The Talbot Odyssey (50 page)

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.

The attic room was still, and Peter Thorpe heard the low hum of the electronic consoles, and felt the machines’ vibrations in the floorboards. The big, open room reminded him of his own garret in the Lombardy, where he would have preferred to be at the moment. This place, however, was more elaborate. This was the fabled Russian spy center of North America, the subject of press editorials, congressional debates, and television documentaries. This facility also had diplomatic immunity, and his did not. Also, his attic room had to serve as both a communications center and an interrogation room, which was not always convenient. The Russians used their cellar for the messy stuff. This was the advantage of a nice big house in the suburbs over an apartment in town. He smiled grimly at his own forced humor.

Thorpe looked at his watch. The four Russians had left to put people and systems on alert status and had not yet returned. He turned from the window and saw the communications officer walking down the line of consoles, making entries into a logbook. Henry Kimberly was sitting nearby, ignoring Thorpe and reading a Russian newspaper by the light of a computer’s video display screen.

Thorpe noticed that odd smell in the room that electronics emitted, and he felt the heat that was generated by the radios and computers.

Thorpe regarded Kimberly. All was obviously not well in
his
attic. Thorpe recognized that his own peculiarities of the mind were inherent and inborn. He was certain that Kimberly’s strangeness was acquired. The old term
brainwashing
came to him. But it was more than that.
Forty years,
he thought. Not only was the brain washed, but so was the heart and soul.

In fact, though, they had probably done nothing more to him than they’d done to 270 million other Soviet citizens; they had made him live there.

Thorpe remembered his two brief, furtive trips to Russia. As he walked the streets of Moscow, he had had the impression that half the population was going to a funeral and the other half coming from one.

As he looked at Kimberly, he wondered how the Russians were going to present this bloodless man to the American public as their new leader; his speech, his movements, his facial expressions, his whole persona, reminded Thorpe of an alien from another world trying to pass as an earthling. Thorpe was sure the KGB had kept Kimberly abreast of the developments in American life, but the American Training School on Kutuzovsky Prospekt was a poor substitute for the real thing.

Kimberly sensed that Thorpe was staring at him and looked up from his newspaper. Thorpe hesitated, then asked, “Was it you, or James, or someone else, who sent my parents to their deaths?”

Kimberly seemed neither surprised nor put off by the question. He replied, “It was I. One of the agents on that jump was a Communist. One of my people. After he hit the ground, he tipped off the Gestapo, anonymously. The twelve people on that jump were all eventually arrested and shot. What difference does it make to you?”

“I’m not certain.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make a moral judgment of me, or any sort of judgment for that matter.”

“I’m not making judgments. I just wanted to know.” He hesitated again, then said, “James, and others, speak well of them.” He looked at Kimberly.

Kimberly shrugged.
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum
—speak only good of the dead. But if it’s the truth you’re after, and I suppose you are, your mother was a French whore, and your father a pompous, spoiled dilettante.”

Thorpe replied, “That hardly sounds like the type of people who would volunteer to parachute into enemy territory.”