The Talbot Odyssey (18 page)

The assembly rose, and a long, sustained applause rolled through the great hall. Allerton stood and walked along the dais to the podium. The tall, gaunt figure was slightly stooped, but he carried himself with great dignity. His eighty-odd years barely showed on his ruddy face framed with thick white hair, but his deliberate movements were unmistakably those of an octogenarian.

Colby slipped the blue ribbon over Allerton’s head and straightened the gold medal that rested on his chest. The two men shook hands, and Allerton stood alone at the podium.

Tears ran from his clear blue eyes, and he wiped them with a handkerchief. The applause died away and everyone sat.

James Allerton thanked Colby and the award committee, and acknowledged the President and the dais.

Abrams watched Thorpe closely as his father spoke in a voice that was strong and still carried the accents which suggested prep schools, Ivy League colleges, and the vanished world that had existed before World War II in places like Bar Harbor, Newport, Hyannis, and Southampton.

Being the son of a famous father had its well-known drawbacks, and actually following in his career footsteps was fraught with dangers, psychological and otherwise, Abrams thought.

When Allerton had been Thorpe’s age, reflected Abrams, he must already have been on Donovan’s staff as a colonel, helping to win a great war, changing the world, master of his fate and the fate of countless others. But those were different times, thought Abrams. Even men and women who had the potential of greatness within them were doomed to obscurity and frustration in an age that did not call for greatness. Abrams thought he had a small insight into Peter Thorpe’s character, or lack of it.

Abrams returned his attention to the dais as James Allerton spoke eloquently of his years with the OSS. Abrams could see that the audience was deeply moved by his reminiscences.

Then Allerton stopped talking and bowed his head a moment. When he looked up, he slowly surveyed the assembly of veterans and guests for some time before his voice broke the stillness again. He said, “The world lost literally millions of good men and women in those awful six years of war, and we are the poorer for it. But we remember them . . . each and every one of them, in different ways, every day. We remember them tonight.” James Allerton drew a long breath, then nodded, touched his medal, and said, “Thank you.” He abruptly turned from the podium and took his seat. The people in the hall stood, almost in unison. There was silence for a long moment, then a burst of applause rang out.

The President stood, walked up to Allerton, and embraced him amid more ovations. Everyone on the dais was facing Allerton and applauding. Hands were being shaken all around.

Abrams had no previous experience from which to judge, but he thought this dinner must be the most successful yet. Nearly everything that anyone might want to hear was said by someone or another. He tried to empathize, to feel what they felt—triumph, vindication, rejuvenation—but he could never feel it. Either you had been there or you had not.

The closest he could come to the experience, he thought, was the twentieth-year reunion of his high school class. He had made the newspapers that day for a homicide arrest, and he’d been introduced at the reunion and given a short speech at the Italian restaurant where it had been held. Afterward, he went home with an old girl friend, recently divorced, and slept with her. He’d felt about as good then as he’d ever felt since. Nothing earthshaking, nothing of world import, but for him it was a complete experience.

Abrams sat down before the others and finished his drink. Admittedly he felt like an outsider, but was he an outsider who wanted in or an outsider who wanted to remain out? He looked at the people around him, then focused on Patrick O’Brien. Earlier, O’Brien had opened the door a crack and given him a glimpse into another world, a world of conspiracy and secrets.

It seemed to be his fate, he thought, to get involved with one netherworld or another. First it was the Red Devils; then the undercover assignments on the force.

Nearly everyone in the hall was in motion now, going from table to table, passing down the dais and shaking hands. A phalanx of Secret Service men moved the President out a side exit.

Peter Thorpe caught Abrams’ eye and nodded toward the door.

Abrams stood. Time for their black-bag job.

Peter Thorpe stood at Randolph Carbury’s door. He spoke softly. “You carry?”

Abrams replied, “Not tonight.”

“No, even I couldn’t get a piece past that crew tonight.” Thorpe held the key he’d gotten from the room manager, who stood some distance away. Thorpe said, “I hear a radio. Sign says ‘Do Not Disturb.’”

“Disturb.”

Thorpe unlocked the door and pushed it open a few inches. “Chained.”

Abrams saw the chain he’d retaped in place. He said, “Looks like he’s in.”

Thorpe called: “Colonel Carbury?”

Abrams said, “Shoulder it.”

Thorpe shrugged, stepped back, and rammed the door with his shoulder. The taped chain flew away and Thorpe stumbled into the room, losing his balance and falling onto the floor.

Abrams smiled and stepped inside. He fingered the hanging chain. “Taped it when he left. Old trick. Are you all right?”

Thorpe’s face was red as he got to his feet.

Abrams retrieved the keys and flipped them to the room manager. “Take a walk.”

Thorpe looked at Abrams as though wondering if he’d been set up.

Abrams regarded Thorpe closely, wondering if Thorpe knew about the tape but was playacting his role.

They both looked around the quiet room. Thorpe said, “Well, no sign of violence here.” He walked into the bathroom and called back, “No stiff here, either.”

Abrams noticed an empty tuxedo bag on the bed. “Carbury dressed for dinner.”

Thorpe came back into the bedroom and knelt beside the bed. “This is about the only place you could stash a stiff in this room.” He peered under the bed. “Carbury? You there?” He stood. “Well, he seems to have gone out.”

Abrams said to Thorpe, “Just stand there so you don’t leave fingerprints, lint, and hair all over. I’ll toss the room.”

Thorpe smiled. “Tony in action. Don’t you need a magnifying glass and deerstalker hat?”

Abrams searched the room for the second time that evening. Thorpe made a few remarks, but Abrams didn’t respond. Abrams completed his search and said suddenly, “Have you been here tonight?”

“How about you?”

“I was in the club. But I couldn’t get up here. Answer my question.”

Thorpe walked to the window and looked out into the street. “As a matter of fact, I took out a book from the library, had a drink. Check it out.”

“Coincidence?”

Thorpe turned his head and smiled at Abrams. “Neither you nor I believe in coincidence. Not in our business. I was here for the same reason you were.”

Abrams seemed lost in thought.

Thorpe said, “What are you thinking, ace?”

Abrams looked at him. “You know.”

“Tell me, Tony.”

“It’s the blood on the cuff, Pete.”

“I know. I know.” Thorpe shook his head as though he were considering an abstract problem that had nothing to do with him. “What can we make of that?”

“We think it’s sloppy and amateurish.” Abrams moved closer to Thorpe.

Thorpe said, “Keep your distance.”

Abrams stopped. He smiled. “This sounds sort of silly, but I want your cuff. Rip it off.”

Thorpe smiled in return. “Come and take it.” He threw off his rain cloak.

Abrams shrugged. “I thought you’d say that.” He also removed his raincoat and stepped closer to Thorpe, realizing he wanted not only the cuff but a piece of Thorpe as well.

Thorpe put up his fists. “Yale boxing team, Abrams. You’d better be good.”

Abrams moved in, left shoulder first, a flat-footed stance, his fists protecting his face. Thorpe did the same. But Abrams did not think for one moment that Thorpe intended to box, so when Thorpe’s left leg shot out, with the toe of his shoe pointed directly at Abrams’ groin, Abrams was able to react. He dropped his hands and intercepted Thorpe’s foot. But Thorpe’s kick was so powerful that Abrams found himself lifted off the floor, still clutching Thorpe’s shoe and ankle. Abrams fell back on the floor, and Thorpe pulled his foot out of his shoe, then kicked off his other shoe.

Abrams quickly got to his feet and backed off. Thorpe smiled slowly. “Smart. If I had caught you with that kick, you’d be singing falsetto for a month. Well, do you still want the cuff?”

Abrams nodded.

Thorpe feigned a look of disappointment. “How am I going to explain to Katherine what you’re doing in the hospital?” He moved closer to Abrams, jabbing and feinting as he did.

Abrams backed toward the door.

Thorpe came almost within kicking distance.

Abrams’ right hand was behind his back, fumbling with the doorknob. Thorpe smiled and took a quick step forward to position his kick. Suddenly, Abrams’ other hand also grabbed the knob, and Thorpe saw too late what was coming. Abrams’ feet left the floor, his body pivoting from the leverage of his grip on the knob. His heels caught Thorpe in the midsection and sent him sprawling backward onto the bed, then off the side to the floor.

Abrams knew the blow was not a disabling one and followed up quickly with a rush, then stopped short.

Thorpe stood with a very long and thin black knife in his hand. He spoke as he caught his breath. “This is ebony. . . . Passes the metal detectors and X rays. . . . Can puncture your heart with it. Want to see?”

Abrams’ eyes darted around, and he spotted a heavy table lamp.

Thorpe shook his head. “Don’t. Look.” He held out his hand with the knife and pulled back the jacket sleeve. “Spot’s gone. Attendant in the men’s room had Carbona, God bless his Spanish soul. Military establishments are fanatical about personal appearance.”

Abrams kept his eyes on the knife.

Thorpe lowered it and slid it into the seam along his trousers. “Truce?”

Abrams nodded.

Thorpe patted the seam where the knife lay. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink. We could both use one.” Thorpe put his shoes on. They retrieved their raingear and left.

They waited silently in the corridor for the elevator. Thorpe lit a cigarette, then spoke as though to himself. “Cops look for things like motive, opportunity, clues . . . like the cuff, for instance. In my business, we have different needs. We don’t care to know the actual name of the culprit. That’s meaningless. We want to know the name of his employer. We do not try to perfect a case against a murderer. We always find that the motive for a murder or kidnapping is a perfectly legitimate one . . . from our perspective. So we don’t talk about legalities. Police think in terms of crime and punishment. We think in terms of sin and retribution.”

Abrams said nothing.

Thorpe went on. “The National Security Act of 1947 did not give us powers of arrest. That was supposed to keep us in line. Silly idea. What do you do with people you can’t arrest and try in a special court?”

Abrams lit a cigarette.

Thorpe continued. “We’re supposed to have the FBI arrest them, then watch a federal prosecutor fuck up the case. Or have a defense lawyer try to drag out all sorts of information which pertains to national security. Well, we don’t go that route.”

The elevator came, and Thorpe motioned Abrams inside. Abrams shook his head. Thorpe shrugged and got in alone. The doors closed. Abrams took the next elevator.

As Abrams rode down, he thought: If Thorpe did kill Carbury, why did he? Thorpe’s personality, as far as Abrams could ascertain, was that of a man who would commit murder as part of his workaday job, for reasons he himself didn’t fully understand or even care about. Thorpe, though, was also the type who would kill anyone who posed even the remotest threat to the personal well-being and happiness of Peter Thorpe. Was it, then, an official sanction or a private enterprise?

Abrams joined Thorpe on the second level, and Thorpe ushered him into the oak-paneled lounge. Thorpe said, “Have you ever heard of the Special Homicide Squad?”

Abrams stood at the bar but didn’t respond.

Thorpe stood beside him, his foot on the rail. “A handful of New York cops who come together only when it appears that a corpse met his end as a result of . . . official sanction. These detectives, coincidentally, all have special training at a farm in Virginia. You following me? So don’t go beating on doors downtown with this. You may knock on the wrong door.”

The bartender, Donald, approached. “Hey, Mr. Thorpe. Shindig over already?”

“Right.”

“How’d the President look?”

“Terrific. Catch it on the eleven o’clock news. Donald, this group needs alcohol. Stolichnaya, and buy yourself one. My friend drinks Scotch.”

Donald said to Abrams, “What do you want with that Scotch?”

“A glass.”

Donald moved off.

Thorpe lit another cigarette. “My stomach is starting to ache.”

“Must have been the fish.”

Thorpe smiled. “You’re good, Abrams. I’ll give you that.”

Neither spoke for some time, then Thorpe said, “So what do you think of the old boys?”

Abrams answered in measured tones. “Harmless enough old duffers. Like to talk power and politics. They’re out of it, though.”

“That’s what I used to think. Fact is, they’re not. I use them in my business.”

Abrams thought that O’Brien would say he used Thorpe. “What
is
your business?”

“Something called the Domestic Contact Service. . . . What kind of clearance do you have, Abrams?”

“Six feet two inches.”

Thorpe laughed. “I like you. I’m sorry about before, at dinner.”

“Thank you.” Abrams regarded Thorpe closely. When Thorpe had been baiting him, Abrams knew he wasn’t in any personal danger. Now he knew he was in extreme danger.

The drinks came. Thorpe held up his glass. “Death to the enemies of my country.”

“Shalom.”

Both men fell silent. The bartender leaned over and spoke quietly to Thorpe. “That guy got your message.”