West said, “The important questions are, how high up do these Soviet penetrations go, and what would be the objective of these penetrations . . . if they existed?”
O’Brien shook his head. “I can only tell you that something ominous is in the air. I believe the Russians have discovered a way to achieve their ultimate objective.”
Thorpe said, “You mean a nuclear strike?”
“No.” O’Brien waved his hand in a motion of dismissal. “That is not and never was one of their options any more than it is one of ours.”
“Then what?” asked Katherine. “Biological? Chemical?”
O’Brien did not respond.
Katherine said, “How do Colonel Carbury and the Wingate letter relate to any of that?”
O’Brien replied, “As it relates at all, it would have to be that the person or persons revealed in the diary as possible moles are somehow necessary to the Soviet plan.” O’Brien shrugged. “We need more facts. Let’s table it for now.”
Abrams could not help making the comparison between O’Brien’s heavy-handed hints at Armageddon and the police game of telling a suspect they knew all about him and his accomplices, then letting the guy walk so they could see where he went. It followed that O’Brien really suspected that someone in this car was a conduit whose opening flowed into Moscow. Yet Abrams couldn’t help thinking that Patrick O’Brien was a little too good to be true. Too glib. Too many answers to unasked questions. Too unruffled by the suggestion that he might be Talbot.
Incredible, Abrams thought. This was really happening. Abrams felt he’d walked into a tornado that afternoon and landed in Oz. He thought if he went home and slept, when he awoke, the tuxedo wouldn’t be on the floor beside his bed. There’d be no hangover, and he’d go to work Tuesday and Katherine Kimberly would hand him a summons to serve on some poor schnook who had run afoul of an O’Brien client, and life would go on in its slightly tedious way. That’s what he thought, except it wasn’t true.
What was true was that he was involved in ways he could not even have imagined at lunchtime. What was also true was that the car reeked of conspiracy, suspicion, and fear. Professionally, one might speak of fear for the life of one’s country, but, notwithstanding this low-key, genteel conversation, Abrams sensed the more fundamental fear these people had for their own lives.
Abrams could almost hear his father’s voice. “Don’t join anything. Don’t carry anybody’s card. It’s nothing but misery. I know.”
Or his mother’s more basic advice. “When you see people whispering, run the other way. Only you and God should whisper to each other.”
Expected advice from Communists turned Zionists, he thought. Good advice. It was too bad, he reflected, he never listened to it. He was, after all, the son of famous conspirators. They didn’t take their own advice until they were in their fifties. He had some years to go. Unless O’Brien was right, in which case he and everyone might only have weeks or months.
25
The limousine crept along in the heavy traffic. James Allerton was asking who knew of Carbury’s mission; a good, basic question, thought Abrams.
Katherine said, “I told Mr. O’Brien. Then I told Peter.” She looked around the car.
Allerton said kindly, but pointedly, “No one else?”
She hesitated. “No. . . . Well . . . Arnold in archives . . . I mean, I asked him for Colonel Carbury’s file. But I had the impression he knew Carbury was in New York.”
Thorpe looked at Abrams. “How much did you know?”
“I knew I had to follow a man named Carbury.”
Thorpe rubbed his chin. “All in all, Kate, you could have shown better judgment.”
She flushed angrily. “Don’t be absurd. I showed damned fine judgment.”
“But you didn’t have to tell anyone, including me, until after you had the diary. Now you’ve tainted us.”
She stared at him defiantly. “Carbury himself or Lady Wingate could have been the cause of the security breach. Information progresses geometrically, and we have no way to check on who was told, here or in England. So let’s keep the paranoia among us down to a minimum.”
Thorpe seemed chastised. He took Katherine’s hand. “I apologize.”
The limousine stopped in front of the Lombardy. Thorpe raised Katherine’s hand to his lips and kissed it. He climbed out of the car and said to Allerton, “Are you staying here?”
Allerton shook his head. “You know I dislike that apartment. I’ve taken a room at the United Nations Plaza.”
Abrams watched Katherine, but she made no move to leave with Thorpe. Thorpe turned away without a farewell and entered the Lombardy.
The limousine drove off and a few minutes later stopped at the UN Plaza Hotel. Allerton reached into his pocket and pulled out the medal he’d received. He stared at it, then looked at O’Brien. “This should have been yours.”
O’Brien laid his hand on the old man’s arm. “No, James, you deserve it.”
Allerton smiled and his eyes became moist. “When I was young, I thought we had fought the war to end all wars. Then when I was middle-aged, there was another. And now in my final years the war drums are beating again. . . .” He looked at Katherine, West, and Abrams. “You take all this insanity as the normal state of affairs. But I assure you there was a time when civilized men and women thought war was no longer possible.”
Katherine leaned over and kissed Allerton on the cheek. “I’ll see you before you return to Washington.”
A doorman helped Allerton out and the limousine moved off. West directed the driver to the Princeton Club.
When the car stopped on 43rd Street, West addressed O’Brien. “Thank you for inviting me. I hope I was of some help.”
“As always. Be careful. . . .”
“I have protection.”
“So did Randolph Carbury. Good night.”
The car headed back east and stopped in front of a Sutton Place apartment building. O’Brien got out, then put his head back into the car. “Well, Abrams? Welcome to the firm. Watch yourself. Good night, Kate.” He shut the door.
The limousine headed south again. After a long silence, Katherine said to Abrams, “I’d like you to stay at the house on Thirty-sixth Street.”
“Where are you staying?”
“In my apartment in the West Village.”
Abrams let the silence hang, then nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ll meet you at the house in the morning. We’ll go to the office. The dead files.”
“Fine.”
The car turned into 36th Street. Katherine said, “I’m glad you’re in on this.”
Abrams lit a cigarette. After a while Katherine said, “Sometimes I believe we are born with an instinct for revenge. It’s nearly as strong an instinct as survival or sex. Some of the people you met tonight will not be at peace until the old scores are settled. What’s your motive?”
“Sex.”
She looked at him dubiously, then smiled. The limousine stopped in front of the town house. Abrams opened the door.
She said, “Be careful tonight.”
Abrams paused at the door. Most people, he reflected, said, “Good night”; this group was heavily into “Be careful.” He said, “If there’s a killer on the loose, you may be wise to stay here . . . or at the Lombardy.”
“I like sleeping in my own bed. See you later. Early.”
Abrams closed the door and watched the car pull away.
He lifted the brass knocker and brought it down on the strike plate. Claudia opened the door almost immediately. “You kept me up. Everyone is in already.”
“Who’s everyone?” He entered the foyer.
“The Grenvilles and Van Dorns. Did you have a good time?”
“No.”
“I saw you outside. Why isn’t she staying with that lunatic Thorpe at that horrible apartment in the Lombardy?”
“Maybe she is. What’s horrible about that apartment?”
“Everything . . . w
hen you go to the bathroom there, the toilet bowl analyzes your urine and sends the results to the CIA. I spent a week there when I came from Rumania. I was afraid to undress with the light on. Or off. They have things to see in the dark.”
Abrams hung his raincoat on the foyer hook. “A CIA place?”
She didn’t answer.
He said, “Same room?”
“I’ll show you up.”
Abrams walked by the sitting room and saw Joan Grenville curled up on the couch. She smiled as Abrams went by.
Abrams followed Claudia down the hall. It was nearly 3:00 A.M. and his body craved sleep. He watched Claudia’s undulating rear as she walked. Given his choice between sleep and sex, considering his age and general health, he thought he could stay awake a bit longer.
There was a small old S-shaped telephone desk in the narrow hall, the type his parents had in their hall, a special place to hold the valuable instrument. The telephone rang and Abrams reached it before Claudia. It was O’Brien. His voice was calm and unemotional. “Telex here from England. Brompton Hall has been destroyed by fire.”
“Right.” Abrams had the impression that O’Brien knew this some time ago. But sometimes it was better to pretend that a source of information was still viable and record people’s reactions. Then you hit them with the startling new development and do another check of reactions. Abrams said, “Bodies?”
“Three. Pending further identification.”
“What time did it happen?”
“About one A.M. their time. Eight P.M. our time. About when we realized Carbury was overdue.”
Abrams said, “Can you deduce anything from that?”
“Yes, I can. After Katherine first spoke to me about Carbury, I called a friend in Kent and asked him to drop by Brompton Hall and watch over things. This was about five P.M. New York time. My friend called from Brompton Hall about seven P.M. and everything was all right there. By eight P.M. it was not all right.”
Abrams said, “Perhaps your friend was the reason it was not all right at Brompton Hall.”
“Possible, but more likely he will be among the dead. Lady Wingate and her nephew will be the other two.”
Abrams nodded. “We don’t seem to have much luck covering our witnesses.”
“No. Listen, Abrams, don’t get a good night’s sleep.”
“Right.”
“I have to call the others.” He hung up.
Claudia said, “Bad news?”
Abrams replaced the receiver in the cradle. “As Thoreau said about news, when you’ve read about one train wreck, you’ve read about them all.”
“What does that mean?”
Abrams yawned. “Ask Thoreau.”
“Henry Thoreau? He’s dead.”
“Really? I didn’t even know he was sick.”
“Stupid joke.”
“Right.”
“Who was that?”
“It was for me.”
She turned toward the stairs.
Abrams tried to fit this new information into a framework, but his mind was nearly numb. All he could make of it was that it signified a ruthlessness, and a willingness to murder, plus the wherewithal to carry out complex and daring international operations. Telexed death warrants and people in place to execute the warrants. KGB. CIA. O’Brien’s network. Could be anyone, he thought. It also signified a certain desperateness on the part of the killers, and that was the only bright spot in the picture.
26
Abrams followed Claudia up the tilted staircase. She turned to him on the landing. “Good night.” She started up the next flight of stairs.
Abrams was annoyed. He said, “I’m going downstairs to have a drink.”
She smiled.
Abrams stood on the landing, then approached the door to his room. He listened, then opened it, standing off to the side. He reached in and snapped on the light. There was no place a person could hide except under the bed, and he kept his eyes fixed there as he entered and retrieved his revolver from the top drawer of the bureau. He opened the cylinder, checked the six bullets, peered down the barrel to see if it was clear, felt the hammer and firing pin to make certain no one had done any filing, then dry-fired a few times. Satisfied he still had a lethal weapon, he reloaded and snapped the cylinder in place. Abrams dropped the revolver into his side pocket.
He walked downstairs and joined the Grenvilles in the sitting room. The fire was dead and the lights were out, but several candles lit the room. Abrams looked at Joan Grenville, half reclining on the couch, a drink in her hand. She arched her eyebrows in a quizzical look, as though to ask, thought Abrams, “Why aren’t you fucking Claudia?”
Abrams poured himself a glass of warm club soda. He noted that Tom Grenville was asleep in a wingback chair.
Joan Grenville said, “I love candlelight. Especially in a house built before electricity.”
Abrams sat on the couch and Joan had to move her feet. Abrams said, “There’s always been electricity.”
“You know what I mean.”
She sipped on her drink, then said, “Aren’t you tired?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have an enjoyable evening?”
“Relative to what?”
She looked at her husband and called out, “Tom, wake up!”
Grenville didn’t stir.
Joan turned to Abrams. “He’s passed out. Other people sleep, he goes into a coma.”
Abrams looked at Grenville. He appeared to be really out, but his physical presence was inhibiting. Abrams said to Joan Grenville, “Are you a member of the group?”
She didn’t answer for some time, then said, “No.” She paused again, then said, “I’m into aerobics.”
Abrams smiled.
She added. “And tennis. Things that prolong one’s life-span. How about you?”
“I smoke, carry a gun, and get involved in dangerous situations.”
“You’d fit right in. I could give you a warning, but it would be pointless.”
“Does your husband belong?”
“I’m not at liberty to speak about any of that.”
“Are you afraid?”
“You’re damned right.” She stretched out her legs and one foot came to rest on his thigh.
There was, thought Abrams, a certain amount of sexual tension present in any houseguest situation. He remembered when his second cousin, Letty, slept in his parents’ spare room. After a week of clumsy signaling, unneeded nocturnal trips to the kitchen and bathroom, they’d finally made it on the couch at 3:00 A.M. Abrams nodded toward Grenville. “I’ll help him up, if you want.”
She didn’t answer but placed both feet on his lap. Abrams took one foot in his hands and massaged it.
“That feels good. I hate high heels.”
Abrams realized he had little physical desire for her, and what there was had to do with things far more complex than instinct.
Abrams glanced again at Tom Grenville, sprawled in the chair. It seemed, or perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, that Grenville was awake. He considered this for a moment, then a noise brought him to full alertness and he froze.
Joan Grenville heard it too, and she looked up at the ceiling. Someone was walking in Abrams’ room directly overhead.
Abrams got up from the couch and went to the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. He stood outside his door and listened. Someone was still inside. He drew his revolver, stepped to the side, and pushed open the door. He peered cautiously around the jamb.
Claudia was sitting on the bed, with her legs drawn up to her breasts, leafing through a magazine. She was wearing a loosely tied white silk robe. Abrams said softly to himself, “Jesus Christ. There’s no end to the madness.”
Claudia glanced at him. “Come in and close the door.”
Abrams stepped into the room and drew the door shut. He slipped his .38 into his pocket. He said tersely, “What makes you think I want you here?”
She tossed aside the magazine and sat
up straighter. Her robe fell open and Abrams could see her breasts, olive-colored and full. She looked serious. “I am no whore. I don’t go with many men. I like you. I think you like me.”
Abrams turned and slipped out the door, colliding with Joan Grenville, who had obviously been listening. Abrams said, “Sorry, Mrs. Grenville. Look, I seem to have a calendar conflict. . . .”
Unexpectedly, she smiled. “If you can, come to me afterward. Third floor. Second on the right. I’ll leave it unlocked. Wake me. Any time before dawn.”
“Right.” He watched her mount the stairs, then went back into his room. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a drawer. His notebook hadn’t been moved, and neither had any of his other odds and ends.
Claudia was leaning forward. “Do you think I came here to steal from you?”
He walked to the bed. “I was looking for my prayer shawl.” He placed his revolver on the night table. Then he ripped off his tie and shrugged out of his dinner jacket. The shirt studs gave him trouble, and he ripped the front open, then tore the cuffs loose. “Damned stupid outfit . . .” He finished undressing, then climbed onto the high bed and knelt beside her, drawing her robe open. Her body was full, her hips wide. He caressed her legs, arms, and buttocks, and could detect her taut muscle tone. He wondered what kind of work she’d done in Rumania. “Do you do aerobics?”
“What is that? Flying? Why do I have trouble understanding you?”
“Beats me.” He leaned over and kissed her, then his mouth moved down her body.
Claudia suddenly pulled away and drew her robe around her. “Come. Follow me.” She rolled out of bed and gathered a heavy comforter from the footboard, draping it around her shoulders.
Abrams watched her as she walked to the window and threw up the sash. She turned back to him. “Come. There is a fire escape. The rain has stopped, and it’s a beautiful night. Have you ever made love al fresco?”
Abrams shrugged and looked around for something to wear. She called out, “Just bring the pillows. Come.” She slipped through the window and stood on the fire escape. Abrams grabbed two pillows, dropped his revolver into the pillowcase of one, and joined her on the fire escape.