Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“OK. Keep in touch.”

The CIA doctor had given Kleppe another shot and most of the paralysis seemed to have gone.

Kleppe tried to stand when Nolan went in, and he staggered and held on to the heavy table. Nolan shoved up the chair so that Kleppe could sit down. The remote tape-recorders were already on, and Nolan sat on the edge of the table.

“Just a few questions, Kleppe.”

“Da.”

Nolan hesitated, and re-framed his question in Russian.

“You gave the orders to Dempsey? Nobody else controlled him?”

“Just me. Only me.”

“How did you get your orders?”

“By radio. And the bag.”

“The diplomatic bag?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Both. The embassy and the United Nations.”

“Who controlled you in Moscow?”

“Directorate S.”

“Who?”

Kleppe seemed to have difficulty in breathing, and Nolan realized that Kleppe was fighting the drug. The words came out explosively when he finally spoke.

“Pelshe. Alexei Pelshe.”

“What is your real name?”

Kleppe shook his head slowly, and struggled to stand up. When he sank back on to the chair Nolan spoke quite softly.

“Tell me your name. Your real name?”

“Viktor Aleksandrovich Fomin.”

“Where were you born? What town?”

“Yerevan.”

It was enough. Nolan bleeped for the guard and went back upstairs to his office. He listened to the tape three or four times. It was clear enough for there to be no argument about the translation.

The FBI man stood with Harper outside the door marked “President-Elect” until the green light came on. Then he knocked and opened the door for Harper to walk through.

Powell was speaking on the telephone but he waved Harper to a chair in front of his desk and carried on talking.

Harper looked at the man’s face. He was good-looking in a thirties’ musical style. Dark, wavy hair with no trace of grey, and heavy eyebrows. As he listened on the telephone, Powell’s tongue explored his lower lip, and his free hand moved around a tray of pencils and pens. Finally he was done. He replaced the receiver and looked across at Harper. The brown eyes were soft and liquid, but their look was quizzical.

“I thought it was time we had a word, Harper. I read your current summary. Who prepares that?”

“My Secretariat prepares the first draft, sir. It is considered by the Director of Central Intelligence and, unless there are modifications, it is sent to the Secretary of State.”

“In future I want a separate copy straight to my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been Director of CIA?”

“Three years ten months.”

“Is your teaching job still open at Yale?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Did you know my father when you were there?”

“Yes. I knew him well. I still do.”

“Do you know Mr. Dempsey, the new White House Chief of Staff?”

“No. We’ve never met.”

Powell’s eyes were concentrated on Harper’s face. Then, as if he had made some sudden decision, Powell reached forward and pressed a button on the panel by the telephone and said, “There may be some changes, Harper. I’ll let you know shortly.”

“Right, sir.” Harper knew that the interview was over. He walked slowly to the door and stood aside as the FBI man ushered in Republican Chairman Salvasan.

Dempsey’s basic statement had been typed in relays by four secretary-clerks. None of them had seen anything other than her own section.

Nolan sat reading it at his desk. There were forty-two pages of single-spaced typescript. There were startling names from broadcasting and journalism, others from state and federal politics that were merely surprising. Industrialists and union officials who had seemed to be mortal enemies rubbed shoulders co-operatively throughout the text. The amount of money involved was staggering, but probably less than the two major parties had jointly spent. Dedication and obligation were good substitutes for cash. The network covered the whole of the United States, and if anything was surprising it was that it was at grass-roots level. There were those startling names but there were not all that many. The influence they had was almost the traditional party influence of the big city.

He patted the pages together and pressed his button. When the duty officer came he said, “The car to Flushing Airport in ten minutes. The chopper to LaGuardia and the Cessna to Washington. Phone Mr. Harper and tell him I’m on the way. I’m going down to Dempsey right now.”

Dempsey was beginning to look alive again. Nolan looked at him.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. If you want to write to the girl let me have it when I get back and I’ll get it over in the embassy bag. They’ll get it to her. Just personal stuff. Understood?”

Dempsey nodded.

“Did your people agree to the deal.”

“They’ve left it to me.”

“I was thinking.”

“What?”

“Won’t they want to strangle the Soviets in public?”

“State could have done that years ago. That’s not how we play this ball game, my friend. Half the world would cheer the bastards for trying. And the other half would try not to let us see them laughing.”

It had taken Yuri Katin and his team two days and thirty thousand dollars to trace where Kleppe had been taken and another day to plan their operation. They were waiting for Moscow’s approval and meantime they had moved to the safe-house in Jackson Heights.

The cypher section at the Washington embassy had been working in shifts round the clock, answering questions and giving evaluations from His Excellency and his staff. The ambassador’s advice had been to pull out everyone with even the vaguest connection with Kleppe’s operation and leave the embassy to cope as best it could with the inevitable fireworks. Moscow’s acid response had been a request for his suggestions as to how they should pull out Kleppe and Dempsey. His Excellency had suggested that they consult Katin on that point.

De Jong always disliked dealing with anything important away from his own house, and Washington hotels were not his idea of civilized living.

He sat uneasily in the brocaded chair, his attention wandering from the paperback of Leaves of Grass . He was trying to decide exactly how far to go but so much depended on the reporter’s response. A nod may be as good as a wink to a blind horse but journalists had an occupational inclination to grind away for one more fact.

The knock at the door startled him for a moment and to recover his poise he carefully rearranged the glasses and bottles on the table before he walked slowly to the door.

Martin Schultz had interviewed de Jong dozens of times over the years. He found de Jong’s mixture of right-wing capitalism and genuine culture an interesting mixture, but the big man seldom proved useful beyond non-attributable background material. But he was a useful part of the Washington jig-saw puzzle.

Schultz took the whisky that de Jong offered him and leaned back in his chair.

“How are things, Mr. Schultz, in the nation’s powerhouse?”

Schultz smiled. “Disturbed is the word I would use, Mr. de Jong. Or maybe agitated is nearer the truth.”

De Jong smiled back. “You surprise me. The nation’s capital disturbed or agitated at the prospect of peace and prosperity? Come now. There must be more than that.”

“We’ve had reports that Powell and his wife are in the process of divorce. Is that true?”

“My dear fellow, Presidents never get divorced. A woman who divorced a President would be a fool and a President who divorced his wife would be certifiable. I’ve heard gossip but not on that score.”

Schultz looked directly at de Jong.