Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“If the state of his health made it sensible for him to live overseas would he still be entitled to the pension?”

“Certainly.”

“And finally, without giving a specific undertaking, can I take it that there would be no question of leaking details in the future about this operation?”

“It would be impossible, and unwise, to give any written guarantees but, so far as it is possible, a very supportive attitude would be taken by the administration. They would have no reason to behave otherwise.”

“That’s all I need to know, sir.”

Harper smiled. “You sound as if you have started thinking through your proposition to Mrs. Powell already.”

“I have.”

“All I can do is wish you luck.”

Nolan and MacKay were at the door when Harper’s telephone rang. He held up his hand.

“This might be for you, Nolan.”

Harper lifted the receiver and listened. He waved them back into the room and pointed to the chairs. He was listening intently and finally he said, “Send it in to me right away.” He put the receiver back quietly and carefully before he looked up.

“There’s a piece going in the Post tomorrow morning about the CIA investigating politicians in Hartford. They’re bringing in the copy now. The Post have offered us an opportunity to comment.”

There was a knock on the door and a girl brought in a sheet of typed paper. When she had gone Harper read it aloud.

“The heading is ‘CIA investigation in Hartford’ followed by an interrogation mark. I quote. ‘During routine inquiries related to the recent murder in Hartford of a retired trades-union official, his wife, and a secretary in the office of the city’s District Attorney, it became clear that investigations have not been limited to the local police department.

‘In the course of talking with various local citizens it seems that a Washington agency is also investigating the crimes. There are reports that the agency concerned is the CIA and the investigations cover local politicians of the Republican Party and the circumstances of a strike some years ago at the plant in East Hartford of Haig Electronics.

‘So far, the chief of police, J. R. Henney, the president of Haig Electronics, Fred L. Haig, and officials of the District Attorney’s office have refused to comment.

‘With Hartford the power-base of the Powell election campaign, there is speculation that President-Elect Powell could be faced with the embarrassing task of deciding whether some of his local supporters have possibly allowed their enthusiasm to involve themselves with undesirable local elements.

‘The acting White House press officer denied all knowledge of the investigation. A spokesman for the CIA said, brackets, leave blank for statement, brackets off.’”

Harper threw the sheet angrily on to his desk.

“Some bastard is leaking something somewhere. That’s no bloody accident. It stinks of a leak. Any ideas, Nolan?”

“No. They could have found out about me being in the area easily enough. Somebody in the police department could have linked my investigation with the murders, but nobody except Oakes could possibly link me with Powell. And Oakes would lose his Senate seat, his business, and face criminal charges if this came out. I don’t understand it. Who gains any advantage in doing this?”

Harper reached for the telephone.

“It could be that bastard, O’Connor. I can’t believe he would, but there’s only the Democrats that could gain.” He spoke to the operator. “Find me Mr. O’Connor, the Democratic Chairman.”

The call came back almost immediately.

“Mr. O’Connor. That matter we discussed here a week or two back with Salvasan, Elliot and Bethel. You remember?… Yes… There’s a small piece in the Post tomorrow that links our investigation with the Hartford killings and vaguely with Powell… no I don’t think so, we can deal with it… yes. Who have you mentioned it to, may I ask… you’re quite sure of that… agreed… agreed. If anybody pulls the plug on this there will be a lot of bodies go down the pike… I’m sure. I just wanted to hear it from you… of course. Well done… goodnight.”

He slammed down the phone and shook his head.

“No, it’s not him. He doesn’t want to know what’s going on. He’s too shrewd an operator to get involved. Nolan. See what you can find out from the Post . Use Fowler as a contact.” He turned to look at MacKay.

“Maybe you should go tonight?”

MacKay looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.

“Right, sir. Can your people lay on transport for me?”

Harper reached for the phone.

“Drive him to Dulles, Nolan, and I’ll see what they’ve got to get him to Hartford.”

There were only three men now at the safe-house in Hartford, and as MacKay stood at the window he could see the snow ploughs working to clear the runways at the airfield. Great curtains of snow curved up each side of the yellow machines and more was falling, slowly and quietly; building up into hillocks and valleys where the terminal buildings diverted the wind. It was the 23rd of December and it was going to be a white Christmas. But it wasn’t much of a present that he was bringing for Laura Powell and her young son. Maybe she had had enough of Powell and wouldn’t give a damn what happened to him.

He turned away from the window; the light was going now and there were things he had to do. He bathed and shaved and put on his blue suit and the black brogues. On the table he laid out Dempsey’s report, and in a separate envelope the photographs of Powell and the girl. He hoped he wouldn’t need to go that far. They could be counter-productive.

Nolan had gone off to the Powell house to ensure that there were no problems with the White House security men for MacKay’s visit. He radioed back to the safe-house that Laura Powell was not expected to leave the house that evening.

The snow was deep and crisp as Nolan’s driver came on to the side-road but on the main road it had packed down from the flow of vehicles and the snow tyres got good purchase on the road surface.

The Powell house was on a small private development of ranch-style bungalows. There were other cars parked outside the house and half a dozen men stood near the white picket fence. MacKay could see at least two men at the side of the house. Somebody had swept a narrow pathway up to the front door. There were lights on in the house and MacKay could see the lights of a Christmas tree in the front room.

Nolan introduced him to the chief of the guard detail, who walked with him in single file to the door of the bungalow. He rang the bell and they both waited, their breath misting in the cold air.

An elderly man answered the door. It was Laura Powell’s father.

“Mr. Bridger, this is Mr. MacKay. He’s been sent from Washington to see Mrs. Powell. We’ve checked him. He’s OK.”

The old man looked over his glasses at MacKay.

“You’d better come in, mister. She’ll be down in a moment. She’s just taken Sammy his medicine.”

MacKay shook his coat outside the door. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

The old man showed him into the room with the Christmas tree.

“It’s his chest. He’s subject to bronchitis. He’s much better today. I’ll get her. Sit down.”

MacKay automatically looked around the room, but he absorbed very little. His mind was on his mission and suddenly it seemed all too possible that she could tell him to go to hell. Then the door swung open and she was there.

She was prettier than he had expected but the shadows under her eyes were not from make-up.

She was wearing a black wool-knit dress with pearls and looked more calm and capable than he had expected. And younger, too.