Androv answered, “The timetable has been moved up because of recent events, one of them being what you yourself discovered from West. If you had gone to the party next door as you were supposed to, you would have been approached by Claudia and given the instructions you needed to survive. Is that explanation satisfactory?”
Thorpe nodded.
Androv added, “I assume you would not have come here unless it was urgent. Tell us what is on your mind.”
Thorpe crossed his legs and said, “Nicholas West is dead. Eva killed him. I killed her.”
Androv looked around the room, his eyes passing over Kimberly; then he focused on Thorpe. “That’s unfortunate but not urgent, and not crucial any longer. Tell me, where did you spend this afternoon?”
Thorpe licked his lips, then replied, “Well . . . that’s the other thing. . . . After West’s death, I realized I had to follow up on what he’d revealed, so I decided to . . . to kidnap . . . Katherine Kimberly.” He glanced at Henry Kimberly, but saw no change in his abstracted expression. Thorpe continued, “She was with Tony Abrams, so he became involved—”
Androv said, “You have a unique gift of altering the truth without altering the facts. But that is unimportant now. I assume your kidnap attempt failed, since Mr. Abrams called on us this evening. And Miss Kimberly is next door.”
Thorpe found himself sweating in the air-conditioned room. He cleared his throat and addressed Henry Kimberly. “I had no idea, of course, that you—”
Androv’s voice became curt. “There’s a great deal you did not know, Mr. Thorpe.” Androv let out a breath of exasperation, then said in a calmer tone, “You know, Peter, you have no political or personal commitment to socialism. You are an individualist in your heart. You are also an idiot, because you have helped destroy the system that spawned you and the only system under which you could survive. You will not survive long in the world you helped create.”
Thorpe recalled O’Brien’s warning to him before his death. And, of course, West’s predictions about his future. They’d both been right, as usual.
Androv sat back, his hands resting on his stomach. “But you did kill Patrick O’Brien. That was the finest thing you ever did. If we can think of a use for you, perhaps we will let you live.”
Thorpe ignored the threat and said, “Is James Allerton the second Talbot?”
Androv smiled. “Yes, he is. And lucky for you, he’s fond of you, though you are not such a good son to him. He is annoyed with you at the moment. You forgot to send him a card on Father’s Day.” Androv laughed. “You see how these little things come back to haunt you? For the price of a greeting card, you could have laid claim to some protection.”
Thorpe knew he was being played with, but he no longer was certain that he was under sentence of death. He relaxed imperceptibly, then said, “Where is my father?”
Androv answered, “At Camp David for the holiday. He will have some interesting news to deliver to the President sometime before dawn.” Androv reached down under the console desk and picked up a leather dispatch case. “For now, let’s proceed with the next item on my agenda.” He turned the case toward Kimberly. “This, according to Mr. Thorpe, is your property.”
Kimberly stared at the old scarred leather case, but said nothing.
Androv reached inside and drew out a bundled stack of papers. He handed them to Kimberly.
Henry Kimberly examined the grayish papers. They were all letters written on the V-mail stationery required during the war, flimsy paper that folded into envelopes. They were addressed to him in an adult hand, though when he turned them over, he saw Ann’s childish pencil scrawl. There were drawings—hearts, flowers, stick figures, and X’s for kisses. He read a few lines of a letter at random: When are you going to win the war and come home? Daddy I love you. XXXX Ann.
Henry Kimberly looked up at Androv. “Where did you get these?”
Androv handed Kimberly three folded pieces of stiff photocopy paper. “This will explain.”
Kimberly unfolded the pages and saw the letterhead: Lady Eleanor Wingate, Brompton Hall, Tongate, Kent. Beneath the letterhead was written in script: Dear Miss Kimberly. A curious and perhaps fateful incident has occurred which prompts me to write you.
Henry Kimberly read no further, but looked off at some indeterminate point in space. He said, “They told me soon after I arrived in Moscow never to ask about anyone from the past. They said it would be easier for me . . . that if I was dead to them, they must be dead to me.” He smiled slightly. “They did, however, give me a short yearly report on my daughters. In time, of course, I lost interest in even them . . . the dead soon lose interest in the affairs of the living.” Kimberly looked at Androv. “This past month has awakened many memories. I didn’t know, of course, that Eleanor was still alive.”
Androv replied bluntly. “She’s not. She lost her life in a fire at Brompton Hall.”
Kimberly looked around the room at the faces of the Russians, whose eyes, mirroring his own, revealed nothing. He bent his head over the letter and read. After he had finished, he refolded it and passed it back to Androv. He said, “Where is the diary?”
Androv replied, “Here, in this dispatch case.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course. But first, with your indulgence, let me ask you a question. Do you remember this English officer, Carbury?”
“Yes, Randolph Carbury was assigned to the Soviet desk. Counterintelligence. He was involved with O’Brien’s Operation Wolfbane. He was, in fact, looking for me.”
Androv smiled. “Well, Henry, neither Carbury nor O’Brien ever stopped looking for you. For their persistence, they suffered the same fate, and by the same hand.” He cocked his head toward Thorpe.
Kimberly said, “I am, of course, relieved that these men are dead. But I’m curious to know how the rules of the game have changed so much as to allow pawns to kill kings.” He stared at Thorpe.
“Yes, there are times when I wonder at that myself.” Androv pulled the diary from the dispatch case and handed it to Kimberly.
Henry Kimberly examined the cover, then opened it and leafed through the cream-colored pages. A slow smile passed over his lips.
Androv said, “It’s a clever forgery.”
Kimberly closed the diary and said, “Whose work is this?”
Androv shrugged. “I suppose an OSS forger. Recently, I think. It smells of O’Brien.” Androv added, “Did you actually keep a diary?”
“Yes, and in that muniment room—but this is not it.”
Androv smiled. “It was unfortunate for O’Brien that of all the dead OSS men he could have picked to ascribe this bogus diary to, he picked Talbot himself.”
Kimberly replied, “He trusted me. It was one of the few mistakes he made. I sometimes thought he had psychic powers, but he was human.”
“And mortal,” added Androv.
Kimberly nodded.
Androv said, “And after all, what did O’Brien accomplish with all his cleverness? He picked the wrong man as the author of this diary, and we did not become hysterical and expose our hand. He suffered many casualties, and lost his own life, while we have maintained the secret of the identities of the three Talbots. True, he forced us to move up our timetable, but that is for the better. Yes, these old gentlemen of the OSS have lost the last and final round to the KGB.”
49
Tony Abrams stood at the large bay window in George Van Dorn’s study and looked out at the party in progress. He caught sight of Katherine on the lawn, speaking to a man, and he had the unfamiliar sensation of jealousy. Katherine and the man separated and she joined two elderly women on a bench. Abrams turned from the window.
He walked to the wall near the French doors and surveyed the rows of old framed photographs. He studied a group picture: about a dozen men in tan summer uniforms. He recognized Van Dorn’s hulking frame towering over the others. Toward the right end of the group was Patrick O’Brien, appearing very boyish, his arm draped over
the shoulder of Henry Kimberly.
Marc Pembroke freshened his drink and looked up from the bar. “There’s nothing puts life into perspective like old photographs.”
Abrams said, “A brush or two with death gives you a little perspective.” He moved to another picture, a grainy enlarged snapshot of three men in battle fatigues: James Allerton, looking rather aesthetic despite the attire; beside him Kimberly again, looking more like a weary veteran than he did in the other picture; and a third man, who looked familiar. Abrams studied the face and was sure the man was a national figure but couldn’t place him.
Pembroke cut into his concentration. “We were just tots when this was going on. I remember the bombs falling, though. I was evacuated from London and lived with an aunt in the country. Do you have any recollections?”
Abrams glanced over his shoulder. “A few. Nothing quite so immediate as that.” Abrams scanned the other pictures. Some were captioned, and he saw Tom Grenville’s father, posing with Ho Chi Minh. A few feet to the left was a photograph that appeared to be hand-colored: a short, swarthy man with deep black eyes, wearing colorful native costume. The caption identified him as Count Ilie Lepescu. Abrams saw no family resemblance, but remembered that Claudia would be this man’s granddaughter.
In a grouping, there were some autographed head-and-shoulder shots of leaders of the era, including Eisenhower, Allen Dulles, and General Donovan. Below was a slightly blurry picture of a man sitting in a jeep, identified as OSS Captain John Birch, for whom, Abrams realized, the right-wing organization had been named. There were also various shots of ragtag resistance units, ranging from dark Latins posed amid classical ruins, to fair Nordic men and women against snowy backdrops. Everyone appeared somehow strangely innocent, almost naive. Or perhaps, he thought, their eyes reflected some sort of unity of purpose and purity of spirit that was not often seen any longer.
Marc Pembroke settled into a leather chair and watched Abrams. He said, “You look rather nifty in my white tropicals.”
Abrams continued surveying the photographs. “Does this outfit come with a Good Humor truck?”
“That’s Egyptian linen, Abrams. I had that suit made in Hong Kong—”
“By Charlie Chan’s tailor.”
Pembroke sounded miffed. “Well, it looks a damned sight better on me than it does on you.”
Abrams looked over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”
Pembroke seemed mollified. “Are those sandals all right? How’s that bandage?”
“Fine.” Marc Pembroke had cleaned and dressed the deep gash in Abrams’ foot, and done it with the clinical detachment that one associates with doctors, soldiers, cops, and others who are not strangers to the misfortunes that befall human flesh.
Pembroke said, “Foot wounds need antibiotics. I’ll see what George has available.”
Abrams turned back to the pictures and said, “Only an accomplished hypochondriac could worry simultaneously about nuclear vaporization and a foot infection.”
Pembroke smiled. “Still, we shave and wash on the eve of battle. We are creatures of habit and infinite optimism.”
“Right.” Abrams’ eye was drawn to a face in one of the formally posed shots of a group of uniformed men. It was Arnold Brin, looking very much better than when Abrams had last seen him. Brin wore the uniform of an officer, not a sergeant. Interesting, but Abrams had already come to the conclusion that these people played fast and loose with names, ranks, occupations, and other vital statistics.
Abrams searched for a photo of Carbury but couldn’t find one, though he saw a long shot of a manor house, captioned Brompton Hall. To the immediate left was a studio portrait of a lovely young woman with dark hair and dreamy eyes. “Is this Eleanor Wingate?”
Pembroke looked up from a magazine. “Oh, I believe it is. Yes, beside the Brompton Hall shot. Pity. Nice house.”
“Yes.” Abrams moved to his right and looked up at a long silver-framed photograph, a banquet scene that at first glance reminded him of “The Last Supper.” On closer inspection he recognized the uniforms of Soviet officers, alternating with American officers. It was a victory celebration of some sort. The celebrants included George Van Dorn, whose back was being patted or slapped by a grinning Russian officer. Van Dorn did not look particularly pleased. It was odd, thought Abrams, how a picture could sometimes capture the essence of a time and place, as well as a presentiment of the future.
Pembroke put down his magazine. “Did you get to that bastard’s progenitors yet? Over there. Eye level to your right. In the appropriately black frame.”
Abrams spotted a slightly overexposed picture showing the fuselage of a large aircraft. Twelve parachutists, eight men and four women, stood or knelt for what could have been, and probably was for some, their penultimate photograph—the last being the one that the methodical Gestapo took of the allied agents before their execution. Among the names on the caption were Jeanne Broulé and Peter Thorpe.
Abrams looked closely at Thorpe’s mother, a striking blonde, as tall as the men around her, with a figure that could not be hidden by the jump outfit. Thorpe’s father, also light-haired, was a handsome man, but he looked, Abrams thought, rather supercilious. “Yes,” he said, “yes, a good-looking couple.”
“All the same, if they’d kept their pants on, they would have spared the world a damned lot of grief.”
“Amen.” Abrams quickly perused the other photographs and recognized vaguely familiar faces, perhaps men and women who had come into the office, or people from the OSS dinner. Some of them, he realized, he’d seen just a few minutes ago, much older now, wandering in the shadows outside, like premature ghosts.
Pembroke interrupted his thoughts. “How did you get involved with this group?”
“I saw an ad in the Times.” Abrams turned from the picture. He went to the desk, where he’d set down a glass of Scotch, neat, and took a short drink, then picked up a canapé from the tray. “Chopped chicken liver.”
“No. Pâté.”
Abrams smiled. “To use a 1940s expression, any way you slice it it’s still baloney.” He ate the liver and toast.
Pembroke looked at his watch and stood. “Well, I’ve delivered you. Good luck, then.” He put out his hand and Abrams took it firmly. Abrams said, “Will you be around tonight?”
“Should I be?”
Abrams replied, “Maybe . . . I don’t make policy around here.”
“I’ll stay close. And please take care of that foot. You can’t count on being vaporized before it gets infected.”
He turned, and as he walked toward the door, it opened and Katherine Kimberly came into the study. They smiled and nodded to each other. Pembroke left, and Katherine took a few hesitant steps into the room. Abrams put down his drink and came toward her as she rushed into his arms. They embraced and she looked up at him. Her words tumbled out. “Are you all right? George just told me you were here—”
“Yes, I’m fine. Except for this suit and these sandals.”
She laughed and stepped back. “That’s not you.”
“Neither was the tux. What’s happening to me?”
She hugged him tightly, then said, “Well, you’re here and that’s just fine.” She touched a cut on his cheek. “What happened in there?”
He stayed silent for some time, then said, “Are you going to be here when I brief Van Dorn?”
She nodded. “Would you rather talk about it then? He’ll be here shortly. I’ll wait.”
He went to the bar. “Scotch, correct?”
“I don’t want a drink.”
He made her a Scotch and water and set it on the coffee table, then sat on the edge of the sofa. He took her hand and drew her down beside him.
She looked at him closely. “What is it? What’s wrong, Tony? Something to do with Pat O’Brien? He’s dead, isn’t he? You can tell me. I’m not a child.”
He could see tears forming in her eyes. He didn’t know which news was worse: that Patrick O
’Brien was missing, or that her father was not. He said, “O’Brien’s plane crashed Sunday night. His body was not recovered. We can assume he’s dead or kidnapped.”
She nodded slowly, but before she could say anything, Abrams went on quickly. “While I was in the Russian house, I wandered off by myself and came face-to-face with Henry Kimberly.”
Katherine was drying her eyes with a handkerchief, looking at him, and he could see she did not comprehend a word of it. He said, “I met your father. He’s alive.”
She still didn’t seem to assimilate it. Then she suddenly shook her head and stood. He stood too and held her shoulders. They looked at each other for a long time, then she nodded.
“You understand?”
She nodded again quickly, but said nothing. She was very pale. He eased her down onto the sofa and gave her the Scotch. She swallowed a mouthful, then took a deep breath. “Odysseus.”
Abrams replied, “Yes, the warrior has returned.” He put his hand on her cheek. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes.” She stared into his eyes. “You knew, didn’t you? You tried to tell me . . . and I guess I understood what you were saying . . . so it’s not a complete shock.”
“I only suspected. Now I know.”
She took his hand in both of hers. “You recognized him?”
He nodded and forced a smile. “The Kimberly eyes.”
She smiled faintly in return, thought a moment, and said, “My God. . . . Oh, my God . . . Tony . . . What does this mean?”
Abrams shook his head. “I don’t know, but it does not bode well, does it?”
She squeezed his hand tightly. “No. No, it is—grave and fore boding.”
Abrams nodded. Henry Kimberly’s presence in America would have to be taken as a signal that the countdown had begun.
And if, in fact, that basement was full of people, then all systems were go.