The Twentieth Day of January

by Ted Allbeury

  “Pelshe. Alexei Pelshe.”

  “What is your real name?”

  Kleppe shook his head slowly, and struggled to stand up. When he sank back on to the chair Nolan spoke quite softly.

  “Tell me your name. Your real name?”

  “Viktor Aleksandrovich Fomin.”

  “Where were you born? What town?”

  “Yerevan.”

  It was enough. Nolan bleeped for the guard and went back upstairs to his office. He listened to the tape three or four times. It was clear enough for there to be no argument about the translation.

  The FBI man stood with Harper outside the door marked “President-Elect” until the green light came on. Then he knocked and opened the door for Harper to walk through.

  Powell was speaking on the telephone but he waved Harper to a chair in front of his desk and carried on talking.

  Harper looked at the man’s face. He was good-looking in a thirties’ musical style. Dark, wavy hair with no trace of grey, and heavy eyebrows. As he listened on the telephone, Powell’s tongue explored his lower lip, and his free hand moved around a tray of pencils and pens. Finally he was done. He replaced the receiver and looked across at Harper. The brown eyes were soft and liquid, but their look was quizzical.

  “I thought it was time we had a word, Harper. I read your current summary. Who prepares that?”

  “My Secretariat prepares the first draft, sir. It is considered by the Director of Central Intelligence and, unless there are modifications, it is sent to the Secretary of State.”

  “In future I want a separate copy straight to my office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long have you been Director of CIA?”

  “Three years ten months.”

  “Is your teaching job still open at Yale?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Did you know my father when you were there?”

  “Yes. I knew him well. I still do.”

  “Do you know Mr. Dempsey, the new White House Chief of Staff?”

  “No. We’ve never met.”

  Powell’s eyes were concentrated on Harper’s face. Then, as if he had made some sudden decision, Powell reached forward and pressed a button on the panel by the telephone and said, “There may be some changes, Harper. I’ll let you know shortly.”

  “Right, sir.” Harper knew that the interview was over. He walked slowly to the door and stood aside as the FBI man ushered in Republican Chairman Salvasan.

  Dempsey’s basic statement had been typed in relays by four secretary-clerks. None of them had seen anything other than her own section.

  Nolan sat reading it at his desk. There were forty-two pages of single-spaced typescript. There were startling names from broadcasting and journalism, others from state and federal politics that were merely surprising. Industrialists and union officials who had seemed to be mortal enemies rubbed shoulders co-operatively throughout the text. The amount of money involved was staggering, but probably less than the two major parties had jointly spent. Dedication and obligation were good substitutes for cash. The network covered the whole of the United States, and if anything was surprising it was that it was at grass-roots level. There were those startling names but there were not all that many. The influence they had was almost the traditional party influence of the big city.

  He patted the pages together and pressed his button. When the duty officer came he said, “The car to Flushing Airport in ten minutes. The chopper to LaGuardia and the Cessna to Washington. Phone Mr. Harper and tell him I’m on the way. I’m going down to Dempsey right now.”

  Dempsey was beginning to look alive again. Nolan looked at him.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. If you want to write to the girl let me have it when I get back and I’ll get it over in the embassy bag. They’ll get it to her. Just personal stuff. Understood?”

  Dempsey nodded.

  “Did your people agree to the deal.”

  “They’ve left it to me.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “What?”

  “Won’t they want to strangle the Soviets in public?”

  “State could have done that years ago. That’s not how we play this ball game, my friend. Half the world would cheer the bastards for trying. And the other half would try not to let us see them laughing.”

  It had taken Yuri Katin and his team two days and thirty thousand dollars to trace where Kleppe had been taken and another day to plan their operation. They were waiting for Moscow’s approval and meantime they had moved to the safe-house in Jackson Heights.

  The cypher section at the Washington embassy had been working in shifts round the clock, answering questions and giving evaluations from His Excellency and his staff. The ambassador’s advice had been to pull out everyone with even the vaguest connection with Kleppe’s operation and leave the embassy to cope as best it could with the inevitable fireworks. Moscow’s acid response had been a request for his suggestions as to how they should pull out Kleppe and Dempsey. His Excellency had suggested that they consult Katin on that point.

  De Jong always disliked dealing with anything important away from his own house, and Washington hotels were not his idea of civilized living.

  He sat uneasily in the brocaded chair, his attention wandering from the paperback of Leaves of Grass. He was trying to decide exactly how far to go but so much depended on the reporter’s response. A nod may be as good as a wink to a blind horse but journalists had an occupational inclination to grind away for one more fact.

  The knock at the door startled him for a moment and to recover his poise he carefully rearranged the glasses and bottles on the table before he walked slowly to the door.

  Martin Schultz had interviewed de Jong dozens of times over the years. He found de Jong’s mixture of right-wing capitalism and genuine culture an interesting mixture, but the big man seldom proved useful beyond non-attributable background material. But he was a useful part of the Washington jig-saw puzzle.

  Schultz took the whisky that de Jong offered him and leaned back in his chair.

  “How are things, Mr. Schultz, in the nation’s powerhouse?”

  Schultz smiled. “Disturbed is the word I would use, Mr. de Jong. Or maybe agitated is nearer the truth.”

  De Jong smiled back. “You surprise me. The nation’s capital disturbed or agitated at the prospect of peace and prosperity? Come now. There must be more than that.”

  “We’ve had reports that Powell and his wife are in the process of divorce. Is that true?”

  “My dear fellow, Presidents never get divorced. A woman who divorced a President would be a fool and a President who divorced his wife would be certifiable. I’ve heard gossip but not on that score.”

  Schultz looked directly at de Jong.

  “What gossip have you heard?”

  De Jong moved around in his chair as if being comfortable was much more important than what he had to say. He refilled their glasses and leaned back.

  “D’you know Harper?”

  “Morton Harper, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s not my area but I meet him from time to time.”

  “All our conversation is off the record, yes?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He put down his notebook and took up his drink.

  “I’ve got a feeling that he’s playing footsie with the Democrats. Have you heard anything on these lines?”

  “Not a thing. What’s he doing?”

  “A little bird tells me that he’s having Dempsey investigated.”

  “Andrew Dempsey?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he after?”

  “I’m not really sure, but there were some killings up in Hartford a few weeks back and I gather from my people there that there was talk of a strike some years back and Dempsey was involved in some way that might have involved Powell in election offences.” De Jong leaned forward, put down his glass, and wiped his hands on a linen handkerch
ief as if he had been soiled by both the glass and the rumours.

  “Can I pursue this, Mr. de Jong?”

  “As long as my name is not brought into it, certainly. Mind you, it may be a wild goose chase. These things often are.”

  Schultz smiled and stood up.

  “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Yes. Do that, my friend. Do that.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Morton Harper had insisted that the meeting should be held at Langley, and Chief Justice Elliot and Sam Bethel were ferried from Washington by Nolan, who escorted them through the security checks towards the Director’s office.

  Elliot held out his hand. “My God, Morton, it’s like a giant public washroom. This place would drive me crazy.”

  “Welcome, sir. I guess I’d get dizzy sitting up on your bench a-listening to the mortals down below.”

  “Touché,” said Elliot, and blew his nose violently as he looked around the office.

  Nolan and MacKay were already at the big table in the corner of the room, and when the salutations were over Harper invited them to sit down. Nolan noticed that this time Harper was at the head of the table.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve called this meeting because we now have the evidence that you asked us to obtain. My Secretariat have produced a four-page summary of our findings and there is supporting documentation in your folders. Can I ask you to read the summary before we talk. Take as long as you wish.”

  Nolan watched the bent heads. The Chief Justice was underlining with a pencil as if he were reading a brief, and Sam Bethel was getting visibly more angry as he read on. He finished first and looked at Harper, shaking his head in obvious disgust. Then Elliot pushed his glasses back up his nose and leaned back.

  “Well, Morton. A cast of thousands. You must be delighted.”

  The eagle eyes watched the genuine surprise on Harper’s face.

  “That’s not quite the word I would have chosen, Judge.”

  “No, of course not. How foolish of me.” He looked across at Mr. Speaker. “What about you, Sam?”

  Bethel leaned back. “You know, I sometimes wonder if this damn country isn’t going crazy.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Sam. But right now we’ve got to decide what to do about it.” Elliot couldn’t hide his impatience.

  Harper put his hands together and Nolan recognized the sign.

  “There’s a wide variety of action open to us. Would you like me to go over it?”

  Elliot nodded. “By all means.”

  “In no particular order of importance, we can do these things. We can leak it to the press and let it go where it will. We can inform the out-going President. We can inform the Secretary of State. We can form an impeachment committee. We can confront Powell, who must be wondering by now where all his friends have gone. We can pass it all to the FBI whose province it really is. Or we can do nothing.”

  There was silence round the table as each man wondered if there was yet another alternative. A nicer, simpler one. Nolan wondered if anyone else around the table had thought of eliminating Powell. On reflection he thought it unlikely. MacKay might, but not the others. It was Harper who broke the silence.

  “What d’you think, Mr. Speaker?”

  “Well, we don’t inform the press, that’s for sure. And we should be causing maximum embarrassment beyond what we have already achieved if we told the present incumbent. There would be an inter-party dogfight. The FBI won’t pick up this hot potato, you can be sure of that. We can’t even consider doing nothing. We’d deserve to be put up against a wall. The only thing possible is to confront Powell.”

  Elliot raised his bushy white eyebrows.

  “And what do we do if he tells us to jump in the lake, Sam?”

  “You show him those bloody pictures of him screwing the girl.”

  Elliot turned to Harper. “Has he indicated anything to you about whether you’ll be left at CIA?”

  “He called me to a meeting yesterday. Implied that he hadn’t made up his mind yet.”

  “Was he suspicious, d’ye think?”

  “I don’t think so. He seemed very sure of himself.”

  “Did he ask any policy questions?”

  “No. He was telling me what it was all about.”

  Nolan chipped in. “Say we take it that some sort of confrontation is the only way. What’s our objective? What do we want him to do? And what do we think his reactions will be?”

  Sam Bethel belched softly. “Pardon. His reactions are going to be unpredictable. When he confirmed my reappointment he wasn’t the diffident new boy. He was enjoying the power. I even got a few words of advice on handling the House. I’d say his reaction’s gonna be like a Doberman having two pounds of rump steak pulled out of its jaws. He ain’t gonna go quietly. I’d put my silver dollar on that. He could have us all in the pen in hours.”

  Elliot was not amused. “Not me, Mr. Speaker. Not me.”

  “OK. You can send in the food parcels, Judge.”

  Harper spoke softly. “Who’s going to be the one to approach him?”

  “Mr. Speaker,” said Elliot.

  “The Chief Justice,” said Bethel.

  Nolan caught Harper’s eye. “You want to say something, Mr. Nolan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Carry on, then.”

  “It’s quite clear from Dempsey’s statement, and from the scuttlebutt in Hartford that Powell and his wife have been estranged for years. She was totally against him going into politics right from the start. In fact, she wouldn’t have politicians in the house. Dempsey cashed in on this estrangement so that Powell would not have an alternative background. Nothing to fall back on. He was dependent in every way on Dempsey, whether he knew it or not.

  “From what I’ve been able to find out it was a normal marriage up to the time Powell stood for the governorship. She met him when he was at Yale and his father still lectures there. It seems she had looked forward to sharing in an academic life. She tolerated him setting up as a business consultant but closed the shutters when he went into politics.

  “She co-operated, but not very enthusiastically, during the Presidential election campaign but according to what I’ve gathered from White House security they haven’t been together since the night of the election.”

  Nolan paused and Sam Bethel said slowly, “What’s this got to do with the present situation, Nolan?”

  “We want him out of politics, and so does she. She could be the one who confronts him.”

  Elliot frowned. “You mean tell her about all this, and leave it to her?”

  “Not quite, sir. We could give her the pictures and suggest she could save his face. Tell him that if he doesn’t opt out he’ll be impeached or exposed. But we would let him off the hook if she could persuade him to bow out gracefully before inauguration.”

  Bethel snorted. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nolan. The President-Elect announces to the country that because his wife doesn’t like him being in politics he’s decided to throw his hand in. Jesus.”

  “Not exactly that, sir. But maybe the Physician to the President does a routine medical check and finds a serious heart condition and after deep reflection the President-Elect steps down for the sake of continuity and the country.”

  Bethel sniffed loudly. “And a few months later some press photographer takes a photograph of Powell playing tennis, or jogging or some damn thing.”

  “Powell’s own interest would be to play along with the scenario. He’s gone along with Dempsey’s film script, he’d go along with this.”

  “What does he do after he resigns?” Elliot looked only mildly interested.

  “He lives comfortably and quietly on his presidential pension. A hero and democrat to one and all.”

  Bethel looked across at Elliot and said, “What d’ye think?”

  Elliot leaned back in his chair, thinking. It was several minutes before he spoke.

  “The only alternative is to confront him. And Nolan’s right. Pow
ell’s basically a weak man. He could panic and do something crazy if we put him with his back against the wall. If we leave a door open with the same pressures he might choose to accept the role and go quietly. If Mrs. Powell refused to do this, or tried and failed, then we’d have to meet him head on and let the chips fall where they will.”

  Bethel shrugged. “So who tackles the Powell woman who loathes politicians?”

  Nolan took a deep breath. “I had in mind that MacKay might do it.”

  Bethel frowned. “MacKay? Who in hell’s MacKay?”

  Nolan flushed and nodded towards MacKay.

  Bethel sighed heavily. “My apologies, MacKay. My mind’s getting bogged down with names.” He shook his head, looking at MacKay. “With all due respect, Mr. MacKay, I don’t see you fitting into this role.”

  Nolan interrupted. “I haven’t discussed this idea with Mr. MacKay but he’s the one person who has no axe to grind. He isn’t even an American. And he’s the man who exposed Dempsey. She’ll like that. Any politician starts off with two strikes against him. And it could leave us so that, with Mr. Powell included, only seven people will know what has been done.”

  Elliot looked at Harper. “How secure is Mr. MacKay, Morton?”

  “Totally, so far as I am concerned.”

  Bethel looked at MacKay.

  “No reflection on you, mister, but how secure are you?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “From what Harper originally told us we may not have spotted this mess if it hadn’t been for you. We’re in your debt but, by God, you know too much. How do we know you won’t talk?”

  “What interest would I have in talking, Mr. Speaker?”

  “Now, Mr. MacKay. You know as well as I do that you could make several millions out of this story.”

  “I am officially seconded to the CIA from SIS. I have signed the Official Secrets Act form. Talking would get me in the Tower of London.”

  Bethel looked at Harper.

  “Is that the case, Morton?”

  “Yes. Anyway, I think Mr. MacKay could have made his millions without even coming over here. The media would have paid for the original tip-off.”

  There was a brief silence and MacKay spoke softly to get their attention. He looked at Harper.