Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

He stood up. “MacKay, ma’am. James MacKay.” For a split second he wondered why he had said that American “ma-am.” Too many films and Jimmy Stewart.

“Sit down, Mr. MacKay. Would you like a drink?”

“I’d love a whisky if you have one.”

“Water, ice, soda-water?”

“Nothing, thank you. Just the whisky.”

She handed him the whisky and poured herself a coke. As she sat down she moved a cushion and then raised her glass, smiling.

“A happy Christmas, Mr. MacKay.”

“And to you, ma’am.”

“I expect my husband sent you down. What can I do for you?”

He put down his drink and looked at her face.

“No. I was sent down to see you by Chief Justice Elliot and Sam Bethel.”

She frowned. “I’ve already told Logan and Andrew Dempsey that I shall come up for the inauguration.”

“How well do you know Mr. Dempsey, Mrs. Powell?”

Her hand trembled as she put down her glass.

“Are you one of Dempsey’s people?”

“No.” And he repeated his question. “How well do you know Dempsey, Mrs. Powell?”

She shrugged. “I’ve known him for years. We all knew one another long before Logan and I got married.”

“What sort of man is he?”

“Handsome, rich, charming—a loner.”

“Did he have much influence over your husband?”

She looked down at her knees and flicked imaginary specks from her skirt. Then she looked up and as she spoke her voice trembled.

“More than I had, I’m afraid.”

“In what way?”

She looked at him. “Hadn’t you better tell me what this is all about?”

“There’s a problem concerning the relationship between Mr. Powell and Mr. Dempsey and we need your help.”

“Who’s we?”

“The Chief Justice sent me to ask your help.”

“Why didn’t he contact me himself or send a note with you?”

“I think you will understand when I have told you the problem.”

“You’d better explain then, rather than ask me questions.”

“May I ask you just one more question?”

She shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Would you help your husband if you could?”

She looked down at her empty glass and slowly put it on the low table between them.

“Probably. It depends.”

“It’s almost certain that he will be impeached, Mrs. Powell.”

Her hand went to her mouth. It covered her lips in a schoolgirl gesture. And when she spoke it was a whisper.

“I don’t believe it. Who are you, Mr. MacKay? This is some crazy game you’re at.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m a CIA officer. Would you like to see my ID card?”

“Yes. I would.” There was a lift of the pretty chin, and a distinct air of hockey-sticks.

He took out his wallet and then the card. He leaned over and slid it across the table to her. She leaned forward to look at it. Ostentatiously not touching it, as if it might be contagious. She looked up at his face.

“What’s it all about?”

As briefly as he could, he told her of Dempsey and Kleppe, and the Soviet network. Of Siwecki and Maria Angelo, and when he was finished she shook her head.

“I don’t believe it, Mr. MacKay. This is just political mud-slinging like Watergate. I don’t believe it.”

MacKay bent and picked up the white envelope. He squeezed open the end and checked its contents. He held it out to her.

“That’s Dempsey’s statement. We picked him up a few days ago. I could arrange for you to speak to him, or Mr. Speaker, or the Chief Justice.”

She unfolded the paper and started reading. MacKay sat silent and tense.

After the first two pages she read at random through to the end, turning the pages slowly as she read. Without looking at him she leaned forward and handed them back. She shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Mr. MacKay, I don’t believe it. It’s too far-fetched, too…” she shrugged, “…too extravagant. It’s politicians and I don’t trust politicians—any of them.”

“A lot of it has been checked, Mrs. Powell. His bank accounts and electoral contributions have been checked. It all tallies.”

“That can be forged or manipulated. That’s what the CIA is for, isn’t it?”

“Would you like to speak to Chief Justice Elliot?”

“No.”

“To Dempsey?”

“No.”

MacKay reached for the brown envelope and put it on his lap.

“You wouldn’t save him from this disgrace?”

“Good God, why should he listen to me?”

He looked at the flushed face and said softly, “Because you love him.”

She shivered as she stared back at him. But she shook her head.

“He wouldn’t believe me. He would say what I say. That it’s political mud-slinging.”

“There is other evidence that would be used.”

“Like what?”

He handed her the brown envelope.

“Like that. I’m sorry.”

She laid back the flap and took out the photographs. There were four, and she looked at each one a long time. Then she slid them back into the envelope, laid it on the table, and looked up at him.

“I guess those would be enough.” She said quietly.

MacKay sighed. “I’m terribly sorry that you had to be shown those things.”

“By courtesy of the CIA?”

“No, ma’am. Courtesy of the KGB. Dempsey provided the girl, and arranged the photography.”

“And who’s the lucky lady?”

“Dempsey’s girlfriend. One of them anyway.”

There was a knock on the door and her father put his head in.

“Would you two young people like a coffee?”

“No. It’s all right, Dad. We shan’t be long.”

She turned back to look at MacKay as the door closed.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to come back to Washington with me. See your husband. Show him Dempsey’s statement, Kleppe’s statement and the summary. Convince him that if he doesn’t resign he’s finished. Politically and privately. And that for the country it would be absolute disaster.”

“When?” She whispered.

“Tonight. We’ll go by helicopter straight to Washington.”

She shook her head. “It’s incredible. It’s like some terrible nightmare.” She sighed. “I’ll tell Dad that it’s to do with the inauguration. He can look after Sammy.” She turned and rested her hand on his arm. “It is all true, isn’t it? It’s not some terrible plot?”

“No. It’s true, I’m afraid. Don’t hurry.”

Half an hour later she was ready, with a small case and list of instructions for her father. MacKay took the list and wrote out a telephone number and handed it to the old man.

“If you need to contact Mrs. Powell, sir, just get that number and ask for me. James MacKay. Don’t hesitate to phone if you need to. It won’t be more than a couple of days.”

She kissed the old man and turned to wave as they walked down the drive. The snow was thick and there was plenty more to come.

The car slid and lurched as they set off for the airport and MacKay prayed that nothing would happen to change her mind.

The snow-ploughs were working on the main runway and the chopper was nowhere in sight. A yellow truck came from the terminal building and turned in front of them and led them through caverns of snow to the far perimeter. The Cessna was there and its cabin lights were on. As MacKay pulled up a man stamped over and opened the door.

“Instructions from Langley, sir. You’re to go in the Cessna to Floyd Bennett and the Navy will take you in one of their big choppers. It’s a virtual blizzard.”

The Navy gave them coffee and sandwiches at Floyd Bennett and then they walked across to the big Navy helicopter.

Two ratings were holding the metal steps and one of the crew reached down for Laura Powell. The captain came back to speak to them both.