Shall We Tell the President? (16 page)
Read Shall We Tell the President? Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
8 March
8:04 A.M.
The phone was ringing, but Mark was still in a deep sleep. It continued to ring. Eventually he awoke, focused on his watch: 8:05. Damn, probably the Director asking where the hell he was; no, he hadn't wanted to see him this morning, isn't that what they agreed? He grabbed the phone.
“You're awake?”
“Yes.”
“I love you, too.”
He heard the phone click. A good way to start the day, though if she knew he was going to spend it investigating her father ⦠And almost certainly the Director was investigating her.
Mark let the cold shower run on and on until he was fully awake. Whenever he was awakened suddenly, he always wanted to go back to sleep. Next week, he promised himself he would. There was one hell of a lot of things he was going to do next week. He glanced at his
watch: 8:25. No Wheaties this morning. He flicked on the television to see if he had missed anything going on in the rest of the world; he was sitting on a news story that would make Barbara Walters fall off her CBS chair. What was the man saying?
watch: 8:25. No Wheaties this morning. He flicked on the television to see if he had missed anything going on in the rest of the world; he was sitting on a news story that would make Barbara Walters fall off her CBS chair. What was the man saying?
“ ⦠and now one of the greatest achievements of mankind, the first pictures ever taken from the planet Jupiter by an American spacecraft. History in the making, but first, this message from Jell-O, the special food for special children.”
Mark turned it off, laughing. Jupiter, along with Jell-O, would have to wait until next week.
Because he was running late, he decided to return to taking the Metro from the Waterfront Station next to his apartment. It was different when he had been going in early and had the roads to himself, but at 8:30, the cars would be bumper to bumper the whole way.
The entrance to the subway was marked with a bronze pylon sporting an illuminated M. Mark stepped onto the escalator, which took him from street level down to the Metro station. The tunnel-like station reminded him of a Roman bath, gray and dark with a honeycombed, curved ceiling. One dollar. Rush-hour fare. And he needed a transfer. Another dollar. Mark fumbled in his pockets for the exact fare. Must remember to stock up on quarters when I get to the center of town, he thought, as he stepped onto another escalator and was deposited at track level. During rush-hour, 6:30-9:00 A.M., the trains drew in every five minutes. Round lights on the side of the platform began to flash
to indicate the train was approaching. The doors opened automatically. Mark joined the crowd in a colorful, brightly lit car, and five minutes later heard his destination announced on the public address system: Gallery Place. He stepped out onto the platform and waited for a red line train. The green line worked perfectly on mornings when he was going to the Washington Field Office, but to get to Capitol Hill, he had to switch. Four minutes later, he emerged into the sunshine at Union Station Visitors' Center, the bustling command post for bus, train, and subway travel in and out of Washington. The Dirksen Senate Office Building was three blocks away, down 1st Street, at the corner of Constitution. That was quick and painless, thought Mark, as he went in the Constitution Avenue entrance. Why do I ever bother with a car at all?
to indicate the train was approaching. The doors opened automatically. Mark joined the crowd in a colorful, brightly lit car, and five minutes later heard his destination announced on the public address system: Gallery Place. He stepped out onto the platform and waited for a red line train. The green line worked perfectly on mornings when he was going to the Washington Field Office, but to get to Capitol Hill, he had to switch. Four minutes later, he emerged into the sunshine at Union Station Visitors' Center, the bustling command post for bus, train, and subway travel in and out of Washington. The Dirksen Senate Office Building was three blocks away, down 1st Street, at the corner of Constitution. That was quick and painless, thought Mark, as he went in the Constitution Avenue entrance. Why do I ever bother with a car at all?
He walked past two members of the Capitol police who were inspecting briefcases and packages at the door, and pressed the Up-button at the public elevator.
“Four, please,” he said to the elevator operator.
The Foreign Relations Committee hearing was scheduled to begin shortly. Mark pulled the list of “Today's Activities in the House and Senate”, which he had torn out of
The Washington Post,
from his coat pocket. “Foreign Relations: 9:30 A.M. Open. Hearing on U.S. policy towards the Common Market; administration representatives. 4229 DOB.” As Mark walked down the hall, Senator Ralph Brooks of Massachusetts stepped into Suite 4229, and Mark followed him into the hearing room.
The Washington Post,
from his coat pocket. “Foreign Relations: 9:30 A.M. Open. Hearing on U.S. policy towards the Common Market; administration representatives. 4229 DOB.” As Mark walked down the hall, Senator Ralph Brooks of Massachusetts stepped into Suite 4229, and Mark followed him into the hearing room.
The senator, a tall man with rugged, almost film star good looks, had dogged every step of President Kane's political career until finally she had replaced him as Secretary of State when she took over after President Parkin's death.
He had quickly won her seat back in the Senate and then stood against Florentyna Kane as the Democratic candidate and only lost on the seventh ballot. He had gone on to be chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.
Did he now intend to kill the President in order to reach the highest office himself? It didn't add up because if Kane were assassinated the Vice President Bill Bradley, who was younger than he was, would take her place and then Brooks would be left with no chance. No, the senator didn't look a serious threat but Mark still needed proof before he could cross him off the list.
The hearing room had light-colored wood paneling, accented by green marble on the lower part of the wall and around the door. At the end of the chamber, there was a semi-circular desk of the same light wood, which was raised one step above the rest of the room. Fifteen burnt-orange chairs. Only about ten of them were occupied. Senator Brooks took his seat, but the assorted staff members, aides, newsmen, and administrative officials continued to mill around. On the wall behind the senators hung two large maps, one of the world, the other of Europe. At a desk immediately in front of and below the senators sat a stenotypist, poised to record
the proceedings verbatim. In front, there were desks for witnesses.
the proceedings verbatim. In front, there were desks for witnesses.
More than half the room was given over to chairs for the general public, and these were nearly all full. An oil painting of George Washington dominated the scene. The man must have spent the last ten years of his life posing for portraits, thought Mark.
Senator Brooks whispered something to an aide, and rapped his gavel for silence. “Before we begin,” he said, “I'd like to notify Senate staff members and the press of a change in schedule. Today and tomorrow, we will hear testimony from the State Department concerning the European Common Market. We will then postpone the continuation of these hearings until next week, so the committee may devote its attention to the pressing and controversial issue of arms sales to Africa.”
By this time, almost everyone in the room had found a seat, and the government witnesses were glancing through their notes. Mark had worked on Capitol Hill one summer during college, but even now he could not help feeling annoyed at the small number of senators who showed up at these hearings. Because each senator served on three or more committees and innumerable sub- and special committees, they were forced to specialize, and to trust the expertise of fellow senators and staff members in areas outside their own specialty. So it was not at all unusual for committee hearings to be attended by three or two or sometimes even only one senator.
The subject under debate was a bill to dismantle the
North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Portugal and Spain had gone Communist and left the Common Market, like two well-behaved dominoes, at the turn of the decade. The Spanish bases went soon after; King Juan Carlos was living in exile in England. NATO had been prepared for the Communist takeover in Portugal, but when Italy finally installed a Fronto Popolare government in the Quirinal, things began to fall apart. The Papacy, trusting to tried and proven methods, locked itself behind its gates, and American Catholic opinion forced the United States to cut off financial aid to the new Italian government. The Italians retaliated by closing her NATO bases.
North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Portugal and Spain had gone Communist and left the Common Market, like two well-behaved dominoes, at the turn of the decade. The Spanish bases went soon after; King Juan Carlos was living in exile in England. NATO had been prepared for the Communist takeover in Portugal, but when Italy finally installed a Fronto Popolare government in the Quirinal, things began to fall apart. The Papacy, trusting to tried and proven methods, locked itself behind its gates, and American Catholic opinion forced the United States to cut off financial aid to the new Italian government. The Italians retaliated by closing her NATO bases.
The economic ripples of the Italian collapse were thought to have influenced the French elections, which had led to a victory for Chirac and the Gaullists. The more extreme forms of socialism had recently been repudiated in Holland and some Scandinavian countries. The Germans were happy with their social democracy. But as the west entered the last decade of the twentieth century, Senator Pearson was declaring that America's only real ally in NATO was Britain, where a Tory government had recently won an upset victory in the February general election.
The British Foreign Secretary, Kenneth Clarke, had argued forcefully against the formal breakup of NATO. Such a move would sever Great Britain from her alliance with the United States, and commit her solely to the EEC, seven of whose fifteen members were now Communist or close to it. Senator Pearson thumped the
table. “We should take the British view seriously in our considerations and not be interested only in immediate strategic gains.”
table. “We should take the British view seriously in our considerations and not be interested only in immediate strategic gains.”
After an hour of listening to Brooks and Pearson questioning State Department witnesses about the political situation in Spain, Mark slipped out of the door and went into the Foreign Relations Committee suite down the hall. The secretary informed him that Lester Kenneck, the committee staff director, was out of the office. Mark had telephoned him the day before, leaving the impression that he was a student doing research for his dissertation.
“Is there someone else who could give me some information about the committee?”
“I'll see if Paul Rowe, one of our staff members, might be able to help you.” She picked up the telephone and, several moments later, a thin bespectacled man emerged from one of the back rooms.
“What can I do for you?”
Mark explained that he would like to see other members of the committee in action, particularly Senator Nunn. Rowe smiled patiently. “No problem,” he said. “Come back tomorrow afternoon or Thursday for the discussion about arms sales to Africa. Senator Nunn will be here, I guarantee. And you' ll find it much more interesting than the Common Market stuff. In fact, the meeting may be closed to the public. But I'm sure if you
come by here and talk to Mr. Kenneck, he'll arrange for you to sit in.”
come by here and talk to Mr. Kenneck, he'll arrange for you to sit in.”
“Thank you very much. Would you by any chance happen to know if Nunn and Pearson were present at the hearing on 24 February, or last Thursday?”
Rowe raised his eyebrows. “I have no idea. Kenneck might know.”
Mark thanked him. “Oh, one more thing. Can you give me a pass for the Senate gallery?” The secretary stamped a card and wrote in his name. Mark headed for the elevator. Arms sales. Africa, he thought. Thursday's too late. Damn. How the hell am I supposed to know why one of these guys would want to kill President Kane? Could be some crazy military thing, or a severe case of racism. It doesn't make any sense. Not why, but who, he reminded himself. As he walked, Mark almost knocked over one of the Senate pages, who was running down the corridor clutching a package. The Congress operates a page school for boys and girls from across the nation who attend classes and work as “gophers” in the Capitol. They all wear dark blue and white and always give the impression of being in a hurry. Mark stopped just in time and the boy scooted around him without even breaking stride.
Mark took the elevator to the ground floor and walked out of the Dirksen Building onto Constitution Avenue. He made his way across the Capitol grounds, entered the Capitol on the Senate side, underneath the long marble expanse of steps, and waited for the public elevator.
“Busy day,” the guard informed him. “Lots of tourists here to watch the gun control debate.”
Mark nodded. “Is there a long wait upstairs?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
The elevator arrived, and on the gallery level a guard ushered Mark into line with a horde of gaping visitors. Mark was impatient. He beckoned to one of the guards.
“Listen, officer,” he said, “I have a regular public pass for the gallery, but I'm a student from Yale doing research. Think there is any way you could get me in?”
The guard nodded sympathetically.
A few minutes later, Mark was seated in the chamber. He could see only part of the floor. The senators were seated at desks in semi-circular rows facing the Chair. Even while someone was speaking, staff members and senators wandered around, giving the impression that the really significant maneuvering took place in hushed tones, not in dramatic debate.
The Judiciary Committee had reported out the bill two weeks before, after prolonged hearings and discussion. The House had already passed similar legislation, which would have to be reconciled with the stricter Senate version if it were to be approved.
Senator Dexter was speaking. My future father-inlaw? Mark wondered. He certainly didn't look like a killer, but then which senator did? He had given his daughter her glorious dark hair, although there was a little white at his temples. Not as much as there ought to be, thought Markâa politician's vanity. And he had also given her his dark eyes. He seemed fairly contemptuous
of most of the people around him, tapping the desk with his long fingers to emphasize a point.
of most of the people around him, tapping the desk with his long fingers to emphasize a point.
“In our discussion about this bill, we have sidestepped a critical, perhaps the most crucial, consideration. And that is the principle of Federalism. For the past fifty years, the federal government has usurped many of the powers once wielded by the states. We look to the President, the Congress, for answers to all our problems. The Founding Fathers never intended the central government to have so much power, and a country as wide and diverse as ours cannot be governed democratically or effectively on that basis. Yes, we all want to reduce crime. But crime differs from place to place. Our constitutional system wisely left the business of crime control to state and local jurisdiction, except for those federal criminal laws which deal with truly national matters. But crimes committed with guns are of a local nature. They ought to be legislated against and enforced at the local level. Only at the state and local levels can the attitudes of the people and the specific characteristics of the crime problem be understood and dealt with by public officials.
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