Jeffrey Archer - Shall We Tell the President?

“Nothing yet, WFO 180, but I’ll keep trying.”

Aspirin was still there when he arrived, unaware that Mark had just been talking with the Director of the FBI. Aspirin had met all four directors at cocktail parties, though none of them would have remembered his name.

“Emergency over, son?”

“Yes,” Mark said, lying. “Have we heard from Stames or Calvert?” He tried not to sound anxious.

“No, must have dropped in somewhere on the way home. Never you worry. The little sheep will find their way back without you to hold their tails.”

Mark did worry. He went to his office and picked up the phone. Polly had still heard nothing. Just a buzz that continued on Channel One. He called Norma Stames, still no news. Mrs. Stames asked if there might be anything to worry about.

“Nothing at all.” Another lie. Was he sounding too unconcerned? “We just can’t find out which bar he’s ended up in.”

She laughed, but she knew Nick never frequented bars.

Mark tried Calvert; still no reply from the bachelor apartment. He knew in his bones something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. At least the Director was there, and the Director knew everything now. He glanced at his watch: 11:15. Where had the night gone? And where was it going? 11:15. What was he supposed to have done tonight? Hell. He had persuaded a beautiful girl to have dinner with him. Yet again, he picked up the telephone. At least she would be safely at home, where she ought to be.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Elizabeth, it’s Mark Andrews. I’m really sorry about not making it tonight. Something happened that got way out of my control.”

The tension in his voice was apparent.

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “You warned me you were unreliable.”

“I hope you’ll let me take a raincheck. Hopefully, in the morning, I can sort things out. I’ll probably see you then.”

“In the morning?” she said. “If you’re thinking of the hospital, I’m off duty tomorrow.”

Mark hesitated, thinking quickly of what he could prudently say. “Well, that may be best. I am afraid it’s not good news. Casefikis and the other man in his room were brutally murdered tonight. The Met is following it up, but we have nothing to go on.”

“Murdered? Both of them? Why? Who? Casefikis wasn’t killed without reason, was he?” The words came out in a torrent. “What’s going on, for heaven’s sake? No, don’t answer that. You wouldn’t tell me the truth in any case.”

“I wouldn’t waste my time lying to you, Elizabeth. Look, I’ve had it for tonight, and I owe you a big steak for messing up your evening. Can I call you some time soon?”

“I’d like that. Murder isn’t food for the appetite, though. I hope you catch the men responsible. We see the results of a great deal of violence at Woodrow Wilson, but it isn’t usually inflicted within our walls.”

“I know. I’m sorry it involves you. Good night, Elizabeth. Sleep well.”

“And you, Mark. If you can.”

Mark put the phone down, and immediately the burden of the day’s events returned. What now? There was nothing practicable he could do before 8:30, except keep in touch on the radio phone until he was home. There was no point just sitting there looking out of the window, feeling helpless, sick, and alone. He went in to Aspirin, told him he was going home, and that he’d call in every fifteen minutes because he was still anxious to speak to Stames and Calvert. Aspirin didn’t even look up.

“Fine,” he said, his mind fully occupied by the crossword puzzle. He had completed eleven clues, a sure sign it was a quiet evening.

Mark drove down Pennsylvania Avenue towards his apartment. At the first traffic circle, a tourist who didn’t know he had the right of way was holding up traffic. Damn him, thought Mark. Visitors to Washington who hadn’t mastered the knack of cutting out at the right turn-off could end up circling around and around many more times than originally planned. Eventually, Mark managed to get around the circle and back on Pennsylvania Avenue. He continued to drive slowly towards his home, at the Tiber Island Apartments, his thoughts heavy and anxious. He turned on the car radio for the midnight news; must take his mind off it somehow. There were no big stories that night and the newscaster sounded rather bored; the President had held a press conference about the Gun Control bill, and the situation in South Africa seemed to be getting worse. Then the local news; there had been an automobile accident on the G.W. Parkway and it involved two cars, both of which were being hauled out of the river by cranes, under floodlights. One of the cars was a black Lincoln, the other a blue Ford sedan, according to eyewitnesses, a married couple from Jacksonville vacationing in the Washington area. No other details as yet.

A blue Ford sedan. Although he had not really been concentrating, it kept repeating itself in his brain — a blue Ford sedan? Oh no, God, please no. He veered right off 9th Street onto Maine Avenue, narrowly missing a fire hydrant, and raced back towards Memorial Bridge, where he had been only two hours before. The roads were clearer now and he was back in a few minutes. At the scene of the accident the Metropolitan Police were still thick on the ground and one lane of the G.W. was closed off by barriers. Mark parked the car on the grassy verge and ran up to the barrier. He showed his FBI credentials and was taken to the officer in charge; he explained that he feared one of the cars involved might have been driven by an agent from the FBI. Any details yet?

“Still haven’t got them out,” the inspector replied. “We only have two witnesses to the accident, if it was an accident. Apparently there was some very funny driving going on. They should be up in about thirty minutes. All you can do is wait.”

Mark went over to the side of the road to watch the vast cranes and tiny frogmen groping around in the river under vast klieg lights. The thirty minutes wasn’t thirty minutes; he shivered in the cold, waiting and watching. It was forty minutes, it was fifty minutes, it was over an hour before the black Lincoln came out. Inside the car was one body. Cautious man, he was wearing a seat belt. The police moved in immediately. Mark went back to the officer in charge and asked how long before the second car.

“Not long. That Lincoln wasn’t your car, then?”

“No,” said Mark.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, he saw the top of the second car, a dark blue car; he saw the side of the car, one of the windows fractionally opened; he saw the whole of the car. Two men were in it. He saw the license plate. For a second time that night, Mark felt sick. Almost crying, he ran back to the officer in charge and gave the names of the two men in the car, and then ran on to a pay phone at the side of the road. It was a long way. He dialed the number, checking his watch as he did so; it was nearly one o’clock. After one ring he heard a tired voice say, “Yes.”

Mark said, “Julius.”

The voice said, “What is your number?”

He gave it. Thirty seconds later, the telephone rang.

“Well, Andrews. It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, sir, it’s Stames and Calvert, they’re dead.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, the voice was awake now.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mark gave the details of the car crash, trying to keep the weariness and emotion out of his voice.

“Call your office immediately, Andrews,” Tyson said, “without releasing any of the details that you gave me this evening. Only tell them about the car crash — nothing more. Then get any further information about it you can from the police. See me in my office at 7:30, not 8:30; come through the wide entrance on the far side of the building; there will be a man waiting there for you. He’ll be expecting you; don’t be late. Go home now and try to get some sleep and keep yourself out of sight until tomorrow. Don’t worry, Andrews. Two of us know, and I’ll put agents on the routine checks that I gave you to do earlier.”