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.”
West paused, out of the historian’s habit, Abrams imagined, of ending a thought with a date. West continued, “Major Kimberly’s cover was that of a quartermaster officer in search of accommodations for the coming American occupying staff. In fact, he was there to retrieve about a dozen agents he’d had parachuted into the Berlin area. He was concerned about their welfare, especially in regard to the Russians.”
Patrick O’Brien nodded and added, “It was a dangerous mission. Berlin had fallen, but the surrender of Germany hadn’t been signed, and there were still roaming bands of SS fanatics plying their murderous trade along the highways and among the ruins. There was also the possibility, as we were discovering, of being detained by our Red Army allies.” O’Brien stared into the fire for some time, then said, “I told Henry to be careful. I mean, my God, we knew the war had less than a week to run. No one wanted the distinction of being the last casualty. I suggested the quartermaster cover. No use waving the OSS insignia in front of the Russians’ noses. Henry, too, was wary of the Russians.”
James Allerton spoke for the first time. “In that respect, he was not so naive as many of us in those days, myself included.” He looked at Katherine. “But he felt a deep obligation to his agents… hence the fateful mission to Berlin.” Allerton nodded to West.
Nicholas West continued, “There was, according to the mission report on file, one agent in particular whom Major Kimberly wanted to recover — Karl Roth, a German Jewish refugee and a Communist who was working for the OSS. Another agent had radioed that Roth had been picked up by the Russians, then released. When Roth was queried by radio, he explained his release by saying he convinced the Russians he was a Communist. Roth’s radio apparently was still under his control. His message went on to say that the Russians had asked him to work for them as a double within the OSS. He agreed, he said, in order to get out of their clutches.”
O’Brien interjected, “This was not the first indication we had that the Russians were trying to turn our agents who had Communist backgrounds. Henry thought this was ominous in regard to any postwar intelligence service we might establish.”
West finished his coffee and said, “There is one last radio message on file from Karl Roth. In it he reports that he’s sick and starving. He asks, ‘When are you coming?’ He gave his location — a railroad shed near Hennigsdorf. Roth had been assigned to the Alsos mission. He said he’d located two German scientists but needed help in bringing them out. Roth had two strikes against his credibility by this time: his Communist background and the fact that he had failed to report his contact with the Russians and had to be queried about it. On the other hand, he had reported that the Russians tried to turn him, but that’s something he’d expect the OSS to assume anyway.”
O’Brien interjected, “No one in OSS London felt confident in deciding Roth’s fate: come to his aid or cut him loose? We radioed all the details to Henry and told him to make the decision but to proceed with caution.”
Abrams listened as West and O’Brien continued the background briefing. Already he could see where it was leading. It was leading to the here and now. It was a story rooted in a turbulent past, a time when the world was in shambles, a time when forces were set in motion that would culminate in a final Armageddon that these people obviously felt was close at hand.
West said, “Karl Roth was not heard from after that message, until he surfaced again in 1948. He reported to the American occupation forces in Berlin stating he’d been rearrested by the Russians and held prisoner for three years. He claimed his back pay and benefits, but his original hiring contract with the OSS had been lost, and no one knew quite what to do with him. His bona fides were established by ex-OSS men, and he was given some money. He was never properly debriefed, however, and his three-year disappearance was never satisfactorily explained.”
Abrams glanced slowly around the room again, which he had come to think of as some sort of celestial chamber. His eyes passed from Allerton to O’Brien and he was reminded of two ancient priests guarding the nearly forgotten secrets of an arcane religion.
West added, “Roth applied for intelligence work with the American and British occupation authorities in their respective zones, but was turned down. Roth then went to England, found his war bride — a girl he’d married when he lived in London running a green grocer business — and eventually was allowed to emigrate to America, again claiming this was promised to him by the OSS.”
Thorpe smiled. “And now Karl Roth is assistant to the President on matters of nuclear strategy.”
West look around the darkened room, then glanced at O’Brien and Allerton. He said, “As it turns out”—he looked at Thorpe—“Roth and his wife own a delicatessen on Long Island.”
Thorpe smiled again. “Well, that’s not exactly what I thought you were leading up to, Nick.” Thorpe reflected a moment. “Maybe he would be interested in my section. Sort of a shaky and shady background, though… ”
Katherine said, “This man should be debriefed.”
O’Brien poured himself more coffee. “I’ll see to it.” He plucked absently at his black bow tie, then said, “The Alsos mission had some successes, but the Russian equivalent of Alsos was doing even better. They seemed to be one step ahead of us in locating and snatching German nuclear physicists. If you consider that most of these scientists were trying to reach us and not them, then it’s odd that the Russians were doing so well. And since Alsos had the absolute highest priority and security, Henry and I, and others, concluded that someone — perhaps more than one person — very highly placed either in Eisenhower’s headquarters, in Alsos itself, or in the OSS, was telling the Russians what, where, when, how, and who.” O’Brien leaned forward. “Eventually we became fairly certain that the main leak was in the OSS. It was one of us. Someone we saw every day, with whom we ate and drank… ”