As he walked, Abrams considered that he was following a man he didn’t know for a purpose he couldn’t begin to fathom. At forty-three years of age he was doing what he’d done at thirty-three as a New York City undercover cop. At least then he knew the whys and wherefores of his assignments. Now he knew very little about the tasks he was asked to perform for the firm of O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. Such as agreeing to go to the Russian estate on Monday, Memorial Day. But Patrick O’Brien had assured him he’d be fully briefed before he went. O’Brien’s idea of fully briefed, he suspected, did not coincide with his own.
Carbury stopped now and then, ostensibly to take in the sights. Abrams’ instincts told him that the man was a pro, a fact Katherine Kimberly had failed to mention.
Abrams stopped and looked into a bookstore window as Carbury waited for a light. Whenever he followed someone, Abrams was reminded of his mother’s sage advice: “Get an inside job.” In the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn where he’d grown up, the world was neatly divided into outside and inside jobs. Outside jobs meant pneumonia, heat stroke, and unspeakable accidents. Inside jobs of the tie-and-jacket variety were safe. Notwithstanding that admonition, he became a cop. A little inside, a little outside, once in a while a tie. His mother wasn’t altogether pleased. She’d tell her friends, “He’s a detective. An inside job. He wears a suit.”
He had graduated at the top of his class from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, then entered Fordham Law School. It was then that he’d had an occasion to see the O’Brien firm in action. He had been observing a stock-fraud case for a law class, and it seemed that the defendant had more lawyers than the district attorney had pages in his indictment. The assistant DA trying the case had been dazzled — intimidated, actually. Abrams had been impressed, both as a cop and as a law student, and some weeks later he had applied for and gotten a part-time process server job with the O’Brien firm. Then, a year ago, Patrick O’Brien offered him a full-time position and full tuition reimbursement. At the time, it seemed apparent that they wanted a house dick, someone with special police knowledge and without the encumbrances of being a sworn peace officer. Since his May Day conversation with O’Brien, he wasn’t certain anymore of what they wanted of him.
Randolph Carbury crossed the street and stopped again to watch a well-attended sidewalk game of three-card monte. Abrams suspected that Carbury was trying to determine if he had a tail. If so, he’d try to shake the tail. And in a one-on-one situation, that wouldn’t be difficult. Abrams considered the unhappy prospect of going back to Katherine Kimberly empty-handed. But he also considered that he was unhappy with the way he was usually kept guessing about these assignments.
There was something decidedly non-kosher about the prestigious firm of O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose, and Abrams had one clue: Like the law firm of the late General William Donovan, which was located a few floors below, O’Brien’s firm had national intelligence connections going back to World War II. Not only was Patrick O’Brien an ex-intelligence officer, but so had been the late Henry Kimberly. The late Jonathan Rose had been an Allen Dulles aide in Bern during the war and a John Foster Dulles aide in the State Department during the Eisenhower administration. Also, Abrams had seen a good number of intelligence men and women, who had somehow run afoul of the law, pass through the office. If there was anything irregular about this law practice, it was those connections and associations. Tonight at the dinner he might learn more.
Carbury continued north. Abrams followed. His thoughts turned back to Katherine Kimberly. There was a woman who personified sangfroid. He imagined she took cold showers in the winter and stood in front of an open window to dry off. The Ice Queen, he called her, though certainly not to her face.
Yet when she had summoned him into her office, he had been almost shocked at her appearance. She was ghostly white, very upset, and she’d barely made an effort at hiding it. There was still that ice wall between them, but it had clearly cracked, and she seemed more human and more vulnerable in those brief seconds than he could have imagined.
Obviously the interview with Carbury had precipitated some strong emotion in her. Carbury was British, a colonel, World War II vintage. His card said retired and gave no branch, but the man was decidedly not a quartermaster officer. He was more likely in intelligence or police work of some sort. Abrams, after more than twenty years, could spot the signs. This did not explain what had caused so startling a transformation in Katherine Kimberly, but it was a clue.
He thought perhaps he should have asked her if she was all right. But then she might have borne a grudge against him for noticing and commenting on it; though he wondered why he felt it mattered.
Carbury passed the Plaza Hotel and headed west on Central Park South, then turned into the St. Moritz Hotel. Abrams waited a full minute, then entered the lobby.
Carbury was at the news counter buying a copy of the Times. He walked to the desk, spoke briefly with the clerk, then walked to the elevator and took the first car up.
Abrams paused at the news counter. The Times headlined: PRESIDENT SPEAKS TONIGHT IN CITY. A subline announced: Addresses World War II Intelligence Service. The Post read simply: PRES SPEAKS TO EX-SPOOKS TONIGHT. The News reported: POSH BASH FOR CLOAK AND DAGGER BOYS. Which reminded Abrams that he hadn’t picked up his tuxedo yet. “Damn it.”
He walked across the lobby and approached the desk clerk. “Do you have a Colonel Randolph Carbury registered?”
“Yes, sir. Room 1415.”
Abrams walked toward the front doors. That was easier than he thought. Too easy? He turned and walked to the house phone. “Colonel Randolph Carbury, room 1415.”
After a pause, the operator answered, “I’m sorry, sir. Room 1415 is unoccupied.”
“Do you have a Randolph Carbury registered?”
“Hold on… No, sir, there is no one by that name here.”
Abrams’ impulse was to go back to the desk clerk and have a talk with him, but it would be better if Carbury thought he’d pulled it off.
Abrams went out and stood on the sidewalk. It was getting late, and he was becoming annoyed. The assignment was better accomplished from a telephone. If Carbury was registered anywhere in the city under his own name, Abrams could discover where within a few hours. Katherine Kimberly made easy use of his time and shoe leather.
He crossed Central Park South and entered a phone booth from which he could see the St. Moritz. A light rain began to fall.
He called a friend in the Nineteenth Precinct and gave him the information, then placed a call to Katherine Kimberly. “I’m across from the St. Moritz—”
“Is he staying there?”
“That’s what he wants me to think—”
“You mean he suspects he’s being followed?”
“If he’s trying to lose me, then he knows, doesn’t he?”
“I thought you were good at this.”
Abrams gave himself a few seconds to control his voice. “You are supposed to tell me if the man is a pro.”
“Oh… sorry.” She paused. “Does he think he lost you?”
“Maybe. Look, I can’t follow him indefinitely. I’ve got someone working on hotel registrations. I’m leaving.”
“No. Stay with him. I want you to see that he’s safely in his hotel, or wherever it is he’s staying—”
“Safely? Safely implies that someone is trying to do something unsafe to him. You’ve got a lot to learn about briefing—”
“I’m sorry. I had no time. He left me with the impression that someone may want to harm him.”