A policeman directed Thorpe to the right, and he waited his turn at a walk-through metal detector, then passed through under the scrutiny of Secret Service men.
On the far side of the detector was a broad flag-draped corridor off which wide pocket doors had been parted to reveal handsome reception rooms. Thorpe entered a room filled with coatracks and exchanged his rain-spattered cloak for a receipt. He wandered back into the corridor, crossed it, and entered a lavishly appointed reception room where predinner cocktails were being cleared. Thorpe found an untouched martini and drank it.
“Bad form to be late for the President, Peter.”
Thorpe turned and saw Nicholas West approaching. Thorpe said, “It would be worse form to be early and sober.”
They shook hands. West said, “Did you just arrive?”
Thorpe smiled. “I was on Company business. What’s your excuse, Nicko?”
“I was stacked up over La Guardia.”
Thorpe took West’s arm. “Look, why don’t we skip this boring reunion and go out on the town? I know a deliciously vile topless place on West Forty-sixth, with a whorehouse upstairs.”
West forced a laugh, but his cheeks flushed.
Thorpe regarded West. Even in black tie he looked as if he were wearing his crumpled Harris tweeds. West was forty-one years old but looked no more than thirty, thought Thorpe. He had been an instructor of history at Washington University when, in 1967, he and several other young historians were recruited by CIA Director Richard Helms to prepare an encyclopedic history of the OSS and the CIA. That massive secret undertaking turned out to be a continuing and interminable project of which West had become the chief. Thorpe found another martini on a tray and took a swallow. “How’s the book coming, Nick?”
West shrugged. “There’s always newly uncovered information that makes it necessary to rewrite.”
Thorpe nodded. “Newly uncovered information can be a pain in the ass. Have you found a publisher?”
West smiled. “Actually, we’ve got two volumes into print.”
“How about sales?”
“One hundred percent. Ten copies of each volume were printed, then we destroyed the tapes.”
“Who got the books?”
“Well, the Director, of course, got one set of volumes. My section got a set… ” He looked at Thorpe. “The other distribution is classified.”
“Send me a set.”
“Get a note from the Director.”
“Sure. Which two volumes went to press?”
“The OSS years, 1942 through 1945, and the two years that preceded the founding of the CIA in 1947.” West looked around the reception room. It was empty except for busboys. “We’d better go in.”
“No rush.” Thorpe finished his drink and turned to West. “I’d like to see some of that stuff. My computer can access your computer and we’re in business.”
West looked at him closely. “If you have a need to know and proper authorization, I’ll show you what you need.”
Thorpe shook his head. “These things are better done on an old-boys basis.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Right.” Thorpe lit a cigarette and sat on a long table. West, he knew, was getting nervous about being late, which made it easier to deal with him.
Thorpe looked at the colorless man. By the nature of West’s job, and because his need-to-know was boundless, he’d evolved, quite by accident, into the single most knowledgeable person in the CIA. Someone once said, “If the KGB had their choice of the man they most wanted in an interrogation cell — the President, the Director of the CIA, or Nicholas West — they would pick West.” Thorpe flipped his cigarette into the fireplace. “Ever come across my name?”
West avoided Thorpe’s stare and started toward the door that led to the ballroom. “Let’s go, Peter.”
Thorpe jumped down from the table and followed. “Does it make you nervous carrying all that sensitive stuff around in your head?”
West nodded. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in years.” He slid one of the pocket doors open and passed into a curtained-off area of the ballroom. A Secret Service man asked for his invitation, and he showed it. The man checked it against a guest list and waved him through. Thorpe showed his invitation and followed.
Thorpe stopped near the curtains. “Looks like the Eastern Establishment has shown up. Last chance to split, Nicko.”
West shook his head and moved toward the curtain, but Thorpe put his hand on his shoulder. “Hold up, sport. Ceremonies are beginning.”
West stopped. He felt Thorpe’s hand squeezing his shoulder, tighter, until finally he pulled away. Peter Thorpe made him uncomfortable. The man was a case study in excesses: too much physical strength, an overbearing personality, too good-looking, and too much money. Yet, in an odd way, West was attracted to him.
Thorpe said, “Do you have a nursemaid tonight?”
West shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Can’t you spot them?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll spot him. Then we’ll lose him and get over to that cathouse later.”
“They don’t care if I go to a cathouse. They don’t care what I do as long as I don’t drop a briefcase off at the Soviet embassy or book myself on a Cruise to Nowhere.”
Thorpe laughed. “It’s encouraging to see that you can joke about it.”
West looked at Thorpe. “For all I know, you’re my nursemaid tonight.”
“Not me, Nicko.”
West smiled. “I guess not.” On past occasions he had sometimes compromised himself professionally by his indiscreet talks with Thorpe. But if there was one thing he would never do, it was compromise himself personally with Thorpe by joining him on one of his escapades. Thorpe was, in some ways, a friend, but Thorpe was also, West sensed, a seducer; a seducer of men as well as women. West felt that Thorpe wanted a piece of him, a piece of his soul, though he could not imagine why.
Thorpe said, “When you’re with me, Nicholas, nothing bad will ever happen to you.”
“When I’m with you, nothing good ever happens to me.”
Thorpe laughed, then his expression changed. He put his arm around West’s shoulder and pulled him closer in a hug that was uncomfortably intimate. He spoke softly into West’s ear, “They’re going to grab you, Nick. They want you in Moscow, and they’re going to get you.”
West craned his neck and looked up at Thorpe. “No. The Company is protecting me.”
Thorpe saw the blood drain from West’s face. He smiled sadly and shook his head. “They can’t protect you forever, and they know it. They don’t even want to protect you, because you know too, too much, my friend. When they terminate your employment, it will not be under the New Identity Program — the NIP — it will be under the RIP. That’s how they do it. God help you, Nick, but your fate is hovering somewhere between Moscow and Arlington Cemetery.”
West felt his mouth go dry. Unconsciously, he leaned closer to Thorpe.
Thorpe patted West’s back. “I can help you. We have some time yet.”
BOOK III
REUNION
16
Peter Thorpe and Nicholas West entered the ballroom, which was actually the regimental drill hall, a four-story-high structure slightly larger than a football field. The wide expanses were spanned by elliptically shaped wrought-iron trusses, and two tiers of arched windows were cut into the side of the sloping ceiling. The area was brilliantly lit by immense chandeliers. Galleries that could seat over a thousand people overlooked both ends of the hall. Thorpe stared into the dark upper reaches of the gallery above the dais. There were no guests up there, but every ten yards or so a Secret Service man had been posted with binoculars. The sniper rifles, Thorpe knew, were lying on the benches.