Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“Can you check the walls for me?”

“You betcha.”

Nolan looked at the hi-fi without touching. There were two Sony 7055As. Two Sony cassette recorders, two big Revox tape-recorders and the control panel. He counted the square heat-switches. There were too many just to control the hi-fi. Some of them probably controlled the elaborate electronic security devices. But even with that there were too many. He leaned over to look at the connections on the backs of the receivers. Plugs and wires linked the recorders and there were four sets of leads from the speaker sockets into the control panel. Both receivers had leads from the antenna sockets to the panel. Nolan straightened up and beckoned the radio expert.

“Can you trace where the antenna wire goes to without touching the equipment?”

“Sure we can. I can use the cable tracer.”

The antenna lead went under the shelf panel, behind the wall panelling, and was lost at ceiling level.

They found the access to the roof void in the ceiling of a broom cupboard. They checked for electronics and found an elaborate circuit that would trip if the cover was lifted. One of the team took instrument readings and another pressed buttons on a pocket calculator. A long wire was fastened to a pipe with a crocodile clip, and the other end of the wire was taped to a corner of the access cover.

Nolan lifted the cover gingerly as he stood on the middle rung of an aluminium ladder. It was dark, and he peered over the edge of the flooring as he slowly swung the torch. It was a big area, and empty except for three standard water tanks. And it was clean. Far too clean. He went up on his elbows, swung up a knee and stood up. He called down for the radio man, who came up the ladder with his black leather case.

“Show me where the antennae are, and tell me about them.”

He shone his torch on the far wall as they walked over carefully. The man clamped a fork-like instrument on the first cable and then the second.

“They’re both normal 75 ohms jobs.”

“What about the third one?”

“That doesn’t go down into the room, it ends at the floor here.”

“What is it?”

The man took Nolan’s torch and followed the wire upwards and across and then round the timbers on the loft.

“It’s a short-wave aerial, Mr. Nolan.”

“Receiving or transmitting?”

“It’s OK for both. It’s got remote controlled cut-offs for various wave-lengths. The first one’s about twenty metres operation. Round about fourteen megahertz.”

“Was there anything downstairs that could use it?”

“No they’re FM and AM. No short-wave stuff.”

Nolan knelt down and shouted through the opening.

“Rod, are there any electronics in the ceiling area of the flat?”

“No. We checked before you went up. Just the access panel, that’s all.”

Nolan walked across the whole of the floor area running the torch light along each plank of the flooring. It took ten minutes but there was nothing.

He took the plyboard covers off the water tanks and shone his torch into the water. In the second tank he saw the black plastic bags. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. When the bags came out of the water he let them drain off. He untied one bag and lifted out the book. As he turned the pages he saw that it was all handwritten.

He lowered them down to the team below.

“Photograph them now, both sides of each page, and let me have them back.”

As he was straightening up he saw the socket on the wall by the antenna wires. He shone his torch upwards. It was in a wooden, bracket-like box right in the corner, and as the radio man unscrewed the front panel he guessed what it would be.

They lowered it carefully to the floor. It was in a dark green metal housing and the radio man whistled softly as they looked at it.

“It’s the latest they’ve got. I’ve never seen one before but we’ve got photographs and an operation manual for it.”

“What’s it do?”

“It’s a top-grade receiver-transmitter. It puts out very high-speed morse. You could transmit four thousand characters at least in half a second. That’s probably why he’s got two Revoxes. Uses them to gear up the speeds. The boys will go crazy when they see this.”

Nolan laughed. “Afraid not. It’s staying right here.”

“Can I have some photographs, Mr. Nolan?”

“Sure. Tell Rod you want them.”

It was another two hours before everything was back in place and the glazier was waiting to put in a new window. When he had finished, they washed all the windows, cleaned the snow from the balcony, folded the plastic floor coverings, and left.

Logan Powell spent the whole day taking briefings and situation papers from the present Administration. President Grover was philosophical about his defeat. His four years in office had seen no great issues resolved. If anything, issues had been ignored, and it looked as if the American public liked it that way. They wanted peace and prosperity and a chance to play with their toys.

For two days Dempsey had examined position papers and reports and made those routine decisions that allowed his temporary team to function while Powell’s major appointments were being considered. It was a time to convert euphoria to usable energy. He picked up Powell from his temporary office and drove him to the hotel. Dempsey had arranged for them to have adjoining suites with the flanking suites taken as offices.

They sat in shirt-sleeves in comfortable armchairs and Powell gave him instructions about various people he wanted to see in the next two days. Dempsey poured them another drink before he started what he expected to be the first of a series of tense dialogues.

“There’s something I need to talk with you about, Logan.”

“I’ve told Cheevers to put out a press release tonight that I’ve appointed you Presidential Chief of Staff.”

“It wasn’t that. It’s about you.”

“Oh? What about me?”

“You know that we’ve had a lot of help from way back to get you into the White House?”

“Sure I know. They’ll all get their pieces of cake in due course.”

“Most of the help came from the same quarter, Logan. I’m sure you recognize that.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“There are things that they want.”

“Like what?”

“A peace pact, troops withdrawn from Europe, trade both ways.”

“Those are issues for governments, not individuals.”

Dempsey looked steadily back at Logan Powell. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Logan.” For a moment he was almost convinced that the surprise on Powell’s face was genuine.

“Are you saying that the Soviet Government were on my side during the election?”

“They were on your side long before that, Logan. They got you into the State Capitol.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Powell’s face was reddening with anger.

“What do you think made you Governor?”

Powell shrugged. “They liked my programme. They wanted change.”

Dempsey shook his head. “There were a dozen contenders who would have been equally suitable. It was the strike got you nominated and it was the strike got you in the State Capitol.”

“And I arbitrated and settled the strike, for God’s sake.”

“How do you think the strike started, Logan? Why do you think it just happened when your nomination was a totally outside chance?”

Powell was silent for long moments, and then he said quietly, “Are you saying that those bastards fixed a strike so that I could arbitrate and look good?”

“You knew that at the time, Logan. You and I don’t need to pretend. But you knew when you were negotiating with Siwecki that the strike had been fixed.”