The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Thorpe stubbed out his cigarette. “I know you’re loyal, Nicko. But you’ve read enough case histories to know that even loyalty is not insurance against some of those fucked-up paranoids in a position to do you harm. Your loyalty should end when theirs does. They’re not the government or the nation. You know that, Professor.”

  West ran his hands over his face and finally said, “But . . . why . . . ?” His voice was filled with anguish. “What did I do?”

  “Oh, Christ, Nick, we’ve been over this a dozen times. You didn’t do anything. So fucking what? You know too much. So do a lot of other people, but in your case they get very nervous. You’re not real Company. You were recruited by a fluke whim of some past director, and everyone forgot about you and your department until one day they realized you had too much on some of the bosses. That’s the bottom line. The Moscow-wants-Nick shit is just a cover to justify getting rid of you.”

  West looked nervously around the big lounge. “Please, Peter. Lower—”

  “Oh, calm down. This is the Yale Club, for Christ’s sake. Half the illegal business in the nation is conducted in this lounge.” Thorpe stood. “Well, think it over. I’m not pushing. It’s not that important to me.”

  West grabbed Thorpe’s arm. “All right. All right. Just tell me what to do. Where can I go tonight?”

  Thorpe took a key from his pocket and looked around. He said, “Room 1114. That’s where you can go. There’s a man up there. An actor. He knows nothing. His main attribute is that he looks like you, God help him and his career. Change clothes with him. He’ll leave here, pipe in mouth, and with luck he’ll draw off anyone who’s watching you. That probably includes a dozen CIA, KGB, and O’Brien goons. With more luck, he’ll get into your room at your club undetected and no one will realize we’ve done a bait-and-switch until morning. Buys lots of time.”

  West stood, then said suddenly, “That’s how Carbury disappeared.”

  “So what? You want originality? This works. I got suckered with it once myself. You just sit in Room 1114 until someone comes for you. There’s no phone in the room, so you won’t be tempted to call out. I left you a spy novel to read.” Thorpe smiled.

  West nodded and Thorpe dropped a key into West’s jacket. Thorpe patted his shoulder. “Take it easy, Nick. See you at the Lombardy before dawn. Follow instructions.”

  Thorpe watched West walk forlornly to the elevator bank. The elevator came and West got on without anyone seeming to take notice.

  Thorpe descended the staircase and stopped at the landing. In the lobby, he picked out a man and a woman reading. They could be working for anyone. Thorpe smiled to himself. Spies watching spies. It occurred to him, too, that the FBI and the NYPD might also be represented tonight, compliments of Tony Abrams. Undoubtedly the police were on his case, not West’s. The thought of being followed by city detectives was distasteful. A frown passed over his face. Abrams. Who the hell would have figured a wild card like that? Abrams had been a soft target on Friday night. But now he was a hard target. A concrete reinforced missile silo. Yet he was vulnerable. He was vulnerable through Katherine.

  Thorpe waited on the landing overlooking the lobby and surveyed the people below. By now everyone knew that he and West had had a drink together on the evening of what was to be West’s disappearance. But that could not be helped.

  Nicholas West was a man who was hard to get at. Thorpe was one of the few people who had access to him and to some extent had his confidence. Kidnappings of protected people were difficult, which is why it was better sometimes to let a man kidnap himself.

  The man who looked like West came down the stairs wearing West’s clothes and smoking a pipe. He fell in beside Thorpe without a word. They quickly descended to the lobby, Thorpe at an oblique angle in front of the man at first, then the man drawing abreast as they crossed the lobby to the doors, blocking himself from direct view. None of the people seated stared, but within a few seconds the man and the woman rose to follow.

  Outside, Thorpe spotted at least two more, but in the street lighting he knew that no one doubted they were following Thorpe and West. They headed toward the Princeton Club. Thorpe felt, rather than saw, a veritable parade behind him. He hoped they didn’t trip over each other. He laughed. Christ, what a circus. He said to the man next to him, “I’ll get you into the room at the Princeton Club, but you’ve got to change your appearance and get out before dawn. Did that jerk give you his key?”

  The man nodded. “Who was that other guy in the room? I didn’t expect anyone else in there. He never said a word. Looked sort of tough.”

  “He’s another actor. Actors all over the place these days.”

  Thorpe looked up the street. New York went about its business while he was acting out a comedy that would turn to tragedy very soon. Thorpe wondered what the city would look like after the July Fourth weekend. He was sorry he wouldn’t be in town to see it.

  * * *

  Peter Thorpe walked into the University Club lounge. There were only two men sitting at a small table, and Thorpe recognized them as members. He sat on a barstool. “Donald, you still here?”

  The bartender turned and smiled, then checked his watch. “Another five minutes. We close at midnight tonight. What’s your pleasure, Mr. Thorpe?”

  “Oh, just a club soda.”

  Donald nodded. “Good Sunday-night drink. How was your weekend?”

  “It had its ups and downs.”

  Donald put a small bottle of Schweppes on the bar and opened it. “I think I saw you on the news. The camera did a shot of the crowd at the armory. Some party!”

  “Right.” Thorpe poured the club soda into an ice-filled glass. “Listen, I’m in arrears here. Don’t put that on a chit.” He slid a dollar across the bar and Donald palmed it and stuffed it in his pocket.

  Thorpe said, “Has anyone spoken to you about that Edwards guy?”

  Donald nodded gloomily. “Cop named Spinelli. Hey, I didn’t tell him about the envelope.”

  Thorpe said, “Oh, you could have. I have to speak to Spinelli anyway, and I’ll tell him. So, if you did, no problem.” Thorpe squeezed a lemon wedge in his glass.

  Donald poured himself a Coke. “Well . . . I didn’t know, and I figured you wanted it on the q.t. So I didn’t say anything. I wanted to check with you first. Then I could say later I just forgot. You know?”

  “Sure. I appreciate it.” Thorpe drained off the club soda.

  Donald looked around and spoke quietly. “What’s with this Edwards guy? His name’s Carbury, right? You knew that.”

  Thorpe shrugged. “I don’t really know much—” Thorpe suppressed a belch. “Excuse me. That felt good. . . . No, I don’t really know. They think he got mugged. Maybe stuck.”

  “Oh, Jesus. That don’t look good. I mean a high-class Englishman and all. Gives the city a bad name.” He shook his head sadly, then said, “There was nothing about it in the papers.”

  “Really? By the way, when did Spinelli speak to you?”

  “Oh . . . Friday night. When the cops got here to look at Edwards’ room. He only asked me a few questions. But then he came back Saturday afternoon, about four. When I got on duty. This time he was a little more pushy. He had a whole bunch of questions, and I got the feeling he spoke to you already. But then I thought it might’ve been that guy you were with Friday night. You remember?”

  Thorpe nodded. “But you say you didn’t mention I was looking for this guy Edwards?”

  “No. Honest. Hey, fuck them. That’s none of their business. Right? I figured you could tell them if you wanted them to know. Members’ privacy got to be protected. Right?”

  “Right. When is your appointment downtown?”

  Donald looked a bit surprised and uncomfortable. “Tomorrow. My day off. Who needs it?” Donald changed the subject. “Hey, that July Fourth thing. I’d like to work that . . . but, you know, we get triple time on a holiday.”

  “No kidding? I might
do it myself.” Thorpe laughed. “Well, no problem. Do you drive?”

  “No, I guess I need transportation, too.”

  “You got it.” Thorpe looked at his watch. “Well, that’s it for me.” He slipped Donald a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thorpe slid off the barstool. “Where you heading?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Home, I guess. Nothing happening on a Sunday night.”

  “No, there isn’t. Subway, cab, or bus?”

  “Subway. North Bronx.”

  “Be careful. Banjos and bongos.”

  “Hey, tell me about it.”

  “I just did.”

  31

  Katherine Kimberly sat up straight in bed, her heart beating rapidly as her hand groped for the Browning automatic on the night table. She stopped moving and remained motionless, trying to get her bearings. Telephone. Damned telephone. She took a long breath and picked up the receiver. “Yes?” She looked at her clock. It was a few minutes before six.

  Thorpe’s voice came on the line. “Good morning. Did I wake you?”

  She cleared her throat. “No. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

  Thorpe laughed. “Terrible joke. Are you running today?”

  “Yes. Where were you last night? I tried to reach you until midnight.”

  “Ah, the wicked walk at night. Old Latin proverb.”

  “Latin or otherwise, it doesn’t answer the question.”

  “The question cannot be answered over an unsecured telephone, my sweet. When are you going to learn the business?”

  “Don’t lecture me.”

  “Sorry. Listen, are you going to Van Dorn’s bash?”

  She sat back against the headboard and took a glass of water from the night table. She finished it, then said, “You called me at six to ask that?”

  “I didn’t want to miss you. I knew you’d be running. It starts at about four. Fireworks and music begin at sundown.”

  “Oh, God. . . .”

  “I enjoy the show. Listen, I’ve got my boat at the South Street Seaport. Meet me at . . . let’s say, four.”

  “I guess you don’t want to drive?”

  “No, I want to float. Beat the holiday traffic. We can be at Glen Cove Marina in forty minutes.”

  She said, “Do you know if Pat O’Brien is going? I haven’t heard from him.”

  Thorpe replied, “You know, if he wasn’t an older man, and your boss, I’d be jealous of your attentions toward him.”

  “I’m fond of him.”

  “Everyone is. He’s a gentleman. I try to emulate him. Anyway, I spoke to him yesterday. He can’t make it.”

  “Oh . . . how about Nick? How many people will the boat hold?”

  “I can get five in. But Nick had an early meeting in Washington, holiday notwithstanding. He must be on the way to the airport by now. Don’t you want to ride alone with me?”

  “I just think that you ought to offer someone a lift. Maybe the Grenvilles.”

  “They ran back to the suburbs as soon as the police got through with them Saturday morning.”

  “What do you think of what happened?”

  Thorpe didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Suspicious. We’ll discuss it later. Anyway, I’ll offer Claudia a lift.”

  Katherine looked out her bedroom window. There was a hint of dawn penetrating the alleyway outside her building. She said, “You heard about Arnold, too, of course.”

  “Of course. The police are looking for you.”

  “I’ll see them in my office Tuesday.”

  “Real lawyer. Where are you running this morning?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  Thorpe said, “Are you running alone?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, be careful of muggers.”

  “I haven’t yet met a mugger who could keep up with me.” She hesitated, then said, “Tony Abrams is running with me.”

  Thorpe didn’t respond for a second, then said, “Ah, that’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t know he ran. Why him? He’s not your speed, you know.”

  “I’m running right by his place.”

  She let the silence drag out, then said, “You’re welcome to come along. It might do you some good.”

  “You’re welcome to lift weights with me, practice karate, and navigate the obstacle course at the Farm.”

  “I’m not in the mood for one-upmanship. Also, I think your behavior Friday night was crude and uncalled-for. What’s gotten into you?”

  “I’m under some pressure—”

  “Also, you weren’t around Saturday night, and all day Sunday. And now you call me at six—where are you anyway?”

  “The Lombardy. Actually, I’m in the damned garret. With the computer. I’ve been working all night. All weekend. I’ll explain it to you later.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Okay . . . I’ll see you at four.”

  “Wait. I may be able to join you. When and where do you start?”

  “City Hall at about seven. Then over the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Too early. Then where?”

  “I should be at Tony Abrams’ place by eight. He’s at 75 Henry Street. If you’re going to meet me, do it there, or later.” She gave him the route she expected to follow.

  Thorpe said, “I thought Abrams was staying at Thirty-sixth Street.”

  She didn’t answer for a few seconds, then said, “I think he’s moving around.”

  “Why? Scared?”

  “Cautious. You should be too.”

  “And you. You can stay here at the Lombardy after tonight.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay, maybe I’ll run into you in Brooklyn. If not, the Seaport at four.”

  Katherine hung up and got out of bed. She pulled on a short kimono and went into the small living room. She bent over the couch. “Tony.” She shook him.

  Abrams opened his eyes and she could tell he hadn’t been asleep. She said, “I’ll shower first.”

  “Okay.” He sat up and yawned.

  She said, “I’m sorry about the couch.”

  He stretched. “What were our options?”

  “Well . . . I could have slept on the couch. . . .”

  “There was barely room for me. And why let a good bed go to waste?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He put his legs over the side of the couch, keeping the blanket partly wrapped around him. He rubbed his eyes, yawned again, and said, “Did anyone try to kill you during the night?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “Me neither. I would have welcomed the excitement.”

  “I’ll be finished shortly.” She turned and reentered the bedroom through a paneled door.

  Abrams stood in his shorts and touched his toes a few times. He retrieved his shoulder holster and revolver from under his pillow and laid them on the end table. He walked over to the small galley kitchen and found a pitcher of orange juice in the refrigerator. He poured some into a paper cup, then surveyed the room.

  It was small, but tastefully done in a few good contemporary pieces. In an alcove was a desk piled high with paperwork. It was, he realized, a transparent acrylic desk and must have cost thousands. The building, which he knew Katherine owned, was ancient, at least a hundred years old, and there was not much to recommend the neighborhood except the fact that the realtors had named it West Greenwich Village, which was, he thought, stretching the geography a bit far.

  Abrams walked to the single window, a double-hung sash that looked too warped to be workable, and glazed with glass that had swirls and bubbles in it. “Jesus, this place was old when Indians lived on the next block.” The room also had a tilt, like the house on 36th Street.

  Abrams looked down into the narrow street. It was picturesque. He peered up and down the block. The streetlights were still on, though a thin morning sunlight provided most of the illumination. The street
looked quiet enough, and no one seemed to be hanging around.

  He speculated on what this place said about Katherine Kimberly. He had pictured her as an East Side bitch whose major outdoor activity was watching the displays change in Bloomingdale’s windows. Then he found out she was a runner, simpatico with O’Brien, whom Abrams respected, and all sorts of other positive things. “Just goes to show you . . .” There was, however, still Thorpe.

  He sipped his orange juice as he regarded the interesting tilt to the room. The Kimberlys must have a penchant for crooked houses, he thought. A shrink might say that was a clue to why she was here—a nostalgic reminder of a happier childhood. Perhaps, too, the Village reminded her of Georgetown, where she’d lived with her mother.

  Abrams heard a noise behind him and spun around.

  Katherine stood at the bedroom door. “Oh . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  “That’s all right. This is what I run in.”

  She suppressed a smile and kept her eyes on his face. Boxer shorts. Plain white. She thought of Peter’s multicolored bikini underwear. She said, “I wanted to tell you to help yourself. I see you have. Make coffee if you want. There’s . . . well . . . something in the refrigerator.”

  “Yes, a light bulb, and it’s burned out.”

  She laughed. “I don’t do much cooking. There are eggs.”

  Abrams looked at her. He’d had conversations like this before, but they were postcoital conversations. This was not, and so it was clumsier. He said, “I’ll have something when I get home.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Peter may join us somewhere along the route. I hope that’s all right.”

  “He’s your fiancé, not mine.”

  “It won’t be awkward. I mean, I run with other men.” She laughed. “That didn’t sound right.”

  Abrams finished his juice, then said, “I’ll take a taxi to my place and meet you about eight.”

  “Fine. If you walk down to Houston and Seventh, you can get a cab at this hour.”

  Abrams remembered a girl who had this sort of useful information printed, with a map, for her one-night stands. “Thanks.”

  She began to turn away, then asked suddenly, “Would you like to go to George Van Dorn’s Memorial Day party this afternoon?”