Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  “Very well, check it out. If you come up with anything report back to me.”

  The Chairman never left a stone unturned. He looked at the Senator.

  The Senator despised these men. They were so small-minded, so greedy. They only understood money, and Kane was going to take it away from them. How their violence had frightened and sickened him. He should never have allowed that smooth-talking plausible bastard Nicholson to pump so much into his secret campaign funds, although God knows he would never have been elected without the money. Lots of money, and such a small price to pay at the time; steadfast opposition to any gun control proposals. Hell, he was genuinely opposed to gun control anyway. But assassinating the President to stop the bill, by God, it was lunacy, but the Chairman had him by the balls. “Co-operate, or be exposed, my friend,” he had said silkily. The Senator had spent half a lifetime sweating to reach the Senate and what’s more, he did a damned good job there. If they stopped him now he would be finished. A public scandal. He couldn’t face it. “Co-operate, my friend, for your own good. All we need is some inside information, and your presence at the Capitol on 10 March. Be reasonable, my friend, why ruin your whole life for a Polish woman?” The Senator cleared his throat.

  “It is highly unlikely that the FBI knows any details about our plans. As Mr. Matson knows, if the Bureau had anything to go on, any reason to think that this supposed threat is any different from a thousand others the President has received, the Secret Service would have been informed immediately. And my secretary has ascertained that the President’s schedule for this week remains unchanged. All her appointments will be kept. She will go to the Capitol on the morning of 10 March for a special address to the Senate—”

  “But that’s exactly the point,” Matson interrupted with a contemptuous sneer. “All threats against the President, no matter how far-fetched, are routinely reported to the Secret Service. If they haven’t reported anything, it must mean that—”

  “It may mean that they don’t know a thing, Matson,” said the Chairman firmly. “I told you to look into it. Now let the Senator answer a more important question: If the FBI knew the details, would they tell the President?”

  The Senator hesitated. “No, I don’t think so, or only if they were absolutely certain of danger on a particular day; otherwise they’d go ahead as planned. If every threat or suggestion of a threat were taken seriously, the President would never be able to leave the White House. The Secret Service report to Congress last year showed that there were 1,572 threats against the President’s life, but thorough investigations revealed that there were no actual known attempts.”

  The Chairman nodded. “Either they know everything or they know nothing.”

  Matson persisted. “I am still a member of the Society of Former Special Agents and I attended a meeting yesterday, and no one there knew a damn thing. Someone would have heard something by now. Later, I had a drink with Grant Nanna, who was my old boss at the Washington Field Office, and he seemed almost uninterested, which I found strange. I thought Stames was a friend of his, but I obviously couldn’t push it too far, since Stames was no friend of mine. I’m still worried. It doesn’t make sense that Stames went to the hospital and no one in the Bureau is saying anything about his death.”

  “Okay, okay,” said the Chairman. “If we don’t get her on 10 March, we may as well quit now. We go ahead as if nothing had happened, unless we hear any rumbles—and that’s in your hands, Matson. We’ll be there on the day, unless you stop us. Now let’s plan ahead. First I’ll go over Kane’s schedule for that day. Kane”—no one in that room except for the Senator ever called her the President—“leaves the White House at 10 A.M. She passes the FBI Building at three minutes past, she passes the Peace Monument at the northwest corner of the Capitol grounds at five minutes past. She gets out of her car at the east front of the Capitol at six minutes past. Normally, she would go in the private entrance, but the Senator has assured us that she will milk this visit for all it’s worth. It takes her forty-five seconds to walk from the car to the top of the Capitol steps. We know that Xan can easily complete the job in forty-five seconds. I will be watching at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue when Kane passes the FBI Building. Tony will be there with a car, in case of an emergency, and the Senator will be on the Capitol steps to stall her, if we need more time. The most important part of the operation is Xan’s, which we have worked out to a split second. So listen and listen carefully. I have arranged for Xan to be on the construction crew working on the renovation of the front of the Capitol. And, believe me, with that union it was no mean feat to place an Oriental. Take over, Xan.”

  Xan looked up. He had said nothing since his last invitation to speak.

  “Construction on west front of Capitol has been going on for nearly six months. No one is more enthusiastic about it than Kane. She wants it finished in time for her second Inaugural.” He grinned. All eyes were upon the little man, intent on his every word. “I have been part of work force now for just over four weeks. I am in charge of checking all supplies that come onto site, which means I am in site office. From there, it has not been hard to discover movements of everybody connected with construction. The guards are not from FBI, Secret Service, or from CIA, but from Government Building Security Service. They are usually a lot older than normal agents, often retired from one of services. There are sixteen in all, and they work in fours on four shifts. I know where they drink, smoke, play cards, everything; no one is very interested in site because at moment it overlooks nothing and it’s on least-used side of Capitol. A little petty theft from site but not much else to excite guards.” Xan had total silence. “Right in middle of site is biggest American Hoist Co. crane in world, number 11-3-10, specially designed for lifting new parts of Capitol into place. Fully extended, it is 322 feet, almost double regulation height allowed in Washington buildings. Nobody expect us on west side, and nobody figure we can see that far. On top is small covered platform for general maintenance of pulleys, used only when it is flat and parallel to ground, but platform becomes like a small box in effect. It is four feet long, two feet three inches in width, and one foot five inches in height. I have slept there for last three nights. I see everything, no one can see me, not even White House helicopter.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “How do you get up there?” asked the Senator.

  “Like cat, Senator. I climb. An advantage of being very small. I go up just after midnight and come down at five. I overlook all Washington and no one see me.”

  “Do you have a good view of the Capitol steps from such a small platform?” asked the Chairman.

  “Perhaps it will take four seconds,” Xan replied. “View allows me to see White House as no one has ever seen it. I could have killed Kane twice last week. When she make official visits, it will be easy. I can’t miss—”

  “What about the other workers on Thursday? They may want to use the crane,” the Senator interrupted.

  This time the Chairman smiled. “There will be a strike next Thursday, my friend. Something to do with unfair rates for overtime, no work while Kane is visiting the Capitol to emphasize their point. One thing is certain, with no one on the site other than some ageing guards, nobody will be eager to climb to the top of a crane that is all but open to the world. From the ground it doesn’t look as if a mouse could hide up there, let alone a human being.” The Chairman paused. “Xan flies to Vienna tomorrow and will be back in time to report the results of his trip at our final meeting next Wednesday. By the way, Xan, have you got your can of yellow paint?”

  “Yes, stole one from site.”

  The Chairman looked around the table—silence. “Good, we seem to be well organized. Thank you, Xan.”

  “I don’t like it,” mumbled Matson. “Something’s wrong. It’s all too easy, it’s all too clever.”

  “The FBI has taught you to be overly suspicious, Matson. You’ll discover that we’re better prepared than they are, because we k