The Twentieth Day of January

CHAPTER 17

All that Nolan knew about Dempsey indicated that he was not a trained operator, but he was intelligent enough to have marshalled the nationwide resources that the Soviets had made available. He had that perpetually youthful air that successful actors have. Eyes that were blue and amused, and an alertness that was cloaked by a deceptive casualness.

“Have you had enough to eat, Mr. Dempsey?”

Dempsey nodded, smiling. “Give the cook my compliments. I’ll recommend him to my friends.”

“Is there anything else you want.”

“Just to get the hell out of here.”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The lazy eyes smiled. “No. But I guess you’ll enjoy telling me.”

Nolan waited for a few seconds.

“Would you like to talk about Kleppe?”

“Not particularly.”

“How about we talk of Siwecki?”

“You talk. I’ll listen.” Dempsey’s eyes were suddenly hard and alert.

“You know he was murdered together with his wife?”

“I read it in the papers.”

“Did you regret the murder?”

Dempsey shrugged. “I didn’t consider it in those terms.”

“The sentence for an accessory to murder is quite severe, Mr. Dempsey.”

Dempsey made no reply.

“There is evidence that you were an accessory to those murders, Mr. Dempsey.”

“So charge me, Nolan. Stop bullshitting.”

“Are you a member of the Communist party, Mr. Dempsey?”

Dempsey grinned. “What do you want me to do, plead the Fifth?” Dempsey’s face went pale with anger as he leaned forward. “Let me quote you the Fifth, Nolan. ‘Nor shall any person be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.’ When does due process start, Mr. Nolan?”

“Not at the moment. But if you prefer the formality I’ll start with holding you on a homicide charge.”

“What homicide?”

“The murder of Mr. and Mrs. Siwecki, Miss Angelo, and a CIA officer in New York named Steiner.”

“How did I murder them?”

“You were a prime accessory, you fixed it in conjunction with Kleppe.”

“For what motive?”

“To prevent them giving evidence against you.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Bribery, collusion, inciting a strike, illegal payments, blackmail. There’s more, as you know, if you want it.”

“You know what position I hold in the new administration?”

“I know you were going to be Chief of Staff to Powell.”

“I still am.”

“No, Mr. Dempsey. It’s all over now.”

“Powell will have your guts, my friend.”

“Tell me about Halenka Tcharkova.”

Nolan saw Dempsey’s breathing stop for a moment, and then go faster. For the first time his eyes held a doubt.

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“She will be in great danger now.”

“Why?”

“Because Kleppe and you have failed. They don’t like failures, Mr. Dempsey. They aren’t going to like the international exposure they get from this little effort.”

Dempsey looked away, and Nolan pressed on.

“You knew that Kleppe was a KGB officer?”

“I don’t give a shit what he is, or was.”

“And the girl in Moscow? What about her?”

“She’s an established artist. They wouldn’t dare touch her.”

“You don’t believe that, Dempsey, do you?”

For a long time Dempsey was silent, and when he spoke Nolan heard the mixture of anger and fear in his voice.

“Isn’t it time you read me your Miranda card, Nolan?”

“I’m not a policeman.”

“It applies to the FBI just as much.”

“I’m not FBI.”

Dempsey folded his hands on the table, the knuckles white as frost-bite.

“I demand to see my lawyer. I answer no more questions until he arrives.”

“Who is your lawyer?”

“Oakes in Hartford.”

“He couldn’t act for you.”

“Why in hell not?”

“He has already signed a statement himself that incriminates you.”

“Of what?”

“Fixing the strike at Haig’s Electronics, paying twenty thousand dollars to Siwecki’s local, paying five thousand to Siwecki himself, and conspiring to illegally influence an election.”

“If you’ve got evidence why don’t you charge me? Why this crap?”

“Because those are the least serious of the charges.”

“Look, Nolan, you may have forced some lying statement out of Oakes, but you won’t do that with me.”

“Is Kleppe’s statement a lying statement, too?”

“You’ve kidnapped him as well as me?”

Nolan didn’t reply. He wanted to give Dempsey time to absorb what he had been told. Finally he stood up and pressed the bleeper. As he stood at the open door he said, “Let me know when you want to talk.”

Dempsey didn’t look up.

It was six o’clock when they roused Nolan from a deep sleep. Dempsey wanted to talk to him. He washed and shaved slowly, and dressed carefully before he went down to the basement.

Dempsey was stretched out on the concrete bed, on top of the sleeping bag. His face was pale and drawn, and the youthful look had gone.

Nolan dragged over a chair and sat alongside the bed. The blue eyes were paler as they looked at his face anxiously.

“I want to do a deal, Nolan.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll write out everything. Names, addresses, money, everything, but I won’t sign it, and I won’t give evidence, until you’ve done your part.”

“What’s my part?”

“You get Halenka and the little girl over here permanently.”

“What if she doesn’t want to come?”

“She will.”

“Will you dictate the main points as a précis right away?”

“If you want, but it depends on the deal.”

Nolan looked at the troubled blue eyes and spoke quite gently.

“You know the Soviets are unlikely to play ball.”

“She’s my wife, Nolan. We were married by proxy. It’s quite legal.”

“That won’t make any difference.”

“It makes her an American citizen.”

“That won’t make any difference either. There’s no percentage in it for them.”

Dempsey looked at him, weighing up the odds before he spoke.

“They would trade her for Kleppe.”

“He’s a prime witness.”

“There’s very little he can cover that I can’t cover.”

The bravado had suddenly gone. Dempsey was pleading now. The hostage he had given to fate all those years ago still controlled his thinking. It passed through Nolan’s mind that if some diplomatic oaf had not alienated this man in 1968 neither of them would be standing in the steel-clad interrogation room now.

“He’s their man, Dempsey. He must be their top man in the US. A court may not believe your evidence, and Moscow would dismiss it all as a ridiculous plot by the CIA.”

“I won’t write a word, Nolan, until I know.”

“You’ll only have my word. Nothing more.”

“I’ll accept that.”

After Nolan spoke to Harper he did not go back to Dempsey. He walked down the driveway of the house and then to the shore of the bay.

It was bitterly cold as he stumbled over the shingle, and the snow still lay in hard icy lumps between the stones at the edge of the breakwaters. The sea looked heavy and solid under the black clouds, unfriendly and menacing as the incoming tide bit at the sandy shore. Nolan stood looking across the bay, his mind trying to follow the threads of what had to be done. It was like working out all the variations three moves ahead in a chess game. It was possible but unlikely. There were always responses that had not been evaluated.

There was already enough evidence to satisfy Elliot and Bethel when it was presented to them. But there would be others whose attitudes would depend on party politics, and some of them could be part of Kleppe’s network. He had seen the names in the black books from Kleppe’s water tank. Salvasan, the Republican National Chairman, had supported their investigation at the meeting with Harper, but from Oakes’s statement it looked as if the party Vice-Chairman, de Jong, already had some knowledge of what had gone on at the time of the Haig strike.

Harper had not been satisfied that Dempsey’s evidence would be enough. Enough to do what? It would depend on what the politicians decided to do. If it was a contested impeachment then Kleppe was not for sale, and if he were not for sale then there wouldn’t be Dempsey’s willing evidence. Which one was the key? Kleppe or Dempsey?

Nolan turned to walk back to the house and as the ice crackled under his feet on the marshy land he knew he had the answer in his head. He didn’t know what the answer was, but he knew it was there somewhere.

He walked down with the guard to Dempsey’s cell.

Dempsey was still lying stretched out on the sleeping bag, his eyes closed, but he was not asleep. As Nolan pulled up the chair alongside him Dempsey opened his eyes.

“Well?”

“I’m still talking with several people. The decision isn’t entirely mine. There’s one more question I need to ask, and I need the truth if I’m going to help you.”

“What is it?”

“Did Powell know what was going on?”

Dempsey swung his legs down so that he was sitting up. His hands massaged his face, his fingers rubbing his eyes. He looked up slowly at Nolan. “He was never told in so many words, but he knew all right.”

“He knew the strike was fixed?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t party to the fixing. He wasn’t party to any of it. He just went along, turning a blind eye and reaping the benefits.”

“Since he was elected have you given him specific instructions?”

“Yes.”

“The defence cuts, withdrawing troops from NATO. Those were your instructions?”

“Yes.”

“He knew where they came from?”

“Sure he knew. I told him.”

“Did he protest?”

“Nolan, he was riding a tiger. He daren’t get off or he’d have been eaten. And he knew it.”

“What was the Soviets’ ultimate aim?”

Dempsey shrugged. “God knows. I doubt if Kleppe knows.”

“Why did you go along with this?”

Dempsey looked up at Nolan’s face.

“You won’t ever understand, Nolan. I loved Halenka. I had enough money to give her anything she wanted. She didn’t want anything. I joined the Party as a gesture to her—to show that I loved her. She didn’t ask me to, she wasn’t all that impressed when I did it. She was no more a Communist than I was. She was just a girl. Those French bastards beat us up and put us in jail. I wrote to our embassy and they left us to rot. Kleppe got us out. OK, they had an interest. I was in love with a Soviet girl. Some day I might be useful. It was years before they approached me. I’d almost forgotten about Kleppe. But I hadn’t forgotten about Halenka. And I hadn’t forgotten that some pig in our embassy had given us the thumbs down. Just a nod and the French would have released us. I was nineteen or twenty. Halenka was eighteen. What the hell danger were we to the United States?”

There were tears of anger and frustration in Dempsey’s eyes as he looked at Nolan for an answer.

“It was stupid, Dempsey, I give you that.”

“No, my friend, it was more than that, it was deliberate, inhuman. She was pregnant, and she was my girl. And I was a US citizen born and bred. And because I scratched my name on a piece of paper they let us rot. The Soviets didn’t let us rot, they got us out. Our embassy didn’t make the rules. They carried out the rules that Washington laid down. I bought a Washington Post at Orly the day they let me out. D’you know what the main news item was? The President was defending his bribe-taking crony who he’d nominated as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”

Dempsey trembled with anger, and Nolan sensed that he was creating resistance by his questions.

“D’you want something to eat?”

Dempsey sighed and shook his head. And at that moment Nolan’s radio bleeped and a message came through that there was an urgent phone call for him.

It was Harper speaking from Washington.

“I’ve had a call from Powell’s secretary. He wants to see me. What’s the position at your end?”

“I’m going to get a statement from Kleppe or an interview taped with a witness present. And then I shall do the deal with Dempsey.”

“How long do you need?”

“Twenty-four hours. Maybe a little longer.”

“Is there any chance that there were witnesses when your team picked up Dempsey?”

“None. He was driving his car. The street was empty. I’ve seen them do it. Even when you know what’s gonna happen you don’t absorb it.”

“If Powell raises any question about Dempsey I’ll have to give a denial.”

“I don’t think he will.”

“You’ve seen MacKay’s report on Mrs. P?”

“Yes. Interesting, but it doesn’t help us.”

“When will you be ready for another meeting with Elliot and Bethel?”

“Sunday afternoon?”

“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.

“What gossip have you heard?”

De Jong moved around in his chair as if being comfortable was much more important than what he had to say. He refilled their glasses and leaned back.

“D’you know Harper?”

“Morton Harper, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not my area but I meet him from time to time.”

“All our conversation is off the record, yes?”

“Whatever you say.”

He put down his notebook and took up his drink.

“I’ve got a feeling that he’s playing footsie with the Democrats. Have you heard anything on these lines?”

“Not a thing. What’s he doing?”

“A little bird tells me that he’s having Dempsey investigated.”

“Andrew Dempsey?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he after?”

“I’m not really sure, but there were some killings up in Hartford a few weeks back and I gather from my people there that there was talk of a strike some years back and Dempsey was involved in some way that might have involved Powell in election offences.” De Jong leaned forward, put down his glass, and wiped his hands on a linen handkerchief as if he had been soiled by both the glass and the rumours.

“Can I pursue this, Mr. de Jong?”

“As long as my name is not brought into it, certainly. Mind you, it may be a wild goose chase. These things often are.”

Schultz smiled and stood up.

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Yes. Do that, my friend. Do that.”