Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  “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