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
