Shall We Tell the President?

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Harrison despite being a Democrat knows damn well that his constituents wouldn’t tolerate gun control and will vote him out if he goes with it. Hard to tell if he’s been brainwashed by the National Rifle Association, because he seems to be sincere when he talks about the idea of self-defense. He’s a strange guy. Everyone in this place regards him as a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, but no one really knows him. He hasn’t been here all that long. He succeeded Sparkman when he retired—bit of an unknown quantity.”

  Mark let him talk on. Lykham was enjoying the role of the expert, the man who knew everything. Normally, he sat for hours in the hearing room, unable to say a word, listening and making notes and occasionally whispering a suggestion in the ear of the chairman. Only his wife listened to his opinions and she never understood their significance. Lykham was delighted to have found an academic who had come to him for the facts.

  “Dexter talks a good game—smooth character, that one. He beat the guy who was appointed to fill Ribicoff’s term when Abe was picked by the President for a roving ambassadorship. Surprise winner. Wouldn’t have thought that Connecticut would be represented by two Republicans. Guess all those rich New Yorkers moving to Stamford are making a difference. Anyway, just between the two of us, Mark, I have my suspicions about the purity of his principles. Do you know how many gun companies there are in Connecticut? Remington, Colt, Olin, Winchester, Marlin, Sturm-Ruger. Now, that never stopped Senator Ribicoff from voting for gun control, but Dexter … well, he owns a big slice of one of them, that’s no secret. Something’s biting him at the moment, he’s as grouchy as hell, and he hasn’t missed a session yet.”

  Mark had a sick feeling in his stomach. My God, Elizabeth’s father? He just didn’t want to believe it.

  “So you think the bill will be passed?” said Mark in a conversational tone.

  “No question, while the Democrats remain in control of both Houses. The minority report was vicious, but it’ll get a majority on 10 March. There wasn’t much doubt about that after the House put it through. By Thursday, nothing can stop it. The Majority Leader is only too aware of the importance the President attaches to this bill.”

  Byrd, thought Mark. He’s on the list. “Could you tell me a little about the Majority Leader? He was on the Judiciary Committee, right? Where does he stand?”

  “That’s an interesting question, Andrews. Senator Byrd is a humorless, driven, ambitious individual. He has ulcers. He was born in poverty, always makes a point of emphasizing his origins, so much so that some of his colleagues call him Uriah Heep. In the 1940s, when he was only nineteen, he belonged to the Ku Klux Klan; yet he managed to overcome that handicap and rise to the most powerful post in the Senate in a party dominated by liberals. He got where he is because he’s a team player. He does favors for other senators, and always has. He’s diligent, conscientious about meeting their needs. His attention to detail has paid off in spades. He had always supported the Democratic—with a capital D—position. And he’s a very effective Majority Leader.

  “No love lost in that relationship, but since Byrd has become Majority Leader he has fallen into line. With his background, it’s unlikely that he’s genuinely in favor of gun control, but he hasn’t spoken out against the bill, naturally, because he has been shepherding it through the Senate for the President. He’s done it very efficiently. He’s scheduled it early, avoided recesses—”

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Lykham, but what do you mean he’s avoided recesses? The committee didn’t sit round the clock, surely?”

  “No, young man, I was referring to a technical, procedural distinction between adjournment and recess. You see, the Senate usually recesses from one day to the next. The day after a recess, the unfinished business of the previous day is in order; the morning business can be dispensed with. Whenever the Majority Leader opts for a recess rather than adjournment, he thereby lengthens the ‘legislative day’. And since bills reported from committee must lay over one legislative day before a motion to consider is in order, the recess can be used to delay action on a particular measure. The so-called legislative day can extend for days, weeks, conceivably even months now she only has two years left. This bill has been put through in the minimum possible time. If the President doesn’t get support on 10 March, she will not have time to put it up again before she goes for re-election. It will be a victory for those against the bill. And she may not be re-elected if the polls are to be believed. Americans get sick of their presidents very quickly nowadays. So it’s 10 March or forget it.”

  “What could stop it on 10 March?”

  “Nothing I can think of offhand, except the death of the President, which could recess the Senate for seven days. Still the President looks pretty fit to me, perhaps a little tired, not that I’m one to comment.”

  Mark was about to question Lykham about Brooks, when the staff director glanced at his watch.

  “Look at the time,” Lykham expostulated, “I must get back. I have to be the first, you know, get everything in order, so those senators think that we haven’t been away at all.”

  Mark thanked him. Lykham picked up the check and signed it.

  “Any time you want more help or information, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

  “I certainly will,” said Mark.

  The fat staff director waddled away at what for him was full speed. Mark pondered over his coffee. The man three tables away had finished his and was waiting for Mark’s next move. Those damn bells were ringing again. Only one this time, indicating that the yeas and nays were being tallied on the Senate floor. As soon as the vote was over, the senators would be flocking back to committee meetings. The bell brought Mark sharply out of his thoughts.

  Once again he returned to the Dirksen Building and the Foreign Relations Committee Suite, where he asked if he could see Mr. Kenneck.

  “Who shall I say is asking for him?” the receptionist inquired.

  “Andrews, I’m a Yale student.”

  She picked a phone up and pressed two digits, informed the listener of what Mark had told her.

  “He’s in Room 4491.”

  Mark thanked her and left for Room 4491, which was only a few doors down the corridor.

  “Well, Andrews, what can I do for you?” he asked, even before Mark had closed the door.

  Mark was taken aback by the suddenness of his question; he recovered.

  “I’m doing some research for a thesis, Mr. Kenneck, on the work of senators, and Mr. Lykham said you were the man to speak to. I wondered if Senators Nunn and Pearson were in the Senate on Thursday, 3 March, at 10:30, for the Foreign Relations Committee?”

  Kenneck bent over a red leather-bound book. “Nunn—no,” he paused. “Pearson—no. Anything else, Mr. Andrews?” He obviously hadn’t any time to waste.

  “No, thank you,” said Mark and left.

  Mark headed for the Library. Suddenly he was down to five senators, if the Bureau were right about what they had overheard on the illegal radio transmission when their man must have been in the Senate on the morning of 3 March. He checked his notes: each one of the remaining suspects—Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, and Thornton—had sat on the Judiciary Committee on the Gun Control bill and was in the Senate for the debate. Five men and a motive?

  He was followed out of the room and into the elevator that took him to the ground floor. He used the pay phone across the hall from the elevator, near the Constitution Avenue entrance, to call the Director.

  He dialed the Director’s private number.

  “Julius.”

  “What’s your number?”

  Mark gave it. A few seconds later the Director called him back.

  “Nunn and Pearson are off. I’m down to five and the one thing they have in common is that all of them were on the committee of the Gun Control bill.”

  “Good,” said the Director. “Much as I had expected. Getting better, Mark, but your time is running out, we’ve only about forty-eight hours left.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, sir.”

  The phone clicked.

  He waited for a moment and then dialed Woodrow Wilson. There was the usual interminable wait while they found Elizabeth. What could he say about last night? What if the Director were right and her father—”

  “Dr. Dexter.”

  “When do you finish work tonight, Liz?”

  “Five o’clock, lover,” she said mockingly.

  “May I pick you up?”

  “If you like, now that I know your intentions are pure and honorable.”

  “Listen, one day, but not today, I’ll be able to explain about that.”

  “See you at five, Mark.”

  “See you at five, Liz.”

  Mark put Elizabeth out of his mind by a conscious effort of will, and walked across the street to the Capitol grounds. He sat down under a tree on the grassy area between the Supreme Court and the Capitol. Protected, he thought, by law and legislature, bounded by Constitution and Independence. Who would dare to confront him here in front of the Capitol, the favored haunt of Senate staff, law clerks, and the Capitol police? A blue and white sight-seeing tourmobile passed by on 1st Street, blocking his view of the fountains in front of the Supreme Court. Tourists gaped at Washington’s white-marbled splendor. “And on your right, ladies and gentlemen, the United States Capitol. The cornerstone of the original building was laid in 1793. The British burned the Capitol building on 24 August, 1814 …”

  And some crazy senator is going to defile it on 10 March, added Mark silently as the tourmobile moved on. Foreboding oppressed him; it really is going to happen, we can’t stop it. Comes Caesar to the Capitol … Blood on the steps.

  He forced himself to look at his notes. Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, Thornton. He had two days to transform five into one. The conspirator he sought was Cassius, not Brutus. Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, and Thornton. Where were they at lunchtime on 24 February? If he knew the answer, he would know which four men were innocent and which man was so desperate that he would plot to assassinate the President. Even if we find out which man is behind this, he thought, as he stood up and brushed the grass from his trousers, how do we stop the murder? Obviously, the Senator isn’t going to commit the killing himself. We must keep the President away from the Capitol. The Director must have a plan, he surely wouldn’t let it go that far. Mark closed his file and walked to the Metro.

  Once home, he picked up his car and drove slowly to Woodrow Wilson. He looked in the rear-view mirror. A different car was following him today, a black Buick. Someone looking after me again, he thought. He arrived at the hospital at 4:45 but Elizabeth wasn’t free yet, so he went back to his car and turned on the evening news. An earthquake in the Philippines that had killed 112 people was the lead story. President Kane was still confident of support for the Gun Control bill. The Dow-Jones index had moved up three points to 1,411. The Yankees beat the Dodgers in a spring training game, what’s new?

  Elizabeth came out of the hospital looking depressed and jumped in beside him.

  “What can I say about last night?” Mark asked.

  “Nothing,” said Elizabeth. “It was like reading a book with the last chapter torn out. Who tore it out, Mark?”

  “Perhaps I’ve brought the last chapter with me,” said Mark, avoiding the question.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be in the mood for another bedtime story for a while,” she replied. “The last one gave me a bad dream.”

  Elizabeth was very quiet and Mark could get little response from her. He turned right off Independence and stopped the car on one of the side streets on the Mall, facing the Jefferson Memorial and the sunset.

  “Is it last night?” asked Mark.

  “Partly,” she said. “You made me feel pretty silly walking off like that. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it was all about?”

  “I can’t do that,” said Mark uneasily. “But believe me, it had nothing to do with you. At least that’s almost—” He stopped abruptly.

  Never embarrass the Bureau.

  “‘At least that’s almost’ what? Almost true? Why was that call so important?”

  “Let’s stop this and go eat.”

  Elizabeth didn’t reply.

  He started the car again. Two cars pulled out at the same time as he did. A blue Ford sedan and a black Buick. They’re certainly making sure today, he thought. Perhaps one of them is just looking for a parking space. He glanced at Elizabeth to see if she’d noticed them too; no, why should she, only he could see in the rear-view mirror. He drove to a small, warm Japanese restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue. He couldn’t take her home, while the damned Bureau had the place bugged. Deftly, the Oriental waiter sliced the fat shrimps, cooked them on the metal slab in the center of their table. He flicked each shrimp as he finished it onto their plates, giving them small, delicious bowls of sauces in which to dip the pieces. Elizabeth brightened under the influence of the hot sake.

  “I’m sorry to react so strongly. I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”

  “Like to tell me about it?”

  “I can’t, I’m afraid. It’s personal and my father has asked me not to discuss it with anyone yet.”

  Mark froze. “Can’t you tell me?”

  “No. I guess we’ll both have to be patient.”

  They went to a drive-in movie and sat in the comfortable, semi-darkness, arms companionably intertwined. Mark sensed she didn’t wish to be touched, and indeed he was in no mood to do so. They were both concerned about the same man, but for different reasons—or was it the same reason? And how would she react if she discovered that he had been investigating her father since the day after they met? Maybe she knew. Damn it, why couldn’t he simply believe in her? Surely, she wasn’t setting him up. He could remember very little about the film, and when it ended he took her home and left immediately. Two cars were still following him.

  A figure jumped out of the shadows. “Hi, stud!” Mark swung around and checked his holster nervously.

  “Oh, hi, Simon.”

  “Listen, man, I can show you some dirty postcards if you’re still desperate, ’cause it seems that you’re just not good enough, man. I had a black one last night, I’m having a white one tonight.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Mark.

  “I check in advance, man, I ain’t got time to waste with my pretty body.” Simon burst out laughing. “Think about me when you go to bed tonight, all alone, Mark, ’cause I sure will have forgotten you. Cool your jets, man.”

  Mark threw him the keys and watched him as he walked towards the Mercedes swinging his hips, dancing and laughing.

  “You ain’t got it, baby, whatever it is.”

  “Bullshit! You’re a jive-ass bastard,” Mark said, and laughed.

  “Now, you’re just jealous, man, or prejudiced,” said Simon, as he revved up the car and moved to a parking space. As he passed Mark, he shouted, “Either way, I’m the winner.”

  Mark wondered if he ought to apply for a job as a garage attendant at the apartment building. It seemed to have its compensations. He looked around; something moved; no, it was just his nerves or his imagination. Once in his room, he wrote his report for the morning session with the Director and fell into bed.

  Two days to go.

  Wednesday morning

  9 March

  1:00 A.M.

  The phone rang. Mark was just falling asleep, still in that world between sleeping and waking. The phone insisted. Try to answer it, it could be Julius.

  “Hello,” he said, yawning.

  “Mark Andrews?”

  “Yes,” he said wearily, shifting himself to a more comfortable position in the bed, fearing if he woke up fully he would never get back to sleep.

  “It’s George Stampouzis. Sorry to wake you, but I’ve come up with something I thought you would want to know about immediately.”

  Stampouzis’s statement acted like cold water. Mark was wide awake instantly.

  “Rig
ht, don’t say anything else, I’ll call you from a pay phone. What’s your number?” Mark wrote it down on the back of a Kleenex box, the only thing he could reach. He threw on a bathrobe, forced his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and started for the door. He opened the door, looked both ways. Hell, he was getting paranoid. There was no sound in the hall; there wouldn’t be even if someone were waiting for him. He took the elevator down to the garage level, where there was a pay phone. Simon was asleep on the chair—how did he manage it? Mark had found it hard enough to sleep in bed.

  He dialed the 212 area code.

  “Hello, Stampouzis. Mark Andrews.”

  “Do you G-men always play games at one in the morning? I would have thought you’d figured out a better system by now.”

  Mark laughed; the sound echoed in the garage; Simon twitched.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I traded some information today, now you owe me two stories.” Stampouzis paused. “The Mafia had nothing to do with Stames’s death, and they are not going overboard for the Gun Control bill, although they basically oppose it. So you can eliminate them. I wouldn’t have gone this far for anyone but Nick, so make sure you handle it right.”

  “I’m doing my best,” Mark replied. “Thanks for your help.”

  He put the phone on the hook and walked back to the elevator, thinking about the tousled bed which he hoped was still warm. Simon was still asleep.

  Wednesday morning

  9 March

  5:50 A.M.

  “It’s for you, sir.”

  “What?” mumbled the Director, still half-asleep.

  “The phone, sir, it’s for you.” His housekeeper was standing by the doorway in her dressing-gown.

  “Ugh. What time is it?”

  “Ten to six, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Elliott, sir.”

  “Right, switch it through.”