The Twentieth Day of January

by Ted Allbeury

  Harper leaned back in his chair, looking at some distant spot on the white ceiling.

  “Are you married, Mr. MacKay?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-seven next birthday.”

  There was a long silence and then Harper slowly sat up in his chair and faced the desk. He seemed to be watching the ash on his cigar. Then his head came up slowly.

  “You needn’t give reasons; and I’ll ask no questions. But I want you both to say what you would do as of now. You first, Nolan.”

  “The election is tomorrow. I should wait for the result. If Powell wins I should go ahead with a full investigation.”

  “And you, Mr. MacKay?”

  “I should wait for the election results but I should go ahead with the investigation whether Powell wins or loses.”

  Harper half-smiled. “You force me to cheat. I will ask a question. Nolan, why does it depend on Powell winning?”

  “The influence that Dempsey could wield on a President could have devastating results. But only on a President.”

  Harper nodded. “And you, Mr. MacKay?”

  “To me what matters is that if Dempsey is being used to influence Powell it’s because the Soviets intended that. Whether Powell knows or not is of vital importance, too. But most important of all is, have the Soviets tried to do this?”

  Harper shook his head and said softly, “I go ahead with everything you’ve said except that. The most important thing at the moment is, if it has happened, can we prove it?” He closed his eyes as if to exclude everything except what he was saying. “I want you to imagine what happens if the worst turns out to be true. From tomorrow night we should have until the twentieth of January to establish hard evidence. Evidence that high officials would find credible, and sufficient to impeach a President-Elect; or, if not that, so destroy his credibility that his position would be hopeless. And who do I tell, gentlemen? The incumbent President who represents the opposing Party? The Chief Justice who has no power to act? This would have to be for Congress if it went that far; and you can imagine the damage it would do to this country—to the world, perhaps. The trauma of Watergate would seem like light relief compared with this.” He turned to them both.

  “Nolan, wait until tomorrow night after the result is declared. If something went wrong I could be accused, perhaps rightly, of influencing the election. Then, whatever the result, you go ahead. Let me know what resources you need and I will arrange them. And Mr. MacKay, would you object if I asked my friend Magnusson if you could be attached to Langley for a period?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I think you should cover anything that concerns Europe. That should be your official position, anyway.”

  He stood up. “You must keep this between the three of us. Nolan. And I should like you to read again the Fourth Amendment. You, too, Mr. MacKay.”

  MacKay slept until midday, shaved and bathed, and leisurely breakfasted watching TV.

  He read through the Fourth Amendment in a copy of the Constitution that Nolan had found for him. And, because he was British, he turned back to the first page where it said, “We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice …” And he read on and on through all the Articles and Amendments. He felt a great warmth for those men two centuries ago who had argued and fought to ensure that the abuses and privileges of Europe’s monarchs and despots could never happen in their new country. Even two hundred years later it was still of its time. The old-fashioned words still applied. It was often abused, and frequently difficult to practise, but it was there. A bench mark, a rock in a sea of troubles. He thought of Morton Harper and Nolan. They hadn’t dodged the issue, and when Harper had said that they should read again the Fourth Amendment he had meant it. Not as a cover for himself but as a reminder of the other side of the coin.

  Magnusson telephoned and gave him the OK and, despite being on an insecure line, told him to watch his step. He was treading on very thin ice, Magnusson said, and the bouquets could easily turn into brickbats.

  In the late afternoon Nolan telephoned to say he would be along about eleven. His mother was going to have three weeks with them in Washington and he was meeting her at the airport, at nine.

  MacKay had met Nolan’s wife. She was an admiral’s daughter who had met Nolan when he was a Navy flier in the Korean war. A pretty girl with a sense of humour and well used to the vagaries of service life that kept men at long stretches from their families. The five-year-old daughter was some consolation. Nolan was a frequent visitor to London, generally on his way to Berlin, and there was clearance between CIA and SIS for an exchange of a wide range of intelligence between SF14 and Nolan’s Russian section. MacKay envied Nolan his vast resources and the American valued the British organization’s uncanny, instinctive analysis of the KGB operations that covered them both.

  It was well after eleven when Nolan arrived, and they sat watching the network election programme. Powell’s lead had been cut but there was little doubt that he was going to win. The blue-coloured Powell States were beginning to dominate the election map, and the commentators were slowly coming down off the fence.

  Just before two o’clock Grover conceded, and the cameras moved over to Hartford where Powell and his helpers stood in a milling mass in front of the State Capitol. On his right was his wife, and on his left was Dempsey. Nolan identified a few of the other local worthies for him. Then, as the microphones were thrust towards him, Powell spoke. He was sweating under the TV lights.

  “I want to say thank you to all those who have worked so long and so hard to get me elected. I shall be leaving shortly for Washington but I shall be back here in a few days’ time and then we’ll really celebrate. God bless.”

  Nolan reached forward and switched off the set, then opened his black leather briefcase and tossed a thick brown envelope on to the bed.

  “There’s money, open air-tickets and CIA documents in your name. You might need them. You can draw on CIA funds at any of our embassies or consulates.”

  “I thought maybe Amsterdam first to see if I can find Kleppe’s old girlfriend?”

  “OK. Wherever you go, will you liaise with the local US embassy or consulate so that I can contact you quickly? We’ll use the diamond business as our cover on this. And we’ve given it a codename. Operation 66. We’ve got sixty-six days before the inauguration.”

  “When are you starting?”

  “Tonight. I’m putting in for surveillance teams, signals units and researchers. I’ll have them by tomorrow.”

  “Who are you checking first?”

  “Dempsey, but I’ll have enough people for Kleppe if you come up with anything.”

  “How does Harper feel about me being involved in this?”

  Nolan frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, a Britisher helping to investigate an American citizen, the President-Elect.”

  “When Harper spoke to your guy the deal was that you were liaising with us and that, apart from the question of routine, you would not inform your own people about what we are investigating or what we uncover.” Nolan looked at MacKay. “We trust you, and we trust Magnusson.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Powell sat in silence in the white MG as Dempsey drove him to the airport, and as the car swung into the VIP parking area and stopped, Dempsey turned to look at Powell’s face. It was drawn and tired.

  “I’ve fixed a temporary suite for you at the Sheraton and Rod’s arranging office accommodation on the same floor, as from tomorrow.”

  Powell turned to look at him.

  “Can you fix for Jenny to come over from New York?”

  “You mean now, tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’d be crazy, man. Just asking for trouble. You’ll have the press and security and the whole circus round your neck. Let the dust settle, for God’s sake.”

  When Powell didn’t speak Dempsey went on, “Rememb
er, it’s taken weeks to get Laura to co-operate. We need all that; at least until the inauguration. Why rock the boat? An out-of-town girl will be noticed. Look, I’ll be across in Washington tomorrow. I can fix you the prettiest gals in town. At my place. No problems. If anything leaks they’re mine then, not yours. OK?”

  “OK. Give her my love.”

  “Sure I will. If I see her.”

  There was a crowd of reporters waiting in the main hall but the airline staff escorted Powell through to the manager’s office. They were holding the Washington flight, and after a drink he walked across to the plane, accompanied by four security men. Dempsey walked across to the campaign helicopter carrying his own bag.

  It was four weeks to Christmas, but the snow was Christmas snow. Drifting slowly past the windows on the thirtieth floor, it lay in big soft cotton wool folds along the window ledges, and was piled up on the balcony, reflecting in pale gold patches the lights inside the apartment. It was so thick that you couldn’t see the Island. You couldn’t even see the East River.

  Dempsey sat in his green corduroy jacket, perched on the edge of the polished table, with one long, jeans-clad leg stretched out to keep his balance. As he looked out at the falling snow he slowly sipped a drink and listened to the music. It was Oistrakh playing Khachaturian’s violin concerto off an old Moscow filmtrack. When the music stopped abruptly he slowly turned and looked at the man who stood alongside the tape-recorder.

  “They’ll have to give you the Order of Lenin at least, Viktor.”

  Kleppe turned, his face impassive as he walked across to the table. He waved to another chair as he sat down.

  “There’ll be no medals, my friend. Remember I told them it wasn’t possible. That was your opinion too.”

  Dempsey laughed and shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been possible with any other man but Powell, I swear it.”

  “He thinks he did it himself ?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He acknowledges helping hands here and there. And when he doesn’t like what he sees he turns a blind eye. You’ve got to remember that he doesn’t know most of what has been done.”

  “Is he fully under control?”

  “By no means. I can pressure him but I can’t just snap my fingers and make him jump.”

  “Moscow assumes that he is under control.”

  “Then Moscow should be disabused of that idea. At once.”

  “You mean you can’t make him deliver?”

  “Sure I can make him deliver; and when I’ve told him the facts of life there’ll be even fewer problems. But it’s not a press-button service. He feels his power, and I don’t want to destroy that. Just programme it.”

  “Is there any chance he could renege?”

  “No. He’s been sour with ambition from the moment he became State Governor. Every little aspect of presidential privilege and protocol he knows by heart. He can’t wait to get the emperor’s clothes on. Like all the rest of them he’s promised to slash taxes, cut unemployment, and achieve peace on earth. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do it but, by Jesus, he’s gonna do it.” He paused, smiling. “And we’ll show him how.”

  Kleppe nodded. “I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow. I’ll be back next Wednesday. Can you see me that evening?”

  “God knows. It’s going to be chaos. Maybe you’ll have to come over to me in Washington or Hartford. And don’t forget we’ll be surrounded by FBI men, White House security, and all the rest of them.”

  “D’you want to stay here tonight?”

  “No. I promised I’d see Jenny.”

  “She’s still got the photographs.”

  “I know she has. But I won’t need them, Viktor. I’ve got enough without them.” He laughed softly. “It’s really gonna shake him.”

  “Does he still see her?”

  “Sometimes. He wanted her to go over tonight. He’s crazy. He uses her like a hooker, but thinks of her place as a sanctuary. I guess he’s fond of her.” He grinned. “Provided he can take her pants off.”

  Kleppe shrugged. “It’s a wicked capitalist city, my friend. And I love it.”

  Andrew Joseph Dempsey was twenty-nine, slim, about 5 feet 6, and attractive to women who fancied poets with a Byronic air. He wasn’t a poet but he looked like poets are supposed to look. Pale, hollow-cheeked and with fair wavy hair. His aesthetic aura was helped in the eyes of some ladies by his being heir to the Dempsey insurance fortune. But it would be only fair to the younger generation to make the point that with girls up to twenty-five his fortune had small significance. His looks and charm were enough.

  Dempsey senior was the son of an Irishman from Skibbereen, who had earned a living gutting fish in New Haven. It had taken him five years of mean living before he had his own business buying and selling fish. And another five before his was the biggest outfit on the coast. People say you can’t go wrong in food because whatever happens people have got to eat. Joe Dempsey and the 1930s proved them wrong. As Joe himself said, “There just weren’t enough Fridays.” The 1930s didn’t bankrupt him, but it had been tough, and so was getting his boy through high school and university.

  Joseph Junior had taken the first job he could get and that was as a clerk to an accountant. By the time he was twenty-seven he had his own small insurance business, and by the time he was thirty he was able to look after his old man. People still called him Joe Junior long after his father had died, and not even his friends could say that they really knew him. He was a real businessman, that was for sure, but he dabbled in things that his business circle found odd. He read a lot. History and politics, books about Europe, and different religions. And, as if this part of his life was nothing to do with them, he never talked about these interests. Except to his son, of course. He had talked to him for hours, from the point when the boy’s mother had died, when he was almost eight and a half. And there had been no financial problems in putting his boy through school and university. Nor had there been any pressure on the young man to join the business. In fact there was no pressure for Andrew Joseph Dempsey to work at all. His father was a happy victim of his charm; and even others said that when the boy smiled he looked very like his mother. After a few years painting in Paris he had ended up as part-time art critic on one of New York’s more esoteric magazines, with an occasional contribution to arts shows on TV.

  In the New York streets the snow was a grey slush, and as there were no cabs free he walked. A biting wind came off the river as he turned into 42nd Street and it followed him down South Park to 38th.

  The porter recognized him and walked over to the elevator to press the button for the penthouse floor. There were eight penthouse flats, and Jenny’s was the one facing the elevator. She paid a little less because of the barely audible noise of the gates opening and shutting. She would have paid extra had it been necessary because her visitors could leave her apartment so easily without being seen.

  Dempsey pressed the door-bell of P4 and stood waiting. A couple of minutes later he pressed the bell again and the door opened immediately. Whoever opened it was behind the door and he walked in slowly as the door closed behind him. The girl who stood there, smiling, could have come straight off the cover of Vogue except that she wasn’t flat-chested and she was naked. And her eyes weren’t the eyes of a woman in love, but they were big and blue and friendly.

  “Why so long?” he said.

  She shrugged. “There was a john on the phone.”

  “Business good?”

  “Never better. Two conventions in town.”

  The telephone rang and he watched her as she walked over to answer it.

  “Hello … yes it is … which Joe Taverner is that … from New Haven … yes, sure. What did you want, Frank … well, not tonight I’m afraid, my daddy’s in town … that’d be OK, Frank … that’s right … yes, two hundred bucks … sure you can, anything you want, I’d like that … tomorrow at three then, Frank … you bet. Bye.” She hung up and then took the receiver off the cradle. She stood looking at
Dempsey and he looked at her. And finally she said. “Are you gonna stay, Andy?”

  “Sure I am, if it’s OK.”

  “It’s OK,” she said softly.

  Viktor Kleppe had been born Viktor Aleksandrovich Fomin in Yerevan in the Soviet Republic of Armenia. He was seven years old when the war ended, and an orphan. But a bright orphan who went straight from school to university, and from there to the KGB training school just outside Moscow. After two years at the old building in Dzerzhinsky Square he had been filtered into Norway with genuine papers and an identity taken from a headstone in a small churchyard in Stavanger. Two years later he had emigrated to Canada and worked at a boatyard in Hamilton, Ontario, until he’d got a work permit for the United States.

  Despite the parsimony of Moscow he had converted the KGB’s 5,000 dollar fund into a small jewellery business that he operated from his apartment in Brooklyn. He was used as a cut-out for one of the KGB men at the United Nations, and then he was given a low-grade solo mission to penetrate the US Navy yard at Brooklyn. Although most of the information he got there was classified, none of it was news to Moscow. But they sent him down to Mexico for a coding and radio course, and when he came back to New York he was told to set up an espionage network to cover computer technology and electronics. By 1968 he was Director of all illegals covering New York and Washington. He dealt only in precious stones now, and his success and reputation were cover enough for the apartment in Sutton Place. His valuable stock was cover enough, too, for the extraordinary security precautions that he installed. He had perfect cover for his journeys inside the USA and overseas, and his business provided an almost check-proof channel for illegal funds which came in as the diamonds and rubies in which he specialized. He had acquaintances and contacts, in business and politics, at every level. And no friends.