Katherine listened as Carbury reminisced, knowing he was not deviating from his point or his purpose, only taking the longer route to get there.
Carbury looked directly at her. “The past comes back to haunt us because it was an imperfect past, a shaky foundation upon which we’ve built so much.”
Katherine moved away from the window. “You have my father’s diary?”
Colonel Carbury walked to the center of the room. “Not with me. I only brought the letter for now.” He nodded toward the three sheets of cream-colored vellum stationery on Katherine’s desk. His eyes met hers and he seemed to appreciate her wariness. He spoke softly. “It is not pure chance, as you know, that the law firm of O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose occupies the same offices my people occupied during the war. It was Patrick O’Brien’s decision, I believe, to move his firm here. Nostalgia, continuity… karma, if you will.” He smiled. “I spent some time in India.”
Carbury seemed suddenly tired and sat back down in the chair beside her desk. “Do you mind?” He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift upward. “It’s difficult to explain to someone so young what a marvel these buildings were in 1940. Futuristic design, air conditioning, high-speed elevators, restaurants with decent food. We English treated ourselves rather well, I can tell you. But it was not much fun, really, for we were all painfully aware of what our island was going through.”
“I think I can appreciate what you’re saying.”
Carbury nodded absently. “Yet, we knew that our mission in America was the single most important contribution to the war effort. We came to New York, over a thousand strong, to fight a different kind of war.” He looked around the large office as though trying to recall how it looked then. “To get America into the war, actually. To raise money and arms, to collect intelligence, to lobby, to plead, to beg… We were in a rather bad way. Whisky warriors, some called us. And I suppose we did drink a bit much… ” He shrugged.
Katherine said, “History has recorded your contribution.”
“Yes, only recently. I’ve lived long enough to see that. Most didn’t. That’s the nature of clandestine work.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “It is a lonely and frustrating way to serve one’s country. Don’t you find that so?”
“I’m a lawyer. My sister, Ann, is the one in intelligence.”
“Yes, of course.” Carbury stared off into space for some time, and Katherine could see that beneath the composed exterior was a man burning with emotion.
“When will I see the contents of the dispatch case?” she said.
“This evening.”
“I have an appointment this evening.”
“Yes, I know. The Seventh Regiment Armory. Table fourteen. I’m at table thirty-one with some compatriots of mine.”
She nodded.
“I’ll arrange the details of the transfer with you at that time.”
“Where are you staying, Colonel?”
“My old hotel — the Ritz-Carlton.”
“The Ritz-Carlton has been torn down.”
“Has it?” He rose. “I’ll have to find another place.” He extended his hand, and she took it. Carbury said, “I’ve read the diary, of course, and this is most serious. We’ll discuss how to proceed tonight.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“It was my pleasure. You’re as beautiful as your mother”—he nodded toward a picture on the wall—“and I suspect as intelligent as your father. Thank you for the drink, and again please forgive me for not making an appointment. I came from the airport straightaway.”
As she walked toward the door, Katherine wondered what he had done with his luggage. “How can I reach you between now and this evening?”
“I’m afraid you can’t. Sounds a bit paranoid, but I’m being rather cautious.”
“So am I.”
“Good.” He turned and stepped up to the window again, focusing on the scene below. He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “Things may not always be as they appear, but there is a logical explanation for everything. Not always a reassuring explanation, but always logical. We should keep that in mind over the coming days.”
Katherine opened the door, and Carbury stepped up to it. He said, “Please consider yourself operational now. Security, discretion, and extreme personal caution.”
Katherine replied, “If you are who you say you are, and the letter is what it purports to be, then thank you, Colonel. If you are not who you seem, then be extremely careful yourself.”
Carbury smiled. “Good day.” He left.
Katherine walked to her desk and pressed her intercom. “Mr. Abrams, will you come in here? Immediately, please.”
She folded the Wingate letter and slid it into the pocket of her wool blazer.
Tony Abrams opened the door between her office and the library. Katherine looked at him, framed in the doorway against the brighter lights of the library. He was a tall man, with dusky skin, black hair, and deep-set dark eyes. He did not affect what she called the Brooks Brothers — attorney costume. He seemed to own only dark suits and white shirts, all of which were remarkably alike. The ties — and there were a good number of them — were always colorful, as though he were trying to avoid being taken for a funeral director. His movements were slow and easy, and his manner was taciturn. They exchanged barely a dozen words at a time, but somehow they had developed a good working relationship.
She nodded toward the door. “An Englishman, name of Carbury.” She handed Carbury’s card to Abrams. “Just left. Tall, thin, white mustache, about seventy years old. He’ll be asking the receptionist for his coat. Follow him, please, to find out where he’s staying. Call me.”
Abrams handed back the card and without a word turned and left.
Katherine walked slowly to the sideboard. She looked at a picture framed in old silver: Major Henry Kimberly, dressed in officer’s tans, without a cap, so that his light hair fell boyishly over his forehead. It was an outdoor shot, in sepia tones. In the background was the blurry suggestion of a stone wall, which as a child she had imagined to be a fort. Now she wondered if it was Brompton Hall.
She picked up the picture and held it closer. Her father’s eyes, like her own, were large and very clear. She remembered the only nice thing her mother ever said about him: “He had eyes that sparkled across a room.”
She looked at the inscription: To my Little Kate, I love you, Daddy. She placed the photograph back on the sideboard. Lifting the decanter of Scotch, she poured some into a half glass of water. The neck of the decanter rattled against the lip of the glass as her hand shook.
She took the drink to the window and held it pressed against her chest. She looked out across the city and took a long, deep breath, feeling the tears forming in her eyes. The cityscape dissolved into a watery blur, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Yes, she thought, a day of long gray shadows.
9
Tony Abrams crossed the large, beige-toned reception area and saw Randolph Carbury approaching the elevator bank, pulling on a tan raincoat.
Abrams took his own coat from the closet, descended the sweeping circular staircase in the center of the reception floor, and walked to the elevators on the lower floor of the law offices. He pushed the button and waited. The elevator doors opened, and Abrams stepped in beside Carbury. They rode down to the street level.
He followed Carbury through the long, shop-lined concourse and exited with him from the east end of the RCA Building, into the damp, chilly air.
Abrams established an interval of ten yards and followed Carbury around the skating rink, through the promenade, and onto Fifth Avenue, where Carbury turned north.