and Wolfbane. I didn’t realize you knew. How much
do
you know?”
“Not enough.” She turned the page of the letter and continued.
Seeing Henry’s things in that dispatch case has brought back
many memories and rekindled an old sense of guilt—not of our
relationship, which was guiltless (my husband had died in
Malta early in the war, and your mother was in the process of
divorcing your father for some Washington bureaucrat), but
guilt at not having contacted you at some point and telling you
some of the good things about your father, who was a remark
able man.
Well, there’s little more to say. I’m going up to London to live
with my nephew, Charles Brook.
These last few weeks have been rather strange—rather sad,
too—closing up Brompton Hall, your father’s papers, the awak
ened memories of “the best of times and the worst of times.”
But the point of this letter is to advise you of the dispatch
case and, more specifically, the diary, which names people who
may still be with your government or who are highly placed in
American society, and names them in a way that forebodes, I’m
afraid, the gravest consequences for your country and for all of
us. At least one of those named is a well-known man who i
s
close to your President.
This letter is to be delivered by a trusted friend, Randolph
Carbury. He will, I hope, locate you at the law firm with which
he tells me you are associated. Colonel Carbury is an old mili
tary intelligence man and an excellent judge of situations and
people. If in his opinion you are the one who ought to receive th
e
diary, he will arrange with you for the delivery of same.
My first thought was to make these papers available to my
government or yours, or both simultaneously, in photostat form.
But Randolph seems to think, and I agree, that the material
might well fall into the very hands of those it exposes
.
O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose was, of course, your father’
s
firm, and many of the OSS intelligence officers who stayed at
Brompton Hall were also associated with the firm. If I’m not
being indiscreet, Colonel Carbury indicates that the firm still
has ties with the intelligence community here and in America.
Also, he mentioned that your sister, Ann, is somehow connected
with American intelligence. Perhaps you ought to show the di
ary to her—or to trusted people in your firm—for critical evalu
ation. I pray that it is not as grave and foreboding as it appears
to be—though I’m fairly certain and afraid that it is.
My best wishes
(signed) Eleanor Wingate
Katherine stayed silent for some time, then said, “Why didn’t you go directly to my sister?”
“She’s not easy to locate, is she?”
“No, she’s not.”
“Given the choice, I’d still prefer dealing with you.”
“Why?”
“Because, as Lady Wingate indicated, and as we both know, your firm takes more than a nostalgic interest in affairs such as this. It’s in your hands now. Distribute the information as you see fit. But please be cautious.”
“Should I ask Mr. O’Brien to join us?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Nearly all of us from that time and that profession are automatically suspect. Including myself, of course.”
Katherine stood and looked out from the forty-fourth-floor window of her office. Across Fifth Avenue, the intricate gray masonry of St. Patrick’s Cathedral spread out in the shape of a Latin cross. In the café below, the two dozen or so tables were empty. It was an unusually raw and overcast May afternoon, a day of gray vapor plumes and long gray shadows.
Colonel Carbury stood also and followed her gaze. “This view has changed considerably since these were the offices of British Security Coordination. I last stood at this very window in 1945. Yet, you know, the major landmarks are still standing—the Waldorf, Saks, St. Patrick’s, the St. Regis—and I fancy it is 1945 again, and I see myself down there, a younger man dashing
do
you know?”
“Not enough.” She turned the page of the letter and continued.
Seeing Henry’s things in that dispatch case has brought back
many memories and rekindled an old sense of guilt—not of our
relationship, which was guiltless (my husband had died in
Malta early in the war, and your mother was in the process of
divorcing your father for some Washington bureaucrat), but
guilt at not having contacted you at some point and telling you
some of the good things about your father, who was a remark
able man.
Well, there’s little more to say. I’m going up to London to live
with my nephew, Charles Brook.
These last few weeks have been rather strange—rather sad,
too—closing up Brompton Hall, your father’s papers, the awak
ened memories of “the best of times and the worst of times.”
But the point of this letter is to advise you of the dispatch
case and, more specifically, the diary, which names people who
may still be with your government or who are highly placed in
American society, and names them in a way that forebodes, I’m
afraid, the gravest consequences for your country and for all of
us. At least one of those named is a well-known man who i
s
close to your President.
This letter is to be delivered by a trusted friend, Randolph
Carbury. He will, I hope, locate you at the law firm with which
he tells me you are associated. Colonel Carbury is an old mili
tary intelligence man and an excellent judge of situations and
people. If in his opinion you are the one who ought to receive th
e
diary, he will arrange with you for the delivery of same.
My first thought was to make these papers available to my
government or yours, or both simultaneously, in photostat form.
But Randolph seems to think, and I agree, that the material
might well fall into the very hands of those it exposes
.
O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose was, of course, your father’
s
firm, and many of the OSS intelligence officers who stayed at
Brompton Hall were also associated with the firm. If I’m not
being indiscreet, Colonel Carbury indicates that the firm still
has ties with the intelligence community here and in America.
Also, he mentioned that your sister, Ann, is somehow connected
with American intelligence. Perhaps you ought to show the di
ary to her—or to trusted people in your firm—for critical evalu
ation. I pray that it is not as grave and foreboding as it appears
to be—though I’m fairly certain and afraid that it is.
My best wishes
(signed) Eleanor Wingate
Katherine stayed silent for some time, then said, “Why didn’t you go directly to my sister?”
“She’s not easy to locate, is she?”
“No, she’s not.”
“Given the choice, I’d still prefer dealing with you.”
“Why?”
“Because, as Lady Wingate indicated, and as we both know, your firm takes more than a nostalgic interest in affairs such as this. It’s in your hands now. Distribute the information as you see fit. But please be cautious.”
“Should I ask Mr. O’Brien to join us?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Nearly all of us from that time and that profession are automatically suspect. Including myself, of course.”
Katherine stood and looked out from the forty-fourth-floor window of her office. Across Fifth Avenue, the intricate gray masonry of St. Patrick’s Cathedral spread out in the shape of a Latin cross. In the café below, the two dozen or so tables were empty. It was an unusually raw and overcast May afternoon, a day of gray vapor plumes and long gray shadows.
Colonel Carbury stood also and followed her gaze. “This view has changed considerably since these were the offices of British Security Coordination. I last stood at this very window in 1945. Yet, you know, the major landmarks are still standing—the Waldorf, Saks, St. Patrick’s, the St. Regis—and I fancy it is 1945 again, and I see myself down there, a younger man dashing
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