The Talbot Odyssey (49 page)

He had put some of his affairs in order, as men do when they are going out on risky business, but had done nothing or taken nothing with him that would lead anyone to suspect that he knew he was never coming back. In fact, he remembered with a touch of amused irony, he had borrowed a hundred dollars from George Van Dorn before he left for Berlin. With interest, he owed Van Dorn about four thousand dollars.

Androv coughed pointedly, and said, “The decision regarding your daughter is entirely yours, Henry. But you should know that by now Karl Roth has poisoned everyone next door.”

Kimberly did not seem moved by this news.

Androv continued, “We chose an extremely rare substance for which no antidote is known in the West. But our Technical Operations Directorate has developed such an antidote. If we get your daughter here within four hours, she can be saved.” He looked at Henry Kimberly. “Please advise me.”

Kimberly said, “What does her fiancé advise?”

Androv smiled slowly, then replied, “Ah, young men are fickle. He no longer loves her, but would not mind if she lived to see the wave of the future wash over her little sand castles. I believe he wants to keep her as a maidservant. He’s a nasty young man.”

Kimberly nodded, then replied, “If you can save her without jeopardizing the mission, or”—he nodded toward Kalin—“or any more men, then do so. But I have no desire to see her. If she is brought here, keep her away from me.”

Androv said, “Yes, it might be upsetting to you if you met. And you have important work to do—”

“Please don’t anticipate my psychological reaction to anything.”

“Forgive me.” Androv regarded Kimberly for some time. After a month under the same roof, Androv could not understand the man’s motivations, much less his wants, needs, fears, or aspirations. Yet Kimberly was in many ways like other Western defectors he’d met in Moscow: strangers in a strange land, stuck in a previous time frame.

Kimberly turned from Androv and addressed Alexei Kalin. “How well do you know this Peter Thorpe?”

Kalin sat up. “I’m his control officer.”

“Do you like him? Or is he, as Viktor suggested, a nasty young man?”

Kalin replied diplomatically, “He is rather . . . odd. But he can be charming with the ladies.”

Kimberly nodded. “Takes after his natural father. James Allerton was no ladies’ man.” He smiled, then asked Kalin, “Is this the type of man I’d want around me as an aide?”

Kalin’s eyes went to Androv, and it was Androv who answered, “This is the type of man who should be liquidated.” He added quickly, “But you will want to decide for yourself, of course. Let’s have him come up. I’ve also invited some others whom you’ve met only briefly.” He pressed the intercom button. “Send them up.”

Androv looked down the length of the long attic that lay over the central wing of the house. The sloped walls were lined with electronic consoles whose lighting provided most of the room’s illumination. At the far end of the attic, nearly one hundred feet away, a lone man, the communications duty officer, sat hunched over the radio that was in continuous contact with the Kremlin.

Androv said, “Gentlemen, I do not know the precise time of the Stroke, but I think it will be before dawn.” He pointed across the room. “Do you see those two steady green lights?” The two men turned and saw two burning green lights in the distant dimness, like cats’ eyes glowing in the night. Androv continued, his voice heavy, “That is the highest alert status we’ve ever had from Moscow—it means the Stroke is imminent. There’s a third green light that will begin blinking when the final countdown begins. When all three lights are steady green, the Stroke is only minutes away.”

The heavy metal door to the attic opened, silhouetting a tall man dressed in a military uniform. He entered, followed by another Russian with swept-back hair and dark glasses, and dressed in a brown business suit. Peter Thorpe came in last. The two Russians stood aside, one of them closing the door.

Androv stood and made the introduction. “Major Henry Kimberly, please meet Major Peter Thorpe.”

Kimberly stood and took Thorpe’s hand. “How do you do?”

Thorpe could not hide his surprise at meeting a man he thought had been dead for forty years, then forced his features into an emotionless mask. He looked into Kimberly’s clear blue eyes and replied, “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

Androv said offhandedly, “That may be the last pleasure you experience, Thorpe.”

Thorpe looked at Androv, a mixture of anger and apprehension in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Androv addressed Kimberly. “Henry, you may remember these two gentlemen. This is Colonel Mikhail Karpenko of the Eighth Directorate of the KGB, which, as you know, is responsible for satellite communications, ciphers, and diplomatic transmission. This room is his domain.”

Karpenko, a tall, cadaverous bald-headed man with veins popping on his skull, bowed his head stiffly.

Androv continued, “And this is Valentin Metkov, of Department Five of the First Chief Directorate, known unofficially as the Department of
Mokrie Dela
—Wet Affairs.” Androv turned to Thorpe. “Coincidentally, what your CIA comrades call ‘wet stuff.’ Murder.”

Metkov pursed his thin lips and nodded to himself, as if he were discovering this information for the first time.

Androv motioned Karpenko, Metkov, and Thorpe toward swivel chairs. He saw that Karpenko and Metkov had both glanced at the green lights on the far console. Androv said, “Yes, the time is drawing near.”

Thorpe thought Alexei Kalin, who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence, looked moody and sullen. Thorpe also noticed that Kalin was disheveled and there was a bruise on his cheek. At Langley, Thorpe would have concluded that the man had gotten into a scrape. Here, it was quite possible that Kalin’s boss had had him beaten. These people were crude by the standards Thorpe was accustomed to. He felt an unfamiliar fear grip at his throat.

The talking stopped and Androv leaned back in his chair. He frowned at Thorpe. “Well, Peter, you were told never to come here, but here you are. Ordinarily this would be an inexcusable breach of security. However, as it turns out, tonight is the night of the Stroke, and I may consider a pardon if you can convince me that you’re not an imbecile.”

Thorpe’s face reddened. In all his clandestine meetings with the Russians, it had been
he
who had been rude, abrasive, and arrogant. His only meeting with Androv, two years before, had ended with Thorpe lecturing Androv about the personal hygiene of one of Androv’s couriers. But now he was in the wolf’s lair, and apparently he’d shown up on the last night of his usefulness. Rotten luck.

Androv said, “For a man with so much to say, you’re very quiet. Perhaps you
are
an imbecile.”

Thorpe knew that he had to be cautious, without being apologetic. He would not, could not, grovel. He put a tone of annoyance in his voice. “I want to know why the timetable has been moved up without your informing me. I want to know what you intended to do to insure my safety.”

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.”