Jeffrey Archer

by Shall We Tell The President (lit)

  There were actually two men on surveillance, Special Agent Kevin O'Malley and Assistant Field Supervisor Pierce Thompson, both selected by Tyson for their ability and discretion. Neither had shown any sign of surprise when the Director had instructed them to tail a fellow FBI man and report back to Elliott. It had been a long wait for Mark to emerge from Elizabeth's house, and O'Malley didn't blame him. Pierce left the churchyard and joined his colleague.

  'Hey, Kevin, have you noticed that someone else is tailing Andrews for us?'

  'Yeah. Matson. Why?'

  'I thought he was retired.'

  'He is. I just assumed old Halt was making sure,'

  'I guess you're right but I wonder why Tyson didn't tell us.'

  ‘Because the whole operation's pretty irregular. No one seems to be telling anyone anything. You could always ask Elliott.'

  'You ask Elliott. You might as well ask the Lincoln Memorial.'

  'Or you could ask the Director.'

  ‘No, thank you.'

  A few minutes passed by,

  'Think we should talk to Matson?'

  'You remember the special orders. No contact with anyone. He probably has the same orders, and he would report us without thinking about it. He's that sort of bastard.'

  O'Malley was the first to see Mark leaving the house and could have sworn he was carrying one shoe. He was right and Mark was running, so he began to follow him. Must avoid getting burned, thought O'Malley. Mark stopped at the pay phone; his pursuer disappeared into some new shadows, to continue his vain attempts to keep warm. He was thankful for the brisk walk, which had helped a little.

  Mark had only two quarters; the others were all lying uselessly on the floor by the side of Elizabeth's couch. Where had the Director phoned from? Could it have been the Bureau? That didn't make sense, what would he be doing there at this time of night? Wasn't he supposed to be with the President? Mark looked at his watch. Hell, 1:15. He must be at home; if he isn't I'll be out of quarters. Mark put on his other shoe. Easy slip-on. He cursed, and tossed one of the quarters; George Washington, I call the Bureau E pluribus unum, then I call him at home. The coin landed - George Washington. Mark dialled the Director's private number at the Bureau.

  lYes.'

  God bless George Washington.

  'Julius?'

  'Come in immediately.'

  That didn't sound very friendly. Perhaps he had just returned from the President with some important new information, or maybe something at the dinner bad given him indigestion.

  Mark walked quickly to his car, checking his shirt buttons and tie as he went. His socks felt uncomfortable, as if one of the heels were in the arch of his foot. He passed the man in the shadows, who watched as Mark returned to his car and hesitated. Should he return to Elizabeth and say, say what? He looked up at the light in the window, took a deep breath, cursed again, and fell into the bucket seat of the Mercedes. There hadn't even been time for a cold shower.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the Bureau. There was very little traffic, and with the streets so quiet, the computerised lights meant no stopping.

  Mark parked the car in the basement garage of the FBI and immediately there was the anonymous man, the anonymous man who obviously was waiting for him. Didn't he ever go to bed? A harbinger of bad tidings, probably, but he didn't let him know, because as usual he didn't speak. Perhaps he's a eunuch, Mark thought. Lucky man. They shared the elevator to the seventh floor. The anonymous man led him noiselessly to the Director's office; wonder what he does for a hobby, thought Mark. Probably a prompter at the National Theater for the Deaf.

  'Mr Andrews, sir.'

  The Director offered no greeting. He was still in evening clothes and looked as black as thunder.

  'Sit down, Andrews.'

  Back to Andrews, thought Mark.

  'If I could take you out into the parking lot, stick you up against the wall, and shoot you, I would.'

  Mark tried to look innocent; it had usually worked I with Nick Stames. It didn't seem to cut any ice with the Director.

  'You stupid, unthinking, irresponsible, reckless idiot.'

  Mark decided he was more frightened of the Director than he was of those who might be trying to kill him.

  'You've compromised me, the Bureau, and the President,' continued the Director.

  Mark could hear his heart pounding. If he could have counted it, it would have been a hundred and twenty. Tyson was still in full cry. 'If I could suspend you or just dismiss you, if only I could do something as simple as that. How many senators are there left, Andrews?'

  'Seven, sir.'

  'Name them.'

  'Brooks, Harrison, Thornton, Byrd, Nunn, Dex.. Dexter, and . ..' Mark went white.

  'Summa cum laude at Yale, and you have the naivete of a boy scout. When we first saw you with Dr Elizabeth Dexter, we, in our stupidity, knowing she was the doctor on duty on the evening of 3 March at Woodrow Wilson, assumed in our stupidity' – he repeated it even more pointedly - 'that you were on to a lead, but now we discover that not only is she the daughter of one of the seven senators whom we suspect of wanting to murder the President but, as if that's not enough, we find out you're having an affair with her.'

  Mark wanted to protest but couldn't get his lips to move.

  'Can you deny you've slept with her, Andrews?'

  'Yes, sir, I can,' Mark said very quietly.

  The Director was momentarily dumbfounded.

  'Young man, we wired the place; we know exactly what went on.'

  Mark leaped out of his chair, stunned dismay yielding to fierce anger. 'I couldn't have denied it,' he cried, 'if you hadn't interrupted me. Have you forgotten what it feels like to love someone, if you ever knew? Fuck your Bureau, and I don't use that word that often, and fuck you. I've been working sixteen hours a day and I'm not getting any sleep at night. Someone may be trying to murder me and I find that you, the only man I've trusted, have ordered your anonymous pimps to play Peeping Tom at my expense. I hope you all roast in hell. I'd rather join the Mafia because I'm sure they let their people have it off occasionally.'

  Mark was angrier than he had ever been in his life. He collapsed back into the chair, and waited for the consequences. His only strength was that he no longer cared. The Director was equally silent. He walked to the window and stared out. Then he turned slowly; the heavy shoulders, the large head were turning towards him. This is it, thought Mark.

  The Director stopped about a yard away from him, looking him square in the eyes, the way he had done from the first moment they had met.

  'Forgive me,' said the Director. 'I've been thoughtless but I'm becoming paranoid about the whole problem. I've just left the President, healthy, fit, full of plans for the future of this country, only to be told that her one hope of carrying out those dreams is sleeping with the daughter of one of the seven men who might at this very moment be planning to assassinate her. I didn't think much further than that.'

  A big man, thought Mark.

  The Director's eyes hadn't left him.

  'Let's pray it's not Dexter. Because if it is, Mark, you may well be in considerable danger.' He paused again. 'By the way, those anonymous pimps have been guarding you night and day, also on a sixteen-hour day, without a break. Some of them even have wives and children. Now we both know the truth. Let's get back to work, Mark, and let's try and stay sane for three more days. Just remember to tell me everything.'

  Mark had won. No, Mark had lost.

  'There are seven senators left.' The words were slow and tired, the man was still on edge. Mark had never seen him like this and doubted that many members of the Bureau had.

  'My discussions with the President have confirmed my suspicion that the link between 10 March and the Senator is the Gun Control bill. The chairman of the Judiciary Committee, who handled the planning stages of the bill, was there - Senator Bayh. He's still on the list. You had better see what he and our other suspects on that committee had to say about the bill - but
keep your eye on Pearson and Nunn at Foreign Relations as well.' He paused. 'Only three days to go. I intend to stick to my original plan and let things run just as they are for the moment. I'm still in a position to cancel the President's schedule for the tenth at the very last minute. Do you wish to add anything, Mark?'

  'No, sir.'

  'What are your plans?'

  'I am seeing the staff directors of both the Foreign Relations and Judiciary committees tomorrow, sir. I may have a clearer idea then on how to approach the problem and what to be looking for.'

  'Good. Follow them both up meticulously, just in case I've missed something.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'We've had our fingerprint men working overtime on those twenty-eight bills; at the moment, they are only looking for the prints of Mrs Casefikis. That way at least we will know which one might have our man's on it. They have found over a thousand prints, so far, but none fit Mrs Casefikis's. I'll brief you the moment I hear anything. Now let's call it a day, we're both bushed. Don't bother to come in at seven tomorrow' - the Director looked at his watch - 'I mean today. Make it 7:00 am on Wednesday and make it on time because then we'll have only one full day left.'

  Mark knew he was being invited to leave but there

  was something he wanted to say. The Director looked

  up and sensed it immediately.

  'Save it, Mark. Go home and get some rest. I'm a tired old man, but I would like those bastards, each and every one of them, behind bars on Thursday night. For your sake, I hope to God Dexter isn't involved. But don't close your eyes to anything, Mark. Love may be blind, but let's hope it's not deaf and dumb.'

  A very big man, thought Mark.

  'Thank you, sir. I'll see you on Wednesday morning.'

  Mark drove his car quietly out of the FBI's garage. He was drained. There was no sign of the anonymous man. He stared in the rear-view mirror. A blue Ford sedan was following him, and this time it seemed obvious. How could he ever be sure whose side they were on? In three more days, he might know. This time next week he'd know everything or nothing. Would the President be alive or dead?

  Simon, still on duty at the entrance to the apartment house, gave Mark a cheerful grin. 'Make it, man?'

  'Not exactly,' he replied.

  'I could always call up my sister, if you're desperate.'

  Mark tried to laugh.

  'A generous offer, but not tonight, Simon.' He tossed the car keys over and headed for the elevator. Once locked and bolted into his apartment, he strode into his bedroom, pulled off his shirt and tie, picked up the phone and dialled seven digits slowly. A gentle voice answered.

  'You still awake?'

  'Very much so.'

  'I love you.' He put the phone down and slept.

  Tuesday morning, 8 March

  8:04 am

  The phone was ringing, but Mark was still in a deep sleep. It continued to ring. Eventually he awoke, focused on his watch: 8:05. Damn, probably the Director asking where the hell he was; no, he hadn't wanted to see him this morning, isn't that what they agreed? He grabbed the phone.

  'You're awake?'

  'Yes.'

  'I love you, too.'

  He heard the phone click. A good way to start the day, though if she knew he was going to spend it investigating her father . . . And almost certainly the Director was investigating her.

  Mark let the cold shower run on and on until he was fully awake. Whenever he was awakened suddenly, he always wanted to go back to sleep. Next week, he promised himself he would. There was one hell of a lot of things he was going to do next week. He glanced at his watch: 8:25. No Wheaties this morning. He flicked on the television to see if he had missed anything going on in the rest of the world; he was sitting on a news story that would make Barbara Walters fall off her CBS chair. What was the man saying

  '.., and now one of the greatest achievements of mankind, the first pictures ever taken from the planet Jupiter by an American spacecraft. History in the making, but first, this message from Jell-O, the special food for special children.'

  Mark turned it off, laughing. Jupiter, along with Jell-O, would have to wait until next week.

  Because he was running late, he decided to return to taking the Metro from the Waterfront Station next to his apartment. It was different when he had been going in early and had the roads to himself, but at 8:30, the cars would be bumper to bumper the whole way.

  The entrance to the subway was marked with a bronze pylon sporting an illuminated M. Mark stepped on to the escalator, which took him from street level down to the Metro station. The tunnel-like station reminded him of a Roman bath, grey and dark with a honeycombed, curved ceiling. One dollar. Rush-hour fare. And he needed a transfer. Another dollar. Mark fumbled in his pockets for the exact fare. Must remember to stock up on quarters when I get to the centre of town, he thought, as he stepped on to another escalator and was deposited at track level. During rush-hour, 6:30-9:00 am, the trains drew in every five minutes. Round lights on the side of the platform began to flash to indicate the train was approaching. The doors opened automatically. Mark joined the crowd in a colourful, brightly lit car, and five minutes later heard his destination announced on the public address system: Gallery Place

  . He stepped out on to the platform and waited for a red line train. The green line worked perfectly on mornings when he was going to the Washington Field Office, but to get to Capitol Hill, he had to switch. Four minutes later, he emerged into the sunshine at Union Station Visitors' Center, the bustling command post for bus, train, and subway travel in and out of Washington. The Dirksen Senate Office Building was three blocks away, down 1st Street

  , at the corner of Constitution. That was quick and painless, thought Mark, as he went in the Constitution Avenue

  entrance. Why do I ever bother with a car at all?

  He walked past two members of the Capitol police who were inspecting briefcases and packages at the door, and pressed the Up-button at the public elevator.

  'Four, please,' he said to the elevator operator.

  The Foreign Relations Committee hearing was scheduled to begin shortly. Mark pulled the list of 'Today's Activities in the House and Senate', which he had torn out of The Washington Post, from his coal pocket. 'Foreign Relations: 9:30 am. Open. Hearing on US policy towards the Common Market; administration representatives. 4229 DOB.' As Mark walked down the hall, Senator Ralph Brooks of Massachusetts stepped into Suite 4229

  , and Mark followed him into the hearing room.

  The senator, a tall man with rugged, almost film star good looks, had dogged every step of President Kane's political career until finally she had replaced him as Secretary of State when she took over after President Parkin's death.

  He had quickly won her seat back in the Senate and then stood against Florentyna Kane as the Democratic candidate and only lost on the seventh ballot. He had gone on to be chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

  Did he now intend to kill the President in order to reach the highest office himself? It didn't add up because if Kane were assassinated the Vice President Bill Bradley, who was younger than he was, would take her place and then Brooks would be left with no chance. No, the senator didn't look a serious threat hut Mark still needed proof before he could cross him of the list.

  The hearing room had light-coloured wood panelling, accented by green marble on the lower part of the wall and around the door. At the end of the chamber, there was a semi-circular desk of the same light wood, which was raised one step above the rest of the room. Fifteen burnt-orange chairs. Only about ten of them were occupied. Senator Brooks took his seat, but the assorted staff members, aides, newsmen, and administrative officials continued to mill around. On the wall behind the senators hung two large maps, one of the world, the other of Europe. At a desk immediately in front of and below the senators sat a stenotypist, poised to record the proceedings verbatim. In front, there were desks for witnesses.

  More than half the room wa
s given over to chairs for the general public, and these were nearly all full, An oil painting of George Washington dominated the scene. The man must have spent the last ten years of his life posing for portraits, thought Mark.

  Senator Brooks whispered something to an aide, and rapped his gavel for silence. 'Before we begin,' he said, 'I'd like to notify Senate staff members and the press of a change in schedule. Today and tomorrow, we will hear testimony from the State Department concerning the European Common Market. We will then postpone the continuation of these hearings until next week, so the committee may devote its attention to the pressing and controversial issue of arms sales to Africa.'