“I’m just going to stand here and admire you,” he said. “You know, Doctor, I’ve always been attracted to beautiful, clever women. Do you think that says something about me?”
She laughed and led him into the pretty house.
“Come and sit down. You look as though you could do with a drink.” She poured him the beer he asked for. When she sat down, her eyes were serious.
“I don’t suppose you want to talk about the horrible thing that happened to my mailman.”
“No,” said Mark. “I’d prefer not to, for a number of reasons.”
Her face showed understanding.
“I hope you’ll catch the bastard who killed him.” Again, those dark eyes flashed to meet his. She got up to turn over the record on the stereo. “How do you like this kind of music?” she asked lightly.
“I’m not much on Haydn,” he said. “I’m a Mahler freak. And Beethoven, Aznavour. And you?”
She blushed slightly.
“When you didn’t turn up last night, I called your office to see if you were there.”
Mark was surprised and pleased.
“Finally I got through to a girl in your department. You were out at the time, and besides she said you were very busy, so I didn’t leave a message.”
“That’s Polly,” said Mark. “She’s very protective.”
“And pretty?” She smiled with the confidence of one who knows she is good-looking.
“Good from far but far from good,” said Mark. “Let’s forget Polly. Come on, you ought to be hungry by now, and I’m not going to give you that steak I keep promising you. I’ve booked a table for nine o’clock at Tio Pepe.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Since you managed to get your car parked, why don’t we walk?”
“Great.”
It was a clear, cool evening and Mark enjoyed the fresh air. What he didn’t enjoy was the continual urge to look over his shoulder.
“Looking for another woman already?” she teased.
“No,” said Mark. “Why should I look any further?” He spoke lightly, but he knew he hadn’t fooled her. He changed the subject abruptly. “How do you like your work?”
“My work?” Elizabeth seemed surprised, as though she never thought of it in those terms. “My life, you mean? It’s just about my entire life. Or has been so far.”
She glanced up at Mark with a somber expression on her face. “I hate the hospital. It’s a big bureaucracy, old and dirty and a lot of the people there, pretty administrative types, don’t really care about helping people. To them it’s just another way of earning a living. Only yesterday I had to threaten to resign in order to convince the Utilization Committee to let an old man remain in the hospital. He had no home to go back to.”
They walked down 30th Street, and Elizabeth continued to tell him about her work. She spoke with spirit, and Mark listened to her with pleasure. She showed a pleasant self-assurance, as she told him about a soulful Yugoslav who would sing incomprehensible Slavic songs of love and of longing as she inspected his ulcerated armpit and who had finally, in a misplaced gesture of passion, seized her left ear and licked it.
Mark laughed and took her arm as he guided her into the restaurant. “You ought to demand combat pay,” he said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t have complained, other than to tell him that his singing was always out of tune.”
The hostess led them upstairs to a table in the center of the room, near where the floor show would be performed. Mark rejected it in favor of a table in the far corner. He did not ask Elizabeth which seat she would prefer. He sat down with his back to the wall, making a lame excuse about wanting to be away from the noise so he could talk to her. Mark was sure that this girl would not fall too easily for that sort of blarney; she knew something was wrong and she sensed his edginess, but she did not pry.
A young waiter asked them if they would like a cocktail. Elizabeth asked for a Margarita, Mark for a spritzer.
“What’s a spritzer?” asked Elizabeth.
“Not very Spanish, half white wine, half soda, lots of ice. Stirred but not shaken. Sort of a poor man’s James Bond.”
The pleasant atmosphere of the restaurant helped to dispel some of Mark’s tension; he relaxed slightly for the first time in twenty-four hours. They chatted about movies, music, and books, and then about Yale. Her face, often animated, was sometimes serene but always lovely in the candlelight. Mark was enchanted by her. For all her intelligence and self-sufficiency, she had a touching fragility and femininity.
As they ate their paella Mark asked Elizabeth why her father had become a senator, about his career, and her childhood in Connecticut. The subject seemed to make her uneasy. Mark couldn’t help remembering that her father was still on the list. He tried to shift the conversation to her mother. Elizabeth avoided his eyes and even, he thought, turned pale. For the first time, a tiny ripple of suspicion disturbed his affectionate vision of Elizabeth, and made him worry momentarily. She was the first beautiful thing that had happened for quite a while, and he didn’t want to distrust her. Was it possible? Could she be involved? No, of course not. He tried to put it out of his mind.
The Spanish floor show came on and was performed with enthusiasm. Mark and Elizabeth listened and watched, unable to speak to each other above the noise. Mark was happy enough just to sit and be with her; her face was turned away as she looked at the dancers. When the floor show eventually ended, they had both long finished the paella. They ordered dessert and coffee.
“Would you like a cigar?”
Elizabeth smiled. “No, thanks. We don’t have to ape men’s vile habits as well as their good ones.”
“Like that,” said Mark. “You’re going to be the first woman Surgeon General, I suppose?”
“No, I’m not,” she said demurely. “I’ll probably be the second or third.”
Mark laughed. “I’d better get back to the Bureau, and do great things. Just to keep up with you.”
“And it may well be a woman who stops you becoming Director of the FBI,” Elizabeth added.
“No, it won’t be a woman that stops me becoming Director of the FBI,” said Mark, but he didn’t explain.
“Your coffee, señorita, señor.”
If Mark had ever wanted to sleep with a woman on the first date, this was the occasion, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen.
He paid the bill, left a generous tip for the waiter, and congratulated the girl from the floor show, who was sitting in a corner drinking coffee.
When they left the restaurant Mark found the night had a chill edge. Once again he began looking nervously around him, trying not to make it too obvious to Elizabeth. He took her hand as they crossed the street, and didn’t let it go when they reached the other side. They walked on, chatting intermittently, both aware of what was happening. He wanted to hold on to her. Lately, he had been seeing a lot of women, but with none of them had he held their hand either before or afterwards. Gradually his mood darkened again. Perhaps fear was making him excessively sentimental.
A car was driving up behind them. Mark stiffened with anticipation. Elizabeth didn’t appear to notice. It slowed down. It was going slower as it neared them. It stopped just beside them. Mark undid his middle button and fidgeted, more worried for Elizabeth than for himself. The doors of the car opened suddenly and out jumped four teenagers, two girls, two boys. They darted into a Hamburger Haven. Sweat appeared on Mark’s forehead. He shook free of Elizabeth’s touch. She stared at him. “Something’s very wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Just don’t ask me about it.”
She sought his hand again, held it firmly, and they walked on. The oppression of the horrible events of the previous day bore down on Mark and he did not speak again. When they arrived at her front door, he was back in the world which was shared only by him and the hulking, shadowy figure of Halt Tyson.
“Well, you have been most charming this evening, when you’ve actually been here,” she said smiling
ly.
Mark shook himself. “I’m really sorry.”
“Would you like to come in for coffee?”
“Yes and no. Can I take another raincheck on that? I don’t feel like good company right now.”
He still had several things to do before he saw the Director at 7:00 A.M. and it was already midnight. Also he hadn’t slept properly for a day and a half.
“Can I call you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that,” she said. “Be sure to keep in touch, whatever happens.”
Mark would carry those few words around with him like a talisman for the next few days. He could recall her every word and its accompanying gesture. Were they said in fun, were they said seriously, were they said teasingly? Lately, it hadn’t been fashionable to fall in love; very few people seemed to be getting married and a lot of people who had were getting divorced. Was he really going to fall madly in love in the middle of all this?
He kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave, his eyes darting up and down the road again. She whispered after him:
“I hope you find the man who killed my mailman and your Greek.”
Your Greek, your Greek, Greek Orthodox priest, Father Gregory. God in heaven, why hadn’t he thought of it before? He’d forgotten Elizabeth for a moment as he started to run towards his car. He turned to wave; she was staring at him with a puzzled expression, wondering what she had said. Mark leaped into the car and drove as fast as he could to his apartment. He must find Father Gregory’s number. Greek Orthodox priest, what did he look like, the one who came out of the elevator, what did he look like; it was all coming back, there had been something unusual with him: what the hell was it? His clothes? No, they were fine, or was it his face? His face was wrong somehow. Of course. Of course. How could he have been so stupid. When he arrived home, he called the Washington Field Office immediately. Polly, on the switchboard, was surprised to hear him.
“Aren’t you on leave?”
“Yes, sort of. Do you have Father Gregory’s number?”
“Who is Father Gregory?”
“A Greek Orthodox priest whom Mr. Stames used to contact occasionally; I think he was his local priest.”
“Yes, you’re right. Now I remember.”
Mark waited.
She checked Stames’s Rolodex and gave him the number. Mark wrote it down, and replaced the phone. Of course, of course, of course. How stupid of him. It was so obvious. Well past midnight, but he had to call. He dialed the number. The telephone rang several times before it was answered.
“Father Gregory?”
“Yes.”
“Do all Greek Orthodox priests have beards?”
“Yes, as a rule. Who is this asking such a damn silly question in the middle of the night?”
Mark apologized. “My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I worked under Nick Stames.”
The man at the other end, who had sounded sleepy, immediately woke up. “I understand, young man. What can I do for you?”
“Father Gregory, last night Mr. Stames’s secretary called you and asked you to go to Woodrow Wilson to check a Greek who had a bullet wound in his leg?”
“Yes, that’s right—I remember, Mr. Andrews. But somebody else called about thirty minutes later, just as I was leaving, in fact, to tell me I needn’t bother because Mr. Casefikis had been discharged from the hospital.”
“He’d been what?” Mark’s voice rose with each word.
“Discharged from the hospital.”
“Did the caller say who he was?”
“No, the man gave no other details. I assumed he was from your office.”
“Father Gregory, can I see you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock?”
“Yes, of course, my son.”
“And can you be sure you don’t talk to anybody else about this phone call, whoever they say they are?”
“If that is your wish, my son.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Mark dropped the telephone and tried to concentrate. He was taller than I was, so he was over six feet. He was dark, or was that just his priest’s robes? No, he had dark hair, he had a big nose, I remember he had a big nose, eyes, no I can’t remember his eyes, he had a big nose, a heavy chin, a heavy chin. Mark wrote everything down he could remember. A big heavy man, taller than me, big nose, heavy chin, big nose, heavy … he collapsed. His head fell on the desk and he slept.
Saturday morning
5 March
6:32 A.M.
Mark had awoken, but he wasn’t awake. His head was swimming with incoherent thoughts. The first vision to flash across his mind was Elizabeth; he smiled. The second was Nick Stames; he frowned. The third was the Director. Mark woke with a start and sat up, trying to focus his eyes on his watch. All he could see was the second hand moving: 6:35. Hell. He shot up from the chair, his stiff neck and back hurting him; he was still dressed. He threw off his clothes and rushed into the bathroom and showered, without taking time to adjust the water temperature. Goddamn freezing. At least it woke him up and made him forget Elizabeth. He jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel: 6:40. After throwing the lather on his face, he shaved too quickly, mowing down the stubble on his chin. Damn it, three nicks; the aftershave lotion stung viciously: 6:43. He dressed: clean shirt, same cuff links, clean socks, same shoes, clean suit, same tie. A quick look in the mirror: two nicks still bleeding slightly, the hell with it. He bundled the papers on his desk into his briefcase and ran for the elevator. First piece of luck, it was on the top floor. Downstairs: 6:46.
“Hi, Simon.”
The young black garage attendant didn’t move. He was dozing in his little cubbyhole at the garage entrance.
“Morning, Mark. Hell, man, is it eight o’clock already?”
“No, thirteen minutes to seven.”
“What are you up to? Moonlighting?” asked Simon, rubbing his eyes and handing over the car keys. Mark smiled, but didn’t have time to answer. Simon dozed off again.
Car starts first time. Reliable Mercedes. Moves on the road: 6:48. Must stay below speed limit. Never embarrass the Bureau. At 6th Street, held up by lights: 6:50. Cut across G Street, up 7th, more lights. Cross Independence Avenue: 6:53. Corner of 7th and Pennsylvania. Can see FBI Building: 6:55. Down ramp, park, show FBI pass to garage guard, run for elevator: 6:57; elevator to seventh floor: 6:58. Along the corridor, turn right, Room 7074, straight in, past Mrs. McGregor as instructed. She barely glances up; knock on door of Director’s office; no reply; go in as instructed. No Director: 6:59; sink into easy chair. Director going to be late; smile of satisfaction. Thirty seconds to seven: glance around room, casually, as if been waiting for hours. Eyes land on grandfather clock. Strikes: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
The door opened, and the Director marched in. “Good morning, Andrews.” He did not look at Mark, but at the clock on the wall. “It’s always a little fast.” Silence. The Old Post Office Tower clock struck seven.
The Director settled into his chair, and once again the large hands took possession of the desk.
“We’ll start with my news first, Andrews. We have just received some identification on the Lincoln that went into the Potomac with Stames and Calvert.”
The Director opened a new manilla file marked “Eyes only” and glanced at its contents. What was in the file that Mark didn’t know about and ought to know about?
“Nothing solid to go on. Hans-Dieter Gerbach, German. Bonn has reported that he was a minor figure in the Munich rackets until five years ago, then they lost track of him. There is some evidence to suggest he was in Rhodesia and even hitched up with the CIA for a while. The White-Lightning Brigade. The CIA is not being helpful on him. I can’t see much information coming from them before Thursday. Sometimes I wonder whose side they’re on. In 1980, Gerbach turned up in New York, but there’s nothing there except rumors and street talk, no record to go on. It would have helped if he’d lived.”
Mark thought of the slit throats in Woodrow Wilson Med
ical Center and wondered.
“The interesting fact to emerge from the car crash is that both black tires of Stames’s and Calvert’s car have small holes in them. They could have been the result of the fall down the bank, but our laboratory boys think they are bullet holes. If they are, whoever did the shooting makes Wyatt Earp look like a boy scout.”
The Director spoke into his intercom. “Have Assistant Director Rogers join us please, Mrs. McGregor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Rogers’s men have found the catering outfit Casefikis was working for, for what that’s worth.”
The Assistant Director knocked and entered. The Director indicated a chair. Rogers smiled at Mark and sat down.
“Let’s have the details, Matt.”
“Well, sir, the owner of the Golden Duck wasn’t exactly co-operative. Seemed to think I was after him for contravening employers’ regulations. I threatened to shut him down if he didn’t talk. Finally he admitted to employing a man matching Casefikis’s description on 24 February. He sent Casefikis to serve at a small luncheon party in one of the rooms at the Georgetown Inn on Wisconsin Avenue. The man who made the arrangement was a Lorenzo Rossi. He insisted on a waiter who couldn’t speak English. Paid in cash. We’ve run Rossi through all the computers—nothing. Obviously a false name. Same story at the Georgetown Inn. The proprietor said the room had been hired for the day of 24 February by a Mr. Rossi, food to be supplied, but no service, cash paid in advance. Rossi was about five-feet-eight, dark complexion, no distinguishing features, dark hair, sunglasses. The proprietor thought he “seemed Italian.” No one at the hotel knows or cares who the hell went to lunch in that room that day. I’m afraid it doesn’t get us very far.”
“I agree. I suppose we could pull every Italian answering that description off the street,” said the Director. “If we had five years, not five days. Did you turn up anything new at the hospital, Matt?”
“It’s a hell of a mess, sir. The place is full of people coming and going, all day and most of the night. The staff all work shifts. They don’t even know their own colleagues, let alone outsiders. You could wander around there all day with a torchlight in your hand and no one would stop you unless they wanted a light.”
Shall We Tell the President? Page 10