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.”
CHAPTER 18
Morton Harper had insisted that the meeting should be held at Langley, and Chief Justice Elliot and Sam Bethel were ferried from Washington by Nolan, who escorted them through the security checks towards the Director’s office.
Elliot held out his hand. “My God, Morton, it’s like a giant public washroom. This place would drive me crazy.”
“Welcome, sir. I guess I’d get dizzy sitting up on your bench a-listening to the mortals down below.”
“Touché,” said Elliot, and blew his nose violently as he looked around the office.
Nolan and MacKay were already at the big table in the corner of the room, and when the salutations were over Harper invited them to sit down. Nolan noticed that this time Harper was at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen, I’ve called this meeting because we now have the evidence that you asked us to obtain. My Secretariat have produced a four-page summary of our findings and there is supporting documentation in your folders. Can I ask you to read the summary before we talk. Take as long as you wish.”
Nolan watched the bent heads. The Chief Justice was underlining with a pencil as if he were
