Shall We Tell the President? (6 page)

‘Has anyone come from the Metropolitan
Police to keep an eye on Room 4308?’

‘No, no one’s been anywhere near the place
tonight. Silent as the grave. Were you expecting someone?’

‘Yes, damn it. Guess I’ll have to wait. Do
you think I could take a chair? I’m going to have to stick around till an
officer from the Metropolitan Police comes. I hope I won’t be in your way.’

‘You won’t be in my way. You can stay as
long as you like. I’ll see if I can find you a nice comfortable chair.’ She put
her mug down. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘I certainly would.’ Mark looked at her
more carefully. It might be an evening with the nurse rather than the doctor.
Mark decided he had better go back and check the room first, reassure
Casefikis
, if he were still awake, and then call the Met
and ask where the hell their man was. He walked slowly to the door a second
time; he felt no need to hurry now. He opened the door quietly. It was pitch
black except for the light from the TV, and his eyes were not quite focused. He
glanced at the two of them in bed. They were quite still. He wouldn’t have
bothered to look any further if it hadn’t been for the dripping.

Drip, drip, drip.

It. sounded like tap water but he couldn’t
remember
a tap.

Drip, drip.

He moved quietly to the bedside of Angelo
Casefikis
, and glanced down.

Drip, drip.

Warm fresh blood was flowing over the
bottom sheet, trickling from
Casefikis’s
mouth, his
dark eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue hanging loose and swollen. His
throat had been cut, ear to ear, just below the chin line. The blood was
starting to make a pool on the floor. Mark was standing in it. He felt his legs
sink, and he was barely able to grip the side of the bed and stop himself
falling. He lurched over toward the deaf man. Mark’s eyes were now focused, and
he retched loudly. The postman’s head was hanging loose from the rest of his
body; only the colour of his skin showed that they were once connected. Mark
managed to scramble out of the door and get to the pay phone his heartbeat
thudding madly in his ears. He could feel his shirt clinging to his body. His
hands were covered with blood. He fumbled ineffectually for a couple of
quarters. He dialled Homicide and gave the bare outline of what had happened.
This time they wouldn’t be casual about sending someone. The nurse on duty
returned with a cup of coffee.

‘Are you okay? You look a bit pale,’ she
said, and then she saw his hands and screamed.

‘Don’t go into Room 4308 whatever you do.
Don’t let anyone into that room unless I say so. Send me a doctor immediately.’

The nurse thrust the cup of coffee at him,
forcing him to take it, and ran down the corridor. Mark made himself go back
into Room 4308, although his presence was irrelevant. There was nothing he
could do except wait. He switched on the lights and went over to the bathroom;
he tried to remove the worst of the blood and vomit from himself and his
clothes. Mark heard the swinging door and rushed back into the room. Another
young, white-coated female doctor. ‘Alicia Delgado, MD’ said her plastic label.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ said Mark.

Dr Delgado stared at him and then the
bodies, and groaned.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ repeated Mark,
‘until Homicide arrive; they will be here shortly.’

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Special Agent Mark Andrews, FBI.’ He instinctively
took out his wallet and showed his credentials.

‘Do we just stand here staring at each
other or are you going to allow me to do something about this mess?’

‘Nothing until Homicide has completed their
Investigation and given clearance. Let’s get out of here.’ He passed her and
pushed the door with his shoulder, not touching anything.

They were back in the corridor.

Mark instructed Dr Delgado to wait outside
the door and to allow no one else inside while he phoned the Metropolitan
Police again. She nodded reluctantly. He went over to the pay phone, two more
quarters; he dialled the Metropolitan Police and asked for Lieutenant Blake.

‘Lieutenant Blake went home about an hour
ago. Can I help you?’

‘When had you been planning to send someone
over to guard Room 4308 at
Woodrow
Wilson
Medical
Center
?’

‘Who’s speaking?’

‘Andrews, FBI, Washington Field Office.’
Mark repeated the details of the double murder.

‘Well, our man should be with you now. He
left the office over half an hour ago. I’ll inform Homicide immediately.’

‘I’ve already done that,’ snapped Mark. He
put the phone down and collapsed into a nearby chair. The corridor was now full
of white coats. Two gurneys were being wheeled up to Room 4308. They were all
waiting. What was the right thing to do?

Two more quarters, he dialled Nick
Stames’s
home. The phone seemed to ring for a long time Why
didn’t he answer? Eventually a female voice came on.

Mustn’t show panic, he thought, holding on
to the phone box. ‘Good evening, Mrs
Stames
. It’s
Mark Andrews. Can I speak to your husband?’ An even tone, no sign of stress.

‘I’m afraid Nick is not home, Mark. He went
back to the office about two hours ago. Funny, he said he was going to see you
and Barry Calvert.’

‘Yes, we saw him, but he left the office to
go back home about forty minutes ago.’

‘Well, he hasn’t arrived yet. He only
managed to finish the first course of his dinner and said he would come
straight back. No sign of him. Maybe he returned to the office. Why don’t you
try him there?’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry to have bothered
you.’ Mark hung up, looked over to check that no one had gone into Room 4308.
No one had. He put two more quarters in and phoned the office. Polly was on
duty. ‘Mark Andrews. Put me through to Mr
Stames
,
quickly, please.’

‘Mr
Stames
and
Special Agent Calvert left about forty-five minutes ago - on their way home, I
think, Mr Andrews.’

‘That can’t be right. It can’t be right.’

‘Yes, they did leave, sir. I saw them go.’

‘Could you double-check?’

‘If you say so, Mr Andrews.’

Mark waited, it seemed to him, for an
interminable time. What should he be doing? He was only one man, where was
everyone else? What was he supposed to do? Christ, nothing in his training
covered this - the FBI are meant to arrive twenty-four hours after a crime, not
during it.

‘There’s no answer, Mr Andrews.’

‘Thanks, Polly.’

Mark looked desperately at the ceiling for
inspiration. He had been briefed not to tell anybody about the earlier events
of the evening, not to say a word whatever the circumstances until after
Stames’s
meeting with the Director. He must find
Stames
; he must find Calvert. He must find somebody he
could talk to. Two more quarters. He tried Barry Calvert. The phone rang and
rang. No reply from the bachelor apartment. Same two quarters. He called Norma
Stames
again. ‘Mrs
Stames
, Mark
Andrews. Sorry to trouble you again. The moment your husband and Mr Calvert
arrive, please have them call me at Woodrow Wilson.’

‘Yes, I’ll tell Nick as soon as he comes
in. They probably stopped off on the way.’

‘Yes, of course, I hadn’t thought of that.
Maybe the best thing will be for me to go back downtown as soon as the relief
arrives. So perhaps they could contact me there. Thank you, Mrs
Stames
.’ He hung up the receiver.

As he put the phone down Mark saw the Met
policeman jauntily walking towards him down the middle of the now crowded
corridor, an Ed
McBain
novel under his arm. Mark
thought of bawling him out for his late arrival, but what was the point. No use
crying over spilt blood he thought, morbidly, and began to feel sick again. He
took the young officer aside, and briefed him on the killings, giving no
details of why the two men were important, only of what had happened. He asked
him to inform his chief and added that the Homicide Squad were on their way,
again adding no details. The policeman called his own duty officer, and
reported all he had been told, matter-of-factly. The Washington Metropolitan
Police handled over 600 murders a year.

The medical personnel were all waiting
impatiently; it was going to be a long wait. Professional bustle seemed to have
replaced the early panic. Mark still wasn’t sure where to turn, what to do.
Where was
Stames
? Where was Calvert? Where the hell
was anybody?

He went over to the policeman again, who
was explaining in detail why no one must enter the room. They were not
convinced but waited; Mark told him he was leaving for the Field Office. He
still gave him no clue why
Casefikis
had been
important. The Metropolitan policeman felt he had things under control.
Homicide would be there at any moment. He told Mark they’d want to talk to him
later that night. Mark nodded and left him.

When he arrived back at his car, he took
the flashing red light out of the side compartment and fixed it to the roof,
placing the switch into its special slot. He was going to get back to the
office, at top speed, to people he knew, to reality, to men who would make some
sense out of his nightmare.

Mark flicked on the car radio. ‘WFO 180 in
service. Please try and locate Mr
Stames
and Mr
Calvert. Urgent. I am returning to Field Office immediately.’

‘Yes, Mr Andrews.’

‘WFO 180 out of service.’

Twelve minutes later, he arrived at the
Washington Field Office and parked his car. He ran to the elevator. The
operator took him up. He rushed out.

‘Aspirin, Aspirin. Who the hell’s on duty
tonight?’

‘I’m the only one on tonight, boy, I’m here
on my own,’ said Aspirin, looking over his glasses, rather bored. ‘What’s the
matter?’

‘Where’s
Stames
?
Where’s Calvert?’ Mark demanded.

‘They went home just over an hour ago.’

Oh hell, what should he do now? Aspirin was
not a man to confide in, but he was the only person Mark could seek any advice
from. And although
Stames
had carefully instructed
him not to speak to anyone about the details until they had seen the Director,
this was an emergency. He wouldn’t give away any of the details, he would just
find out what a
Hoover
man would have done.

‘I have to find
Stames
and Calvert, wherever they are. Any suggestions?’

‘Well, first of all, have you tried the car
radio stations?’ asked Aspirin.

‘I asked Polly to check. I’ll try her
again.’ Mark picked up the nearest phone. ‘Polly, did you locate Mr
Stames
or Mr Calvert on the car radio?’

‘Still trying, sir.’

He seemed to wait endlessly, endlessly; and
nothing happened. ‘What’s going on, Polly, what’s going on?’

‘I’m trying as hard as I can, sir. All I
can get is a buzzing sound.’

‘Try One, Two, Three, or Four. Doesn’t
matter what you try. Try every station.’

‘Yes, sir. I can only do one at a time.
There are four stations and I can only do one at a time.’

Mark realised he was panicking. It was time
to sit down and think things through. The end of the world hadn’t come — or had
it?

‘They’re not on One, sir. Not on Two. Why
would they be on Three or Four at this time of night? They’re only on their way
home.’

‘I don’t care where they’re going. Just
find them. Try again.’

‘Okay, okay.’ She tried Three. She tried
Four. She had to have authorisation to break the code for Five and Six. Mark
looked at Aspirin. The duty officer was authorised to break the code.

‘This is an emergency - I swear to you it’s
an emergency.’

Aspirin told Polly to try Five and Six.
Five and Six are Federal Communications Commission to the FBI. They are known
by the initial KGB: it always amused FBI men to have KGB as their network call
code. But at that moment it didn’t seem particularly funny. There was no reply
to be had on KGB 5. Then KGB 6
was raised; likewise nothing. Now what,
dear God, now what? Where did he turn next? Aspirin looked at him enquiringly,
not really wanting to get involved.

‘Always remember, son, C-Y-A. That’s the
ticket. C-Y-A.’

‘Covering your ass will not help me to
locate
Mr.
Stames
,’ said
Mark, forcing himself to speak calmly. ‘It doesn’t matter, Aspirin, you get
back to your crossword puzzle.’

Mark left him and went into the men’s room,
cupped his hands under the tap and washed his mouth out; he still smelled of
vomit and blood. He clean up as best he could. He returned to the Criminal
Room, sat down, and counted
to
ten very slowly. He had to make up his
mind what to do, and then to carry it out, come what may. Something had
probably happened to
Stames
and Calvert, he knew
something had happened to the black postman and the Greek. Perhaps he should
try and get in touch with the Director, although it was an extreme course. A
man of Mark’s rank, two years out of training, didn’t just pick up a phone and
call the Director. In any case he could still keep
Stames’s
appointment with that Director at 10:30 the next morning. 10:30 the next
morning. That was half a day away. More than twelve hours of not knowing what
to do. Nursing a secret that he had been told not to discuss with anyone.
Holding information he couldn’t impart to anybody else.