The door suddenly swung open and Van Dorn turned quickly toward it, his hand sliding inside his jacket.
Kitty Van Dorn entered, balancing a tray in one hand. “There you are.”
“And there you are.”
“And Tom. Where’s Joan? We haven’t seen her for some time.” Kitty smiled.
Grenville stood and smiled back weakly. “She went to the ladies’—”
Kitty said, “What are you both doing all alone in this stuffy, smoky room?”
Van Dorn replied, “Tom and I are having a homosexual affair, Kitty.”
“Oh, George.” She offered the tray to Grenville. “Try the pâté. Sit down.”
Grenville did as he was told, in the order he was told.
“Ginger loves the pâté.”
Van Dorn commented, “I’ve got a wife named Kitty and a cat named Ginger.”
Kitty turned and held the tray out to her husband. “Karl really outdid himself this time. I’ve never seen such variety.”
Van Dorn picked up a toast point covered with pink salmon mousse in the shape of a rosebud. He noticed globules of what looked like oil or glycerin on the mousse, hesitated, then put it in his mouth and chewed. “Pussy food. Next time we’ll roast a few steers and hogs.”
Kitty set the tray on his desk. “George, everyone is waiting for the fireworks.”
“Well, if they’re paying for them, tell them to give the order to fire when ready.”
A dark frown crossed her brow, as though she had just remembered something. “George, who are those pyrotechnicians? I’ve never seen them before. What happened to the Grinaldis?”
“They blew themselves up.”
She turned to Grenville. “The Grinaldis have national reputations as pyrotechnicians. George does it right.”
Grenville nodded. “Yes, he—”
Van Dorn turned abruptly to his wife. “Have you seen Pembroke?”
She thought a moment. “Pembroke…”
Van Dorn snapped, “The tall Limey with an icicle up his arse.”
“Oh… yes… a friend of Tom’s… and Joan’s…” She glanced at Grenville, remembering there was some talk of trouble at the May Day party, then turned quickly back to her husband. “Mr. Pembroke wasn’t feeling well and went to his room.”
“Send someone for him.”
“He’s not feeling—”
Van Dorn puffed prodigiously on his cigar, a visible sign to his wife that he was about to explode.
She moved quickly toward the door. “Yes, dear.” She made a quick exit.
Van Dorn shot a glance at Grenville to see if he’d learned a valuable object lesson on wives.
Grenville looked uncomfortable. He stood again and said, “I guess I’d better leave.”
“I guess not.”
A bell chimed and Van Dorn walked across the room and disappeared behind a Japanese silk screen that hid an alcove. He reappeared with a sheet of telex paper and went to a wall safe behind a hinged picture. He opened the safe and took out a small code book, then handed both to Grenville. “Decode this message, then we’ll finish our discussion about your wife.”
Grenville took the message and book and moved behind Van Dorn’s desk.
George Van Dorn walked to the French doors and threw them open. The doors let out onto a small secluded garden on the side of the house, separated from the activity out back. Van Dorn walked across the flagstones and lowered himself into an old wooden deck chair. He blew smoke rings up at the moon and listened to the noise of his party.
He thought about Pat O’Brien, realizing that the shadowy mantle of leadership might settle on his shoulders, though neither he nor apparently anyone knew how these things were decided.
He thought too of Styler, Tanner, and Abrams, and wondered how they were faring. Van Dorn’s opinion of Abrams had gone from bare tolerance to grudging respect after he had been briefed on the man’s recent activities. O’Brien, he conceded, knew men.
But, Van Dorn concluded, there must have been one man whom O’Brien thought he knew well enough to let him get close to him, but not well enough for him to suspect that the man was to be his killer.
Van Dorn looked up into the clear starry night sky. Queer, he thought, that hell should lie below and the heavens above, yet the end, when it came, would come out of the heavens, just as nearly every apocalyptic writing had predicted.
And it was coming. That much they had discovered. Though none of them knew exactly when or how. But Van Dorn knew enough to try to stop it, and enough to know it was going to be a near thing.
Marc Pembroke returned to his room. “Have you seen any headlights?”
“Yes.” Joan Grenville continued looking out the window, fearful of his reaction if she turned to him. “About two minutes ago.”
“Could you see the car?”
“Yes, as it moved along the drive, I got a glimpse of it. It was sort of long and square and it had those carriage lights on the side, like a Lincoln.”
Pembroke took the binoculars and focused on the Russian house. He said, “You didn’t see the high beams flash, did you?”
“Well…”
He turned to her.
“Yes. I’m sure I did. Twice. I could see the trees lit up.”
Pembroke threw the binoculars on the bed and moved quickly toward the door.
Joan called out, “Marc… there’s something I should tell you.”
He turned back and said impatiently, “What?”
“Tony Abrams… Friday night he was in my room at the town house…”
Pembroke turned his back on her and reached for the doorknob. “Who cares?”
“No… I’m not confessing — I mean we didn’t make it… but he told me something I was supposed to tell—”
Pembroke removed his hand from the doorknob and turned. “Go on.”
“Tony said that if he disappeared or died, I was to relay a message to Katherine Kimberly.” She looked at Pembroke. “Has something happened to him?”
“Any reports of his death would be premature, but I wouldn’t underwrite life insurance on him. What were you supposed to tell Katherine?”
She hesitated. Having reluctantly absorbed some rudimentary security awareness over the years, she wasn’t certain Pembroke was the person who should be hearing this. But neither did she think Katherine — a woman — was the proper recipient of secrets. And Marc had been grilling her about this and that, and seemed concerned about Tony Abrams. Yet—
Pembroke crossed the room and stood in front of her. He slid his hands between her arms and the sides of her breasts and said, “Go on, Joan. It’s all right.”
She looked up into his eyes and saw that it was all right, if she went on; but if she didn’t, it was not going to be all right. She said, “You can tell Katherine if you want to. Tony Abrams said, ‘I discovered on the roof that Claudia is a friend of Talbot’s.’” She shrugged. “That’s it. Do you know what that means?”
Pembroke said, “Why did he confide in you?”
Joan smiled. “He said I was the least likely person to be involved in intrigue of a nonsexual nature.”
Pembroke nodded. He had come to the same conclusion about Joan Grenville. Abrams judged well. It was interesting, too, that Abrams had hedged his bet regarding Katherine. He thought she was reliable, but was not going to bet his life on it. Best to make posthumous revelations. If you were wrong, no one could kill you. Pembroke released his grip on Joan. “Get dressed and join the party. If I’m not back within the hour, tell Katherine what Abrams told you.” He turned toward the door.