Shall We Tell the President? (13 page)

The Spanish floor show came on and was
performed with enthusiasm. Mark and Elizabeth listened and watched, unable to
speak to each other above the noise. Mark was happy enough just to sit and be
with her; her face was turned away as she looked at the dancers. When the floor
show eventually ended, they had both long finished the paella. They ordered
dessert and coffee.

‘Would you like a cigar?’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘No, thanks. We don’t
have to ape men’s vile habits as well as their good ones.’

‘Like that,’ said Mark. ‘You’re going to be
the first woman Surgeon General, I suppose?’

‘No, I’m not,’ she said demurely. I’ll
probably be the second or third.’

Mark laughed. ‘I’d better get back to the
Bureau, and do great things. Just to keep up with you.’

‘And it may well be a woman who stops you
becoming Director of the FBI,’
Elizabeth
added.

‘No, it won’t be a woman that stops me
becoming Director of the FBI,’ said Mark, but he didn’t explain.

‘Your coffee, senorita, senor.’

If Mark had ever wanted to sleep with a
woman on the first date, this was the occasion, but he knew it wasn’t going to
happen.

He paid the bill, left a generous tip for
the waiter and congratulated the girl from the floor show, who was sitting in a
corner drinking coffee.

When they left the restaurant Mark found
the night had a chill edge. Once again he began looking nervously around him,
trying not to make it too obvious to
Elizabeth
.
He took her hand as they crossed the street, and didn’t let it go when they
reached the other side. They walked on, chatting intermittently, both aware of
what was happening. He wanted to hold on to her. Lately, he had been seeing a
lot of women, but with none of them had he held their hand either before or
afterwards. Gradually his mood darkened again. Perhaps fear was making him
excessively sentimental.

A car was driving up behind them. Mark
stiffened with anticipation.
Elizabeth
didn’t appear to notice. It slowed down. It was going slower as it neared them.
It stopped just beside them. Mark undid his middle button and fidgeted, more
worried for
Elizabeth
than for himself. The doors of the car opened suddenly and out jumped four
teenagers, two girls, two boys. They darted into a Hamburger Haven. Sweat
appeared on Mark’s forehead. He shook free of Elizabeth’s touch. She stared at
him. ‘Something’s very wrong, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just don’t ask me about
it.’

She sought his hand again, held it firmly,
and they walked on. The oppression of the horrible events of the previous day
bore down on Mark and he did not speak again. When they arrived at her front
door, he was back in the world which was shared only by him and the hulking,
shadowy figure of Halt Tyson.

‘Well, you have been most charming this
evening, when you’ve actually been here,’ she said smilingly.

Mark shook himself. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Would you like to come in for coffee?’

‘Yes and no. Can I take another
raincheck
on that? I don’t feel like good company right
now.’

He still had several things to do before he
saw the Director at 7:00 am and it was already midnight. Also he hadn’t slept
properly for a day and a half.

‘Can I call you tomorrow?’

‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘Be sure to keep
in touch, whatever happens.’

Mark would carry those few words around
with him like a talisman for the next few days. He could recall her every word
and its accompanying gesture. Were they said in fun, were they said seriously,
were they said teasingly? Lately, it hadn’t been fashionable to fall in love;
very few people seemed to be getting married and a lot of people who had were
getting divorced. Was he really going to fall madly in love in the middle of all
this?

He kissed her on the cheek and turned to
leave his eyes darting up and down the road again. She whispered after him: ‘I
hope you find the man who killed my mailman and your Greek.’

Your Greek, your Greek, Greek Orthodox
priest, Father Gregory. God in heaven, why hadn’t he thought of it before? He’d
forgotten
Elizabeth
for a moment as he started to run towards his car. He turned to wave; she was
staring at him with a puzzled expression, wondering what she had said. Mark
leaped into the car and drove as fast as he could to his apartment. He must
find Father Gregory’s number. Greek Orthodox priest, what did he look like, the
one who came out of the elevator, what did he look like; it was all coming
back, there had been something unusual with him: what the hell was it? His
clothes? No, they were fine, or was it his face? His face was wrong somehow. Of
course. Of course. How could he
have
been so stupid? When he arrived home, he called the Washington Field Office
immediately. Polly, on the switchboard, was surprised to hear him.

‘Aren’t you on leave?’

‘Yes, sort of. Do you have Father Gregory’s
number?’

‘Who is Father Gregory?’

‘A Greek Orthodox priest whom Mr
Stames
used to contact occasionally; I think he was his
local priest.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Now I remember.’

Mark waited.

She checked
Stames’s
Rolodex and gave him the number. Mark wrote it down, and replaced the phone. Of
course, of course, of course. How stupid of him. It was so obvious. Well past
midnight, but he had to call. He dialled the number. The telephone rang several
times before it was answered.

‘Father Gregory?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do all Greek Orthodox priests have
beards?’

‘Yes, as a rule. Who is this asking such a
damn silly question in the middle of the night?’

Mark apologised. ‘My name is Special Agent
Mark Andrews. I worked under Nick
Stames
.’

The man at the other end, who had sounded
sleepy, immediately woke up. ‘I understand, young man. What can I do for you?’

‘Father Gregory, last night Mr
Stames’s
secretary called you and asked you to go to Woodrow
Wilson to check a Greek who had a bullet wound in his leg?’

‘Yes, that’s right - I remember, Mr
Andrews. But somebody else called about thirty minutes later, just as I was
leaving, in fact, to tell me I needn’t bother because Mr
Casefikis
had been discharged from the hospital.’

‘He’d been what?’ Mark’s voice rose with
each word.

‘Discharged from the hospital.’

‘Did the caller say who he was?’

‘No, the man gave no other details. I
assumed he was from your office.’

‘Father Gregory, can I see you tomorrow
morning at eight o’clock?’

‘Yes, of course, my son.’

‘And can you be sure you don’t talk to
anybody else about this phone call, whoever they say they are?’

‘If that is your wish, my son.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

Mark dropped the telephone and tried to concentrate.
He was taller than I was, so he was over six feet. He was dark, or was that
just his priest’s robes? No, he had dark hair, he had a big nose, I remember he
had a big nose, eyes, no I can’t remember his eyes, he had a big nose, a heavy
chin, a heavy chin. Mark wrote everything down he could remember. A big heavy
man, taller than me, big nose, heavy chin, big nose, heavy ... He collapsed.
His head fell on the desk and he slept.

6:32 am Mark had awoken, but he wasn’t
awake. His head was swimming with incoherent thoughts. The first vision to
flash across his mind was
Elizabeth
;
he smiled. The second was Nick
Stames
; he frowned.
The third was the Director. Mark woke with a start and sat up, trying to focus
his eyes on his watch. All he could see was the second hand moving: 6:35. Hell.
He shot up from the chair, his stiff neck and back hurting him; he was still
dressed. He threw off his clothes and rushed into the bathroom and showered,
without taking time to adjust the water temperature. Goddamn freezing. At least
it woke him up and made him forget
Elizabeth
.
He jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel: 6:40. After throwing the
lather on his face, he shaved too quickly, mowing down the stubble on his
chain. Damn it, three nicks; the aftershave lotion stung viciously 6:43. He
dressed: clean shirt, same cufflinks, clean socks, same shoes, clean suit, same
tie. A quick look in the mirror: two nicks still bleeding slightly, the hell
with it. He bundled the papers on his desk into his briefcase and ran for the
elevator. First piece of luck, it was on the top floor. Downstairs: 6:46.

‘Hi, Simon.’

The young black garage attendant didn’t
move. He was dozing in his little cubbyhole at the garage entrance.

‘Morning Mark. Hell, man, is it eight
o’clock already?’

‘No, thirteen minutes to seven.’

‘What are you up to? Moonlighting?’ asked
Simon, rubbing his eyes and handing over the car keys. Mark smiled, but didn’t
have time to answer. Simon dozed off
again.

Car starts first time. Reliable Mercedes.
Moves on to the road: 6:48. Must stay below speed limit. Never embarrass the
Bureau. At
6th Street
,
held up by lights: 6:50. Cut across
G
Street
, up 7th, more lights.
Cross Independence Avenue
: 6:53. Corner
of 7th and
Pennsylvania
.
Can see
FBI
Building
: 6:55. Down ramp, park, show
FBI pass to garage guard, run for elevator: 6:57; elevator to seventh floor:
6:58. Along the corridor, turn right, Room 7074, straight in, past Mrs McGregor
as instructed. She barely glances up; knock on door of Director’s office; no
reply; go in as instructed. No Director: 6:59; sink into easy chair. Director
going to be late; smile of satisfaction. Thirty seconds to seven: glance around
room, casually, as if been waiting for hours. Eyes land on grandfather clock.
Strikes: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

The door opened, and the Director marched
in. ‘Good morning, Andrews.’ He did not look at Mark, but at the clock on the
wall. ‘It’s always a little fast.’

Silence. The Old Post Office Tower clock
struck seven.

The Director settled into his chair, and
once again the large hands took possession of the desk.

‘We’ll start with my news first, Andrews.
We have just received some identification on the
Lincoln
that went into the
Potomac
with
Stames
and Calvert.’

The Director opened a new
manilla
file marked ‘Eyes only’ and glanced at its
contents. What was in the file that Mark didn’t know about and ought to know
about?

‘Nothing solid to go on. Hans-Dieter
Gerbach
, German. Bonn has reported that he was a minor
figure in the
Munich
rackets until five years ago, then they lost track of him. There is some
evidence to suggest he was in
Rhodesia
and even hitched up with the CIA for a while. The White-Lightning Brigade, The
CIA is not being helpful on him. I can’t see much information coming from them
before Thursday. Sometimes I wonder whose side they’re on. In 1980,
Gerbach
turned up in
New
York
, but there’s nothing there except rumours and
street talk, no record to go on. It would have helped if he’d lived.’

Mark thought of the slit throats in
Woodrow
Wilson
Medical
Center
and wondered.

‘The interesting fact to emerge from the
car crash is that both back tyres of
Stames’s
and
Calvert’s car have small holes in them. They could have been the result of the
fall down the bank, but our laboratory boys think they are bullet holes. If
they are, whoever did shooting makes Wyatt Earp look like a boy scout.’

The Director spoke into his intercom. ‘Have
Assistant Director Rogers join us please, Mrs McGregor.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘
Mr.
Rogers’s men
have found the catering outfit
Casefikis
was working
for, for what that’s worth.’

The Assistant Director knocked and entered.
The Director indicated a chair.
Rogers
smiled at Mark and sat down.

‘Let’s have the details, Matt.’

‘Well, sir, the owner of the Golden Duck
wasn’t exactly co-operative. Seemed to think I was after him for contravening
employers’ regulations. I threatened to
shut
him down if he didn’t talk. Finally he admitted to employing a man matching
Casefikis’s
description on 24 February. He sent
Casefikis
to serve at a small luncheon party in one of the
rooms at the Georgetown Inn on
Wisconsin
Avenue
. The man who made the arrangement was a
Lorenzo Rossi. He insisted on a waiter who couldn’t speak English. Paid in
cash.