She ducked under his arm and got out of bed. “None of your business.”
“Can I help?”
She knelt beside the fireplace and ignited the gas jets. Blue flames curled around a log made of volcanic rock. “There’s too much light in here. Why are the lights always so bright?”
“Better to see you, my dear.” He went to the wall and turned down a rheostat. The room grew dark except for the glow of the fireplace. He changed the music on the stereo to a Willie Nelson tape, then poured two martinis and crouched beside her in front of the fire. The flame warmed their exposed skin and highlighted Katherine’s breasts and high cheekbones. Neither spoke for some time, then Katherine said, “Do you know a Colonel Carbury?”
Thorpe turned to her. “Carbury?”
Her eyes met his. “You know him?”
“Well… slightly. Friend of my father’s, Englishman, right? What is this about, Kate?”
She finished her drink, stood, and walked to the dresser. She extracted Eleanor Wingate’s letter from her bag and came back to the fireplace. She held the letter toward him but did not give it to him. “I’ll let you read this with the understanding that you are not to discuss it with anyone. Not your people, and not even your father. You’ll see why if you agree.”
He held out his hand, and she passed him the letter. Thorpe unfolded the pages and began reading by the light of the fire. He sipped his martini, but his eyes never left the letter.
He looked up and passed the pages back to her. “Where is the diary?”
“To be delivered,” she said softly. “What do you think, Peter?”
Thorpe shrugged as he got to his feet. He found a pack of cigarettes on the mantel and removed one, keeping his back to her as he spoke. “It’s worth following up.”
She moved beside him and stared at his handsome features. She thought he looked more agitated than his words revealed.
He said, “Poor Kate. This must be distressing after all these years.”
“Yes… as a personal matter, but I’m more distressed about the other implications.”
“Are you? I suppose that’s normal. You didn’t know your father.”
She put her hand on his cheek and turned his face so she could see him. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No. But did I understand from your conversation with Abrams that Carbury is to be at the armory tonight? Is that when he’s going to give you the diary?”
“Yes. He came to my office this afternoon without an appointment. Said he’d just gotten off the plane. But I guess he’s been here since Wednesday. Anyway, we spoke, and he gave me that letter. He said he’d produce the diary tonight.”
Thorpe nodded slowly. “Strange… I mean that Carbury should come to New York to see my father receive an award, and to the best of my knowledge my father doesn’t know he’s in town.”
“He may know. You two don’t exactly confide in each other.”
Thorpe seemed not to hear. He sat on the sofa and lit the cigarette, drawing on it thoughtfully.
His mood had changed markedly. Katherine would have liked to think it was because of his concern for her, but that was not characteristic of Peter Thorpe.
Thorpe said, “You did well to have him followed. Good instincts.”
Katherine accepted the rare compliment without reply. She said, “Do you feel this is serious? How did the letter go—‘grave and foreboding’?”
Thorpe walked toward the dresser. “Very possibly.” He poured another martini. “I’d like to see that diary.”
She gathered her clothing from the closet, and walked toward the door. “Did my things arrive?”
Thorpe nodded absently. “Yes… yes. Eva laid everything out in the beige room.”
Katherine stopped at the door. “Where is she?”
“Who…? Oh, Eva…” He shrugged. “Someplace. Out.”
Thorpe seemed to snap out of his inattentiveness. “By the way, I don’t like the blue dress. Icy.”
“Who asked you?” She walked out on the balcony that surrounded the living room and turned onto the connecting catwalk that was suspended above the room. Thorpe followed, carrying his drink. She stopped in the center of the walk and looked out a huge picture window that had been recently cut into the north wall. She held her clothes in front of her and watched the rain fall gently in the breezeless night. Thorpe stood beside her. He said, “Hell of a view. You like it?”
She replied, “It fascinates me — not the view, but the fact that you could talk your father into spending a small fortune to put a window into the twenty-third floor of a high-rise, contrary to the building code and over the objections of the management. That’s what fascinates me — the fact that you get what you want, no matter how trivial your whims and regardless of what it costs other people in time, money, or bother.”
“I like the view. Don’t make more of it than it is. I can see Harlem from here. See? I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight. Probably the same thing we did.”
“That’s crude, insensitive, and boorish.”
“Yes, it is… Still, I wonder… ” He sipped his drink.
“Sometimes you have no… no heart, Peter, no social conscience, no sense of propriety, no—”
“Hold on! I’m not going to be lectured to. I’m self-centered and I’m a snob. I know it. I like myself this way.”
She shrugged and headed for her room.
Thorpe called out, “Listen, I’m going to dress quickly and leave you here. I’ve got to meet someone. I’ll see you at the armory.”
She replied without turning, in a voice that was tinged with disappointment if not anger. “Don’t be late.”
“It won’t take long. You know where everything is. Let yourself out.”
She entered the guest room and closed the door behind her. There was, she reflected, nothing of hers permanently left in this huge apartment. Another woman might be suspicious of that, but this was not an apartment in the normal sense — it was a CIA safe house and domestic station, and what went on here could only be appreciated in that context.
Agents in transit sometimes slept here, as did other men and women whose status was not clear to her. On one occasion they’d debriefed a defector here, and the place had been off limits to her for over a month.
And although the decor was old-fashioned, there were high-technology refinements such as the security system and, she knew, a complete recording system. She wondered about cameras. Upstairs, on the third floor, was a great deal of electronics. She’d never seen that floor, but there were times when she could hear the humming of the machines and actually feel the vibrations.
She didn’t like it here. But this is where Peter lived when he was in New York, which was most of the time these days. And, for now, she wanted to be wherever he was.
13
Tony Abrams came to an old red-brick house on 36th Street in a block of elegant brownstones. To New Yorkers who had an appreciation of the value of midtown property, this block of private residences, sitting on some of the most valuable land in America, announced: Money. Set in Abrams’ section of Brooklyn, the narrow row houses might seem drab, he thought.
Unlike the brownstones, whose front doors were at the tops of high steps for privacy and to allow for servants’ quarters below, the door of this house was at sidewalk level. A gas lamp flickered on either side of the door, and to the left was a large multipaned window with scrolled wrought-iron bars. It was a house more reminiscent of old Philadelphia or Boston than old New York.
Abrams peered through a clear spot in the mist-covered window into a small sitting room. Logs were blazing in the fireplace, and two men and two women sat with drinks. The men were dressed in black tie, and he recognized them as George Van Dorn, a senior partner in O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose, and Tom Grenville, a soon-to-be partner. The women, wearing evening dresses, were probably their wives. Suburbanites, using the company digs for a night on the town. The O’Brien firm strongly believed in taxpayer-supported perquisites.