The plainclothesman smiled and said, “Spinelli’s telling everybody you’re dead.”
“I feel fine.”
He led Katherine into the red-brick house. They expected to find Claudia there, but the house was empty. Abrams did not construe Claudia’s absence as unusual. Sometime after Van Dorn’s party she would return to the town house, and Abrams meant to have a word with her. He knew she was the weakest link in this iron chain and he intended to break her before the sun rose again.
Katherine had gone to the room that had been her nursery, the room Claudia had given him the night of the OSS dinner. Abrams dropped his bag in an available bedroom across from hers, then helped her unpack. As she finished putting her things away, she said, “It’s always strange returning to a childhood place.”
“Bittersweet, I think, is the word.”
She walked across the room and, as she approached, Abrams wondered how and why he had ever thought of her as the Ice Queen.
They made love in the four-poster bed, and Abrams was glad he hadn’t slept with Claudia in that bed. Their lovemaking had all of the best qualities that mark a first time — passion, discovery, and a feeling of fulfillment. For Abrams, the reality had been even more satisfactory than the long-held fantasy. As Katherine had put it, “I’ve scratched a six-month itch.”
To which he’d replied, “Six months?”
“Maybe seven. How about you?”
He’d hesitated, then said with a straightforwardness that matched her own, “From my first day at O’Brien, Kimberly.”
He’d left her lying on the four-poster bed. She had wished him luck on whatever it was he was about to undertake. In the event one or the other did not return to the town house before dawn, they’d made a date to meet for coffee, before work, at the Brasserie.
Abrams’ mind returned to the present as the train arrived at the suburban village. He walked from the almost empty station to the nearby law offices of Edwards and Styler, located in a Georgian-style mansion.
The building was open, but deserted. Abrams referred to the lobby register and climbed a sweeping staircase to the second floor. He drew his .38 from his pocket and held it against his side. He walked quietly across the upper foyer and found a heavy oak-paneled door marked EDWARDS AND STYLER. He stood close to the door and listened for a while. He could hear nothing on the other side of the door. He knocked hard, three times, then moved to the side.
The door opened a crack, then swung fully open. A man about his own age smiled and put out his hand. “Mr. Abrams? Mike Tanner.”
Abrams transferred the pistol to his left hand and shook hands with Tanner, who was staring down at the gun. Tanner recovered his composure and escorted Abrams into a rear room, which was decorated in oak and red leather.
An older man rose to greet him. “I’m Huntington Styler.”
Abrams took Styler’s hand, wondering about parents who would name a baby Huntington, wondering more about the man who used the name.
Styler said, “Please have a seat.”
Abrams sat and regarded Styler for a few seconds, thinking, OSS. There was something about these people that was readily identifiable. It was as though they’d all gone to the same schools, belonged to the same clubs, and used the same haberdasher.
Huntington Styler, in turn, regarded Abrams for some time, then went to a liquor cabinet. “Scotch and soda, correct?”
“Yes.”
Mike Tanner said, “You’ve read the brief on this case?”
“Yes. I think the Soviet Mission has a good case against George Van Dorn.”
“So do we,” said Styler. He handed Abrams a drink. “It’s not popular to represent the Soviets in a lawsuit against a well-known patriot. We’ve lost some clients over this.”
Abrams replied, “Someone has to see that justice is done.”
“True.” Styler seemed deep in thought, then said, “I appreciate your misgivings about joining us, based on the fact that you’ve done a little work for the firm with which Mr. Van Dorn is associated. But part-time process serving does not constitute an unethical situation. It is, in fact, so minor, we didn’t mention it to our Russian clients.”
Abrams thought the purpose of expunging his work with O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose from his employment history had less to do with conflict of interest than it had to do with the fact that the Russians undoubtedly knew what O’Brien and Company was really all about.
Mike Tanner said, “I heard on Friday from Mr. Androv. He seemed a bit upset at your police background, but I assured him you’d been nothing more than a traffic cop. Your police files are sealed, I assume.”
“That’s what they tell me.” Abrams wondered if the KGB had ever gotten on to him when he was on the Red Squad. The more he thought about his cover, which held closely to the truth, the more he realized there could be problems. He had filled out a long visitors’ questionnaire for the Russians, giving vital statistics and other personal information. There were two questions he hadn’t expected: Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist party? Do you have any relatives or friends who are or have been members?
The questions sounded as though they had been drawn up by the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1948, though the Russians were asking for different reasons. Abrams said to Tanner, “Did Androv mention my parents’ Communist party membership?”
“Yes. He wondered if we were trying to butter him up. Then he went into a harangue about people who had been shown the light, who were born into the faith, so to speak, and did not continue in the faith.”
Abrams nodded.
Tanner added, “He asked if you spoke any Russian. I referred him to the visitors’ questionnaire in which you said no.” Tanner bit his lip, then added, “I suppose that was a shot in the dark on his part.”
“I never listed Russian as a language skill on any form, except in the police force.”
Styler nodded. He said, “Let me give you a piece of advice from an old play called The Double Dealer. ‘No mask like open truth to cover lies/As to go naked is the best disguise.’”
Abrams sipped on his drink and thought: He was going in there under his own name and he existed in all the places where the Russians might check; he was born, went to school, had a driver’s license, and so on. The major alteration of public and private records had been confined to obliterating his employment with O’Brien and predating his employment with Styler to fill in the gap between his resignation from the police force and the present. In all other respects his cover was solid, because it was the truth. Yet it was the truth, as he was discovering, that might be his undoing. Especially the one great truth, which he had only recently discovered, that his buddy Peter Thorpe was an agent of the KGB.
Abrams lit a cigarette and reflected on that new development. The question was: Had Thorpe filed a report to the Russians in which Abrams was mentioned by name? Abrams thought it was a sucker’s bet to gamble that he had not. He knew he should abort the mission. He knew he should have killed Thorpe, if for no other reason than to try to protect himself. But it was too late for that now, and may well have been too late even as early as Saturday morning. Abrams looked at Tanner. “Have you spoken to Androv since Friday?”
“No.” He looked at his watch. “But I’m to call him and confirm.” He picked up the telephone, and after some time found himself speaking to Viktor Androv. Tanner confirmed the time of the meeting, then said, “Yes, sir. Mr. Styler and Mr. Abrams will be there.” He listened, then replied, “Yes, they’re both here now… Yes, I will.”
Tanner hung up and looked at Abrams. “He wants you to know that he looks forward to meeting the son of famous freedom fighters.”