Shall We Tell the President?

by Jeffrey Archer

  Mark looked at him, about to speak.

  “No, don’t add anything about Nick; that’s why you’re here, and don’t ask me to change my opinion of the Bureau. I’ve been a crime reporter for over thirty years and the only change I’ve seen in the FBI and the Mafia is that they are both bigger and stronger.” He poured the Sambuca into his coffee, and took a noisy gulp. “Okay. How can I help?”

  “Everything off the record,” said Mark.

  “Agreed,” said Stampouzis. “For both our sakes.”

  “I need two pieces of information. First, are there any senators with close connections in organized crime and second, what is the attitude of the mob to the Gun Control bill?”

  “You don’t want much, do you?” said the Greek sarcastically. “Where shall I begin? The first is easier to answer directly, because the truth is that half the senators have loose connections with organized crime, by which I mean the Mafia, however out-of-date that is. Some don’t even realize it but if you include accepting campaign contributions from businessmen and large corporations directly or indirectly associated with crime, then every President is a criminal. But when the Mafia needs a senator they do it through a third party; and even that’s rare.”

  “Why?” queried Mark.

  “The Mafia needs clout at the state level, in courts, with deals, local by-laws, all that. They’re just not interested in foreign treaties and the approval of Supreme Court justices. In a more general way, there are some senators who owe their success to links with the Mafia, the ones who have started as civil court judges or state assemblymen and received direct financial backing from the Mafia. It’s possible they didn’t even realize it; some people don’t check too carefully when they are trying to get elected. Added to this are cases like Arizona and Nevada, where the Mafia runs a legit business, but God help any outsiders who try to join in. Finally, in the case of the Democratic party, there’s organized labor, especially the Teamsters Union. There you are, Mark, thirty years’ experience in ten minutes.”

  “Great background. Now can I ask you some specifics. If I name fifteen senators, will you indicate if they could fall into any of the categories you have mentioned?” Mark asked.

  “Maybe. Try me. I’ll go as far as I feel I can. Just don’t push me.”

  “Bradley.”

  “Never,” said Stampouzis.

  “Thornton.”

  He didn’t move a muscle.

  “Bayh.”

  “Not that I have ever heard.”

  “Harrison.”

  “No idea. I don’t know much about South Carolina politics.”

  “Nunn.”

  “Sam Sunday-School? Scout’s Honor Nunn? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Brooks.”

  “Hates the President but I don’t think he’d go that far.”

  Mark went down the list. Stevenson, Biden, Moynihan, Woodson, Clark, Mathias. Stampouzis shook his head silently.

  “Dexter.”

  He hesitated. Mark tried not to tense.

  “Trouble, yes,” Stampouzis began. “But Mafia, no.”

  He must have heard Mark sigh. Mark was anxious to know what the trouble was; he waited but Stampouzis didn’t add anything.

  “Byrd.”

  “Majority leader. Not his style.”

  “Pearson.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Thank you,” said Mark. He paused. “Now to the Mafia’s attitude towards the Gun Control bill.”

  “I’m not certain at the moment,” began Stampouzis. “The Mafia is no longer monolithic. It’s too big for that and there has been a lot of internal disagreement lately. The old-timers are dead set against it because of the obvious difficulty of getting guns legally in the future, but they are more frightened by the riders to the bill, like mandatory sentences for carrying an unregistered gun. The Feds will love that; for them it’s the best thing since tax evasion. They will be able to stop any known criminal, search him, and if he is carrying an unregistered gun, which he is almost certain to be, wham, he’s in the courthouse. On the other hand, some of the young Turks are looking forward to it, a modern-day Prohibition for them. They will supply unregistered guns to unorganized hoodlums and any mad radical who wants one, another source of income for the mob. They also believe the police won’t be able to enforce the law and the cleaning-up period will take a decade. Does that get near to answering the question?”

  “Yes, very near,” said Mark.

  “Now, my turn to ask you a question, Mark.”

  “Same rules?”

  “Same rules. Are these questions directly connected with Nick’s death?”

  “Yes,” said Mark.

  “I won’t ask any more then, because I know what to ask and you’re going to have to lie. Let’s just make a deal. If this breaks into something big, you’ll see I get an exclusive over those bastards from the Post.”

  “Agreed,” said Mark.

  Stampouzis smiled and signed the check; the last comment had made Mark Andrews a legitimate expense.

  Mark looked at his watch; with luck he would make the last shuttle from La Guardia. Stampouzis rose and walked to the door; the bar was still full of men drinking heavily, the same men with the same wives. Once on the street, Mark hailed a cab. This time, a young black pulled up beside him.

  “I’m halfway there,” said Stampouzis, puzzling Mark. “If I pick up anything that I think might help, I’ll call you.”

  Mark thanked him and climbed into the cab.

  “La Guardia, please.”

  Mark rolled down the window, Stampouzis stared in briefly.

  “It’s not for you, it’s for Nick.” He was gone.

  The journey back to the airport was silent.

  When Mark eventually reached his own apartment, he tried to put the pieces together in his mind ready for the Director the following morning. He glanced at his watch. Christ, it was already the following morning.

  Monday morning

  7 March

  7:00 A.M.

  The Director listened to the results of Mark’s research in attentive silence and then added his own unexpected piece of information.

  “Andrews, we may be able to narrow your list of fifteen senators even further. Last Thursday morning a couple of agents picked up an unauthorized transmission on one of our KGB channels. Either temporary interference from some commercial station caused us to tune in a different frequency momentarily or else some guy is in possession of an illegal transmitter for our frequency. The only thing our boys heard was: ‘Come in, Tony. I just dropped the Senator back for his committee meeting and I’m …’ The voice stopped transmitting abruptly and we couldn’t find it again. Perhaps the conspirators had been listening in on our conversations, and this time one of them without thinking started to transmit on our frequency as well; it’s easy enough to do. The agents who heard it filed a report concerning the illegal use of our frequency without realizing its particular significance.”

  Mark was leaning forward in his chair.

  “Yes, Andrews,” said the Director. “I know what’s going through your mind: 10:30 A.M. The message was sent at 10:30 A.M.”

  “10:30 A.M., 3 March,” said Mark urgently. “Let me just check … which committees were already in progress …” He opened his file. “Dirksen Building … that hour … I have the details at hand somewhere, I know,” he continued as he flicked through his papers. “Three possibilities, sir. The Foreign Relations and Government Operations committees were in session that morning. On the floor of the Senate they were debating the Gun Control bill: that seems to be taking up a lot of their time right now.”

  “Now we may be getting somewhere,” said the Director. “Can you tell from your records how many of your fifteen were in the Capitol on 3 March and what they were up to?”

  Mark leafed through the fifteen sheets of paper and slowly divided them into two piles. “Well, it isn’t conclusive, sir, but I have no record of these eight”—he placed his
hand on one of the piles—“being in the Senate that morning. The remaining seven were definitely there. None on the Government Operations Committee. Two on Foreign Relations—Pearson and Nunn, sir. The other five are Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison and Thornton. They were all on the floor. And they were all on the Judiciary Committee, Gun Control bill, as well.”

  The Director grimaced. “Well, as you say, Andrews, it’s hardly conclusive. But it’s all we have, so you concentrate on those seven. With only four days, it’s a chance we will have to take. Don’t get too excited just because we had one lucky break, and double-check that those eight could not have been in Dirksen that morning. Now, I am not going to risk putting seven senators under surveillance. Those folks on the Hill are suspicious enough of the FBI as it is. We’ll have to use different tactics. Politically, we can’t take a chance on a full-scale investigation. I’m afraid we’ll have to find our man by using the only clues we’re certain of—where he was on Thursday, 24 February at lunchtime, and this 10:30 Judiciary Committee meeting last week. So don’t bother with the motive—we needn’t waste time second-guessing that, Andrews. Just keep looking for ways of narrowing the list, and spend the rest of the day at the Foreign Relations Committee and the floor of the Senate. Talk to the staff directors. There is nothing they don’t know—public or private—about the senators.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And one more thing. I’m having dinner with the President tonight so I may be able to glean some information from her which could help us reduce the number of suspects.”

  “Will you tell the President, sir?”

  The Director of the FBI paused. “No, I don’t think so. I still believe we have the problem under control. I see no reason for worrying her at this stage, certainly not before I’m convinced we’re likely to fail.”

  Finally the Director passed over an Identikit picture of the Greek priest. “Mrs. Casefikis’s version,” he said. “What do you think of it?”

  “It’s not a bad likeness at all,” said Mark. “Maybe a little fleshier around the jaws than that. Those men really know their job.”

  “What worries me,” said the Director, “is that I’ve seen that damn face before. So many criminals have come across my path that to remember one of them is almost impossible. Maybe it will come to me.”

  “I do hope it comes before Thursday, sir,” said Mark, without thinking.

  “So do I,” Tyson replied grimly.

  “And to think I was only twenty-four hours behind him. It hurts.”

  “Think yourself lucky, young man. If you had been ahead of him, I think Ariana Casefikis would now be dead and so might you. I’ve still got a man on Mrs. Casefikis’s home just in case he returns, but I think he is far too professional a bastard to risk that.”

  Mark agreed. “Professional bastard,” he repeated.

  The red light on the internal telephone winked.

  “Yes, Mrs. McGregor?”

  “You’ll be late for your appointment with Senator Hart.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McGregor.” He put the phone down. “I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow, Mark.” It was the first time he called him Mark. “Leave no stone unturned; only four days left.”

  Mark took the elevator down and left the building by his usual route. He didn’t notice he was being followed from the other side of the street. He went to the Senate Office Building and made appointments to see the staff directors of the Foreign Relations and Judiciary committees. The earliest either could manage was the following morning. Mark returned to the Library of Congress to research more thoroughly the personal histories of the seven senators left on his list. They were a rather varied bunch, from all over the country, with little in common; one of them had nothing in common with the other six, but which one? Nunn—it didn’t add up. Thornton—Stampouzis obviously didn’t care for him but what did that prove. Byrd—surely not the majority leader? Harrison—Stampouzis said he was against the Gun Control bill, but so was almost half the Senate. Dexter—what was the trouble Stampouzis wouldn’t tell him about? Perhaps Elizabeth would enlighten him tonight. Ralph Brooks, a strangely intense, driven man and certainly lacking any affection for Kane, that was for sure. Pearson—if he turned out to be the villain, no one would believe it: thirty-three years in the Senate, and always playing honest Casca in public and private.

  Mark sighed—the long weary sigh of a man who has come to an impasse. He glanced at his watch: 10:45; he must leave immediately if he were to be on time. He returned the various periodicals, Congressional Records, and Ralph Nader reports to the librarian, and hurried across the street to the parking lot to pick up his car. He drove quickly down Constitution Avenue and over Memorial Bridge—how many times had he done that this week? Mark glanced in his rear-view mirror and thought he recognized the car behind him, or was it just the memory of last Thursday?

  Mark parked his car at the side of the road. Two Secret Service men stopped him. He produced his credentials and walked slowly down the path just in time to join a hundred and fifty other mourners standing around two graves, freshly dug to receive two men who a week ago were more alive than most of the people attending their burial. The Vice President, former Senator Bill Bradley, was representing the President. He stood next to Norma Stames, a frail figure in black, being supported by her two sons. Hank, the eldest, stood next to a giant of a man, who must have been Barry Calvert’s father. Next was the Director, who glanced around and saw Mark, but didn’t acknowledge him. The game was being played out even at the graveside.

  Father Gregory’s vestments fluttered slightly in the cold breeze. The hem was muddy, for it had rained all night. A young chaplain in white surplice and black cassock stood silently at his side.

  “I am the image of Thine inexpressible glory, even though I bear the wounds of sin,” Father Gregory intoned.

  His weeping wife bent forward and kissed Nick Stames’s pale cheek and the coffin was closed. As Father Gregory prayed, Stames’s and Calvert’s coffins were lowered slowly, slowly into their graves. Mark watched sadly: it might have been him going down, down; it should have been him.

  “With the saints give rest, O Christ, to the souls of Thy servants, where there is neither sickness nor sorrow, nor sighing, but Life everlasting.”

  The final blessing was given, the Orthodox made the sign of the cross and the mourners began to disperse.

  After the service Father Gregory was speaking warmly of his friend Nick Stames and expressed the hope that he and his colleague Barry Calvert had not died without purpose; he seemed to be looking at Mark as he said it.

  Mark saw Nanna, Aspirin, Julie, and the anonymous man, but realized he mustn’t speak to them. He slipped quietly away. Let the others mourn the dead: his job was to find their living murderers.

  Mark drove back to the Senate, more determined than ever to find out which senator should have been present at the poignant double funeral. Had he stayed a little longer, he would have seen Matson talking casually to Grant Nanna, saying what a good man Stames was and what a loss he would be to law enforcement.

  Mark spent the afternoon at the Foreign Relations Committee listening to Pearson and Nunn. If it were either of them, they were cool customers, going about their job without any outward signs of anxiety. Mark wanted to cross their names off the list but he needed one more fact confirmed before he could. When Pearson finally sat down, Mark felt limp. He also needed to relax tonight if he were going to survive the next three days. He left the committee room and called Elizabeth to confirm their dinner date. He then called the Director’s office and gave Mrs. McGregor the telephone numbers at which he could be reached: the restaurant, his home, Elizabeth’s home. Mrs. McGregor took the numbers down without comment.

  Two cars tailed him on his way back: a blue Ford sedan and a black Buick. When he arrived home, he tossed the car keys to Simon, dismissed the oppressive but familiar sensation of being continually watched, and started thinking of more pleasant things, an evening with
Elizabeth.

  6:30 P.M.

  Mark walked down the street thinking about the evening ahead of him. Already I adore that girl. That’s the one thing I am certain of at the moment. If only I could get rid of the nagging doubt about her father—even about her.

  He went into Blackistone’s and ordered a dozen roses, eleven red, one white. The girl handed him a card and an envelope. Quickly, he wrote Elizabeth’s name and address on the envelope, and he pondered the blank card, fragments of sentences and poems flashing through his mind. Finally, he smiled. He wrote, carefully:

  Happly I think on thee, and then my state,

  Like to the lark at break of day arising

  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.

  P.S. Modern version. Is it at long last love?

  “Have them sent at once, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Good. Back home. What to wear? A dark suit? Too formal. The light blue suit? Too much like a gay, should never have bought it in the first place. The double-breasted suit—latest thing. Shirt. White, casual, no tie. Blue, formal, tie. White wins. Too virginal? Blue wins. Shoes: black slip-on or laces? Slip-on wins. Socks: simple choice, dark blue. Summing up: denim suit, blue shirt, dark blue tie, dark blue socks, black slip-on shoes. Leave clothes neatly on bed. Shower and wash hair—I like curly hair better. Damn, soap in eyes. Grope for towel, soap out, drop towel, out of shower. Towel around waist. Shave; twice in one day. Shave very carefully. No blood. Aftershave. Dry hair madly with towel. Curls all over the place. Back to bedroom. Dress carefully. Get tie exactly—that won’t do, tie again. Better, this time. Pull up zipper—could stand to lose inch around waist. Check in mirror. Seen worse. To hell with modesty, have seen a whole lot worse. Check money, credit cards. No gun. All set. Bolt door. Press button for elevator.

  “Can I have my keys, please, Simon?”