Katherine’s face showed a mixture of impatience and amusement. “Open the damned door.”
The door buzzed and Katherine opened it, entering a large anteroom. She passed into a very long two-story-high sitting room. On opposite sides were balconies that served as hallways to the second-story rooms. The balconies were connected by a catwalk that spanned the length of the spacious room. She looked around as she dropped her bag and briefcase on the sofa, then removed her raincoat. Hidden stereo speakers were playing a medley of theme songs from James Bond movies. She smiled. “Peter! Idiot!”
She walked to the bar, where a pitcher of martinis stood alongside two chilled glasses, and poured a full glass for herself. The French doors that led to the terrace suddenly opened and a gust of cool air blew in. Through the billowing curtains walked Peter Thorpe, clad only in a pair of threadbare jeans.
She stared for some time at his muscular body silhouetted against the towering lighted buildings beyond. “Are you crazy?”
Thorpe’s blue eyes narrowed in a malevolent glare. “Sloppy tradecraft, Miss Kimberly. If you were a Red agent, you’d be dead.” He shut the French doors, then advanced toward her. “See this?” He held up a partly peeled lemon. “This is an anthrax grenade. Catch!” He threw it underhand at her. She fielded it with one hand and, in a swift motion, shot it back at him.
The lemon thumped against his bare chest. She laughed in spite of her annoyance. She said, “Why were you standing in the rain half-naked?”
“I didn’t want to get my suit wet.” He smiled and embraced her.
“You’re very strange, Peter. Must be the red hair.” She tousled his long damp hair.
Thorpe worked his hands down the back of her shirt. “Did you have a good day?”
“An interesting day.”
They kissed, then Thorpe buried his face in her neck. “Do we have time for a quick dance?”
She smiled. “No. But we’ll make time for a slow dance.”
“Good.” He kissed her neck, then took the martini tray from the sideboard.
She picked up her bag and followed him up the spiral staircase. Thorpe looked back over his shoulder. “What made the day interesting?”
She started to reply, then thought better of it. Peter was altogether too curious about what went on at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. She said, “Just a lot of activity over the reunion tonight. A good number of out-of-towners and foreigners dropping by.”
They reached the balcony overlooking the sitting room. Thorpe said, “There’s nothing more insufferable than ex-spies.”
“They’re interesting people. You’ll enjoy the evening.”
“Perhaps. But I get a little weary of hearing how great the OSS was, and how screwed up the CIA is.”
“No one ever said that.”
“Your nose is getting longer, Kate.” He smiled. “Maybe I’m just sensitive. My father used to bore me for hours with stories of how the OSS won the war.”
She took his arm.
He added, “My boss is an old OSS man and he’s recruited dozens of others.” He stood in front of his bedroom door. “The dining rooms at Langley serve prunes and Geritol now.” He laughed.
She said, “Experienced men and women can be useful.” She opened the door and he entered first, setting the tray on the bureau.
He said, “It’s not the experience that concerns me… some of those old OSS characters were very weird. Very strange backgrounds… ”
She looked at him. “Meaning?”
He hesitated, then said, “You know… security risks.” He sipped on a martini. “There was a radical fringe in the OSS… they wouldn’t pass a normal security check by today’s standards. Yet they’re being brought back in on a special basis… that bothers me.”
“No more shoptalk.”
“Right.” He set his glass down and pulled off his jeans, throwing them on a chair.
Katherine began to undress.
Thorpe turned down the sheets of his double bed, then watched her hang her clothes in his closet. “We should get married.”
She turned and smiled. “You’re right. But who’d have us?”
He smiled back and lay down on the bed. “Come here. I want to show you my new decoding device.”
“I see it. Does it work well?” She approached the bed.
“It has to be turned on.”
“It looks like it just turned itself on.” She laughed and came into the bed beside him.
Katherine heard a phone ringing insistently somewhere, but she could not have cared less. There was a protracted silence, then the phone rang again. She felt the dreamy fog lifting, and her senses awakened as Peter sat up next to her in the bed. The yellow light on the telephone was blinking, indicating it was not his private number. “Switchboard call — the hell with it,” he said.
“It could be for me.”
He looked at her. “Then you answer it.”
Katherine raised herself onto her elbow and reached for the receiver. The switchboard operator said, “Mr. Abrams for Miss Kimberly.”
“All right.” There was a click, and she spoke. “Katherine Kimberly…” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat. “Yes?” She looked around the spacious second-floor bedroom. On the outside wall was a fireplace. The mantel clock showed they’d been asleep almost an hour.
Abrams hesitated, then said, “I took your advice and dropped in at the club.”
“Is he registered there?”
“Yes. But not officially. He’s been there since Wednesday… leaving Monday.”
Katherine watched as Thorpe got out of bed and began doing sit-ups, apparently with no interest in her conversation. But she knew him well enough to know he was listening. She spoke in a quieter voice. “All right, instruct the detectives to stay close to him until he reaches the armory.”
“I’ve done that, obviously.”
She took a few seconds to control her annoyance, then said, “Of course. See you at the armory, then.”
“Right.” He hung up.
She sat back in the bed, her long bare legs crossed.
Thorpe finished his sit-ups. “Who was that?”
“Tony Abrams.”
“Oh, super sleuth.” He rolled into a push-up position. “I met him once. Remember?”
“You were rude to him.”
“Was I?” He began his push-ups. “I’ll apologize next time I see him.”
“Good. That will be this evening.”
Thorpe stopped in mid push-up. “Oh, Christ, Kate, you didn’t invite him, did you?”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t fit. You’ll just make him unhappy to be there.”
She didn’t respond.
Thorpe balanced himself back on his shoulder blades and began a series of leg exercises.
She watched him. He had an exhibitionist streak in him, and probably a voyeuristic bent as well. Peter, she thought, was pure animal energy: his presence in a room was sometimes like that of a tame tiger cub, clawing and gnawing at a bone, threatening and potentially dangerous. Yet at other times he could be gentle and loving. He was a complex man, an intriguing man. But spies, like actors, were capable of personality metamorphoses. There were Peter Thorpes that she liked and Peter Thorpes that she didn’t like. But, she thought, he… or they… were never boring.
She drew the sheet up over her. “Are you still a member of the University Club?”
Thorpe sat on his haunches and scratched his head as though trying to remember. “I was… up until about four nights ago — Monday — you were out of town, I think… ”
“Drunk or disorderly?”
“I’m not sure. I remember trying to brush something off my face, but it was the floor.”
She smiled and glanced at the mantel clock again. “We should get moving.” She began to rise.
Thorpe stood and walked to the bed. He put his hands on either side of her and leaned over. “What’s going on, Kate?”