Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  “Yes,” replied Mark.

  “But there were six all-day sessions.”

  Oh, hell, he thought, it will be worse than all night; still, it would be only the questions and statements of Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison and Thornton.

  “Sign or pay?”

  “I wish I could sign,” he said jokingly.

  “Well, are you an official of any kind?”

  Yes, thought Mark. But I can’t admit it.

  “No,” said Mark, and took out his wallet.

  “If you asked for these through one of the senators from your state, you could probably get them for nothing. Otherwise that’ll be ten dollars, sir.”

  “I’m in a hurry,” said Mark. “Guess I’ll have to pay.”

  He handed over the money. Senator Stevenson appeared in the doorway connecting the hearing room to the committee office.

  “Good afternoon, Senator,” said the secretary, turning away from Mark.

  “Hi, Debbie. Would you happen to have a copy of the Clean Air bill as it was reported out of the subcommittee, before the committee markup?”

  “Certainly, Senator, just a moment.” She disappeared into a back room. “It’s the only copy we have at the moment. Can I trust you with it, Senator?” She laughed. “Or should I make you sign for it?”

  Even senators sign, thought Mark. Senators sign for everything. Henry Lykham signs for everything, even lunch. No wonder my taxes are so high. But I imagine they have to pay for the food later. The food. My God, why didn’t I think of it before. Mark started running.

  “Sir, sir, you’ve left your hearings,” a voice shouted. But it was too late.

  “Some kind of nut,” said the secretary to Senator Stevenson.

  “Anyone who wants to read all those hearings must be crazy to begin with,” said Senator Stevenson, staring at the pile of paper Mark had left behind him.

  Mark went straight to Room G-211, where he had lunched with Lykham the previous day. The door was marked “Officials’ Dining Room.” There were only two or three attendants in evidence.

  “Excuse me, I wonder if you could tell me, is this where the senators eat?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know. You’d have to talk to the hostess. We’re just cleaning up.”

  “Where might I find the hostess?”

  “She’s not here. Gone for the day. If you come back tomorrow, maybe she can help you.”

  “Okay.” Mark sighed. “Thanks. But can you tell me—is there another Senate dining room?”

  “Yeah, the big one in the Capitol. S-109, but you won’t be able to get in there.”

  Mark ran back to the elevator and waited impatiently. When he reached the basement level, he jumped out and walked past the entrance to the labyrinthine tunnels which connect all the office buildings on Capitol Hill. Past the door marked “Tobacco Shop,” he raced towards the large sign—“Subway Cars to Capitol.” The subway car, actually just an open train with compartments, was about to leave. Mark stepped into the last compartment and sat down opposite a couple of Senate staffers who were jabbering away about some bill or other, with an air of “we belong.”

  A few moments later, a bell signaled their arrival and the train came to a stop at the Senate side of the Capitol. Easy life, thought Mark. These guys need never even wander out into the cold, cruel world. They just shuttle back and forth between votes and hearings. The basement on this side was a replica of the basement on the other side, a dull yellow, with exposed plumbing, and the inevitable Pepsi machine; it must have made Coca-Cola mad that Pepsi had the concession for the Senate. Mark bounded up the small escalator and waited for the public elevator, while a couple of men with a certain air of importance were ushered into the elevator marked “Senators Only.”

  Mark got off on the ground floor, and looked around, perplexed. Nothing but marble arches and corridors. Where was the Senate Dining Room? he asked one of the Capitol policemen.

  “Just walk straight ahead, take the first corridor on the left. It’s the narrow one, the first entrance you get to.” He pointed.

  Mark tossed a thank-you over his shoulder and found the narrow corridor. He passed the kitchens and a sign which announced “Private—Press Only.” Straight ahead, in large letters on a wooden sign, he saw another “Senators Only.” An open door on the right led into the anteroom, decorated with a chandelier, a rose-colored, patterned carpet, and green leather furniture, all dominated by the colorful, crowded painting on the ceiling. Through another door, Mark could see white tablecloths, flowers, the world of gracious dining. A matronly woman appeared in the doorway.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, raising her eyebrows inquisitively.

  “I’m doing a thesis on the working life of a senator for my Ph.D.” Mark took out his wallet and showed his Yale I.D. card, covering the expiration date with his thumb.

  The lady was not visibly impressed.

  “I really only want to look at the room. Just to get the atmosphere of the place.”

  “Well, there are no senators in here at the moment, sir. There almost never are this late on a Wednesday. They start going back to their home states on Thursdays for a long weekend. The only thing that is keeping them here this week is that Gun Control bill.”

  Mark had managed to edge himself into the center of the room. A waitress was clearing a table. She smiled at him.

  “Do senators sign for their meals? Or do they pay cash?”

  “Almost all of them sign, and then they pay at the end of the month.”

  “How do you keep track?”

  “No problem. We keep a daily record.” She pointed to a large book marked Accounts. Mark knew that twentythree senators had lunched that day because their secretaries had told him so. Had any other senator done so without bothering to inform his secretary? He was a yard away from finding out.

  “Could I just see a typical day? Just out of interest,” he asked with an innocent smile.

  “I’m not sure I’m allowed to let you look.”

  “Only a glance. When I write my thesis, I want people to think that I really know what I’m talking about, that I’ve seen for myself. Everyone’s been so kind to me.”

  He looked at the woman pleadingly.

  “Okay,” she said grudgingly, “but please be quick.”

  “Thank you. Why don’t you pick any old day, let’s say 24 February.”

  She opened the book and thumbed through to 24 February. “A Thursday,” she said. Stevenson, Nunn, Moynihan, Heinz, names rang one after the other. Dole, Hatfield, Byrd. So Byrd lunched at the Senate that day. He read on. Templeman, Brooks—Brooks as well. More names. Barnes, Reynolds, Thornton. So his statement this morning was for real. The hostess closed the book. No Harrison, no Dexter.

  “Nothing very special about that, is there?” she said.

  “No,” said Mark. He thanked the woman and left quickly.

  In the street he hailed a taxi. So did one of the three men following him; the other two went off to pick up their car.

  Mark arrived at the Bureau a few moments later, paid the driver, showed his credentials at the entrance, and took the elevator to the seventh floor. Mrs. McGregor smiled. The Director must be alone, thought Mark. He knocked and went in.

  “Well, Mark?”

  “Brooks, Byrd, and Thornton are not involved, sir.”

  “The first two don’t surprise me,” said the Director. “It never made any sense that they were, but I’d have put a side bet on Thornton. Anyway, how did you dispose of those three?”

  Mark described his brainstorm about the Senate dining room, and wondered what else he had overlooked.

  “You should have worked all of that out three days ago, shouldn’t you, Mark?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So should I,” said the Director. “So we’re down to Dexter and Harrison. It will interest you to know that both men, along with almost all of the senators, intend to be in Washington tomorrow and both are down to attend the ceremony at the