“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, whitecoated female doctor … “Alicia Delgado, M.D.” 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 dialed 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 dialed 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 six hundred 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 realized 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 authorization to break the code for Five and Six. Mark looked at Aspirin. The duty officer was authorized 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 inquiringly, 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 cleaned 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 the 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.
The phone rang and he heard Polly’s voice. He prayed it would be Stames, but his prayer was not answered.
“Hey, Mr. Andrews, are you still there? I’ve got Homicide on the line. Captain Hogan wants to talk to you.”
“Andrews?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“What can you tell me?”
Mark reported truthfully that Casefikis was an illegal immigrant who had delayed seeking treatment for his leg, and untruthfully that he alleged he had been shot by a crook who had subjected him to blackmail, threatening exposure of his illegal entry into the States. A full written report would be sent around to his office by tomorrow morning.
The detective sounded disbelieving.
“Are you holding out on me, son? What was the FBI doing there in the first place? There’s going to be one hell of a scene if I find out you’re withholding information. I wouldn’t hesitate to roast your ass over the hottest coals in Washington.”
Mark thought of Stames’s repeated injunctions about secrecy.
“No, I’m not withholding information,” he said in a raised voice; he knew he was trembling and could hardly have sounded less convincing. The Homicide detective grumbled to himself, asked a few more questions, and hung up. Mark put the phone down. The receiver was clammy with sweat, his clothes still stuck to him. He tried Norma Stames again; still the boss hadn’t reached home. He called Polly again, and asked her to go through the whole routine with the radio channels again; still nothing except a buzzing sound on Channel One. Finally, Mark abandoned the telephone and told Aspirin he was leaving. Aspirin didn’t seem interested.
Mark headed for the elevator and walked quickly to his car. Must get on to home ground. Then call the Director. Once again he was speeding through the streets towards his home.
It wasn’t the most luxurious part of town, but the renovated southwest section of Washington was home for many young, single professionals. It was on the waterfront near the Arena Stage, conveniently located next to a Metro station. Pleasant, lively, not too expensive—the place suited Mark perfectly.
As soon as he reached his apartment, he ran up the stairs, burst through the door and picked up the phone. After several rings, the Bureau answered. “Director’s office. Duty officer speaking.”
Mark drew a deep breath.
“My name is Special Agent Andrews, Washington Field Office,” Mark began slowly. “I want to speak to the Director, priority and immediate.”
The Director, it seemed, was dining with the Attorney General at her home. Mark asked for the telephone number. Did he have special authority to contact the Director at this time of night? He had special authority, he had an appointment with him at 10:30 tomorrow morning and, for God’s sake, he had special authority.
The man must have sensed Andrews was desperate.
“I’ll call you right back, if you’ll give me your number.”
Andrews knew that this was simply to check that he was an FBI agent and that he was scheduled to see the Director in the morning. The phone rang after one minute and the duty officer was back.
“The Director is still with the Attorney General. Her private number is 761-4386.”
Mark dialed the number.
“Mrs. Edelman’s residence,” said a deferential voice.
“This is Special Agent Mark Andrews,” he began. “I need to speak to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
He said it slowly, he said it clearly, although he was still trembling. The reply came back from a man whose biggest worry that night had been that the potatoes had taken longer than expected.
“Will you hold the line one moment please, sir?”
He waited, he waited, he waited.
A new voice said: “Tyson here.”
Mark drew a deep breath and plunged in.
“My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I have an appointment to see you with SAC Stames and Special Agent Calvert at 10:30 tomorrow morning. You don’t know the details, sir, because it was made through Mrs. McGregor after you had left your office. I have to see you immediately, you may wish to call me back. I’m at home.”
“Yes, Andrews,” said Tyson. “I’ll call you back. What is your number?”
Mark gave it.
“Young man,” Tyson said, “this had better be a priority.”
“It is, sir.”
Mark waited again. One minute passed, and then another. Had Tyson dismissed him as a fool? What was going on? Three minutes passed. Four minutes passed; he was obviously checking more thoroughly than his duty officer had done.
The phone rang. Mark jumped.
“Hi, Mark, it’s Roger. Want to come out for a beer?”
“Not now, Roger, not now.” He slammed the phone down.
It rang again immediately.
“Right, Andrews, what do you have to tell me? Make it quick and to the point.”
“I want to see you now, sir. I need fifteen minutes of your time and I need you to tell me what the hell to do.”
He regretted “hell” the moment he had said it.
“Very well, if it’s that urgent. Do you know where the Attorney General lives?”
“No, sir.”
“Take this down: 2942 Edgewood Street, Arlington.”
; Mark put the phone down, wrote the address carefully in block capitals on the inside of a matchbook advertising life insurance, and called Aspirin, who just couldn’t get 7-across.
“If anything happens, I’ll be on my car radio; you can get me there, I’ll leave the line on Channel Two open the whole time. Something’s wrong with Channel One.”
Aspirin sniffed: the young agents took themselves far too seriously nowadays. It wouldn’t have happened under J. Edgar Hoover, shouldn’t be allowed to happen now. Still, he only had one more year and then retirement. He returned to the crossword. 7-across, ten letters: gathering of those in favor of buccaneering. Aspirin started to think.
Mark Andrews was thinking too as he rushed into the elevator, into the street, into his car, and moved off at speed to Arlington. He raced up East Basin Drive to Independence Avenue, past the Lincoln Memorial to get onto Memorial Bridge. He drove as fast as possible through the early night, cursing the people calmly strolling across the road on this mild, pleasant evening, casually on their way to nowhere in particular, cursing the people who took no notice of the flashing red light he had affixed to the car roof, cursing all the way. Where was Stames? Where was Barry? What the hell was going on? Would the Director think he was crazy?
He crossed Memorial Bridge and took the G.W. Parkway exit. A tie-up. He couldn’t move an inch. Probably an accident. A goddamn accident right now. That was all he needed. He pulled into the center lane and leaned on his horn. Most people assumed he was connected with the police rescue team: most people let him by. Eventually he made it to the group of police cars and rescue-squad ambulances. A young Metropolitan policeman approached the car. “Are you on this detail?”
“No. FBI. I’ve got to get to Arlington. Emergency.”
He flashed his credentials. The policeman ushered him through. He raced away from the accident. Goddamn accident. Once he was clear of it, the traffic became light. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at 2942 Edgewood Street, Arlington. One last check with Polly at the Washington Field Office on the car phone. No, neither Stames nor Calvert had called in.
Mark jumped out of the car. Before he had taken a step, a Secret Service man stopped him. Mark showed his credentials and said that he had an appointment with the Director. The Secret Service man courteously asked him to wait by his car. After consultation at the door, Mark was shown into a small room just on the right of the hall which was obviously used as a study. The Director came in. Mark stood up.
Shall We Tell the President? Page 5
