Read Online The Talbot Odyssey by Nelson DeMille - Free Book Online
Authors: Nelson DeMille
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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
“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
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