Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“How could we approach him?”

Abel nodded and smiled. “We have no need to do that. The person who reports to me is this man’s friend from schooldays, from university.”

“And how should we control the control?”

“That would be your responsibility, comrade. The control is already known to you. He is obligated to us, and obligated to you. He has co-operated for five years without reward. Not extensively, because we have not asked for much. But he will do as we ask without pressure.”

Kleppe smiled. “I’d prefer with pressure.”

“Ah well, comrade. There are some points of pressure.”

“Who is the man? Your contact?”

“Dempsey. Andrew Dempsey.”

“I don’t know him.”

“You do, actually. We instructed you to get him out of Fresnes in 1968. And his lover Tcharkova.”

“My God, yes. A young fellow. The scene at the airport. Those fools from our embassy. Yes. That has possibilities. Who is his friend?”

“A man named Powell. Logan Powell. We thought we would try to make him State Governor of Connecticut.”

“And then?”

Abel shrugged. “And then maybe nothing. Or maybe we do the same exercise elsewhere. It is an experiment, a tactical exercise. What our friends in the US would call practical democracy.”

Kleppe laughed. “It could be very interesting.”

“It will be, comrade. It will be.”

He had spent a week with Abel and his team planning the details, and being given a picture of the Soviet resources in Connecticut and New York that were not already known to him.

They had given him a letter and some photographs from Halenka Tcharkova. The photographs were of the girl and her daughter.

But that had all been years ago. They had done what they set out to do. And more. They had made their man the Governor of Connecticut. And now he was President-Elect of the United States. They had put up a complex of heavily guarded buildings thirty kilometres outside the Moscow Ring Road. And over two hundred specialists had planned the operation, analysed the reports and given advice to their people on the ground in the USA. People who had worked day after day to help Powell’s campaign had no idea that they were serving some Soviet end. And others had worked with single-minded dedication, knowing that they were working for the Soviet Union but without any idea of what the Soviet plan might be.

He had been reluctant at first, despite the planning, to risk his KGB record on the back of this audacious operation. But as the months went by the impossible became possible and the possible a fact.

What was so amazing was that it had not, in fact, been difficult. It had been hard work. But no harder than the two American political parties normally experienced in State and Federal elections. It was just that there were no balloons, no smoke-filled back rooms. There were no discussions, no wheeler-dealing; people were given orders and they carried them out. Even the cheating, conniving, and pressures were little more than politicians normally employed. But there was no need for fund-raising except as a show, and the secret workers were not motivated for a few months. They had been motivated for years. What was more, they knew that their candidate could actually deliver what he promised. There would be genuine benefits for all. For just under thirty million dollars in cash the Soviet Union would have the Americans out of Europe. The end of NATO and the end of Europe as an independent entity. Not a shot fired, and the United States would be limited to its own territory. Slowly being squeezed, decade by decade. Even the Soviet’s most hawk-like plans had only envisaged its destruction, not its occupation. And as Krushchev once said, “The wolf does not fear the dog, but his bark.”

The Kremlin were amazed and euphoric about their success and his own position was established for all time. There would be pressures and arguments about how Powell would be controlled, but he could cope with all that. And when the crunch came he would bow out gracefully and let them take over.

The car came for him at twenty to ten and when he went up to the meeting there were smiling faces waiting for him. The congratulations were genuine and, although bordering on the fulsome, very welcome.

A little later they sat at a small table and Gelov brought out his check file. He re-read the first page quickly and then looked up at Kleppe.

“Are you satisfied about Dempsey?”

“In what way?”

“We have no current pressure on him except the girl.”

“We have. When we got him and the girl out of jail it was a turning point for him. That and the girl will be enough. He helps us with conviction.”

“Conviction?”

“Well, maybe not conviction, but let us say with enthusiasm and goodwill. He has the hope that in time the girl can come to the United States with the child but I have given no firm promise.”

“He was pleased with the proxy marriage?”

“Very pleased.”

“And his pressure on Powell, is that enough?”

“I expect to hear statements from Powell in the next few weeks that will confirm he is responding. He has no choice, of course. And what we require of him fits the American mood.”

Gelov nodded. “It fits our mood too, comrade. We need consumer goods and food to keep the people quiet. They have seen the success of the dissidents in Warsaw and Prague. There are some who would like to try that here.”

“Where’s the colonel?”

“Abel, you mean?”

Kleppe nodded.

“In hospital. Dying. A week maybe, not more.”

Gelov stood up, gathering his papers.

“Tomorrow then, Viktor. Say ten o’clock.”

Kleppe was shaken awake from his deep sleep at four in the morning by a KGB major and a man in plain clothes. He sat up in bed, looked at his watch and looked with disbelief at the two men.

“What the hell is going on?”

“A problem in New York, comrade.”

“What problem?”

“They have been inside your apartment in New York.”

“Who has?”

“There is no information on that.”

“How do we know this?”

“The listening post at the Consulate-General reported that the activator in your telephone registered.”

“Oh for God’s sake. Those bloody electronics are never reliable. Activator switches are always jamming on or off.”

“They think the telephone was lifted and put back. There are two registrations with a gap of several seconds.”

“Any recorded noise or speech?”

“No, comrade. But they want you to go back immediately. They are holding the London plane for you. Major Gelov is on his way to the airport to meet you.”

Kleppe sighed and stood up. He was at Sheremetyevo an hour later. Gelov was tense and agitated.

“They have booked you on a flight to Canada, comrade, and suggest you go on by car to New York. Contact Washington immediately with your situation.”

MacKay contacted the CIA man at the US Consulate at Museumsplein. There was a long message from Nolan giving an estimate of Kleppe’s trade in diamonds and urging him to check for positive evidence of smuggling. It was also requested that he identified himself as CIA, not SIS.

He walked slowly from the Consulate to the Amsterdam police headquarters at Elandsgracht, and asked for Inspector van Rijk.

The Dutch and their police have a civilized tolerance about the facts of life. They do not find it incredible that men want to sleep with pretty girls, or that pretty girls might be willing to allow all sorts of exciting privileges in return for guilders, dollars, marks and yen. Or that there may be those in the community who prefer their sex in books and films. As long as everything is kept neat and tidy, and on the administrative railway-lines, the vagaries of the human libido are accepted as realities.