Jeffrey Archer

by Shall We Tell The President (lit)

  'You sound a bit low, Mark. Perhaps you really do have a touch of flu.'

  'No, I don't think it's flu, just thinking of you makes it hard to breathe. I'd better hang up now, before I turn blue.'

  It was good to hear her laugh.

  'Why don't you come by about eight?'

  'Fine. See you around eight, Elizabeth.'

  'Take care, Mark.'

  He put the telephone down, suddenly conscious that once again he was smiling from ear to ear. He glanced at his watch: 4:30. Good. Three more hours in the Library, then he could go in pursuit of her. He returned to his reference books and continued to make biographical notes on the sixty-two senators.

  His mind drifted for a moment to the President. This wasn't just any President. This was the first woman President. But what could he learn from the last presidential assassination of John F. Kennedy. Were there any senators involved with those deaths? Or was this another lunatic working on his own? All the evidence on this inquiry so far pointed to teamwork. Lee Harvey Oswald, long since dead, and still there was no convincing explanation of his assassination or, for that matter, of Robert Kennedy's.

  Some people still claimed the CIA was behind President Kennedy's death because he had threatened to hang them out to dry in 1961, after the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Others said Castro had arranged the murder in revenge; it was known that Oswald had an interview with the Cuban ambassador in Mexico two weeks before the assassination, and the CIA had known about that all along. Thirty years after the event, and still no one could be certain.

  A smart guy from LA, Jay Sandberg, who had roomed with Mark at law school, had maintained that the conspiracy reached the top, even the top of the FBI; they knew the truth but said nothing.

  Maybe Tyson and Rogers were two of those who knew the truth and had sent him out on useless errands to keep him occupied: he hadn't been able to tell anyone the details of yesterday's events, not even Grant Nanna.

  If there were a conspiracy, whom could he turn to? Only one person might listen and that was the President, and there was no way of getting to her. He'd have to call Jay Sandberg, who had made a study of presidential assassinations. If anyone would have a theory, it would be Sandberg. Mark retraced his steps to the pay phone, checked Sandberg's home number in New York, and dialled the ten digits. A woman's voice answered the telephone.

  'Hello,' she said coolly. Mark could visualise the cloud of marijuana smoke that went with the voice.

  'Hello, I'm trying to reach Jay Sandberg.'

  'Oh.' More smoke. 'He's still at work.'

  'Can you tell me his number?' asked Mark.

  After more smoke, she gave it to him, and the phone clicked.

  Sheeesh, Mark said to himself, Upper East Side women.

  A very different voice, warm Irish-American, answered the phone next.

  'Sullivan and Cromwell.'

  Mark recognised the prestigious New York law firm. Other people were getting ahead in the world.

  'Can I speak to Jay Sandberg?'

  'I'll connect you, sir.'

  'Sandberg.'

  'Hi, Jay, it's Mark Andrews. Glad I caught you. I'm calling from Washington.'

  'Hello, Mark, nice to hear from you. How's life for a G-man? Rat-a-tat-tat and all that.'

  'It can be,' said Mark, 'sometimes. Jay, I need some advice on where to find the facts on political assassination attempts, particularly the one in Massa-

  chusetts in 1979; do you remember it?'

  'Sure do. Three people arrested; let me think.' Sandberg paused. 'All released as harmless. One died in an auto accident in 1980, another was knifed in a brawl in San Francisco, later died in 1981, and the third disappeared mysteriously last year. I tell you it was another conspiracy.'

  'Who this time?'

  'Mafia wanted Edward Kennedy out of the way in '76 so they could avoid an inquiry he was pressing for into the death of those two hoodlums, Sam Giancana and John Rosselli; they don't love President Kane now with the way she is running the Gun Control bill.'

  'Mafia? Gun Control bill? Where do I start looking for the facts?' asked Mark.

  'I can tell you it's not in the Warren Commission Report or any of the later inquiries. Your best bet is The Tankee and Cowboy Wars by Carl Oglesby - you'll find it all there.'

  Mark made a note.

  'Thanks for your help, Jay. I'll get back to you if it doesn't cover everything. How are things in New York?'

  'Oh, fine, just fine. I'm one of about a million lawyers interpreting the constitution at an exorbitant fee. Let's get together soon, Mark.'

  'Sure, next time I'm in New York.'

  Mark went back to the Library thoughtfully. It could be CIA, it could be Mafia, it could be a nut, it could be anyone - even Halt Tyson. He asked the girl for the Carl Oglesby book. A well-thumbed volume beginning to come apart was supplied. Sheed Andrews & McMeel, Inc, 6700 Squibb Road, Mission, Kansas

  . It was going to make good reading, but for now it was back to the senators' life histories. Mark spent two more hours trying to eliminate senators or find motives for any of them wanting President Kane out of the way: he wasn't getting very far.

  'You'll have to leave now, sir,' said the young librarian, her arms full of books, looking as if she would like to go home. 'I'm afraid we lock up at 7:30.'

  'Can you give me two more minutes? I'm very nearly through.'

  ‘I guess so,' she said, staggering away under a load of Senate Reports, 1971-73, which few but herself would ever handle.

  Mark glanced over his notes. There were some very prominent names among the sixty-two 'suspects', men like Alan Cranston of California, often described as the 'liberal whip' of the Senate; Ralph Brooks of Massachusetts whom Florentyna Kane had defeated at the Democratic Convention. Majority Leader Kobert C. Byrd of West Virginia. Henry Dexter of Connecticut. Elizabeth's father, he shuddered at the thought. Sam Nunn, the respected senator for Georgia, Robert Harrison of South Carolina, an urbane, educated man with a reputation for parliamentary skill; Marvin Thornton, who occupied the seat vacated by Edward Kennedy in 1980; Mark O. Hatfield, the liberal and devout Republican from Oregon; Hayden Woodson of Arkansas, one of the new breed of Southern Republicans; William Cain of Nebraska, a staunch conservative who had run as an independent in the 1980 election; and Birch Bayh of Indiana, the man who had pulled Ted Kennedy from a plane wreck in 1967, and probably saved his life. Sixty-two men under suspicion, thought Mark. And six days to go. And the evidence must be iron-clad. There was

  little more he could do that day.

  Every government building was closing. He just hoped the Director had covered as much and could bring the sixty-two names down to a sensible number quickly. Sixty-two names; six days.

  He returned to his car in the public parking lot. Six dollars a day for the privilege of being on vacation. He paid the attendant, eased the car out on Pennsylvania Avenue

  , and headed down 9th Street

  back towards his apartment in N Street, SW, the worst of the rush-hour behind him. Simon was there, and Mark tossed him the car keys. 'I'm going out again as soon as I've changed,' Mark called over his shoulder as he went up to his eighth-floor apartment.

  He showered and shaved quickly and put on a more casual suit than the one he had worn for the Director. Now for the good part of the day.

  When he came back down, the car was turned around so that Mark could, to quote Simon, make a quick getaway. He drove to Georgetown, turned right on 30th, and parked outside Elizabeth Dexter's house. A small red-brick town house, very chic. Either she was doing well for herself or her father had bought it for her. Her father, he couldn't help remembering . . .

  She looked even more beautiful on the doorstep than she had in his imagination. That was good. She wore a long red dress with a high collar. It set off her dark hair and deep brown eyes.

  'Are you going to come in, or are you just going to stand there looking like a delivery boy?'

  'I'm just going to stand here and admire
you,' he said. 'You know, Doctor, I've always been attracted to beautiful, clever women. Do you think that says

  something about me?'

  She laughed and led him into the pretty house. 'Come and sit down. You look as though you could do with a drink.' She poured him the beer he asked for. When she sat down, her eyes were serious.

  'I don't suppose you want to talk about the horrible thing that happened to my mailman.'

  'No,' said Mark. 'I'd prefer not to, for a number of reasons.'

  Her face showed understanding.

  'I hope you'll catch the bastard who killed him.' Again, those dark eyes flashed to meet his. She got up to turn over the record on the stereo. 'How do you like this kind of music?' she asked lightly.

  'I'm not much on Haydn,' he said. I'm a Mahler freak. And Beethoven, Aznavour. And you?'

  She blushed slightly.

  'When you didn't turn up last night, I called your office to see if you were there.'

  Mark was surprised and pleased.

  'Finally I got through to a girl in your department. You were out at the time, and besides she said you were very busy, so I didn't leave a message.'

  'That's Polly,' said Mark. 'She's very protective.'

  'And pretty?' She smiled with the confidence of one who knows she is good-looking.

  'Good from far but far from good,' said Mark. 'Let's forget Polly. Come on, you ought to be hungry by now, and I'm not going to give you that steak I keep promising you. I've booked a table for nine o'clock at Tio Pepe.'

  'Lovely,' she said. 'Since you managed to get your car parked, why don't we walk?'

  'Great.'

  It was a clear, cool evening and Mark enjoyed the fresh air. What he didn't enjoy was the continual urge to look over his shoulder.

  'Looking for another woman already?' she teased.

  'No,' said Mark. 'Why should I look any further?' He spoke lightly, but he knew he hadn't fooled her. He changed the subject abruptly. 'How do you like

  your work?'

  'My work?' Elizabeth seemed surprised, as though she never thought of it in those terms. 'My life, you mean? It's just about my entire life. Or has been so far.'

  She glanced up at Mark with a sombre expression on her face. ‘I hate the hospital. It's a big bureaucracy, old and dirty and a lot of the people there, petty administrative types, don't really care about helping people. To them it's just another way of earning a living. Only yesterday I had to threaten to resign in order to convince the Utilisation Committee to let an old man remain in the hospital. He had no home to go back to.'

  They walked down 30th Street

  , and Elizabeth continued to tell him about her work. She spoke with spirit, and Mark listened to her with pleasure. She showed a pleasant self-assurance, as she told him about a soulful Yugoslav who would sing incompre- hensible Slavic songs of love and of longing as she inspected his ulcerated armpit and who had finally, in a misplaced gesture of passion, seized her left ear and licked it.

  Mark laughed and took her arm as he guided her into the restaurant. 'You ought to demand combat pay,' he said.

  'Oh, I wouldn't have complained, other than to tell him that his singing was always out of tune.'

  The hostess led them upstairs to a table in the centre of the room, near where the floor show would be performed. Mark rejected it in favour of a table in the far corner. He did not ask Elizabeth which seat she would prefer. He sat down with his back to the wall, making a lame excuse about wanting to be away from the noise so he could talk to her. Mark was sure that this girl would not fall too easily for that sort of blarney; she knew something was wrong and she sensed his edginess, but she did not pry.

  A young waiter asked them if they would like a cocktail. Elizabeth asked for a Margarita, Mark for a spritzer.

  'What's a spritzer?' asked Elizabeth.

  'Not very Spanish, half white wine, half soda, lots of ice. Stirred but not shaken. Sort of a poor man's James Bond.'

  The pleasant atmosphere of the restaurant helped to dispel some of Mark's tension; he relaxed slightly for the first time in twenty-four hours. They chatted about movies, music, and books, and then about Yale. Her face, often animated, was sometimes serene but always lovely in the candlelight. Mark was enchanted by her. For all her intelligence and self-sufficiency, she

  had a touching fragility and femininity. As they ate their paella Mark asked Elizabeth why her father had become a senator, about his career, and her childhood in Connecticut. The subject seemed to make her uneasy. Mark couldn't help remembering that her father was still on the list. He tried to shift the conversation to her mother. Elizabeth avoided his eyes and even, he thought, turned pale. For the first time, a tiny ripple of suspicion disturbed his affectionate vision of Elizabeth, and made him worry momentarily. She was the first beautiful thing that had happened for quite a while, and he didn't want to distrust her. Was it possible? Could she beinvolved? No, of course not. He tried to put it out of his mind.

  The Spanish floor show came on and was performed with enthusiasm. Mark and Elizabeth listened and watched, unable to speak to each other above the noise. Mark was happy enough just to sit and be with her; her face was turned away as she looked at the dancers. When the floor show eventually ended, they had both long finished the paella. They ordered dessert and coffee.

  'Would you like a cigar?'

  Elizabeth smiled. 'No, thanks. We don't have to ape men's vile habits as well as their good ones.'

  'Like that,' said Mark. 'You're going to be the first woman Surgeon General, I suppose?'

  'No, I'm not,' she said demurely. I'll probably be the second or third.'

  Mark laughed. 'I'd better get back to the Bureau, and do great things. Just to keep up with you.'

  'And it may well be a woman who stops you becoming Director of the FBI,' Elizabeth added.

  'No, it won't be a woman that stops me becoming Director of the FBI,' said Mark, but he didn't explain.

  'Your coffee, senorita, senor.'

  If Mark had ever wanted to sleep with a woman on the first date, this was the occasion, but he knew it wasn't going to happen.

  He paid the bill, left a generous tip for the waiter and congratulated the girl from the floor show, who was sitting in a corner drinking coffee.

  When they left the restaurant Mark found the night had a chill edge. Once again he began looking nervously around him, trying not to make it too obvious to Elizabeth. He took her hand as they crossed the street, and didn't let it go when they reached the other side. They walked on, chatting intermittently, both aware of what was happening. He wanted to hold on to her. Lately, he had been seeing a lot of women, but with none of them had he held their hand either before or afterwards. Gradually his mood darkened again. Perhaps fear was making him excessively sentimental.

  A car was driving up behind them. Mark stiffened with anticipation. Elizabeth didn't appear to notice. It slowed down. It was going slower as it neared them. It stopped just beside them. Mark undid his middle button and fidgeted, more worried for Elizabeth than for himself. The doors of the car opened suddenly and out jumped four teenagers, two girls, two boys. They darted into a Hamburger Haven. Sweat appeared on Mark's forehead. He shook free of Elizabeth's touch. She stared at him. 'Something's very wrong, isn't it?'

  'Yes,' he said. 'Just don't ask me about it.'

  She sought his hand again, held it firmly, and they walked on. The oppression of the horrible events of the previous day bore down on Mark and he did not speak again. When they arrived at her front door, he was back in the world which was shared only by him and the hulking, shadowy figure of Halt Tyson.

  'Well, you have been most charming this evening, when you've actually been here,' she said smilingly.

  Mark shook himself. ‘I'm really sorry.'

  'Would you like to come in for coffee?'

  'Yes and no. Can I take another raincheck on that? I don't feel like good company right now.'

  He still had several things to do befo
re he saw the Director at 7:00 am and it was already midnight. Also he hadn't slept properly for a day and a half.

  'Can I call you tomorrow?'

  'I'd like that,' she said. 'Be sure to keep in touch, whatever happens.'

  Mark would carry those few words around with him like a talisman for the next few days. He could recall her every word and its accompanying gesture. Were they said in fun, were they said seriously, were they said teasingly? Lately, it hadn't been fashionable to fall in love; very few people seemed to be getting married and a lot of people who had were getting divorced. Was he really going to fall madly in love in the middle of all this?

  He kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave his eyes darting up and down the road again. She whispered after him: 'I hope you find the man who killed my mailman and your Greek.'