Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“Looks like the Dead Sea Scrolls, chief.”

The radio team identified the contents of the metal case. They were spare circuit boards for the high-speed transmitter.

It was midnight before the search was complete and they took away radio equipment for evaluation, and piles of documents and correspondence. A reserve team re-checked the structure against the taped commentary with an electronic heat probe. They found nothing new.

Nolan went down to the lobby to check that the station wagon was there. It was. So was an irate police lieutenant and two sergeants. The lieutenant turned to look at Nolan.

“Are you Nolan?”

“Yes, lieutenant, I’m Nolan.”

“I’m taking you down to the precinct.”

At that point the first load of equipment and documents came down in the lift and the lieutenant verged on apoplexy.

“None of that goddamn stuff leaves these premises.”

His angry eyes searched Nolan’s face for surrender, and not finding it, he called on his troops. Pointing to his two sergeants, he said, “If they make one move to take away that stuff, book ’em and take ’em to Riker.” He looked back at Nolan in bristling challenge.

“What’s your name, lieutenant?”

“Don’t you back-answer a police officer in the course of his duty or you’ll be down the precinct in two minutes flat.”

Nolan looked at him calmly. “Maybe we’d better do that, lieutenant. He reached for the warrant in his inside pocket and the lieutenant’s hand flashed out. It stopped in mid-air as if it were set in concrete and as Nolan held it he said, “I have a search-warrant including right of removal. My men have already told you that we are CIA. If you still want to play games there will be an official inquiry as to why you were prepared to ignore the documentation. And don’t try to manhandle me again.”

The flushed face glanced at Nolan but the aggressive arm was lowered. “Where’s the warrant?”

Nolan removed it, folded, from his pocket and handed it to the lieutenant who unfolded it and read it slowly, his lips silently mouthing the words. When he was finished he held it in his hand as Nolan put out his hand for it. “Not so quick, mister. I’ll keep this. We’ll check it out.”

Nolan turned to the driver of the car who was standing just outside the open main doors. “Use the car radio, Finnegan, and call the Commissioner. Ask him to come down here right away.”

As the driver turned to the door the lieutenant shouted to his men. “Stop him. Stop the bastard.”

“Hold it.”

Nolan’s voice echoed in the tiled lobby and as the lieutenant turned he saw Nolan’s hand and the gun. The two sergeants froze. Apart from the gun they would have taken a cut in pension rather than miss this scenario.

The lieutenant stood like some reconstructed cave-man, with red bulging eyes and prognathous jaw.

“By Jesus, you’re gonna be right in the shit, mister. Obstructing an officer in the course of his duty. Threatening with a firearm, grand larceny, and God knows what.” His mouth was opening and closing silently, desperately searching for further offences.

Nolan kept his eyes on the lieutenant and said to the driver. “Call the Commissioner.”

Neanderthal man had second thoughts.

“No need to involve the Commissioner, Nolan. He’s a busy man. Just you and your men get your arses out of this building fast. We’ll seal the apartment doors.”

“They’re double-locked, lieutenant, but seal them if it makes you happy. I need the warrant.” And he held out his hand.

There was only a moment’s hesitation before it was handed over. The lieutenant and his men watched as the station-wagon was loaded. They stood looking through the glass doors as the car pulled out into the traffic. Nolan wondered how much the lieutenant’s rip-off had been. It must have been substantial for him to take those risks.

When the material had been unloaded at the safe-house at Central Park, Nolan walked back to the car. He was asleep before they reached the expressway and the driver shook him awake in the doorway of the house facing the sea. There was a glint of light on the sea from the false dawn, and he could see lights on some of the small craft moored in the bay. The week-end sailors who defied the winter weather.

He turned to look at the house. There were lights in every window and all the windows were barred. He walked slowly to the front door and the duty officer handed him a clutch of messages.

“Where’s Kleppe?”

“In the basement, sir.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Your men are still here. They’re in the canteen. I gather he put up a struggle at first but after that he’s been tame enough. He won’t talk.”

“I said he wasn’t to be interrogated until I came.”

“I meant about food or coffee, sir. He’s been left strictly alone.”

“Did he talk on the way here?”

“I understand not, sir.”

Nolan slid off his coat and slung it over a chair.

“Take me down to Kleppe.”

They walked down the stone steps to the basement. There were three rooms clad with steel plate and with heavy metal doors. Kleppe was in the last one and Nolan waited as the key was turned and the door opened. He slid the bleeper into his pocket and walked in.

There was a small table bolted to the cement floor and two light wooden chairs. Along the facing wall was a concrete slab with a folded sleeping bag. Kleppe sat at the table, hunched up and grim-faced, a lock of hair hanging over his forehead. Nolan sat down opposite him and looked at his face. It was a typical Slav face, dark skinned, high cheek-bones and a massive jaw. Kleppe’s dark eyes looked back at him defiantly and uncurious.

There was no response of any kind. Nolan saw no point in playing formalities.

“We’ve been searching your apartment, Mr. Kleppe. We’ve found the radio, and the papers are being sorted now, including the notebooks from the cold-water tank. Do you want to talk about them now or later?”

Kleppe sat silent and unmoving.

“Kleppe, you can choose which way you want it. We can talk like this now or I’ll get the medical orderly to give you a shot. You’ll talk then.”

Kleppe spat, and the saliva was warm on Nolan’s face. He wiped the saliva away slowly with his hand and then pressed the bleeper.

Nolan saw the small remote-control video camera mounted in the ceiling slowly scan the area of the table and then the walls of the room. A few seconds later the door opened and he walked out and on up to the entrance hall. He slowly mounted the wide staircase that led to the first floor. They had given him a temporary office facing the stairway and as he pulled up a chair to the desk he pressed the button in the panel beside the telephone. A young man came at the double.

“Sir?”

“Ask the medic to come and see me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I’d like a bowl of soup and a banana sandwich.”

There was a hesitant half-smile. “What’s a banana sandwich, sir?”

“You mash up a banana with sugar and make a sandwich.”

“Yes, sir.”

The medical officer wore a blue denim shirt and Levi’s. He looked as if he had just been woken up. He put his black bag at his feet.

“Fowler, Mr. Nolan. You wanted me?”

“I want something to keep me awake for about three hours.”

“What are you going to be doing in that time?”

“Interrogating.”

“OK.”

“And I want the guy in the basement to keep talking—the truth.”

“Is he antagonistic?”

“Very.”

“We’ve got a choice; there’s a pentothal variant that makes talking and response to questioning certain, but the subject can wander far away from what you’re talking about and the guy can take hours to get back. It’s a bit like unleashing a flood of words. They’ll all be there but may be irrelevant. Or there’s a new thing, TH 94. That gives a lower compulsion to talk. He’ll talk but you’ve got to pull it out of his unconscious. The user reports we have had so far indicate high truth factors but slower commentary. You have to go a long way down.”