West felt his face flush, and he was unable to turn away from Thorpe’s arresting stare. He had the uncomfortable impression that Peter Thorpe knew what he had been thinking. West cleared his throat and said, “I was just wondering — if Carbury was found dead, would you believe in the existence of Talbot?”
Thorpe’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned very close to West and spoke softly. “If you found a sheep in the woods with its throat ripped out, Nick, would you credit it to wolves or werewolves?” Thorpe smiled, a slow smile that was itself wolflike, thought West. Thorpe said, “New York is not the most unlikely place for a man to wind up with a shiv in his heart.”
West tried to stop himself, but his eyes were drawn to the spot on Thorpe’s cuff.
Thorpe smiled even wider at him, a huge smile with his lips drawn back, showing a set of large white teeth. West stood and excused himself.
Thorpe turned back to Katherine, who was pouring herself coffee. He said, “That man is very high-strung. He makes me jumpy.”
“I’ve never known you to be jumpy about anything.”
“Nicholas West makes a lot of people in the Company jumpy.”
“You sound as though you have a guilty conscience.”
“I have no conscience, guilty or otherwise.”
“Then you must be hiding something.” She smiled.
Thorpe did not smile back. He said, “If I were, it wouldn’t stay hidden long from that inoffensive little man — would it?”
Katherine regarded him closely. “No.”
Thorpe nodded to himself as though he had made a decision about something. He said, “Actually, I’m worried about him. There are too many people who want him out of the way.” Thorpe lit a cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke. “To use a familiar analogy, Nicholas West is like a head of cattle grazing too long in the fields of intelligence archives until he’s grown very fat. The farmer who owns him wants to butcher him; the wolves in the woods want him in their stomachs.” He looked at Katherine. “Poor Nick.”
19
Patrick O’Brien’s round table was assembled again. West was speaking to Katherine, O’Brien was talking to Kitty and George Van Dorn, Claudia had taken the empty seat and was speaking with Abrams. Thorpe sat silently. A few people were dancing to 1930s big-band tunes. Abrams watched Thorpe. The man had been drinking heavily all night, but was clearly sober.
Abrams looked back at Claudia and responded to a question. “No, my parents didn’t teach me Russian.”
“What a pity. I know Russian. We could have had secret conversations.”
“About what?”
“Whatever. I’ll teach you a few words and I’m sure it will start to come back to you.”
Abrams didn’t respond, and she changed the subject. She spoke animatedly about her life in America, touching Abrams’ arm from time to time. At one point she asked, “Am I touching you too much?” To which he replied, “Not too much, but not in the right places.”
She laughed.
Abrams let his mind slip back to when he had been taken by O’Brien around the great hall and introduced to some of O’Brien’s friends and clients. Most of them, like John Weitz, Julia Child, and Walt Rostow, were rich, famous, powerful, or all three. Abrams did not wonder why he had been afforded this rare honor. There was a certain psychology of recruitment common to most clandestine organizations he’d been involved with, from the Mafia to the Weather Underground; you began by running errands, then advanced to committing indiscreet acts. Then you were introduced to the inner circle, followed by introductions to VIP’s who may or may not be part of the group but who you are led to believe are simpatico. Then, finally, when you’re psychologically ready, you’re sent on a mission to prove yourself. A mission you’d been told was coming, but which you could not have conceived of participating in just a few short months or weeks before. In this case, the Glen Cove mission was how he was supposed to “make his bones,” as his Italian friends would say.
Claudia broke into his thoughts. “I think you should spend the night at the town house.”
Abrams looked at her. “Do you? There may not be room. I suppose the Grenvilles are staying?”
Claudia smiled at him. “Forget Joan Grenville, my friend. These Wisps are not for you.”
“Wasps.”
The ballroom suddenly became quiet as the president of the OSS Veterans, Geoffrey Smythe, rose and stood at the podium. Smythe welcomed everyone and introduced the dais.
When he finished his introductory remarks, he said, “It is my special honor this evening to introduce our guest speaker, who is probably the only man in America who truly needs no further introduction. Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces.”
The military-oriented crowd stood and held up their glasses, making the traditional toast: “To the Commander-in-Chief!” Sustained applause followed as the President took his place at the podium.
The President spoke for some time, interrupted by much applause. He concluded, “And, finally, I’ve sent a presidential message to all senior personnel within the CIA expressing my desire to see revived the esprit de corps, the dedication, the flair and the daring of the old OSS. Thank you.”
Abrams looked around the room. Bill Casey, whose position on the dais was close by, had a small smile on his face. Clearly, thought Abrams, the good times had returned.
William Colby, chairman of the award committee, stood at the podium and said, “The purpose of this gathering is to honor the memory of the founder of the Office of Strategic Services and to present the General Donovan Medal, which it is my honor to do at this time.”
Colby referred to a written text. “The Veterans of the OSS present the Donovan Medal to an individual who has rendered distinguished service in the interests of the United States, the Free World, and the cause of freedom. This year, we are especially proud to present the Donovan Medal to a man who was present at the birth of the OSS, a man whose career in many ways paralleled that of General Donovan.”
Colby glanced to his left, then said, “James Allerton is the founder of the Wall Street law firm of Allerton, Stockton, and Evans. He has been a friend and counselor to the Dulleses, to General Donovan, and to every American President from Roosevelt to our present chief of state.
“President Roosevelt commissioned James Allerton a colonel during the Second World War, and as colonel he served on General Donovan’s staff. After the war, President Truman appointed him as one of the drafters of the National Security Act which gave birth to the CIA. President Eisenhower appointed him ambassador to Hungary.
“In 1961 he was appointed by President Kennedy to the Securities and Exchange Commission. But James Allerton was at heart an intelligence officer, and feeling the old pull of the shadowy world of cloak and dagger, which we all understand”—Colby waited for the slight laughter to subside—“James Allerton offered his services to Mr. Kennedy in that capacity and was appointed a presidential military intelligence advisor.
“Since that time, James Allerton’s counsel has been sought by every President on matters of extreme sensitivity in the areas of intelligence and national security planning.”
Colby continued, “James Allerton now serves on the staff of the National Intelligence Officers, which as you know is a small group of senior analysts known unofficially in Washington as the Wise Men, and advises the President on matters of extreme national and world importance.”
Colby’s voice began building to the final introduction. “James Allerton’s long career has embodied those qualities of public service and private enterprise that are stressed by the Veterans of the Office of Strategic Services in awarding the Donovan Medal. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce a dear personal friend, the Honorable James Prescott Allerton.”