Jeffrey Archer - Shall We Tell the President?

“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.

“Good evening, Director.”

“Good evening, Andrews. You’ve interrupted a very important dinner. I hope you know what you are doing.”

The Director was cold and abrupt, clearly displeased at being summoned to a meeting by an unknown junior agent.

Mark went through the whole story from the first meeting with Stames through to his decision to go over everybody’s head. The Director’s face remained impassive throughout the long recital. It was still impassive when Mark had finished. Mark’s only thought was: I’ve done the wrong thing. He should have gone on trying to reach Stames and Calvert. They were probably home by now. He waited, a little sweat appearing on his forehead. Perhaps this was his last day in the FBI. The Director’s first words took him by surprise.

“You did exactly the right thing, Andrews. I’d have made the same decision in your place. It must have taken guts to bring the whole thing to me.” He looked hard at Mark. “You’re absolutely certain only Stames, Calvert, you, and I know all the details of what happened this evening? No one from the Secret Service, and no one from the Metropolitan Police Department?”

“That’s correct, sir, just the four of us.”

“And the three of you already have an appointment with me at 10:30 tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Take this down.”

Mark took out a pad from his inside coat pocket.

“You have the Attorney General’s number here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And my number at home is 721-4069. Learn them and then destroy them. Now I’ll tell you exactly what you do next. Go back to the Washington Field Office. Check on Stames and Calvert again. Call the morgue, call the hospitals, call the highway police. If nothing turns up, I’ll see you in my office at 8:30 tomorrow morning, not 10:30. That’s your first job. Second, get me the names of the Homicide officers working on this detail with the Metropolitan Police. Now tell me if I have this right — you told them nothing about the reason you went to see Casefikis?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good.”

The Attorney General put her head around the door.

“Everything under control, Halt?”

“Fine, thanks, Marian. I don’t think you’ve met Special Agent Andrews of the Washington Field Office.”

“No. Nice to meet you, Mr. Andrews.”

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“Will you be long, Halt?”

“No, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve finished briefing Andrews.”

“Anything special?”

“No, nothing to worry about.”

The Director had obviously decided nobody was going to be told the story until he got to the bottom of it himself.

“Where was I?”

“You told me to return to the Washington Field Office, sir, and check on Stames and Calvert.”

“Yes.”

“And then to call the morgue, the hospitals, and the highway police.”

“Right.”

“And you told me to check on the Homicide officers, get their names.”

“Right. Take down the following: check the names of all hospital employees and visitors, as well as any other persons who can be identified as having been in the vicinity of Room 4308 between the time the two occupants were known to be alive and the time you found them dead. Check the names of the two dead men through NCIC and Bureau indexes for any background information we may have. Get fingerprints of all persons on duty and all visitors and all others who can be identified as having been near Room 4308, as well as fingerprints of the two dead men. We will need all these prints both for elimination purposes and possible suspect identification. If you don’t find Stames and Calvert, as I said, see me at 8:30 in my office tomorrow morning. If anything else arises tonight, you call me here or at home. Don’t hesitate. If it’s after 11:30, I’ll be home. If you call me on the phone, use a code name — now let me think — Julius — let’s hope it’s not prophetic, and give me your number. Make sure you use a pay phone and I’ll call you back immediately. Don’t bother me before 7:15 in the morning, unless it’s really important. Have you understood all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. I think I’ll get back to dinner.”

Mark stood up, ready to leave. The Director put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, young man. These things happen from time to time and you made the right decision. You showed a lot of self-possession in a lousy situation. Now get on with the job.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mark was relieved that someone else knew what he was going through; someone else with far bigger shoulders was there to share it.

On his way back to the FBI office, he picked up the car microphone. “WFO 180 in service. Any word from Mr. Stames?”