Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

Nolan looked over the top of his coffee cup before he drank.

“Why hasn’t this come through official channels?”

“Like what channels?”

“Foreign Office to Secretary of State, for instance.”

“The Minister was asked. He said your people would either ignore it, or think that the British were crying wolf to square things off for when you froze out Philby.”

“So why tell us anyway?”

“I suggested to Magnusson that you may not know. It’s over ten years ago. It happened in Europe, not here. We made the same mistake with Philby. He was married to a Party member in Vienna. It kind of got lost in the wash when he was being investigated, even after Burgess and Maclean lit out to Moscow and he was suspect.”

Nolan leaned back in his chair, his eyes avoiding MacKay as he sucked a hollow tooth reflectively. Then he turned back and looked at the Scot.

“How long are you staying for?”

“Until you tell me you don’t want me to hang around any more.”

“Let’s go back to Langley.” He turned and waved to a waiter.

Morton Harper had come to the CIA from teaching law at Yale, and in the early days there were those in CIA and the Washington jungle who thought the professor was going to be an easy ride. His moon face and plump body had added their weight to the theory.

In less than two months they had learned how wrong they were. There had been new brooms and axemen before, and the CIA knew how to absorb them; but this time it had been more like a scalpel. There had been almost no pain, and Old China Hands and the inefficient had gone first; and there was a feeling among the survivors that Morton Harper had some sort of bullshit detector. A lie, a cover-up, a snow-job was fatal. Somehow he knew, and you never got a second chance. No record, no medals would protect you. There were no explanations, no taking you apart. You just went. That was not to say that the CIA had suddenly changed its style. Just that the Director had to know—everything. If he was to carry the can he wanted to see the rough edges.

Harper sat at his desk as Nolan told him the brief facts. When he had finished Harper was silent for what seemed an eternity, then he reached forward and touched the long curving ash of his cigar to the crystal ashtray, watching it bend, fracture and fall in one piece. Then he looked up and across at Nolan.

“Have you checked our files on Dempsey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What have we got?”

“Nothing, sir. It’s just press clippings. But I’ve checked with our Paris embassy and they do have a record of a request from Dempsey for help for himself and the girl. There’s a handwritten minute on it—a negative.”

Harper leaned back in the big leather chair and sighed.

“What was the girl’s name?”

“Halenka Tcharkova.”

“Anything on file about her?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

Harper swivelled his chair to look at MacKay.

“Why wasn’t this information given to the FBI? It’s more their area than ours.”

“I think there are several reasons for that, sir. The first one is that it’s not official. As Mr. Nolan said, the Minister thought it would be tactless, and he wasn’t all that impressed with the facts. Our analysis was that the events concerned took place in Europe and that that made it a CIA responsibility. Magnusson felt it should be kept on a very low level with nothing official and nothing in writing.”

Harper’s face showed no response, and something compelled MacKay to continue.

“And we don’t have a good relationship with the FBI at the moment.”

“How long are you here for?”

“I’ve got a week’s leave, sir. But I shall stay until you tell me to go.”

Harper leaned forward, his arms folded on the desk as he looked from one to another of the two men.

“Let me tell you what we shall do. Between now and election day I should like more information on Mr. Dempsey, the girl, and Mr. Kleppe. And let me emphasize something. These are routine inquiries of no special significance. They have no political significance. They are not connected with the election campaign. They concern private citizens in their private capacity. Despite what I have just said you will not reveal to anyone the purpose of your inquiries. If Logan Powell is not elected President I shall pass this information to the FBI. If he is elected then I shall need to consider the situation and possibly seek the advice of others.”

He stood up and walked round his desk to open the door. As they made to leave Harper said, “The Agency will pick up Mr. MacKay’s tabs, Mr. Nolan, you see to that.”

The empty plates had been pushed to one side, and Nolan and MacKay sat facing each other at the long table in Nolan’s office.

“How about you cover Dempsey’s girlfriend and I cover Dempsey and Kleppe?”

“I’d need to go to Paris.”

“How long would you need?”

“A day each way and probably two days there. Maybe three.”

“Can you spare the time?”

“I’ll have to fix things with Magnusson first.”

“D’you want to get Harper to do that?”

“That could help.”

Nolan walked across the room and into the small hallway. MacKay could hear Nolan’s voice as he spoke on the phone, but he couldn’t hear the words. He realized that Nolan had been very cautious in dividing up the responsibilities. They didn’t want a foreigner investigating American citizens so he got the girl. On the other hand it was better that way. They didn’t have his contacts in Paris, and he didn’t know his way around the United States for that matter.

Nolan walked back and nodded as he sat down.

“That’s OK. He’s contacting your guy himself. Unless we hear in the next half hour, it’s OK. D’you want to travel overnight or have a night in a hotel?”

“What flights are there?”

“There’s an Air France flight in two hours’ time.”

“Book me on that, then.”

Nolan came back. He’d booked a first-class seat so that there was a chance for MacKay to sleep. MacKay yawned at the thought before he spoke.

“What do you think Harper thinks of all this?”

Nolan shrugged. “I’d say interested but cool at the moment.”

“Maybe I’m wasting your time?”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“No. What about you?”

“The same as you. Instinct, training, experience tell me there’s something odd. Maybe it’s something that doesn’t matter. But we’d better find out.”

Nolan drove him to Dulles and waited with him until the flight was called.

The Air-France overnight flight landed at de Gaulle in the morning darkness and it was 8.30 before MacKay had cleared customs and immigration.

He booked in at a small hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines and bathed and shaved. As he waited for a taxi there was a gleam of sun piercing the November grey but by the time he arrived at the rue Soufflot there was a thin drizzle of rain. He looked at his watch. There was just about time for a coffee.

He wondered what her reaction would be. He had not kept in touch with her but unless she had changed that wouldn’t matter. When he had checked in the telephone directory he had felt that it was typical of her that she still lived in the same studio. She was beautiful and warm-hearted, and in the old days she would have these great passions that barely lasted a week. Nobody would see her in that week and then she would return to her circle, not sad or grief-stricken, but calm and serene. He knew that she relied on him in those days not to sink into the whirlpool with her. He had slept with her sometimes but he refused to join her in the torrent. And she was grateful, he knew, that he stayed on dry land and could reach out his hand to save her from the next emotional flood. He paid for the coffee and left.