Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

He slid his card into the slot and the door chunked open. The Field Security sergeant at the small desk had known him for three years but, as always, they went through all the routine of passwords and identity checks. Some day somebody was going to renege and four feet from the door was where they aimed to stop him.

Magnusson was obviously not too pleased at being disturbed on a Sunday morning for speculative discussion. He was too civilized a man to say so outright, but too hard pressed in his job not to make clear that if the appointment was not urgent and about a current operation, it could wait its turn after the weather, the problems of protecting chrysanthemums from the first frost, and the possibility that Cooper’s Oxford marmalade might not be maintaining its quality.

Magnusson sat with one slippered foot on a sleeping Labrador that quivered after rabbits in its sleep. As he refilled MacKay’s glass and handed it to him he finally said, “So what was it, James?” And MacKay gave him a report on what he had checked out. He held out the envelope of photocopies but Magnusson waved it aside.

“And what are you suggesting that this all adds up to?”

“That the campaign manager of what looks like the probable next US President was a Communist in 1968. That his girl was a Russian and bound to be a Party member, or she would not have been allowed to go to Paris. That a man named Kleppe, a rich man with some sort of Soviet influence, got them both out of jail when the US Embassy wouldn’t lift a finger.”

“Go on.”

“There isn’t any more.”

Magnusson raised his eyebrows. “So what do you see—another Philby?”

“Could be.”

“And what d’you you think we should do, my boy?”

“Mention it to CIA liaison at Grosvenor Square.”

“Why?”

“They ought to know.”

“Why d’you think they don’t know?”

“Maybe they do, but we had all the information on file about Philby and his Communist wife, and nobody checked it out.”

Magnusson nodded. “I’ll speak to the Minister and let you know. Has there been any news about Kowalski?”

“Nothing since the first report, except a confirmation that the Poles haven’t got him. It’s KGB for certain.”

“What’s Anders doing about it?”

“I don’t know, sir, but he’s already on his way to Berlin.”

“There’s a nice little pub in the village if you want a bite on your way back.”

And MacKay took the hint and left Magnusson to the Sunday Times and the Observer .

May 1968 had been one of the times that he knew he would always remember. It was the first solo assignment that he had done for SIS. It looked like a piece of low-key routine, and he had wondered what interest SIS could have in the students at the Sorbonne. He had decided that they were merely testing out the fluency of his French or maybe his ability to maintain a cover. But they obviously knew more than they had told him at his briefing meetings. He had only been there three months when the demonstrations started, and he had been recalled in the second week of August.

It had seemed a spring and summer of ceaseless sunshine, the kind of weather that always seems to herald declarations of war. And it hadn’t just been the war in the streets of Paris for him.

He had come back to the empty flat, knowing it would be empty but not expecting all those reminders. Torn up letters that he pieced together and then wished he hadn’t. Two or three unsigned contracts for shows in Birmingham and Leeds. The remnants of two boxes of milk chocolates. Panties and a bra on the tatty washing-line in the bathroom. Unwashed dishes and glasses in the sink. A membership card for a Soho Club. A pile of Melody Makers and an old copy of Stage . The bullfight poster, hung slantwise on the wall from a single pin. Make-up and cosmetics on the bedside table and a pad with two scrawled telephone numbers. And everywhere the stench of men and lust.

He had picked up the mail and gone out for breakfast at the Coffee Shop in King’s Road. He opened the envelopes one by one as he sipped his coffee. The electricity bill, a come-on for Time-Life books, a statement from the bank showing a credit balance of £341.73 to the account of J. B. and T. M. MacKay. A note from his mother pointing out that she had warned him even before the marriage, etc., etc. There were two letters for Tammy and a card calling her for audition at a theatre in Portsmouth. And there was a letter from their solicitor asking him to make an appointment to see him as soon as possible.

Back at the flat he phoned John Davies, who could see him at noon.

There were Audubon rose prints instead of the usual hunting scenes in the solicitor’s waiting-room. They had picked John Davies when they were first married because he had showbiz experience. But showbiz clients were often divorce clients later and John Davies helped clear up the mess.

He’d only had to wait a few minutes before the door opened and John Davies waved him into his office. When they were both settled on their respective sides of the teak desk, it was John Davies who led off.

“You know, Jimmy, that it’s one of my duties as an officer of the Court to do my best to effect a reconciliation of the parties to a divorce. Some solicitors don’t even go through the motions, but I do. Especially when I know both of them, and am fond of them. So let me say now that I have tried. And I’ve failed.”

“What did Tammy say?”

“Well, I wasn’t even sure that she was listening, but I made one mild criticism of you and she jumped right down my throat. Normally by the time it’s got to me it’s cat and dog stuff and all I can do is stop them from actual violence. With you and Tammy that doesn’t apply. All I can do is help cut out as much pain as possible.”

“I guess the pain’s all mine, John.”

“I don’t think so. You pay for this sort of thing one way or another. Most people say that it must be six of one and half a dozen of the other. It seldom is. But the problem is that the one who takes it most seriously is the one who gets hurt first.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, the one who goes off with somebody else has got their little prize already wrapped and delivered. If the other one hasn’t done a damn thing, he or she feels that it’s all mighty unfair, which it is. And if that one happens to be a man he fights all along the line about money, children, blame, the whole bag of tricks that the law allows. So I need to find out if I can carry on for you both or not. It’s positively frowned on by the law. But sometimes it can help.”

“There are no children, John, and Tammy’s the one with the money.”

Davies looked at MacKay’s face for long moments before he spoke again.

“If you cared to make a fight of it, Jimmy, you could probably put her career back to square one.”

“Why should I?”

Davies shrugged. “Hurt feelings, anger, pride, revenge. We could give it all a high moral tone, of course. It wouldn’t have to look so crude.”

“I love Tammy, John. I don’t love what she does, but I wouldn’t do her harm.”

“Would you do her good?”

“In what way?”

“You haven’t lived apart for two years, so there has to be a matrimonial offence thrown in.”

“So?”

“They’ve all been hers and the showbiz press and the nationals would make a meal of it.”

“You mean you want me to sleep with someone?”

“Paula Manning volunteered.”

“Jesus. What bastards they all are. Surely it must have been possible to make it in show business without screwing with everyone in sight.”

“You can if the talent’s big enough right from the start.”