The Talbot Odyssey (10 page)

The man seemed relatively simple and open on the surface, but there was a complexity and furtiveness about him. And there were moments, she thought, when he revealed a presence, a bearing, and a refinement of speech that were more the officer than the sergeant. She remembered a line spoken by an actor in an old British spy movie: “My name is Sergeant Williams. Sergeant is not my rank, Williams is not my name.”

She said, “Is there anything against Carbury?”

“Not that I know of.” His tone was suddenly sharp. “Then again, we’ve been taken in by a good damned lot of bloody traitors, haven’t we?” He pulled the folder toward him and spoke apropos of nothing. “We won’t microfilm these—or computerize them. At least not while I’m alive. Do you know why? Well, miss, there is a special sort of feeling to old dossiers—odd scraps of paper, notes scribbled here and there, underlinings and dog-ears, even coffee stains. That sort of thing. The file develops a character of its own. It tells you things that aren’t plainly written. You understand.”

Katherine nodded. “The shadow outline on some of these pages, for instance, indicating where a smaller slip of paper lay for many years—yet the paper that made the shadow is missing. . . .”

Arnold nodded enthusiastically. “That’s just it. You do see what I mean.”

There was a silence, and Katherine realized that nothing further was forthcoming.

Arnold picked up the folder. “Is that it, then?”

“No. Wingate. Eleanor Wingate.”

Arnold concentrated on the name.

“Brompton Hall?”

“Ah! Yes, yes . . . Lady Eleanor Wingate—wife . . . widow of a Major Lesley Wingate. Brompton Hall . . . American intelligence billet . . .” He stood and carried the file into the murkiness of the far aisles, then returned with another folder and laid it on the table.

Katherine said, “How would it be possible for someone to remove something from a folder?”

“Someone would have to authorize that.”

“Who?”

Arnold sat down and poured himself more tea. “Well, that’s very complex, miss. Very complex. You see, these are not active files, as you know. These are only historical archives, kept for purposes of scholarly research—such as you do. But on occasion a bit of something becomes of interest again, and it’s whisked off to London. Mine is not to reason why. . . .”

“I see. And are you certain no one could actually steal something from these files?”

“Oh, I’d be a liar if I said that. It’s just not humanly possible to avoid that here. I’m all alone, and my senses are not what they used to be.”

Katherine opened the folder marked
Brompton Hall.
There was a brief description of the hall and the grounds, including a reproduction of an old print. Someone had put a tick mark beside a sentence that read, “The south tower holds an unusual and interesting muniment room.”

There was also a short biography of the Wingates and the cabled result of a security check on them that seemed to consist mainly of statements of good character from their peers. Very much, Katherine thought, like the letters one needs to join a good suburban country club. And in fact, she noticed, there was a listing of the clubs to which Major Wingate had belonged.

The British system of vetting was, she reflected, still rather quixotic to most American intelligence people. She looked up. “It’s simply not possible, is it, Arnold, for a man to be concurrently a member of Boodle’s and the Communist party?”

Arnold laughed. “Ah, miss, now you’re having a bit of fun with us.”

Katherine turned the page of the file and came upon a typed list of American intelligence officers billeted at Brompton Hall. Among the names, some of them familiar, she found her father’s. A handwritten annotation read:
KIA—5/?/4.5. REF: Alsos Mission;
REF: Hunter’s Moon
.

She had heard of the Alsos mission—the joint American and British mission to recover German atomic scientists. Hunter’s Moon, she was certain now, was Wolfbane. She closed the file and looked at Arnold. “Do you have anything on Alsos or Hunter’s Moon?”

“Not anymore, miss. That’s long gone.”

“Where would I find information on those subjects?”

Arnold looked around the room as though trying to recall if he had a file lying about. “Don’t know. Moscow, I suspect.”

Katherine studied Arnold’s face but could not tell if he was being facetious. She stood. “Can you be here tomorrow and Sunday?”

Arnold stood also. “If you require it.”

“Fine.”

“What will you be needing, miss?”

“I don’t know yet. One thing seems to lead to another, doesn’t it?”

“It’s always that way with archives, miss. You can read a file a dozen times and nothing signifies. These files have been read a hundred times each. But then a month later you read another file—or someone says something innocentlike and”—he held out his hands and brought his fingers together dovetail fashion—“it fits.”

She stared at him for some time but didn’t speak.

Arnold raised his teacup and looked thoughtfully into the dark liquid. He spoke as though to himself. “It’s the sequence of the thing more often than not. Dates, especially. Always look at dates. A man can’t be in two places at the same time, can he? And background. Pay very special attention to a man’s background. I mean his youth. A person reveals himself early on. People seem to have these conversions from one kind of politics to another, but that’s a bit of nonsense, because the boy is father to the man, if you know what I mean.”

Katherine moved toward the door. “You understand generally what I’m looking for. Gather what you can.”

Arnold stood and followed her, carrying a large black book. “Miss?”

Katherine turned and faced the open book, a blind register with strips of paper covering the preceding names. Arnold’s fingers were positioned to prevent an accidental uncovering of the signatures. She noticed that two loops of the previous signature extended onto her line and could have been the loops of the signature of Randolph Carbury. She signed the open line without making the same mistake, then added the date and time.

Arnold closed the book. “Have a good evening, miss. Bring me the guest list, if you think of it. I always enjoy reading the old names.”

He unbolted the door and opened it. “The list gets shorter each year. That’s a bit sad. Heroes shouldn’t die a natural death, should they? In hospital and all that. Nurses and doctors, and no one knowing they’re watching a hero die.”

He blinked in the brighter light of the hallway, and Katherine noticed for the first time how incredibly aged he was. Arnold was lost in thought, then said, softly, “But they weren’t all heroes, were they? A good number of traitors there were, who died natural deaths and got a good piece in the
Times,
military funerals, and all that. Those men and women should have ended their days on the gallows forty years ago.” He rubbed his thin hair. “There’s no statute of limitations for treason, is there?”

Katherine realized the question was rhetorical. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked down the corridor. After what seemed a long time, she heard the door shut behind her. Arnold’s cryptic musings, his metaphors, and his philosophy of life were a bit heavy at times. Yet, she supposed, they came with the territory. Also, they were not entirely beside the point.

She strode down the long, empty corridor. She was more concerned, she told herself, with an ongoing act of treason than with something that had happened forty years ago. On the other hand, from what O’Brien had told her about Talbot, it was known that Talbot had sent dozens of agents to their deaths. One of those agents may have been her father.

She reached an unmarked door, the rear entrance to Patrick O’Brien’s suite, which opened directly into his private office. She stopped and raised her hand to knock, but hesitated.
Security, dis
cretion, and extreme personal caution. . . . Everyone from that
time is suspect. . . . Distribute the information as you see fit. But
be cautious.
She turned and kept walking.

The seeds of distrust, sown even before she was born, grew and bore the tainted fruit of suspicion, and the fruit fell rotten to the earth and reseeded itself again and again.

She halted abruptly. “No, damn it!” She retraced her steps, knocked on O’Brien’s door, and entered.

Tony Abrams stood in the alcove of the Gucci shop on the corner of 54th Street and watched Katherine Kimberly make her way through the crowds on Fifth Avenue, holding her handbag and briefcase in one hand and her umbrella in the other. Her chin was tilted upward, and her stride was purposeful. It was, he thought a bearing that was both regal and slightly arrogant. She didn’t see him; he didn’t think she saw anyone. As she passed, he stepped out of the alcove. “Miss Kimberly.”

She turned, and it took her a second to recognize him. “Oh, Mr. Abrams.” A faint frown crossed her brow. “Where’s Carbury?”

Abrams nodded toward the building across the street.

She turned and looked at the squat granite mansion. “The University Club.”

“I think they have overnight accommodations.”

“Yes, they do.” She looked back at him. Rain glistened on his black hair, and rivulets of water ran over his face. She moved closer to him and raised her umbrella to bring them both under it. “Are the private detectives here?”

“They’re watching the only two doors,” he said. “Carbury’s safely tucked in. They’ll follow him to the armory.”

“Why are you still here?”

“Where should I be?”

“On Thirty-sixth Street, getting dressed for dinner. Well, it’s early yet, and as long as you’re still here . . . why don’t you take a look inside the club and see what you can discover?”

Abrams made an expression he hoped conveyed annoyance.

“You don’t have to. . . . You’re probably wet and tired. . . .”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, do what you think best.”

Her voice, he thought, was about as cool as the weather. She was always somewhat friendlier on the telephone. “I don’t think I’d pass for a university graduate with money and connections.”

“Bluff it.”

He didn’t reply.

“Or take the direct approach and flash your badge.”

“I like to be a little careful with the badge act.”

“I understand. But you know if anything goes wrong, we’ll take care of it.”

“So you said. I’ll think about it.”

“Fine.” She turned and took a step. “Oh, Mr. Abrams, Carbury has something important to deliver tonight. Other people may want what he has.”

“Swell.”

“Call me before seven thirty if anything comes up. See you at eight, Mr. Abrams.”

Abrams watched her continue up the block. He turned and walked across the street and into the marble-columned lobby of the University Club. He could see into an enormous high-ceilinged lounge where men sat in leather armchairs, their faces hidden by
Wall Street Journals.
In the rear, by the fireplace, Carbury sat, reading the London
Times.

Abrams walked through a passageway in the far rear corner that led to the elevators. In an alcove sat a stock printer, long sheets of its printouts pinned to a bulletin board above it. A group of men stood silently staring at the price quotations and looking, Abrams thought, very staid. But occasionally an eye would twitch or knuckles would whiten around the handle of an attaché case. He imagined that this was how it had looked in 1929, except then the men would ride up in the elevators and come down through the windows.

Abrams explored the area, noticing a staircase and the chlorine smell from a basement swimming pool. Another flight of stairs led up to a bar and dining room. He had determined from the directory that there were seven floors, and each had a function, such as a library, squash court, or billiards room. Most floors also had guest rooms, and the only access was by these stairs and elevators.

A club employee who had tagged after him now approached. “Excuse me, sir. May I be of assistance?”

“No.” Abrams reentered the lobby. He knew he should leave before he was shown out, yet he decided he wanted to take something with him, a piece of hard information that he could carry to Katherine Kimberly later, like a good retriever laying a fat quail before its mistress. He smiled at the analogy.

“Sir, unless you’re waiting for a member, you must leave.” The employee’s voice was growing insistent.

Abrams showed his badge. “I need some information.”

The man shook his head. “You’ll have to see the club manager. Sorry, officer. Rules.”

Abrams held a twenty-dollar bill folded between his fingers. “Okay, just show me out the service entrance.”

The man hesitated, then snatched the bill in a deft movement and motioned him to follow. Abrams noticed his name tag. “Lead on, Frank.”

They passed through the corridor near the elevators and descended a half flight of stairs toward the side service entrance.

Abrams spoke as he walked. “I used to belong to a club, too. The Red Devils. We had a clubhouse in the basement of the Bari Pork Store on Eighteenth Avenue in Bensonhurst. There was a gigantic pig in the window of this store, wearing a gold crown.”

The man indicated a door that led into the alley. “Good evening, officer.”

Abrams lit a cigarette. “Are you Italian, Frank? I’m Jewish, but I had fun growing up there. Anyway, one day my mother saw me go into this pork store. She stood in front of the fat pig in the window and cried.”

The man almost smiled, then said, “Look, officer, I have to get back. What’s this all about?”

“Actually, it was a very exclusive club—like this one. No
fem
minas,
no
melanzane,
no Ricans.
Capice?
They tolerated Jews and Protestants the way we might tolerate a few Martians in the neighborhood. I learned a lot in the cellar of the pig store, Frank. I learned the difference between tough and bluff.”

The man sensed some danger and looked quickly up and down the deserted corridor. “Hey . . . are you a cop?”

Abrams slipped his .38 out of his pocket and pointed it at the man’s stomach. “No.”