Shall We Tell the President? (12 page)

His mind drifted for a moment to the
President. This wasn’t just any President. This was the first woman President.
But what could he learn from the last presidential assassination of John F.
Kennedy. Were there any senators involved with those deaths? Or was this
another lunatic working on his own? All the evidence on this inquiry so far
pointed to teamwork. Lee Harvey Oswald, long since dead, and still there was no
convincing explanation of his assassination or, for that matter, of Robert
Kennedy’s.

Some people still claimed the CIA was
behind President Kennedy’s death because he had threatened to hang them out to
dry in 1961, after the
Bay of Pigs
fiasco.
Others said Castro had arranged the murder in revenge; it was known that Oswald
had an interview with the Cuban ambassador in Mexico two weeks before the
assassination, and the CIA had known about that all along. Thirty years after
the event, and still no one could be certain.

A smart guy from LA, Jay Sandberg, who had
roomed with Mark at law school, had maintained that the conspiracy reached the
top, even the top of the FBI; they knew the truth but said nothing.

Maybe Tyson and Rogers were two of those
who knew the truth and had sent him out on useless errands to keep him
occupied: he hadn’t been able to tell anyone the details of yesterday’s events,
not even Grant
Nanna
.

If there were a conspiracy, whom could he
turn to? Only one person might listen and that was the President, and there was
no way of getting to her. He’d have to call Jay Sandberg, who had made a study
of presidential assassinations. If anyone would have a theory, it would be
Sandberg. Mark retraced his steps to the pay phone, checked Sandberg’s home
number in
New York
,
and dialled the ten digits. A woman’s voice answered the telephone.

‘Hello,’ she said coolly. Mark could
visualise the cloud of marijuana smoke that went with the voice.

‘Hello, I’m trying to reach Jay Sandberg.’

‘Oh.’ More smoke. ‘He’s still at work.’

‘Can you tell me his number?’ asked Mark.

After more smoke, she gave it to him, and
the phone clicked.

Sheeesh
, Mark said to himself,
Upper East Side
women.

A very different voice, warm
Irish-American, answered the phone next.

‘Sullivan and Cromwell.’

Mark recognised the prestigious
New York
law firm. Other
people were getting ahead in the world.

‘Can I speak to Jay Sandberg?’

‘I’ll connect you, sir.’

‘Sandberg.’

‘Hi, Jay, it’s Mark Andrews. Glad I caught
you. I’m calling from
Washington
.’

‘Hello, Mark, nice to hear from you. How’s
life for a G-man? Rat-a-tat-tat and all that.’

‘It can be,’ said Mark, ‘sometimes. Jay, I
need some advice on where to find the facts on political assassination
attempts, particularly the one in Massa-
chusetts
in
1979; do you remember it?’

‘Sure do. Three people arrested; let me
think.’ Sandberg paused. ‘All released as harmless. One died in an auto
accident in 1980, another was knifed in a brawl in
San Francisco
, later died in 1981, and the
third disappeared mysteriously last year. I tell you it was another conspiracy.’

‘Who this time?’

‘Mafia wanted Edward Kennedy out of the way
in ‘76 so they could avoid an inquiry he was pressing for into the death of
those two hoodlums, Sam
Giancana
and John
Rosselli
; they don’t love President Kane now with the way
she is running the Gun Control bill.’

‘Mafia? Gun Control bill? Where do I start
looking for the facts?’ asked Mark.

‘I can tell you it’s not in the Warren
Commission Report or any of the later inquiries. Your best bet is
The
Tankee
and Cowboy Wars
by Carl Oglesby - you’ll find it all there.’

Mark made a note.

‘Thanks for your help, Jay. I’ll get back
to you if it doesn’t cover everything. How are things in
New York
?’

‘Oh, fine, just fine. I’m one of about a
million lawyers interpreting the constitution at an exorbitant fee. Let’s get
together soon, Mark.’

‘Sure, next time I’m in
New York
.’

Mark went back to the Library thoughtfully.
It could be CIA, it could be Mafia, it could be a nut, it could be anyone -
even Halt Tyson. He asked the girl for the Carl Oglesby book. A well-thumbed
volume beginning to come apart was supplied.
Sheed
Andrews &
McMeel
,
Inc
,
6700 Squibb Road
,
Mission
,
Kansas
. It was going to make
good reading, but for now it was back to the senators’ life histories. Mark spent
two more hours trying to eliminate senators or find motives for any of them
wanting President Kane out of the way: he wasn’t getting very far.

‘You’ll have to leave now, sir,’ said the
young librarian, her arms full of books, looking as if she would like to go
home. ‘I’m afraid we lock up at 7:30.’

‘Can you give me two more minutes? I’m very
nearly through.’

‘I guess so,’ she said, staggering away
under a load of Senate Reports, 1971-73, which few but herself would ever
handle.

Mark glanced over his notes. There were
some very prominent names among the sixty-two ‘suspects’, men like Alan
Cranston of
California
,
often described as the ‘liberal whip’ of the Senate; Ralph Brooks of
Massachusetts
whom
Florentyna
Kane had defeated at the Democratic Convention. Majority Leader
Kobert
C. Byrd of
West
Virginia
. Henry Dexter of
Connecticut
. Elizabeth’s father, he
shuddered at the thought. Sam Nunn, the respected senator for Georgia, Robert
Harrison of South Carolina, an urbane, educated man with a reputation for parliamentary
skill; Marvin Thornton, who occupied the seat vacated by Edward Kennedy in
1980; Mark O. Hatfield, the liberal and devout Republican from Oregon; Hayden
Woodson of Arkansas, one of the new breed of Southern Republicans; William Cain
of Nebraska, a staunch conservative who had run as an independent in the 1980
election; and Birch
Bayh
of Indiana, the man who had
pulled Ted Kennedy from a plane wreck in 1967, and probably saved his life.
Sixty-two men under suspicion, thought Mark. And six days to go. And the
evidence must be iron-clad. There was little more he could do that day.

Every government building was closing. He
just hoped the Director had covered as much and could bring the sixty-two names
down to a sensible number quickly. Sixty-two names; six days.

He returned to his car in the public
parking lot. Six dollars a day for the privilege of being on vacation. He paid
the attendant, eased the car out on
Pennsylvania
Avenue
, and headed down
9th Street
back towards his apartment in
N Street, SW, the worst of the
rush-hour behind him. Simon was there,
and Mark tossed him the car keys. ‘I’m going out again as soon as I’ve
changed,’ Mark called over his shoulder as he went up to his eighth-floor
apartment.

He showered and shaved quickly and put on a
more casual suit than the one he had worn for the Director. Now for the good
part of the day.

When he came back down, the car was turned
around so that Mark could, to quote Simon, make a quick getaway. He drove to
Georgetown
, turned right
on 30th, and parked outside Elizabeth Dexter’s house. A small red-brick town
house, very chic. Either she was doing well for herself or her father had
bought it for her. Her father, he couldn’t help remembering . . .

She looked even more beautiful on the
doorstep than she had in his imagination. That was good. She wore a long red
dress with a high collar. It set off her dark hair and deep brown eyes.

‘Are you going to come in, or are you just
going to stand there looking like a delivery boy?’

‘I’m just going to stand here and admire
you,’ he said. ‘You know, Doctor, I’ve always been attracted to beautiful,
clever women. Do you think that says something about me?’

She laughed and led him into the pretty
house. ‘Come and sit down. You look as though you could do with a drink.’ She
poured him the beer he asked for. When she sat down, her eyes were serious.

‘I don’t suppose you want to talk about the
horrible thing that happened to my mailman.’

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘I’d prefer not to, for a
number of reasons.’

Her face showed understanding.

‘I hope you’ll catch the bastard who killed
him.’ Again, those dark eyes flashed to meet his. She got up to turn over the
record on the stereo. ‘How do you like this kind of music?’ she asked lightly.

‘I’m not much on Haydn,’ he said. I’m a
Mahler freak. And Beethoven,
Aznavour
. And you?’

She blushed slightly.

‘When you didn’t turn up last night, I
called your office to see if you were there.’

Mark was surprised and pleased.

‘Finally I got through to a girl in your department.
You were out at the time, and besides she said you were very busy, so I didn’t
leave a message.’

‘That’s Polly,’ said Mark. ‘She’s very
protective.’

‘And pretty?’ She smiled with the
confidence of one who knows she is good-looking.

‘Good from far but far from good,’ said
Mark. ‘Let’s forget Polly. Come on, you ought to be hungry by now, and I’m not
going to give you that steak I keep promising you. I’ve booked a table for nine
o’clock at
Tio
Pepe.’

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Since you managed to
get your car parked, why don’t we walk?’

‘Great.’

It was a clear, cool evening and Mark
enjoyed the fresh air. What he didn’t enjoy was the continual urge to look over
his shoulder.

‘Looking for another woman already?’ she
teased.

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘Why should I look any
further?’ He spoke lightly, but he knew he hadn’t fooled her. He changed the
subject abruptly. ‘How do you like your work?’

‘My work?’
Elizabeth
seemed surprised, as though she
never thought of it in those terms. ‘My life, you mean? It’s just about my
entire life. Or has been so far.’

She glanced up at Mark with a sombre
expression on her face. ‘I hate the hospital. It’s a big bureaucracy, old and
dirty and a lot of the people there, petty administrative types, don’t really
care about helping people. To them it’s just another way of earning a living.
Only yesterday I had to threaten to resign in order to convince the Utilisation
Committee to let an old man remain in the hospital. He had no home to go back
to.’

They walked down
30th Street
, and
Elizabeth
continued to tell him about her
work. She spoke with spirit, and Mark listened to her with pleasure. She showed
a pleasant self-assurance, as she told him about a soulful Yugoslav who would
sing
incompre
-
hensible
Slavic songs of love and of longing as she inspected his ulcerated armpit and
who had finally, in a misplaced gesture of passion, seized her left ear and
licked it.

Mark laughed and took her arm as he guided
her into the restaurant. ‘You ought to demand combat pay,’ he said.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t have complained, other than
to tell him that his singing was always out of tune.’

The hostess led them upstairs to a table in
the centre of the room, near where the floor show would be performed. Mark
rejected it in favour of a table in the far corner. He did not ask
Elizabeth
which seat she
would prefer. He sat down with his back to the wall, making a lame excuse about
wanting to be away from the noise so he could talk to her. Mark was sure that
this girl would not fall too easily for that sort of blarney; she knew
something was wrong and she sensed his edginess, but she did not pry.

A young waiter asked them if they would
like a cocktail.
Elizabeth
asked for a Margarita, Mark for a spritzer.

‘What’s a spritzer?’ asked
Elizabeth
.

‘Not very Spanish, half white wine, half
soda, lots of ice. Stirred but not shaken. Sort of a poor man’s James Bond.’

The pleasant atmosphere of the restaurant
helped to dispel some of Mark’s tension; he relaxed slightly for the first time
in twenty-four hours. They chatted about movies, music, and books, and then
about Yale. Her face, often animated, was sometimes serene but always lovely in
the candlelight. Mark was enchanted by her. For all her intelligence and
self-sufficiency, she had a touching fragility and femininity. As they ate
their paella Mark asked
Elizabeth
why her father
had become a senator, about his career, and her childhood in
Connecticut
. The subject seemed to make her
uneasy. Mark couldn’t help remembering that her father was still on the list.
He tried to shift the conversation to her mother.
Elizabeth
avoided his eyes and even, he
thought, turned pale. For the first time, a tiny ripple of suspicion disturbed
his affectionate vision of
Elizabeth
,
and made him worry momentarily. She was the first beautiful thing that had
happened for quite a while, and he didn’t want to distrust her. Was it
possible? Could she
beinvolved
? No, of course not. He
tried to put it out of his mind.