by Ted Allbeury
“Tonight?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. I’m still working.”
He hung up and went back to Siwecki who was talking to his wife.
“Mr. Siwecki. I’m going downtown to the DA’s office and one of his men will come back here to take your statement. He’ll identify himself properly. You stay here quietly with your wife and wait for him. He’ll be here within the hour. When he’s finished I shall come back for you both and take you to a guarded house just outside of town, OK?”
Siwecki shrugged helplessly. “OK, mister.”
The swing doors crashed behind Nolan as he hurried up the corridor. There was a light on in the last office in the DA’s section and Nolan walked in.
Gary Baker was dictating to a middle-aged woman and he turned, still speaking, to see who had come in.
“… and police officer Hagerty confirms that the accused was dead … Nolan. What’s going on?”
“Gary, I need you to take a deposition from a guy named Siwecki. It’s more than just important, and it’s more than urgent.”
“Is he outside?”
“No. It’ll have to be done at his home.”
“Why not here?”
“I don’t want a defence to be that he was harassed or pressured late at night in circumstances that could frighten him or influence him.”
Baker stood up and lifted his jacket from the back of the chair.
“Miss O’Toole, I’ll fix a car from the pool to take you home. Pete, what’s this guy’s address?”
Nolan reached for a pad and wrote out the address and handed it to Baker.
“Could I ask Miss O’Toole to do something for me, Gary?”
“Sure. Miss O’Toole, this is Pete Nolan, he’s in the business.” And he flung himself through the open door.
“Miss O’Toole, is there a flower shop open at this time of night?”
“There’s one at the Mayfair Hotel, sir.”
Nolan peeled off three ten-dollar bills.
“I want some flowers to go to Miss Maria Angelo and pay them extra so they get there tonight, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Nolan. Any particular flowers for Maria?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated and then grinned. “Yes. Make it red roses, if they’ve got them.”
“Yes, they’ll have those because of corsages for the ladies. Do you need a car?”
“No, thanks. Mine’s outside. Goodnight, and thanks for seeing to the flowers.”
Siwecki answered the door. As he peered out from the dimly lit hallway at the two men he opened his mouth to speak. One of them pushed the door aside as the other shoved him back against the wall. He saw the pistol in the man’s hand and, trembling, he walked into the sitting-room as they pushed him ahead of them.
His wife was watching the TV news-bulletin showing a pile-up on Highway 84. Without turning her head she said in Polish, “Close the door, Tad.” And when there was no answer she turned, the look of irritation melting from her face as she saw her husband and the two men. And the gun. She reached forward to switch off the TV, the gun made a noise like a tyre blow-out and her eyes grew big with fear as her hand touched her chest. She looked down to where her hand came away bright red with blood and opened her mouth to scream. The second slug smashed into her skull above the right eye, and slowly her body collapsed, hung for a moment, then slid from the sofa to the ground.
Siwecki stood as if frozen, and then, his eyes blazing as he cursed in Polish, he turned on the two men, his arms flailing wildly. When the hard edge of a hand crashed against his mouth he staggered against one of the chairs and as their hands shoved him backwards, he clutched for support as his legs buckled.
One of the men gripped the front of his shirt and pushed him into the chair. The man with the gun was pointing it at his head as the other man spoke in Polish with a heavy Russian accent.
“What did he want to know, Siwecki?”
“Nothing. I tell him nothing. I swear.”
The man’s boot slammed at Siwecki’s kneecap and he screamed.
“What did he want to know?”
“Oh Jesus. What is all this? He asked about the strike at Haig’s.”
“And you told him?”
Siwecki spread his arms, his eyes pleading.
“We send first for doctor for my wife, yes?”
“She’s dead, Siwecki. You know that. Just talk.”
“They ask about Powell. They investigate. I tell them very little.”
“You bastard.” And as the silencer jerked and spat, the man cursed in Russian when he saw that the slug had torn open the base of Siwecki’s throat. He fired once more and then put the gun against Siwecki’s head as he fired a final round.
They switched off the lights on the ground-floor before they left.
It seemed a long journey back to the house by the airfield and as he turned into the drive a 727 was coming in to land with its lights winking and its belly light pointing forward.
He signalled to the desk clerk to walk with him up the broad staircase to his room.
“Anything vitally important before I hit the sack?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. A few reports from New York and some microfiche from Langley. I don’t think it needs processing until tomorrow, sir.”
“Right. Wake me if you need to.”
Nolan undressed slowly and got into the small divan bed. For a few moments he thought of Maria Angelo and the excitement of her body. Maybe if he was down here for a time … and he slept. Not, perhaps, the sleep of the just but at least the sleep that sends you down a hundred feet into the darkness.
In what seemed like minutes, but was in reality two hours, the duty orderly was shaking Nolan awake.
“There’s a message from Washington says for you to contact the DA’s office—Mr. Gary Baker. He’s waiting for your call.”
Nolan dressed immediately and phoned Gary Baker.
“You’d better come down here, Pete. Quickly.”
“What’s going on?”
“I can’t discuss it right now. Just get here.”
When Nolan got to the DA’s office there was a tall thin man, elegantly dressed, as if the hour were normal instead of four am. Baker made a limp gesture towards the man.
“Peter, this is Hank Henney—he’s chief of police. He’s got bad news, I’m afraid.”
Henney nodded to a table and he and Baker sat on one side, leaving Nolan alone on the other. Henney looked calm but grim.
“Mr. Nolan, I understand from Gary that you work for a government department. He refused to tell me which department. You’d better identify yourself.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about, chief ?”
Henney looked hard at Nolan. “Mr. Nolan, there’s something going on in this city that I don’t know about. I’ve got the feeling you’re part of it, and unless you identify yourself to my satisfaction I’m gonna order my men to arrest you while we do some checking.”
Nolan reached in his inside pocket and laid his card on the table. Henney looked at it and handed it back. He didn’t look any the less serious.
“Mr. Nolan, you visited last night with a Mr. Siwecki and his wife. What time did you leave them?”
“About 9.30. I was in this office at about ten o’clock.”
“Why did you visit Siwecki?”
“To collect evidence.”
“Concerning what?”
“The strike at the Haig plant some years back.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“I indicated that he could be indicted on various offences but that his co-operation would be borne in mind.”
“How did he react to that?”
“He agreed eventually to co-operate and I came back here to arrange for Mr. Baker to take a signed statement.”
“Where did you go when you left here?”
“Back to my temporary base just outside the city.”
“Where? What’s the address?”
“At the moment that’s classified inf
ormation.”
Henney leaned forward across the table.
“Did you resort to physical violence during your interrogation of Siwecki?”
“No.”
“Do you carry a gun?”
“Yes. And I have a licence to carry.”
“Where is it?”
“Back at the house.”
“What make of weapon is it?”
“A .357 Snub Magnum.”
“I’d like that to be brought in, Mr. Nolan.”
“You’d better tell me what it’s all about, sir.”
“Mr. Siwecki is dead. He was shot three times in the neck and head. Mrs. Siwecki is dead, too. She had been shot twice and she died on the way to the hospital. The police doctor assesses the time of death as being during the time you were at the house.”
Henney sat looking at Nolan silently and intently. Then he stood up.
“I want you to come with me.”
“To police headquarters?”
“No. You’re not being charged with anything at this stage. Let’s get along. Baker, you’d better come too, as you seem to be involved with Mr. Nolan.”
The police driver turned into the parking area of an apartment block and they were walking through the entrance before Nolan recognized where he was.
The three of them stood in silence as they waited for the elevator. It stopped at the 17th floor, and outside the elevator a police officer stopped them. Then recognizing the chief, he pulled aside a chair and let them through. They went into the next apartment on the right. A photographer was taking photographs as they walked in and he moved his gear when he saw the chief of police.
Maria Angelo lay on her back on the floor, one leg still caught in the bedcover. She was naked and dead, and there were burn marks shaped like the sole of an iron on her breasts, her flat belly, and her thighs. There was a pool of blood from the hole in her throat and a clammy mess above her left ear. A small travel-iron lay on the carpet and the smell of burnt flesh still sickened the air. There was a bunch of red roses still in their paper wrapping on the glass coffee table.
Henney watched Nolan’s face as he looked at the dead girl.
“You also talked with Miss Angelo yesterday evening?”
Nolan turned slowly to look at Henney’s grim face.
“We’d better talk together, Mr. Henney.”
“There’s an empty apartment at the end of the corridor. We can use that.”
When they were seated Nolan’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair and his voice was harsh and dry as he spoke.
“Chief. Three killings in one evening is problem enough for any police force, but these particular killings mean that Washington have to be informed immediately and I should appreciate your co-operation on this. After I’ve spoken to them I’ll answer any questions you care to put to me.”
“I’ll want Baker and myself to hear the conversation. Both ends.”
“That’s OK.”
It had taken fifteen minutes to trace Harper, who had obviously been roused from sleep.
“Harper. What is it, Nolan?”
“Sir. I’m speaking on an open line, and the chief of police in Hartford and an official from the DA’s office are listening to the conversation.”
“Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“OK. Go ahead.”
“I had a long talk with a Miss Maria Angelo who works in the DA’s office here. She gave me information regarding the strike at the Haig plant here some years back. Her information led me to a Mr. Siwecki, the union official concerned at the time of the strike. I interviewed him and he gave me information that provides strong evidence concerning my major investigation.”
“Conclusive?”
“Pretty well.”
“Go on.”
“I left Siwecki at his home and came back to the DA’s office and requested Mr. Gary Baker of that office to go immediately to Siwecki’s home to take the statement and witness the signature.”
“That sounds fine.”
“Sir, Mr. and Mrs. Siwecki and Miss Angelo have all been murdered and the chief of police here, Mr. Henney, is concerned that I may be involved.”
“Put him on.”
“He’s on the extension.”
“Mr. Henney?”
“Who is that?”
“Mr. Henney, my name is Morton Harper, Director CIA. I suggest you go back to your office and ask your operator for CIA Headquarters, Langley. Ask for me, and then you will be satisfied about my identity. Meantime I should appreciate your co-operation with Mr. Nolan who is one of our senior officials.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Harper.”
It was two hours before Harper got back to Henney and during that time reports had come in of Siwecki’s neighbours seeing a car with New York plates parked in the driveway of a vacant house almost opposite the Siwecki house. It had been driven off at about 10.15, by a driver with two passengers.
Two unidentified men had been seen by residents and security men at Maria Angelo’s apartment block just before eleven o’clock. One was wearing a utilities uniform thought to be the telephone company, and one had talked to a boy delivering flowers. He had walked to the elevator and appeared to accompany the boy. They had been described as big built, dark with sallow complexions. They could be Italian or Spanish.
The Hartford police were to proceed with their investigations and a two-man team from Langley was flying down to assist them. Nolan was instructed to fly back to New York immediately.
Nolan slept in the Cessna on its way to LaGuardia, and half an hour after he had landed the CIA driver turned off Lexington and dropped him at the Barclay. There was a message at the desk; he was to go to a private suite.
Harper was waiting for him, a drink in his hand as he waved him towards a chair.
“I think we have to look at where we’re going, Nolan. It’s time I put my head on someone’s shoulder and cried.”
“I think there’s no doubt now, sir. If you take what I found in Hartford, what we found in Kleppe’s apartment, and what MacKay has dug up in Amsterdam, that’s almost enough. And if you add on these murders then it’s too much.”
“Tell me what you got in Hartford.”
Nolan went carefully through the information he had gleaned from Maria Angelo and Siwecki. Harper fiddled with a cigar and a lighter.
“All this is down the drain now.”
“No, sir. We’ve still got Oakes to work on, and Dempsey. They have the same information.”
“But when you start stirring around at that level we’re going to be in real trouble. They’ll throw everything into the ring against us. You don’t murder three people in cold blood to cover up a few tax evasions.”
“Maybe it’s time to consult people outside the agency, sir.”
Harper put his head on one side, half-smiling as if he were listening to some new thought.
“Like who, Nolan?”
“The Vice-President-Elect?”
“Powell chose him. How do we know he’s not in the game on their side?”
“The Chief Justice?”
“OK. Go on.”
“The Congressional leaders of both parties?”
“Not yet appointed.”
“The incumbent President?”
“Any more?”
“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?”
“They have no standing in this. It’s political and constitutional. It’s going to come down to picking men, not offices. And one thing is for sure.” And he looked pointedly at Nolan. “There ain’t gonna be no medals and promotions out of this. Everybody’s going to hate our guts. The FBI won’t want to know. The politicians won’t want to know. Not even the Democrats. Whatever we do it will probably be the end of the CIA.”
Nolan was silent. Harper continued, “I think you’ve almost got enough to justify pressing the button for a full-scale investigation, but before I do that I want to discuss it with the Chief Justice and the prese
nt Speaker. If they want to draw in a couple of others I’ll consider it. But make no mistake—right at this moment it is possible that we are acting unconstitutionally—we are into a real Bay of Pigs situation with no chance of winning. And I stress that to you. Whatever happens we cannot win.” He thumped the table to emphasize each word. He sniffed irritably. “We’ve got fifty-six days left according to our original reckoning, but we can forget that. When we get what we need, if we get it, people other than us are going to have to deal with it. The fewer people who know what we’re doing, the easier it will be for those people to act. For that reason we shall go on, Nolan, as we are. It’s far from ideal but already I’m dreading a call from the media that I can’t turn away with a plausible denial. We can’t afford to extend this beyond the people who already know.”
“I’m going to need FBI help, sir. They’ll have stuff on file that would take me weeks to find out.”
“Officially you get no help from them but I’ve talked to O’Hara and they’ve given us a liaison man; he’s senior enough to get you what you want. But if he says ‘no’ it’s ‘no’ without argument. We’re only getting this co-operation on condition that eventually we inform them of what’s going on.”
“I’d better get back, sir. Can I keep the Cessna at Hartford?”
“OK. But keep me in touch, and for heaven’s sake tread carefully. If things start going wrong I want to know immediately. I don’t want to come in at the crash-landing when it’s too late.”
Harper bent down and picked up a package that had wax security seals. He passed it to Nolan.
“The transcripts of the stuff you photographed in Kleppe’s flat. Much moaning from the translation section. It’s Armenian shorthand and badly written at that. A combined effort by a girl at Amherst and an old lady in the Bronx. It makes interesting reading. We’ve put it on microfiche but that package has the only hard copy.”
CHAPTER 8
Kleppe had a strong feeling that there had been someone in his apartment but he could find no evidence. The security network was in operation, the nylon fibres around the door were in place, the plastic plugs in the two key-holes were untouched and the underfloor pressure meters were still at zero. He stood in the loft for half an hour, examining with a magnifying glass the slots in the brass screws that held the cover on the radio box. The micro-meters on the electricity supply were still at their settings. There was nothing.
