Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  The Director stepped out, and into his car. The special agent in the driver’s seat looked around at him.

  “An important message has just come in for you, sir. Could you return to the Bureau immediately?”

  Not again.

  “All right, but it might be simpler to keep a bed in the place, except someone would accuse me of trying to live rent-free on taxpayers’ money.”

  The driver laughed; the Director had obviously had a good dinner, which was more than he had.

  Elizabeth brought the coffee in and sat down by him.

  Only the brave deserve the fair. Lift arm casually, place at the back of the couch, touch her hair lightly.

  Elizabeth rose. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Would you like a brandy?”

  No, I don’t want a brandy. I want you to come back.

  “No, thank you.”

  She settled back into Mark’s shoulder.

  Can’t kiss her while she’s got the coffee cup in her hand. Ah, she’s put the cup down. Hell, she’s up again.

  “Let’s have some music.”

  No thank you.

  “Great idea.”

  “How about ‘In Memory of Sinatra’?”

  “Great.”

  … “This time we almost made the pieces fit … didn’t we … gal?”

  It’s got to be absolutely the wrong song. Ah, she’s back. Try the kiss again. Damn, still more coffee. The cup’s down at last. Gentle. Yes, very nice. Christ, she’s beautiful. Long kiss—are her eyes open?—no, closed. She’s enjoying it—good—longer and even better.

  “Would you like some more coffee, Mark?”

  No no no no no no no.

  “No, thank you.”

  Another long kiss. Start moving hand across back—I’ve been this far before with her—can’t possibly be any objection—move hand to leg—pause—what fabulous legs and she’s got two of them. Take hand off leg and concentrate on kissing.

  “Mark, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Oh, Christ! It’s the wrong time of the month. That’s all I need now.

  “Uh-mh?”

  “I adore you.”

  “I adore you too, darling.”

  He unzipped her skirt, and began to caress her gently.

  She began to move her hand up his leg.

  Heaven is about to happen.

  Ring, ring, ring, ring.

  Jee-sus!

  “It’s for you, Mark.”

  “Andrews?”

  “Sir.”

  “Julius.”

  Shit.

  “I’m coming.”

  Tuesday morning

  8 March

  1:00 A.M.

  The man standing at the corner of the churchyard was trying to keep warm in the chill of the early March morning by slapping himself on the back. He had once seen Gene Hackman do it in a movie and it had worked. It wasn’t working. Perhaps he needed the big Warner Brothers arc light Hackman had had to help him. He considered the matter, while he continued slapping.

  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 dialed the Director’s private number at the Bureau.

  “Yes.”

  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 had 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 computerized 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 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 naïvete of a boy scout. When we first saw you with Dr. Elizabeth Dexter, we, in our stupidity, kn