Shall We Tell the President?

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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 traveling. 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?”

  “Yes, sir. If anybody tries anything, no one will be able to move for half a mile.”

  “Good; what time do you have?”

  “Nine-forty-five.”

  “Right, you control it from here. I’m going to the Capitol.”

  Halt and Mark left the Assistant Director and walked on.

  “Elliott calling the Director.”

  “Come in, Elliott.”

  “They have spotted Matson at the junction of Maryland Avenue and 1st Street, other side of the Garfield statue, southwest corner of the Capitol grounds, near the west front renovation site.”

  “Good. Observe and post fifty men around the area, don’t move in yet, brief Mr. Rogers and tell him to keep his men out of Matson’s field of vision.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What the hell is he doing on that side of the Capitol?” said Mark softly. “You couldn’t shoot anyone on the Capitol steps from the northwest side unless you were in a chopper.”

  “I agree, it beats me,” said the Director.

  They reached the police cordon surrounding the Capitol. The Director showed his credentials to get himself and Andrews through. The young Capitol policeman double-checked them; he couldn’t believe it; he was looking at the real live object. Yes, it was the Director of the FBI. H.A.L. Tyson himself.

  “Sorry, sir. Please come through.”

  “Elliott to the Director.”

  “Yes, Elliott?”

  “Head of the Secret Service for you, sir.”

  “Stuart.”

  “The advance car is leaving the front gate now. Julius will leave in five minutes.”

  “Thank you, Stuart. Keep your end up and surprise me.”

  “Don’t worry, Halt. We will.”

  Five minutes later, the Presidential car left the South Entrance and turned left onto E Street. The advance car passed the Chairman on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 9th. He smiled, lit another cigarette and waited. Five minutes later, a large Lincoln, flags flying on both front fenders, the Presidential Seal on the doors, passed by the Chairman. Through the misty gray windows, he could see three figures in the back. A limousine known as the “gun car” and occupied by Secret Service agents and the President’s personal physician, followed the President’s car. The Chairman pressed a button on his watch. The vibrator began to tickle his wrist. After ten seconds, he stopped it, walked one block north and hailed a taxi.

  “National Airport,” he said to the cab driver, fingering the ticket in his inside pocket.

  The vibrator on Matson’s watch was touching his skin. After ten seconds, it stopped. Matson walked to the side of the construction site, bent down and tied his shoelace.

  Xan started to take off the tape. He was glad to be moving; he had been bent double all night. First he screwed the barrel into the sight finder.

  “Assistant Director to Director. Matson is approaching the construction site. Now he has stopped to tie his shoe. No one on the construction site but I’m asking a helicopter to check it out. There’s a huge crane in the middle of the site which looks deserted.”

  “Good. Stay put until the last minute. I’ll give you the timing the moment the President’s car arrives. You must catch them red-handed. Alert all agents on the roof of the Capitol.”

  The Director turned to Mark, more relaxed. “I think it’s going to be all right.”

  Mark’s eyes were on the steps of the Capitol. “Have you noticed, sir, both Senator Dexter and Senator Harrison are in the welcoming party for the President?”

  “Yes,” said the Director. “The car is due to arrive in two minutes; we’ll catch the others even if we can’t figure out which Senator it is. We’ll make them talk in due course. Wait a minute—that’s odd.”

  The Director’s finger was running down a couple of closely typed sheets he held in his hand.

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. The President’s detailed schedule shows that Dexter will be there for the special address to Congress but isn’t attending the luncheon with the President. Very strange: I’m sure all the key leaders of the opposition were invited to lunch. Why won’t Dexter be present?”

  “Nothing strange about that, sir. He always has lunch with his daughter on Thursdays. Good God! ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’”

  “Yes, Mark, I heard you the first time.”

  “No, sir, ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’”

  “Mark, the car will be here in one minute.”

  “It’s Harrison, sir. It’s Harrison. I’m a fool—Thursday, 24 February, in Georgetown. I always thought of it as 24 February, not as Thursday. Dexter was having lunch with Elizabeth. ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’ That’s why he was seen in Georgetown that day, must be. They never miss it.”

  “Are you sure? Can you be certain? There’s a hell of a lot riding on it.”

  “It’s Harrison, sir. It can’t be Dexter. I should have realized it on the first day. Christ, I’m stupid.”

  “Right, Mark. Up those steps quickly, watch Harrison’s every move and be prepared to arrest him whatever the consequences.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rogers.”

  The Assistant Director came in. “Sir?”

  “The car is pulling up. Arrest Matson immediately; check the roof of the Capitol.” The Director stared up into the sky. “Oh my God, it’s not a helicopter, it’s that damn crane. It has to be the crane.”

  Xan nestled the butt of the yellow rifle into his shoulder and watched the President’s car. He had attached a feather to a piece of thread on the end of the gun barrel, a trick he had picked up when training for the Olympics—no wind. The hours of waiting were coming to an end. Senator Harrison was standing there on the Capitol steps. Through the thirty-power Redfield scope he could even see the beads of sweat standing out on the man’s forehead.

  The President’s car drew up on the north side of the Capitol. All was going according to plan. Xan leveled the telescopic sight on the car door and waited for Kane. Two Secret Service men climbed out, scanned the crowd, and waited for the third. Nothing happened. Xan put the sight on the Senator, who looked anxious and bemused. Back at the car, still no Kane. Where the hell was she, what was goi
ng on? He checked the feather; still no wind. He moved his sight back on the President’s car. Good God, the crane was moving and Kane wasn’t in the car. Matson had been right all along, they knew everything. Xan knew exactly what had to be done in these circumstances. Only one man could ditch them and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Xan moved his sight up the Capitol steps. One and one-half inches above the forehead. A moment’s hesitation before he squeezed the trigger once … twice, but the second time he didn’t have a clear shot, and a fraction of a second later he could no longer see the Capitol steps. He looked down from the moving crane. He was surrounded by fifty men in dark suits, fifty guns were pointing up at him.

  Mark was about a yard away from Senator Harrison when he heard him cry out and fall. Mark jumped on top of the Senator and the second bullet grazed his shoulder. There was a panic among the other senators and officials on the top steps. The welcoming party scurried inside. Thirty FBI men moved in quickly. The Director was the only man who remained on the Capitol steps, steady and motionless, staring up at the crane. They hadn’t nicknamed him Halt by mistake.

  “May I ask where I’m going, Stuart?”

  “Certainly, Madam President. To the Capitol.”

  “But this isn’t the normal route to the Capitol.”

  “No, Madam. We’re going down Constitution Avenue to the Russell Building. We hear there has been a little trouble at the Capitol. A demonstration of some kind. The National Rifle Association.”

  “So I’m avoiding it, am I? Like a coward, Stuart.”

  “No, Madam, I’m slipping you through the basement. Just as a safety precaution and for your own convenience.”

  “That means I’ll have to go on that damned subway. Even when I was a senator, I preferred to walk outside.”

  “We’ve cleared the way for you, Madam. You’ll still be there bang on time.”

  The President grumbled as she looked out of the window and saw an ambulance race in the opposite direction.

  Senator Harrison died before he reached the hospital and Mark had his wound patched up by a house doctor. Mark checked his watch and laughed. It was 11:04—he was going to live.

  “Phone for you, Mr. Andrews. The Director of the FBI.”

  “Sir?”

  “Mark, I hear you’re fine. Good. I am sorry to say the Senate went into recess out of respect for Senator Harrison. The President is shocked but feels this is precisely the moment to emphasize the significance of gun control, so we’re all now going into lunch early. Sorry you can’t join us. And we caught three of them—Matson, a Vietnamese sharpshooter, and a petty crook called Tony Loraido. There may still be more, I’ll let you know later. Thank you, Mark.”

  The telephone clicked before Mark could offer any opinion.

  Thursday evening

  10 March

  7:00 P.M.

  Mark arrived in Georgetown at seven that evening. He had gone to Simon’s wake and paid his respects to the bewildered parents that afternoon. They had five other children, but that never helped. Their grief made Mark long for the warmth of the living.

  Elizabeth was wearing the red silk shirt and black skirt in which he had first seen her. She greeted him with a cascade of words.

  “I don’t understand what’s been going on. My father called earlier and told me you tried to save Senator Harrison’s life. What were you doing there anyway? My father is very upset about the shooting. Why have you been following him around? Was he in any danger?”

  Mark looked at her squarely. “No, he wasn’t involved in any way so let’s try and start over again.”

  Still she didn’t understand.

  When they arrived at the Rive Gauche, the maître d’ welcomed them with open arms.

  “Good evening, Mr. Andrews, how nice to see you again. I don’t remember your booking a table.”

  “No, it’s in my name. Dr. Dexter,” said Elizabeth.

  “Oh, yes, Doctor, of course. Will you come this way?”

  They had baked clams, and, at last, a steak with no fancy trimmings and two bottles of wine.

  Mark sang most of the way home. When they arrived, he took her firmly by the hand and led her into the darkened living room.

  “I’m going to seduce you. No coffee, no brandy, no music, just straightforward seduction.”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  They fell on the couch.

  “You’re too drunk,” Elizabeth added.

  “Wait and see.” He kissed her fully on the lips for a long time and started to unbutton her shirt.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?” she asked.

  “Yes, quite sure,” he said as he pulled the shirt slowly free from her skirt and felt her back, his other hand moving on to her leg.

  “What about some music?” she said lightly. “Something special.” Elizabeth touched the start button on the hi-fi. It was Sinatra again, but this time it was the right song:

  Is it an earthquake or simply a shock

  Is it the real turtle soup or merely the mock,

  Is it a cocktail, this feeling of joy,

  Or is what I feel—the real—McCoy?

  Is it for all time or simply a lark,

  Is it Granada I see or only Asbury Park,

  Is it a fancy not worth thinking of,

  Or is it at … long … last … love?

  She settled back into Mark’s arms.

  He unzipped her skirt. Her legs were slender and beautiful in the dim light. He caressed her gently.

  “Are you going to tell me the truth about today, Mark?”

  “Afterwards, darling.”

  “When you’ve had your way with me,” she said.

  He slipped his shirt off. Elizabeth stared at the bandage on his shoulder.

  “Is that where you were wounded in the line of duty?”

  “No, that’s where my last lover bit me.”

  “She must have had more time than I did.”

  They moved closer together.

  He took the phone off the hook—not tonight, Julius.

  “I can’t get through, sir,” Elliott said, “just a continual busy signal.”

  “Try again, try again. I’m sure he’s there.”

  “Shall I go through the operator?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Director testily.

  The Director waited, tapping his fingers on the Queen Anne desk, staring at the red stain and wondering how it had got there.

  “The operator says the phone is off the hook, sir. Shall I ask her to bleep him; that’ll certainly get his attention.”

  “No, Elliott, just leave it and go home. I’ll have to call him in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

  He’ll have to go—back to Idaho or wherever he came from, thought the Director, as he switched off the lights and made his own way home.

  Friday morning

  11 March

  7:00 A.M.

  Mark woke first; perhaps because he was in a strange bed. He turned over and looked at Elizabeth. She never wore make-up and was just as beautiful in the morning as she was on the other side of a dinner table. Her dark hair curled in towards the nape of her neck and he stroked the soft strands gently. She stirred, rolled over, and kissed him.

  “Go and brush your teeth.”

  “What a romantic way to start the day,” he said.

  “I’ll be awake by the time you get back.” She groaned a little and stretched.

  Mark picked up the Pepsodent—that was one thing that would have to change, he preferred Macleans—and tried to figure out which part of the bathroom he was going to be able to fit his things into. When he returned, he noticed the phone was still off the hook. He looked at his watch: 7:05. He climbed back into bed. Elizabeth slipped out.

  “Only be a minute,” she said.

  It was never like this in the movies, thought Mark.

  She returned and lay down beside him. After a moment she said, “Your chin is hurting my face. You’re
not as clean-shaven as you were the first time.”

  “I shaved very carefully that first evening,” said Mark. “Funny, I was never so sure of anything. Didn’t happen quite the way I intended.”

  “What did you intend?”

  “It was never like this in the movies.” This time he stated the sentiments clearly. “Do you know what the Frenchman said when accused of raping a dead woman?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t realize she was dead; I thought she was English.”

  After she had proved she wasn’t English Elizabeth asked Mark what he would like for breakfast.

  After Mark had told her, he disappeared into the shower.

  Mark turned on the shower, getting the temperature just right.

  “Disappointing, I thought we would take a bath together,” said Elizabeth.

  “I never bathe with the domestic staff. Just give me a call when breakfast is ready,” Mark replied from under the shower and started to sing “At Long Last Love” in several different keys.

  A slim arm appeared through the falling water and turned off the hot water tap. The singing stopped abruptly. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.

  Mark dressed quickly and put the phone back on the hook. It rang almost immediately. Elizabeth appeared in a brief slip.

  Mark wanted to go back to bed.

  She picked up the phone. “Good morning. Yes, he’s here. It’s for you. A jealous lover, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  She put on a dress and returned to the kitchen.

  “Mark Andrews.”

  “Good morning, Mark.”

  “Oh, good morning, sir.”

  “I’ve been trying to get you since eight o’clock last night.”

  “Oh, really, sir. I thought I was on vacation. If you look in the official book in the WFO, I think you’ll find I’ve signed out.”

  “Yes, Mark, but you are going to have to interrupt that vacation because the President wants to see you.”

  “The President, sir?”