It was well after eleven when Nolan arrived, and they sat watching the network election programme. Powell’s lead had been cut but there was little doubt that he was going to win. The blue-coloured Powell States were beginning to dominate the election map, and the commentators were slowly coming down off the fence.
Just before two o’clock Grover conceded, and the cameras moved over to Hartford where Powell and his helpers stood in a milling mass in front of the State Capitol. On his right was his wife, and on his left was Dempsey. Nolan identified a few of the other local worthies for him. Then, as the microphones were thrust towards him, Powell spoke. He was sweating under the TV lights.
“I want to say thank you to all those who have worked so long and so hard to get me elected. I shall be leaving shortly for Washington but I shall be back here in a few days’ time and then we’ll really celebrate. God bless.”
Nolan reached forward and switched off the set, then opened his black leather briefcase and tossed a thick brown envelope on to the bed.
“There’s money, open air-tickets and CIA documents in your name. You might need them. You can draw on CIA funds at any of our embassies or consulates.”
“I thought maybe Amsterdam first to see if I can find Kleppe’s old girlfriend?”
“OK. Wherever you go, will you liaise with the local US embassy or consulate so that I can contact you quickly? We’ll use the diamond business as our cover on this. And we’ve given it a codename. Operation 66. We’ve got sixty-six days before the inauguration.”
“When are you starting?”
“Tonight. I’m putting in for surveillance teams, signals units and researchers. I’ll have them by tomorrow.”
“Who are you checking first?”
“Dempsey, but I’ll have enough people for Kleppe if you come up with anything.”
“How does Harper feel about me being involved in this?”
Nolan frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, a Britisher helping to investigate an American citizen, the President-Elect.”
“When Harper spoke to your guy the deal was that you were liaising with us and that, apart from the question of routine, you would not inform your own people about what we are investigating or what we uncover.” Nolan looked at MacKay. “We trust you, and we trust Magnusson.”
CHAPTER 4
Powell sat in silence in the white MG as Dempsey drove him to the airport, and as the car swung into the VIP parking area and stopped, Dempsey turned to look at Powell’s face. It was drawn and tired.
“I’ve fixed a temporary suite for you at the Sheraton and Rod’s arranging office accommodation on the same floor, as from tomorrow.”
Powell turned to look at him.
“Can you fix for Jenny to come over from New York?”
“You mean now, tonight?”
“Yes.”
“That’d be crazy, man. Just asking for trouble. You’ll have the press and security and the whole circus round your neck. Let the dust settle, for God’s sake.”
When Powell didn’t speak Dempsey went on, “Remember, it’s taken weeks to get Laura to co-operate. We need all that; at least until the inauguration. Why rock the boat? An out-of-town girl will be noticed. Look, I’ll be across in Washington tomorrow. I can fix you the prettiest gals in town. At my place. No problems. If anything leaks they’re mine then, not yours. OK?”
“OK. Give her my love.”
“Sure I will. If I see her.”
There was a crowd of reporters waiting in the main hall but the airline staff escorted Powell through to the manager’s office. They were holding the Washington flight, and after a drink he walked across to the plane, accompanied by four security men. Dempsey walked across to the campaign helicopter carrying his own bag.
It was four weeks to Christmas, but the snow was Christmas snow. Drifting slowly past the windows on the thirtieth floor, it lay in big soft cotton wool folds along the window ledges, and was piled up on the balcony, reflecting in pale gold patches the lights inside the apartment. It was so thick that you couldn’t see the Island. You couldn’t even see the East River.
Dempsey sat in his green corduroy jacket, perched on the edge of the polished table, with one long, jeans-clad leg stretched out to keep his balance. As he looked out at the falling snow he slowly sipped a drink and listened to the music. It was Oistrakh playing Khachaturian’s violin concerto off an old Moscow filmtrack. When the music stopped abruptly he slowly turned and looked at the man who stood alongside the tape-recorder.
“They’ll have to give you the Order of Lenin at least, Viktor.”
Kleppe turned, his face impassive as he walked across to the table. He waved to another chair as he sat down.
“There’ll be no medals, my friend. Remember I told them it wasn’t possible. That was your opinion too.”
Dempsey laughed and shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been possible with any other man but Powell, I swear it.”
“He thinks he did it himself ?”
“I wouldn’t say that. He acknowledges helping hands here and there. And when he doesn’t like what he sees he turns a blind eye. You’ve got to remember that he doesn’t know most of what has been done.”
“Is he fully under control?”
“By no means. I can pressure him but I can’t just snap my fingers and make him jump.”
“Moscow assumes that he is under control.”
“Then Moscow should be disabused of that idea. At once.”
“You mean you can’t make him deliver?”
“Sure I can make him deliver; and when I’ve told him the facts of life there’ll be even fewer problems. But it’s not a press-button service. He feels his power, and I don’t want to destroy that. Just programme it.”
“Is there any chance he could renege?”
“No. He’s been sour with ambition from the moment he became State Governor. Every little aspect of presidential privilege and protocol he knows by heart. He can’t wait to get the emperor’s clothes on. Like all the rest of them he’s promised to slash taxes, cut unemployment, and achieve
