The Twentieth Day of January

CHAPTER 7

MacKay contacted the CIA man at the US Consulate at Museumsplein. There was a long message from Nolan giving an estimate of Kleppe’s trade in diamonds and urging him to check for positive evidence of smuggling. It was also requested that he identified himself as CIA, not SIS.

He walked slowly from the Consulate to the Amsterdam police headquarters at Elandsgracht, and asked for Inspector van Rijk.

The Dutch and their police have a civilized tolerance about the facts of life. They do not find it incredible that men want to sleep with pretty girls, or that pretty girls might be willing to allow all sorts of exciting privileges in return for guilders, dollars, marks and yen. Or that there may be those in the community who prefer their sex in books and films. As long as everything is kept neat and tidy, and on the administrative railway-lines, the vagaries of the human libido are accepted as realities.

But in two areas their fuses are shorter. One of the areas is hard drugs, and the other is diamonds. The special diamond squad in Amsterdam is constantly aware that a market’s reputation, which has taken a dozen decades to build, can be destroyed in a week. There’s not much goes on in the Amsterdam diamond market that the squad is not aware of. It doesn’t always do something about what it knows, because informers and sources might be identified that way; and there are more ways than one of skinning these particular cats. So when MacKay pushed his piece of paper across the Inspector’s desk he guessed that something very near honesty would be the best policy. A question or two would decide how near.

Inspector van Rijk pushed the paper back across the desk.

“Yes. They’re both big dealers. Both have international dealings.”

“If you particularly wanted Russian diamonds, which one would you go to?”

Van Rijk half-smiled and patted the ball back.

“You could get them from either.”

“At short notice?”

Van Rijk smiled openly.

“Mr. MacKay, these men deal in millions of dollars’ worth of stones every year. They can supply or buy anything, just so long as it exists.”

MacKay realized that it was going to have to be something very close to the truth that cracked this nut.

“Do you understand what I mean, Inspector, if I talk about ‘laundering’ money?”

“Yes. And to save you the question, yes, people do ‘launder’ diamonds from Russia.”

“Which of these two would be most likely to ‘launder’ diamonds from Russia?”

“Mijnheer van Elst.”

“Why him?”

“Because the other one is a Communist and he knows he would be suspect.”

“Is it illegal?”

“Indeed not. A man brings you Russian diamonds, you exchange them for South African diamonds to a slightly less value. There is no crime there.”

“So you have no objection to this sort of trade?”

“On the contrary, we have every objection. Particularly when they come from the Soviet Union. The official Soviet diamond dealing keeps absolutely to the rules. There is no need to ‘launder.’ But Soviet diamonds do come in unofficially and we object strongly. They can be used to depress the market, and we also have security objections.”

It was going to be almost the whole truth, so MacKay plunged in.

“We suspect a New York diamond dealer of working for the Soviets. We think he could be exchanging illicit Soviet diamonds for others. He has imported no Soviet diamonds so far as we know in the last ten years.”

Van Rijk shrugged.

“You mean Kleppe?”

MacKay sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“You know about him, then?”

Van Rijk stood up and walked over to a row of metal filing cabinets. He sorted through one of the drawers and pulled out two files. One thick one, and one which was almost empty. He sat down at the table and opened the thin file. There were three typewritten sheets and van Rijk read them through silently and slowly. Then he looked up at MacKay.

“I can’t show you these but I can tell you the parts that will interest you. But I shall need a request from Washington.”

“I’ll get CIA Langley to speak to you immediately.” Van Rijk shook his head slowly.

“It would have to be a request from the State Department to Foreign Affairs in the Hague.”

MacKay squinted sideways at van Rijk.

“I guess I’ll have to pass, Inspector. It would take days and I haven’t got days.”

He knew from the look on van Rijk’s face that the Dutchman didn’t believe his story. The Inspector sat there silently, waiting for him to continue. When he saw that the CIA man had nothing to add, van Rijk said, “Of course I could show you Kleppe’s file. He’s an American national.”

MacKay waited silently as the policeman opened the thick file and leafed through the pages. Van Rijk turned down the corners of several sheets and then looked up at him.

“It’s in Dutch so I’ll read it out for you. OK?”

“Fine.”

“Kleppe comes over here twice a year. He books in for two days at the Hilton. Pays the bill but he doesn’t stay there. He shacks up with a girl, Marijke van Aker. Very pretty, about twenty-eight, paints pot-boilers to be sold in Düsseldorf and Essen. He stays a week, usually. The first full day he buys a few stones at a number of merchant houses. Totals about ten thousand dollars. The second or sometimes the third day the girl goes to the Hague to a house on Groot Hertoginnelelaan.”

Van Rijk looked up smiling.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“No.”

“It’s the best whore-house in the Hague. Embassy people, politicians and film-stars. And very expensive. You don’t come out for less than a hundred and sixty guilders.”

MacKay tried to work it out in dollars but stopped calculating because he knew he would never remember the street. And van Rijk was going on.

“The girl goes to one of the private rooms and is visited by a man from the Soviet Embassy. Generally the same man. I can give you his name. He’s known KGB. He stays for an hour usually and he hands over a package which she brings back to Kleppe in Amsterdam.”

Van Rijk stopped. His eyebrows raised in query.

“So ask me.”

“Does he screw her?”

Van Rijk laughed. “Americans. Yes, he screws her, but that wasn’t the question I had in mind. I thought you might wonder how we know about the handover.”

“I’d guess you filmed it.”

“Right. Back to our mutual friend Kleppe. He exchanges the Russian stones for South Africans and Venezuelans. Van Elst filters the Russian stones through the market to other dealers and some as direct house-sales. Wholesale value of average purchase by Kleppe each trip about half a million dollars. Retail value about double, unmade-up. Five times that value as jewellery. Four months ago Kleppe made an extra trip. Using an Egyptian passport under the name Ali Sharaf he left Schipol on the Aeroflot flight to Moscow. He came back eight days later. Came back here to Amsterdam and took a flight the following day to New York via London. He neither bought nor sold diamonds.” He pursed his lips. “That’s about it, my friend.”

“Thanks. Can you give me the departure and return dates of the trip to Moscow and the flight numbers?”

“Sure.”

Van Rijk picked up a ball-point and, checking the file, wrote out the details on his pad, tore off the page and slid it across his desk to MacKay, who folded it twice and put it in his pocket.

“Can I invite you to a meal, Inspector?”

“Afraid not. We’ve got the English here tonight playing Ajax and I’ve got a ticket. Maybe next time, eh?”

They had fixed him an office-bedroom at the Consulate, and he sat down at the small desk and wrote out his report to Nolan. He ate while it was being encoded and transmitted, and then checked out the girl’s address in the telephone book.

It was an hour later when Nolan came through on the telephone.

“This report, Jimmy. Would your contact make a notarized statement?”

“They’d want a request from State.”

“Why isn’t Langley enough?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s their rules and regulations.”

“Right. You’re staying at the Consulate?”

“Yes.”

“Get them to transmit me photostats of those passenger lists. Both outward and return flights. OK?”

“OK.”

In Washington, the Netherlands ambassador was at the British embassy, so was Morton Harper. And medals were being worn to celebrate the anniversary of the declaration of independence by some part of the former empire. Harper and His Excellency van Laan had been allowed to retreat to the privacy of a spare bedroom. They sat like uneasy children on the spring beds, Harper with his hands in his pockets, and the ambassador with his head on one side expectantly.

“You remember, Your Excellency, that your people approached me a few months ago regarding one of your nationals in Lansing. It was thought that he might be concerned with a drug line?”

“Let’s not be too formal, Morton. I remember very well you gave me some unlikely story about needing the permission of the Secretary of State.”

Harper barely smiled. “I need some information most urgently from your police in Amsterdam. Can we trade?”

“What’s the information about?”

“A United States citizen named Kleppe who deals in diamonds. We think he’s been ‘laundering’ stones for the Russians.”

“I’ll be flying to the Hague at the week-end. I’ll bring anything we have back for you.”

Harper shifted his huge bulk uneasily.

“I need it in hours. There’s more to it than it sounds.”

Van Laan’s tongue explored a hollow tooth as he looked at Harper.

“I’ll go back to the embassy now. Just let me say my farewells to H.E.”

“The Dutchman in Lansing is working for us. He’s part of a Federal Bureau of Narcotics team. I can arrange for you to interview him, if you want.”

His Excellency stood up. “Thank you. We’ll talk about it some time. Meantime let me say ‘au revoir’ to Joe.”

Even with total co-operation it was seven o’clock next morning before Nolan was opening the brown envelope. It contained a single sheet of 6″ × 4″ microfiche and he walked over to the reader in the coding annexe and sat reading page after page of the translations of the files on Kleppe and van Elst. He had made a list of the pages that he wanted in hard copy and walked back to his office.

He phoned through to Harper and told him that he was moving his group, except the two surveillance teams, down to the house at Hartford. They had evidence now of criminal activity by Kleppe and they had established Kleppe’s contact with Dempsey. Both in New York and way back in the Paris days.

A US Navy helicopter took Nolan and his team from Floyd Bennett Field to Hartford. The Brainard Airport buildings were just visible from the house and there was an entry to the southbound carriageway of Highway 95 a mile from the main gates. The house had been built at the turn of the century for the retiring partner of one of Boston’s leading law firms, and stood in its own five acres of woods and landscaped gardens. It was secluded and ideal for the operation.

Nolan checked the Hartford files that covered Powell and his associates. There was very little useful material but there was one lead, Gary Baker, who worked as an investigator in the Hartford District Attorney’s office. He had been a CIA contact for a number of years and Langley had helped him from time to time in return. Nolan had met him a couple of times in the days when he had run the CIA’s New York office. Nolan telephoned him and fixed to see him after lunch at the DA’s office.

Gary Baker had the crew-cut look of a man who spent most of his time outdoors, and he gave Nolan an amiable welcome.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m doing a bit of background checking on Andrew Dempsey. I wondered if you’d got anything on file.”

“Nothing that would interest you. He’s clean as far as we’re concerned. Anyway, he’s a Washington responsibility now. It was in this morning’s papers. He’s been appointed Powell’s Chief of Staff.”

“Anything on Powell?”

Baker looked up quickly. “Like what?”

“Like anything you’ve got.”

“Local boy. Lived here all his life. His old man teaches at Yale. He was a lecturer there himself for a time, then he set up shop in town here as a business consultant.”

“Successful?”

Baker pursed his lips and shrugged.

“In a small way. He was barely established before he went into politics.”

“How did he get started?”

“He just came out of nowhere. He was one of six or seven possible runners. A complete outsider, then—boom—he was the Republican candidate.”

“How did he make it?”

“Nobody knows. There was the strike. That put him on the map locally, and a week after that he was the candidate. The GOP has had the State governorship in its pocket since Adam and Eve, so like all the others, the candidate became the Governor.”

“What was the strike?”

“It was about five years ago at Haig Electronics, a big plant on the other side of the river. Six thousand workers laid off. Most of their stuff goes to Detroit for the car plants. There were contingency delivery penalties, and Haig’s was very near to going down the pike. Powell was made arbitrator. Settled it in three days and that was it, I reckon. Fame and fortune.”

“Who appointed him?”

“Old man Haig agreed and the union local agreed.”

“Who was the union negotiator?”

“Siwecki, Tadeusz Siwecki. He was plant negotiator.”

“How come you remember so much, Gary? It’s a long time ago.”

Baker looked across at the window, silent for several minutes. Then he turned back to look at Nolan.

“For the same reason you asked the question, I guess.”

“Tell me.”

“It stank. It was so convenient.”

“Did you do any checking.”

“I started. Then I stopped.”

“What stopped you?”

“I got the message from on high.”

“How high?”

“From the State Attorney’s office.”

“Did you find anything before you stopped?”

“There had been some stock dealing a week before the strike. Some more afterwards. That’s about all.”

“Was it significant?”

“God knows. I didn’t have time to check.”

“Can I see your files on it?”

Baker smiled grimly. “There ain’t no files, old friend.” He reached for his cigarettes. “If you want to know more I can introduce you to a girl who might know.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name’s Angelo. She works in this office as the DA’s secretary. She gets screwed by a guy named Oakes.”

“Who’s he?”

“Senior partner in a successful downtown law firm. Got to be successful about the same time as Powell. Specializes in trust administration and tax. He’s a stockholder in Haig’s. Since the strike.”

“What’s the girl like?”

“Gorgeous, but don’t be fooled by the big, melting brown eyes. She’s a tough baby. I know she squeezed Oakes for a lot of bread some years back for an abortion. There was talk that he had to go out of town to raise the cash so that it didn’t show in his bank account. But he’s still screwing her so she must be good at it.”

“What’s her attitude to him?”

“I’d guess it was a money relationship. There’s at least two other guys screwing her regularly. One’s an out-of-town salesman, the other’s a junior partner in a law firm in New Haven.”

“I’d like to meet her this evening, if you could fix it.”

“OK. There’s a new bar called Pinto’s Place two blocks down from me. Soft lights and a piano sort of dump. Say seven?”

“OK. But you leave when you’ve had a drink. I don’t want any witnesses.”

“OK, pal. But watch it, she’s not dumb. What are you, for the introductions?”

“IRS.”

Haig agreed on the telephone to see him at four but probed about the purpose of his visit. Nolan told him that he was from the Justice Department looking into a union problem.

Nolan was shown straight into Haig’s office where Haig himself stood waiting. He waved Nolan to a chair after shaking hands, and retreated behind his massive desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Nolan?”

“I’d like to go back to a strike you had here about six or seven years ago. The strike that Logan Powell settled.”

Haig tapped a metal letter-opener on his blotter, waiting for the first question. Nolan sensed that he was already suspicious.

“Can you give me the name of the union official who represented your work force?”

“Not off-hand, I couldn’t.”

“But it’ll be in your records?”

“I should think so.”

“Were you satisfied that the arbitration was properly done?”

Haig shrugged. “I’ve no idea whether it was properly done or not. The company were satisfied with the outcome.”

“From the press reports I gather that Powell received no fee for his work?”

“That’s true.”

“But you gave a substantial sum to his campaign fund? Was that you personally or the company?”

Haig’s face was grim. He thrust down the letter-opener and, with his elbows on the desk, he leaned forwards towards Nolan.

“What’s that got to do with a union investigation, Mr. Nolan?”

“There’s no trace of the union chipping into the campaign fund a similar amount.”

“So what?”

“So I’d be grateful for an answer to my question. Was the contribution yours or the company’s?”

“Mine.”

“Was it registered?”

“I’ve no idea. I assume it was.”

Nolan shifted in his chair as if he were making himself comfortable.

“I’d be glad if you could check the union man’s name and number, Mr. Haig.”

Haig put his hand on a single sheet of paper and slid it across the desk. It said “SIWECKI TADEUSZ 770431/1 Electrical workers 95.”

Nolan picked up the paper and stood up.

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Haig.”

Haig looked surprised.

“Is that all?”

Nolan gave him a long, hard look.

“Unless there’s anything else you’d care to tell me.”

Haig shook his head slowly.

“No, Mr. Nolan. There’s nothing else.”

Pinto’s Place was about what he expected. The electricity bill wasn’t going to be high because of the lighting. It was pink-shaded everywhere, and faces were only recognizable close-to. An ideal set-up, he thought, for those meetings after office hours before the tired businessman faces the rigours of his home. Gary Baker was sitting with a girl in one of the curved booths that were built up on a dais so that the occupants were almost out of the line of sight.

The young man introduced Nolan, finished his drink, and left Nolan to take his place opposite the girl.

As Gary Baker had said, she was gorgeous. Big brown eyes, a neat nose and a wide mouth with healthy teeth. The tight-fitting dress had a V-neck that revealed a lot of bosom but, somehow, the effect was not of deliberate provocation but more an indifference or acceptance of the fact that men would look at the lush mounds anyway. The amused smile as his eyes went back to her face was more of an invitation than the cleavage.

“Gary says you’re interested in some of our local brass?”

“One or two. Tell me about you.”

The big brown eyes looked at him shrewdly. “Whatever it is you want you don’t have to go through that jazz.”

“What jazz is that?”

“My life story, and what a nice girl like me is doing in a dump like this.”

Nolan smiled, waved over the waiter and ordered drinks for them both.

“I was genuinely interested, Miss Angelo. I’m sorry if I sounded impertinent.”

“What were you interested in?”

“Well, you’re very beautiful, very lively, very…” He hesitated for a word and she said, “Sexy?”

“No,” he said. “Well, yes… but the word I would have used was vital.”

She was smiling and it was a genuine smile.

“My Momma came from Laredo and my Daddy was from Acapulco. He was a lawyer. A very handsome man, and Momma was very pretty. When they were married they moved to New York. Daddy was crazy about girls and they fought like tigers. He couldn’t help it, it was all that inbred Mexican machismo. Finally Momma had had enough and she threw him out. He lived happy ever after, collecting teenage blondes, and Momma was desperately unhappy for twenty years. She died two years ago.”

“And your father?”

“Still happy. He’s raised the age limit to twenty, now.”

“You sound as if you like him.”

“I liked them both. I understood them both. He didn’t want to marry them. He thought he was happily married. He would visit Momma long after they were divorced. Big white smile, bunches of roses, invitations to dinner. He never understood.” She looked at him smiling. “So that mixture is me. Brown skin, white smile and unmarried because I’m still not sure who was right.” He looked at the lovely face and found her strangely, exotically attractive. It was like the fascination of reaching out to touch two bare electric wires.

“Would you stay for a meal?”

For a moment she hesitated, then she nodded. “Thanks. That would be nice.”

When the waitress had brought the main course he looked over at her.

“D’you mind if we talk business while we eat?”

“No. Go ahead. It’s Oakes, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Tell me about him.”

The big brown eyes looked at his face.

“You’re not IRS are you?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “No. What made you doubt it?”

She shrugged. “For one, I see plenty of IRS guys and you don’t fit. For two, there was an IRS senior man down here a month ago just before the election, sniffing around Oakes. Some Democrat had put the pressure on Washington to check out the possible new Senator. Both parties do it, it’s routine. For three, I’d guess you’d never catch Jim Oakes on tax. It’s his speciality, and he’s good at it. For four, I rather like you, and that means you couldn’t possibly be IRS.”

Nolan smiled slowly. “Sounds a pretty shrewd list.”

“So what are you?”

“If it’s the only way you would help me I’ll tell you, but I’d rather not.”

She waited while he poured her a coffee.

“What is it you want to know about Jim Oakes?”

“I don’t know. Just tell me about him.”

“He’s just short of fifty. Married. Senior partner in a respected law firm that’s not as financially successful as he gives out. Owns 40 per cent of a real-estate development by the river. Leading political figure for years. Was Chairman of Connecticut Republican Party before the election. Newly elected Junior Senator.”

She smiled as she finished, and Nolan nodded.

“That’s the image. What’s behind it?”

“He was desperately short of money until this real-estate deal came up. Now he’s got plenty. He’s a man with money. And he’s a randy bastard.”

“Where did he raise the money for the real-estate deal?”

“A New York outfit called Gramercy Realtors. The guy he writes to is named de Jong. He also gets separate payments from an outfit called the Halpern Trust.”

“What amounts are we talking about?”

“He’s got two New York accounts, both at least a hundred grand. And the payment from Halpern Trust is a thousand a month.”

“What account is that paid into?”

“At First National here in Hartford.”

“How d’you know this, Maria?”

She looked at him calmly. “You know how I know. I’m sure Gary told you that Oakes screws me.”

He looked down to avoid her eyes and stirred his coffee. Then he looked back at her face.

“D’you know a guy named Siwecki?”

“Yeah. I know the family.”

“Tell me about the union one.”

“That’s the father—Tad Siwecki. He was union organizer at Haig Electronics. There was a strike and a few months afterwards he left to run the AFL-CIO local. He retired about a couple of years ago. He lives in one of the houses on Oakes’s development.”

“Must have a pretty good pension.”

“He gets a monthly payment from Oakes.”

“How much?”

“Last time I heard it was five hundred a month.”

“What’s the payment for?”

“I’m not sure. It’s some sort of deal with a guy named Dempsey. The one who’s alongside Powell.”

“Tell me about Dempsey.”

She smiled. “Real dishy, heir to a few millions, something to do with art in New York. Not married, but not for lack of opportunity, I’d guess. Only got mixed up in politics when Powell first ran for Governor. Nice guy.”

“Is Oakes out of town very often?”

“Not much. He generally takes a family holiday in Miami, and apart from that it’s mainly New York.”

“How often does he go there?”

“Once a week generally.”

“Where does he stay?”

“At the Waldorf Astoria unless I’ve been with him, then we stay at an apartment on 38th. It belongs to some friend of his.”

“Are you fond of him?”

“Not the slightest, or I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

He looked at her intently. “Why the relationship, then?”

She shrugged. “Way back I was impressed that he was interested in me. Now I guess it’s habit and money. I guess I’m like my Daddy, too. I like what he does.”

“Can I give you a lift home?”

“Sure.”

He pulled up on the forecourt of the block of flats where she lived, and her eyes caught the lights from the foyer as she turned to look at him.

“Where are you going to now?”

“To see Siwecki.”

“And afterwards?”

“Back to my place.”

“Where’s that?”

“Just out of town.”

Her face was lifted to his and she said softly, “Come back and see me after Siwecki.”

And instinctively, unbelievably, his mouth was on hers. The soft lips responding, and the soft warmth of her breasts against his arm. He pulled away gently.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. I wanted you to. Say you’ll come back later.”

“I’m married to a gal like your momma, Maria.”

“You want me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, you’re beautiful.”

She took his hand and slid it up to her breast, and as they kissed again his fingers squeezed the firm mound and she pulled her mouth away from his.

“Have me now. Quickly.”

“That’s crazy, Maria. People would see us, for God’s sake.”

“So come back later and have me. You don’t have to stay, or say you love me. Just do it to me.”

“We’ll see, honey. We’ll see.”

As she opened the car door she leaned back to kiss him.

“I’ll wait,” she whispered.

He turned the car at the hotel entrance and joined the traffic heading out of the city centre, and two cars waited in line behind him. When he turned off the main road towards the river the second car was a long way behind.

There were lights on in Siwecki’s house as he walked up the drive and there was the sound of music inside as he reached up to ring the bell. A woman answered the door. She was black-haired and handsome in a gipsyish sort of way. Her eyes were suspicious, but he guessed that they always were.

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Siwecki.”

She turned away and shouted in Polish, and a man’s voice shouted back. The woman looked back at him.

“He say who are you an’ what you want?”

“My name is Nolan, I’m from Washington.”

She shouted again, and a few seconds later a man appeared at an inner door, a newspaper in his hand.

“Come in,” he called. And he held the door open for Nolan to go through.

There was a three-seater sofa in front of the TV set. And John Wayne was giving one of his closing sermons to a small boy who was holding the hand of a beautiful but unlikely mother. Siwecki leaned over and switched off the set.

He waved the paper at the sofa. “Sit down, mister.”

He waited while Nolan took off his coat.

“The old lady say you from Washington. I don’t believe that.”

Nolan smiled. “I am, Mr. Siwecki, and I need your help.”

The big man snorted his disbelief but said nothing. A legacy from years of hard bargaining.

“I’d like to go back to when you were at Haig Electronics and you had a strike.”

The Pole’s eyes half-closed. “What about it?”

Nolan looked at him calmly. “Who fixed that strike, Mr. Siwecki?”

“You mean who was the arbitrator?”

“No. I know that was Mr. Powell. I mean who arranged the strike?”

“Nobody arranged it, mister. It happened.”

“Why do you live here, Mr. Siwecki?”

Siwecki looked surprised. “Why not? Why does anybody live anywhere?”

“I mean why do you live in this particular house?”

“Because I like. Is nice house for me.”

“You never earned enough money at Haig’s to buy this house.”

Siwecki shifted uneasily then smiled. “I win money on horses. I save it up for when I retire.”

“Why do you get money from Mr. Oakes?”

Siwecki growled. “Who are you, mister?” And he stood up, his face contorted with anger, his big hands closing and opening.

“I’ve told you, Mr. Siwecki. I’m from Washington. Please sit down.”

Siwecki clenched a massive fist and held it aggressively. Nolan didn’t move.

“Mr. Siwecki, it looks to me as if you are likely to be charged with a number of serious offences. I suggest you don’t make things worse for yourself.”

“I told you. I told you they’d bring us to trouble.”

Neither of them had noticed the woman come into the room and her voice surprised them both. Siwecki turned aggressively towards her. He spoke angrily in Polish, and the woman spat back at him, her eyes flashing. She slammed the door as she went. Siwecki turned back to look at Nolan.

“What is it you want, mister?”

“Who paid you to fix the strike?”

Siwecki’s face looked as it must have looked a hundred times as he negotiated with some recalcitrant employer.

“Who are you from, mister?”

“I told you. I’m from Washington.”

“Is many people in Washington. Who are you?”

“My name is Nolan, Mr. Siwecki. I already told you. I am investigating the strike at Haig Electronics. You were the union negotiator.”

“So what is that you investigate. It happened. It is finished years ago.”

“I believe that it is possible that the strike was contrived in order to influence the election of a State Governor. And as you know, Mr. Siwecki, that is a very serious offence. If you were a party to this you could be charged on many counts, including the 1925 Corrupt Practises Act.”

Siwecki looked at Nolan’s face speculatively. Then he said in a whisper, “How you know about this thing?”

“It’s my job, Mr. Siwecki. I’m an investigator.”

“So you ask I give you information to incriminate myself ?”

“If you testified, Mr. Siwecki, you would be protected.”

“And if I not tell you?”

“Then sooner or later you’ll go to jail, Mr. Siwecki, if you are guilty.”

Siwecki looked at him, as if he might read some solution in Nolan’s face.

“Maybe they kill you first, Mr. Nolan.”

“Who might do that?”

The dark eyes looked at him shrewdly. “If you know these things then you know which peoples I mean.”

“You’d better tell me, Mr. Siwecki. If any more crimes were committed in connection with this business you would be an accessory to those crimes, too.”

The old man put his head in his hands, rocking from side to side, moaning softly. Nolan knew that Siwecki was really frightened now.

“I will arrange for you and your family to be protected, Mr. Siwecki.”

The old man looked up at him. “You want a name, or what?”

“Who gave you the orders?”

“Andy Dempsey.”

“And who paid you?”

“He did.”

“How much?”

“Twenty grand for the union, and five for me.”

“Did he say why it had to be done?”

Siwecki looked at him with a twisted smile. “They didn’t need to tell me, comrade. It was put up for Powell.”

“D’you think Powell knew?”

“I don’t think he did at the beginning. He didn’t talk like he did. But in the end I think he knew, but he didn’t say anything.”

“Was Dempsey the top man?”

Siwecki looked towards the door as if he feared another intrusion. Then he looked back at Nolan.

“Are you FBI?”

“No. D’you want to talk?”

“Not to a mystery man.”

Nolan pulled out his CIA ID card and showed it to Siwecki who leaned forward and read it carefully, scrutinizing the words and the photograph. He looked up at Nolan.

“Can you give me a deal if I tell you more?”

“Are you a Party member, Siwecki?”

“Yeah.”

“Is Dempsey?”

“Yeah.”

“Oakes?”

“No, but they got something on him. He fixes things they want, for money.”

“Will you testify to this?”

“Jesus. They’d kill me.”

“You’ll get protection from the FBI and my people.”

“Mister. They got people everywhere. I’d wanna go somewhere else outside this country.”

“We’ll see what we can do, but you’ll testify, yes?”

“OK.”

“Will you swear a deposition tonight?”

Siwecki shrugged. “If you want.”

Nolan walked into the hallway and opened the telephone directory to look up Gary Baker’s number. With his finger against Baker’s name he dialled. There was no answer. He hesitated and then checked the number against Angelo M. He dialled and a soft voice answered immediately.

“Yes.”

“Are you alone, Maria?”

“Sure I’m alone.”

“It’s Nolan. I’m trying to contact Gary urgently. There’s no answer from his home number. Have you any idea where he’ll be?”

There was silence at the other end. Then she said, “He could be at the office but he wouldn’t answer the phone.”

“Thanks, Maria. See you.”

“Tonight?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. I’m still working.”

He hung up and went back to Siwecki who was talking to his wife.

“Mr. Siwecki. I’m going downtown to the DA’s office and one of his men will come back here to take your statement. He’ll identify himself properly. You stay here quietly with your wife and wait for him. He’ll be here within the hour. When he’s finished I shall come back for you both and take you to a guarded house just outside of town, OK?”

Siwecki shrugged helplessly. “OK, mister.”

The swing doors crashed behind Nolan as he hurried up the corridor. There was a light on in the last office in the DA’s section and Nolan walked in.

Gary Baker was dictating to a middle-aged woman and he turned, still speaking, to see who had come in.

“…and police officer Hagerty confirms that the accused was dead… Nolan. What’s going on?”

“Gary, I need you to take a deposition from a guy named Siwecki. It’s more than just important, and it’s more than urgent.”

“Is he outside?”

“No. It’ll have to be done at his home.”

“Why not here?”

“I don’t want a defence to be that he was harassed or pressured late at night in circumstances that could frighten him or influence him.”

Baker stood up and lifted his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Miss O’Toole, I’ll fix a car from the pool to take you home. Pete, what’s this guy’s address?”

Nolan reached for a pad and wrote out the address and handed it to Baker.

“Could I ask Miss O’Toole to do something for me, Gary?”

“Sure. Miss O’Toole, this is Pete Nolan, he’s in the business.” And he flung himself through the open door.

“Miss O’Toole, is there a flower shop open at this time of night?”

“There’s one at the Mayfair Hotel, sir.”

Nolan peeled off three ten-dollar bills.

“I want some flowers to go to Miss Maria Angelo and pay them extra so they get there tonight, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Nolan. Any particular flowers for Maria?”

He opened his mouth, hesitated and then grinned. “Yes. Make it red roses, if they’ve got them.”

“Yes, they’ll have those because of corsages for the ladies. Do you need a car?”

“No, thanks. Mine’s outside. Goodnight, and thanks for seeing to the flowers.”

Siwecki answered the door. As he peered out from the dimly lit hallway at the two men he opened his mouth to speak. One of them pushed the door aside as the other shoved him back against the wall. He saw the pistol in the man’s hand and, trembling, he walked into the sitting-room as they pushed him ahead of them.

His wife was watching the TV news-bulletin showing a pile-up on Highway 84. Without turning her head she said in Polish, “Close the door, Tad.” And when there was no answer she turned, the look of irritation melting from her face as she saw her husband and the two men. And the gun. She reached forward to switch off the TV, the gun made a noise like a tyre blow-out and her eyes grew big with fear as her hand touched her chest. She looked down to where her hand came away bright red with blood and opened her mouth to scream. The second slug smashed into her skull above the right eye, and slowly her body collapsed, hung for a moment, then slid from the sofa to the ground.

Siwecki stood as if frozen, and then, his eyes blazing as he cursed in Polish, he turned on the two men, his arms flailing wildly. When the hard edge of a hand crashed against his mouth he staggered against one of the chairs and as their hands shoved him backwards, he clutched for support as his legs buckled.

One of the men gripped the front of his shirt and pushed him into the chair. The man with the gun was pointing it at his head as the other man spoke in Polish with a heavy Russian accent.

“What did he want to know, Siwecki?”

“Nothing. I tell him nothing. I swear.”

The man’s boot slammed at Siwecki’s kneecap and he screamed.

“What did he want to know?”

“Oh Jesus. What is all this? He asked about the strike at Haig’s.”

“And you told him?”

Siwecki spread his arms, his eyes pleading.

“We send first for doctor for my wife, yes?”

“She’s dead, Siwecki. You know that. Just talk.”

“They ask about Powell. They investigate. I tell them very little.”

“You bastard.” And as the silencer jerked and spat, the man cursed in Russian when he saw that the slug had torn open the base of Siwecki’s throat. He fired once more and then put the gun against Siwecki’s head as he fired a final round.

They switched off the lights on the ground-floor before they left.

It seemed a long journey back to the house by the airfield and as he turned into the drive a 727 was coming in to land with its lights winking and its belly light pointing forward.

He signalled to the desk clerk to walk with him up the broad staircase to his room.

“Anything vitally important before I hit the sack?”

“Nothing that can’t wait. A few reports from New York and some microfiche from Langley. I don’t think it needs processing until tomorrow, sir.”

“Right. Wake me if you need to.”

Nolan undressed slowly and got into the small divan bed. For a few moments he thought of Maria Angelo and the excitement of her body. Maybe if he was down here for a time… and he slept. Not, perhaps, the sleep of the just but at least the sleep that sends you down a hundred feet into the darkness.

In what seemed like minutes, but was in reality two hours, the duty orderly was shaking Nolan awake.

“There’s a message from Washington says for you to contact the DA’s office—Mr. Gary Baker. He’s waiting for your call.”

Nolan dressed immediately and phoned Gary Baker.

“You’d better come down here, Pete. Quickly.”

“What’s going on?”

“I can’t discuss it right now. Just get here.”

When Nolan got to the DA’s office there was a tall thin man, elegantly dressed, as if the hour were normal instead of four am. Baker made a limp gesture towards the man.

“Peter, this is Hank Henney—he’s chief of police. He’s got bad news, I’m afraid.”

Henney nodded to a table and he and Baker sat on one side, leaving Nolan alone on the other. Henney looked calm but grim.

“Mr. Nolan, I understand from Gary that you work for a government department. He refused to tell me which department. You’d better identify yourself.”

“Can you tell me what it’s about, chief ?”

Henney looked hard at Nolan. “Mr. Nolan, there’s something going on in this city that I don’t know about. I’ve got the feeling you’re part of it, and unless you identify yourself to my satisfaction I’m gonna order my men to arrest you while we do some checking.”

Nolan reached in his inside pocket and laid his card on the table. Henney looked at it and handed it back. He didn’t look any the less serious.

“Mr. Nolan, you visited last night with a Mr. Siwecki and his wife. What time did you leave them?”

“About 9.30. I was in this office at about ten o’clock.”

“Why did you visit Siwecki?”

“To collect evidence.”

“Concerning what?”

“The strike at the Haig plant some years back.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“I indicated that he could be indicted on various offences but that his co-operation would be borne in mind.”

“How did he react to that?”

“He agreed eventually to co-operate and I came back here to arrange for Mr. Baker to take a signed statement.”

“Where did you go when you left here?”

“Back to my temporary base just outside the city.”

“Where? What’s the address?”

“At the moment that’s classified information.”

Henney leaned forward across the table.

“Did you resort to physical violence during your interrogation of Siwecki?”

“No.”

“Do you carry a gun?”

“Yes. And I have a licence to carry.”

“Where is it?”

“Back at the house.”

“What make of weapon is it?”

“A .357 Snub Magnum.”

“I’d like that to be brought in, Mr. Nolan.”

“You’d better tell me what it’s all about, sir.”

“Mr. Siwecki is dead. He was shot three times in the neck and head. Mrs. Siwecki is dead, too. She had been shot twice and she died on the way to the hospital. The police doctor assesses the time of death as being during the time you were at the house.”

Henney sat looking at Nolan silently and intently. Then he stood up.

“I want you to come with me.”

“To police headquarters?”

“No. You’re not being charged with anything at this stage. Let’s get along. Baker, you’d better come too, as you seem to be involved with Mr. Nolan.”

The police driver turned into the parking area of an apartment block and they were walking through the entrance before Nolan recognized where he was.

The three of them stood in silence as they waited for the elevator. It stopped at the 17th floor, and outside the elevator a police officer stopped them. Then recognizing the chief, he pulled aside a chair and let them through. They went into the next apartment on the right. A photographer was taking photographs as they walked in and he moved his gear when he saw the chief of police.

Maria Angelo lay on her back on the floor, one leg still caught in the bedcover. She was naked and dead, and there were burn marks shaped like the sole of an iron on her breasts, her flat belly, and her thighs. There was a pool of blood from the hole in her throat and a clammy mess above her left ear. A small travel-iron lay on the carpet and the smell of burnt flesh still sickened the air. There was a bunch of red roses still in their paper wrapping on the glass coffee table.

Henney watched Nolan’s face as he looked at the dead girl.

“You also talked with Miss Angelo yesterday evening?”

Nolan turned slowly to look at Henney’s grim face.

“We’d better talk together, Mr. Henney.”

“There’s an empty apartment at the end of the corridor. We can use that.”

When they were seated Nolan’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair and his voice was harsh and dry as he spoke.

“Chief. Three killings in one evening is problem enough for any police force, but these particular killings mean that Washington have to be informed immediately and I should appreciate your co-operation on this. After I’ve spoken to them I’ll answer any questions you care to put to me.”

“I’ll want Baker and myself to hear the conversation. Both ends.”

“That’s OK.”

It had taken fifteen minutes to trace Harper, who had obviously been roused from sleep.

“Harper. What is it, Nolan?”

“Sir. I’m speaking on an open line, and the chief of police in Hartford and an official from the DA’s office are listening to the conversation.”

“Is that necessary?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“OK. Go ahead.”

“I had a long talk with a Miss Maria Angelo who works in the DA’s office here. She gave me information regarding the strike at the Haig plant here some years back. Her information led me to a Mr. Siwecki, the union official concerned at the time of the strike. I interviewed him and he gave me information that provides strong evidence concerning my major investigation.”

“Conclusive?”

“Pretty well.”

“Go on.”

“I left Siwecki at his home and came back to the DA’s office and requested Mr. Gary Baker of that office to go immediately to Siwecki’s home to take the statement and witness the signature.”

“That sounds fine.”

“Sir, Mr. and Mrs. Siwecki and Miss Angelo have all been murdered and the chief of police here, Mr. Henney, is concerned that I may be involved.”

“Put him on.”

“He’s on the extension.”

“Mr. Henney?”

“Who is that?”

“Mr. Henney, my name is Morton Harper, Director CIA. I suggest you go back to your office and ask your operator for CIA Headquarters, Langley. Ask for me, and then you will be satisfied about my identity. Meantime I should appreciate your co-operation with Mr. Nolan who is one of our senior officials.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Harper.”

It was two hours before Harper got back to Henney and during that time reports had come in of Siwecki’s neighbours seeing a car with New York plates parked in the driveway of a vacant house almost opposite the Siwecki house. It had been driven off at about 10.15, by a driver with two passengers.

Two unidentified men had been seen by residents and security men at Maria Angelo’s apartment block just before eleven o’clock. One was wearing a utilities uniform thought to be the telephone company, and one had talked to a boy delivering flowers. He had walked to the elevator and appeared to accompany the boy. They had been described as big built, dark with sallow complexions. They could be Italian or Spanish.

The Hartford police were to proceed with their investigations and a two-man team from Langley was flying down to assist them. Nolan was instructed to fly back to New York immediately.

Nolan slept in the Cessna on its way to LaGuardia, and half an hour after he had landed the CIA driver turned off Lexington and dropped him at the Barclay. There was a message at the desk; he was to go to a private suite.

Harper was waiting for him, a drink in his hand as he waved him towards a chair.

“I think we have to look at where we’re going, Nolan. It’s time I put my head on someone’s shoulder and cried.”

“I think there’s no doubt now, sir. If you take what I found in Hartford, what we found in Kleppe’s apartment, and what MacKay has dug up in Amsterdam, that’s almost enough. And if you add on these murders then it’s too much.”

“Tell me what you got in Hartford.”

Nolan went carefully through the information he had gleaned from Maria Angelo and Siwecki. Harper fiddled with a cigar and a lighter.

“All this is down the drain now.”

“No, sir. We’ve still got Oakes to work on, and Dempsey. They have the same information.”

“But when you start stirring around at that level we’re going to be in real trouble. They’ll throw everything into the ring against us. You don’t murder three people in cold blood to cover up a few tax evasions.”

“Maybe it’s time to consult people outside the agency, sir.”

Harper put his head on one side, half-smiling as if he were listening to some new thought.

“Like who, Nolan?”

“The Vice-President-Elect?”

“Powell chose him. How do we know he’s not in the game on their side?”

“The Chief Justice?”

“OK. Go on.”

“The Congressional leaders of both parties?”

“Not yet appointed.”

“The incumbent President?”

“Any more?”

“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?”

“They have no standing in this. It’s political and constitutional. It’s going to come down to picking men, not offices. And one thing is for sure.” And he looked pointedly at Nolan. “There ain’t gonna be no medals and promotions out of this. Everybody’s going to hate our guts. The FBI won’t want to know. The politicians won’t want to know. Not even the Democrats. Whatever we do it will probably be the end of the CIA.”

Nolan was silent. Harper continued, “I think you’ve almost got enough to justify pressing the button for a full-scale investigation, but before I do that I want to discuss it with the Chief Justice and the present Speaker. If they want to draw in a couple of others I’ll consider it. But make no mistake—right at this moment it is possible that we are acting unconstitutionally—we are into a real Bay of Pigs situation with no chance of winning. And I stress that to you. Whatever happens we cannot win.” He thumped the table to emphasize each word. He sniffed irritably. “We’ve got fifty-six days left according to our original reckoning, but we can forget that. When we get what we need, if we get it, people other than us are going to have to deal with it. The fewer people who know what we’re doing, the easier it will be for those people to act. For that reason we shall go on, Nolan, as we are. It’s far from ideal but already I’m dreading a call from the media that I can’t turn away with a plausible denial. We can’t afford to extend this beyond the people who already know.”

“I’m going to need FBI help, sir. They’ll have stuff on file that would take me weeks to find out.”

“Officially you get no help from them but I’ve talked to O’Hara and they’ve given us a liaison man; he’s senior enough to get you what you want. But if he says ‘no’ it’s ‘no’ without argument. We’re only getting this co-operation on condition that eventually we inform them of what’s going on.”

“I’d better get back, sir. Can I keep the Cessna at Hartford?”

“OK. But keep me in touch, and for heaven’s sake tread carefully. If things start going wrong I want to know immediately. I don’t want to come in at the crash-landing when it’s too late.”

Harper bent down and picked up a package that had wax security seals. He passed it to Nolan.

“The transcripts of the stuff you photographed in Kleppe’s flat. Much moaning from the translation section. It’s Armenian shorthand and badly written at that. A combined effort by a girl at Amherst and an old lady in the Bronx. It makes interesting reading. We’ve put it on microfiche but that package has the only hard copy.”