He turned away from the window; the light was going now and there were things he had to do. He bathed and shaved and put on his blue suit and the black brogues. On the table he laid out Dempsey’s report, and in a separate envelope the photographs of Powell and the girl. He hoped he wouldn’t need to go that far. They could be counter-productive.
Nolan had gone off to the Powell house to ensure that there were no problems with the White House security men for MacKay’s visit. He radioed back to the safe-house that Laura Powell was not expected to leave the house that evening.
The snow was deep and crisp as Nolan’s driver came on to the side-road but on the main road it had packed down from the flow of vehicles and the snow tyres got good purchase on the road surface.
The Powell house was on a small private development of ranch-style bungalows. There were other cars parked outside the house and half a dozen men stood near the white picket fence. MacKay could see at least two men at the side of the house. Somebody had swept a narrow pathway up to the front door. There were lights on in the house and MacKay could see the lights of a Christmas tree in the front room.
Nolan introduced him to the chief of the guard detail, who walked with him in single file to the door of the bungalow. He rang the bell and they both waited, their breath misting in the cold air.
An elderly man answered the door. It was Laura Powell’s father.
“Mr. Bridger, this is Mr. MacKay. He’s been sent from Washington to see Mrs. Powell. We’ve checked him. He’s OK.”
The old man looked over his glasses at MacKay.
“You’d better come in, mister. She’ll be down in a moment. She’s just taken Sammy his medicine.”
MacKay shook his coat outside the door. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
The old man showed him into the room with the Christmas tree.
“It’s his chest. He’s subject to bronchitis. He’s much better today. I’ll get her. Sit down.”
MacKay automatically looked around the room, but he absorbed very little. His mind was on his mission and suddenly it seemed all too possible that she could tell him to go to hell. Then the door swung open and she was there.
She was prettier than he had expected but the shadows under her eyes were not from make-up.
She was wearing a black wool-knit dress with pearls and looked more calm and capable than he had expected. And younger, too.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
He stood up. “MacKay, ma’am. James MacKay.” For a split second he wondered why he had said that American “ma-am.” Too many films and Jimmy Stewart.
“Sit down, Mr. MacKay. Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love a whisky if you have one.”
“Water, ice, soda-water?”
“Nothing, thank you. Just the whisky.”
She handed him the whisky and poured herself a coke. As she sat down she moved a cushion and then raised her glass, smiling.
“A happy Christmas, Mr. MacKay.”
“And to you, ma’am.”
“I expect my husband sent you down. What can I do for you?”
He put down his drink and looked at her face.
“No. I was sent down to see you by Chief Justice Elliot and Sam Bethel.”
She frowned. “I’ve already told Logan and Andrew Dempsey that I shall come up for the inauguration.”
“How well do you know Mr. Dempsey, Mrs. Powell?”
Her hand trembled as she put down her glass.
“Are you one of Dempsey’s people?”
“No.” And he repeated his question. “How well do you know Dempsey, Mrs. Powell?”
She shrugged. “I’ve known him for years. We all knew one another long before Logan and I got married.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“Handsome, rich, charming—a loner.”
“Did he have much influence over your husband?”
She looked down at her knees and flicked imaginary specks from her skirt. Then she looked up and as she spoke her voice trembled.
“More than I had, I’m afraid.”
“In what way?”
She looked at him. “Hadn’t you better tell me what this is all about?”
“There’s a problem concerning the relationship between Mr. Powell and Mr. Dempsey and we need your help.”
“Who’s we?”
“The Chief Justice sent me to ask your help.”
“Why didn’t he contact me himself or send a note with you?”
“I think you will understand when I have told you the problem.”
“You’d better explain then, rather than ask me questions.”
“May I ask you just one more question?”
She shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Would you help your husband if you could?”
She looked down at her empty glass and slowly put it on the low table between them.
“Probably. It depends.”
“It’s almost certain that he will be impeached, Mrs. Powell.”
Her hand went to her mouth. It covered her lips in a schoolgirl gesture. And when she spoke it was a whisper.
“I don’t believe it. Who are you, Mr. MacKay? This is some crazy game you’re at.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m a CIA officer. Would you like to see my ID card?”
“Yes. I would.” There was a lift of the pretty chin, and a distinct air of hockey-sticks.
He took out his wallet and then the card. He leaned over and slid it across the table to her. She leaned forward to look at it. Ostentatiously not touching it, as if it might be contagious. She looked up at his face.
“What’s it all about?”
As briefly as he could, he told her of Dempsey and Kleppe, and the Soviet network. Of Siwecki and Maria Angelo, and when he was finished she shook her head.
“I don’t believe it, Mr. MacKay. This is just political mud-slinging like Watergate. I don’t believe it.”
MacKay bent and picked up the white envelope. He squeezed open the end and checked its contents. He held it out to her.
“That’s Dempsey’s statement. We picked him up a few days ago. I could arrange for you to speak to him, or Mr. Speaker, or the Chief Justice.”
She unfolded the paper and started reading. MacKay sat silent and tense.
After the first two pages she read at random through to the end,
