should get married.”
She turned and smiled. “You’re right. But who’d have us?”
He smiled back and lay down on the bed. “Come here. I want to show you my new decoding device.”
“I see it. Does it work well?” She approached the bed.
“It has to be turned on.”
“It looks like it just turned itself on.” She laughed and came into the bed beside him.
Katherine heard a phone ringing insistently somewhere, but she could not have cared less. There was a protracted silence, then the phone rang again. She felt the dreamy fog lifting, and her senses awakened as Peter sat up next to her in the bed. The yellow light on the telephone was blinking, indicating it was not his private number. “Switchboard call—the hell with it,” he said.
“It could be for me.”
He looked at her. “Then you answer it.”
Katherine raised herself onto her elbow and reached for the receiver. The switchboard operator said, “Mr. Abrams for Miss Kimberly.”
“All right.” There was a click, and she spoke. “Katherine Kimberly . . .” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat. “Yes?” She looked around the spacious second-floor bedroom. On the outside wall was a fireplace. The mantel clock showed they’d been asleep almost an hour.
Abrams hesitated, then said, “I took your advice and dropped in at the club.”
“Is he registered there?”
“Yes. But not officially. He’s been there since Wednesday . . . leaving Monday.”
Katherine watched as Thorpe got out of bed and began doing sit-ups, apparently with no interest in her conversation. But she knew him well enough to know he was listening. She spoke in a quieter voice. “All right, instruct the detectives to stay close to him until he reaches the armory.”
“I’ve done that, obviously.”
She took a few seconds to control her annoyance, then said, “Of course. See you at the armory, then.”
“Right.” He hung up.
She sat back in the bed, her long bare legs crossed.
Thorpe finished his sit-ups. “Who was that?”
“Tony Abrams.”
“Oh, super sleuth.” He rolled into a push-up position. “I met him once. Remember?”
“You were rude to him.”
“Was I?” He began his push-ups. “I’ll apologize next time I see him.”
“Good. That will be this evening.”
Thorpe stopped in mid push-up. “Oh, Christ, Kate, you didn’t invite him, did you?”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t fit. You’ll just make him unhappy to be there.”
She didn’t respond.
Thorpe balanced himself back on his shoulder blades and began a series of leg exercises.
She watched him. He had an exhibitionist streak in him, and probably a voyeuristic bent as well. Peter, she thought, was pure animal energy: his presence in a room was sometimes like that of a tame tiger cub, clawing and gnawing at a bone, threatening and potentially dangerous. Yet at other times he could be gentle and loving. He was a complex man, an intriguing man. But spies, like actors, were capable of personality metamorphoses. There were Peter Thorpes that she liked and Peter Thorpes that she didn’t like. But, she thought, he . . . or they . . . were never boring.
She drew the sheet up over her. “Are you still a member of the University Club?”
Thorpe sat on his haunches and scratched his head as though trying to remember. “I was . . . up until about four nights ago—Monday—you were out of town, I think. . . .”
“Drunk or disorderly?”
“I’m not sure. I remember trying to brush something off my face, but it was the floor.”
She smiled and glanced at the mantel clock again. “We should get moving.” She began to rise.
Thorpe stood and walked to the bed. He put his hands on either side of her and leaned over. “What’s going on, Kate?”
She ducked under his arm and got out of bed. “None of your business.”
“Can I help?”
She knelt beside the fireplace and ignited the gas jets. Blue flames curled around a log made of volcanic rock. “There’s
She turned and smiled. “You’re right. But who’d have us?”
He smiled back and lay down on the bed. “Come here. I want to show you my new decoding device.”
“I see it. Does it work well?” She approached the bed.
“It has to be turned on.”
“It looks like it just turned itself on.” She laughed and came into the bed beside him.
Katherine heard a phone ringing insistently somewhere, but she could not have cared less. There was a protracted silence, then the phone rang again. She felt the dreamy fog lifting, and her senses awakened as Peter sat up next to her in the bed. The yellow light on the telephone was blinking, indicating it was not his private number. “Switchboard call—the hell with it,” he said.
“It could be for me.”
He looked at her. “Then you answer it.”
Katherine raised herself onto her elbow and reached for the receiver. The switchboard operator said, “Mr. Abrams for Miss Kimberly.”
“All right.” There was a click, and she spoke. “Katherine Kimberly . . .” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat. “Yes?” She looked around the spacious second-floor bedroom. On the outside wall was a fireplace. The mantel clock showed they’d been asleep almost an hour.
Abrams hesitated, then said, “I took your advice and dropped in at the club.”
“Is he registered there?”
“Yes. But not officially. He’s been there since Wednesday . . . leaving Monday.”
Katherine watched as Thorpe got out of bed and began doing sit-ups, apparently with no interest in her conversation. But she knew him well enough to know he was listening. She spoke in a quieter voice. “All right, instruct the detectives to stay close to him until he reaches the armory.”
“I’ve done that, obviously.”
She took a few seconds to control her annoyance, then said, “Of course. See you at the armory, then.”
“Right.” He hung up.
She sat back in the bed, her long bare legs crossed.
Thorpe finished his sit-ups. “Who was that?”
“Tony Abrams.”
“Oh, super sleuth.” He rolled into a push-up position. “I met him once. Remember?”
“You were rude to him.”
“Was I?” He began his push-ups. “I’ll apologize next time I see him.”
“Good. That will be this evening.”
Thorpe stopped in mid push-up. “Oh, Christ, Kate, you didn’t invite him, did you?”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t fit. You’ll just make him unhappy to be there.”
She didn’t respond.
Thorpe balanced himself back on his shoulder blades and began a series of leg exercises.
She watched him. He had an exhibitionist streak in him, and probably a voyeuristic bent as well. Peter, she thought, was pure animal energy: his presence in a room was sometimes like that of a tame tiger cub, clawing and gnawing at a bone, threatening and potentially dangerous. Yet at other times he could be gentle and loving. He was a complex man, an intriguing man. But spies, like actors, were capable of personality metamorphoses. There were Peter Thorpes that she liked and Peter Thorpes that she didn’t like. But, she thought, he . . . or they . . . were never boring.
She drew the sheet up over her. “Are you still a member of the University Club?”
Thorpe sat on his haunches and scratched his head as though trying to remember. “I was . . . up until about four nights ago—Monday—you were out of town, I think. . . .”
“Drunk or disorderly?”
“I’m not sure. I remember trying to brush something off my face, but it was the floor.”
She smiled and glanced at the mantel clock again. “We should get moving.” She began to rise.
Thorpe stood and walked to the bed. He put his hands on either side of her and leaned over. “What’s going on, Kate?”
She ducked under his arm and got out of bed. “None of your business.”
“Can I help?”
She knelt beside the fireplace and ignited the gas jets. Blue flames curled around a log made of volcanic rock. “There’s
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