Shall We Tell the President? (19 page)

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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

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9 March
5:50 A.M.
“It's for you, sir.”
“What?” mumbled the Director, still half-asleep.
“The phone, sir, it's for you.” His housekeeper was standing by the doorway in her dressing-gown.
“Ugh. What time is it?”
“Ten to six, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Elliott, sir.”
“Right, switch it through.”
“Yes, sir.”
Elliott had woken him up. A decision he would never have taken unless it was urgent.
“Good morning, Elliott, what is it?” He paused. “Can you be sure? That changes the whole situation. What time is he due in? 7:00, of course. I'll see you at 6:30.”
The Director put the phone down, and sat on the edge of the bed, and said very loudly: “Damn,” which
by the Director's standards was extreme. His big feet placed firmly on the floor, his large hands splayed on his equally large thighs, he was deep in thought. Eventually he rose, put on a dressing-gown, and disappeared into the bathroom, repeating the expletive several times.
Mark also had a phone call, not from the anonymous man, but from Elizabeth. She needed to see him urgently. They agreed to meet at eight o'clock in the lobby of the Mayflower. He felt sure no one would recognize him there, but he wondered why Elizabeth had chosen that particular meeting place.
Mark took off his dressing-gown and returned to the bathroom.
The Senator took an early-morning phone call as well, not from the anonymous man or from Elizabeth, but from the Chairman, who was confirming their midday meeting for the final briefing at the Sheraton Hotel in Silver Spring. The Senator agreed, replaced the phone, and roamed around the room in his dressing-gown thinking.
“Coffee for three, Mrs. McGregor. Are they both here?” the Director asked as he passed her.
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. McGregor looked very chic in a new turquoise, two-piece suit, but the Director didn't notice. He strolled into his office.
“Good morning, Matt. Good morning, Mark.” When should he drop the bomb? He decided to let Andrews speak first. “Right, let's hear what you've found out.”
“As I told you yesterday, sir, I think I've cut the list of senators down to five—Brooks of Massachusetts, Byrd of West Virginia, Dexter of Connecticut, Harrison of South Carolina, and Thornton of Texas. The only common factor is their interest in the Gun Control bill, which as we know, sir, is likely to become law on 10 March. Assassination of the President would now be about the only way of holding that bill up.”
“I would have thought,” said Rogers, “that that could be the one act that would make certain the bill passed through both Houses.”
“You tell that to two Kennedys, Martin Luther King, George Wallace and Ronald Reagan and see what they all have to say,” responded the Director. “Continue, Mark.”
Mark summarized what Lykham and Stampouzis had briefed him on each man, and explained how he was able to eliminate two other men from the list of seven—namely Pearson and Nunn. “That completes my report, sir, unless, of course, we are approaching this thing in the wrong way and I'm heading down a blind alley. And
as far as I'm concerned that is entirely possible, as I seem to be boxing with shadows.”
The Director nodded and waited.
Mark continued: “I was going to spend today trying to hear each one of them in action in the Senate. I wish I could think of a good way of finding out where they were at lunchtime on 24 February, short of asking them outright, that is.”
“Don't go anywhere near any of them. That would be the surest way to shut down the whole plot. Now, Mark, I must warn you my news is not good, so settle back and prepare for the worst. We are beginning to think the man we are after is Dexter,” said the Director.
Mark went cold. “Why, sir?” he managed to get out.
The Assistant Director leaned forward to speak. “I have had some men checking out the Georgetown Inn, very unobtrusively. We didn't expect to turn anything up. We questioned all the day staff but they couldn't help. Early this morning, just to be thorough, we interviewed the night staff. Turned out that one of the night porters, who was off duty during the day, of course, is pretty sure he saw Senator Dexter hurrying away from the hotel some time like 2:30 in the afternoon on 24 February.”
Mark was stunned. “How did he know it was Senator Dexter?”
“The man was born and raised in Wilton, Connecticut; he knows his face well. I'm afraid there's something
else, too; he was accompanied by a young woman whose rough description tallies with his daughter.”
“That's not proof,” said Mark. “It's all circumstantial. It wouldn't stand up in a court of law.”
“I'm sure you're right,” said the Director, “but it's an unfortunate coincidence for Senator Dexter. Remember his involvement in the arms business; it won't do his finances any good if the Gun Control bill goes through; in fact our inquiries show he stands to lose a personal fortune, so we have a motive as well.”
“But, sir,” Mark argued, carried away by the desire to believe in Elizabeth, “do you really think that a senator would plot to kill the President just to keep one of his companies afloat? There are so many less drastic ways to stall the bill. He could try to tie it up in committee. Or organize a filibuster …”
“He already has tried—and failed, Mark,” Matthew Rogers interrupted.
“The other four senators may have more powerful motives we don't happen to know about. It doesn't have to be Dexter,” continued Mark, sounding unconvinced.
“Mark, I understand what you're saying and you do have a point. Under ordinary circumstances I'd agree that it seems unlikely, but we have to go on the evidence we have, even if it's slim and at present no more than circumstantial. And there's something else. On the night of 3 March, when Casefikis and the postman were killed, Dr. Dexter's name was not marked on the duty register. She should have finished work at five, but
for some inexplicable reason she stayed an extra two hours, treated the Greek—who was not her patient—and then went home. Now it's possible that she was just conscientious and working overtime, or that she was filling in for a colleague, but there are a hell of a lot of coincidences here, Mark. I'm bound to say if one is dispassionate about it, the odds are stacked heavily against Senator Dexter—and his daughter.”
Mark did not reply.
“Now listen and listen carefully,” the Director went on. “I know you want to believe that all this is circumstantial and that it's one of the other four—but I only have twenty-six hours left before the President leaves the White House, and I have to live with the facts as they present themselves. I want to catch the man involved, whoever he is, and I'm not willing to risk the life of the President to do it. When are you seeing the girl next?”
Mark looked up. “At eight, at the Mayflower.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea, sir. She just said that it was important.”
“Um, well I think you still ought to go but then report back to me immediately when you're through.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can't understand why, Andrews. Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It's twenty to eight now, you'd better be on your way. Incidentally, we're still having no luck with those
fifty-dollar bills. We're down to the last eight, but still no prints from Mrs. Casefikis. Better news on the German, Gerbach, however. We've established beyond a doubt that he had no connection with the CIA during his stay in Rhodesia or at the time of his death, so that's one more problem out of the way.”
Mark didn't give a damn about the fifty-dollar bills, the German driver, the Mafia, or the CIA. All his hard work appeared to be leading them straight to Dexter. He left the office even more despondent than he had been when he came in.
Once back on the street, he decided to walk to the Mayflower in the hope of clearing his head. He didn't notice that two men followed him down Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House, and on toward the hotel.
At the press of a button, Elliott entered the Director's office.
“Elliott, you were right about the Mayflower. What have you done about it?”
“There are two men already there, sir, and one following Andrews.”
“It's the first time in thirty-six years that I've hated my job,” said the Director. “You've done very well, Elliott, and all too soon I'll be able to tell you what this whole damn thing is about.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow up these five names. Leave no stone unturned.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Elliott slid out of the room.
Damn man has no heart. Can't have a right-hand man without a heart. Makes him damn useful in a strange situation like this though. When this operation's all over, I'll transfer him back to Idaho and—
“You said something, sir?”
“No, Mrs. McGregor, I'm just going quietly mad. Don't worry about me. When the men in the white coats come to take me away, just sign the forms in triplicate and look relieved.”
Mrs. McGregor smiled.
“I like your new suit,” the Director said.
She blushed. “Thank you, sir.”
Mark pushed through the revolving doors of the Mayflower Hotel, his eyes searching the lobby for Elizabeth. How he wanted to see her and how he wanted to stop being devious and tell her the truth. It's all circumstantial, he continued to insist. He couldn't spot her so chose a comfortable seat which had a good view of the lobby.
On the far side of the lobby, a man was buying
The Washington Post
from the newspaper stand. Mark didn't notice that he made no attempt to read it. Suddenly he saw Elizabeth heading toward him with Senator Dexter by her side. Hell, that was all he needed.
“Hello, Mark.” She kissed him gently on the cheek.
Judas showing the Pharisees which one was to be killed? The unkindest cut of all.
“Mark, I'd like you to meet my father.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mark, it's good to meet you. Elizabeth has told me quite a bit about you.”
And what should you be able to tell me, thought Mark. Where were you on 24 February? Where will you be tomorrow?
“Mark, are you all right?” Elizabeth inquired.
“Yes, fine. I'm sorry, Senator, it's good to meet you too.”
The Senator was staring at him strangely.
“Well, I must be getting along, dear—I have a busy schedule. I look forward to our usual lunch tomorrow.”
“See you then, Father. Thanks for the breakfast and the chat.”
“Goodbye, Mark. See you again soon, I hope.” Senator Dexter still looked at him quizzically.
“Perhaps,” replied Mark quietly.
They watched him leave. So did three other people. One of them left to make a phone call.
“Mark, what's come over you? Why were you so brusque with my father? I especially wanted you to meet him.”
“I'm sorry, I'm just tired.”
“Or is there something you're not telling me?” said Elizabeth.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I don't know, let's forget it,” said Mark. “Why did you want to see me so urgently?”
“Simply because I wanted you to meet my father. What's so strange about that? Why the hell did I bother?”
She began to walk away down the corridor, pushing her way quickly through the revolving door at the entrance to the hotel. Three men saw her leave. One followed her, two stuck with Mark. He walked slowly toward the doors. The doorman saluted him punctiliously.
“Cab, sir?”
“No, thanks. I'll walk.”
The Director was on the phone when Mark returned and waved him into the large leather chair by his desk. He sank down in it, his mind fuzzy. The Director put the phone down and looked directly at him.
“So now you've met Senator Dexter, and I must tell you that either Dr. Dexter knows nothing or she deserves an Oscar for her performance at the Mayflower.”
“You saw everything,” said Mark.
“Of course, and more. She was just involved in an automobile accident, two minutes ago. That phone call was the details.”
Mark jumped out of his seat.

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