The Talbot Odyssey (28 page)

Thorpe spoke softly. “Look, Nick, this Talbot thing has really stirred up a hornet’s nest. You should lay low for a while.”

West nodded, then found his voice and said, “Who . . . them or us?”

“Our people. Langley has been on full alert all weekend. You know how it is. They start making decisions right and left, getting themselves all hyper. They made a decision about you.”

“What . . . ?”

“Well, they don’t actually plan to eliminate you, but they
will
put you in the mountains . . . you may be there some time.”

West’s eyes seemed more alert. “Then maybe I should just report in and—”

“No. Don’t do that.”

“But . . . I don’t mind being put on ice.”

“If you knew what they do to people in the mountains, you might think differently.”

West stared at Thorpe with a mixture of curiosity and dread. “What . . . ?”

Thorpe said, “Finish your drink.” The Negroni came and Thorpe tasted it. “Not bad. I’ve never had one. Look, Nick, for the sake of appearances can you try to smile a bit and get some color in your face?”

West sipped on his martini.

Thorpe said, “Are you carrying?”

“No.”

“Vest?”

“No . . . I don’t wear that.”

“How about a signal transmitter?”

West touched his belt buckle. “Micro-miniature. I can be tracked by air, auto, or ground receiver.”

“Is it activated now?”

“No. Why should it be?”

“How do you activate it?”

West licked his lips. “You just grip it, top and bottom, and squeeze. It’s got spring bars, like a wristwatch.”

“Are you wired for sound?”

“No.”

Thorpe knew West wasn’t wired, because Thorpe was carrying a bug alert and it hadn’t picked up anything.

He stared at West for some time, then said, “L-pills?”

West nodded. “Always.”

“Where? What form?”

West hesitated, then tapped his class ring.

Thorpe glanced at West’s Princeton ring. “Pill compartment?”

“No . . . the stone . . . cyanide suspended in rock sugar, colored with dye to match onyx. Thin coat of polyurethane to keep it shiny and keep it from melting. . . . You bite it—”

“And death is, as they say, instantaneous.” Thorpe smiled. “What will those jokers think of next? Is that the only poison?”

West shook his head. “A conventional capsule. I forgot it. It’s in my room.”

Thorpe smiled. “You’d forget your ass if it wasn’t nailed on.”

“Tell me more about the mountains,” West said.

Thorpe stared straight ahead as he spoke. “You go into the mountains as Nicholas West. You come out somebody else.”

“That’s the New Identity Program.”

“Not quite. They go a bit further than plastic surgery and a new driver’s license, my friend. Electric shock treatment, drugs, and hypnosis. By the time they’re through with your brain, you’re neutralized.”

West stared, wide-eyed.

Thorpe continued. “This is the new meaning of neutralized. No more wet stuff for our own people if you haven’t committed a crime. Just a little memory alteration so you’re not a walking encyclopedia anymore.”

West slumped back onto the sofa. “Oh . . . Good Lord . . . they can’t do that.”

“Right. It’s illegal, and they’d never violate your civil rights. But let’s suppose they would. Then what you have to do is go underwater for a while. Keep your brain out of their hands.”

West finished his martini. “When . . . when do I have to—”

“
When?
Tonight! There is no tomorrow.”

West said, “My things . . . ?”

“
Things?
What
things?
”

“You know . . . clothes . . . books . . .”

Thorpe laughed. “If you let them take you to the mountains, you won’t even remember your name, let alone what you own. Don’t worry about idiot details. On the other hand, you do need some insurance policies for yourself. If you had insurance, tucked away, spring-loaded to be released under certain circumstances, then you could call your own shots.”

West rubbed his face. “I can’t get any insurance now.”

Thorpe considered a moment, then said, “Maybe you could get into your office early in the morning, act natural, collect some documents—maybe some computer printouts—then run.”

West was quiet for a long time, then looked up. “Maybe, if I could access my department’s computer from here . . . from your computer at the Lombardy . . .”

Thorpe nodded slowly, but said nothing.

West glanced at him. “I guess that’s the way to do it.”

“Seems like it.”

“But . . . how could we . . . I . . . do that? The entry would leave an audit trail, leading right back to you.”

Thorpe replied, “Would it?”

“Yes. It’s very secure. It will record your entry, plus the information that was accessed, and identify your computer station. Langley will see it immediately.”

Thorpe spoke in a casual tone. “Once I’m into your computer, I can do whatever the hell I goddamned please. If I can get in, I can erase all evidence of my penetration on my way out.”

West looked at him for a long time, then said, “The computer won’t allow that. It will tell them—”

Thorpe smiled. “I make buddies with computers real fast, once I shake hands with them.” He lit a cigarette. “You see, it’s like the difference between rape and seduction. Both involve penetration, but one is violent and clumsy, the other tender. After I fuck your computer, it won’t tell the cops. Okay? Let me worry about my technique.”

West nodded in acquiescence.

“Look, Nick, the only real problem we’ve got is if they’ve had the foresight to negate your access code—the modern equivalent of confiscating your key to the executive washroom.”

West forced a weak smile.

Thorpe continued, “But if we act soon—tonight—I think we can reasonably assume no one has thought to tell the computer that you are persona non grata. Tomorrow it will be one of the first things they do. Step one in making you an unperson.”

West nodded and brought his drink to his lips. His hand was shaking. “Just tell me,” he said softly, “why are you taking this risk for me?”

Thorpe leaned over the coffee table. “I’m not a nice guy, Nick. But some of the people we work for are not nice either.” He let out a deep breath. “If I let them scramble your brains and put you to work washing the windows on the farm, then I couldn’t live with myself . . . I mean, I couldn’t face Katherine, or Ann . . .”

West’s face dropped at the mention of Ann. He ordered another martini from a passing waiter.

Thorpe continued, “Also, quite honestly, I want to pick your computer’s brain. As it turns out, my wishes coincide tonight with your needs.”

“Why do you want to pick my computer’s brains?”

“As I told you several times, Nick, I need information on the old boys to recruit for my Domestic Contact Service.”

West nodded. He’d always thought that these computerized dossiers of amateur spies were being unreasonably withheld from Thorpe. West said, “But I would require that I be present when you access the computer.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Thorpe stubbed out his cigarette. “I know you’re loyal, Nicko. But you’ve read enough case histories to know that even loyalty is not insurance against some of those fucked-up paranoids in a position to do you harm. Your loyalty should end when theirs does. They’re not the government or the nation. You know that, Professor.”

West ran his hands over his face and finally said, “But . . . why . . . ?” His voice was filled with anguish. “What did I do?”

“Oh, Christ, Nick, we’ve been over this a dozen times. You didn’t
do
anything. So fucking what? You
know
too much. So do a lot of other people, but in your case they get very nervous. You’re not real Company. You were recruited by a fluke whim of some past director, and everyone forgot about you and your department until one day they realized you had too much on some of the bosses. That’s the bottom line. The Moscow-wants-Nick shit is just a cover to justify getting rid of you.”

West looked nervously around the big lounge. “Please, Peter. Lower—”

“Oh, calm down. This is the Yale Club, for Christ’s sake. Half the illegal business in the nation is conducted in this lounge.” Thorpe stood. “Well, think it over. I’m not pushing. It’s not that important to
me.
”

West grabbed Thorpe’s arm. “All right. All right. Just tell me what to do. Where can I go tonight?”

Thorpe took a key from his pocket and looked around. He said, “Room 1114. That’s where you can go. There’s a man up there. An actor. He knows nothing. His main attribute is that he looks like you, God help him and his career. Change clothes with him. He’ll leave here, pipe in mouth, and with luck he’ll draw off anyone who’s watching you. That probably includes a dozen CIA, KGB, and O’Brien goons. With more luck, he’ll get into your room at your club undetected and no one will realize we’ve done a bait-and-switch until morning. Buys lots of time.”

West stood, then said suddenly, “That’s how Carbury disappeared.”

“So what? You want originality? This works. I got suckered with it once myself. You just sit in Room 1114 until someone comes for you. There’s no phone in the room, so you won’t be tempted to call out. I left you a spy novel to read.” Thorpe smiled.

West nodded and Thorpe dropped a key into West’s jacket. Thorpe patted his shoulder. “Take it easy, Nick. See you at the Lombardy before dawn. Follow instructions.”

Thorpe watched West walk forlornly to the elevator bank. The elevator came and West got on without anyone seeming to take notice.

Thorpe descended the staircase and stopped at the landing. In the lobby, he picked out a man and a woman reading. They could be working for anyone. Thorpe smiled to himself. Spies watching spies. It occurred to him, too, that the FBI and the NYPD might also be represented tonight, compliments of Tony Abrams. Undoubtedly the police were on
his
case, not West’s. The thought of being followed by city detectives was distasteful. A frown passed over his face.
Abrams.
Who the hell would have figured a wild card like that? Abrams had been a soft target on Friday night. But now he was a hard target. A concrete reinforced missile silo. Yet he was vulnerable. He was vulnerable through Katherine.

Thorpe waited on the landing overlooking the lobby and surveyed the people below. By now everyone knew that he and West had had a drink together on the evening of what was to be West’s disappearance. But that could not be helped.

Nicholas West was a man who was hard to get at. Thorpe was one of the few people who had access to him and to some extent had his confidence. Kidnappings of protected people were difficult, which is why it was better sometimes to let a man kidnap himself.

The man who looked like West came down the stairs wearing West’s clothes and smoking a pipe. He fell in beside Thorpe without a word. They quickly descended to the lobby, Thorpe at an oblique angle in front of the man at first, then the man drawing abreast as they crossed the lobby to the doors, blocking himself from direct view. None of the people seated stared, but within a few seconds the man and the woman rose to follow.

Outside, Thorpe spotted at least two more, but in the street lighting he knew that no one doubted they were following Thorpe and West. They headed toward the Princeton Club. Thorpe felt, rather than saw, a veritable parade behind him. He hoped they didn’t trip over each other. He laughed. Christ, what a circus. He said to the man next to him, “I’ll get you into the room at the Princeton Club, but you’ve got to change your appearance and get out before dawn. Did that jerk give you his key?”

The man nodded. “Who was that other guy in the room? I didn’t expect anyone else in there. He never said a word. Looked sort of tough.”

“He’s another actor. Actors all over the place these days.”

Thorpe looked up the street. New York went about its business while he was acting out a comedy that would turn to tragedy very soon. Thorpe wondered what the city would look like after the July Fourth weekend. He was sorry he wouldn’t be in town to see it.

Peter Thorpe walked into the University Club lounge. There were only two men sitting at a small table, and Thorpe recognized them as members. He sat on a barstool. “Donald, you still here?”

The bartender turned and smiled, then checked his watch. “Another five minutes. We close at midnight tonight. What’s your pleasure, Mr. Thorpe?”

“Oh, just a club soda.”

Donald nodded. “Good Sunday-night drink. How was your weekend?”

“It had its ups and downs.”

Donald put a small bottle of Schweppes on the bar and opened it. “I think I saw you on the news. The camera did a shot of the crowd at the armory. Some party!”

“Right.” Thorpe poured the club soda into an ice-filled glass. “Listen, I’m in arrears here. Don’t put that on a chit.” He slid a dollar across the bar and Donald palmed it and stuffed it in his pocket.

Thorpe said, “Has anyone spoken to you about that Edwards guy?”

Donald nodded gloomily. “Cop named Spinelli. Hey, I didn’t tell him about the envelope.”

Thorpe said, “Oh, you could have. I have to speak to Spinelli anyway, and I’ll tell him. So, if you did, no problem.” Thorpe squeezed a lemon wedge in his glass.

Donald poured himself a Coke. “Well . . . I didn’t know, and I figured you wanted it on the q.t. So I didn’t say anything. I wanted to check with you first. Then I could say later I just forgot. You know?”

“Sure. I appreciate it.” Thorpe drained off the club soda.

Donald looked around and spoke quietly. “What’s with this Edwards guy? His name’s Carbury, right? You knew that.”

Thorpe shrugged. “I don’t really know much—” Thorpe suppressed a belch. “Excuse me. That felt good. . . . No, I don’t really know. They think he got mugged. Maybe stuck.”

“Oh, Jesus. That don’t look good. I mean a high-class Englishman and all. Gives the city a bad name.” He shook his head sadly, then said, “There was nothing about it in the papers.”

“Really? By the way, when did Spinelli speak to you?”

“Oh . . . Friday night. When the cops got here to look at Edwards’ room. He only asked me a few questions. But then he came back Saturday afternoon, about four. When I got on duty. This time he was a little more pushy. He had a whole bunch of questions, and I got the feeling he spoke to you already. But then I thought it might’ve been that guy you were with Friday night. You remember?”