“Your face is red and you’ve raised your voice. I’ve never seen a Yalie do that.”
Thorpe leaned across the table and struck his knife against Abrams’ glass. “Watch yourself.”
Abrams went back to his food.
Thorpe sat and didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Look… I really don’t care that you’re Jewish—”
“Then why mention it?”
Thorpe’s voice took on a conciliatory tone. “I don’t care about your background, your parents, the New York police force, who are not my favorite people, your humble station in life, your wanting to be a lawyer — and I don’t even care about your sitting here, but—”
Abrams glanced up from his food. “How about me mentioning the blood on your cuff?”
“—but I do care that my fiancée is trying to involve you in this business. It is not your business, Mr. Abrams, and in fact it may very well be no one’s business. I think it’s all a crock of crap.”
“So why worry about it? Have you tried this chicken?”
“Listen closely, then forget what I tell you. Katherine and O’Brien and a few others are amateur detectives — dilettantes. You know the type from your police days. They get themselves worked up over intrigue. Don’t encourage them.”
Abrams put down his knife and fork and placed his napkin on the table.
Thorpe went on, “If there’s anything to this, it should be handled by professionals — like me — not by—”
Abrams stood. “Excuse me. I need some air.” He left.
Thorpe drummed his fingers on the table. “Bastard.”
After a few minutes Nicholas West returned to the table.
Thorpe glanced at him. “I still want to see those books, Nick.”
West showed an uncharacteristic annoyance. “No business tonight.” He mixed a drink.
Thorpe began talking, but West was paying little attention. He was thinking about Thorpe. As head of the Domestic Contact Service, Thorpe ran what amounted to the largest amateur spy ring in the world. The operation had grown so large that Thorpe, it was said, had a computer in his apartment that held the names of thousands of civilians, their overseas itineraries, occupations, capabilities, reliability, and areas of expertise. And the whole operation cost relatively little, a real plus with this administration. Everyone who volunteered to “do a little something for his country” did it without compensation, their only rewards being the thrill of it and a pat on the back from Thorpe or one of his debriefing officers.
Thorpe saw that West wasn’t paying attention and poked his arm. “Okay, no business,” he said. “When are you flying to Munich to see your betrothed?”
“I can’t get approval for Munich. Ann is coming here in late June or early July for home leave.”
“Oh, when’s the big day?”
“Unscheduled.”
“It must be frustrating living together in separate countries. Anyway, I’m eager to be your brother-in-law. Then you’ll trust me.”
“When are you getting married?”
“How about a Fourth of July double wedding? That would be fitting for all the patriots and spooks. Maybe we’ll use the Glen Cove estate. Yes, that might be nice.”
West smiled. “You mean Van Dorn’s estate, don’t you? Not the Soviet estate?”
Thorpe smiled in return, but didn’t answer.
Waiters brought the dessert to the table, and West dug into a chocolate soufflé.
West looked up from his food. “Not to break my own no-business rule, but this Talbot thing sounds ominous. I hope it doesn’t touch off one of those witch-hunting hysterias in the Company again.”
Thorpe shrugged. “Christ, what would these people do without their bogeyman? Talbot. Bullshit. If there were a Talbot, he’d be about a hundred and five years old by now.” Thorpe leaned toward West. “Do you know who Talbot is? I’ll tell you. He’s the devil in our heads. He’s the fiend, the monster, the nightmare… ” Thorpe lowered his voice. “He doesn’t exist, Nick, never did. He’s what those old-timers blame for all their fuckups.”
West nodded slowly. “You could be right.”
Thorpe began to reply, but Katherine came back to the table and sat. She spoke in a worried tone: “We’ve called all over, and there’s no sign of Carbury.”
Thorpe did not seem particularly concerned. He said, “I’ll call my people and have them contact the FBI.”
Katherine replied, “I also want Tony to use his police contacts. Where is he?”
“It’s Friday night, isn’t it? He probably went to temple.”
Katherine’s voice was angry. “You’ve been rude all evening — to everyone. What the hell set you off?”
Thorpe looked contrite. “I guess I had a bad day. I’ll apologize to everyone.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “That doesn’t make it right.” She looked at Nicholas West, who seemed embarrassed. “Do you and Ann fight?”
West forced a smile. “Sometimes.”
“Then maybe it’s us — the Kimberly women. My mother is a bitch.” She turned to Thorpe. “I accept your apology.”
Thorpe brightened and raised his wineglass. “All for one and one for all.”
They touched glasses and drank. West glanced at Katherine, then Thorpe. West was in the position of knowing more about Peter Thorpe than Thorpe’s lover knew: West had read Thorpe’s personnel file and his officer evaluation reports. He had done this under the excuse of historical research, but really out of a personal concern for Katherine Kimberly.
One evaluator, he remembered, had characterized Thorpe as “an enthusiastic heterosexual.” Someone had scribbled in the margin, This means he chases women. West imagined that Katherine understood this and accepted it.
West looked at Thorpe’s eyes as he spoke to Katherine. That’s where the madness showed itself in brief glimpses, like the doors of a furnace that swing open, then snap shut again, leaving you with the impression of a blazing turmoil but no positive proof. West recalled something else in Thorpe’s file, a CIA psychologist’s report, written in the clear English favored by the Company over the psychobabble of civilian psychoanalysts. After an extensive interview — probably a drug-aided one — the analyst had written: “He at times behaves and sounds as if he’s still in Skull and Bones at Yale. He enjoys clandestine assignments but approaches even the most dangerous ones as if they were fraternity pranks.”
The psychiatrist had added an insight that West thought was disturbing: “Thorpe suffers greatly from ennui; he must live on the edge of an abyss in order to feel fully alive. He considers himself superior to the rest of humanity by virtue of knowing important secrets and belonging to a secret and elite organization. This is evidence of an immature personality. Further, his relationships with his peers, though good-natured, are superficial, and he forms no strong male bonds. His attitude toward women is best described as outwardly charming but inwardly disdainful.”
West stared at Thorpe. It was obvious, at least to West, that Peter Thorpe was a man fighting some monumental inner struggle, a man whose mind was in a state of turmoil over some serious matter.
West had passed a casual remark to this effect to Katherine, but it hadn’t gone over well and he’d dropped it. Ann, however, had been more receptive. Ann had other information — informal conversations with agents, hearsay, and the like — and though she was not specific, West could tell she was concerned.
West knew what he had to do next: request all the operation reports filed by Thorpe himself as well as the reports and analyses of all operations with which Thorpe had been associated. West had put this off, but the time had come to fully evaluate Peter Thorpe.
Thorpe suddenly turned to West. “You look pensive, Nick. Something on your mind?”