Shall We Tell the President? (18 page)

Mark sighed - the long weary sigh of a man
who has come to an impasse. He glanced at his watch: 10:45; he must leave
immediately if he were to be on time. He returned the various periodicals,
Congressional
Records,
and Ralph Nader reports to the librarian, and hurried across the
street to the parking lot to pick up his car. He drove quickly down
Constitution Avenue
and over
Memorial
Bridge
- how many times
had he done that this week? Mark glanced in his rear-view mirror and thought he
recognised the car behind him, or was it just the memory of last Thursday?

Mark parked his car at the side of the
road. Two Secret Service men stopped him. He produced his credentials and
walked slowly down the path just in time to join a hundred and fifty other
mourners standing around two graves, freshly dug to receive two men who a week
ago were more alive than most of the people attending their burial. The Vice
President, former Senator Bill Bradley, was representing the President. He
stood next to Norma
Stames
, a frail figure in black,
being supported by her two sons. Hank, the eldest, stood next to a giant of a
man, who must have been Barry Calvert’s father. Next was the Director, who
glanced around and saw Mark, but didn’t acknowledge him. The game was being
played out even at the graveside.

Father Gregory’s vestments fluttered
slightly in the cold
breeze. The hem was muddy, for it had rained
all night. A young chaplain in white surplice and black cassock stood silently
at his side.

‘I am the image of
Thine
inexpressible glory, even though I bear the wounds of sin,’ Father Gregory
intoned.

His weeping wife bent forward and kissed
Nick
Stames’s
pale cheek and the coffin was closed.
As Father Gregory prayed,
Stames’s
and
Galvert’s
coffins were lowered slowly, slowly into their
graves. Mark watched sadly: it might have been him going down, down; it should
have been him.

‘With the saints give nest, O Christ, to
the souls of Thy
servants, where there is neither sickness nor sorrow,
nor sighing, but Life everlasting.’

The final blessing was given, the Orthodox
made the sign of the cross and the mourners began to disperse.

After the service Father Gregory was
speaking warmly of his friend Nick
Stames
and
expressed the hope that he and his colleague Barry Calvert had not died without
purpose; he seemed to be looking at Mark as he said it.

Mark saw
Nanna
,
Aspirin, Julie, and the anonymous man, but realised he mustn’t speak to them.
He slipped quietly away. Let the others mourn the dead: his job was to find
their living murderers.

Mark drove back to the Senate, more
determined than ever to find out which senator should have been. present at the
poignant double funeral. Had he stayed a little longer, he would have seen
Matson talking casually to Grant
Nanna
, saying what a
good man
Stames
was and what a loss he would be to
law enforcement.

Mark spent the afternoon at the Foreign
Relations Committee listening to Pearson and Nunn. If it were either of them,
they were cool customers, going about their job without any outward signs of
anxiety. Mark wanted to cross their names off the list but he needed one more
fact confirmed before he could. When Pearson finally sat down, Mark felt limp.
He also needed to relax tonight if he were going to survive the next three
days. He left the committee room and called
Elizabeth
to confirm their dinner date. He
then called the Director’s office and gave Mrs McGregor the telephone numbers
at which he could be reached: the restaurant, his home, Elizabeth’s home. Mrs
McGregor took the numbers down without comment.

Two cars tailed him on his way back: a blue
Ford sedan and a black Buick. When he arrived home, he tossed the car keys to
Simon, dismissed the oppressive but familiar sensation of being continually
watched, and started thinking of more pleasant things, an evening with
Elizabeth
.

6:30 pm Mark walked down the street
thinking about the evening ahead of him. Already I adore that girl. That’s the
one thing I am certain of at the moment. If only I could get rid of the nagging
doubt about her father - even about her.

He went into
Blackistone’s
and ordered a dozen roses, eleven red, one white. The girl handed him a card
and an envelope. Quickly, he wrote Elizabeth’s name and address on the
envelope, and he pondered the blank card, fragments of sentences and poems
flashing through his mind. Finally, he smiled. He wrote, carefully:

Happily I think on thee, and then my state.

Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.

P.S. Modern version. Is it at long last
love?

‘Have them sent at once, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Good. Back home. What to wear? A dark suit?
Too formal. The light blue suit? Too much like a gay, should never have bought
it in the first place. The double-breasted suit - latest thing. Shirt. White,
casual, no tie. Blue, formal, tie. White wins. Too virginal? Blue wins. Shoes:
black slip-on or laces? Slip-on wins. Socks: simple choice, dark blue. Summing
up: denim suit, blue shirt, dark blue tie, dark blue socks, black slip-on
shoes. Leave clothes neatly on bed. Shower and wash hair - I like curly hair
better, Damn, soap in eyes. Grope for towel, soap out, drop towel, out of
shower. Towel around waist. Shave; twice in one day. Shave very carefully. No
blood. Aftershave. Dry hair madly with towel. Curls all over the place. Back to
bedroom. Dress carefully. Get tie exactly - that won’t do, tie again. Better,
this time. Pull up zipper ~ could stand to lose inch around waist. Check in
mirror. Seen worse. To hell with modesty, have seen a whole lot worse. Check
money, credit cards. No gun. All set. Bolt door. Press button for elevator.

‘Can I have my keys, please, Simon?’

‘Well, goddamn.’ Simon’s eyes opened very
wide.

‘Found yourself a new fox!’

‘You better not wait up, because if I fail,
Simon, I’ll probably jump on top of you.’

‘Thanks for the warning, Mark. Tough it
out, man.’

Beautiful evening, climb into car, check
watch: 7:34.

The Director checked his dinner jacket
again. I miss Ruth. Housekeeper does a great job, but not the same thing at
all. Pour a scotch, check clothes. Tuxedo just pressed - a little out of
fashion. Dress shirt back from the cleaners. Black tie to be tied. Black shoes,
black socks, white handkerchief - all in order. Turn on shower. Ah, how to get
something useful out of the President? Damn, where’s the soap? Have to get out
of shower and soak bathmat and towel. Only one towel. Grab soap, revolting
smell. Nowadays, they must only make it for gays. Wish I could still get army
surplus. Out of the shower. Overweight; I need to lose about fifteen pounds.
Body too white. Hide it quickly and forget. Shave. Good old trusty cutthroat.
Never shave twice a day except when dining with the President. Good. No damage.
Get dressed. Fly buttons; hate zippers. Now to tie black tie. Damn it. Ruth
could always do it the first time, perfectly. Try again. At last. Check wallet.
Don’t really need money, credit cards, or anything else. Unless the President’s
going through hard times. Tell housekeeper I’ll be back about eleven. Put on
overcoat. Special agent there with car, as always.

‘Good evening, Sam, beautiful evening.’

The only chauffeur in the employ of the FBI
opened the back door of the Ford sedan.

Climb into car, check watch: 7:45.

Drive slowly - lots of time - don’t want to
be there early - never seems to be any traffic when you have all the time in
the world - hope roses have arrived - take longer route to Georgetown, past
Lincoln Memorial and up Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway - it’s prettier - at
east con yourself that’s why you’re doing it. Don’t run yellow lights, even
though man behind you is obviously late and gesticulating. Obey the law - con yourself
again - you’d shoot through the lights if you were running late for her. Never
embarrass the Bureau. Careful of trolley lines in
Georgetown
, so easy to skid on them. Turn
right at end of street and find parking space. Circle slowly looking for perfect
spot - no such thing. Double-park and hope no traffic cop’s around. Stroll
nonchalantly towards house - bet she’s still in the tub. Check watch: 8:04.
Perfect. Ring doorbell.

‘We’re running a bit late, Sam.’ Perhaps
unwise to say that because he’ll break the speed limit and might embarrass the
Bureau. Why is there so much traffic when you’re in a hurry? Damn Mercedes in
front of us at the circle, stopping even before the lights turned red. Why have
a car that can do 120 mph if you don’t even want to do thirty? Good, the
Mercedes has turned off towards
Georgetown
.
Probably one of the beautiful people. Down
Pennsylvania Avenue
. At last the White
House in sight. Turn on to
West
Executive Avenue
. Waved on by guard at gate. Pull
up to West Portico. Met by Secret Service man in dinner jacket. His tie looks
better than mine. Bet it’s a clip-on. No, come to think of it, it’s regulation
to have to tie them in the White House. Damn it, the man must be married.
Didn’t do it himself. Follow him through foyer to West Wing Reception Room past
Remington sculpture. Met by another Secret Service man also in dinner jacket.
Also better tie. I give up. Escorted to elevator. Check watch: 8:06. Not bad.
Enter West Sitting Hall.

‘Good evening, Madam President.’

‘Hello, lovely lady.’

She looks beautiful in that blue dress.
Fantastic creature. How could I have any suspicions about her?

‘Hello, Mark.’

‘That’s a terrific dress you’re wearing.’

‘Thank you. Would you like to come in for a
minute?’

‘No, I think we’d better go, I’m
double-parked.’

‘Fine, I’ll just grab my coat.’

Open car door for her. Why didn’t I just
take her by the hand into the bedroom and make mad passionate love to her? I
would have happily settled for a sandwich. That way we could do what we both want
to do and save a lot of time and trouble.

‘Did you have a good day?’

‘Very busy. How about you, Mark?’

Oh, managed to think about you for a few
hours while I got some work done, but it wasn’t easy. ‘Busy as all hell. I
wasn’t sure I was going to be able to make it.’

Start car, right on M Street to
Wisconsin
. No parking
spaces. Past Roy Rogers’ Family Restaurant, let’s just get some chicken legs
and head back home, ‘
Aah
, success.’

Hell, where did that Volkswagen come from?

‘What lousy luck. You’ll find another one.’

‘Yes, but four hundred yards away from the
restaurant.’

‘The walk will do us good.’

Did the roses come? I’ll put that florist’s
girl in jail in the morning if she forgot to send them.

‘Oh, Mark, how thoughtless of me not to
mention it before; thank you for those glorious roses. Are you the white one?
And the Shakespeare?’

‘Think nothing of it, lovely lady.’

Liar. So you liked the Shakespeare, but
what was your answer to the Cole Porter? Enter
supersmooth
French restaurant. Rive Gauche. Gauche is right. A Fed in a place like this?
Bet it’ll cost an arm and a leg. Full of snotty waiters with their hands out.
What the hell, it’s only money.

‘Did you know that this place is
responsible for making
Washington
the
French-restaurant capital of
America
?’

Trying to impress her with a little inside
dope.

‘No, why?’

‘Well, the owner keeps bringing his chefs
over from
France
.
One by one they quit and go off to start their own restaurants.’

‘You G-men really do carry around a store
of useless information.’

Look for the
maitre
d’.

‘Table in the name of Andrews.’

‘Good evening, Mr Andrews. How nice to see
you.’

Damn man’s never seen me before and
probably will never see me again. Which table is he going to give me? Not too
bad. She might even believe I’ve been here before- Slip him a five-dollar bill.

‘Thank you, sir. Enjoy your dinner.’

They settled back in the deep red leather
chairs. The restaurant was crowded.

‘Good evening. Would you care for an
aperitif, sir?’

‘What will you have,
Elizabeth
?’

‘Campari and soda, please.’