Thorpe smiled. “Sure. What a team. Pete and Tony out on a black bag together. Christ, how the mighty have fallen.”
Katherine said, “The detectives have gone back to the club. Let’s give it some time.”
The main course was served, and Kitty and George Van Dorn returned. The discussion turned to the subject of the people present. Kitty Van Dorn motioned toward the dais. “The President looks well tonight.”
Thorpe stared up at the nearby dais. “Yes, he looks very lifelike. It’s that new embalming fluid.”
Katherine leaned over and spoke softly into his ear. “If you don’t behave, I’m going to have you thrown out.”
Thorpe took her hand and squeezed it, then looked back at the dais and caught the eye of Bill Casey. The man looked, as usual, dour. Casey gave Thorpe a sign of recognition but not a particularly friendly one, Abrams noticed. It was, thought Abrams, more like the look a cop on the beat gives to the neighborhood juvenile delinquent.
Thorpe grinned at his boss, then spoke softly to Katherine. “If ever a man was capable of turning into a werewolf, it’s Bill Casey.”
Katherine fought back a smile.
Thorpe leaned closer to her ear and said earnestly, “He fits the general profile. So do Cline, Colby, and Helms… So do a few dozen other people here, including your boss and my father. Jesus, doesn’t that scare the hell out of you? It does me.”
Katherine looked at Patrick O’Brien, then at James Allerton sitting beside the President, engaged in conversation with him.
Thorpe followed her gaze and said, “Yes. ‘Someone who may be close to your President.’”
Katherine stared at him. “No.”
Thorpe smiled. “Possible.”
“No.”
“Absolutely beyond the realm of the imagination?”
Katherine turned away and poured a drink.
17
Abrams found himself standing beside Katherine at the long bar set up in a corner of the ballroom. He ordered a drink for himself, avoiding any overtures toward conversation, turned, and looked around the hall. A few men and women wore officer’s dress uniforms, and there were foreign uniforms as well. Even though the invitation specified black tie, some men wore white ties and tailcoats. Abrams thought this was the kind of crowd that went home and slipped into a tuxedo to get comfortable.
Abrams brushed an imaginary speck from his shirt and checked his clothing. In some indefinable way, it looked rented — except for the damned shoes.
Katherine asked, “Where was the tuxedo from?”
Abrams looked up quickly. “What? Oh, Murray’s, on Lexington… Why?”
“I just wondered if he’d brought it from England.”
“Oh, Carbury… No, his was from Lawson’s. Down in the Wall Street area. The ticket showed it was fitted two days ago.”
She took a few steps from the bar and he followed. She asked, “What was he doing all the way down there?”
“Renting a tux, for one thing.” He sipped his drink.
She looked at him closely. “Is there anything else? Any detail you may have—”
“No.”
She held his eyes for a few seconds, then said, “I appreciate the risk you took. Especially considering you don’t know what this is about.”
“The less I know, the better.”
She said, “Actually, I haven’t told anyone you were in Carbury’s room.” She smiled. “I told you I’d protect you.”
Abrams said, “I’m not overly cautious by nature, but I would like to be able to present myself to the state bar this summer without a criminal record.”
“I’m quite sensitive to your position.” She hesitated, then added, “I didn’t tell you to break and enter… and I’m wondering why you did it.”
He avoided the question by returning to the earlier one. “You also wondered if I found anything I’m not telling you about.”
“You did forget to tell me where the tux was from.”
He stared at her, then smiled. “Yes, I did forget.” He thought, And you forgot to tell O’Brien I broke into Carbury’s room, and I think O’Brien may have forgotten to tell you he’s asked me to go to Glen Cove Monday, and there will be a lot more convenient lapses of memory before this is over.
She said thoughtfully, “I suppose Peter put you in a sour mood. I won’t apologize for him. But I am sorry that happened.”
“Peter Thorpe has no influence on my mood.”
She didn’t reply, and Abrams could see her mind was already on something else. She was carrying her program and she unexpectedly handed it to him.
Abrams took it, glanced at her, then opened it. There were three sheets of a photostated handwritten letter inside. He glanced over the first page and saw it was a personal letter to her. He looked at Katherine.
“Go on. Read it.”
He began reading, and as he read, he understood that she had made an important decision about him. He finished the letter and passed it back inside the program.
She waited a few seconds for him to speak, then said, “Well?”
“No comment.”
“Why not?”
“It’s out of my league.” He finished his drink.
“Think of it as a criminal case — a problem of police detective work.”
“I’ve already done that. It’s still out of my league.”
“Well, at least give it some thought.”
“Right.” He put his glass on the bar. The letter, if genuine, partially confirmed his suspicions about the firm he was working for. He stepped back toward her and said in a quiet voice, “One question. O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose is a CIA front, right? What do you call it — a proprietary company?”
She shook her head.
Abrams was taken aback, and he knew his face showed it. “Then who the hell are you?”
She again shook her head.
Abrams rubbed his chin. “This, you’ll agree, is bizarre.”
“Perhaps.” She reached toward the bar and picked up the guest list. She said, “First, alphabetically, James Jesus Angleton, former OSS officer, former head of CIA counterintelligence. Considered the father of American counterintelligence. As a result of his close association with the British double agent Philby, and his failure to spot Philby for what he was — and also because of some other odd occurrences — there was some suggestion that Jim himself was a Soviet agent. If true… well, it’s too frightening to even think about. Anyway, Jim was fired by Bill Colby for reasons that remain unclear. Next possible suspect—”
“Hold on.” Abrams regarded her closely. He had the impression she’d gone from low gear to second and was about to shift into high. He said, “I’m not interested in suspects. I thought I made that clear.”
She looked put off. “Sorry… You’re right, though. I’ve been out of touch with… ordinary people.” She considered a moment. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you… and perhaps I’ve already said too much. Excuse me.” She handed him the guest list and walked off.
Abrams went back to the bar and leafed through his guest list. There were a good number of people with French and Middle-European names, former resistance fighters, he imagined. There were British knights and their ladies, a Romanov couple, and other titled people, including his new friend Countess Claudia. He looked over his shoulder at the Grenville table, but Claudia’s back was to him. The band began playing, and he decided to ask her to dance, but she stood with Tom Grenville, and they moved to the dance floor.
Abrams ordered another drink and turned his attention to the tables around him. If there was a collective mood in the place, he thought, it could be described in one word: proud. There was some arrogance, to be sure, and even sentimentality, but the general feeling was one of “job well done.” The years had not dimmed the memories; age and infirmity were barely noticeable in the swaggering walks or the assured, resonant voices. It didn’t matter that the roll call got shorter each year or that the world was not the same as it had been in 1945. In this place, on this night, thought Abrams, it was again V-E Day.