Katherine rang the bell of apartment 6C. The peephole slid back, then the door opened. “Come in.”
She exhaled a long breath and stepped into a small foyer.
Abrams said, “Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so… but there’s a man in your lobby. Brown suit, tall—”
“Cop.” He glanced at her. “Anything wrong?”
She forced a smile. “I got myself worked up.” She realized she was glad to be there. She felt safe with him. She looked at his tattered blue sweat suit, splattered with paint stains. The sweat shirt said NYPD GYM. “Is that Brooklyn chic?”
“Right. It signals to the muggers that I’m poor but armed.” He led her into the living room. She glanced around. This was not what she’d expected.
He followed her gaze but said nothing.
She turned back to him. “Are you armed?”
“Yes. You too. Lift your shirt.”
She hesitated, then hiked her T-shirt up. Abrams took a nylon gun belt from the coffee table, wrapped it around her waist, and pressed the Velcro fastener together. “How’s that feel?”
She drew a deep breath. “Fine.”
He produced a holster and clipped it on the belt near the small of her back.
She pulled down her shirt.
Abrams handed her a small silver automatic. “It’s a 7.65 Beretta, unloaded. Play with it.”
She operated the slide, checked the safety and the trigger pull. “It’s light.”
“Jogger’s Special. It won’t bother you much.”
“Will it bother anyone else?”
He smiled. “It doesn’t have much stopping power, and it’s pretty inaccurate, but it’s otherwise reliable.” He handed her two magazines of seven rounds apiece. “Aim for the midsection, and keep squeezing off rounds. It’s a fast reload.”
She slapped one magazine in the butt of the pistol, and put the other in her zippered pants pocket. She reached behind and slipped the gun in the holster, drawing it out to get the feel of it, then sliding it back in.
Abrams watched her, then said, “I know you’re used to your own cannon, but that’s the best I could do.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
The conversation, thought Abrams, had a bizarre quality to it, as though he had given her a cheap wristwatch and she was trying to hide her disappointment. “Who taught you about guns?”
“Peter.” She didn’t elaborate, but said, “What are you carrying?”
Abrams tapped his chest. “My thirty-eight in a shoulder holster. Sit down a minute.”
She sat on the couch, again taking in the room.
Abrams sat in a tan leather chair. “When I was on the force, I made some good investments.”
She seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I looked surprised.”
“Well, the police internal affairs people looked even more surprised when they paid an unexpected visit. They literally took the place apart searching for bag money.”
Again she seemed ill at ease. “But you were able to explain…?”
Abrams sat back. “Marcy’s father was a stockbroker. She never knew I had dealings with him.” He smiled.
She smiled in return.
“Anyway, the internal affairs people were satisfied, but I was pulled out of intelligence, put back into uniform, and assigned to Staten Island to watch the birds. I realized I was not going anywhere and about that time Mr. O’Brien offered to put me on full time, so I left the force.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“Do you? Well, that job offer couldn’t have been better timed.”
There was a long silence in the room, then she said, “You aren’t suggesting that Mr. O’Brien had anything to do with—”
“I’m suggeting that Mr. O’Brien could get the Pope framed on charges of heresy if it suited his purpose.”
“Well…” She remembered the misfortunes that had befallen her ex-husband. “Well… he’s not malicious. I mean, there’s always a reason—”
“I’m sure of it. But there is no excuse. Not for manipulating people’s lives. Anyway, there’s no proof, is there? And no hard feelings, really.”
She changed the subject. “You have good taste in decorating.”
“Actually, Cousin Herbie is a decorator. Uncle Sy is in the furniture business, Aunt Ruth is in rugs… You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t.” She stood. “I think we’d better go.”
He remained seated. “Isn’t Peter going to meet us here?”
“I don’t think so. Later.”
He stood. “Wait.” He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of brown liquid. “My own recipe.”
She held up her glass and looked at it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Apples, bananas, cornflakes, and… I forget. Whatever is around goes in the blender.”
“Some recipe.” She sipped it. “Not too bad.”
Abrams emptied his glass. “Great. Well, the facilities are down that hall.”
She nodded. “I’ll be a minute.”
He watched her as she disappeared into the hallway. She was, he knew, in a state of turmoil. Her lover might be a traitor and a murderer. People around her were dying, and her own life was probably in danger. To add to the excitement, she truly believed the world was coming to an end. And probably, he thought, she’d already figured out that he wanted to take her to bed. This, he admitted, might not be the best possible time to broach that subject. Yet he knew he had to.
She returned. “I’m ready.” She looked at him.
Abrams remembered something O’Brien had told him in a candid moment: She’s approachable. But as in warfare, you have to find a point of approach. He considered several, remembering another martial adage: In war, there is no room for two mistakes. “Katherine…”
She was studying his face and said, “No, Tony. One thing at a time.”
“I’m only considering one thing at this time.”
“One person at a time. Okay?”
“Sounds reasonable.”
She smiled slowly. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“Neither do you.” He indicated the door.
She moved toward it, then turned suddenly.
He took her in his arms and kissed her.
After some time, she pulled gently away. “We have things to do… first things first.”
“World War Three, or whatever the hell it is, can wait.”
“No… come…” She smiled. “Let’s go burn off some frustration.”
Abrams nodded as he followed her to the door. Peter Thorpe was his major frustration at the moment, and Abrams thought that he would find some pleasure in burning him off.
34
Nicholas West sensed the presence of someone near him and opened his eyes, squinting into the blinding light.
Thorpe’s form hovered above him. Thorpe said, “So, how are you, buddy?”
West shook his head. “Suffering.”
“It’s all relative. Well, let’s begin.” Thorpe drew up the stool and sat.
West turned his head to both sides. “Katherine…?”
Thorpe smiled. “Not yet. But she’s coming. She’s coming.” Thorpe lit a cigarette.
West said, “My pipe…”
“Yes, I’ll get you your pipe, after we’ve discovered some truths.” Thorpe blew smoke in West’s face, then said, “What did Ann do for the National Security Agency?”
West ran his tongue over his dry cracked lips. “Water…”
“Christ, Nick, if you stall one more time…” Thorpe slid off the stool and went to a refrigerator, returning with a paper cup of ice chips. He dropped a few chips into West’s open mouth, then said, “What is — was — Ann’s job with the NSA?”