduced to the inner circle, followed by introductions to VIP’s who may or may not be part of the group but who you are led to believe are simpatico. Then, finally, when you’re psychologically ready, you’re sent on a mission to prove yourself. A mission you’d been told was coming, but which you could not have conceived of participating in just a few short months or weeks before. In this case, the Glen Cove mission was how he was supposed to “make his bones,” as his Italian friends would say.

Claudia broke into his thoughts. “I think you should spend the night at the town house.”

Abrams looked at her. “Do you? There may not be room. I suppose the Grenvilles are staying?”

Claudia smiled at him. “Forget Joan Grenville, my friend. These Wisps are not for you.”

“Wasps.”

The ballroom suddenly became quiet as the president of the OSS Veterans, Geoffrey Smythe, rose and stood at the podium. Smythe welcomed everyone and introduced the dais.

When he finished his introductory remarks, he said, “It is my special honor this evening to introduce our guest speaker, who is probably the only man in America who truly needs no further introduction. Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces.”

The military-oriented crowd stood and held up their glasses, making the traditional toast: “To the Commander-in-Chief!” Sustained applause followed as the President took his place at the podium.

The President spoke for some time, interrupted by much applause. He concluded, “And, finally, I’ve sent a presidential message to all senior personnel within the CIA expressing my desire to see revived the esprit de corps, the dedication, the flair and the daring of the old OSS. Thank you.”

Abrams looked around the room. Bill Casey, whose position on the dais was close by, had a small smile on his face. Clearly, thought Abrams, the good times had returned.

William Colby, chairman of the award committee, stood at the podium and said, “The purpose of this gathering is to honor the memory of the founder of the Office of Strategic Services and to present the General Donovan Medal, which it is my honor to do at this time.”

Colby referred to a written text. “The Veterans of the OSS present the Donovan Medal to an individual who has rendered distinguished service in the interests of the United States, the Free World, and the cause of freedom. This year, we are especially proud to present the Donovan Medal to a man who was present at the birth of the OSS, a man whose career in many ways paralleled that of General Donovan.”

Colby glanced to his left, then said, “James Allerton is the founder of the Wall Street law firm of Allerton, Stockton, and Evans. He has been a friend and counselor to the Dulleses, to General Donovan, and to every American President from Roosevelt to our present chief of state.

“President Roosevelt commissioned James Allerton a colonel during the Second World War, and as colonel he served on General Donovan’s staff. After the war, President Truman appointed him as one of the drafters of the National Security Act which gave birth to the CIA. President Eisenhower appointed him ambassador to Hungary.

“In 1961 he was appointed by President Kennedy to the Securities and Exchange Commission. But James Allerton was at heart an intelligence officer, and feeling the old pull of the shadowy world of cloak and dagger, which we all understand”—Colby waited for the slight laughter to subside—“James Allerton offered his services to Mr. Kennedy in that capacity and was appointed a presidential military intelligence advisor.

“Since that time, James Allerton’s counsel has been sought by every President on matters of extreme sensitivity in the areas of intelligence and national security planning.”

Colby continued, “James Allerton now serves on the staff of the National Intelligence Officers, which as you know is a small group of senior analysts known unofficially in Washington as the Wise Men, and advises the President on matters of extreme national and world importance.”

Colby’s voice began building to the final introduction. “James Allerton’s long career has embodied those qualities of public service and private enterprise that are stressed by the Veterans of the Office of Strategic Services in awarding the Donovan Medal. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce a dear personal friend, the Honorable James Prescott Allerton.”