Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

Nolan picked up the bottle, the tablet, the metal container, its lid, and stuffed them in his pocket. At the door he looked back again at Powell’s body as if it might be a mistake. Then he closed the door behind him and pocketed the key.

At the switchboard he lifted the scrambler telephone and nodded to the operator.

“Give me a line and then walk down the corridor that way.” He pointed towards the main stairs. “And don’t come back until I signal to you.”

He waited until the girl had walked off then dialled the number. Harper answered immediately.

“Harper.”

“Go over to the scrambler.”

Nolan heard the button go down.

“Done.”

“He’s dead. Killed himself with brandy and pills.”

There was a long silence before Harper spoke.

“Christ. Are you sure?”

“Very, very sure.”

“Oh, God. Let me think.”

“I’ve already thought.”

“Go on, then.”

“The two doctors to confirm the heart attack. I’ve removed the evidence. Notify his wife. Let her believe the statement about a coronary. She’ll guess, but she’ll go along with it. Then get the Vice-President-Elect. Elliot can tell him the news. And get a team to deal with the press.”

There was silence at the other end.

“OK. Hold the fort until I get over there. Don’t tell a soul.”

Nolan stood with the FBI man at the side entrance to the hotel, holding the portable radio to his ear. They were networking a concert from the Hollywood Bowl. The orchestra were well into the overture to Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg when the music was faded down and there was the crackle of paper near a microphone and a shocked voice began to read a bulletin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we break off our scheduled programme to bring you a news flash from Washington.

“In an unconfirmed agency report we are told that the White House has just… a moment please… we can now read you the full statement that was issued from the White House at nine fifty-two this evening. I read verbatim.

“‘At approximately eight-thirty this evening, the twenty-fourth of December, President-Elect Logan B. Powell collapsed and died at the Sheraton Hotel.

“‘The two medical experts who were called in immediately, state that death was due to a massive coronary thrombosis.’ Message ends.

“There will be further bulletins from this station as more news becomes available. Stay tuned for further announcements. Our programmes will be modified during the period up to the early morning newscast when there will be special programmes covering the career of Logan Powell.”

Even before the news bulletin announced Powell’s death, Oakes had been fetched from his bath to take a telephone call from New York. He stood naked and wet with a small towel draped round his middle.

“Oakes. Who in hell is that? I was taking a bath.”

“It’s de Jong, Mr. Oakes. Listen to the radio or the TV for the newscasts.”

“What is it?”

“Powell’s dead.”

“My God. What happened?”

“They say it was a heart attack. That’s what’s going to be announced anyway.”

“What happens now?”

“The Vice-President-Elect becomes President-Elect.”

“Markham?”

“Yes.”

“Good God. But you hinted that there was a possibility of Powell being impeached.”

“There was. Maybe they went a bit too far when they gave him the news.”

“What about Dempsey?”

“I understand the CIA took him into custody a few days ago.”

“Did Markham know what was going on?”

“No way.” He chuckled. “I wish I could see those bastards in Moscow when the news gets through.”

“How did you get the news so soon?”

De Jong laughed softly. “We’ve been at this game a long, long time, my friend. And we’re playing on our own home ground. It ain’t just the Russkis who can play chess. Anyway, go and listen to the news.”

“OK. I will. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my friend. Happy Christmas.”

At two o’clock in the morning on the third day after Christmas there was very little traffic on the road from Brunswick to Helmstedt but the police had put barriers across the road half a mile before the check-point, and they were guarded by a platoon of the Black Watch and two Field Security officers.

Lights blazed on both sides of the check-point, and on the West German side the big black Mercedes stood with its engine running to keep the occupants warm. When a torch flashed twice on the far side of the striped poles Nolan got out of the car and walked slowly to the check-point. From the other side a man in a heavy coat and astrakhan hat walked forward so that they met each side of the barrier.

Nolan spoke first. “ Pa-Russki eta karta ?”

And the reply came. “ Nyet. Pa-Russki eta reka .”

The red and white pole was lifted, and Nolan escorted the Russian to the car. He opened the door and the Russian bent to look inside at the passenger, his breath clouding in the cold night air. He closed the door and nodded to Nolan who walked with him across the check-point, past the second barrier to a Black Zil. The Russian opened the rear door.

She was prettier than he had expected but the big brown eyes looked apprehensive. The young girl in her silver fox furs was asleep in her mother’s arms. Kowalski’s face still showed the bruises and there was a suppurating scar from his eye to his ear. Nolan closed the door and straightened up.

In silence the two of them walked back to the guardhouse and raised their arms.

Kleppe got out awkwardly and walked with his hands in his coat pockets towards the Russian, who grinned and shook his hand.

Kowalski was carrying the child, and Halenka Tcharkova walked solemnly beside him.

When they had crossed into their respective zones the barriers came down. The KGB man and Nolan shook hands and walked back to their cars.

Dempsey was waiting at the old-fashioned house off Husaren Strasse. He was standing with Anders at the open door, shivering with anxiety despite his warm clothes.

When he saw the girl they stood facing each other, Dempsey was speechless. He just stood looking at her until she put out her arms. He clung to her, his head on her shoulder until Nolan led them both inside.

It was three hours later when Nolan stood at his bedroom window unbuttoning his shirt. There was a British Army platoon guarding the house, and Nolan couldn’t help contrasting the present heavy protection with the Paris embassy’s indifference all those years ago. His tired brain tried to recall the words of a poem he had once heard.

He turned away from the window and lifted his jacket off the back of a chair. He wanted to get his mind off the whole damn thing. What he wanted was a girl. He fished out the small, brown leather book, and checked a number. He held it in his hand as he lifted the receiver. He had dialled two numbers when he stopped. He stood silently for a moment then said, “Shit,” jiggled the telephone to get the unit operator, and said “Sergeant, get Mrs. Sally Nolan, Washington 947210, person to person.”

He was asleep when the call came through, and it rang for four minutes before the operator gave up.

She was really rather young for MacKay, but she was so deliciously pretty. He had laid siege to her for ten days and that evening he had been crowned with success.

With a bottle of Mouton Cadet 1971 they watched a re-run of Love Story on TV. And after that poignant reminder that life is short and pleasures fleeting, she slid off her tight sweater and stepped out of her skirt, so that as he sat on the divan she stood in front of him naked, except for her tan coloured nylon stockings, and a small white suspender belt.