Jeffrey Archer

by Shall We Tell The President (lit)

  'I'll call you right back, if you'll give me your number.'

  Andrews knew that this was simply to check that he was an FBI agent and that he was scheduled to see the Director in the morning. The phone rang after one minute and the duty officer was back.

  'The Director is still with the Attorney General. Her private number is 761-4386.'

  Mark dialled the number.

  'Mrs Edelman's residence,' said a deferential voice.

  This is Special Agent Mark Andrews,' he began. 'I need to speak to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.'

  He said it slowly, he said it clearly, although he was still trembling. The reply came back from a man whose biggest worry that night had been that the potatoes had taken longer than expected.

  'Will you hold the line one moment please, sir?'

  He waited, he waited, he waited.

  A new voice said: 'Tyson here.'

  Mark drew a deep breath and plunged in.

  'My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I have an appointment to see you with SAC Stames and Special Agent Calvert at 10:30 tomorrow morning. You don't know the details, sir, because it was made through Mrs McGregor after you had left your office. I have to see you immediately, you may wish to call me back. I'm at home.'

  'Yes, Andrews,' said Tyson. 'I'll call you back. What is your number?'

  Mark gave it.

  'Young man,' Tyson said, 'this had better be a priority.'

  'It is, sir.'

  Mark waited again. One minute passed, and then another. Had Tyson dismissed him as a fool? What was going on? Three minutes passed. Four minutes passed; he was obviously checking more thoroughly than his duty officer had done.

  The phone rang. Mark jumped.

  'Hi, Mark, it's Roger. Want to come out for a beer?'

  'Not now, Roger, not now.' He slammed the phone down.

  It rang again immediately.

  'Right, Andrews, what do you have to tell me? Make it quick and to the point.'

  'I want to see you now, sir. I need fifteen minutes of your time and I need you to tell me what the hell to do.'

  He regretted 'hell' the moment he had said it.

  'Very well, if it's that urgent. Do you know where the Attorney General lives?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Take this down: 2942 Edgewood Street Arlington

  .'

  Mark put the phone down, wrote the address carefully in block capitals on the inside of a matchbook advertising life insurance, and called Aspirin, who just couldn't get 7-across.

  'If anything happens, I'll be on my car radio; you can get me there, I'll leave the line on Channel Two open the whole time. Something's wrong with Channel One.'

  Aspirin sniffed: the young agents took themselves far too seriously nowa-days. It wouldn't have happened under J. Edgar Hoover, shouldn't be allowed to happen now. Still, he only had one more year and then retirement. He returned to the crossword. Seven-across, ten letters: gathering of those in favour of buccaneering. Aspirin started to think.

  Mark Andrews was thinking too as he rushed into the elevator, into the street, into his car, and moved off at speed to Arlington. He raced up East Basin Drive

  to Independence Avenue

  , past the Lincoln Memorial to get on to Memorial Bridge. He drove as fast possible through the early night, cursing the people' calmly strolling across the road on this mild, pleasant evening, casually on their way to nowhere in particular, cursing the people who took no notice of the flushing red light he had affixed to the car roof, cursing all the way. Where was Stames? Where was Barry? What the hell was going on? Would the Director think he was crazy?

  He crossed Memorial Bridge and took the G.W. Parkway

  exit. A tie-up. He couldn't move an inch. Probably an accident. A goddamn accident right now.

  That was all he needed. He pulled into the centre lane- and leaned on his horn. Most people assumed he was connected with the police rescue team: most people let him by. Eventually he made it to the group of police cars and rescue-squad ambulances. A young Metropolitan policeman approached the car. 'Are you on this detail?'

  "No. FBI. I've got to get to Arlington. Emergency.'

  He flashed his credentials. The policeman ushered him through. He raced away from the accident. Goddamn accident. Once he was clear of it, the traffic became light. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at 2942 Edgewood Street, Arlington

  . One last check with Polly at the Washington Field Office on the car phone. No, neither Stames nor Calvert had called in.

  Mark jumped out of the car. Before he had take a step, a Secret Service man stopped him. Mark showed his credentials and said that he had an appointment with the Director. The Secret Service man courteously asked him to wait by his car. After consultation at the door, Mark was shown into a small room just on the right of the hall which was obvious used as a study. The Director came in. Mark stood up.

  'Good evening, Director.'

  'Good evening, Andrews. You've interrupted a very important dinner. I hope you know what you are doing.' The Director was cold and abrupt, clearly displeased at being summoned to a meeting by an unknown junior agent.

  Mark went through the whole story from the first meeting with Stames through to his decision to go over everybody's head. The Director's face remained impassive throughout the long recital. It was still impassive when Mark had finished. Mark's only thought was: I've done the wrong thing. He should have gone on trying to reach Stames and Calvert. They were probably home by now. He waited, a little sweat appearing on his forehead. Perhaps this was his last day in the FBI. The Director's first words took him by surprise.

  'You did exactly the right thing, Andrews. I'd have made the same decision in your place. It must have taken guts to bring the whole thing to me.' He looked hard at Mark. 'You're absolutely certain only Stames, Calvert, you, and I know all the details of what happened this evening? No one from the Secret Service, and no one from the Metropolitan Police Department?'

  'That's correct, sir, just the four of us.'

  'And the three of you already have an appointment with me at 10:30 tomorrow morning?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good. Take this down.'

  Mark took out a pad from his inside coat pocket.

  'You have the Attorney General's number here?'

  'Yes, sir,'

  'And my number at home is 721-4069. Learn them and then destroy them. Now I'll tell you exactly what you do next. Go back to the Washington Field Office. Check on Stames and Calvert again. Call the morgue, call the hospitals, call the highway police. If nothing turns up, I'll see you in my office at 8:30 tomorrow morning, not 10:30. That's your first job. Second, get me the names of the Homicide officers working on this detail with the Metropolitan Police. Now tell me if I have this right you told them nothing about the reason you went to see Casefikis?'

  'Nothing, sir.'

  'Good.'

  The Attorney General put her head around the door.

  'Everything under control, Halt?'

  'Fine, thanks, Marian. I don't think you've met Special Agent Andrews of the Washington Field Office.'

  'No. Nice to meet you, Mr Andrews.'

  'Good evening, ma'am.'

  'Will you be long, Halt?'

  'No, I'll be back as soon as I've finished briefing Andrews.'

  'Anything special?'

  'No, nothing to worry about.'

  The Director had obviously decided nobody was going to be told the story until he got to the bottorm of it himself.

  'Where was I?'

  'You told me to return to the Washington Field Office, sir, and check on Stames and Calvert'

  'And then to call the morgue, the hospitals, and the highway police.'

  'Right.'

  'And you told me to check on the Homicide officers, get their names.'

  'Right. Take down the following: check the names of all hospital employees and visitors, as well as any other persons who can be identified as havin
g been in the vicinity of Room 4308 between the time the two occupants were known to be alive and the time you found them dead. Check the names of the two dead then through NCIC and Bureau indexes for any background information we may have. Get fingerprints of all persons on duty and all visitors and all others who can be identified as having been near Room 4308, as well as fingerprints of the two dead men. We will need all these prints both for elimination purposes and possible suspect identification. If you don't find Stames and Calvert, as I said, see me at 8.30 in my office tomorrow morning. If anything else arises tonight, you call me here or at home. Don't hesitate. If it's after 11:30, I'll be home. If you call me on the phone, use a code name - now let me think - Julius - let's hope it's not prophetic, and give me your number. Make sure you use a pay phone and I'll call you back immediately. Don't bother me before 7:15 til the morning, unless it's really important. Have you understood all that?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Right. I think I'll get back to dinner.'

  Mark stood up, ready to leave. The Director put a hand on his shoulder.

  'Don't worry, young man. These things happen from time to time and you made the right decision. You showed a lot of self-possession in a lousy situation. Now get on with the job.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Mark was relieved that someone else knew what he was going through; someone else with far biggest shoulders was there to share it.

  On his way back to the FBI office, he picked up the car microphone. 'WFO 180 in service. Any word from Mr Stames?'

  'Nothing yet, WFO 180, but I'll keep trying,'

  Aspirin was still there when he arrived, unaware that Mark had just been talking with the Director of the FBI. Aspirin had met all four directors at cocktail parties, though none of them would have remembered his name.

  'Emergency over, son?'

  'Yes,' Mark said, lying. 'Have we heard from Stames or Calvert?' He tried not to sound anxious.

  'No, must have dropped in somewhere on the way home. Never you worry. The little sheep will find their way back without you to hold their tails.'

  Mark did worry. He went to his office and picket up the phone. Polly had still heard nothing. Just a buzz that continued on Channel One. He called Norma Stames, still no news. Mrs Stames asked if there might be anything to worry about.

  'Nothing at all.' Another lie. Was he sounding too unconcerned? 'We just can't find out which bar he's ended up in.'

  She laughed, but she knew Nick never frequented bars.

  Mark tried Calvert; still no reply from the bachelor apartment. He knew in his bones something was wrong. He just didn't know what. At least the Director

  was there, and the Director knew everything now. He glanced at his watch: 11:15. Where had the night gone? And where was it going? 11:15. What was he supposed to have done tonight? Hell. He had persuaded a beautiful girl to have dinner with him. Yet again, he picked up the telephone. At least she would be safely at home, where she ought to be.

  'Hello.'

  'Hello, Elizabeth, it's Mark Andrews. I'm really sorry about not making it tonight. Something happenned that got way out of my control.'

  The tension in his voice was apparent.

  'Don't worry,' she said lightly. 'You warned me you were unreliable.'

  ‘I hope you'll let me take a raincheck. Hopefully, in the morning, I can sort things out. I'll probably see you then.'

  'In the morning?' she said. 'If you're thinking of the hospital, I'm off duty tomorrow.'

  Mark hesitated, thinking quickly of what he could prudently say. 'Well, that may be best. I am afraid it's not good news. Casefikis and the other man in

  his room were brutally murdered tonight. The Met is following it up, but we have nothing to go on.'

  'Murdered? Both of them? Why? Who? Casefikis wasn't killed without reason, was he?' The words came out in a torrent. 'What's going on, for heaven's sake? No, don't answer that. You wouldn't tell me the truth in any case.'

  'I wouldn't waste my time lying to you, Elizabeth. Look, I've had it for tonight, and I owe you a big steak for messing up your evening. Can I call you some time soon?'

  'I'd like that. Murder isn't food for the appetite though. I hope you catch the men responsible. We see the results of a great deal of violence at Woodrow Wilson, but it isn't usually inflicted within our walls.'

  'I know. I'm sorry it involves you. Good night, Elizabeth. Sleep well.'

  'And you, Mark. If you can.'

  Mark put the phone down, and immediately the burden of the day's events returned. What now? There was nothing practicable he could do before 8:30, except keep in touch on the radio phone until he was home. There was no point just sitting there looking out of the window, feeling helpless, sick, and alone. He went in to Aspirin, told him he was going home, and that he'd call in every fifteen minute because he was still anxious to speak to Stames and Calvert. Aspirin didn't even look up.

  'Fine,' he said, his mind fully occupied by the crossword puzzle. He had completed eleven clues, a sure sign it was a quiet evening.

  Mark drove down Pennsylvania Avenue

  towards his apartment. At the first traffic circle, a tourist who didn't know he had the right of way was holding up traffic. Damn him, thought Mark. Visitors to Washington who hadn't mastered the knack of cutting out at the right turn-off could end up circling round and round many more times than originally planned.

  Eventuallly, Mark managed to get around the circle and back on Pennsylvania Avenue

  . He continued to drive slowly towards his home, at the Tiber Island

  Apartments, his thoughts heavy and anxious. He turned on the car radio for the midnight news; must take his mind off it somehow. There were no big

  stories that night and the newscaster sounded rather bored; the President had held a press conference about the Gun Control bill, and the situation in South Africa seemed to be getting worse. Then the local news: there had been an automobile accident on the G. W. Parkway and it involved two cars, both of which were being hauled out of the river by cranes, under floodlights. One of the cars was a black Lincoln, the other a blue Ford sedan, according to eyewitnesses, a married couple from Jacksonville vacationing in the

  Washington area. No other details as yet.

  A blue Ford sedan. Although he had not really been concentrating, it kept repeating itself in his brain - a blue Ford sedan? Oh no, God, please no. He veered right off 9th Street

  on to Maine Avenue

  , narrowly missing a fire hydrant, and raced back towards Memorial Bridge, where he had been only two hours before. The roads were clearer now and he was back in a few minutes. At the scene of the accident the Metropolitan Police were still thick on the ground and one lane of the G.W. was closed off by barriers. Mark parked the car on the grassy verge and ran up to the barrier. He showed his FBI credentials and was taken to the officer in charge; he explained that he feared one of the cars involved might have been driven by an agent from the FBI. Any details yet?

  'Still haven't got them out,' the inspector replied. 'We only have two witnesses to the accident, if it was an accident. Apparently there was some very funny driving going on. They should be up in about thirty minutes. All you can do is wait.'

  Mark went over to the side of the road to watch the vast cranes and tiny frogmen groping around in the river under vast klieg lights. The thirty minute wasn't thirty minutes; he shivered in the cold, waiting and watching. It was forty minutes, it was fifty minutes, it was over an hour before the black Lincoln came out. Inside the car was one body. Cautious man, he was wearing a seat belt. The police moved in immediately. Mark went back to the officer in charge and asked how long before the second car.

  'Not long. That Lincoln wasn't your car, then?'

  'No,' said Mark.

  Ten minutes, twenty minutes, he saw the top of the second car, a dark blue car; he saw the side of the car, one of the windows fractionally opened; he saw the whole of the car. Two men were in it. He saw the licence plate. For a second t
ime that night, Mark felt sick. Almost crying, he ran back to the officer in change and gave the names of the two men in the car, and then ran on to a pay phone at the side of the road. It was a long way. He dialled the number, checking his watch as he did so; it was nearly one o'clock. After one ring he heard a tired voice say, 'Yes.'

  Mark said, 'Julius.'

  The voice said, 'What is your number?'

  He gave it. Thirty seconds later, the telephone rang.

  'Well, Andrews. It's one o'clock in the morning.'

  'I know, sir, it's Stames and Calvert, they're dead.'

  There was a moment's hesitation, the voice was awake now.