The Twentieth Day of January

by Ted Allbeury

  “Would you have told me then if you had known?”

  “No way.”

  “Why am I a puritan?”

  John Davies smiled. “You have to love them, or like them a lot, before you screw them. Other men are satisfied with a pretty face and a willing body.”

  MacKay thought of the girl in Paris and realized that Davies was right.

  “How long will it take?”

  “The way I suggested, two months. The other way … how long since she told you?”

  “Seven months.”

  “The other way about eighteen months.”

  “She’ll be at the top by then.”

  The solicitor shrugged. “Maybe not.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “OK.”

  John Davies smiled, relaxed and less formal. “How are you doing in the job?”

  “No complaints so far.”

  “They made a good buy when they chose you, my friend.”

  “How’re Sally and the kids?”

  “Sally’s fine. Sends you her love and a standing invitation. The kids both have measles, so they’re pretty tame at the moment. Have you got a lunch date?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go over to the Law Society. No, sod it, let’s go to the Wig and Pen.”

  James MacKay had spent his statutory night with Paula Manning and for the first time in his life had discovered that, with no love and only marginal like, and despite a cloud of misery, if the girl was very pretty, with long legs and nice boobs, then James Bruce MacKay was as other men were. Lustful and happy with it. There had been other nights with Paula Manning until he wondered if she told Tammy. He still wanted to be the white knight with that particular human being.

  The divorce had made a three line paragraph in the two London evenings and there was no mention of other parties. Just “irretrievable breakdown of the marriage.”

  Tammy had always sung under her own name and most of the public had seen Tammy Lane as a single swinger. SIS had liked it that way, too. It wasn’t really their image.

  He had seen gossip-column pieces about her in the nationals and her face looking out from record sleeves in shop windows. The big grey eyes pensive and pleading, the big soft mouth slightly open. He had seen the first of her own shows on BBC 2 and had got drunk for the first time in his life. And there had been one ghastly evening in his flat when he had made love to a girl and then gone to make them coffee and she had called to him. She had switched on the TV and was watching it avidly. “Isn’t she fantastic, Jimmy. Just listen.” It was the Royal Command Performance and Tammy Lane was singing her fans’ favourite song—“Smoke gets in your eyes.” The camera was close-in, full-face, and her eyes swam with tears as she sang the words. “They said someday I’d find, all who love are blind …” And when the girl had turned to look at him she had seen his white face, his eyes closed and the tears on his cheeks. But it was never like that again. He didn’t forget her. But he didn’t remember her either.

  And as the years went by there were other things to occupy his mind. Maybe time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it brings the perspective of a longer lens and puts healthier tissue where the wounds have been.

  Magnusson phoned him the following afternoon.

  “The Minister’s not at all keen, James. Thinks it might be construed as some sort of sour grapes. He pointed out, by the way, that all Powell’s statements about the Soviets have been more anti than pro.”

  “Right, sir. I’ll forget it.”

  “I didn’t say that, my boy. I said that that’s what the Foreign Minister thinks. How’s your own operation going at the moment?”

  “We’ve got some daytime radio problems but we’re OK at night when we’ve got an all-dark signal path. It’s early days yet, sir.”

  “Quite. I thought you might like to take a few days of your leave, and take a trip to Washington. Have you got any friendly contacts at Langley?”

  “Only Peter Nolan.”

  “Yes. What’s he doing now?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He’s still in the Soviet bloc division. The last time we met he was in New York, controlling the operations against the KGB at the United Nations and the Soviet Consulate-General.”

  “I’ll send a personal message to Morton Harper. Non-committal, of course. When do you think you could go?”

  “Can I use Movement Control facilities?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I could hand over this evening and use the early Concorde flight to Dulles tomorrow morning.”

  “Do that.”

  Concorde drooped into Dulles at 09.00 hours and the sun was trying to get through the thin cloud from the east. The forty or so passengers were near enough to the terminal buildings to walk and MacKay, with only his cabin bag, had gone straight to immigration.

  Nolan was waiting for him there and after the immigration officer had given a brief glance at his visa he was passed straight through. Nolan drove him downtown for breakfast at the Sheraton. There was only small talk until the coffee and then Nolan lit a cigarette and leaned forward across the table.

  “I don’t know what the hell this is all about but Harper had some sort of signal from your guy that said you were coming over on leave and would I stand by for courtesies, whatever that means.”

  “It means I’m bringing bad news and please don’t crap on the messenger.”

  Nolan half smiled. “What’s the bad news? We already picked up the rumours about Kowalski.”

  “It’s nothing to do with any current operation, it’s from way back. About one of your citizens named Dempsey. Andrew Dempsey.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Logan Powell’s campaign manager.”

  “Yeah. I remember the name now. What’s he been doing?”

  “In 1968 he was a Party member. So was his girlfriend. She was also a Soviet citizen. They were both beaten up by the French police during the student protests in Paris in May 1968. An American named Kleppe got them out of jail after your embassy had refused to help. We were suspicious of Kleppe at the time but we never proved anything, and after I went back to London it was left to the Sûreté and the Dutch police to follow up. I don’t know if they ever did.”

  Nolan looked over the top of his coffee cup before he drank.

  “Why hasn’t this come through official channels?”

  “Like what channels?”

  “Foreign Office to Secretary of State, for instance.”

  “The Minister was asked. He said your people would either ignore it, or think that the British were crying wolf to square things off for when you froze out Philby.”

  “So why tell us anyway?”

  “I suggested to Magnusson that you may not know. It’s over ten years ago. It happened in Europe, not here. We made the same mistake with Philby. He was married to a Party member in Vienna. It kind of got lost in the wash when he was being investigated, even after Burgess and Maclean lit out to Moscow and he was suspect.”

  Nolan leaned back in his chair, his eyes avoiding MacKay as he sucked a hollow tooth reflectively. Then he turned back and looked at the Scot.

  “How long are you staying for?”

  “Until you tell me you don’t want me to hang around any more.”

  “Let’s go back to Langley.” He turned and waved to a waiter.

  Morton Harper had come to the CIA from teaching law at Yale, and in the early days there were those in CIA and the Washington jungle who thought the professor was going to be an easy ride. His moon face and plump body had added their weight to the theory.

  In less than two months they had learned how wrong they were. There had been new brooms and axemen before, and the CIA knew how to absorb them; but this time it had been more like a scalpel. There had been almost no pain, and Old China Hands and the inefficient had gone first; and there was a feeling among the survivors that Morton Harper had some sort of bullshit detector. A lie, a cover-up, a snow-job was fatal. Somehow he knew, and you never g
ot a second chance. No record, no medals would protect you. There were no explanations, no taking you apart. You just went. That was not to say that the CIA had suddenly changed its style. Just that the Director had to know—everything. If he was to carry the can he wanted to see the rough edges.

  Harper sat at his desk as Nolan told him the brief facts. When he had finished Harper was silent for what seemed an eternity, then he reached forward and touched the long curving ash of his cigar to the crystal ashtray, watching it bend, fracture and fall in one piece. Then he looked up and across at Nolan.

  “Have you checked our files on Dempsey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What have we got?”

  “Nothing, sir. It’s just press clippings. But I’ve checked with our Paris embassy and they do have a record of a request from Dempsey for help for himself and the girl. There’s a handwritten minute on it—a negative.”

  Harper leaned back in the big leather chair and sighed.

  “What was the girl’s name?”

  “Halenka Tcharkova.”

  “Anything on file about her?”

  “No, sir. Nothing.”

  Harper swivelled his chair to look at MacKay.

  “Why wasn’t this information given to the FBI? It’s more their area than ours.”

  “I think there are several reasons for that, sir. The first one is that it’s not official. As Mr. Nolan said, the Minister thought it would be tactless, and he wasn’t all that impressed with the facts. Our analysis was that the events concerned took place in Europe and that that made it a CIA responsibility. Magnusson felt it should be kept on a very low level with nothing official and nothing in writing.”

  Harper’s face showed no response, and something compelled MacKay to continue.

  “And we don’t have a good relationship with the FBI at the moment.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “I’ve got a week’s leave, sir. But I shall stay until you tell me to go.”

  Harper leaned forward, his arms folded on the desk as he looked from one to another of the two men.

  “Let me tell you what we shall do. Between now and election day I should like more information on Mr. Dempsey, the girl, and Mr. Kleppe. And let me emphasize something. These are routine inquiries of no special significance. They have no political significance. They are not connected with the election campaign. They concern private citizens in their private capacity. Despite what I have just said you will not reveal to anyone the purpose of your inquiries. If Logan Powell is not elected President I shall pass this information to the FBI. If he is elected then I shall need to consider the situation and possibly seek the advice of others.”

  He stood up and walked round his desk to open the door. As they made to leave Harper said, “The Agency will pick up Mr. MacKay’s tabs, Mr. Nolan, you see to that.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The empty plates had been pushed to one side, and Nolan and MacKay sat facing each other at the long table in Nolan’s office.

  “How about you cover Dempsey’s girlfriend and I cover Dempsey and Kleppe?”

  “I’d need to go to Paris.”

  “How long would you need?”

  “A day each way and probably two days there. Maybe three.”

  “Can you spare the time?”

  “I’ll have to fix things with Magnusson first.”

  “D’you want to get Harper to do that?”

  “That could help.”

  Nolan walked across the room and into the small hallway. MacKay could hear Nolan’s voice as he spoke on the phone, but he couldn’t hear the words. He realized that Nolan had been very cautious in dividing up the responsibilities. They didn’t want a foreigner investigating American citizens so he got the girl. On the other hand it was better that way. They didn’t have his contacts in Paris, and he didn’t know his way around the United States for that matter.

  Nolan walked back and nodded as he sat down.

  “That’s OK. He’s contacting your guy himself. Unless we hear in the next half hour, it’s OK. D’you want to travel overnight or have a night in a hotel?”

  “What flights are there?”

  “There’s an Air France flight in two hours’ time.”

  “Book me on that, then.”

  Nolan came back. He’d booked a first-class seat so that there was a chance for MacKay to sleep. MacKay yawned at the thought before he spoke.

  “What do you think Harper thinks of all this?”

  Nolan shrugged. “I’d say interested but cool at the moment.”

  “Maybe I’m wasting your time?”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “No. What about you?”

  “The same as you. Instinct, training, experience tell me there’s something odd. Maybe it’s something that doesn’t matter. But we’d better find out.”

  Nolan drove him to Dulles and waited with him until the flight was called.

  The Air-France overnight flight landed at de Gaulle in the morning darkness and it was 8.30 before MacKay had cleared customs and immigration.

  He booked in at a small hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines and bathed and shaved. As he waited for a taxi there was a gleam of sun piercing the November grey but by the time he arrived at the rue Soufflot there was a thin drizzle of rain. He looked at his watch. There was just about time for a coffee.

  He wondered what her reaction would be. He had not kept in touch with her but unless she had changed that wouldn’t matter. When he had checked in the telephone directory he had felt that it was typical of her that she still lived in the same studio. She was beautiful and warm-hearted, and in the old days she would have these great passions that barely lasted a week. Nobody would see her in that week and then she would return to her circle, not sad or grief-stricken, but calm and serene. He knew that she relied on him in those days not to sink into the whirlpool with her. He had slept with her sometimes but he refused to join her in the torrent. And she was grateful, he knew, that he stayed on dry land and could reach out his hand to save her from the next emotional flood. He paid for the coffee and left.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when he walked up the rue Mouffetard. They were putting fresh trays in the windows of the pâtisserie. Eclairs, mille-feuilles, meringues, and strawberry tarts with smooth, glazed surfaces.

  As he crossed the road he glanced up at the house. It still looked much the same. Even the shutters were the same blue. He pressed the bell and stood waiting, with one foot on the bottom step, looking down the hill. It was a stinking, sleazy street but he hadn’t noticed that in the old days, and even now it had a raffish, attractive air in the pale winter light.

  Then the door opened and the same brown eyes looked at him, one fragile hand pushing the dark hair from the side of her face. A moment’s perplexity, and then she recognized him.

  “Jimmy. My God, what’s the matter?”

  “Adèle. Nothing. Why should there be?” He smiled.

  Her long slender fingers touched her cheek as she laughed.

  “It’s so long ago. I must have been back in those times.” She stood aside. “Come in, chéri. Have you eaten?”

  He closed the door behind him and followed her up the stairs. At the landing he could see the room beyond the open door. Still clinically white and antiseptic. Canvases leaning against the wall and the smell of turpentine and linseed. The massive mahogany easel still dominating the light from the big window. She was wearing an orange towelling bath-robe and she stood smiling in the centre of the room, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

  “I didn’t know until late last night and I’ve been flying through the night.”

  “Coffee?”

  “That’d be great.”

  He walked with her into the small kitchen and pulled out one of the tall stools. She looked much the same. There were some wrinkles, but only at her eyes and mouth, where she smile
d. When the coffee had percolated she poured out two cups and sat looking at him. “How long ago was it, Jimmy? Ten years?”

  “About that. And how are things with you?”

  “I heard that you were a policeman or some such thing now.”

  “Not me, my love.”

  She sipped her coffee, her brown eyes studying his face.

  “You look more of a loner than you used to.”

  “Older, maybe.”

  “Yes. But surer …” She put down her cup and sat with her hands on her knees. “Tell me why you came, chéri.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about two people we knew in the old days.”

  “Who?”

  “Andrew Dempsey is one.”

  She laughed. “He was just like you, Jimmy. Handsome, charming, some talent, kind, and amused at us foreigners with our funny ways.”

  “What else?”

  “Rich daddy, money no problem, girl-struck. What else can there be for a young man?”

  “Do you remember when he was arrested?”

  “Oh, God, yes. I was standing quite near him. They’d smashed his nose, and his clothes were covered with blood. He was unconscious when they threw him in the van. You were there. You were with me. Have you seen him again?”

  “No. How long was he inside?”

  “He was in Fresnes. It was a long time for something so little. Two months maybe. They let them both out at the same time. Him and Halenka.”

  “Who got them out?”

  “An American. I don’t remember his name.”

  “What happened to Halenka?”

  “She went back to Moscow. She’s done terribly well, you know.”

  “At what?”

  “Painting. She had shows in Leningrad, Moscow, Prague, Warsaw. All over. She’s very good.”

  “I can remember that she was very pretty. What was she like?”

  “A sweetie. Very gentle and sensitive. I think she and Andy would have married if they hadn’t sent her back to Moscow.”

  “Was Andy a Party member?”

  She looked at him carefully and then averted her eyes.

  “You are a policeman, aren’t you?”