Shall We Tell the President? (30 page)

The Director tapped Elliott on the shoulder
and the cab slipped back into the seventh place in line. The two passengers got
out and walked in opposite directions, Knight to catch the Metro to the White
House, the Director a cab to the Bureau. Neither looked back.

Lucky Stuart Knight, thought the Director,
he’s gone through the last seven days without the information I have. Now the meeting
was over, the Director’s confidence in his own stratagem was renewed, and he
was resolved that only he and Andrews would ever know the full story - unless
they had conclusive proof on which to secure the Senator’s conviction. He had
to catch the conspirators alive, get them to testify against the Senator. The
Director checked his watch with the clock on the Old Post Office Tower over the
Washington Field Office. It was 7:58. Andrews would be due in two minutes. He
was saluted as he went through the revolving doors of the Bureau. Mrs McGregor
was standing outside his office, looking agitated.

‘It’s Channel Four, sir, asking for you
urgently.’

‘Put them through,’ said the Director. He
moved quickly into his office and picked up the extension.

‘It’s Special Agent O’Malley from the
patrol car, sir.’

‘Yes, O’Malley?’

‘Andrews has been killed, sir, and there
must have been another person in the car.’

The Director couldn’t speak.

‘Are you there, Director?’ O’Malley waited.
‘I repeat are you there, Director?’

Finally the Director said, ‘Come in
immediately.’ He put the phone down, and his great hands gripped the Queen Anne
desk like a throat he wanted to strangle. The fingers then curled and clenched
slowly into the palms of his hands until they made massive fists, the nails
digging into the skin. Blood trickled slowly down on to the leather-work on the
desk, leaving a dark stain. Halt Tyson sat alone for several, minutes. Then he
instructed Mrs McGregor to get the President at the White House. He was going to
cancel the whole damned thing; he’d already gone too far. He sat silently
waiting. The bastards had beaten him. They must know everything.

It took Special Agent O’Malley ten minutes
to reach the Bureau, where he was ushered straight into the Director.

My God, he looks eighty, thought O’Malley.

The Director stared at him. ‘How did it
happen?’ he asked quietly.

‘He was blown up in a car; we think someone
else was with him.’

‘Why? How?’

‘Must have been a bomb attached to the
ignition.

It blew up right there in front of us. Made
an unholy mess.’

‘I don’t give a fuck for the mess,’ began
the Director on a slowly rising note, when the door opened.

Mark Andrews walked in. ‘Good morning, sir.
I hope I’m not interrupting something. I thought you said 8:15.’

Both men stared at him.

‘You’re dead.’

‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘Well, who the hell,’ said Special Agent
O’Malley, ‘was driving your Mercedes?’

Mark stared at him uncomprehending.

‘My Mercedes?’ he said quickly. ‘What are
you talking about?’

‘Your Mercedes has just been blown to
smithereens. I saw it with my own eyes. My colleague down there is trying to
put the pieces together; he’s already reported finding the hand of a black
man.’

Mark steadied himself against the wall.
‘The bastards have killed Simon,’ he cried in anger. ‘There will be no need to
call Grant
Nanna
to screw their balls off. I’ll do it
myself.’

‘Please explain yourself,’ said the
Director.

Mark steadied himself again, turned around
and faced them both. ‘I came in with Elizabeth Dexter this morning; she came by
to see me. I came in with her,’ he repeated, not yet coherent. ‘Simon moved my
car because it was occupying a reserved daytime parking space and now the
bastards have killed him.’

‘Sit down, Andrews. You too, O’Malley.’

The telephone rang. ‘The President’s Chief
of Staff, sir. The President will be with you in about two minutes.’

‘Cancel it and apologise. Explain to Janet
Brown that it was nothing important, just wanted to wish the President luck on
the Gun Control bill today.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So they think you’re dead, Andrews, and
they have now played their last card. So we must hold ours back. You’re going
to remain dead - for a little while longer.’

Mark and O’Malley looked at each other,
both puzzled.

‘O’Malley, you return to your car. You say
nothing, even to your partner. You have not seen Andrews alive, do you
understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get going.’

‘Mrs McGregor, get me the head of External
Affairs.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Director looked at Mark. ‘I was
beginning to miss you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Don’t thank me, I’m just about to kill you
again.’

A knock on the door, and Bill Gunn came in.
He was the epitome of the public relations man, better dressed than anyone else
in the building, with the biggest smile and a mop of fair hair that he washed
every two days. His face as he entered was unusually grim.

‘Have you heard about the death of one of
our young agents, sir?’

‘Yes, Bill. Put out a statement immediately
that an unnamed special agent was killed this morning and that you will brief
the press fully at eleven o’clock.’

‘They’ll be hounding me long before then,
sir.’

‘Let them hound you,’ said the Director
sharply.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘At eleven, you will put out another
statement saying the agent is alive ...’

Bill Gunn’s face registered surprise.

‘... and that a mistake has been made, and
the man who died was a young garage attendant who had no connection with the
FBI.’

‘But, sir, our agent?’

‘No doubt you would like to meet the agent
who is supposed to be dead. Bill Gunn - this is Special Agent Andrews. Now not
a word, Bill. This man is dead for the next three hours and if I find a leak,
you can find a new job.’

Bill Gun looked convincingly anxious. ‘Yes,
sir.’

‘When you’ve written the press statement,
call me and read it over to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bill Gunn left, dazed. He was a gentle,
easy-going man and this was way above his head, but he like so many others
trusted the Director.

The Director was becoming very aware just
how many men did trust him and how much he was carrying on his own shoulders. He
looked back at Mark, who had not recovered from the realisation that Simon had
died instead of him - the second man to do so in eight days.

‘Right, Mark, we have under two hours left,
so we will mourn the dead later. Have you anything to add to yesterday’s
report?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s good to be alive.’

‘If you get past eleven o’clock, young man,
I think you have a good chance for a long and healthy life, but we still don’t
know if it’s Dexter or Harrison. You know I think it’s Dexter.’ The Director
looked at his watch again: 8:29 - ninety-seven minutes left. ‘Any new ideas?’

‘Well, sir, Elizabeth Dexter certainly
can’t be involved, she saved my life by bringing me in this morning. If she
wanted me dead, that sure was a funny way of going about it.’

‘I’ll accept that,’ said the Director, ‘but
it doesn’t clear her father.’

‘Surely he wouldn’t kill a man he thought
might marry his daughter,’ said Mark.

‘You’re sentimental, Andrews. A man who
plans to assassinate a President doesn’t worry about his daughter’s boyfriends.’

The phone rang. It was Bill Gunn from
Public Relations.

‘Right, read it over.’ The Director
listened carefully. ‘Good. Issue it immediately to radio, television, and the
papers, and release the second statement at eleven o’clock, no earlier. Thank
you, Bill.’

The Director put the phone down.
‘Congratulations, Mark, you’re the only dead man alive and, like Mark Twain,
you will be able to read your own obituary. Now, to bring you quickly up to
date. I have three hundred field agents already out covering the Capitol and
the area immediately surrounding it. The whole place will be sealed off the
moment the Presidential car arrives—’

‘You’re letting her go to the Capitol?’
said Mark in astonishment.

‘Listen carefully, Mark. I’ll have a
minute-by-minute briefing on where the two senators are from 9:00 am on and six
men are tailing both of them. At 9:15, we’re going into the street ourselves.
When it happens, we’re going to be there. If I’m going to carry the ultimate
responsibility, I may as well carry it in person.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The intercom buzzed.

‘It’s Mr
Sommerton
.
He wants to see you urgently, sir.’ The Director looked at his watch: 8:45. On
the minute, as promised.

Daniel
Sommerton
rushed in, looking rather pleased with himself. He came straight to the point.
‘One of the prints has come up on the criminal file, it’s a thumb, his name is
Matson - Ralph Matson.’

Sommerton
produced a photograph of Matson, an Identikit picture, and an
enlarged thumbprint.

‘And here’s the part you’re not going to like,
sir. He’s an ex-FBI agent.’ He passed Matson’s card over for the Director to
study. Mark looked at the photo. It was the Greek Orthodox priest, big nose,
heavy chin.

‘Something professional about him,’ said
the Director and Mark simultaneously.

‘Well done,
Sommerton
,
make three hundred copies of the picture immediately and get them to the
Assistant Director in charge of the Investigation Division - and that means
immediately.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The fingerprint expert scurried
away, pleased with himself. They wanted his thumb.

‘Mrs McGregor, get me Mr Rogers.’

The Assistant Director was on the line; the
Director briefed him.

‘Shall I arrest him on sight?’

‘No, Matt. Once you’ve spotted him, watch
him and keep your boys well out of sight. He could still call everything off if
he got suspicious. Keep me briefed all the time. Move in on him at 10:06. I’ll
let you know if anything changes.’

‘Yes, sir. Have you briefed the Secret
Service?’

‘Yes, I have.’ He slammed the phone down.

The Director looked at his watch: 9:05. He
pressed a button and Elliott came in. ‘Where are the two senators?’

‘Harrison’s still in his
Alexandria
town house, Dexter has left
Kensington and is heading towards the Capitol, sir.’

‘You stay here in this office, Elliott, and
keep in radio contact with me and the Assistant Director on the street. Never
leave this room. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll be using my walkie-talkie on Channel
Four. Let’s go, Andrews.’ They left the anonymous man.

‘If anybody calls me, Mrs McGregor, put
them through to Special Agent Elliott in my office. He will know where to
contact me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A few moments later, the Director and Mark
were on the street walking up
Pennsylvania
Avenue
towards the Capitol. Mark put on his dark
glasses and pulled his collar up. They passed several agents on the way. None
of them acknowledged the Director. On the corner of
Pennsylvania Avenue
and
9th Street
, they
passed the Chairman, who was lighting a cigarette and checking his watch: 9:30.
He moved to the edge of the sidewalk, leaving a pile of cigarette butts behind
him. The Director glanced at the cigarette butts: litter bug, ought to be fined
a hundred dollars. They hurried on.

‘Come in, Tony. Come in, Tony.’

‘Tony, boss. The Buick’s ready. I’ve just
heard it announced on the car radio that pretty boy Andrews bought it.’

The Chairman smiled.

‘Come in,
Xan
.’

‘Ready, await your signal.’

‘Come in, Matson.’

‘Everything’s set, boss. There’s a hell of
a lot of agents around.’

‘Don’t sweat, there’s always a lot of
Secret Service men around when the President is travelling. Don’t call again
unless there’s a real problem. All three keep your lines open. When I next
call, I will only activate the vibrators on the side of your watches. Then you
have three minutes forty-five seconds, because Kane will be passing me.
Understood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’

The Chairman broke the circuit and lit
another cigarette: 9:40.

The Director spotted Matthew Rogers in a
special squad car and went quickly over to him. ‘Everything under control,
Matt?’