M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

It was not surprising when in 1964 George who two years had earlier been commissioned an officer in the U S Air Force was tapped to serve in the American Embassy in Saigon. Neil knew it was an Intelligence assignment. They would see each other occasionally through the years when George made trips back to Washington and later when Neil joined the office of Intelligence for the State Department. Their contact was more frequently professional.

He had been George Kelshaw’s key contact through the last incredible years of his life while searching, hiding, capture, escaping and evading, all the while gathering vital information. It seemed cruel and unbelievable that he should die so close to the end of the journey.

Neil had counted on seeing George again; there was so much he wanted to know that could only be learned by seeing and talking with him in person. “How and who got to him? I was so sure we were covered. How will I tell Myra? Perhaps when I get to Seattle, Kincaid and Father Lee will be able to shed some light on what happened.”

7:30 AM

The night was over a new day had begun. Mechanically Charlene went back to the living room and started to gather up the letters, holding each one gently in her hand. Her grief had been revisited, she felt drained and weary just as she had all those years before.

The doorbell was ringing, “At this hour… who on earth?” She opened the door to a somewhat surprised Andrew Kincaid. Equally surprised, Charlie wrapped the blanket robe tighter around her body and caught her breath asking, “What are you doing here?”

Andrew surveyed her from head to toe. Seeing her tear stained face and puffy eyes he knew she had probably cried most of the night. He announced as he entered, “I thought you could probably use some company. Besides, Mrs. Thayer or Charlene if you prefer, I felt rotten about last night. Do you have any coffee?”

Charlene led him into the kitchen. “No, not yet… I’ll make some.”

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’m considered a coffee expert. Let me do it.” Without waiting he opened the cupboard above the coffee machine, pulled out a filter as Charlene handed him coffee she had removed from the refrigerator. Rubbing his hands together he said, “Okay, coffee’s on its way. Now let’s see what we can do about your situation.” He spoke with self assurance as though he was there to settle a problem.

Andrew followed her to the living room where he noted the letters, some of which were still on the floor by the chair in which she had spent most of the night.

Back in the chair she curled up, feet under her, after gathering the rest of the letters and laying them on the table beside her. She looked at Andrew with an amount of appreciation. He was brash, but he had moved into a situation and brought some reality.

“I suppose I should thank you for coming this morning,” she said softly. “It was a long night. Please don’t feel badly about last night; you were only a messenger and nothing that you did or didn’t do could have made any difference, short of not giving me the letter. Right now I’m tired and more than a little confused. I do appreciate you being here even if you did come at a time when I am probably at my worst.” She smiled a little.

He smiled back “How about that coffee now?” he asked as he started toward the kitchen. “Do you take cream, sugar or both?”

“Just black,” she responded.

“Me too,” he said.

He moved about easily in her house almost as though he knew it. He was dressed casually, flannel shirt, faded jeans and boots; much different than the night before at dinner. She commented, “You’re not quite so formal this morning.”

“Neither are you,” he grinned.

She liked him; his manner was warm and genuine.

After a few swallows of coffee she set her cup down, “I think I’ll freshen up while you finish your coffee. Then we can talk and I might feel a little more alive.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” he agreed.

As he waited, Andrew stretched and ambled around the living room particularly noticing the photographs on tables and the fireplace mantle. He was really looking for a picture of Paul Thayer. It was suddenly important to know what he looked like. There were none at least in the living room. Just photos of persons who were probably parents or relatives and some of the Bishop and Father Ben Lee with Charlene in front of St. Mark’s Cathedral.

The house was almost familiar to Andrew. Like his parents’ house in West Seattle it was a corner bungalow; somewhat larger than some in the same block. It was situated above Sand Point Way off Northeast 73 rd. There was a small view of Lake Washington although it faced the opposite direction.

The rooms were adequately spacious and comfortable; the kitchen had been remodeled providing a more open less formal space, with a pass-through access to the dining room. A small kitchen table with two chairs occupied an area by a window looking out on a flower bed that held some bright yellow and white fall flowers. The living room colors were warm and bright, rusty reds, gold and brown hues… “Feel good colors,” he thought as he studied the books in cases flanking either side of the fireplace.

She reappeared shortly, dressed in coffee colored slacks and a green sweater. She had obviously showered; her hair had been towel dried and was still damp; a few strands curled around her face. She looked refreshed. “Now,” she said, “let’s talk,” as she settled back into her chair.

Andrew sat across from her on the couch. Leaning forward he asked bluntly, “What was in the letter? Look, I really want to help” he paused, “its not idle curiosity.”

She looked at him as if trying to decide how to respond, then nodding assent she handed him the yellowed pages.

Andrew read it slowly, noting particularly the mention of betrayal, but also the name of the Russian registered with him somehow. He made a strong mental note to check it out later, deciding not to call attention to it now. He looked at Charlene, she was watching his reaction and then speaking slowly she zeroed in on his thoughts.

“You don’t see it do you?”

“See what, exactly?” he shrugged, “I do see betrayal and I see a Russian guy with Paul, that’s a little odd, but…” he paused.

Charlene pointed to the date and said in a matter of fact tone, “You couldn’t know, but this was written nearly a year after I was notified that Paul had been killed in Vietnam. Not only that, but his best friend was in Vietnam with him when it happened. He identified the body. It was he who returned Paul’s personal effects to me, his watch his money clip and, and…,” the words came out as though she had bottled them under pressure. Then she was quiet again looking at Andrew, waiting.

He sat back, nodding his head and rubbing his chin pensively, “Yeah, I see it now,” he was shaking his head, “It doesn’t make sense. But then not much of what has happened in the last thirty-six hours makes a lot of sense. Charlene, what connection did you have with George Kelshaw?”

She gave him a blank look before responding, “None. Who is George Kelshaw? Wait, give me the letter, look, Paul mentioned ‘George’ in his letter,” her voice trailing off and her eyes widened in realization, “could he be the man you talked about last night… the one who was stabbed outside the Seamen’s Center?

“He tried to call me. I know he did and I hung up on him. I thought it was a crank call… ohhh” she remonstrated, “if I had only talked to him!!” She was on her feet, clearly upset, arms folded across her stomach as she walked toward the kitchen when the phone rang startling both Charlene and Andrew.