The tall Russian out front took a step forward and shook his head. “We take flag. Hold boy here. Call FBI.”
“Try it,” said Van Dorn.
There was a long silence, then Marc Pembroke unknotted the flag and pulled it from Stanley’s waist. “Sorry, lad, it is theirs.” Pembroke made a movement to throw it up to them, then held it out. The tall Russian in uniform came up the narrow trail and stopped a few feet from Stanley and stared at the boy.
Stanley stared back and noticed that the Russian’s uniform was tattered, dirty, and covered with burrs. Stanley smiled.
The Russian snatched the flag from Pembroke’s hand and yanked it past Stanley’s face, brushing him. Pembroke pulled the boy away. “All right, incident closed. It was only a prank. We’ll take care of punishing the boy.”
The tall Russian seemed to grow bolder. “We wait here. Boy stays here. We call FBI.”
Pembroke shook his head. “We go, chaps. With boy. I apologize on behalf of the citizens of Glen Cove, the American people, and Her Majesty’s government. Now leave.”
Van Dorn, who had stayed uncharacteristically silent, added in a low, threatening tone. “Get off my property.” He raised both arms and leveled a huge, long-barreled revolver at the tall Russian. He cocked the hammer. “Next time… if you cross that fence again… bring pallbearers along. You have ten seconds to turn around. Nine, eight…”
No one moved. Then the tall Russian said to Van Dorn, “Capitalist swine!”
“Seven, six…” Van Dorn fired. Everyone fell to the ground except Van Dorn. The echo of the gun’s blast died away and the night was still.
Pembroke got up into a kneeling position, a pistol in his hand, the other hand pressing Stanley to the ground.
Van Dorn said, “Just a warning. Get moving.”
The four Russians stood and quickly did an about-face. They began picking their way down the dark narrow trail. Van Dorn lowered his pistol, then slid it into a big holster under his jacket. “You can’t let those goons push you around.”
Pembroke holstered his own revolver and helped Stanley to his feet. The boy was visibly shaken but seemed to be nodding in agreement with Van Dorn.
Pembroke looked a bit exasperated. He said sharply to Stanley, “What are you supposed to be, then? A commando?”
Stanley mumbled something that sounded surly. The shock was wearing off and already he felt cheated and angry.
Van Dorn rubbed his hanging jowls, then said brightly, “Hey, I’ve got a Russian flag. Want it?”
Stanley’s eyes widened. “Sure.” He paused, then said, “Where’d you get it?”
Van Dorn laughed. “At the Elbe, Germany, 1945. It was a gift. I didn’t do anything crazy to get it. I think you deserve it. Come on, I’ll buy you a Coke or something, and get you cleaned up before you go home.”
They began climbing the path. Van Dorn said, “You live around here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know your way around in there?”
“Sure.” Stanley was feeling much better. He remembered his pictures, and the Russian file in his field bag. And if Van Dorn gave him the flag, he could show it around… but maybe what really happened would make a better story. He had to think about that.
Pembroke said, “Do you do this often? I mean, go into their estate?”
Stanley replied, cautiously, “I’ve jumped the fence a few times, but never got close to the house before.”
Van Dorn commented, “If we hadn’t heard a lot of commotion — dogs and shouting — you’d be in their house right now.”
Stanley didn’t believe they could hear anything from so far off, especially with that damned music blaring.
They reached the top of the path and began walking across a flat, open lawn that had a set of rising bleacher seats at one end. Van Dorn said, “This is a polo field. But I guess you know that, don’t you? You’re not the guy who steals my tomatoes, are you?”
“No, sir.” Stanley looked across the polo field. On either side of the bleachers were two high poles, each supporting a loudspeaker. The speakers were silent now, and Stanley wondered if they hid directional microphones aimed at the Russian estate. Maybe that’s how they knew what was happening. On the far side of the lawn he saw the big white-lighted house.
Van Dorn was pulling at his jowls again, then asked, “Hey, how’d you like to do some work on my place? Saturdays. After school. Good pay.”
“Sure.”
“We can talk a little about your adventures.”
Stanley hesitated, then said, “I guess that’s okay.”
Van Dorn put his arm awkwardly around Stanley’s shoulders. “How’d you get so close? To the house, I mean?”
“Drainage culvert.”
Van Dorn nodded thoughtfully. He said with a smile, “You didn’t get in the house, did you?”
Stanley didn’t respond at first, then said, “I think I could.”
Van Dorn’s eyebrows lifted.
Pembroke said, “What’s in that bag you’re carrying?”
“Things.”
They walked for a while, drawing near the big house, where Stanley could see that a party was going on.
Pembroke asked, “What kinds of things?”
“You know, patrol things.”
“What are patrol things, lad?”
“You know. Camouflage paint, flashlight, camera, candy bars, patrol maps. Like that.”
Van Dorn stopped walking. He looked at Marc Pembroke, who was looking back at him. Van Dorn nodded slightly.
Pembroke shook his head.
Van Dorn nodded again, very firmly.
Stanley watched them. He had a funny feeling he had not seen the last of the Russian estate.
BOOK II
THE WINGATE LETTER
8
Katherine Kimberly read:
Dear Miss Kimberly,
A curious and perhaps fateful incident has occurred which prompts me to write you. As you may know, your late father, Henry, was billeted here at Brompton Hall during the war. After his death, an American officer came round for his personal effects. The officer was most insistent on recovering everything that belonged to your father. This was done, I presumed, not so much out of a sentimental regard for Major Kimberly’s family but for security reasons, as your father, I’m sure you’re aware, was involved with intelligence work of a sensitive nature.
Colonel Randolph Carbury stroked his white mustache pensively as he regarded the attractive woman sitting at her desk. She was, he thought, a remarkable American specimen; nearly forty, as he knew, but looking closer to thirty. Her long hair was a light blond color, her pale skin slightly freckled with a spring tan. He was told she was a runner and he could believe it from the looks of her trim body and well-shaped legs.
She looked up from the letter and met the eyes of the Englishman sitting across from her.
He inclined his head toward the letter. “Please continue.”
Katherine stared down at the gold-embossed letterhead: Lady Eleanor Wingate, Brompton Hall, Tongate, Kent. The letter was handwritten with black ink in what Katherine thought was a script so perfect it could have been copperplate. She looked up at Carbury. His face was taut, almost grim, she thought. “Would you like a drink?” She indicated a sideboard and Carbury rose wordlessly and walked toward it. She continued to read.
We were as helpful as possible under the circumstances, but Brompton Hall is rather a large house, and there was almost no staff available to make a thorough search of the places where a man in your father’s line of work might choose to secure sensitive documents.
You can see, perhaps, where this is leading. A few days ago we were clearing out Brompton Hall in preparation for its transfer to new owners. In one of the storage closets in the muniment room — a sort of family archive room — was a parcel wrapped in oilcloth which turned out to contain a U.S. Army dispatch case. My nephew, Charles, who was supervising the work, brought it to me straightaway.