across the avenue. . . .”
He turned from the window. “I see myself in this office again with my American associates—General Donovan, the Dulleses, Clare Boothe Luce, and your employer, Patrick O’Brien, who never arrived at a meeting without a few bottles of liberated spirits. Algerian wine in the beginning, then some Corvo from Sicily, and, finally, champagne. . . . I met your father here one Sunday. He had a little girl with him, but that must have been your sister, Ann. You would have been an infant.”
“Yes, my sister,” Katherine said.
Carbury nodded. His eyes passed over a wall where vintage black-and-white photographs hung. “What brave and pure lads and lasses we were. What a war it was. What a time it was.” He glanced at her. “It was, Miss Kimberly, perhaps the one moment in history when all the best and the brightest were within the government, unified in purpose, with no distinctions of class or politics . . . or so we thought.”
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
He turned from the window. “I see myself in this office again with my American associates—General Donovan, the Dulleses, Clare Boothe Luce, and your employer, Patrick O’Brien, who never arrived at a meeting without a few bottles of liberated spirits. Algerian wine in the beginning, then some Corvo from Sicily, and, finally, champagne. . . . I met your father here one Sunday. He had a little girl with him, but that must have been your sister, Ann. You would have been an infant.”
“Yes, my sister,” Katherine said.
Carbury nodded. His eyes passed over a wall where vintage black-and-white photographs hung. “What brave and pure lads and lasses we were. What a war it was. What a time it was.” He glanced at her. “It was, Miss Kimberly, perhaps the one moment in history when all the best and the brightest were within the government, unified in purpose, with no distinctions of class or politics . . . or so we thought.”
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
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