“Right, boss.”
Calvert depressed the telephone cradle with his hand momentarily and then dialed the Metropolitan Police. Two more quarters, leaving sixteen in his pockets. He often thought the quickest way to check out an FBI agent would be to make him turn his pockets inside out; if he produced twenty quarters, he was a genuine member of the Bureau.
“Lieutenant Blake is on the front desk. I’ll put you right through.”
“Lieutenant Blake.”
“Special Agent Calvert. We’ve seen your Greek and we’d like you to put a guard on his room. He’s scared to hell about something so we don’t want to take any chances.”
“He’s not my Greek, damn it,” said Blake. “Can’t you use one of your own fancy guys?”
“There’s no one we can spare at the moment, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not exactly overstaffed myself, for God’s sake. What do you think we’re running, the Shoreham Hotel? Oh hell, I’ll do what I can. But they won’t be able to get there for a couple of hours.”
“Fine. Thanks for your help, Lieutenant. I’ll brief my office.” Barry replaced the receiver.
Mark Andrews and Barry Calvert waited for the elevator, which was just as slow and reluctant to take them down as it had been to take them up. Neither of them spoke until they were inside the dark blue Ford.
“Stames is coming back to hear the story,” said Calvert. “I can’t imagine he’ll want to take it any further, but we’d better keep him informed. Then maybe we can call it a day.”
Mark glanced at his watch; another hour and forty-five minutes’ overtime, technically the maximum allowed an agent on any one day.
“I hope so,” said Mark. “I just got myself a date.”
“Anyone we know?”
“The beautiful Dr. Dexter.”
Barry raised his eyebrows. “Don’t let the boss know. If he thought you picked up someone while you were on duty, he’d send you for a spell in the salt mines in Butte, Montana.”
“I didn’t realize that they had salt mines in Butte, Montana.”
“Only FBI agents who really screw it up know there are salt mines in Butte.”
Mark drove back to downtown Washington while Barry wrote up his report of the interview. It was 7:40 by the time they had returned to the Old Post Office Building, and Mark found the parking lot almost empty. By this time at night most civilized people were at home doing civilized things, like eating moussaka. Stames’s car was already there. Goddamn him. They took the elevator to the fifth floor and went into Stames’s reception room. It looked empty without Julie. Calvert knocked quietly on the chief’s door and the two agents walked in. Stames looked up. He had already found a hundred and one things to do since he’d been back, almost as if he had forgotten that he had specifically come back to see them.
“Right, Barry. Let’s have it from the top, slowly and accurately.”
Calvert recounted exactly what had happened from the moment they had arrived at Woodrow Wilson to the moment he had asked the Metropolitan Police to put a guard on the room to protect the Greek. Mark was impressed by Barry’s total recall. At no point had he exaggerated or revealed any personal prejudice. Stames lowered his head for a few moments and then suddenly turned to Mark.
“Do you want to add anything?” he asked.
“Not really, sir. It was all a bit melodramatic. Although he didn’t come over as a liar, he was certainly frightened. Also there’s no trace of him in any of our files. I radioed the Night Super for a name check. Negative on Casefikis.”
Nick picked up the phone and asked to be put through to Bureau Headquarters. “Give me the National Computer Information Center, Polly.” He was put straight through. A young woman answered the phone.
“Stames, Washington Field Office. Would you please have the following suspect checked out on the computer immediately?—Angelo Casefikis: Caucasian; male; Greek ancestry; height, five feet nine inches; weight, about a hundred and sixty-five pounds; hair, dark brown; eyes, brown; age, thirty-eight; no distinguishing marks or scars known; no identifying numbers known.” He was reading from the report Calvert had placed in front of him. He waited silently.
“If his story is true,” Mark said, “we should have no listing for him at all.”
“If it’s true,” said Calvert.
Stames continued to wait. The days of waiting to find out who was in the FBI files and who wasn’t had long gone. The girl came back on the line.
“We have nothing on a Casefikis, Angelo. We don’t even have a Casefikis. The best the computer can offer is a Casegikis who was born in 1901. Sorry I can’t help, Mr. Stames.”
“Thanks very much.” Stames put the phone down. “Okay boys, for the moment let’s give Casefikis the benefit of the doubt. Let’s assume he is telling the truth and that this is a serious investigation. We have no trace of him in any of our files, so we’d better start believing his story until it’s disproved; he just might be on to something, and if he is, then it goes way above me. Tomorrow morning, Barry, I want you back at the hospital with a fingerprint expert; take his prints in case he is giving a false name, put them through the identification computer right away and make sure you get a full written statement, signed. Then check the Met files for any shooting incidents on 24 February he could have been involved in. As soon as we can get him out, I want him in an ambulance showing us where that luncheon took place. Push the hospital into agreeing to that tomorrow morning, if possible. To date, he’s not under arrest or wanted for any crime we know about, so don’t go too far, not that he strikes me as a man who would know much about his rights.
“Mark,” Stames said, turning his head, “I want you to go back to the hospital immediately and make sure the Met are there. If not, stay with Casefikis until they do arrive. In the morning, go round to the Golden Duck and check him out. I’m going to make a provisional appointment for us to see the Director tomorrow morning, at 10:00 A.M., which will give you enough time to report back to me. And if, when we check the fingerprints through the identification computer, nothing comes up at all, and the hotel and the restaurant exist, we may be in a whole heap of trouble. If that’s the case, I’m not taking it one inch further without the Director knowing. For the moment, I want nothing in writing. Don’t hand in your official memorandum until tomorrow morning. Above all, don’t mention that a senator could be involved to anybody—and that includes Grant Nanna. It’s possible tomorrow, after we have seen the Director, that we will do no more than make a full report and hand the whole thing over to the Secret Service. Don’t forget the clear division of responsibility—the Secret Service guards the President, we cover federal crime. If a senator is involved, it’s us; if the President’s involved, it’s them. We’ll let the Director decide the finer points—I’m not getting involved in Capitol Hill, that’s the Director’s baby, and with only seven days to play with, we don’t have time to sit and discuss the academic niceties.”
Stames picked up the red phone which put him straight through to the Director’s office.
“Nick Stames, WFO.”
“Good evening,” said a low, quiet voice. Mrs. McGregor, a dedicated servant of the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was still on duty. It was said that even Hoover had been slightly frightened of her.
“Mrs. McGregor, I’d like to make a provisional appointment for myself and Special Agents Calvert and Andrews to see the Director for fifteen minutes, if that’s possible. Anytime between 9:00 A.M. and 11:00 A.M. tomorrow. It’s likely that after further investigation tonight and early tomorrow, I won’t need to bother him.”
Mrs. McGregor consulted the Director’s desk diary. “The Director is going to a meeting of police chiefs at eleven but he is expected in the office at 8:30 and he has nothing marked in his diary before eleven. I’ll pencil you in for 10:30, Mr. Stames. Do you want me to tell the Director what the subject of your discussion will be?”
“I’d prefer not to.”
Mrs. McGregor
never pressed or asked a second question. She knew if Stames called, it was important. He saw the Director ten times a year on a social basis, but only three or four times a year on a professional basis, and he was not in the habit of wasting the Director’s time.
“Thank you, Mr. Stames. 10:30 tomorrow morning, unless you cancel beforehand.”
Nick put the phone down and looked at his two men.
“Okay, we’re fixed to see the Director at 10:30. Barry, why don’t you give me a lift home, then you can take yourself off afterward, and pick me up again first thing in the morning. That’ll give us another chance to go over the details again.” Barry nodded. “Mark, you get straight back to the hospital.”
Mark had allowed his mind to slip away to visualize Elizabeth Dexter walking down the corridor of Woodrow Wilson toward him, red silk collar over the white medical coat, black skirt swinging. He was doing this with his eyes open and the result was quite pleasant. He smiled.
“Andrews, what the hell is so amusing about a reported threat on the President’s life?” Stames demanded.
“Sorry, sir. You just shot my social life down in flames. Would it be okay if I use my own car? I was hoping to go directly from the hospital to dinner.”
“Yes, that’s fine. We’ll use the duty car and see you first thing in the morning. Get your tail in gear, Mark, and hope the Met makes it before breakfast.” Mark looked at his watch. “Christ, it’s already 8:00 P.M.”
Mark left the office slightly annoyed. Even if the Met were there when he arrived, he would still be late for Elizabeth Dexter. Still, he could always call her from the hospital.
“Like a plate of warmed-up moussaka, Barry, and a bottle of retsina?”
“It was more than I was expecting, boss.”
The two men left the office. Stames mentally checked off the items on his nightly routine.
“Barry, will you double-check that Aspirin is on duty, as you go out, and tell him we won’t be back again tonight.”
Calvert made a detour to the Criminal Room and delivered the message to Aspirin. He was doing the crossword from The Washington Star. He had finished three clues; it was going to be a long night. Barry caught up with Nick Stames as he stepped into the blue Ford.
“Yes, boss, he’s working away.”
They looked at each other, a night of headaches. Barry got in the driver’s seat, slid it back as far as it would go, and adjusted the seat belt. They moved quietly up Constitution Avenue, then past the White House on to the E Street Expressway, and on toward Memorial Bridge.
“If Casefikis is on to something, we’ve got one hell of a week ahead of us,” said Nick Stames. “Did he seem sure of the date for the assassination attempt?”
“When I questioned him a second time about the details, he repeated 10 March, in Washington.”
“Hum-uh, seven days, not very long. Wonder what the Director will make of it,” said Stames.
“Hand it over to the Secret Police, if he’s got any sense,” Barry said.
“Ah, let’s forget it for the moment. Let’s concentrate on warmed-over moussaka and deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes.”
The car came to a halt at a traffic light, just beyond the White House, where a bearded, long-haired, dirty youth, who had been picketing the home of the President, stood with a large poster advising the world: BEWARE! THE END IS NIGH. Stames glanced at it and nodded to Barry.
“That’s all we need tonight.”
They passed under Virginia Avenue on the Expressway and sped across Memorial Bridge. A black 3.5 Lincoln passed them at about seventy miles an hour.
“Bet the Met pick him up,” said Stames.
“Probably late for Dulles Airport,” replied Barry.
The traffic was light, the rush-hour well behind them and when they turned on to George Washington Parkway they managed to stay in top gear. The Parkway, which follows the Potomac along the wooded Virginia shore, was dark and winding. Barry’s reflexes were as fast as any man’s in the service and Stames, although older, saw exactly what happened at the same time. A Buick, large and black, started to overtake them on their left. Calvert glanced toward it and when he looked forward again an instant later, another car, a black Lincoln, had swung in front of them on the wrong side of the highway. He thought he heard a rifle shot. Barry wrenched the wheel toward the center of the road but it didn’t respond. Both cars hit him at once, but he still managed to take one of them with him down the rocky slope. They gathered speed until they hit the surface of the river with a thud. Nick thought as he struggled in vain to open the door that the sinking seemed grotesquely slow, but inevitable.
The black Buick continued down the highway as if nothing had happened; past a car skidding to a halt, carrying a young couple, two terrified witnesses to the accident. They leaped out of their car and ran to the edge of the slope. There was nothing they could do but watch helplessly for the few seconds it took the blue Ford sedan and the Lincoln to sink out of sight.
“Jee-sus, did you see what happened ahead?” said the young man.
“Not really. I just saw the two cars go over the top. What do we do now, Jim?”
“Get the police fast.”
Man and wife ran back to their car.
Thursday evening
3 March
8:15 P.M.
“Hello, Liz.”
There was a moment’s pause at the other end of the phone.
“Hello, G-man. Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“Only wishful thinking. Listen, Elizabeth, I’ve had to come back to the hospital and keep an eye on your Mr. Casefikis until the police arrive. It’s just possible that he could be in some danger, so we’re having to put a guard on him which means I’m bound to be late for our date. Do you mind waiting?”
“No, I won’t starve. I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays, and he’s a big eater.”
“That’s good. Because I think you need to be fed. You look as though you might be hard to find in the dark. I’m still trying to get the flu, incidentally.”
She laughed warmly. “See you later.”
Mark put the telephone back on the hook and walked over to the elevator, and pressed the arrow on the Up-button.
He only hoped the Met policeman had arrived and was already on duty. Christ. How long was the elevator going to take to return to the ground floor? Patients must have died just waiting for it. Eventually the doors slid open and a burly Greek Orthodox priest hurried out and past him. He could have sworn it was a Greek Orthodox priest, from the high dark hat and long trailing veil and the Orthodox Cross around his neck, although something about the priest struck Mark as strange, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stood, puzzling for a moment, staring at his retreating back and only just managing to jump into the elevator before the doors closed. He pressed the fourth-floor button several times. Come on, come on. Get going, you bastard, but it had no ears for Mark, and proceeded upward at the same stately pace as it had earlier in the afternoon. It cared nothing for his date with Elizabeth Dexter. The door opened slowly, and he went through the widening gap sideways and ran down the corridor to Room 4308 but there was no sign of any policeman. In fact, the corridor was deserted. It looked as if he were going to be stuck there for some time. He peered through the little window in the door at the two men, asleep in their beds, the voiceless television set was still on giving out a square of light. Mark left to look for the staff nurse and eventually found her tucked away in the head nurse’s office enjoying a cup of coffee. She was pleased to see that it was the better-looking of the two FBI men who had returned.
“Has anyone come from the Metropolitan Police to keep an eye on Room 4308?”
“No, no one’s been anywhere near the place tonight. Silent as the grave. Were you expecting someone?”
“Yes, damn it. Guess I’ll have to wait. Do you think I could take a chair? I’m going to have to stick around till an officer from the Metropolitan Police comes. I hope I wo
n’t be in your way.”
“You won’t be in my way. You can stay as long as you like. I’ll see if I can find you a nice comfortable chair.” She put her mug down. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I certainly would.” Mark looked at her more carefully. It might be an evening with the nurse rather than the doctor. Mark decided he had better go back and check the room first, reassure Casefikis, if he were still awake, and then call the Met and ask where the hell their man was. He walked slowly to the door a second time; he felt no need to hurry now. He opened the door quietly. It was pitch black except for the light from the TV, and his eyes were not quite focused. He glanced at the two of them in bed. They were quite still. He wouldn’t have bothered to look any further if it hadn’t been for the dripping.
Drip, drip, drip.
It sounded like tap water but he couldn’t remember a tap.
Drip, drip.
He moved quietly to the bedside of Angelo Casefikis, and glanced down.
Drip, drip.
Warm fresh blood was flowing over the bottom sheet, trickling from Casefikis’s mouth, his dark eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue was hanging loose and swollen. His throat had been cut, ear to ear, just below the chin line. The blood was starting to make a pool on the floor. Mark was standing in it. He felt his legs sink, and he was barely able to grip the side of the bed and stop himself falling. He lurched over towards the deaf man. Mark’s eyes were now focused, and he retched loudly. The postman’s head was hanging loose from the rest of his body; only the color of his skin showed that they were once connected. Mark managed to scramble out of the door and get to the pay phone, his heartbeat thudding madly in his ears. He could feel his shirt clinging to his body. His hands were covered with blood. He fumbled ineffectually for a couple of quarters. He dialed Homicide and gave the bare outline of what had happened. This time they wouldn’t be casual about sending someone. The nurse on duty returned with a cup of coffee.
Shall We Tell the President? Page 4