Shall We Tell the President?

by Jeffrey Archer

  Matson masturbated. He always did when he was nervous and had time to kill.

  Florentyna Kane did not wake until 7:35. She rolled over, trying to recall the dream she had just had, but none of it would come back to her, so she let her mind wander. Today, she would be going to the Capitol to plead her case for the Gun Control bill before a special session of the Senate and then on to have lunch with all the key supporters and opponents of the bill. Since the bill had been approved in committee, as she had been confident it would be, she had concentrated on her strategy for the final day of floor battle; at least the odds now seemed to be with her. She smiled at Edward, although he had his back to her. It had been a busy session, and she was looking forward to going to Camp David and spending more time with her family. Better get moving, more than half of America is already up, she thought, and I am still lying in bed … Still, that waking half of America had not had to dine the previous evening with the four-hundred-pound King of Tonga, who wasn’t going to leave the White House until he was virtually thrown out. The President wasn’t absolutely certain she could pinpoint Tonga on the map. The Pacific was after all a large ocean. She had left her Secretary of State, Abe Chayes, to do the talking; he at least knew exactly where Tonga was.

  She stopped thinking about the overweight king and put her feet on the floor—or to be more exact, on the Presidential Seal. The damned thing was on everything except the toilet paper. She knew that when she appeared for breakfast in the dining-room across the hall, she would find the third edition of the New York Times, the third edition of the Washington Post, the first editions of the Los Angeles Times and the Boston Globe, all ready for her to read, with the pieces referring to her marked in red, plus a prepared digest of yesterday’s news. How did they get it all completed before she was even dressed? Florentyna went to the bathroom and turned on the shower; the water pressure was just right. She began to consider what she could say finally to convince the waverers in the Senate that the Gun Control bill must become law. Her train of thought was interrupted by her efforts to reach the middle of her back with the soap. Presidents still do that for themselves, she thought.

  Mark was due to be with the Director in twenty minutes. He checked his mail—just an envelope from American Express, which he left on the kitchen table unopened.

  A yawning O’Malley was sitting in the Ford sedan a hundred yards away. He was relieved to be able to report that Mark had left the apartment building and was talking to the black garage attendant. Neither O’Malley nor Thompson had admitted to anybody that they had lost Mark for several hours the previous evening.

  Mark walked around the side of the building and disappeared from the view of the man in the blue Ford. It didn’t worry him. O’Malley had checked the location of the Mercedes an hour earlier; there was only one way out.

  Mark noticed a red Fiat as he came around the corner of the building. Looks like Elizabeth’s, he thought to himself, except for the damage to a bumper. He stared at it again and was taken by surprise to see Elizabeth sitting in it. He opened the door. If he were to be Ragani and she were Mata Hari, he was now past caring. He climbed in beside her. Neither of them spoke until they both spoke at once and laughed nervously. She tried again. Mark sat in silence.

  “I’ve come to say I’m sorry about being so touchy last night. I should have at least given you a chance to explain. I really don’t want you to sleep with any other senator’s daughter,” she said, trying to force a smile.

  “I’m the one who should be sorry, Liz. Trust me, as they say in Hollywood. Whatever happens, let’s meet this evening and then I’ll try to explain everything. Don’t ask me anything before then and promise that whatever happens you will see me tonight. If after that you never want to see me again I promise I’ll leave quietly.”

  Elizabeth nodded her agreement. “But not as abruptly as you left once before, I hope.”

  Mark put his arm around her and kissed her quickly. “No more nasty cracks about that night. I’ve spent every night since looking forward to a second chance.”

  They both laughed. He started to get out.

  “Why don’t I drive you to work, Mark? It’s on my way to the hospital and we won’t have to bother with two cars this evening.”

  Mark hesitated. “Why not?”

  As she drove around the corner, Simon waved them down. “Apartment Seven’s car won’t be back until late this morning, Mark. I’ll have to park the Mercedes on the street for now but don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on it.” Simon looked at Elizabeth and grinned. “You won’t be needing my sister after all, man.”

  Elizabeth pulled out and joined the traffic on 6th Street. A hundred yards away, O’Malley was chewing gum.

  “Where shall we have dinner tonight?”

  “Let’s go back to that French restaurant and try the whole evening again. This time we’ll complete the final act of the play.”

  I hope it begins, “This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he …” Mark thought.

  “This time it’s my treat,” said Elizabeth.

  Mark accepted, remembering his unopened bill from American Express. The lights turned red at the corner of G Street. They stopped and waited. Mark started scratching his leg again, it really felt quite painful.

  The cab was still circling the Capitol but Halt was coming to the end of his briefing for H. Stuart Knight.

  “We believe that the attempt will be made when the President gets out of her car at the Capitol. We’ll take care of the Capitol itself if you can manage to get her into the building unharmed. I’ll have my men cover the buildings and roofs of buildings and every elevated vantage point from which it would be possible to shoot.”

  “It would make our job a lot easier if the President didn’t insist on walking up the steps. Ever since Carter took his little stroll up Pennsylvania Avenue in ’77 …” His voice trailed off in exasperation. “By the way, Halt, why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

  “There’s a strange quirk to it, Stuart. I still can’t give you all the details, but don’t worry, they’re not relevant to the task of protecting the President.”

  “Okay. I’ll buy that. But are you sure my men can’t help at your end?”

  “No, I’m happy as long as I know you’re keeping a close watch on the President. It will give me the freedom I need to catch the bastards red-handed. They mustn’t be allowed to get suspicious. I want to catch the killer while he still has the weapon in his hand.”

  “Shall I tell the President?” asked Knight.

  “No, just inform her that it’s a new security measure you are putting into practice from time to time.”

  “She’s had so many of those she’s bound to believe it,” said Knight.

  “Stick to the same route and timetable and I’ll leave the finer points to you, Stuart. And I don’t want any leaks. I’ll see you after the President’s lunch. We can bring each other up-to-date then. By the way, what’s today’s code name for the President?”

  “Julius.”

  “Good God, I don’t believe it.”

  “You are telling me everything I need to know, aren’t you, Halt?”

  “No, of course I’m not, Stuart. You know me, Machiavelli’s younger brother.”

  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 onto 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 in to 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 apologize. 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 Gunn 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 realization 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 boy friends.”

  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 A.M. on and six men are tailing both of them. At 9:15, we’re going into the streets 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.”
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br />   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 he 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.