“What?”
“Jacques Custodian.” He slapped his rag against the bar and laughed.
Thorpe raised his glass of mineral water. “I salute you.” He drank. “By the way, do you have any chits on a man named Carbury? Supposed to be registered here, but—”
Donald flipped through a stack of cards. “Nope.”
“Englishman. Older man, tall, thin, maybe a mustache.”
“Oh, Edwards. Comes in here a lot.”
“He’s been here since maybe Wednesday?”
“Right, Edwards.” He flipped through his chits again. “Room 403. Came in maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. Had one and left.”
“Did he have a monkey suit on?”
Donald scratched his head. “No . . . no, he had tweeds.” Donald seemed to notice Thorpe’s evening clothes for the first time. “Hey, heading for a big shindig, Mr. Thorpe?”
Thorpe refolded the newspaper. “Ever hear of the OSS?”
The young bartender shook his head.
“World War Two,” prompted Thorpe.
“Oh, yeah. Used to entertain the troops.”
Thorpe laughed. “No, Donald, that’s the USO. How about the KGB? M16?”
“The KGB . . . sure—Russian spies. M16 . . . sounds familiar . . .”
“How about the SS?”
“Sure. Nazis.”
Thorpe smiled. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“About what?”
“Oh, about life. About heroes and villains. About things like good and evil, about faded glory, about sacrifice, duty, honor, country . . . about remembering—memories. A good memory is not necessarily a good thing, Donald.”
Donald didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken. “Yeah—”
“The OSS Veterans dinner. Office of Strategic Services, predecessor of the CIA.” He pointed to the front page of the Times. “That’s where I’m going. They get together to remember. They remember too damned much. That’s dangerous.”
“Hey, you’re going to hear the President speak?”
“Right.” Thorpe pushed a sealed envelope across the bar. “Do me a favor, Donald. Call around the club—billiards room, library, and all—see if you can locate Edwards. Get this to him.”
Donald put the envelope behind the bar. “Sure . . . you want me to page him, or put this in his message box?”
“No. I want you to give it to him personally, before he leaves here. You might even call up to his room. He’s probably dressing for dinner. But keep my name out of it. Okay?” Thorpe winked in a conspiratorial manner.
Donald automatically winked knowingly in return, though he seemed a bit confused.
Thorpe slid a ten-dollar bill across the bar and Donald stuffed it in his pocket. Thorpe looked at his watch. “Time and wilted salad wait for no man, my friend.” He slid off the barstool. “You’re familiar with T. S. Eliot, of course. ‘Time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future, and time future contained in time past.’ Well, Donald, that future will be here soon. The tidal wave of the future, which began as a ripple forty years ago, will wash over us all. In fact, I can give you a precise time for it: Fourth of July weekend. You’ll see. Remember where you heard it.”
“Sure, Mr. Thorpe. Hey, have a good night.”
“I’m afraid I’ve made other plans.”
* * *
Thorpe looked out the cab window. Traffic on Park Avenue had slowed to a crawl, and ahead he could see by the illumination of floodlights that two lanes were blocked by barriers. Mounted police moved up and down the avenue in the light rain. On the left side of Park Avenue, between 66th and 67th streets, opposite the Seventh Regiment Armory, a few hundred demonstrators were chanting from behind police barriers. The cab driver said, “What the hell’s going on now?”
“The President is speaking at the armory.”
“Christ! You should’ve told me. Who’s he speaking to?”
“Me. And I’m late. I’ll walk.” He paid the driver and began walking through the stalled traffic. Limousines were double- and triple-parked around the armory entrance, and across the street, the demonstrators were waving antinuclear placards and singing a 1960s song:
Tell me over, and over, and over again my friend,
But you don’t believe we’re on the eve
Of destruction. . . .
Thorpe nodded. “You’ve got that right, bozos.”
Thorpe passed through a cordon of uniformed police and approached the armory. He looked up at the hundred-year-old structure of brick and granite. These OSS functions had always been held at the Waldorf or Pierre, but in the beleaguered spirit of the times, they’d been shifted to this structure of ersatz bellicosity. Brooding towers rose into the night, topped by sinister-looking rifle ports, but the whole effect was like a Coldstream Guard’s uniform: better fitted for show than for battle.
Thorpe climbed a canopied staircase past a file of tactical police and entered the armory through a pair of massive oak doors.
The lobby was paneled in heavy wood and lined with impressive portraits of the martial variety. Hung from the two-story-high ceiling were frayed and faded battle flags and regimental colors. The large chandeliers were early Tiffany, and the entire feeling was one of nineteenth-century gentility, thought Thorpe, a venerable Park Avenue gentleman’s club gone slightly to seed. It had been a place where New York’s upper crust played soldier on weekends, and it still had the function of providing a convivial atmosphere for East Siders who owed, or thought they owed, a modicum of national service.
Late-arriving guests scurried past Thorpe, and dozens of Secret Service men stood around in business suits or semiformal wear. A few tried to pass for waiters or busboys. The ones who wore the unfashionably long jackets, he knew, were packing Uzi submachine guns and sawed-off shotguns.
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 destroye
d 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.
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 word
s 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.
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