“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 center of the room, near where the floor show would be performed. Mark rejected it in favor 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 be involved? 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, señorita, señor.”
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 before he saw the Director at 7:00 A.M. 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.”
Your Greek, your Greek, Greek Orthodox priest, Father Gregory. God in heaven, why hadn't he thought of it before? He'd forgotten Elizabeth for a moment as he started to run towards his car. He turned to wave; she was staring at him with a puzzled expression, wondering what she had said. Mark leaped into the car and drove as fast as he could to his apartment. He must find Father Gregory's number. Greek Orthodox priest, what did he look like, the one who came out of the elevator, what did he look like; it was all coming back, there had been something unusual with him: what the hell was it? His clothes? No, they were fine, or was it his face? His face was wrong somehow. Of course. Of course. How could he have been so stupid. When he arrived home, he called the Washington Field Office immediately. Polly, on the switchboard, was surprised to hear him.
“Aren't you on leave?”
“Yes, sort of. Do you have Father Gregory's number?”
“Who is Father Gregory?”
“A Greek Orthodox priest whom Mr. Stames used to contact occasionally; I think he was his local priest.”
“Yes, you're right. Now I remember.”
Mark waited.
She checked Stames's Rolodex and gave him the number. Mark wrote it down, and replaced the phone. Of course, of course, of course. How stupid of him. It was so obvious. Well past midnight, but he had to call. He dialed the number. The telephone rang several times before it was answered.
“Father Gregory?”
“Yes.”
“Do all Greek Orthodox priests have beards?”
“Yes, as a rule. Who is this asking such a damn silly question in the middle of the night?”
Mark apologized. “My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I worked under Nick Stames.”
The man at the other end, who had sounded sleepy, immediately woke up. “I understand, young man. What can I do for you?”
“Father Gregory, last night Mr. Stames's secretary called you and asked you to go to Woodrow Wilson to check a Greek who had a bullet wound in his leg?”
“Yes, that's rightâI remember, Mr. Andrews. But somebody else called about thirty minutes later, just as I was leaving, in fact, to tell me I needn't bother because Mr. Casefikis had been discharged from the hospital.”
“He'd been what?” Mark's voice rose with each word.
“Discharged from the hospital.”
“Did the caller say who he was?”
“No, the man gave no other details. I assumed he was from your office.”
“Father Gregory, can I see you tomorrow morning at eight o'clock?”
“Yes, of course, my son.”
“And can you be sure you don't talk to anybody else about this phone call, whoever they say they are?”
“If that is your wish, my son.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Mark dropped the telephone and tried to concentrate. He was taller than I was, so he was over six feet. He was dark, or was that just his priest's robes? No, he had dark hair, he had a big nose, I remember he had a big nose, eyes, no I can't remember his eyes, he had a big nose, a heavy chin, a heavy chin. Mark wrote everything down he could remember. A big heavy man, taller than me, big nose, heavy chin, big nose, heavy ⦠he collapsed. His head fell on the desk and he slept.
5 March
6:32 A.M.
Mark had awoken, but he wasn't awake. His head was swimming with incoherent thoughts. The first vision to flash across his mind was Elizabeth; he smiled. The second was Nick Stames; he frowned. The third was the Director. Mark woke with a start and sat up, trying to focus his eyes on his watch. All he could see was the second hand moving: 6:35. Hell. He shot up from the chair, his stiff neck and back hurting him; he was still dressed. He threw off his clothes and rushed into the bathroom and showered, without taking time to adjust the water temperature. Goddamn freezing. At least it woke him up and made him forget Elizabeth. He jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel: 6:40. After throwing the lather on his face, he shaved too quickly, mowing down the stubble on his chin. Damn it, three nicks; the aftershave lotion stung viciously: 6:43. He dressed: clean shirt, same cuff links, clean socks, same shoes, clean suit, same tie. A quick look in the mirror: two nicks still bleeding slightly,
the hell with it. He bundled the papers on his desk into his briefcase and ran for the elevator. First piece of luck, it was on the top floor. Downstairs: 6:46.
“Hi, Simon.”
The young black garage attendant didn't move. He was dozing in his little cubbyhole at the garage entrance.
“Morning, Mark. Hell, man, is it eight o'clock already?”
“No, thirteen minutes to seven.”
“What are you up to? Moonlighting?” asked Simon, rubbing his eyes and handing over the car keys. Mark smiled, but didn't have time to answer. Simon dozed off again.
Car starts first time. Reliable Mercedes. Moves on the road: 6:48. Must stay below speed limit. Never embarrass the Bureau. At 6th Street, held up by lights: 6:50. Cut across G Street, up 7th, more lights. Cross Independence Avenue: 6:53. Corner of 7th and Pennsylvania. Can see FBI Building: 6:55. Down ramp, park, show FBI pass to garage guard, run for elevator: 6:57; elevator to seventh floor: 6:58. Along the corridor, turn right, Room 7074, straight in, past Mrs. McGregor as instructed. She barely glances up; knock on door of Director's office; no reply; go in as instructed. No Director: 6:59; sink into easy chair. Director going to be late; smile of satisfaction. Thirty seconds to seven: glance around room, casually, as if been waiting for hours. Eyes land on grandfather clock. Strikes: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
The door opened, and the Director marched in. “Good morning, Andrews.” He did not look at Mark, but at the clock on the wall. “It's always a little fast.” Silence. The Old Post Office Tower clock struck seven.
The Director settled into his chair, and once again the large hands took possession of the desk.
“We'll start with my news first, Andrews. We have just received some identification on the Lincoln that went into the Potomac with Stames and Calvert.”
The Director opened a new manilla file marked “Eyes only” and glanced at its contents. What was in the file that Mark didn't know about and ought to know about?
“Nothing solid to go on. Hans-Dieter Gerbach, German. Bonn has reported that he was a minor figure in the Munich rackets until five years ago, then they lost track of him. There is some evidence to suggest he was in Rhodesia and even hitched up with the CIA for a while. The White-Lightning Brigade. The CIA is not being helpful on him. I can't see much information coming from them before Thursday. Sometimes I wonder whose side they're on. In 1980, Gerbach turned up in New York, but there's nothing there except rumors and street talk, no record to go on. It would have helped if he'd lived.”
Mark thought of the slit throats in Woodrow Wilson Medical Center and wondered.
“The interesting fact to emerge from the car crash is that both black tires of Stames's and Calvert's car have small holes in them. They could have been the result of
the fall down the bank, but our laboratory boys think they are bullet holes. If they are, whoever did the shooting makes Wyatt Earp look like a boy scout.”
The Director spoke into his intercom. “Have Assistant Director Rogers join us please, Mrs. McGregor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Rogers's men have found the catering outfit Casefikis was working for, for what that's worth.”
The Assistant Director knocked and entered. The Director indicated a chair. Rogers smiled at Mark and sat down.
“Let's have the details, Matt.”
“Well, sir, the owner of the Golden Duck wasn't exactly co-operative. Seemed to think I was after him for contravening employers' regulations. I threatened to shut him down if he didn't talk. Finally he admitted to employing a man matching Casefikis's description on 24 February. He sent Casefikis to serve at a small luncheon party in one of the rooms at the Georgetown Inn on Wisconsin Avenue. The man who made the arrangement was a Lorenzo Rossi. He insisted on a waiter who couldn't speak English. Paid in cash. We've run Rossi through all the computersânothing. Obviously a false name. Same story at the Georgetown Inn. The proprietor said the room had been hired for the day of 24 February by a Mr. Rossi, food to be supplied, but no service, cash paid in advance. Rossi was about five-feet-eight, dark complexion, no distinguishing features, dark hair, sunglasses. The proprietor thought he “seemed
Italian.” No one at the hotel knows or cares who the hell went to lunch in that room that day. I'm afraid it doesn't get us very far.”
“I agree. I suppose we could pull every Italian answering that description off the street,” said the Director. “If we had five years, not five days. Did you turn up anything new at the hospital, Matt?”
“It's a hell of a mess, sir. The place is full of people coming and going, all day and most of the night. The staff all work shifts. They don't even know their own colleagues, let alone outsiders. You could wander around there all day with a torchlight in your hand and no one would stop you unless they wanted a light.”
“That figures,” said Tyson. “Right, Andrews, what have you been up to for the past twenty-four hours?”
Mark opened his regulation blue plastic portfolio. He reported that there were sixty-two senators left, the other thirty-eight accounted for, most of them having been a long way from Washington on 24 February. He passed the list of names over to the Director, who glanced through them.
“Some pretty big fish still left in the muddy pond, Andrews. Go on.”
Mark proceeded to outline his encounter with the Greek Orthodox priest. He expected a sharp reprimand for failing to remember the matter of the beard immediately. He was not disappointed. Chastened, he continued: “I am seeing Father Gregory at eight o'clock this morning, and I thought I would go on to see Casefikis's
widow afterwards. I don't think either will have much to offer, but I imagine you want those leads followed up, sir. After that I intended to return to the Library of Congress to try and figure out why any of those sixty-two senators might wish to see an end of President Kane.”
“Well, to start with, put them in categories,” said the Director. “First political party, then committees, then outside interests, then their personal knowledge of the President. Don't forget, Andrews, we do know that our man had lunch in Georgetown on 24 February and that should bring the numbers down.”
“But sir, presumably they all had lunch on 24 February.”
“Exactly, Andrews, but not all in private. Many of them would have been seen in a public place or lunched officially, with constituents or federal employees or lobbyists. You have to find out who did what, without letting the senator we're after get suspicious.”
“How do you suggest I go about doing that, sir?”
“Simple,” replied the Director. “You call each of the senators' secretaries and ask if the boss would be free to attend a luncheon onâ” He paused. “ââThe Problems of Urban Environment.' Yes, I like that. Give them a date, say 5 May, then ask if they attended either the one given on,” the Director glanced at his calendar, “17 January or 24 February, as some senators who had accepted didn't attend, and one or two turned up without invitations. Then say a written invitation will follow.
All the secretaries will put it out of their minds unless you write, and if any of them does remember on 5 May, it will be too late for us to care. One thing is certain: no senator will be letting his secretary know that he is planning to kill the President.”
The Assistant Director grimaced slightly. “If he gets caught, sir, all hell will break loose. We'll be back in the dirty-tricks department.”
“No, Matt, if I tell the President one of her precious brethren is going to knife her in the back, she won't see anything particularly pleasant in that trick.”
“We haven't got any real proof, sir,” said Mark.
“Then you had better find it, Andrews, or we'll all be looking for a new job, trust my judgment.”
Trust my judgment, Mark thought.
“All we have is one strong lead,” the Director continued. “That a senator may be involved, but we have only five days left. If we fail next Thursday, there will be enough time during the next twenty years to study the inquiry and you, Andrews, will be able to make a fortune writing a book about it.”
Mark looked apprehensive.
“Andrews, don't get too worried. I have briefed the head of the Secret Service. I told him no more and no less than was in your report, as we agreed yesterday, so that gives us a clear run right through to 10 March. I'm working on a contingency plan, in case we don't know who Cassius is before then; but I won't bore you with it now. I have also talked to the boys from Homicide;
they have come up with very little that can help us. It may interest you to know that they have seen Casefikis's wife already. Their brains seem to work a little faster than yours, Andrews.”
“Perhaps they don't have as much on their minds,” said the Assistant Director.
“Maybe not. Okay, go see her if you think it might help. You may pick up something they missed. Cheer up, you've covered a lot of ground. Perhaps this morning's investigation will give us some new leads to work on. I think that covers everything for now. Right, Andrews, don't let me waste any more of your time.”
“No, sir.”
Mark rose.
“I'm sorry, I forgot to offer you coffee, Andrews.”
I didn't manage to drink it the last time, Mark wanted to say. He left as the Director ordered coffee for himself and the Assistant Director. He decided that he too could do with some breakfast and a chance to collect his thoughts. He went in search of the Bureau cafeteria.
The Director drank his coffee and asked Mrs. McGregor to send in his personal assistant. The anonymous man appeared almost instantly, a grey folder under his arm. He didn't have to ask the Director what it was that he wanted. He placed the folder on the table in front of him, and left without speaking.
“Thank you,” said the Director to the closing door. He turned the cover of the folder and browsed through it for twenty minutes, a chuckle here, and a grunt there, the odd comment to Matthew Rogers. There were facts in it about Mark Andrews of which Mark himself would have been unaware. The Director finished his second cup of coffee, closed the file, and locked it in the personal drawer of the Queen Anne desk. Queen Anne had never held as many secrets as that desk.
Mark finished a much better breakfast than he could have hoped for at the Washington Field Office. There, you had to go across the street to the Lunch Connection, because the snack bar downstairs was so abominable, much in keeping with the rest of the building. Not that he wouldn't have liked to return to it now instead of the underground garage to pick up his car. He didn't notice the man across the street who watched him leave, but he did wonder whether the blue Ford sedan that stayed in his rear-view mirror so long was there by chance. If it wasn't, who was watching whom, who was trying to protect whom?
He arrived at Father Gregory's church just before 8:00 A.M. and they walked together to the priest's house. The priest's half-rim glasses squatted on the end of a stubby nose. His large, red cheeks and even larger basketball belly led the uncharitable to conclude that Father Gregory had found much to solace him on earth
while he waited for the eternal kingdom of heaven. Mark told him that he had already breakfasted, but it didn't stop the Father from frying two eggs and bacon, plus toast, marmalade, and a cup of coffee. Father Gregory could add very little to what he had told Mark on the telephone the previous night, and he sighed deeply when he was reminded of the two deaths at the hospital.
“Yes, I read the details in the
Post.
” When they talked about Nick Stames, a light came into his grey eyes; it was clear that priest and policeman had shared a few secrets, this was no jolly old Jesus freak.
“Is there any connection between Nick's death and the accident in the hospital?” Father Gregory asked suddenly.
The question took Mark by surprise. There was a shrewd brain behind the half-rim glasses. Lying to a priest, Greek Orthodox or otherwise, seemed somehow worse than the usual lies which were intended to protect the Bureau from the general public.