Thorpe looked out across the ballroom. The hall was hung with red, white, and blue bunting, and three huge flags — American, British, and French — were suspended above the dais, as was a large sepia-toned picture of the OSS founder, General William “Wild Bill” Donovan.
There were, Thorpe estimated, close to two hundred tables, set with silver, china, and crystal on blue tablecloths. “Where’s our table?” asked Thorpe.
“Table fourteen. Near the dais.”
Thorpe looked at the raised dais that ran along the north wall. He recognized Ray Cline, an ex-OSS officer and former CIA Deputy Director for Intelligence.
The Marine honor guard was trooping the colors, and the assembled crowd stood as the colors were presented. The Army band began the national anthem, and the nearly two thousand men and women sang.
West stood at attention and joined in.
Thorpe looked back toward the dais. To Cline’s left was Michael Burke, ex-OSS officer and past president of both the Yankees and Madison Square Garden Corporation. Next to Burke was Charles Collingwood, the newscaster and chronicler of OSS activities during the war, and beside Collingwood was Clare Boothe Luce. To her left was Richard Helms, ex-OSS officer, former CIA Director, and the man who had recruited West. Thorpe turned to West. “There’s your old boss, Nick. Be sure to thank him for the job.”
West stopped singing and mumbled something that sounded like an obscenity.
Thorpe smiled. “He got out and you’re still in.”
The anthem ended, and the band began playing “God Save the Queen.” Thorpe said, “Hey, that reminds me — Colonel Randolph Carbury — know him?”
West stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve heard of him. Why?”
“He’ll be here tonight. More to follow.”
West nodded.
The band ended the British anthem and began “La Marseillaise.” Thorpe looked back toward the dais. Flanking the President of the United States were Geoffrey Smythe, president of the OSS Veterans, and Thorpe’s adoptive father, James Allerton, the guest of honor. Standing to Allerton’s left was Bill Casey, ex-OSS officer and present CIA Director. Beside Casey was William Colby, also an ex-OSS officer and former CIA Director. “The alumni have done well,” remarked Thorpe.
The French anthem was finished, and the Archbishop of New York began the invocation.
Thorpe parodied the words of the Cardinal’s prayer. “Lord God, protect us from werewolves in the night.” He turned to West, who was staring at him. Thorpe said, “Have you heard his howl recently?”
West didn’t answer.
“More to follow.”
The Cardinal finished his invocation, and everyone took their seats. Geoffrey Smythe began his welcoming remarks. Thorpe said to West, “I didn’t mean to spook you before.”
West almost laughed. “You scared the hell out of me.” He glanced at Thorpe. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all. You’re in great danger.”
“Cut it out.”
“Sorry, sport. Listen, as for the KGB, it’s a matter of keeping on your toes. As for the Company, you have to buy yourself some insurance. You understand?”
West nodded. “Something like… ‘In the event of my untimely death or disappearance, the following documents and affidavits will go to The New York Times and The Washington Post… ’”
“That’s it.”
West nodded again.
Thorpe said, “I’ll help you with the details.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Just your friendship.” He smiled and took West’s arm. “Let’s go face the wrath of a lady kept waiting. You take the rap. I’m in enough trouble.”
Katherine Kimberly looked at Thorpe approaching, an annoyed expression on her face.
Thorpe said, “Nick was stacked up over La Guardia.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.
West added, “Sorry, it was my fault. Got to talking in the lounge. How are you, Kate?” He leaned over and kissed her.
She took his hand and smiled at him. “Have you heard from Ann?”
“Last night. She’s well. Sends you her love.”
West looked around the table. “Mr. O’Brien, good seeing you again.” They shook hands.
West looked at Patrick O’Brien. He was a man in his sixties, with a full head of whitish-blond hair, a ruddy face, and dark blue penetrating eyes. West knew he kept himself in exceptional physical shape and still jumped, as he said, from perfectly sound aircraft that didn’t need jumping from. The jumps were made when the spirit moved him, into the Jersey Pine Barrens, alone and at night — clear but sometimes moonless nights of the sort that one had needed to make the jumps into occupied Europe.
O’Brien nodded at the couple sitting at the table. “You both know Kitty and George Van Dorn, of course.” Thorpe and West greeted them and took their seats.
Katherine motioned across the table. “And this is my friend Tony Abrams, who works at the firm.”
Abrams reached across the table and shook hands with West. He leaned toward Thorpe, but Thorpe was pouring from a bottle of Stolichnaya. Thorpe looked up perfunctorily and said, “Yes, we’ve met.” Thorpe held up a glass brimming with clear liquid. “Someone was thoughtful enough to remember my preference for Russian vodka. Na zdorovie.” He drained off half the glass and let out a sigh.
Thorpe addressed the table. “You may find it odd that I, a patriot and cold warrior, should drink Russian vodka.” He looked directly at Abrams. “I drink Russian vodka in the same spirit that prehistoric warriors drank the blood of their enemies.”
“A display of contempt?” said Abrams. “Or for courage?”
“Neither, Mr. Abrams. I like the taste.” He licked his lips and laughed.
Abrams said, “Speaking of blood, you’ve got something on your right cuff, Mr. Thorpe.”
Peter Thorpe set the glass down and looked at his French cuff. A reddish-brown stain showed on the polished cotton near the black onyx cuff link. He rubbed it between his fingers, then said, “Looks like blood, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” said Abrams.
Katherine dipped the corner of a napkin in a glass of water. “Soak it before it sets.”
Thorpe smiled as he took the napkin. “There are three lines common to all the women of the world: Take out the garbage, I’ve got a headache, and soak it before it sets.” Thorpe blotted the stain. “Decidedly blood.”
Katherine spoke with a detectable coolness in her voice. “Did you cut yourself?”
“Cut myself? No, I did not cut myself.”
George Van Dorn spoke from across the large table. “Then perhaps, Mr. Thorpe, considering your profession, you’ve cut someone else.” He smiled.
Thorpe smiled back.
Kitty Van Dorn interjected, “It’s probably ketchup.”
Thorpe rolled his eyes in a mock gesture of disdain. “Ketchup? Madame, I haven’t seen a bottle of ketchup since my school days. Now, Katherine is thinking lipstick, but I must exonerate myself and say blood. I know blood when I see blood.” He looked at Abrams. “You’re very observant, Mr. Abrams. You ought to be a detective.”
“I was.”
The West Point Cadet Glee Club had assembled near the dais and began a medley of songs.
Thorpe raised his voice above the noise and spoke to Abrams. “Weren’t your parents some sort of Bolshevist agitators? Leon and Ruth Abrams? Got arrested leading a violent garment workers’ strike, I think?”