The Twentieth Day of January

CHAPTER 19

At the hotel, Laura Powell waited with Nolan until they were joined by an FBI man who took them both to a private suite.

Elliot, Bethel and Harper were already there. Elliot introduced her to the others and then turned awkwardly, his hand on Bethel’s shoulder, to face her.

“I felt you should meet us all, my dear, so that you knew what you had been told came from us. And also to assure you that if you were able to persuade the President-Elect that what we are suggesting is the wisest course for him, then you have our assurance that our side of the bargain will be faithfully adhered to.”

“Could we talk about your side of this right now?”

“Of course, my dear, let us all sit down.”

They talked for ten minutes and she seemed to be satisfied.

Nolan said, “I’m taking you to your husband’s suite, Mrs. Powell. I think we should be making our way there.”

Nolan and Laura Powell walked slowly down the wide corridor, right to the end, and were shown into a large waiting-room. As they sat waiting, she said, “What did Logan say when he was told I wanted to see him?”

“There was no problem. No problem.”

Nolan’s eyes avoided her face.

“What happens afterwards?”

“We’ve booked you a suite at the Hilton in my name.” He smiled. “I’m afraid you’re Mrs. Nolan for tonight. My telephone number is on a card by the telephone in your sitting-room.”

A middle-aged secretary came through the door and smiled.

“He’s free now, ma’am.” And Laura Powell followed her down the thickly carpeted corridor. The secretary knocked at a door, opened it and then waved her in with a smile. Laura Powell had no doubt that their separate lives were well-known in Washington’s inner circles.

The room was large and impressive. The furniture heavy and ornate. Powell was standing behind a desk, listening on the telephone. He smiled and pointed to a chair in front of the big desk.

“…it’s an important committee, Eddie… of course. Well, call me tomorrow.”

He hung up and pressed a button on a white phone as he lifted it to his ear. “No more calls, Molly… what?… until I tell you. Good.”

He sat down, smiling at her.

“A nice surprise, Laura. I couldn’t believe it when they told me you’d called and were coming up. How on earth did you get through the snow?”

“Courtesy of the US Navy.”

“Good. I must say my ‘thank you’s’ to them.”

“How about you come out from behind the big desk, Logan Powell, and sit round here with the people?”

He laughed and walked round, pulling up the other chair to face her. She looked at him.

“How do you like it all, Logan?”

He leaned back, stretching his arms. “You know, Laura, I haven’t had much time to think about whether I like it or not.” He grinned. “I guess I like it. Who wouldn’t?”

“I’m the bringer of bad news.”

“What is it? Sammy?”

“No.”

“What then?”

She took a deep breath. “Have you seen Andy in the last few days?”

“No. But he’s had things to do. He’s busy, too.”

“He’s in custody, Logan.”

“Oh, Jesus. What’s he done? I know, it’s that bloody sports car. Speeding?”

“He’s made a statement.”

“About what?”

“About how you got the nomination for Governor and got elected. And how you got the Presidential nomination and got elected.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand, Laura. You’re talking in riddles.”

“There’s a committee already formed to impeach you.”

He stared at her, his eyes angry. “You’re crazy, Laura. This is jealousy taken too far.” He reached for the telephone. “I’ll arrange for transport home for you.”

“Don’t touch the phone, Logan. Very few people know. It would be a disaster.” And something in her voice stayed his hand.

She opened her handbag and took out the white envelope. “Read this. Don’t bluff any more. I’m your wife, and I love you.”

He folded back the sheets of stiff paper and started reading. It was fifteen minutes before he had finished, and his face was white when he looked back at her. His voice shook as he spoke.

“You don’t believe this, Laura? This is just the crap that people rake up as part of the political dog-fight.”

He tapped the papers with his finger. “This is going to cut off a lot of heads. I’ll see to that.”

“You must have known, Logan. You must have guessed that you couldn’t have done all that on your own. The most experienced politician in the country could hardly have done it. Nobody could do it as an outsider.”

“Where is Dempsey?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who gave you this stuff? Who told you about Dempsey?”

“A CIA officer.”

“What’s his name?” His hand hovered over the telephone.

She reached inside her handbag and took out the brown envelope. She handed it to him.

“They also gave me that.”

He opened the flap and took out the photographs. She saw his eyes close. When he opened his eyes to look at her his voice was a whisper.

“What shits. After all this time.”

He pushed the photographs back in the envelope carefully and meticulously, and she knew that he was playing for time.

“Tell me about this committee.”

“All I know is that it exists, and that they are drafting an impeachment document to bring to the Senate in the next few days, if possible before Christmas.”

“Why did they tell you all this?”

“They wanted to know if I would see you and break the news. They’ll let you resign. You could come back to us and we could just be a family again.”

“How many people know?”

“The Chief Justice, the Speaker, and some CIA people. Very few. They suggested that you resign on medical grounds. They have two heart specialists who could cover this.”

“They’re very confident, the bastards.”

“They’re not bastards, Logan. Your people were the bastards. Traitors.”

“I’m not the first Republican President to have support from the left. All the candidates court them. They always do.”

“They didn’t give you support, Logan. They committed crimes, they involved you. Your old friend Dempsey fixed the girl and the photographs. They killed Siwecki and his wife to stop them giving evidence. They killed Maria whatever-her-name-was because she sent the CIA to Siwecki. They put in millions of dollars of Russian money to get you elected. That’s not support, that’s corruption.”

“That’s what they did, not what I did.”

“Logan. Siwecki made a statement to the CIA before your people murdered him. That strike was contrived and you knew it. You knew it at the time and you went along with it.”

He looked at her. “Old Elliot and that fat bastard Bethel must have enjoyed all this. You, too.”

“They could just have gone ahead and hit you with this in public.”

“They didn’t not do that for my sake. They knew what it could mean to the country. Every bloody Congressman and Senator would have gone down with me and they know it. The public never liked politicians. They liked them even less after Watergate. This would bring the roof down on them all.”

“I don’t care about the others, Logan. I only care about you. Please think of us all. You, me, and Sammy.”

“How is Sammy?”

“He’s had bronchitis but he’s getting better.”

“How’s he making out?”

She shrugged. “It’s hard to say. He doesn’t say anything but his grades are down and I was called to see Smithson. He said Sammy was defiant to the staff.”

There was a long silence before Powell spoke again.

“You know, it’s odd. Up to a week ago I couldn’t really believe I’d made it. And now I can’t believe this.” He looked at her. “I’ll have to fight these bastards, you know, Laura.”

“You’d be lynched, Logan. Imagine the Washington Post when it was leaked. Imagine any paper in the country. Those photographs would be enough.”

“The media would know what it would do to the country. They might rally round for the country’s sake.”

“Each one waiting for the other to break the story. The editorial boards sniggering at their copies of the photographs. And Congress and the Senate sending every Bill back automatically. They’d cut you into shreds with real venom and feel holy while they did it.”

“Even if I resign the thing will be leaked.”

“I don’t think so. It would be a terrible responsibility if they did that after you’d resigned.”

“What the hell would I do?”

“You’d get the presidential pension. We could move to Europe on the grounds of your health.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’d spend a lifetime hating me.”

“My dear, I saw you and Andy Dempsey for the first time ten years ago tomorrow. Jimmy Rankin introduced me to you both. It was at a Christmas Eve dance held at the Women’s College. You had a Ché Guevara moustache and it looked terrible, and you made two very witty cracks that impressed me. Even when I found out later that they were Dorothy Parker originals I was still impressed. I’m still impressed now. Andy Dempsey was a smooth character but you were straight off the front page of Saturday Evening Post. Good, honest American, reliable and all the jazz, and I guessed that one day you’d be a professor. Preferably at Hartford, come the worst at Yale. There was a touch of Scott Fitzgerald about you, and I loved it. And I loved you. And I love you now.”

“Why?”

“The same way I should still love Sammy if somebody conned him into doing something stupid. He’d still be my Sammy, and you’re still my husband.”

“What about the photographs?”

She shrugged. “You probably felt lonely. And you probably resented my non-co-operation. It doesn’t matter.”

“I remember that night we met. You wore a white dress with big orange poppies all over it and an orchid in your hair.”

“Eight out of ten, it was an hibiscus.”

“Have you ever been to Switzerland?”

“No.”

For a moment his face was alight with hope and then it collapsed to the grim lines of tension again.

“It’s phoney you know, Laura, all this crap they’ve scratched around for. You could do the same to any man in the Senate or Congress. They’ve all got skeletons in the cupboard. Women, booze, backhanders, conspiracies, the lot.”

He sat on the edge of the desk looking at her. Anxious for her agreement but guessing that it would not be forthcoming. And she sat without speaking, sickeningly aware of his indifference to the people who had been murdered, and those who were now in custody. His mind was still searching for a way to hold on to the prize. He stood up suddenly with manic energy, his fist pounding the desk top.

“I could have the FBI round them up. The whole damn bunch. For treason. God, I had that bastard Harper in here a few days ago. He never said a word. Just sat there in that same chair saying ‘Yes sir, no sir.’ And all the time he knew.”

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.

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.

She smiled indulgently as he looked at the long slim legs, the neat black bush, the flat young belly, and she leaned forward as he looked at her full firm breasts. His eyes moved to her pretty face when the words distracted him on ITN’s News at Ten.

“…do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute…”

And only for a second or two did his eyes wander to the screen where a tall man in a dark suit stood with his hand on a Bible, in front of Chief Justice Elliot. But it was a second too long, and he heard her say, “That is the bloody limit.” And that, I am sorry to say, was that. It was Monday the twentieth of January.