Shall We Tell the President?

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Friends, Romans, country bumpkins, lend me your jeers; I come to bury Kane, not to praise her.” Not exactly front-page material.

  Three other men who had attended the press conference followed Mark out of the room, as he ran to the nearest pay telephones, halfway down the hall. Mark found them all occupied by newspapermen anxious to get their copy in first, and there was a long line behind those already dictating. Another line had formed by the two phones at the other end of the hall. Mark took the elevator to the ground floor; same problem; his only chance would be the pay phone in the Russell Building across the street. He ran all the way; so did three other men. When he reached there, a middle-aged woman stepped into the booth a pace ahead of him, and put her quarter in.

  “Hello … it’s me. I got the job … Yeah, pretty good … Mornings only. Start tomorrow … But I can’t complain, money’s not bad.”

  Mark paced up and down while the three men caught their breath. At last, the woman finished talking and, with a big smile all over her face, she walked away, oblivious of Mark or the nation’s problems. At least someone is confident about tomorrow, thought Mark. He glanced around to be sure that there was no one near him, though he could have sworn he recognized a man standing by the Medicare poster; perhaps it was one of his colleagues from the FBI. He had seen that face behind the dark glasses somewhere. He was getting better protection than the President. He dialed the Director’s private line and gave him his pay phone number. The phone rang back almost immediately.

  “Thornton’s off the list, sir, because he has—”

  “I know, I know,” said the Director. “I’ve just been briefed on what Thornton said. It’s exactly what I would have expected him to say if he were involved. It certainly does not get him off my list; if anything, I’m a little more suspicious. Keep working on all five this afternoon and contact me the moment you come up with anything; don’t bother to come in.”

  The phone clicked. Mark felt despondent. He depressed the cradle and waited for the dial tone, put in a quarter and dialed Woodrow Wilson. The nurse on duty went on a search for Elizabeth, but returned and said that no one had seen her all day. Mark hung up, forgetting to say thank you or goodbye. He took the elevator down to the basement cafeteria to have lunch. His decision gained the restaurant two more customers; the third man already had a lunch date, for which he was running late.

  Wednesday afternoon

  9 March

  1:00 P.M.

  Only Tony and Xan were on time for the meeting at the Sheraton Hotel in Silver Spring. They had spent many hours together but seldom spoke; Tony wondered what the Nip thought about all the time. Tony had had a busy schedule checking the routes for the final day, getting the Buick perfectly tuned—and chauffeuring the Chairman and Matson; they all treated him like a damn cab driver. His skill was equal to theirs anytime, and where the hell would they be without him? Without him those FBI men would still be around their necks. Still, the whole damn thing would be over by tomorrow night and he could then get away and spend some of his hard-earned money. He couldn’t make up his mind whether it would be Miami or Las Vegas. Tony always planned how to spend his money before he got it. The Chairman came in, a cigarette hanging from his mouth as always. He looked at them, and asked brusquely where Matson was. Both shook their heads. Matson always worked alone. He trusted no one. The Chairman was irritated and made no attempt to hide it. The Senator arrived, just a few moments later, looking equally annoyed, but he didn’t even notice that Matson wasn’t there.

  “Why don’t we start?” demanded the Senator. “I find this meeting inconvenient as it is, since it’s the final day of debate on the bill.”

  The Chairman looked at him with contempt. “We’re missing Matson and his report is vital.”

  “How long will you wait?”

  “Two minutes.”

  They waited in silence. They had nothing to say to each other; each man knew why he was there. Exactly two minutes later, the Chairman lit another cigarette and asked Tony for his report.

  “I’ve checked the routes, boss, and it takes a car going at twenty-two miles per hour three minutes to get from the south exit of the White House onto E Street and down Pennsylvania Avenue to the FBI Building and another three minutes to reach the Capitol. It takes forty-five seconds to climb the steps and be out of range. On average six minutes forty-five seconds in all. Never under five minutes thirty seconds, never over seven minutes. That’s trying it at midnight, one o’clock, and two o’clock in the morning, remembering the routes are going to be even clearer for Kane.”

  “What about after the operation is over?” asked the Chairman.

  “It’s possible to get from the crane through basement passageways to the Rayburn Building and from there to the Capitol South Metro Station in two minutes at best and three minutes fifteen seconds at worst—depends on elevators and congestion. Once the VC—” He stopped himself. “Once Xan is in the Metro, they’ll never find him; in a few minutes, he can be on the other side of Washington.”

  “How can you be sure they won’t pick him up in under three minutes fifteen seconds?” asked the Senator, whose personal interest in Xan was non-existent, but he didn’t trust the little man not to sing if he were caught.

  “Assuming they know nothing, they also won’t know which way to turn for at least the first five minutes,” answered the Chairman.

  Tony continued: “If it goes as planned, you won’t even need the car so I’ll just dump it and disappear.”

  “Agreed,” said the Chairman. “But nevertheless I trust the car is in perfect condition?”

  “Sure is, it’s ready for Daytona.”

  The Senator mopped his brow, which was surprising, since it was a cold March day.

  “Xan, your report,” said the Chairman.

  Xan went over his plan in detail; he had rehearsed it again and again during the last two days. He had slept at the head of the crane for the last two nights and the gun was already in place. The men would be going on a twenty-four-hour strike starting at six that evening. “By six tomorrow evening, I will be on the other side of America and Kane will be dead.”

  “Good,” said the Chairman, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another one. “I shall be on the corner of 9th and Pennsylvania and will contact you on my watchband radio when I arrive at 9:30 and again when Kane’s car passes me. When your watch starts vibrating, she will be three minutes away, giving you three minutes and forty-five seconds in all. How much warning do you need?”

  “Two minutes and thirty seconds will be enough,” said Xan.

  “That’s cutting it a bit close, isn’t it?” inquired the Senator, still sweating.

  “If that turns out to be the case you will have to delay her on the steps of the Capitol because we don’t want to expose Xan more than necessary,” said the Chairman. “The longer he is in view, the greater the chance the Secret Service helicopters will have of spotting him.”

  The Senator turned his head toward Xan. “You say you’ve been rehearsing every day?”

  “Yes,” replied Xan. He never saw any reason to use more words than necessary, even when addressing a United States Senator.

  “Then why don’t people notice you carrying a rifle or at least a gun box?”

  “Because gun has been taped to platform on top of crane three hundred and twenty feet out of harm’s way ever since I returned from Vienna.”

  “What happens if the crane comes down? They’ll spot it right away.”

  “No, I am in yellow overalls and rifle is in eight parts and has been painted yellow and is taped to underpart of platform. Even with strong field glasses, it looks like part of crane. When I picked up latest sniper rifle from Dr. Schmidt of Helmut, Helmut, and Schmidt, even he was surprised by can of yellow paint.”

  They all laughed except the Senator.

  “How long does it take you to assemble it?” continued the Senator, probing for a flaw, something he always did when questioning so-called exp
erts in Senate committees.

  “Two minutes to put rifle together and thirty seconds to get into perfect firing position; two more minutes to dismantle gun and retape it. It’s a 5.6 by 61 millimeter Vomhofe Super Express rifle, and I’m using a .77 grain bullet with a muzzle speed of 3,480 feet per second, which is 2,000 foot-pounds of muzzle energy which, in layman’s language, Senator, means if there is no wind, I will aim one and one half inches above Kane’s forehead at two hundred yards.”

  “Are you satisfied?” the Chairman asked the Senator.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he said, and sank into a brooding silence, still wiping his brow. Then he thought of something else and was about to start his questioning again, when the door flew open and Matson rushed in.

  “Sorry, boss. I’ve been following something up.”

  “It’d better be good,” snapped the Chairman.

  “It could be bad, boss, very bad,” said Matson between breaths.

  They all looked anxiously at him.

  “Okay, let’s have it.”

  “His name is Mark Andrews,” said Matson, as he fell into the unoccupied seat.

  “And who is he?” asked the Chairman.

  “The FBI man who went to the hospital with Calvert.”

  “Could we start at the beginning?” the Chairman asked calmly.

  Matson took a deep breath. “You know I’ve always been bothered about Stames going to the hospital with Calvert—it never made sense, a man of his seniority.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Chairman impatiently.

  “Well, Stames didn’t go. His wife told me. I went by to visit her to offer my condolences, and she told me everything Stames had done that evening, right down to eating half his moussaka. The FBI told her not to say anything to anyone but she thinks that I’m still with the Bureau, and she doesn’t remember, or maybe she never knew, that Stames and I were not exactly friends. I’ve checked up on Andrews and I’ve been following him for the last forty-eight hours. He’s listed in the Washington Field Office as on leave for two weeks, but he’s been spending his leave in a very strange way. I’ve seen him at FBI Headquarters, going around with a female doctor from Woodrow Wilson, and nosing around at the Capitol.”

  The Senator flinched.

  “The good doctor was on duty the night that I got rid of the Greek and the black bastard.”

  “So if they know everything,” said the Chairman quickly, “why are we still here?”

  “Well, that’s the strange part. I arranged to have a drink with an old buddy from the Secret Service; he’s on duty detail tomorrow with Kane and nothing has been changed. It is painfully obvious that the Secret Service has no idea what we have planned for tomorrow, so either the FBI know one hell of a lot or nothing, but if they do know everything, they’re not letting the Secret Service in on it.”

  “Did you learn anything from your contacts in the FBI?” asked the Chairman.

  “Nothing. Nobody knows anything, even when they’re blind drunk.”

  “How much do you think Andrews knows?” continued the Chairman.

  “I think he’s fallen for our friend the doctor and knows very little. He’s running around in the dark,” Matson replied. “It’s possible he’s picked up something from the Greek waiter. If so, he’s working on his own, and that’s not FBI policy.”

  “I don’t follow,” said the Chairman.

  “Bureau policy is to work in pairs or threes, so why aren’t there dozens of men on it? Even if there were only six or seven, I would have heard about it and so would at least one of my contacts in the FBI,” said Matson. “I think they may believe there is going to be an attempt on the President, but I don’t think they have a clue when—or where.”

  “Did anyone mention the date in front of the Greek?” asked the Senator nervously.

  “I can’t remember, but there’s only one way of finding out if they know anything,” said the Chairman.

  “What’s that, boss?” asked Matson.

  The Chairman paused, lit another cigarette, and said dispassionately, “Kill Andrews.”

  There was silence for a few moments. Matson was the first to recover.

  “Why, boss?”

  “Simple logic. If he is connected with an FBI investigation, then they would immediately change tomorrow’s schedule. They would never risk allowing Kane to leave the White House if they believed such a threat existed. Just think of the consequences involved; if the FBI knew of an assassination attempt on the President and they haven’t made an arrest to date and they didn’t bother to inform the Secret Service …”

  “That’s right,” said Matson. “They would have to come up with some excuse and cancel at the last minute.”

  “Exactly, so if Kane comes out of those gates, we will still go ahead because they know nothing. If she doesn’t, we’re going to take a long holiday, because they know far too much for our health.”

  The Chairman turned to the Senator, who was now sweating profusely.

  “Now, you just make sure that you’re on the steps of the Capitol to stall her if necessary and we’ll take care of the rest,” he said harshly. “If we don’t get her tomorrow, we have wasted one hell of a lot of time and money, and we sure aren’t going to get another chance as good as this.”

  The Senator groaned. “I think you’re insane, but I won’t waste time arguing. I have to get back to the Senate before somebody notices that I’m missing.”

  “Settle down, Senator. We have it all under control; now we can’t lose either way.”

  “Maybe you can’t, but at the end of the day I might end up the fall guy.”

  The Senator left without another word. The Chairman waited in silence for the door to close.

  “Now we’ve got that little funk out of the way, let’s get down to business. Let’s hear all about Mark Andrews and what he’s been up to.”

  Matson gave a detailed description of Mark’s movements during the past forty-eight hours. The Chairman took in every detail without writing down a word.

  “Right, the time has come to blow away Mr. Andrews, and then we’ll sit back and monitor the FBI’s reaction. Now listen carefully, Matson. This is the way it will be done: you will return to the Senate immediately and …”

  Matson listened intently, taking notes and nodding from time to time.

  “Any questions?” the Chairman asked when he had finished.

  “None, boss.”

  “If they let the bitch out of the White House after that, they know nothing. One more thing before we finish. If anything does go wrong tomorrow, we all take care of ourselves. Understood? No one talks; compensation will be made at a later date, in the usual way.”

  They all nodded.

  “And one final point: if there should be a foul-up, there’s one man who certainly won’t take care of us, so we must be prepared to take care of him. I propose we do it in the following way. Xan, when Kane …”

  They all listened in silence; no one disagreed.

  “Now I think it’s time for lunch. No need to let that bitch in the White House spoil our eating habits. Sorry you’ll be missing it, Matson; just make sure it’s Andrews’ last lunch.”

  Matson smiled. “It will give me a good appetite,” he said, and left.

  The Chairman picked up the phone. “We’re ready for lunch now, thank you.” He lit another cigarette.

  Wednesday afternoon

  9 March

  2:15 P.M.

  Mark finished his lunch. Two other men finished their sandwiches and also rose to leave. Mark quickly returned to the Senate, as he wanted to catch Henry Lykham before the floor debate started. He hoped that Lykham would have something new to reveal after having had a night to sleep on it. He also needed copies of the Judiciary Committee Gun Control Hearings so that he could study the questions asked by Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, and Thornton. Perhaps they would reveal another missing piece of the jigsaw. But somehow Mark doubted it. He was becoming convinced that politicians rarely re
vealed anything. He arrived a few minutes before the session was scheduled to begin, and asked a page if he could locate Lykham in the antechamber.

  Lykham bustled out a few moments later. It was obvious he didn’t want a chat ten minutes before a full session. So he had no real chance to tell him anything new even if he had thought of something. All Mark did manage to find out was where to obtain transcripts of the committee hearings and discussions.

  “You can get them from the committee office at the end of the corridor.”

  Mark thanked him and walked upstairs to the gallery, where his new friend, the guard, had saved him a seat. The place was already packed. Senators were entering the chamber and taking their places, so he decided to pick up the transcripts later.

  The Vice President, Bill Bradley, called for order and the tall figure of Senator Dexter looked around the room slowly and dramatically, sweeping the chamber with his eyes to be assured of everyone’s attention. When his eyes alighted on Mark he looked a little surprised, but he quickly recovered and began his final arguments against the bill.

  Mark was embarrassed and wished he had taken a seat nearer the back, beyond the range of Dexter’s piercing glance. The debate dragged on. Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, Thornton. They all wanted a final word before tomorrow’s vote. Before tomorrow’s death.

  Mark listened to them all but he learned nothing new. He seemed to have come to a dead end. All that was left for him to do that day was to go and pick up transcripts of the hearings. He would have to read them through the night and he doubted, having listened to the five speak twice already, that they would reveal anything. But what other lead did he have left? Everything else was being covered by the Director. He walked down the hall to the elevator, left the Capitol by the ground-floor exit, and made his way across the Capitol grounds to the Dirksen Building.

  “I would like the transcripts of the Gun Control Hearings, please.”

  “All of them?” asked the disbelieving secretary.