“I’ve spoken to her. No other calls at all?”
“No. None.”
“I thought he might try Elliot or Bethel, and try to work on them.”
“Not so far, he hasn’t.”
There was a long silence, and then Harper spoke again.
“Has he got any kind of radio in there, walkie-talkie maybe?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“God. We should have checked before. Find some excuse to go in there. Take him a telegram or a letter. He doesn’t know you. See what you can see. The bastard might try some desperate throw like calling out the Army or something.”
“I doubt if they’d turn out for him after today’s snub for Macy. I’ll check sir, and I’ll call you back.”
“OK. Meantime I’ll see if the security signals people know anything.”
There were piles of mail for Powell tied in bundles with string, and a dozen telegrams. He ripped the telegrams open and read them. He picked out one that said “Congratulations, give ’em hell. Orange County Republicans.”
He walked slowly down the corridor, and at Powell’s door he hesitated with his hand raised to knock. It was better to pretend that he thought the suite was empty and walk in.
He turned the big brass handle slowly and tested it in case it was bolted. But the heavy door opened easily.
There was just the light from a reading lamp and a faint acrid smell of burning. And then he saw Powell. He was lying alongside a tapestry chair, his jacket hanging from the arm of the chair. There was a fat stubby bottle on its side on the carpet and a small metal container.
He rolled Powell on to his back, but as soon as he saw the blue around his lips and nose he knew that he was dead. He slid back an eyelid. The pupil was grossly dilated. He hurried back to the door and locked it.
He sniffed, and followed the smell to the bathroom. Papers had been burnt in the washbasin. The white porcelain was smudged with a sooty deposit and there was a wet black slush of charred paper at the wastehole. To give himself time to clear his mind he slowly washed down the debris and cleared the bowl before walking back to the sitting-room.
The bottle was empty and it smelt of brandy which matched the label. The gummed label on the metal container said “One tablet only, for sleep” and the maker’s label said “Modiren 2.5mg.” There was one yellow tablet on the carpet beside Powell’s face.
Nolan picked up the bottle, the tablet, the metal container, its lid, and stuffed them in his pocket. At the door he looked back again at Powell’s body as if it might be a mistake. Then he closed the door behind him and pocketed the key.
At the switchboard he lifted the scrambler telephone and nodded to the operator.
“Give me a line and then walk down the corridor that way.” He pointed towards the main stairs. “And don’t come back until I signal to you.”
He waited until the girl had walked off then dialled the number. Harper answered immediately.
“Harper.”
“Go over to the scrambler.”
Nolan heard the button go down.
“Done.”
“He’s dead. Killed himself with brandy and pills.”
There was a long silence before Harper spoke.
“Christ. Are you sure?”
“Very, very sure.”
“Oh, God. Let me think.”
“I’ve already thought.”
“Go on, then.”
“The two doctors to confirm the heart attack. I’ve removed the evidence. Notify his wife. Let her believe the statement about a coronary. She’ll guess, but she’ll go along with it. Then get the Vice-President-Elect. Elliot can tell him the news. And get a team to deal with the press.”
There was silence at the other end.
“OK. Hold the fort until I get over there. Don’t tell a soul.”
Nolan stood with the FBI man at the side entrance to the hotel, holding the portable radio to his ear. They were networking a concert from the Hollywood Bowl. The orchestra were well into the overture to Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg when the music was faded down and there was the crackle of paper near a microphone and a shocked voice began to read a bulletin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we break off our scheduled programme to bring you a news flash from Washington.
“In an unconfirmed agency report we are told that the White House has just … a moment please … we can now read you the full statement that was issued from the White House at nine fifty-two this evening. I read verbatim.
“ ‘At approximately eight-thirty this evening, the twenty-fourth of December, President-Elect Logan B. Powell collapsed and died at the Sheraton Hotel.
“ ‘The two medical experts who were called in immediately, state that death was due to a massive coronary thrombosis.’ Message ends.
“There will be further bulletins from this station as more news becomes available. Stay tuned for further announcements. Our programmes will be modified during the period up to the early morning newscast when there will be special programmes covering the career of Logan Powell.”
Even before the news bulletin announced Powell’s death, Oakes had been fetched from his bath to take a telephone call from New York. He stood naked and wet with a small towel draped round his middle.
“Oakes. Who in hell is that? I was taking a bath.”
“It’s de Jong, Mr. Oakes. Listen to the radio or the TV for the newscasts.”
“What is it?”
“Powell’s dead.”
“My God. What happened?”
“They say it was a heart attack. That’s what’s going to be announced anyway.”
“What happens now?”
“The Vice-President-Elect becomes President-Elect.”
“Markham?”
“Yes.”
“Good God. But you hinted that there was a possibility of Powell being impeached.”
“There was. Maybe they went a bit too far when they gave him the news.”
“What about Dempsey?”
“I understand the CIA took him into custody a few days ago.”
“Did Markham know what was going on?”
“No way.” He chuckled. “I wish I could see those bastards in Moscow when the news gets through.”
“How did you get the news so soon?”
De Jong laughed softly. “We’ve been at this game a long, long time, my friend. And we’re playing on
