Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“Are you Andy’s girl?”

She had laughed. “No. We’ve seen one another a few times in New York, that’s all.”

Involuntarily his eyes had gone to her breasts and when he had looked back at her face she had been smiling. She looked up as Dempsey came back into the room. He was smiling.

“Yes, she’s here. I’m going over to fetch her.” He picked up his suede jacket. “Give him a drink, Jenny, till I get back, then we’ll all celebrate.”

Powell had been looking at the girl as the door clicked behind Dempsey and she had laughed softly as he moved over to sit beside her on the settee. Her mouth had responded as he kissed her and she had made no protest as his hand slid inside her cleavage to cup a full breast and lift it free of her dress. His fingers had kneaded the big mound as they kissed and only when his hand had slid back her skirt did she hold his wrist. She had looked at his face and said softly, “Is this how you want to celebrate?” She was smiling as he nodded, and she had said, “Let’s go in the bedroom.”

“What about Andy and the other girl?”

Her hand touched his cheek. “They’ll understand. They’re probably doing the same at her place.”

And this time she made no move to stop him as his hand went between her legs. For long moments she watched his face as his hand explored her and then she kissed him gently, “Come on, let’s go.”

He had scarcely noticed the bedroom in his awareness of her undressing, and then it was just a fevered vision of breasts and thighs, smooth, youthful, girl-flesh, and the sensations of being in her body.

The room had been dark when he awoke and he had reached out, moving his hand slowly to find a light. The pink light cast a glow on the white walls and across the face of the girl. He looked at his watch; it was 4.30. He looked back at the girl’s face. She really was beautiful, her full lips barely meeting as she breathed deeply and regularly. For a moment he had a vision of Laura asleep in their bed at home, but it had gone as his hand reached for the sheet and gently rolled it down. Her head was on one side, the long blonde hair fanned out on the white pillow. He looked at her body. She lay on her back and the full breasts rose and fell with her steady breathing, their pale pink tips soft and innocent. Her belly was softly curved and muscled and he could see the blonde bush that covered the mound of her sex. When his hand moved on her, her eyes fluttered open and she said sleepily, “Love me. Love me some more.” And she had lazily opened her long legs and folded her arms round him as he lay on her.

He turned and put down his glass on the bedside table and reached again for the telephone. His hand hovered over the instrument uncertainly. She could be here in three hours, and he wanted her. But he knew that Dempsey was right. An out-of-town girl, a New York girl, would be spotted in no time. And the press were watching his every move. They wouldn’t print anything. He’d get his hundred days but they would start putting two and two together about him and Laura, and that would be considered legitimate news. He’d get Andy to fix the little dark girl again. She was only 18 but she was enthusiastic.

He reached for the file of “possibles” for the London and Moscow embassies, and wondered why he still felt lonely despite all the people around him.

It was a bumpy flight in the Cessna and at LaGuardia they were stacked for fifteen minutes while the long distance planes, short of fuel, occupied the glide path. Snow came down, a thick white curtain that was wrenched aside continuously by the gale force winds. Steiner was waiting for him at the terminal entrance.

“How’d you know I was coming up, Joe?”

“I contacted Hartford. They gave me your ETA.”

“You got a car here?”

“Sure. But let’s grab a cup of coffee first.”

Nolan stood still, the snowflakes melting on his face as he stared at Steiner.

“What’s going on?”

“Let’s talk in the coffee-shop, chief.”

Nolan moved off, slapping the wet snow from his canvas travel bag. Until the coffee came he sat without speaking, but when the waitress left he looked at Steiner.

“OK. What is it?”

“We had to knock off one of the Russians.”

“Go on.”

“He pulled a gun on O’Hara. We checked it afterwards. The safety catch was off and there was one up the spout. O’Hara shot in self-defence.”

“Where was this?”

“In the yard at the back of Kleppe’s block in Sutton Place.”

“When?”

“Just after seven this evening.”

“Which morgue is he in?”

Steiner took a deep breath. “He’s not in a morgue, Mr. Nolan. I wasn’t sure you would want that.”

Nolan watched the cream turning in slow circles on his coffee as he slowly stirred it.

“Where is he?”

“In the boot of my car.”

“Jesus God. Where is it?”

“Here. In the car park.”

“Have you gone over him?”

“Yes. His name is Pankov. Leonid Pankov. Based in the Soviet Consulate-General. Big fellow. Typical KGB hit man.”

“What was the weapon?”

“A standard Luger and special silencer. KGB pattern. We’ve been trying to get a bug on Kleppe’s windows. O’Hara was checking. This guy came out of a garbage can.”

“What were you proposing to do with him?”

“Dump him.”

“Did you pay for the coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go.”

Nolan was silent as they walked to the car park and as Steiner reached to turn on the ignition Nolan grabbed his hand.

“You did what was best, Joe. Is there any chance of a witness?”

“I’m pretty sure not, chief.”

“OK. Dump him. And dump him good. I don’t wanna know anything about it.”

“Right, chief.”

“Take me to the Central Park safe-house.”

Nolan stopped the car at the Chase Gallery and walked the rest of the way.

He called for the evaluation file on the KGB teams at the Consulate-General, and stood reading it as he absent-mindedly eased off his wet coat. Still reading, his hand searched behind him for the chair, and he pulled it forward and sat down slowly.

He was still there when the false dawn broke over the Park.

When Nolan got back to the house at Hartford there was a message from Harper, instructing him to avoid any direct contact with Dempsey. As President-Elect’s putative Chief-of-Staff, Harper felt that Dempsey was too important to risk any reaction from the White House at this stage. Kleppe also should not be contacted directly until further information was available from the FBI and IRS records.

Nolan telephoned police chief Henney at his headquarters but, apart from more detailed descriptions of the two suspects, there was little further information. They were checking Siwecki’s tax returns for the past five years and there were several sets of fingerprints but none identifiable. Local fingerprint records and New York records had already proved negative. It looked like Oakes and Haig were Nolan’s only hope for a fishing expedition.

He phoned Haig, who was obviously reluctant to see him again but when he insisted Haig agreed to see him at seven that evening, at his office.

The security guard at the factory gate phoned through to Haig’s office and then he was escorted across the yard past the stores to the main office block. There was frost sparkling in the lights from the big workshop windows, and a general air of busyness. Haig Electronics were obviously doing well.

Haig called out for him to come in when the security man knocked at the door, and Nolan noticed that Haig’s desk was clear of all papers as he lifted himself grudgingly from his chair to take Nolan’s outstretched hand.