The Talbot Odyssey (20 page)

One thing Patrick O’Brien had told her from the beginning, which she thought about now: “You understand,” he’d said, “that we could not have eliminated so many of our enemies and caused them to suffer so many setbacks without incurring casualties of our own. You must be aware, Katherine, that there is an element of personal danger inherent in this game we are playing. You’ve attended some funerals of men and women who did not die natural deaths.”

She looked at O’Brien now and spoke. “Do you think Carbury is dead?”

“Of course.”

“Is this the beginning of something?”

“Yes, I believe it is. Something very terrible is in the wind. We’ve sensed it for some time. Actually, we have some hard information that the Russians don’t expect us to be around after this summer.”

She looked at him. “Don’t expect . . .
who
not to be around . . . ?”

“Us. America. They seem to have discovered a way to do it—with minimal or no damage to themselves. It’s obviously some sort of technological breakthrough. Something so far advanced that we have no defense. It was inevitable that one side or the other should skip a few generations of technology. So far we’ve advanced side by side, one side or the other taking a short lead, like a long horse race. But we have reason to believe they’ve created a sort of time warp that will put them into the next century within a few months. It happens. History is full of such examples—the ironclad
Monitor’s
blowing the Confederates’ wooden ships out of the water at will. Our atomic bombs that obliterated two great cities in a few seconds. . . .”

She tried to formulate several questions, but no words came out.

O’Brien said, “We know their plan depends on a person or persons who will open the gates of the city in the night, a sergeant of the guard. Someone with a key.”

She said, “Someone like Talbot.”

He nodded.

She spoke softly, “We were so close . . . the diary . . . the papers. . . .”

O’Brien waved his hand in a motion of dismissal. “That’s not important.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wrote the diary—or had it written. It’s not your father’s. I’m sorry. The diary was bloody red meat, and I knew if there was a beast about, he’d smell it and reveal himself. He did. Unfortunately, Randolph Carbury, who was holding the meat, got eaten too. But now we have a trail to follow, the spoor of the wolf in the wet earth.”

Katherine set her brandy glass down on the windowsill. “What was in the diary?”

“I had one of our old forgers do the whole thing with different inks of the period. The blank diary was bought in a London antiques store. The dispatch case was mine. The workman who found it in Eleanor’s muniment room was one of my people. She believed it was genuine. Nearly everyone who came into contact with it believed it.”

“But . . . who did you name? Did you name Talbot . . . ?”

O’Brien rubbed his chin. “How could I? If I could name him, I’d kill him. The diary is mostly conjecture. But if Talbot is reading the diary right now, then he is very uncomfortable. He knows that photocopies must exist, and he will reveal more of himself in his search for them.”

Katherine said suddenly, “Eleanor Wingate is in danger.”

A strange look passed over O’Brien’s face, then he said, “She’s dead. Brompton Hall has been burned.”

Katherine stared at him. “You knew that was going to happen.”

“I did send a friend to look after her, but apparently he’s been killed with her, and her nephew. As for Carbury, he knew the material was bogus, and he made a timely visit to Brompton Hall on the day it was found. He inspired Eleanor’s letter to you. He knew the danger of carrying the material but was, apparently, unable to protect himself against it.”

“I tried to protect him.”

“Yes. But you or Eleanor Wingate told someone about it, and that’s why he’s dead.”

“I told Peter.”

“I know.”

She said nothing for a long time, then spoke. “Peter may have passed the information through normal channels.”

“He may have. I suppose he did. But we have at least flushed something out of the woods.”

“There are people dead.”

“That lends authenticity to it.” He looked at her. “I always told you this was a dangerous business. It’s going to become more dangerous and very bloody very soon. I suggest you carry a pistol.”

She nodded. She supposed she knew that beneath the surface of this organization, beneath the amateur spying, the old-boys network of information gathering, industrial spying, economic sabotage, or whatever game they played with the Eastern Bloc, was this potential for sudden violence. It had been part of their original mandate; the passage of forty years had not given them reason to discount violence as a legitimate option. She said to O’Brien, “I’m worried about Ann.”

“Worry about yourself. Ann understands more than you the danger she’s in.”

“And Nick.” She thought of this gentle man with the same apprehension one might feel when thinking of a child playing in traffic.

“He’s in danger from several sources. I’ve hired private guards for him.”

She looked at O’Brien. She had this comforting, childlike feeling that Patrick O’Brien could lick anyone on the block. But it followed then that the most dangerous Talbot she could imagine was Patrick O’Brien.

Abrams and Thorpe entered the Colonel’s Reception Room. In an uncharacteristic display of hospitality, Thorpe went to the sideboard and brought back a cognac for Abrams. Thorpe smiled and raised his glass. “To truth.”

Abrams did not drink.

Patrick O’Brien and Katherine Kimberly walked over to them. O’Brien said, “Did you find anything at the club?”

Thorpe replied, “Carbury
did
dress for dinner. We asked around but no one seems to remember him leaving. I had the manager check the safe. Nothing there. There was nothing revealing in his room.”

O’Brien turned to Abrams. “Did you call your police contacts?”

“Yes. I told them it might be a matter of national security. They’ll contact the FBI. They may want more information.”

O’Brien nodded. “Give them what they need, within limits. Don’t bring the firm into it.”

Nicholas West approached and the five people spoke for a few minutes, then O’Brien caught James Allerton’s eye. Allerton excused himself from a group of well-wishers and joined them. Allerton leaned over and kissed Katherine. “You look lovely as always.” He turned to Thorpe. “I didn’t embarrass you, did I, Peter?”

“No more than usual, James.”

Allerton ignored the remark and took West’s hand. “Nicholas. I’m delighted you could come. Is Ann with you? Or is she still in Bern?”

“No, sir . . . in Munich.”

Allerton looked at O’Brien. “Good Lord, Patrick, this is like déjà vu, isn’t it? The old armory, the old faces, even the old songs.
Bern.
Can’t think of Bern without thinking of Allen Dulles, can we?”

West cleared his throat. “Actually, she’s been transferred . . . Munich, I think—I mean Munich for sure.”

Allerton smiled pleasantly and turned to West. “Prestigious post, Bern. Good spot. Center of things, still. It was the window on Europe in those days—”

O’Brien interjected, “James, we’d like to have a meeting—”

“No business tonight. That’s the rule. It can wait until lunch tomorrow.” He smiled at Katherine. “Well, when are you going to make me a grandfather, young lady?”

Katherine forced a smile. “Mr. Allerton, let me introduce—”

Allerton went on. “I should say, when is this oafish son of mine going to marry you?” He turned to West. “And
you.
What are you waiting for? Go to Bern tomorrow and marry this girl’s sister.”

Katherine said, “Let me introduce Tony Abrams. He’s with our firm.”

Allerton seemed to notice Abrams for the first time. He extended his hand, and his eyes passed over Abrams. Then he fixed him with an appraising look. “Are you having a good time?”

Abrams felt the dry, bony hand in his own. “Yes, sir.” He thought it was the kind of question he’d be asked if he were a sixteen-year-old at a christening. “Congratulations on your medal. Interesting speech.”

Allerton smiled politely and turned away. He seemed to notice the expressions of everyone’s faces. “Is it serious?”

O’Brien nodded.

“Well, come then. There’s an empty room down the hall. Excuse us, Mr. Abrams. Have a drink.”

“Thank you.”

Katherine touched Abrams’ arm as she passed. “Don’t go far.”

Abrams watched Allerton, O’Brien, Thorpe, West, and Katherine wind their way through the crowd. He muttered to himself, “Yes, sir, I’m having a
good
time.” He went to the sideboard, poured out the brandy Thorpe had given him into a trash can, and chose a Strega, remembering the homemade variety the Italian men used to distill. He poured the yellowish liquid into a tall, fluted glass, braced himself, and downed half of it. He felt the water forming in his eyes even before he felt the fire hit his stomach. “
Mama mia
. . .”

He wandered around the room, recognizing some of the faces from newspapers or television, a few from history books, some from the office. Clare Boothe Luce was holding court, seated in a small chair surrounded by mostly older men and women. Sterling Hayden, the actor, whom O’Brien had said was an OSS agent in Van Dorn’s unit, was speaking with the Van Dorns and the Grenvilles. Joan Grenville noticed Abrams and smiled. Claudia was nowhere to be seen.

Abrams left the reception room and made his way to a pay phone in the lobby. The metal detector was gone, as were the Secret Service men, and people wandered about more freely, without that self-consciousness and paranoia that the presence of armed men always engenders. Abrams called the Nineteenth Precinct and got Captain Spinelli on the line. Abrams said, “Anything interesting since I spoke to you?”

Spinelli answered, “We have an all-points out. Bureau is on it. Phil told me you wanted a make on this guy Carbury this afternoon. What the hell’s going down, Abrams?”

“He’s missing. That’s all you have to know.”

“Like hell. I hear noise there. Where are you?”

“Down the block having cocktails with Arthur Goldberg, Bill Casey, and Clare Boothe Luce.”

“You sound drunk . . . oh, you’re at the armory. Is there a connection there? Is the President still there?”

“He’s gone. There’s no connection except that Carbury was on his way here.”

“What’s the national security angle here?”

Abrams noticed a man behind him who seemed to want to use the telephone. A few other people stood nearby. He spoke to Spinelli in Italian, heavily accented with the Barese dialect, filling him in on some background.

Spinelli cut in, “Your Italian stinks, Abrams. Come down here now and sign this missing person’s report.”

Abrams ignored him and continued in Italian, “Keep me out of it.”

Spinelli in turn ignored Abrams. “Did you or that guy with you—Thorpe—touch anything in the room?”

“No, we floated around. Listen, Thorpe is Company.”

“Company . . . ? Oh,
that
Company. You sure?”

“Sure.”

“What are you into?”

“Evil things. Proceed carefully with Thorpe. Check him out with whoever is the liaison these days. Watch yourself on this one, Dom.”

“Okay . . . thanks. . . .”

“Thank me by keeping me posted.” Abrams hung up and returned to the Colonel’s Reception Room.

O’Brien was there looking for him. He motioned Abrams onto a settee and sat beside him. O’Brien said, “Kate is briefing Mr. Allerton, Peter, and Nick. Let’s talk for a moment.”

“Okay.”

“What do you think of our friends?”

“I had a good time. Thank Miss Kimberly for inviting me. Look, it’s past midnight, and I think I’m going to leave.”

O’Brien didn’t seem to hear. He said, “She thinks very highly of you.”

“Of me personally, or of my work?”

O’Brien smiled. “Your work as a process server is hardly anything to elicit admiration.” O’Brien glanced around the room. “Have you had an opportunity to speak to anyone here?”

“No, but it looks like General Donovan assembled quite a group. Hitler never had a chance.” Abrams lit a cigarette. “It’s too bad the CIA can’t get so much talent.”

O’Brien nodded. “In wartime you can recruit millionaires, superachievers, geniuses in the arts and sciences . . . but in peacetime, what sort of man or woman do you get for a modest-paying career position in intelligence work? On the opposite side, the KGB are very well paid and enjoy privileges and prestige that exceed those of the average Soviet citizen. They get the best of the best.” O’Brien shook his head. “If one could compare education and IQ levels in both organizations, the CIA would come off second best. That’s a fatal fact that has to be faced.”

“Like our amateur sports teams playing their so-called amateurs.”

“That’s a fair analogy.” O’Brien glanced around the room, then said, “You haven’t changed your mind about your visit to Glen Cove in light of what you’ve learned this evening?”

“I said I’d go.”

“Fair enough. You’ll meet the Edwards and Styler attorneys at their offices at four P.M., Monday, Memorial Day. You’ll be briefed by a friend of mine. You’ll arrive with the attorneys at the Russian estate about seven P.M. George Van Dorn’s party will be in full swing by then.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do once I’m in?”

“You’ll be told that day.”

Abrams looked at O’Brien closely.

O’Brien answered the unasked question. “Even if you’re caught snooping, they’re not going to murder you. It’s Russian territory, but it’s not Russia. But don’t get caught.”

“One more question—something doesn’t add up here. If the Russians have something big in the works, as you obliquely suggested—something that will cancel the July bar exam and, by insinuation, will cancel all of us, then why are they bothering with a petty lawsuit?”

O’Brien replied, “You were an undercover cop. Answer your own question.”

Abrams nodded. “They must appear to be going on with business as usual.”

“Correct. To do nothing about Van Dorn’s or Mayor Parioli’s harassment would be highly suspicious. So we are presented with an opportunity, part serendipitous, part planned, to get a peek inside their command post.”