Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

His body slumped as he sat back on the desk.

“I could write, of course. Maybe a syndicated column on European politics. Switzerland’s right in the middle of it all. There’s quite an American community out there.”

“You need a rest first, Logan. A few months doing nothing.”

“Maybe you’re right. Keep a low profile and let it blow over.”

He waved his hand at the files and papers on his desk.

“It’ll take a few days to clear things up.”

“They won’t give you that much time.”

He looked up sharply, unhealthy red spots of anger on his cheeks.

“It’s not up to them, Laura. I haven’t decided yet what I shall do. Are you staying somewhere?”

“I’m booked into the Hilton as Mrs. Nolan.”

He stood up, gathering his tattered dignity around him.

“I’ll arrange for one of my staff to take you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll think about it tonight. I’ll phone you in the morning.”

She reached for the two envelopes but his hand came down on them.

“Leave those with me, Laura. I want to study them again.”

“Don’t do anything silly, Logan. They want to help you. They’re bending over backwards to avoid unpleasantness.”

“The shits.”

He bent and kissed her brusquely, and phoned for a car.

He stood at the office door and watched as she walked with one of his drivers down the long corridor. At the far end she turned and waved. He wanted to wave back, but he couldn’t.

For an hour Powell sat at his desk reading and rereading parts of Dempsey’s and Kleppe’s statements. There were things that he was well aware of, and things of which he was completely ignorant, but with the vast majority he knew that he had ignored them deliberately. He had chosen not to notice, to turn a blind eye. But subconsciously he had known. He threw down the sheaf of paper, pulled out the photographs and felt a sudden wave of self-disgust as he realized that even in the middle of this nightmare the girl’s body still aroused him. In a compulsive reflex he took out his pocket book and found a page at the back.

He pulled over the red phone and dialled the New York number. His heart leaped as the receiver was lifted at the other end. A man’s voice answered.

“794106. Can I help you?”

“Who is that?”

“Roper, CIA, who is that?”

He slowly replaced the receiver. It was like some omen. A sign from the Fates. He hadn’t believed that she really was in custody. Maybe the public already knew. Maybe they had leaked it and were leaving him to sweat. He reached for the radio and found the dial to the news station.

“…Vice-President-Elect Markham in New York today said that yesterday’s statement by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was premature. President-Elect Powell had not yet discussed with the Joint Chiefs any details of his intended cuts in the defence budget. In questions afterwards the Vice-President-Elect made clear that General Macy’s statement had not endeared him to the new administration. In Johannesburg fighting today reached the city centre and both the…” Powell switched off.

He picked up the envelopes, stood up slowly and walked to the door. The corridor was empty as he walked back to his private suite of rooms.

Nolan stood by the special switchboard that had been installed for Powell, to control and monitor Powell’s calls, and now he dialled the special number at the Hilton. She sounded frightened.

“This is Nolan. Are you OK?”

“Yes, I’m out of breath. I’ve only just come in, and I heard the phone ringing.”

“How did it go?”

“He was angry and upset but I think he’ll do it. He said he wanted to think about it overnight but I think he didn’t want to have it look like he was a pushover. He talked about us all going to Switzerland and him having a writing career. Would that be possible?”

“I guess so.”

“They wouldn’t leak it after he resigned, would they?”

“No way. You can rest assured. How about you? It must have been an ordeal.”

“Once we were talking it was OK. But I felt so sad for him. The shock was terrible for him. He looked like an animal that had been shot. Not knowing what had happened but knowing that it was dying. Even you would have been sorry for him, Mr. Nolan.”

“We’re all sorry, Mrs. Powell. I voted for him.”

“Why?”

He gave a sharp laugh. “I was sick of politicians.”

“Maybe it’s best left to politicians, after all.”

“Is the guard there?”

“Yes, there’s a gentleman outside and another in the hallway inside.”

“OK. Will you telephone me tomorrow when you hear from him?”

“Yes, I will.”

When he hung up Nolan pulled over a chair, and sat with the operator watching the lights on the switchboard. Powell’s offices and living quarters had special red indicators, and none of them was alight.

Just before midnight Harper phoned.

“What’s the situation, Nolan?”

“Nothing happened. He left his office not long after Mrs. P had gone. He went to his own quarters.”

“Who has he phoned?”

“He tried to get the girl in New York.”

“But he must know she’s in custody.”

“Yep. But he phoned. Mrs. P says that he took it pretty badly. He’s probably in shock. But she felt sure he was going along with it.”

“I’ve spoken to her. No other calls at all?”

“No. None.”

“I thought he might try Elliot or Bethel, and try to work on them.”

“Not so far, he hasn’t.”

There was a long silence, and then Harper spoke again.

“Has he got any kind of radio in there, walkie-talkie maybe?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“God. We should have checked before. Find some excuse to go in there. Take him a telegram or a letter. He doesn’t know you. See what you can see. The bastard might try some desperate throw like calling out the Army or something.”

“I doubt if they’d turn out for him after today’s snub for Macy. I’ll check sir, and I’ll call you back.”

“OK. Meantime I’ll see if the security signals people know anything.”

There were piles of mail for Powell tied in bundles with string, and a dozen telegrams. He ripped the telegrams open and read them. He picked out one that said “Congratulations, give ’em hell. Orange County Republicans.”

He walked slowly down the corridor, and at Powell’s door he hesitated with his hand raised to knock. It was better to pretend that he thought the suite was empty and walk in.

He turned the big brass handle slowly and tested it in case it was bolted. But the heavy door opened easily.

There was just the light from a reading lamp and a faint acrid smell of burning. And then he saw Powell. He was lying alongside a tapestry chair, his jacket hanging from the arm of the chair. There was a fat stubby bottle on its side on the carpet and a small metal container.

He rolled Powell on to his back, but as soon as he saw the blue around his lips and nose he knew that he was dead. He slid back an eyelid. The pupil was grossly dilated. He hurried back to the door and locked it.

He sniffed, and followed the smell to the bathroom. Papers had been burnt in the washbasin. The white porcelain was smudged with a sooty deposit and there was a wet black slush of charred paper at the wastehole. To give himself time to clear his mind he slowly washed down the debris and cleared the bowl before walking back to the sitting-room.

The bottle was empty and it smelt of brandy which matched the label. The gummed label on the metal container said “One tablet only, for sleep” and the maker’s label said “Modiren 2.5mg.” There was one yellow tablet on the carpet beside Powell’s face.