The Twentieth Day of January

by Ted Allbeury

  “May I make a suggestion, sir?”

  Harper shrugged. “By all means. Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Nolan will be arranging a deal to get Miss Tcharkova out. They’ve got a man of ours named Kowalski. I’d like him back as part of the deal, and that links me into the operation in an official capacity.”

  Bethel was not impressed.

  “OK. I won’t pursue the point. By all means write your man into the deal.” He looked at Elliot. “I’ve no objection to Mr. MacKay talking to Mrs. Powell but I’d like a contingency plan in case it doesn’t work.”

  Harper nodded. “We’ll plan it carefully, Mr. Speaker.”

  Elliot stood up. “How many people outside this room know what’s been going on, Morton?”

  Harper raised questioning eyebrows at Nolan.

  “Nobody outside this room knows that it goes beyond Kleppe and Dempsey.”

  Elliot put his hand on Bethel’s shoulder and winced as he stood up straight. He turned slowly to look at Nolan and MacKay.

  “What makes you two think you can do a deal with Moscow? Why are you so sure?”

  Nolan looked at Harper who nodded permission.

  “There’s three levels where we deal with the Russians. The public one of the media and public statements. The diplomatic one where professionals sort out what the statements really mean, and then there’s an everyday working level where everybody faces the actual facts of life. The Soviets set great store by the first level. The statements, the treaties and the rest of it. Provided that doesn’t get exposed, they work on our level on a routine basis. There’s no problem.”

  “But they have spent millions of dollars and years of effort to do this thing. They have now failed and you suggest that they send over a girl and her baby, and a British spy, and we all call it quits. Why should they agree?”

  “Because they have failed. They don’t want us to expose what they tried to do and they don’t want us to expose that they failed.”

  The old man looked down at the carpet absorbing the words, then he looked sideways at Harper.

  “It’s a funny world you and your people live in, Harper. What we have all been concerned with seems earth-shattering to me, but to you people it’s like a couple of insurance companies settling a car accident on a knock for knock deal. Ah well. Keep at it.”

  And he walked slowly and uncertainly to the door. He stood there for a moment, his mouth opened to speak. Then he changed his mind, waved his hand and walked out with Bethel.

  Harper looked a little frosty, and as the door closed behind them he turned on Nolan.

  “You were hinting before the meeting that you thought there was an alternative solution. Nolan. Why didn’t you tell us what it was? Why play the Lone- Ranger bit?”

  “I thought you would not want me to mention my alternative in front of the others.”

  Harper shifted in his seat. “It didn’t seem to inhibit you, all the same.”

  “What was suggested wasn’t the alternative I was thinking of.”

  Harper’s eyebrows went up. “And what, pray, was the other solution?”

  “That Powell should be killed.”

  Harper’s hand was squeezing a fold of his double chin. It stopped, and his eyes closed.

  “How right you were, Mr. Nolan. You were well advised to keep silent on that score.”

  Nolan turned to MacKay.

  “When do you want to go down to speak to Mrs. Powell?”

  “Not tonight. I want to sort out what I shall say.”

  Harper nodded. “It’s all going to hang on the assessment of the lady; that she still gives a damn for him. If we are wrong on that, then she probably won’t co-operate.”

  “Can we arrange special transport and accommodation for her journey to Washington? I don’t want anyone to see her and speculate.”

  “Of course. I suggest you go with him, Nolan. Take the big Piper and put her up at a hotel or the house on Virginia Avenue. There are staff and facilities already there. Anything else you want, MacKay?”

  “Just one thing, sir. If Powell is persuaded to resign on medical grounds that means he can’t be seen to immediately start earning a living. What financial provision can we offer them?”

  Harper leaned forward and shoved a pad across to MacKay.

  “Write this down. First of all he would receive the usual presidential pension which will provide him and his family with a very high standard of living. He is likely to earn substantial sums from writing, teaching and lecturing when he has recovered from his medical problems.”

  “If the state of his health made it sensible for him to live overseas would he still be entitled to the pension?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And finally, without giving a specific undertaking, can I take it that there would be no question of leaking details in the future about this operation?”

  “It would be impossible, and unwise, to give any written guarantees but, so far as it is possible, a very supportive attitude would be taken by the administration. They would have no reason to behave otherwise.”

  “That’s all I need to know, sir.”

  Harper smiled. “You sound as if you have started thinking through your proposition to Mrs. Powell already.”

  “I have.”

  “All I can do is wish you luck.”

  Nolan and MacKay were at the door when Harper’s telephone rang. He held up his hand.

  “This might be for you, Nolan.”

  Harper lifted the receiver and listened. He waved them back into the room and pointed to the chairs. He was listening intently and finally he said, “Send it in to me right away.” He put the receiver back quietly and carefully before he looked up.

  “There’s a piece going in the Post tomorrow morning about the CIA investigating politicians in Hartford. They’re bringing in the copy now. The Post have offered us an opportunity to comment.”

  There was a knock on the door and a girl brought in a sheet of typed paper. When she had gone Harper read it aloud.

  “The heading is ‘CIA investigation in Hartford’ followed by an interrogation mark. I quote. ‘During routine inquiries related to the recent murder in Hartford of a retired trades-union official, his wife, and a secretary in the office of the city’s District Attorney, it became clear that investigations have not been limited to the local police department.

  ‘In the course of talking with various local citizens it seems that a Washington agency is also investigating the crimes. There are reports that the agency concerned is the CIA and the investigations cover local politicians of the Republican Party and the circumstances of a strike some years ago at the plant in East Hartford of Haig Electronics.

  ‘So far, the chief of police, J. R. Henney, the president of Haig Electronics, Fred L. Haig, and officials of the District Attorney’s office have refused to comment.

  ‘With Hartford the power-base of the Powell election campaign, there is speculation that President-Elect Powell could be faced with the embarrassing task of deciding whether some of his local supporters have possibly allowed their enthusiasm to involve themselves with undesirable local elements.

  ‘The acting White House press officer denied all knowledge of the investigation. A spokesman for the CIA said, brackets, leave blank for statement, brackets off.’ ”

  Harper threw the sheet angrily on to his desk.

  “Some bastard is leaking something somewhere. That’s no bloody accident. It stinks of a leak. Any ideas, Nolan?”

  “No. They could have found out about me being in the area easily enough. Somebody in the police department could have linked my investigation with the murders, but nobody except Oakes could possibly link me with Powell. And Oakes would lose his Senate seat, his business, and face criminal charges if this came out. I don’t understand it. Who gains any advantage in doing this?”

  Harper reached for the telephone.

  “It could be that bastard, O’Connor. I can’t believe he would, but there’s only
the Democrats that could gain.” He spoke to the operator. “Find me Mr. O’Connor, the Democratic Chairman.”

  The call came back almost immediately.

  “Mr. O’Connor. That matter we discussed here a week or two back with Salvasan, Elliot and Bethel. You remember? … Yes … There’s a small piece in the Post tomorrow that links our investigation with the Hartford killings and vaguely with Powell … no I don’t think so, we can deal with it … yes. Who have you mentioned it to, may I ask … you’re quite sure of that … agreed … agreed. If anybody pulls the plug on this there will be a lot of bodies go down the pike … I’m sure. I just wanted to hear it from you … of course. Well done … goodnight.”

  He slammed down the phone and shook his head.

  “No, it’s not him. He doesn’t want to know what’s going on. He’s too shrewd an operator to get involved. Nolan. See what you can find out from the Post. Use Fowler as a contact.” He turned to look at MacKay.

  “Maybe you should go tonight?”

  MacKay looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.

  “Right, sir. Can your people lay on transport for me?”

  Harper reached for the phone.

  “Drive him to Dulles, Nolan, and I’ll see what they’ve got to get him to Hartford.”

  There were only three men now at the safe-house in Hartford, and as MacKay stood at the window he could see the snow ploughs working to clear the runways at the airfield. Great curtains of snow curved up each side of the yellow machines and more was falling, slowly and quietly; building up into hillocks and valleys where the terminal buildings diverted the wind. It was the 23rd of December and it was going to be a white Christmas. But it wasn’t much of a present that he was bringing for Laura Powell and her young son. Maybe she had had enough of Powell and wouldn’t give a damn what happened to him.

  He turned away from the window; the light was going now and there were things he had to do. He bathed and shaved and put on his blue suit and the black brogues. On the table he laid out Dempsey’s report, and in a separate envelope the photographs of Powell and the girl. He hoped he wouldn’t need to go that far. They could be counter-productive.

  Nolan had gone off to the Powell house to ensure that there were no problems with the White House security men for MacKay’s visit. He radioed back to the safe-house that Laura Powell was not expected to leave the house that evening.

  The snow was deep and crisp as Nolan’s driver came on to the side-road but on the main road it had packed down from the flow of vehicles and the snow tyres got good purchase on the road surface.

  The Powell house was on a small private development of ranch-style bungalows. There were other cars parked outside the house and half a dozen men stood near the white picket fence. MacKay could see at least two men at the side of the house. Somebody had swept a narrow pathway up to the front door. There were lights on in the house and MacKay could see the lights of a Christmas tree in the front room.

  Nolan introduced him to the chief of the guard detail, who walked with him in single file to the door of the bungalow. He rang the bell and they both waited, their breath misting in the cold air.

  An elderly man answered the door. It was Laura Powell’s father.

  “Mr. Bridger, this is Mr. MacKay. He’s been sent from Washington to see Mrs. Powell. We’ve checked him. He’s OK.”

  The old man looked over his glasses at MacKay.

  “You’d better come in, mister. She’ll be down in a moment. She’s just taken Sammy his medicine.”

  MacKay shook his coat outside the door. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  The old man showed him into the room with the Christmas tree.

  “It’s his chest. He’s subject to bronchitis. He’s much better today. I’ll get her. Sit down.”

  MacKay automatically looked around the room, but he absorbed very little. His mind was on his mission and suddenly it seemed all too possible that she could tell him to go to hell. Then the door swung open and she was there.

  She was prettier than he had expected but the shadows under her eyes were not from make-up.

  She was wearing a black wool-knit dress with pearls and looked more calm and capable than he had expected. And younger, too.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  He stood up. “MacKay, ma’am. James MacKay.” For a split second he wondered why he had said that American “ma-am.” Too many films and Jimmy Stewart.

  “Sit down, Mr. MacKay. Would you like a drink?”

  “I’d love a whisky if you have one.”

  “Water, ice, soda-water?”

  “Nothing, thank you. Just the whisky.”

  She handed him the whisky and poured herself a coke. As she sat down she moved a cushion and then raised her glass, smiling.

  “A happy Christmas, Mr. MacKay.”

  “And to you, ma’am.”

  “I expect my husband sent you down. What can I do for you?”

  He put down his drink and looked at her face.

  “No. I was sent down to see you by Chief Justice Elliot and Sam Bethel.”

  She frowned. “I’ve already told Logan and Andrew Dempsey that I shall come up for the inauguration.”

  “How well do you know Mr. Dempsey, Mrs. Powell?”

  Her hand trembled as she put down her glass.

  “Are you one of Dempsey’s people?”

  “No.” And he repeated his question. “How well do you know Dempsey, Mrs. Powell?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve known him for years. We all knew one another long before Logan and I got married.”

  “What sort of man is he?”

  “Handsome, rich, charming—a loner.”

  “Did he have much influence over your husband?”

  She looked down at her knees and flicked imaginary specks from her skirt. Then she looked up and as she spoke her voice trembled.

  “More than I had, I’m afraid.”

  “In what way?”

  She looked at him. “Hadn’t you better tell me what this is all about?”

  “There’s a problem concerning the relationship between Mr. Powell and Mr. Dempsey and we need your help.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “The Chief Justice sent me to ask your help.”

  “Why didn’t he contact me himself or send a note with you?”

  “I think you will understand when I have told you the problem.”

  “You’d better explain then, rather than ask me questions.”

  “May I ask you just one more question?”

  She shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Would you help your husband if you could?”

  She looked down at her empty glass and slowly put it on the low table between them.

  “Probably. It depends.”

  “It’s almost certain that he will be impeached, Mrs. Powell.”

  Her hand went to her mouth. It covered her lips in a schoolgirl gesture. And when she spoke it was a whisper.

  “I don’t believe it. Who are you, Mr. MacKay? This is some crazy game you’re at.”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m a CIA officer. Would you like to see my ID card?”

  “Yes. I would.” There was a lift of the pretty chin, and a distinct air of hockey-sticks.

  He took out his wallet and then the card. He leaned over and slid it across the table to her. She leaned forward to look at it. Ostentatiously not touching it, as if it might be contagious. She looked up at his face.

  “What’s it all about?”

  As briefly as he could, he told her of Dempsey and Kleppe, and the Soviet network. Of Siwecki and Maria Angelo, and when he was finished she shook her head.

  “I don’t believe it, Mr. MacKay. This is just political mud-slinging like Watergate. I don’t believe it.”

  MacKay bent and picked up the white envelope. He squeezed open the end and checked its contents. He held it out to her.

  “That’s Dempsey’s statement. We picked him up a few days ago. I could a
rrange for you to speak to him, or Mr. Speaker, or the Chief Justice.”

  She unfolded the paper and started reading. MacKay sat silent and tense.

  After the first two pages she read at random through to the end, turning the pages slowly as she read. Without looking at him she leaned forward and handed them back. She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. MacKay, I don’t believe it. It’s too far-fetched, too …” she shrugged, “… too extravagant. It’s politicians and I don’t trust politicians—any of them.”

  “A lot of it has been checked, Mrs. Powell. His bank accounts and electoral contributions have been checked. It all tallies.”

  “That can be forged or manipulated. That’s what the CIA is for, isn’t it?”

  “Would you like to speak to Chief Justice Elliot?”

  “No.”

  “To Dempsey?”

  “No.”

  MacKay reached for the brown envelope and put it on his lap.

  “You wouldn’t save him from this disgrace?”

  “Good God, why should he listen to me?”

  He looked at the flushed face and said softly, “Because you love him.”

  She shivered as she stared back at him. But she shook her head.

  “He wouldn’t believe me. He would say what I say. That it’s political mud-slinging.”

  “There is other evidence that would be used.”

  “Like what?”

  He handed her the brown envelope.

  “Like that. I’m sorry.”

  She laid back the flap and took out the photographs. There were four, and she looked at each one a long time. Then she slid them back into the envelope, laid it on the table, and looked up at him.

  “I guess those would be enough.” She said quietly.

  MacKay sighed. “I’m terribly sorry that you had to be shown those things.”

  “By courtesy of the CIA?”

  “No, ma’am. Courtesy of the KGB. Dempsey provided the girl, and arranged the photography.”

  “And who’s the lucky lady?”

  “Dempsey’s girlfriend. One of them anyway.”

  There was a knock on the door and her father put his head in.

  “Would you two young people like a coffee?”

  “No. It’s all right, Dad. We shan’t be long.”