“Of the United States.”
“Why would she want to see me, sir.”
“Yesterday I killed you, but today I’ve made you a hero and she wants to congratulate you personally on trying to save Senator Harrison’s life.”
“What?”
“You’d better read the morning papers. Say nothing for now; I’ll explain my actions later.”
“Where do I go, what time, sir?”
“You’ll be told.” The line clicked.
Mark replaced the phone and thought about the conversation. He was just about to call Elizabeth to ask if the morning paper had come when the phone rang again.
“Answer it will you, Mark darling. Now that the lovers have found your whereabouts, it’s bound to be for you.”
Mark picked it up.
“Mr. Andrews?”
“Speaking.”
“Hold the line one moment, please. The President will be with you in one moment.”
“Good morning. Florentyna Kane. I just wanted to know if you could find time to drop into the White House this morning at about ten o’clock. I’d like to meet you and have a chat.”
“I’d be honored, Madam.”
“Then I’ll look forward to it, Mr. Andrews, and the chance to meet you and congratulate you personally. If you come to the West Entrance, Janet Brown will be there to meet you.”
“Thank you, Madam.”
One of those legendary phone calls that the press so often wrote about. The Director had only been checking where he was. Had the President been trying to reach him since eight last night?
“Who was it, darling?”
“The President of the United States.”
“Tell her you’ll call back; she’s always on the line, usually calls collect.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Yes, of course you are.”
“She wants to see me.”
“Yes, darling, your place or hers?”
Mark went into the kitchen and attacked some Wheaties. Elizabeth came in brandishing the Post.
“Look,” she said. “It’s official. You’re not a villain, you’re a hero.”
The headline read: SENATOR HARRISON KILLED ON STEPS OF CAPITOL.
“It was the President, wasn’t it?” she said.
“Yes, it was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did, but you didn’t choose to listen.”
“I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, but let’s not go through this every week.”
She continued to read the paper. Mark munched his Wheaties.
“Why would someone want to kill Senator Harrison, Mark?”
“I don’t know. What does the Post say?”
“They haven’t figured out a reason yet; they say he was known to have many enemies both here and abroad.” She began to read from the paper:
“Senator Robert Harrison (D-South Carolina) was shot by an assassin on the steps of the Capitol yesterday morning at 10:06.
“The assassination took place only moments before President Kane was due to arrive for her final assault on behalf of the Gun Control bill, which had been scheduled for a vote in the Senate yesterday. Because they had been warned of a demonstration on the steps of the Capitol, the Secret Service diverted the President’s car to the Russell Senate Office Building.
“The bullet lodged in Senator Harrison’s brain and he was pronounced dead on arrival at Woodrow Wilson Medical Center. A second bullet grazed the shoulder of FBI Agent Mark Andrews, 28, who threw himself on the Senator in an effort to save his life. Andrews was treated at the same hospital and later released.
“There was no immediate explanation of the fact that a second presidential motorcade did arrive at the Capitol steps a few moments before the assassination, without the President.
“Vice President Bradley ordered an immediate recess of the Senate out of respect for Senator Harrison. The House then voted unanimously to extend the recess for seven days.
“The President, who arrived at the Capitol via the congressional subway from the Russell Building, first learned the news of Harrison’s assassination when she reached the Senate. Visibly shaken, she announced that the luncheon to discuss gun control would continue as planned but asked the assembled Senators to observe a minute of silence in honor of their dead colleague.
“The President went on to say, ‘I know we are all shocked and saddened by the tragic and horrifying event which has just occurred. This senseless killing of a good and decent man must, however, only strengthen our determination to work together in making our country safe from the easy access of arms.’
“The President plans to address the nation at nine o’clock tonight.”
“So now you know everything, Liz.”
“I know nothing,” she replied.
“I didn’t know very much of that myself,” Mark admitted.
“Living with you is going to be difficult.”
“Who said I was going to live with you?”
“I took it for granted from the way you’re eating my eggs.”
At the Fontainebleau Hotel a man was sitting by the side of the swimming pool reading the Miami Herald and drinking coffee. At least Senator Harrison could cause no more trouble which made him feel a little safer. Xan had kept his part of the bargain.
He sipped the coffee, a little hot, it didn’t matter, he was in no hurry. He had already given new orders; he couldn’t afford any further risks. Xan would be dead by the evening; that had been arranged. Matson and Tony would be freed for lack of evidence, so his lawyer, who had never let him down yet, had assured him, and he would not be visiting Washington for a while. He relaxed and settled back in his beach chair to let the Miami sun warm him. He lit another cigarette.
At 9:45, the Director was met at the White House by Janet Brown, the President’s Chief of Staff. They waited and chatted. The Director briefed her on Special Agent Andrews’ background. Brown made careful notes.
Mark arrived just before 10:00. He had only just managed to get home and change into a new suit.
“Good morning, Director,” he said nonchalantly.
“Good morning, Mark. Glad you could make it.” Slightly quizzical but not disapproving. “This is the President’s Chief of Staff, Janet Brown.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” said Mark.
Janet Brown took over. “Will you be kind enough to come through to my office, where we can wait. The President will be videotaping her address to the nation for this evening’s television broadcast so that she can fly to Camp David at 11:15. I imagine you and the Director will have about fifteen minutes with her.”
Janet Brown took them to her office, a large room in the West Wing with a fine view of the Rose Garden through a bow window.
“I’ll get us some coffee,” she said.
“That’ll be a change,” murmured Mark.
“I’m sorry?” said Janet Brown.
“Nothing.”
The Director and Mark settled down in comfortable chairs where they could watch a large liquid-crystal monitor screen on one of the walls, already alive with comings and goings in the Oval Office.
The President’s forehead was being powdered in preparation for her speech and the cameramen were wheeling around her. Janet Brown was on the phone.
“CBS and NBC can roll, Janet, but ABC is still fixing things up with their OB unit,” said an agitated female voice.
Janet Brown got the producer of ABC on the other line.
“Get a move on, Harry, the President doesn’t have all day.”
“Janet.”
Florentyna Kane was on the middle of the screen.
She looked up. “Yes, Madam President?”
“Where’s ABC?”
“I’m just chasing them, Madam President.”
“Chasing them? They’ve had four hours’ warning. They couldn’t get a camera to the Second Coming.”
; “No, ma’am. They’re on their way now.”
Harry Nathan, ABC’s producer, appeared on the screen. “We’re all set now, Janet. Ready to record in five minutes.”
“Fine,” said Florentyna Kane and looked at her watch. It was 10:11. The digits changed—and were replaced by the rate of her heartbeat—72; normal, she thought. They disappeared again, to be replaced by her blood pressure, 140/90; a little high; she’d get it checked by her doctor this weekend. The digits were replaced by the Dow-Jones index, showing an early fall of 1.5 to 1,409. This disappeared and the watch showed 10:12. The President rehearsed the opening line of her speech for the last time. She’d gone over the final draft with Edward that morning, and she was satisfied with it.
“Mark.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to report back to Grant Nanna at the WFO this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I want you to take a vacation. I mean a real vacation, some time in May. Mr. Elliott is leaving me at the end of May to take up the post of Special Agent in Charge of the Columbus Field Office. I’m going to offer you his job, and enlarge it to your being my personal assistant.”
Mark was stunned. “Thank you very much, sir. I would be delighted.” Bang goes the five-year plan.
“You said something, Mark?”
“No, sir.”
“In private, Mark, you must stop calling me ‘sir,’ if we’re going to work together all the time; it’s more than I can stand. You can call me Halt or Horatio—I don’t mind which.”
Mark couldn’t help laughing.
“You find my name amusing, Mark?”
“No, sir. But I just made $3,516.”
“Testing: one, two, three. Loud and clear. Could you give us a voice test, please, Madam President?” asked the floor producer, now less agitated. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Toast and coffee,” said the President resonantly.
“Thank you, Madam. That’s fine. Ready to roll.”
All the cameras were focused on the President, who sat behind her desk, somber and serious.
“When you’re ready, Madam President.”
The President looked into the lens of Camera One. “My fellow Americans, I speak to you tonight from the Oval Office in the wake of the bloody assassination of Senator Harrison on the steps of the Capitol. Robert Everard Harrison was my friend and colleague, and I know we will all feel his loss greatly. Our sympathy goes out to his family in their distress. This evil deed only strengthens my determination to press for legislation early in the new session strictly limiting the sale and the unauthorized ownership of guns. I will do this in memory of Senator Robert Harrison, so that we may feel he did not die in vain.”
The Director looked at Mark; neither of them spoke. The President continued, repeating her belief in the importance of gun control and why the measure deserved the full support of the American people.
“And so I leave you, my fellow citizens, thanking God that America can still produce men who are willing to risk their own lives for public service. Thank you and good night.”
The camera panned to the Presidential Seal. Then the Outside Broadcast units took over and switched to a picture of the White House with the flag at half-mast.
“It’s a wrap, Harry,” said the female floor producer.
“Let’s do a re-run and see what it looks like.”
The President in the Oval Office, and the Director and Mark in Janet Brown’s room watched the re-run. It was good. The Gun Control bill will sail through, thought Mark.
The chief usher arrived at Janet Brown’s door. He addressed the Director.
“The President wonders if you and Mr. Andrews would be kind enough to join her in the Oval Office.”
Both men rose from their chairs and followed in silence down the long marble corridor of the West Wing, passing pictures of former presidents, intermingled with oil paintings commemorating famous incidents in American history. They passed the bronze bust of Lincoln. When they reached the East Wing, they stopped at the massive white semi-circular doors of the Oval Office, dominated by the great Presidential Seal. A Secret Service man was sitting behind a desk in the hallway. He looked up at the chief usher, neither spoke. Mark watched the Secret Service agent’s hand go under the desk, and he heard a click. The Seal split as the doors opened. The usher remained in the entrance.
Someone was unclipping a tiny microphone from under the President’s collar, and the remnants of make-up were being removed by an attentive young woman. The television cameras had already gone. The usher announced, “The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. H.A.L. Tyson, and Special Agent Mark Andrews, Madam President.”
The President rose from her seat at the far end of the room and waited to greet them. They walked towards her slowly.
“Sir,” said Mark under his breath.
“Yes, Mark?”
“Shall we tell the President?”
ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER
NOVELS
A Prisoner of Birth
Shall We Tell the President?
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
Kane & Abel
The Prodigal Daughter
First Among Equals
A Matter of Honor
As the Crow Flies
Honor Among Thieves
The Fourth Estate
The Eleventh Commandment
Sons of Fortune
False Impression
The Gospel According to Judas by Benjamin Iscariot (with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)
SHORT STORIES
A Quiver Full of Arrows
A Twist in the Tales
Twelve Red Herrings
The Collected Short Stories
To Cut a Long Story Short
Cat O’ Nine Tales
PLAYS
Beyond Reasonable Doubt
Exclusive
The Accused
SCREENPLAYS
Mallory: Walking Off the Map
False Impression
PRISON DIARIES
Volume One: Hell
Volume Two: Purgatory
Volume Three: Heaven
Praise for
JEFFREY ARCHER
“One of the top ten storytellers in the world.”
—Los Angeles Times
“There isn’t a better storyteller alive.”
—Larry King
“Archer plots with skill, and keeps you turning the pages.”
—The Boston Globe
“Cunning plots, silken style … Archer plays a cat-and-mouse game with the reader.”
—The New York Times
“Archer is a master entertainer.”
—Time
“A storyteller in the class of Alexandre Dumas … unsurpassed skill …making the reader wonder intensely what will happen next.”
—The Washington Post
and
SHALL WE TELL THE PRESIDENT?
“Outrageous and top-notch terror.”
—Vogue
“The only difference between this book and The Day of the Jackal is that Archer is a better writer.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Authentic, literate, and scary.”
—Cosmopolitan
“The countdown is the thing; the pace, the pursuit, the what-next, the how-is-it-going-to-come-out …”
—The Boston Globe
“Holds the reader in a vicelike grip.”
—Penthouse
A PRISONER OF BIRTH
“A compelling read.”
—Newsday
“Dynamite … plot twists and a slam-bang finale.”
—The Washington Post
“Thoroughly enjoyable.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Compulsively readable.”
—Library Journal
“Gripping.”
—The Vancouver Sun
“An exercise in wish fulfillment. The
good may suffer, but the bad will get theirs in the end. The fun is watching it unfold.”
—St. Petersburg Times (Florida)
CAT O’ NINE TALES
“The economy and precision of Archer’s prose never fails to delight. The criminal doesn’t always get away with his crime and justice doesn’t always prevail, but the reader wins with each and every story.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
FALSE IMPRESSION
“A worthy successor to The Da Vinci Code. Sail along from one high crime to the next … . Archer is a great plotter …[and] in the middle of the action, [he] drops research gems.”
—Liz Smith, New York Post
“Archer is back in top form with [this] latest thriller.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Thoroughly imagined …entertaining …thrilling.”
—Denver Post
“Murder and a high-stakes art-world theft are cleverly blended [in this] exciting …global thrill-ride.”
—Vancouver Sun
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SHALL WE TELL THE PRESIDENT?
Copyright © 1977, 1985 by Jeffrey Archer.
Shall We Tell the President? Page 24