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.”
49
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.