Again Roth nodded, but said nothing and averted his eyes from hers.
Claudia walked to the table and peeled back the cellophane on a tray of hors d’oeuvres, taking one and putting it in her mouth. “Very good. You should serve these before they get stale.”
Roth’s head bobbed up and down and he began taking off the remainder of the cellophane from the trays.
Claudia wandered aimlessly around the kitchen.
Karl Roth knelt under the table where he had stacked several boxes, found a small parcel taped closed, and ripped it open. He retrieved a plastic spray bottle and stood. He shook the bottle vigorously and began spraying the trays of food with a light misty mixture of oil and water.
Maggie looked over her shoulder and said, “That’s not necessary, Karl. Everything is fresh.” She shot a look at Claudia.
Roth replied in a distracted tone. “It makes everything look better… You should read the trade journals instead of your stupid movie magazines.”
Maggie watched him and noticed his hand shaking.
Roth finished the spraying, went to the sink, and emptied the remaining contents of the bottle down the drain. He rinsed the bottle and placed it in the trash compacter, then washed his hands with soap.
Maggie walked deliberately to the table and picked up a piece of smoked salmon, raising it to her mouth.
Roth hesitated, then came up quickly behind her and grabbed her hand. Their eyes met and she said softly, “Oh, Karl… you fool… ”
Claudia stood some distance off and watched, then began moving toward Maggie Roth.
Katherine Kimberly turned the corner of the long second-floor hallway and saw Marc Pembroke emerging from a passage that led to the back service stairs. She watched him for a moment as he approached the door to his room, then called out and walked up to him. “I’ve been looking for you. May I speak with you a moment?” She indicated his door.
“Actually, no. I’m rather busy.”
She shot a glance at the closed door. “We can go to an empty room.”
He hesitated, then followed her down the hallway and entered a storage room piled high with boxes and holiday decorations. She snapped on an overhead light and said, “Do you have Joan Grenville in your room?”
“A gentleman does not tell, and a lady should not ask.”
“I ask because her husband holds a sensitive position in my firm.”
“I see. Well, yes, I admit I pumped her in more ways than one. But she’s rather uninformed. Tom doesn’t tell her much.”
Katherine said evenly, “Who exactly do you work for?”
Pembroke seemed a bit impatient and glanced at his watch. “Oh, different people. You, at the moment. O’Brien, to be exact.”
“And what do you do for us, Marc?”
“Well, I’m not involved with intelligence gathering, analysis, or anything clever like that. I kill people.”
She stared at him.
“Really. But I only kill villains. To answer your next question, I decide who are villains.”
She drew a deep breath, then asked, “What do you know about these recent deaths?”
“I know I didn’t do them. Except for your fiancé’s friends this morning.”
“Yes, I wanted to thank—”
He waved his hand. “I’m billing your firm for that. You’ll see that it’s paid, won’t you?”
She ignored the question and asked, “And you had nothing to do with Arnold Brin’s death?”
“In a way I did. I should have protected him. I wish I’d known you had him working on something—”
“Are you trying to blame me?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean to—”
“And if you had the job to protect him, why didn’t you?”
“Oh, it wasn’t my job. I mean I wasn’t hired to do that. I was supposed to do that. He was my father.”
She drew an involuntary breath. “What? Arnold Brin…?”
“Actually Brin was his nom de guerre, but he kept it after the war. Our family name is not Pembroke, either, but that’s not relevant.”
She looked at him closely in the dimly lighted room, focusing on his eyes, then his mouth. “Yes… yes, you are his son.”
“So I said. Archive work is dreadfully boring, and unremunerative. But it does give one some good leads to villains. I began my career bumping off old Nazis for the Israelis. Then I ran out of Nazis and I switched to Eastern Bloc targets.”
“Are you working now for Mr. O’Brien? Or are you working to avenge your father’s death?”
“There’s no money in vengeance.” Pembroke walked to a small dusty window and stared out at the distant Manhattan skyline silhouetted by the last traces of dusk in the western sky. He added, “However, as it happens, Mr. O’Brien’s needs and my desires coincide. But I am a professional, and though your fiancé was the proximate cause of my father’s death, I did not kill him. I’m after his bosses.”
Katherine sat on a packing crate and stared at Marc Pembroke’s profile. Subconsciously she had always compared him to Peter, but now the contrasts were striking and obvious. Peter was charmingly amoral. Marc was charmingly immoral. Peter, like an infant or an animal, hadn’t the vaguest idea of right or wrong; Marc did, and chose to kill. By the standards of conventional theology, psychology, and jurisprudence, Peter was innocent, Marc was culpable. Yet, by those same standards, Peter was beyond help or reason, while Marc Pembroke could be saved. She thought of him standing at the gravesite and suspected she was looking at a reluctant killer, like a soldier who in times of peace would not take up arms. She said, “I like you. I wish you’d reconsider archive work. There’s an opening.”
She saw the trace of a smile pass over his lips. He turned to her but didn’t reply. He glanced at his watch again, then said, “Well, I must run. We’ll continue this another time.”
She stood, blocking his way. “Wait. What do you know of Tony Abrams’ mission? Where is he?”
“Close by, actually.”
“Next door?”
Pembroke nodded.
“What is he doing there?”
Pembroke did not reply.
“Is he safe?”
“I rather doubt it. But if you’ll step aside, I can go and try to find out.”
She remained standing in front of him. “If he’s not safe, will you… can you do something?”
“No. The Iron Curtain begins at the next property line.”
“But—”
“Please step aside. I have pressing business to attend to.” He added, as though he suddenly realized she was actually his employer, “I don’t mean to be rude.”
“You’ll keep me informed?”
“Certainly.”
She walked to the door and opened it for him. Pembroke moved toward it, then hesitated. He said, “I never ask, you know. I mean, about the larger picture. But is it true, Kate, that this is the last throw of the dice?”
She replied carefully, “That’s what some people seem to think.”
He nodded. “Yes, O’Brien did too.”
“Yes, he — what do you mean, did?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to put him in the past tense. He’s fine as far as I know.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds. Pembroke seemed to notice her for the first time, and his distraction turned to close scrutiny. She was wearing white linen slacks and a white silk shirt with the top three buttons open. She looked sophisticated yet sensual. He said, “Look here, I don’t have the time to proposition you properly now, but later… if there’s any time left for any of us, I shall.”
She found herself breaking eye contact with him, which was not her habit in these situations. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m already involved.”
“Oh, but he’ll be dead shortly.”
She looked quickly at him. “What—? Who—?”