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Authors: Nelson DeMille
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intelligence connections going back to World War II. Not only was Patrick O’Brien an ex-intelligence officer, but so had been the late Henry Kimberly. The late Jonathan Rose had been an Allen Dulles aide in Bern during the war and a John Foster Dulles aide in the State Department during the Eisenhower administration. Also, Abrams had seen a good number of intelligence men and women, who had somehow run afoul of the law, pass through the office. If there was anything irregular about this law practice, it was those connections and associations. Tonight at the dinner he might learn more.
Carbury continued north. Abrams followed. His thoughts turned back to Katherine Kimberly. There was a woman who personified sangfroid. He imagined she took cold showers in the winter and stood in front of an open window to dry off. The Ice Queen, he called her, though certainly not to her face.
Yet when she had summoned him into her office, he had been almost shocked at her appearance. She was ghostly white, very upset, and she’d barely made an effort at hiding it. There was still that ice wall between them, but it had clearly cracked, and she seemed more human and more vulnerable in those brief seconds than he could have imagined.
Obviously the interview with Carbury had precipitated some strong emotion in her. Carbury was British, a colonel, World War II vintage. His card said retired and gave no branch, but the man was decidedly not a quartermaster officer. He was more likely in intelligence or police work of some sort. Abrams, after more than twenty years, could spot the signs. This did not explain what had caused so startling a transformation in Katherine Kimberly, but it was a clue.
He thought perhaps he should have asked her if she was all right. But then she might have borne a grudge against him for noticing and commenting on it; though he wondered why he felt it mattered.
Carbury passed the Plaza Hotel and headed west on Central Park South, then turned into the St. Moritz Hotel. Abrams waited a full minute, then entered the lobby.
Carbury was at the news counter buying a copy of the
Times.
He walked to the desk, spoke briefly with the clerk, then walked to the elevator and took the first car up.
Abrams paused at the news counter. The
Times
headlined: PRESIDENT SPEAKS TONIGHT IN CITY. A subline announced:
Addresses
World War II Intelligence Service.
The
Post
read simply: PRES SPEAKS TO EX-SPOOKS TONIGHT. The
News
reported: POSH BASH FOR CLOAK AND DAGGER BOYS. Which reminded Abrams that he hadn’t picked up his tuxedo yet. “Damn it.”
He walked across the lobby and approached the desk clerk. “Do you have a Colonel Randolph Carbury registered?”
“Yes, sir. Room 1415.”
Abrams walked toward the front doors. That was easier than he thought. Too easy? He turned and walked to the house phone. “Colonel Randolph Carbury, room 1415.”
After a pause, the operator answered, “I’m sorry, sir. Room 1415 is unoccupied.”
“Do you have a Randolph Carbury registered?”
“Hold on. . . . No, sir, there is no one by that name here.”
Abrams’ impulse was to go back to the desk clerk and have a talk with him, but it would be better if Carbury thought he’d pulled it off.
Abrams went out and stood on the sidewalk. It was getting late, and he was becoming annoyed. The assignment was better accomplished from a telephone. If Carbury was registered anywhere in the city under his own name, Abrams could discover where within a few hours. Katherine Kimberly made easy use of his time and shoe leather.
He crossed Central Park South and entered a phone booth from which he could see the St. Moritz. A light rain began to fall.
He called a friend in the Nineteenth Precinct and gave him the information, then placed a call to Katherine Kimberly. “I’m across from the St. Moritz—”
“Is he staying there?”
“That’s what he wants me to think—”
“You mean he suspects he’s being followed?”
“If he’s trying
Carbury continued north. Abrams followed. His thoughts turned back to Katherine Kimberly. There was a woman who personified sangfroid. He imagined she took cold showers in the winter and stood in front of an open window to dry off. The Ice Queen, he called her, though certainly not to her face.
Yet when she had summoned him into her office, he had been almost shocked at her appearance. She was ghostly white, very upset, and she’d barely made an effort at hiding it. There was still that ice wall between them, but it had clearly cracked, and she seemed more human and more vulnerable in those brief seconds than he could have imagined.
Obviously the interview with Carbury had precipitated some strong emotion in her. Carbury was British, a colonel, World War II vintage. His card said retired and gave no branch, but the man was decidedly not a quartermaster officer. He was more likely in intelligence or police work of some sort. Abrams, after more than twenty years, could spot the signs. This did not explain what had caused so startling a transformation in Katherine Kimberly, but it was a clue.
He thought perhaps he should have asked her if she was all right. But then she might have borne a grudge against him for noticing and commenting on it; though he wondered why he felt it mattered.
Carbury passed the Plaza Hotel and headed west on Central Park South, then turned into the St. Moritz Hotel. Abrams waited a full minute, then entered the lobby.
Carbury was at the news counter buying a copy of the
Times.
He walked to the desk, spoke briefly with the clerk, then walked to the elevator and took the first car up.
Abrams paused at the news counter. The
Times
headlined: PRESIDENT SPEAKS TONIGHT IN CITY. A subline announced:
Addresses
World War II Intelligence Service.
The
Post
read simply: PRES SPEAKS TO EX-SPOOKS TONIGHT. The
News
reported: POSH BASH FOR CLOAK AND DAGGER BOYS. Which reminded Abrams that he hadn’t picked up his tuxedo yet. “Damn it.”
He walked across the lobby and approached the desk clerk. “Do you have a Colonel Randolph Carbury registered?”
“Yes, sir. Room 1415.”
Abrams walked toward the front doors. That was easier than he thought. Too easy? He turned and walked to the house phone. “Colonel Randolph Carbury, room 1415.”
After a pause, the operator answered, “I’m sorry, sir. Room 1415 is unoccupied.”
“Do you have a Randolph Carbury registered?”
“Hold on. . . . No, sir, there is no one by that name here.”
Abrams’ impulse was to go back to the desk clerk and have a talk with him, but it would be better if Carbury thought he’d pulled it off.
Abrams went out and stood on the sidewalk. It was getting late, and he was becoming annoyed. The assignment was better accomplished from a telephone. If Carbury was registered anywhere in the city under his own name, Abrams could discover where within a few hours. Katherine Kimberly made easy use of his time and shoe leather.
He crossed Central Park South and entered a phone booth from which he could see the St. Moritz. A light rain began to fall.
He called a friend in the Nineteenth Precinct and gave him the information, then placed a call to Katherine Kimberly. “I’m across from the St. Moritz—”
“Is he staying there?”
“That’s what he wants me to think—”
“You mean he suspects he’s being followed?”
“If he’s trying
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