Shall We Tell the President?

by Jeffrey Archer

  Mark had to think quickly. He couldn’t ask the manager of a local bank to ring the Director of the FBI. It would be like charging your gasoline to the account of Henry Ford.

  “Why don’t you ring the FBI’s Washington Field Office, sir, ask for the head of the Criminal Section. Mr. Grant Nanna.”

  “I’ll do just that.”

  Mark gave him the number, but he ignored it and looked it up for himself in the Washington directory. He got right through to Nanna. Thank God he was there.

  “I have a young man from your Field Office with me. His name is Mark Andrews. He says he has the authority to take away twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills. Something to do with stolen money.”

  Nanna also had to think quickly. Deny the allegation, defy the alligator—Nick Stames’s old motto.

  Mark, meanwhile, offered up a little prayer.

  “That’s correct, sir,” said Nanna. “He has been instructed by me to pick up those notes. I hope you will release them immediately. They will be returned as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nanna. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I just felt I ought just to check; you never can be sure nowadays.”

  “No bother, sir, a wise precaution. We wish everybody were as careful.” The first truth he’d uttered, thought Grant Nanna.

  The bank manager replaced the receiver, put the pile of fifty-dollar bills in a brown envelope, accepted the receipt, and shook hands with Mark apologetically.

  “You understand I had to check?”

  “Of course,” said Mark. “I would have done the same myself.”

  He thanked Mr. Guida and the manager and asked them both not to mention the matter to anybody. They nodded with the air of those who know their duty.

  Mark returned to the FBI Building immediately and went straight to the Director’s office. Mrs. McGregor nodded at him. A quiet knock on the door, and he went in.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

  “Not at all, Andrews. Have a seat. We were just finishing.”

  Matthew Rogers rose and looked carefully at Andrews and smiled.

  “I’ll try and have the answers for you by lunch, Director,” he said, and left.

  “Well, young man, do you have our Senator in the car downstairs?”

  “No, sir, but I do have these.”

  Mark opened the brown envelope and put twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills on the table.

  “Been robbing a bank, have you? A federal charge, Andrews.”

  “Almost, sir. One of these notes, as you know, was given to Mrs. Casefikis by the man posing as the Greek Orthodox priest.”

  “Well, that will be a nice little conundrum for our fingerprint boys; fifty-six sides with hundreds, perhaps thousands of prints on them. It’s a long shot and it will take a considerable time, but it’s worth a try.” He was careful not to touch the notes. “I’ll have Sommerton deal with it immediately. We’ll also need Mrs. Casefikis’s prints. I’ll also put one of our agents on her house in case the big man returns.” The Director was writing and talking at the same time. “It’s just like the old days when I ran a field office. I do believe I’d enjoy it if it weren’t so serious.”

  “Can I mention just one other thing while I’m here, sir?”

  “Yes, say whatever you want to, Andrews.” Tyson didn’t look up, just continued writing.

  “Mrs. Casefikis is worried about her status in this country. She has no money, no job, and now no husband. She may well have given us a vital lead and she has certainly been as co-operative as possible. I think we might help.”

  The Director pressed a button.

  “Ask Sommerton from Fingerprints to come up immediately, and send Elliott in.”

  Ah, thought Mark, the anonymous man has a name.

  “I’ll do what I can. I’ll see you Monday at seven, Andrews. I’ll be home all weekend if you need me. Don’t stop working.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mark left. He stopped at the Riggs Bank and changed fifteen dollars into quarters. The teller looked at him curiously.

  “Have your own pinball machine, do you?”

  Mark smiled.

  He spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon with a diminishing pile of quarters, calling the weekend-duty secretaries of the sixty-two senators who had been in Washington on 24 February. All of them were most gratified that their senator should be invited to an Environmental Conference; the Director was no fool. At the end of sixty-two phone calls, his ears were numb. Mark studied the results … thirty senators had eaten in the office or with constituents, fifteen had not told their secretaries where they were having lunch or had mentioned some vague “appointment,” and seventeen had attended luncheons hosted by groups as varied as the National Press Club, Common Cause, and the NAACP. One secretary even thought her boss had been at that particular Environmental Luncheon on 24 February. Mark hadn’t been able to think of a reply to that.

  With the Director’s help he was now down to fifteen senators.

  He returned to the Library of Congress, and once again made for the quiet reference room. The librarian did not seem the least bit suspicious of all his questions about particular senators and committees and procedure in the Senate; she was used to graduate students who were just as demanding and far less courteous.

  Mark went back to the shelf that held the Congressional Record. It was easy to find 24 February: it was the only thumbed number in the pile of unbound latest issues. He checked through the fifteen remaining names. On that day, there had been one committee in session, the Foreign Relations Committee; three senators on his list of fifteen were members of that committee, and all three had spoken in committee that morning, according to the Record. The Senate itself had debated two issues that day: the allocation of funds in the Energy Department for solar-energy research, and the Gun Control bill. Some of the remaining twelve had spoken on one or both issues on the floor of the Senate: there was no way of eliminating any of the fifteen, damn it. He listed the fifteen names on fifteen sheets of paper, and read through the Congressional Record for every day from 24 February to 3 March. By each name he noted the senator’s presence or absence from the Senate on each working day. Painstakingly, he built up each senator’s schedule; there were many gaps. It was evident that senators do not spend all their time in the Senate.

  The young librarian was at his elbow. Mark glanced at the clock: 7:30. Throwing-out time. Time to forget the senators and to see Elizabeth. He called her at home.

  “Hello, lovely lady. I think it must be time to eat again. I haven’t had anything since breakfast. Will you take pity on my debilitated state, Doctor, and eat with me?”

  “And do what with you, Mark? I’ve just washed my hair. I think I must have soap in my ears.”

  “Eat with me, I said. That will do for the moment. I just might think of something else later.”

  “I just might say no later,” she said sweetly. “How’s the breathing?”

  “Coming on nicely, thank you, but if I go on thinking what I am thinking right now, I may break out in pimples.”

  “What do you want me to do, pour cold water in the phone?”

  “No, just eat with me. I’ll pick you up in half an hour, hair wet or dry.”

  They found a small restaurant called Mr. Smith’s in Georgetown. Mark was more familiar with it in the summer, when one could sit at a table in the garden at the back. It was crowded with people in their twenties. The perfect place to sit for hours and talk.

  “God,” said Elizabeth. “This is just like being back at college; I thought we had grown out of that.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate it,” Mark smiled.

  “It’s all so predictable. Folksy wooden floors, butcherblock tables, plants. Bach flute sonatas. Next time we’ll try McDonald’s.”

  Mark couldn’t think of a reply, and was saved only by the appearance of a menu.

  “Can you imagine, four years at Yale, and I still don’t know what ratatouille is,” said E
lizabeth.

  “I know what it is, but I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.”

  They both ordered chicken, baked potato, and salad.

  “Look, Mark, there, that ghastly Senator Thornton with a girl young enough to be his daughter.”

  “Perhaps she is his daughter.”

  “No civilized man would bring his daughter here.” She smiled at him.

  “He’s a friend of your father’s, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, how do you know that?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Common knowledge.” Mark already regretted his question.

  “Well, I’d describe him as more of a business associate. He makes his money manufacturing guns. Not the most attractive occupation.”

  “But your father owns part of a gun company.”

  “Daddy? Yes, I don’t approve of that either, but he blames it on my grandfather who founded the firm. I used to argue with him about it when I was at school. Told him to sell his stock and invest it in something socially useful, saw myself as a sort Major Barbara.”

  “How is your dinner?” a hovering waiter asked.

  “Um, just great, thanks,” said Elizabeth looking up. “You know, Mark, I once called my father a war criminal.”

  “But he was against the war, I thought.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about my father,” said Elizabeth looking at him suspiciously.

  Not enough, thought Mark, and how much could you really tell me? If Elizabeth picked up any sign of his anxiety, she didn’t register it but simply continued.

  “He voted to approve the MX missile, and I didn’t sit at the same table with him for almost a month. I don’t think he even noticed.”

  “How about your mother?” asked Mark.

  “She died when I was fourteen, which may be why I’m so close to my father,” Elizabeth said. She looked down at her hands in her lap, evidently wanting to drop the subject. Her dark hair shone as it fell across her forehead.

  “You have very beautiful hair,” Mark said softly. “I wanted to touch it when I first saw you. I still do.”

  She smiled. “I like curly hair better.” She leaned her chin on her cupped hands and looked at him mischievously. “You’ll look fantastic when you’re forty and fashionably gray at the temples. Provided you don’t lose it all first, of course. Did you know that men who lose their hair at the crown are sexy, those who lose it at the temples, think, and those who lose it all over, think they are sexy?”

  “If I go bald at the crown, will you accept that as a declaration of intent?”

  “I’m willing to wait but not that long.”

  On the way back to her house he stopped, put his arm around her and kissed her, hesitantly at first, unsure of how she would respond.

  “You know, my knees are feeling weak, Elizabeth,” he murmured into her soft, warm hair. “What are you going to do with your latest victim?”

  She walked on without speaking for a little way.

  “Get you some knee pads,” she said.

  They walked on hand in hand, silently, happily, slowly. Three not very romantic men were following them.

  In the pretty living room, on the cream-colored sofa, he kissed her again.

  The three unromantic men waited in the shadows outside.

  She sat alone in the Oval Office going over the clauses in the bill one by one, searching for any line that still might trip her up when the bill was voted on tomorrow.

  She looked up suddenly startled to see her husband standing in front of her, a mug of steaming cocoa in his hand.

  “An early night won’t harm your chances of influencing that lot,” he said pointing towards the Capitol.

  She smiled, “Darling Edward, where would I be without your common sense?”

  Sunday morning

  6 March

  9:00 A.M.

  Mark spent Sunday morning putting the finishing touches to his report for the Director. He began by tidying his desk; he could never think clearly unless everything was in place. Mark gathered all his notes together and put them in a logical sequence. He completed the task by two o’clock, without noticing that he had missed lunch. Slowly he wrote down the names of the fifteen senators who were left, six under the heading Foreign Relations Committee, nine under Gun Control bill—Judiciary Committee. He stared at the lists, hoping for inspiration but none came. One of these men was a killer and there were only four days left to find out which one. He put the papers into his briefcase, which he locked in his desk.

  He went into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. He looked at his watch. What could he do that would be useful for the rest of the day? Elizabeth was on duty at the hospital. He picked up the phone and dialed the number. She could only spare a minute, due in the operating theater at three o’clock.

  “Okay, Doctor, this won’t take long and it shouldn’t hurt. I can’t call you every day just to tell you that you are lovely and intelligent and that you drive me crazy, so listen carefully.”

  “I’m listening, Mark.”

  “Okay. You are beautiful and bright and I’m crazy about you … What, no reply?”

  “Oh, I thought there might be more. I’ll say something nice in return when I’m three inches away from you, not three miles.”

  “Better make it soon, or I am going to crack up. Off you go, and cut out someone else’s heart.”

  She laughed. “It’s an ingrown toenail actually …”

  She hung up. Mark roamed about the room, his mind jumping from fifteen senators, to Elizabeth, back to one Senator. Wasn’t it going just a little too well with Elizabeth? Was one Senator looking for him, rather than the other way around? He cursed and poured himself a Michelob. His mind switched to Barry Calvert; on Sunday afternoons they usually played squash. Then to Nick Stames, Stames who had unknowingly taken his place. If Stames were alive now, what would he do? … A remark that Stames had made at the office party last Christmas came flashing across Mark’s mind: “If I’m not available, the second best crime man in this goddamn country is George Stampouzis of The New York Times”—another Greek, naturally. “He must know more about the Mafia and the CIA than almost anyone on either side of the law.”

  Mark dialed Information in New York, and asked for the number, not quite sure where it was leading him. The operator gave it to him.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  He dialed it.

  “Crime desk, George Stampouzis, please.” They put him through.

  “Stampouzis,” said a voice. They don’t waste words on The New York Times.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Mark Andrews. I’m calling from Washington. I was a friend of Nick Stames; in fact, he was my boss.”

  The voice changed. “Yes, I heard about the terrible accident, if it was an accident. What can I do for you?”

  “I need some inside information. Can I fly up and see you immediately?”

  “Does it concern Nick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes. Meet me at eight o’clock, northeast corner of Twenty-first and Park Avenue South?”

  “I’ll be there,” said Mark looking at his watch.

  “And I’ll be waiting for you.”

  The Eastern Airlines shuttle flight arrived a few minutes after seven. Mark made his way through the crowd milling around the baggage pickup and headed for the taxi stand. A potbellied, middle-aged, unshaven New Yorker with an unlit cigar stub bobbing up and down in his mouth drove him towards Manhattan. He never stopped talking the whole way, a monologue that required few replies. Mark could have used the time to compose his thoughts.

  “This country’s full of shit,” said the bobbing cigar.

  “Yes,” said Mark.

  “And this city is nothing more than a garbage hole.”

  “Yes,” said Mark.

  “And that daughter of a bitch Kane’s to blame. They ought to string her up.”

  Mark froze. It was probably said a thousand times a day; someone
in Washington was saying it and meaning it.

  The cab driver pulled up to the curb.

  “Eighteen dollars even,” said the bobbing cigar.

  Mark put a ten and two fives into the little plastic drawer in the protective screen that divided driver from passenger, and climbed out. A heavy-set man in his midfifties and wearing a tweed overcoat, headed towards him. Mark shivered. He had forgotten how cold New York could be in March.

  “Andrews?”

  “Yes. Good guess.”

  “When you spend your life studying criminals, you begin to think like them.” He was taking in Mark’s suit. “G-men are certainly dressing better than they did in my day.”

  Mark looked embarrassed. Stampouzis must know that an FBI agent was paid almost double the salary of a New York cop.

  “You like Italian food?” He didn’t wait for Mark’s reply. “I’ll take you to one of Nick’s old favorites.” He was already on the move. They walked the long block in silence, Mark’s step hesitating as he passed each restaurant entrance. Suddenly, Stampouzis disappeared into a doorway. Mark followed him through a run-down bar full of men who were leaning on the counter and drinking heavily. Men who had no wives to go home to, or if they did, didn’t want to.

  Once through the bar, they entered a pleasant, brickwalled dining area. A tall, thin Italian guided them to a corner table: obviously Stampouzis was a favored customer. Stampouzis didn’t bother with the menu.

  “I recommend the shrimp marinara. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Mark took his advice and added a piccata al limone and half a carafe of Chianti. Stampouzis drank Colt 45. They talked of trivia while they ate. Mark knew the residual Mediterranean creed after two years with Nick Stames—never let business interfere with the enjoyment of good food. In any case, Stampouzis was still sizing him up, and Mark needed his confidence. When Stampouzis had finished an enormous portion of zabaglione and settled down to a double espresso with Sambuca on the side, he looked up at Mark and spoke in a different tone.

  “You worked for a great man, a rare lawman. If one tenth of the FBI were as conscientious and intelligent as Nick Stames, you would have something to be pleased about in that brick coliseum of yours.”