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.”
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. Eve
ryone 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.
20
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 busine
ss, 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.”