mixture of impatience and amusement. “Open the damned door.”
The door buzzed and Katherine opened it, entering a large anteroom. She passed into a very long two-story-high sitting room. On opposite sides were balconies that served as hallways to the second-story rooms. The balconies were connected by a catwalk that spanned the length of the spacious room. She looked around as she dropped her bag and briefcase on the sofa, then removed her raincoat. Hidden stereo speakers were playing a medley of theme songs from James Bond movies. She smiled. “Peter! Idiot!”
She walked to the bar, where a pitcher of martinis stood alongside two chilled glasses, and poured a full glass for herself. The French doors that led to the terrace suddenly opened and a gust of cool air blew in. Through the billowing curtains walked Peter Thorpe, clad only in a pair of threadbare jeans.
She stared for some time at his muscular body silhouetted against the towering lighted buildings beyond. “Are you
crazy?
”
Thorpe’s blue eyes narrowed in a malevolent glare. “Sloppy tradecraft, Miss Kimberly. If you were a Red agent, you’d be dead.” He shut the French doors, then advanced toward her. “See this?” He held up a partly peeled lemon. “This is an anthrax grenade. Catch!” He threw it underhand at her. She fielded it with one hand and, in a swift motion, shot it back at him.
The lemon thumped against his bare chest. She laughed in spite of her annoyance. She said, “Why were you standing in the rain half-naked?”
“I didn’t want to get my suit wet.” He smiled and embraced her.
“You’re very strange, Peter. Must be the red hair.” She tousled his long damp hair.
Thorpe worked his hands down the back of her shirt. “Did you have a good day?”
“An interesting day.”
They kissed, then Thorpe buried his face in her neck. “Do we have time for a quick dance?”
She smiled. “No. But we’ll make time for a slow dance.”
“Good.” He kissed her neck, then took the martini tray from the sideboard.
She picked up her bag and followed him up the spiral staircase. Thorpe looked back over his shoulder. “What made the day interesting?”
She started to reply, then thought better of it. Peter was altogether too curious about what went on at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. She said, “Just a lot of activity over the reunion tonight. A good number of out-of-towners and foreigners dropping by.”
They reached the balcony overlooking the sitting room. Thorpe said, “There’s nothing more insufferable than ex-spies.”
“They’re interesting people. You’ll enjoy the evening.”
“Perhaps. But I get a little weary of hearing how great the OSS was, and how screwed up the CIA is.”
“No one ever said that.”
“Your nose is getting longer, Kate.” He smiled. “Maybe I’m just sensitive. My father used to bore me for hours with stories of how the OSS won the war.”
She took his arm.
He added, “My boss is an old OSS man and he’s recruited dozens of others.” He stood in front of his bedroom door. “The dining rooms at Langley serve prunes and Geritol now.” He laughed.
She said, “Experienced men and women can be useful.” She opened the door and he entered first, setting the tray on the bureau.
He said, “It’s not the experience that concerns me . . . some of those old OSS characters were very weird. Very strange backgrounds. . . .”
She looked at him. “Meaning?”
He hesitated, then said, “You know . . . security risks.” He sipped on a martini. “There was a radical fringe in the OSS . . . they wouldn’t pass a normal security check by today’s standards. Yet they’re being brought back in on a special basis . . . that bothers me.”
“No more shoptalk.”
“Right.” He set his glass down and pulled off his jeans, throwing them on a chair.
Katherine began to undress.
Thorpe turned down the sheets of his double bed, then watched her hang her clothes in his closet. “We
The door buzzed and Katherine opened it, entering a large anteroom. She passed into a very long two-story-high sitting room. On opposite sides were balconies that served as hallways to the second-story rooms. The balconies were connected by a catwalk that spanned the length of the spacious room. She looked around as she dropped her bag and briefcase on the sofa, then removed her raincoat. Hidden stereo speakers were playing a medley of theme songs from James Bond movies. She smiled. “Peter! Idiot!”
She walked to the bar, where a pitcher of martinis stood alongside two chilled glasses, and poured a full glass for herself. The French doors that led to the terrace suddenly opened and a gust of cool air blew in. Through the billowing curtains walked Peter Thorpe, clad only in a pair of threadbare jeans.
She stared for some time at his muscular body silhouetted against the towering lighted buildings beyond. “Are you
crazy?
”
Thorpe’s blue eyes narrowed in a malevolent glare. “Sloppy tradecraft, Miss Kimberly. If you were a Red agent, you’d be dead.” He shut the French doors, then advanced toward her. “See this?” He held up a partly peeled lemon. “This is an anthrax grenade. Catch!” He threw it underhand at her. She fielded it with one hand and, in a swift motion, shot it back at him.
The lemon thumped against his bare chest. She laughed in spite of her annoyance. She said, “Why were you standing in the rain half-naked?”
“I didn’t want to get my suit wet.” He smiled and embraced her.
“You’re very strange, Peter. Must be the red hair.” She tousled his long damp hair.
Thorpe worked his hands down the back of her shirt. “Did you have a good day?”
“An interesting day.”
They kissed, then Thorpe buried his face in her neck. “Do we have time for a quick dance?”
She smiled. “No. But we’ll make time for a slow dance.”
“Good.” He kissed her neck, then took the martini tray from the sideboard.
She picked up her bag and followed him up the spiral staircase. Thorpe looked back over his shoulder. “What made the day interesting?”
She started to reply, then thought better of it. Peter was altogether too curious about what went on at O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. She said, “Just a lot of activity over the reunion tonight. A good number of out-of-towners and foreigners dropping by.”
They reached the balcony overlooking the sitting room. Thorpe said, “There’s nothing more insufferable than ex-spies.”
“They’re interesting people. You’ll enjoy the evening.”
“Perhaps. But I get a little weary of hearing how great the OSS was, and how screwed up the CIA is.”
“No one ever said that.”
“Your nose is getting longer, Kate.” He smiled. “Maybe I’m just sensitive. My father used to bore me for hours with stories of how the OSS won the war.”
She took his arm.
He added, “My boss is an old OSS man and he’s recruited dozens of others.” He stood in front of his bedroom door. “The dining rooms at Langley serve prunes and Geritol now.” He laughed.
She said, “Experienced men and women can be useful.” She opened the door and he entered first, setting the tray on the bureau.
He said, “It’s not the experience that concerns me . . . some of those old OSS characters were very weird. Very strange backgrounds. . . .”
She looked at him. “Meaning?”
He hesitated, then said, “You know . . . security risks.” He sipped on a martini. “There was a radical fringe in the OSS . . . they wouldn’t pass a normal security check by today’s standards. Yet they’re being brought back in on a special basis . . . that bothers me.”
“No more shoptalk.”
“Right.” He set his glass down and pulled off his jeans, throwing them on a chair.
Katherine began to undress.
Thorpe turned down the sheets of his double bed, then watched her hang her clothes in his closet. “We
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