Thorpe put up his fists. “Yale boxing team, Abrams. You’d better be good.”
Abrams moved in, left shoulder first, a flat-footed stance, his fists protecting his face. Thorpe did the same. But Abrams did not think for one moment that Thorpe intended to box, so when Thorpe’s left leg shot out, with the toe of his shoe pointed directly at Abrams’ groin, Abrams was able to react. He dropped his hands and intercepted Thorpe’s foot. But Thorpe’s kick was so powerful that Abrams found himself lifted off the floor, still clutching Thorpe’s shoe and ankle. Abrams fell back on the floor, and Thorpe pulled his foot out of his shoe, then kicked off his other shoe.
Abrams quickly got to his feet and backed off. Thorpe smiled slowly. “Smart. If I had caught you with that kick, you’d be singing falsetto for a month. Well, do you still want the cuff?”
Abrams nodded.
Thorpe feigned a look of disappointment. “How am I going to explain to Katherine what you’re doing in the hospital?” He moved closer to Abrams, jabbing and feinting as he did.
Abrams backed toward the door.
Thorpe came almost within kicking distance.
Abrams’ right hand was behind his back, fumbling with the doorknob. Thorpe smiled and took a quick step forward to position his kick. Suddenly, Abrams’ other hand also grabbed the knob, and Thorpe saw too late what was coming. Abrams’ feet left the floor, his body pivoting from the leverage of his grip on the knob. His heels caught Thorpe in the midsection and sent him sprawling backward onto the bed, then off the side to the floor.
Abrams knew the blow was not a disabling one and followed up quickly with a rush, then stopped short.
Thorpe stood with a very long and thin black knife in his hand. He spoke as he caught his breath. “This is ebony… Passes the metal detectors and X rays… Can puncture your heart with it. Want to see?”
Abrams’ eyes darted around, and he spotted a heavy table lamp.
Thorpe shook his head. “Don’t. Look.” He held out his hand with the knife and pulled back the jacket sleeve. “Spot’s gone. Attendant in the men’s room had Carbona, God bless his Spanish soul. Military establishments are fanatical about personal appearance.”
Abrams kept his eyes on the knife.
Thorpe lowered it and slid it into the seam along his trousers. “Truce?”
Abrams nodded.
Thorpe patted the seam where the knife lay. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink. We could both use one.” Thorpe put his shoes on. They retrieved their raingear and left.
They waited silently in the corridor for the elevator. Thorpe lit a cigarette, then spoke as though to himself. “Cops look for things like motive, opportunity, clues… like the cuff, for instance. In my business, we have different needs. We don’t care to know the actual name of the culprit. That’s meaningless. We want to know the name of his employer. We do not try to perfect a case against a murderer. We always find that the motive for a murder or kidnapping is a perfectly legitimate one… from our perspective. So we don’t talk about legalities. Police think in terms of crime and punishment. We think in terms of sin and retribution.”
Abrams said nothing.
Thorpe went on. “The National Security Act of 1947 did not give us powers of arrest. That was supposed to keep us in line. Silly idea. What do you do with people you can’t arrest and try in a special court?”
Abrams lit a cigarette.
Thorpe continued. “We’re supposed to have the FBI arrest them, then watch a federal prosecutor fuck up the case. Or have a defense lawyer try to drag out all sorts of information which pertains to national security. Well, we don’t go that route.”
The elevator came, and Thorpe motioned Abrams inside. Abrams shook his head. Thorpe shrugged and got in alone. The doors closed. Abrams took the next elevator.
As Abrams rode down, he thought: If Thorpe did kill Carbury, why did he? Thorpe’s personality, as far as Abrams could ascertain, was that of a man who would commit murder as part of his workaday job, for reasons he himself didn’t fully understand or even care about. Thorpe, though, was also the type who would kill anyone who posed even the remotest threat to the personal well-being and happiness of Peter Thorpe. Was it, then, an official sanction or a private enterprise?
Abrams joined Thorpe on the second level, and Thorpe ushered him into the oak-paneled lounge. Thorpe said, “Have you ever heard of the Special Homicide Squad?”
Abrams stood at the bar but didn’t respond.
Thorpe stood beside him, his foot on the rail. “A handful of New York cops who come together only when it appears that a corpse met his end as a result of… official sanction. These detectives, coincidentally, all have special training at a farm in Virginia. You following me? So don’t go beating on doors downtown with this. You may knock on the wrong door.”
The bartender, Donald, approached. “Hey, Mr. Thorpe. Shindig over already?”
“Right.”
“How’d the President look?”
“Terrific. Catch it on the eleven o’clock news. Donald, this group needs alcohol. Stolichnaya, and buy yourself one. My friend drinks Scotch.”
Donald said to Abrams, “What do you want with that Scotch?”
“A glass.”
Donald moved off.
Thorpe lit another cigarette. “My stomach is starting to ache.”
“Must have been the fish.”
Thorpe smiled. “You’re good, Abrams. I’ll give you that.”
Neither spoke for some time, then Thorpe said, “So what do you think of the old boys?”
Abrams answered in measured tones. “Harmless enough old duffers. Like to talk power and politics. They’re out of it, though.”
“That’s what I used to think. Fact is, they’re not. I use them in my business.”
Abrams thought that O’Brien would say he used Thorpe. “What is your business?”
“Something called the Domestic Contact Service… What kind of clearance do you have, Abrams?”
“Six feet two inches.”
Thorpe laughed. “I like you. I’m sorry about before, at dinner.”
“Thank you.” Abrams regarded Thorpe closely. When Thorpe had been baiting him, Abrams knew he wasn’t in any personal danger. Now he knew he was in extreme danger.
The drinks came. Thorpe held up his glass. “Death to the enemies of my country.”
“Shalom.”
Both men fell silent. The bartender leaned over and spoke quietly to Thorpe. “That guy got your message.”
Thorpe nodded and winked.
Donald said in a normal voice, “Hey, I’ve been thinking… that thing you said about the Fourth of July—”
“Right. We need a good bartender. Long Island estate. Can you make it?”
Donald seemed momentarily confused. “Yeah… sure…”
Thorpe turned to Abrams. “Can you keep a secret? I’m going to ask Kate to marry me. Plan on a July Fourth wedding.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Thorpe absently trailed his stirrer through a puddle on the bar. Abrams looked around the room. Very clubby. Horse prints on the walls. Green-shaded lamps. A few men stood at an oyster bar in the corner. Abrams straightened up and buttoned his raincoat. “Let’s go.”
Thorpe held his arm. “Have you discussed any of this with anyone outside of the firm?”
Abrams thought that was the required question before the bullet in the head. He pulled away from Thorpe and walked to the door. Thorpe followed. They descended the stairs, and Abrams went into a phone booth. He came out a few minutes later.
Thorpe said, “Did you alert the police?”
Abrams nodded. “Might as well. Make O’Brien happy.” They walked outside and stood under the gray awning. The rain was still falling on the dark streets. Thorpe finally spoke. “Are you staying in town tonight?”