by Ted Allbeury
“You need a rest first, Logan. A few months doing nothing.”
“Maybe you’re right. Keep a low profile and let it blow over.”
He waved his hand at the files and papers on his desk.
“It’ll take a few days to clear things up.”
“They won’t give you that much time.”
He looked up sharply, unhealthy red spots of anger on his cheeks.
“It’s not up to them, Laura. I haven’t decided yet what I shall do. Are you staying somewhere?”
“I’m booked into the Hilton as Mrs. Nolan.”
He stood up, gathering his tattered dignity around him.
“I’ll arrange for one of my staff to take you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll think about it tonight. I’ll phone you in the morning.”
She reached for the two envelopes but his hand came down on them.
“Leave those with me, Laura. I want to study them again.”
“Don’t do anything silly, Logan. They want to help you. They’re bending over backwards to avoid unpleasantness.”
“The shits.”
He bent and kissed her brusquely, and phoned for a car.
He stood at the office door and watched as she walked with one of his drivers down the long corridor. At the far end she turned and waved. He wanted to wave back, but he couldn’t.
For an hour Powell sat at his desk reading and rereading parts of Dempsey’s and Kleppe’s statements. There were things that he was well aware of, and things of which he was completely ignorant, but with the vast majority he knew that he had ignored them deliberately. He had chosen not to notice, to turn a blind eye. But subconsciously he had known. He threw down the sheaf of paper, pulled out the photographs and felt a sudden wave of self-disgust as he realized that even in the middle of this nightmare the girl’s body still aroused him. In a compulsive reflex he took out his pocket book and found a page at the back.
He pulled over the red phone and dialled the New York number. His heart leaped as the receiver was lifted at the other end. A man’s voice answered.
“794106. Can I help you?”
“Who is that?”
“Roper, CIA, who is that?”
He slowly replaced the receiver. It was like some omen. A sign from the Fates. He hadn’t believed that she really was in custody. Maybe the public already knew. Maybe they had leaked it and were leaving him to sweat. He reached for the radio and found the dial to the news station.
“… Vice-President-Elect Markham in New York today said that yesterday’s statement by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was premature. President-Elect Powell had not yet discussed with the Joint Chiefs any details of his intended cuts in the defence budget. In questions afterwards the Vice-President-Elect made clear that General Macy’s statement had not endeared him to the new administration. In Johannesburg fighting today reached the city centre and both the …” Powell switched off.
He picked up the envelopes, stood up slowly and walked to the door. The corridor was empty as he walked back to his private suite of rooms.
Nolan stood by the special switchboard that had been installed for Powell, to control and monitor Powell’s calls, and now he dialled the special number at the Hilton. She sounded frightened.
“This is Nolan. Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m out of breath. I’ve only just come in, and I heard the phone ringing.”
“How did it go?”
“He was angry and upset but I think he’ll do it. He said he wanted to think about it overnight but I think he didn’t want to have it look like he was a pushover. He talked about us all going to Switzerland and him having a writing career. Would that be possible?”
“I guess so.”
“They wouldn’t leak it after he resigned, would they?”
“No way. You can rest assured. How about you? It must have been an ordeal.”
“Once we were talking it was OK. But I felt so sad for him. The shock was terrible for him. He looked like an animal that had been shot. Not knowing what had happened but knowing that it was dying. Even you would have been sorry for him, Mr. Nolan.”
“We’re all sorry, Mrs. Powell. I voted for him.”
“Why?”
He gave a sharp laugh. “I was sick of politicians.”
“Maybe it’s best left to politicians, after all.”
“Is the guard there?”
“Yes, there’s a gentleman outside and another in the hallway inside.”
“OK. Will you telephone me tomorrow when you hear from him?”
“Yes, I will.”
When he hung up Nolan pulled over a chair, and sat with the operator watching the lights on the switchboard. Powell’s offices and living quarters had special red indicators, and none of them was alight.
Just before midnight Harper phoned.
“What’s the situation, Nolan?”
“Nothing happened. He left his office not long after Mrs. P had gone. He went to his own quarters.”
“Who has he phoned?”
“He tried to get the girl in New York.”
“But he must know she’s in custody.”
“Yep. But he phoned. Mrs. P says that he took it pretty badly. He’s probably in shock. But she felt sure he was going along with it.”
“I’ve spoken to her. No other calls at all?”
“No. None.”
“I thought he might try Elliot or Bethel, and try to work on them.”
“Not so far, he hasn’t.”
There was a long silence, and then Harper spoke again.
“Has he got any kind of radio in there, walkie-talkie maybe?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“God. We should have checked before. Find some excuse to go in there. Take him a telegram or a letter. He doesn’t know you. See what you can see. The bastard might try some desperate throw like calling out the Army or something.”
“I doubt if they’d turn out for him after today’s snub for Macy. I’ll check sir, and I’ll call you back.”
“OK. Meantime I’ll see if the security signals people know anything.”
There were piles of mail for Powell tied in bundles with string, and a dozen telegrams. He ripped the telegrams open and read them. He picked out one that said “Congratulations, give ’em hell. Orange County Republicans.”
He walked slowly down the corridor, and at Powell’s door he hesitated with his hand raised to knock. It was better to pretend that he thought the suite was empty and walk in.
He turned the big brass handle slowly and tested it in case it was bolted. But the heavy door opened easily.
There was just the light from a reading lamp and a faint acrid smell of burning. And then he saw Powell. He was lying alongside a tapestry chair, his jacket hanging from the arm of the chair. There was a fat stubby bottle on its side on the carpet and a small metal container.
He rolled Powell on to his back, but as soon as he saw the blue around his lips and nose he knew that he was dead. He slid back an eyelid. The pupil was grossly dilated. He hurried back to the door and locked it.
He sniffed, and followed the smell to the bathroom. Papers had been burnt in the washbasin. The white porcelain was smudged with a sooty deposit and there was a wet black slush of charred paper at the wastehole. To give himself time to clear his mind he slowly washed down the debris and cleared the bowl before walking back to the sitting-room.
The bottle was empty and it smelt of brandy which matched the label. The gummed label on the metal container said “One tablet only, for sleep” and the maker’s label said “Modiren 2.5mg.” There was one yellow tablet on the carpet beside Powell’s face.
Nolan picked up the bottle, the tablet, the metal container, its lid, and stuffed them in his pocket. At the door he looked back again at Powell’s body as if it might be a mistake. Then he closed the door behind him and pocketed the key.
At the switchboard he lifted the scramble
r telephone and nodded to the operator.
“Give me a line and then walk down the corridor that way.” He pointed towards the main stairs. “And don’t come back until I signal to you.”
He waited until the girl had walked off then dialled the number. Harper answered immediately.
“Harper.”
“Go over to the scrambler.”
Nolan heard the button go down.
“Done.”
“He’s dead. Killed himself with brandy and pills.”
There was a long silence before Harper spoke.
“Christ. Are you sure?”
“Very, very sure.”
“Oh, God. Let me think.”
“I’ve already thought.”
“Go on, then.”
“The two doctors to confirm the heart attack. I’ve removed the evidence. Notify his wife. Let her believe the statement about a coronary. She’ll guess, but she’ll go along with it. Then get the Vice-President-Elect. Elliot can tell him the news. And get a team to deal with the press.”
There was silence at the other end.
“OK. Hold the fort until I get over there. Don’t tell a soul.”
Nolan stood with the FBI man at the side entrance to the hotel, holding the portable radio to his ear. They were networking a concert from the Hollywood Bowl. The orchestra were well into the overture to Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg when the music was faded down and there was the crackle of paper near a microphone and a shocked voice began to read a bulletin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we break off our scheduled programme to bring you a news flash from Washington.
“In an unconfirmed agency report we are told that the White House has just … a moment please … we can now read you the full statement that was issued from the White House at nine fifty-two this evening. I read verbatim.
“ ‘At approximately eight-thirty this evening, the twenty-fourth of December, President-Elect Logan B. Powell collapsed and died at the Sheraton Hotel.
“ ‘The two medical experts who were called in immediately, state that death was due to a massive coronary thrombosis.’ Message ends.
“There will be further bulletins from this station as more news becomes available. Stay tuned for further announcements. Our programmes will be modified during the period up to the early morning newscast when there will be special programmes covering the career of Logan Powell.”
Even before the news bulletin announced Powell’s death, Oakes had been fetched from his bath to take a telephone call from New York. He stood naked and wet with a small towel draped round his middle.
“Oakes. Who in hell is that? I was taking a bath.”
“It’s de Jong, Mr. Oakes. Listen to the radio or the TV for the newscasts.”
“What is it?”
“Powell’s dead.”
“My God. What happened?”
“They say it was a heart attack. That’s what’s going to be announced anyway.”
“What happens now?”
“The Vice-President-Elect becomes President-Elect.”
“Markham?”
“Yes.”
“Good God. But you hinted that there was a possibility of Powell being impeached.”
“There was. Maybe they went a bit too far when they gave him the news.”
“What about Dempsey?”
“I understand the CIA took him into custody a few days ago.”
“Did Markham know what was going on?”
“No way.” He chuckled. “I wish I could see those bastards in Moscow when the news gets through.”
“How did you get the news so soon?”
De Jong laughed softly. “We’ve been at this game a long, long time, my friend. And we’re playing on our own home ground. It ain’t just the Russkis who can play chess. Anyway, go and listen to the news.”
“OK. I will. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, my friend. Happy Christmas.”
At two o’clock in the morning on the third day after Christmas there was very little traffic on the road from Brunswick to Helmstedt but the police had put barriers across the road half a mile before the check-point, and they were guarded by a platoon of the Black Watch and two Field Security officers.
Lights blazed on both sides of the check-point, and on the West German side the big black Mercedes stood with its engine running to keep the occupants warm. When a torch flashed twice on the far side of the striped poles Nolan got out of the car and walked slowly to the check-point. From the other side a man in a heavy coat and astrakhan hat walked forward so that they met each side of the barrier.
Nolan spoke first. “Pa-Russki eta karta?”
And the reply came. “Nyet. Pa-Russki eta reka.”
The red and white pole was lifted, and Nolan escorted the Russian to the car. He opened the door and the Russian bent to look inside at the passenger, his breath clouding in the cold night air. He closed the door and nodded to Nolan who walked with him across the check-point, past the second barrier to a Black Zil. The Russian opened the rear door.
She was prettier than he had expected but the big brown eyes looked apprehensive. The young girl in her silver fox furs was asleep in her mother’s arms. Kowalski’s face still showed the bruises and there was a suppurating scar from his eye to his ear. Nolan closed the door and straightened up.
In silence the two of them walked back to the guardhouse and raised their arms.
Kleppe got out awkwardly and walked with his hands in his coat pockets towards the Russian, who grinned and shook his hand.
Kowalski was carrying the child, and Halenka Tcharkova walked solemnly beside him.
When they had crossed into their respective zones the barriers came down. The KGB man and Nolan shook hands and walked back to their cars.
Dempsey was waiting at the old-fashioned house off Husaren Strasse. He was standing with Anders at the open door, shivering with anxiety despite his warm clothes.
When he saw the girl they stood facing each other, Dempsey was speechless. He just stood looking at her until she put out her arms. He clung to her, his head on her shoulder until Nolan led them both inside.
It was three hours later when Nolan stood at his bedroom window unbuttoning his shirt. There was a British Army platoon guarding the house, and Nolan couldn’t help contrasting the present heavy protection with the Paris embassy’s indifference all those years ago. His tired brain tried to recall the words of a poem he had once heard.
“For the want of a nail a shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe a horse was lost
For want of a horse a battle was lost.
For the loss of a battle a king was lost.”
He turned away from the window and lifted his jacket off the back of a chair. He wanted to get his mind off the whole damn thing. What he wanted was a girl. He fished out the small, brown leather book, and checked a number. He held it in his hand as he lifted the receiver. He had dialled two numbers when he stopped. He stood silently for a moment then said, “Shit,” jiggled the telephone to get the unit operator, and said “Sergeant, get Mrs. Sally Nolan, Washington 947210, person to person.”
He was asleep when the call came through, and it rang for four minutes before the operator gave up.
She was really rather young for MacKay, but she was so deliciously pretty. He had laid siege to her for ten days and that evening he had been crowned with success.
With a bottle of Mouton Cadet 1971 they watched a re-run of Love Story on TV. And after that poignant reminder that life is short and pleasures fleeting, she slid off her tight sweater and stepped out of her skirt, so that as he sat on the divan she stood in front of him naked, except for her tan coloured nylon stockings, and a small white suspender belt.
She smiled indulgently as he looked at the long slim legs, the neat black bush, the flat young belly, and she leaned forward as he looked at her full firm breasts. His eyes moved to her pretty face when the words distracted him on ITN’s News at Ten.
“
… do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute …”
And only for a second or two did his eyes wander to the screen where a tall man in a dark suit stood with his hand on a Bible, in front of Chief Justice Elliot. But it was a second too long, and he heard her say, “That is the bloody limit.” And that, I am sorry to say, was that. It was Monday the twentieth of January.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ted Allbeury was a lieutenant-colonel in the British Intelligence Corps during World War II, and later a successful executive in the fields of marketing, advertising and radio. He began his writing career in the early 1970s and became well known for his espionage novels, but also published one highly-praised general novel, The Choice, and a short story collection, Other Kinds of Treason. His novels have been published in twenty-three languages, including Russian. He died on 4th December 2005.
