Jeffrey Archer

by Shall We Tell The President (lit)

  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 am

  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 unauthorised 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 realising 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 am. The message was sent at 10:30 am.'

  '10:30 am, 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 had 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 recognised 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 Galvert'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 nest, 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 realised 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.

  Monday evening, 7 March

  6:30 pm

  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:

  Happily 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?'

  'Well, goddamn.' Simon's eyes opened very wide.

  'Found yourself a new fox!'

  'You better not wait up, because if I fail, Simon, I'll probably jump on top of you.'

  'Thanks for the warning, Mark. Tough it out, man.'

  Beautiful evening, climb into car, check watch: 7:34.

  The Director checked his dinner jacket again. I miss Ruth. Housekeeper does a great job, but not the same thing at all. Pour a scotch, check clothes. Tuxedo just pressed - a little out of fashion. Dress shirt back from the cleaners. Black tie to be tied. Black shoes, black socks, white handkerchief - all in order. Turn on shower. Ah, how to get something useful out of the President? Damn, where's the soap? Have to get out of shower and soak bathmat and towel. Only one towel. Grab soap, revolting smell. Nowadays, they must only make it for gays. Wish I could still get army surplus. Out of the shower. Overweight; I need to lose about fifteen pounds. Body too white. Hide it quickly and forget. Shave. Good old trusty cutthroat. Never shave twice a day except when dining with the President. Good. No damage. Get dressed. Fly buttons; hate zippers. Now to tie black tie. Damn it. Ruth could always do it the first time, perfectly. Try again. At last. Check wallet. Don't really need money, credit cards, or anything else. Unless the President's going through hard times. Tell housekeeper I'll be back about eleven. Put on overcoat. Special agent there with car, as always.

  'Good evening, Sam, beautiful evening.'

  The only chauffeur in the employ of the FBI opened the back door of the Ford sedan.

  Climb into car, check watch: 7:45.

  Drive slowly - lots of time - don't want to be there early - never seems to be any traffic when you have all the time in the world - hope roses have arrived - take longer route to Georgetown, past Lincoln Memorial and up Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway - it's prettier - at east con yourself that's why you're doing it. Don't run yellow lights, even though man behind you is obviously late and gesticulating. Obey the law - con yourself again - you'd shoot through the lights if you were running late for her. Never embarrass the Bureau. Careful of trolley lines in Georgetown, so easy to skid on them. Turn right at end of street and find parking space. Circle slowly looking for perfect spot - no such thing. Double-park and hope no traffic cop's around. Stroll nonchalantly towards house - bet she's still in the tub. Check watch: 8:04. Perfect. Ring doorbell.

  'We're running a bit late, Sam.' Perhaps unwise to say that because he'll break the speed limit and might embarrass the Bureau. Why is there so much traffic when you're in a hurry? Damn Mercedes in front of us at the circle, stopping even before the lights turned red. Why have a car that can do 120 mph if you don't

  even want to do thirty? Good, the Mercedes has turned off towards Georgetown. Probably one of the beautiful people. Down Pennsylvania Avenue

  . At last the White House in sight. Turn on to West Executive Avenue

  . Waved on by guard at gate. Pull up to West Portico. Met by Secret Service man in dinner jacket. His tie looks better than mine. Bet it's a clip-on. No, come to think of it, it's regulation to have to tie them in the White House. Damn it, the man must be married. Didn't do it himself. Follow him through foyer to West Wing Reception Room past Remington sculpture. Met by another Secret Service man also in dinner jacket. Also better tie. I give up. Escorted to elevator. Check watch: 8:06. Not bad. Enter West Sitting Hall.

  'Good evening, Madam President.'

  'Hello, lovely lady.'

  She looks beautiful in that blue dress. Fantastic creature. How could I have any suspicions about her?

  'Hello, Mark.'

  ‘That's a terrific dress you're wearing.'

&nb
sp; 'Thank you. Would you like to come in for a minute?'

  'No, I think we'd better go, I'm double-parked.'

  'Fine, I'll just grab my coat.'

  Open car door for her. Why didn't I just take her by the hand into the bedroom and make mad passionate love to her? I would have happily settled for a sandwich. That way we could do what we both want to do and save a lot of time and trouble.

  'Did you have a good day?'

  'Very busy. How about you, Mark?'

  Oh, managed to think about you for a few hours while I got some work done, but it wasn't easy. 'Busy as all hell. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to make it.'

  Start car, right on M Street to Wisconsin. No parking spaces. Past Roy Rogers' Family Restaurant, let's just get some chicken legs and head back home, 'Aah, success.'

  Hell, where did that Volkswagen come from?