The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  She halted abruptly. “No, damn it!” She retraced her steps, knocked on O’Brien’s door, and entered.

  11

  Tony Abrams stood in the alcove of the Gucci shop on the corner of 54th Street and watched Katherine Kimberly make her way through the crowds on Fifth Avenue, holding her handbag and briefcase in one hand and her umbrella in the other. Her chin was tilted upward, and her stride was purposeful. It was, he thought a bearing that was both regal and slightly arrogant. She didn’t see him; he didn’t think she saw anyone. As she passed, he stepped out of the alcove. “Miss Kimberly.”

  She turned, and it took her a second to recognize him. “Oh, Mr. Abrams.” A faint frown crossed her brow. “Where’s Carbury?”

  Abrams nodded toward the building across the street.

  She turned and looked at the squat granite mansion. “The University Club.”

  “I think they have overnight accommodations.”

  “Yes, they do.” She looked back at him. Rain glistened on his black hair, and rivulets of water ran over his face. She moved closer to him and raised her umbrella to bring them both under it. “Are the private detectives here?”

  “They’re watching the only two doors,” he said. “Carbury’s safely tucked in. They’ll follow him to the armory.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “Where should I be?”

  “On Thirty-sixth Street, getting dressed for dinner. Well, it’s early yet, and as long as you’re still here . . . why don’t you take a look inside the club and see what you can discover?”

  Abrams made an expression he hoped conveyed annoyance.

  “You don’t have to. . . . You’re probably wet and tired. . . .”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, do what you think best.”

  Her voice, he thought, was about as cool as the weather. She was always somewhat friendlier on the telephone. “I don’t think I’d pass for a university graduate with money and connections.”

  “Bluff it.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Or take the direct approach and flash your badge.”

  “I like to be a little careful with the badge act.”

  “I understand. But you know if anything goes wrong, we’ll take care of it.”

  “So you said. I’ll think about it.”

  “Fine.” She turned and took a step. “Oh, Mr. Abrams, Carbury has something important to deliver tonight. Other people may want what he has.”

  “Swell.”

  “Call me before seven thirty if anything comes up. See you at eight, Mr. Abrams.”

  Abrams watched her continue up the block. He turned and walked across the street and into the marble-columned lobby of the University Club. He could see into an enormous high-ceilinged lounge where men sat in leather armchairs, their faces hidden by Wall Street Journals. In the rear, by the fireplace, Carbury sat, reading the London Times.

  Abrams walked through a passageway in the far rear corner that led to the elevators. In an alcove sat a stock printer, long sheets of its printouts pinned to a bulletin board above it. A group of men stood silently staring at the price quotations and looking, Abrams thought, very staid. But occasionally an eye would twitch or knuckles would whiten around the handle of an attaché case. He imagined that this was how it had looked in 1929, except then the men would ride up in the elevators and come down through the windows.

  Abrams explored the area, noticing a staircase and the chlorine smell from a basement swimming pool. Another flight of stairs led up to a bar and dining room. He had determined from the directory that there were seven floors, and each had a function, such as a library, squash court, or billiards room. Most floors also had guest rooms, and the only access was by these stairs and elevators.

  A club employee who had tagged after him now approached. “Excuse me, sir. May I be of assistance?”

  “No.” Abrams reentered the lobby. He knew he should leave before he was shown out, yet he decided he wanted to take something with him, a piece of hard information that he could carry to Katherine Kimberly later, like a good retriever laying a fat quail before its mistress. He smiled at the analogy.

  “Sir, unless you’re waiting for a member, you must leave.” The employee’s voice was growing insistent.

  Abrams showed his badge. “I need some information.”

  The man shook his head. “You’ll have to see the club manager. Sorry, officer. Rules.”

  Abrams held a twenty-dollar bill folded between his fingers. “Okay, just show me out the service entrance.”

  The man hesitated, then snatched the bill in a deft movement and motioned him to follow. Abrams noticed his name tag. “Lead on, Frank.”

  They passed through the corridor near the elevators and descended a half flight of stairs toward the side service entrance.

  Abrams spoke as he walked. “I used to belong to a club, too. The Red Devils. We had a clubhouse in the basement of the Bari Pork Store on Eighteenth Avenue in Bensonhurst. There was a gigantic pig in the window of this store, wearing a gold crown.”

  The man indicated a door that led into the alley. “Good evening, officer.”

  Abrams lit a cigarette. “Are you Italian, Frank? I’m Jewish, but I had fun growing up there. Anyway, one day my mother saw me go into this pork store. She stood in front of the fat pig in the window and cried.”

  The man almost smiled, then said, “Look, officer, I have to get back. What’s this all about?”

  “Actually, it was a very exclusive club—like this one. No femminas, no melanzane, no Ricans. Capice? They tolerated Jews and Protestants the way we might tolerate a few Martians in the neighborhood. I learned a lot in the cellar of the pig store, Frank. I learned the difference between tough and bluff.”

  The man sensed some danger and looked quickly up and down the deserted corridor. “Hey . . . are you a cop?”

  Abrams slipped his .38 out of his pocket and pointed it at the man’s stomach. “No.”

  The man’s face went pale, and he swallowed. “Hey . . . hey . . .” He stared at the muzzle of the pistol. “Hey.”

  “I learned that when you want something reasonable from a man, something that is no skin off his nose, and that man is being obstinato—a stubborn jackass—then you have to take a direct approach. Look at me, Frank, don’t look at the gun. That’s right. Tell me about Colonel Randolph Carbury.”

  Frank was nodding in agreement. “Sure . . . sure . . . he’s registered under Edwards . . . room 403 . . . two days ago . . . from London . . . checking out Monday. . . . That’s all I know. Okay?”

  “Visitors? Women?”

  The man kept nodding but answered, “Don’t think so.”

  “Anything in the safe?”

  “Safe . . . ? Oh, I think there is. . . . Yeah, I saw a briefcase that had his name on the tag. . . .”.

  “Phone calls?”

  “I don’t know . . . one long-distance . . . from London.”

  “Stay in much? Go out a lot?”

  “Mostly goes out, I think. . . .” The man knew he was talking to a professional. “Okay?”

  “What’s the staff verdict?”

  “Oh . . . nice guy. Quiet. Polite. No trouble. Likes his drink, though. Okay?”

  “Okay. Let’s go to his room.”

  “Hey . . . come on . . . what’s this all about?”

  “I’m doing a credit check on him. Move.”

  Frank turned toward the elevator. “I don’t have a key. Honest to God.”

  “Sure you do.” Abrams put his revolver in his pocket. “No funny stuff, Frank, and it’s going to be all right.” They entered the elevator and rode up to the library floor, then passed through a door into a small corridor with five numbered doors.

  Frank found his master key and approached 403. Abrams took his arm and held him back. There was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, and he could hear a radio playing. Abrams took the key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open a few inches. The r
oom was lit, and a security chain was draped across the small crack.

  Frank whispered urgently, “He’s inside.”

  Abrams reached through the crack and knocked away the chain, which was held to the lock stud track by a piece of tape. “Old trick, Frank. Calm down.” He nudged the man inside and closed the door.

  The room was furnished with good solid mahogany pieces, though rather old and scarred. Abrams said, “Stand right here.” He made a quick but thorough examination of the bedroom, closets, and bathroom, not expecting to find anything that a man like Carbury would want to conceal. The fact that Carbury had taken the trouble to make it appear someone was in the room did not mean he was hiding something. It only meant he was trying to discourage anyone from entering the room to wait for him. Standard procedure, but it showed the man was taking personal precautions. Abrams turned to Frank. “Has he ever taken that briefcase out of the safe?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Abrams looked at the open closet. The tuxedo suggested that Carbury did intend to show up at the armory tonight.

  Frank was becoming edgy. “Please . . . look . . . if he catches us up here, it’s my job—”

  “Now you’re worried about your job. Before it was your life. Worry about your life again.”

  “Right.”

  Abrams looked at his watch. Carbury would be thinking about a shower by now. “Okay, Frank, let’s beat it.”

  They left the room, and Abrams reached around the door and retaped the security chain. Frank relocked the door, and they took the elevator back to the ground floor.

  Abrams stood at the service exit. “Thanks, Frank. Listen, do you think this will affect the committee’s decision on my membership application?”

  Frank smiled gamely. “No, sir.”

  “Good. Good. Don’t tell them about the basement of the pork store, okay? Or the illegal entry, or me pulling a gun on you. Capice?” He put his finger to the man’s lips. “Omertà.”

  Frank nodded enthusiastically and moved off as quickly as he could without actually running.

  Abrams left by the service door, and found himself in an areaway filled with trash bins. He walked down a dark alley toward the front of the building and came out through a stone arch onto 54th Street. He crossed the street and approached an unmarked van. A private detective sat in the driver’s seat. Abrams said, “Anything new?”

  The detective, an ex-policeman like himself, named Walter, squinted in the bad light. “Nah. But it sounds to me like somebody wants to grease this guy Carbury, right? That could get hairy.”

  Abrams lit a cigarette. “He’ll be carrying a briefcase. Keep an eye on that briefcase.”

  “What’s this all about, Abrams?”

  “I don’t know. But be prepared to do whatever you have to do to protect him and whatever he’s carrying. The firm is solidly behind you.”

  “Yippee.”

  Abrams moved away from the van and crossed Fifth Avenue, making his way through the hurrying pedestrians. He wondered if he’d overstepped himself on this assignment. It seemed, though, that Katherine Kimberly was very anxious about this, and he had only reacted accordingly. He realized that he too was anxious, not about Carbury but about Katherine Kimberly’s evaluation of his work.

  But what the hell did she know about this type of work? She sat in her forty-fourth-floor ivory tower and gave him assignments with as much self-assurance as his old captain had. . . . It never occurred to her that she should confide in him. Yet, instead of feeling resentful, he played her game and helped her understand the investigative end of the business, even covered for her a few times. This was a type of loyalty that he’d given to only a few of the very best commanders he’d worked for.

  He thought perhaps he was interested in her, but he knew he couldn’t be, because nothing could come of it but pain. And no rational man wanted pain. Therefore, he was curious but not interested.

  After a time he looked up and was surprised to find he had covered almost twenty blocks and was approaching the street where the town house was located. He walked up to a pay phone, thinking as he dialed the Lombardy that he had never been a guest in a town house before, and certainly never had a tuxedo delivered to one. He remembered a favorite line from Thoreau: “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”

  12

  Katherine Kimberly entered the lobby of the Lombardy Hotel. The concierge, Maurice, rushed forward with words of greeting, adding, “Monsieur Thorpe is in, madame.” Maurice took her umbrella, then escorted her to a back corner of the lobby, opened an elevator with a key, and ushered her in.

  As she rode up she reflected, not for the first time, that she did not have a key to the elevator or to the apartment. Peter’s explanation had been simple and rather direct, yet whimsical, as was his manner: “My heart is yours, my possessions are yours, but the suite belongs to my father and is leased to the government for a dollar a year, as is my father himself. No one but Company people may have a key.”

  The elevator stopped at the twenty-second floor, which was the first floor of the penthouse triplex. She stepped into a small mint-green hallway.

  A voice boomed out over a speaker. “Stand in front of the television camera, and put your hands on your head!”

  Katherine’s face showed a mixture of impatience and amusement. “Open the damned door.”

  The door buzzed and Katherine opened it, entering a large anteroom. She passed into a very long two-story-high sitting room. On opposite sides were balconies that served as hallways to the second-story rooms. The balconies were connected by a catwalk that spanned the length of the spacious room. She looked around as she dropped her bag and briefcase on the sofa, then removed her raincoat. Hidden stereo speakers were playing a medley of theme songs from James Bond movies. She smiled. “Peter! Idiot!”

  She walked to the bar, where a pitcher of martinis stood alongside two chilled glasses, and poured a full glass for herself. The French doors that led to the terrace suddenly opened and a gust of cool air blew in. Through the billowing curtains walked Peter Thorpe, clad only in a pair of threadbare jeans.

  She stared for some time at his muscular body silhouetted against the towering lighted buildings beyond. “Are you crazy?”

  Thorpe’s blue eyes narrowed in a malevolent glare. “Sloppy tradecraft, Miss Kimberly. If you were a Red agent, you’d be dead.” He shut the French doors, then advanced toward her. “See this?” He held up a partly peeled lemon. “This is an anthrax grenade. Catch!” He threw it underhand at her. She fielded it with one hand and, in a swift motion, shot it back at him.

  The lemon thumped against his bare chest. She laughed in spite of her annoyance. She said, “Why were you standing in the rain half-naked?”

  “I didn’t want to get my suit wet.” He smiled and embraced her.

  “You’re very strange, Peter. Must be the red hair.” She tousled his long damp hair.

  Thorpe worked his hands down the back of her shirt. “Did you have a good day?”

  “An interesting day.”

  They kissed, then Thorpe buried his face in her neck. “Do we have time for a quick dance?”

  She smiled. “No. But we’ll make time for a slow dance.”

  “Good.” He kissed her neck, then took the martini tray from the sideboard.

  She picked up her bag and followed him up the spiral staircase. Thorpe looked back over his shoulder. “What made the day interesting?”

  She started to reply, then thought better of it. Peter was altogether too curious about what went on at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. She said, “Just a lot of activity over the reunion tonight. A good number of out-of-towners and foreigners dropping by.”

  They reached the balcony overlooking the sitting room. Thorpe said, “There’s nothing more insufferable than ex-spies.”

  “They’re interesting people. You’ll enjoy the evening.”

  “Perhaps. But I get a little weary of hearing how great the OSS was, and how screw
ed up the CIA is.”

  “No one ever said that.”

  “Your nose is getting longer, Kate.” He smiled. “Maybe I’m just sensitive. My father used to bore me for hours with stories of how the OSS won the war.”

  She took his arm.

  He added, “My boss is an old OSS man and he’s recruited dozens of others.” He stood in front of his bedroom door. “The dining rooms at Langley serve prunes and Geritol now.” He laughed.

  She said, “Experienced men and women can be useful.” She opened the door and he entered first, setting the tray on the bureau.

  He said, “It’s not the experience that concerns me . . . some of those old OSS characters were very weird. Very strange backgrounds. . . .”

  She looked at him. “Meaning?”

  He hesitated, then said, “You know . . . security risks.” He sipped on a martini. “There was a radical fringe in the OSS . . . they wouldn’t pass a normal security check by today’s standards. Yet they’re being brought back in on a special basis . . . that bothers me.”

  “No more shoptalk.”

  “Right.” He set his glass down and pulled off his jeans, throwing them on a chair.

  Katherine began to undress.

  Thorpe turned down the sheets of his double bed, then watched her hang her clothes in his closet. “We should get married.”

  She turned and smiled. “You’re right. But who’d have us?”

  He smiled back and lay down on the bed. “Come here. I want to show you my new decoding device.”

  “I see it. Does it work well?” She approached the bed.

  “It has to be turned on.”

  “It looks like it just turned itself on.” She laughed and came into the bed beside him.

  * * *

  Katherine heard a phone ringing insistently somewhere, but she could not have cared less. There was a protracted silence, then the phone rang again. She felt the dreamy fog lifting, and her senses awakened as Peter sat up next to her in the bed. The yellow light on the telephone was blinking, indicating it was not his private number. “Switchboard call—the hell with it,” he said.