The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

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.

  22

  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-c
onsciousness 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.”

  “I see. And my credentials, my bona fides, are in order?”

  “I have never sent a man or woman on a job unless their cover was perfect.”

  Abrams knew, as O’Brien knew, that the only perfect cover was the one in your bed that you pulled over your head as a child to make the bad things go away.

  O’Brien, as was his habit, made one of his abrupt changes of topic. “I’d like you to stay at the town house tonight. Katherine will call on you tomorrow morning, and you’ll go to the office. There’s a records room there, and you can give her a hand looking for a few things. Wear your gun.”

  Abrams looked at him.

  “She may be in danger. You’ll watch after her, won’t you?”

  This particular shift from the prosaic to the intriguing caught him off guard. “Yes, I’ll look after her.”

  O’Brien took two cordials from a passing waiter and handed one to Abrams. He said, “We’d like you to join the firm.”

  Abrams stared at him. “I’m flattered.” He recalled very vividly how he felt when he’d been asked to join the Red Devils, and this was not a totally irrelevant thought. He remembered being both flattered and frightened.

  O’Brien said, “As you must have surmised by now, the OSS has never really disbanded. And, I assure you, we are not conspiratorial paranoiacs. We don’t promote secrecy for its own sake, like many clandestine societies. There are no secret handshakes, oaths, membership cards, symbols, ranks, or uniforms. It is more a feeling of the heart and mind than an actual organization.”

  Abrams lit a cigarette and flipped the match into an ashtray. He realized he was hearing things that, once heard, would put him in a compromising position. He considered leaving, but didn’t.

  For the next ten minutes O’Brien described the nature and substance of his group. When he was done, Abrams looked at O’Brien and their eyes met. Abrams said, “Why me?”

  O’Brien said, “You understand crime. Find us the murderer or kidnapper of Randolph Carbury, and the things we are interested in will start to fall into place.”

  Abrams didn’t reply.

  O’Brien looked at his watch, then stood. “There would be a good deal of personal danger. If you want to discuss this further, we can join the others in a private room at the other end of the armory. The room itself is quite interesting. May I show it to you?”

  Abrams sat for a long time, then said, “Can I have more time to think about it?”

  “You can go home and sleep on it. But I suspect you won’t sleep very well.”

  Abrams took a long sip of his cordial and stood. “Let’s see the room.”

  23

  Abrams followed Patrick O’Brien into a huge columned chamber that was vaguely reminiscent of an Egyptian throne room. Around the upper perimeter of the walls was a running frieze depicting warriors from different periods of history. The ceiling was black, crisscrossed with beams inlaid with silver. Classical statuary stood at intervals around the dimly lit room.

  Abrams’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw a large fireplace made of blue cobalt-glazed tile. In the center of the room was a thick Persian rug, and si
tting in the center of the rug was a large ornate table that looked somewhat like a sacrificial altar. Stained-glass windows let in a diffused light from the street.

  Two red-coated busboys were in the dimly lit room, arranging chairs around the fireplace. A waiter wheeled in a coffee service. The three men left silently.

  James Allerton sat facing the fireplace. Katherine sat opposite him, with Thorpe and West to her left. O’Brien waved Abrams into a chair near the hearth and took the remaining chair beside him.

  Abrams was surprised that it was West who spoke first and greeted him. West said, “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us for coffee.”

  Abrams said, “I never turn down coffee.” He suspected that the state of the art of saying one thing and meaning another was very high with these people.

  West spoke again. “I know you were reluctant, and I was too. But I’ve never regretted my decision. We’re all sort of like amateur armchair detectives.” He patted the arms of his chair for emphasis. “Think-tankers,” he added. “Dollar-a-year volunteers, like during the war. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

  Abrams thought that West was either understating the facts or was himself not fully aware of the scope of the group. He realized then, in a moment of insight, that if he stayed with them for the rest of his life, he’d never know more than a small part of the whole. Moreover, he might never know or even feel that he belonged to anything more sinister than a coffee klatch. Unless, of course, they asked him to do something like blowing someone’s brains out.

  Abrams regarded James Allerton, who seemed slightly unhappy. Katherine passed him a quick smile. Abrams looked across at Thorpe, who was staring openly at him, as though trying to think of the best way to dispose of his body.

  Patrick O’Brien spoke. “Let’s begin. We need a bit of background. Nick?”

  West tapped the Wingate letter lying on his lap. “This seems to fit the facts as we know them. First, there were three filed reports on Henry Kimberly’s death, and no two of them agree.”

  West looked at Katherine. “I haven’t ever told you all of this. Ann knows. . . . Anyway, the last and official version is that Major Kimberly was in Berlin leading an advance party of OSS officers a day after the city had fallen to the Russians. That would be May 3, 1945.”