Stames picked up the red phone which put him straight through to the Director's office.
“Nick Stames, WFO.”
“Good evening,” said a low, quiet voice. Mrs. McGregor, a dedicated servant of the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was still on duty. It was said that even Hoover had been slightly frightened of her.
“Mrs. McGregor, I'd like to make a provisional appointment for myself and Special Agents Calvert and Andrews to see the Director for fifteen minutes, if that's possible. Anytime between 9:00 A.M. and 11:00 A.M. tomorrow. It's likely that after further investigation tonight and early tomorrow, I won't need to bother him.”
Mrs. McGregor consulted the Director's desk diary. “The Director is going to a meeting of police chiefs at eleven but he is expected in the office at 8:30 and he has nothing marked in his diary before eleven. I'll pencil you in for 10:30, Mr. Stames. Do you want me to tell the Director what the subject of your discussion will be?”
“I'd prefer not to.”
Mrs. McGregor never pressed or asked a second question. She knew if Stames called, it was important. He saw the Director ten times a year on a social basis, but only three or four times a year on a professional basis, and he was not in the habit of wasting the Director's time.
“Thank you, Mr. Stames. 10:30 tomorrow morning, unless you cancel beforehand.”
Nick put the phone down and looked at his two men.
“Okay, we're fixed to see the Director at 10:30. Barry, why don't you give me a lift home, then you can take yourself off afterward, and pick me up again first thing in the morning. That'll give us another chance to go over the details again.” Barry nodded. “Mark, you get straight back to the hospital.”
Mark had allowed his mind to slip away to visualize
Elizabeth Dexter walking down the corridor of Woodrow Wilson toward him, red silk collar over the white medical coat, black skirt swinging. He was doing this with his eyes open and the result was quite pleasant. He smiled.
“Andrews, what the hell is so amusing about a reported threat on the President's life?” Stames demanded.
“Sorry, sir. You just shot my social life down in flames. Would it be okay if I use my own car? I was hoping to go directly from the hospital to dinner.”
“Yes, that's fine. We'll use the duty car and see you first thing in the morning. Get your tail in gear, Mark, and hope the Met makes it before breakfast.” Mark looked at his watch. “Christ, it's already 8:00 P.M.”
Mark left the office slightly annoyed. Even if the Met were there when he arrived, he would still be late for Elizabeth Dexter. Still, he could always call her from the hospital.
“Like a plate of warmed-up moussaka, Barry, and a bottle of retsina?”
“It was more than I was expecting, boss.”
The two men left the office. Stames mentally checked off the items on his nightly routine.
“Barry, will you double-check that Aspirin is on duty, as you go out, and tell him we won't be back again tonight.”
Calvert made a detour to the Criminal Room and delivered the message to Aspirin. He was doing the crossword
from
The Washington Star.
He had finished three clues; it was going to be a long night. Barry caught up with Nick Stames as he stepped into the blue Ford.
“Yes, boss, he's working away.”
They looked at each other, a night of headaches. Barry got in the driver's seat, slid it back as far as it would go, and adjusted the seat belt. They moved quietly up Constitution Avenue, then past the White House on to the E Street Expressway, and on toward Memorial Bridge.
“If Casefikis is on to something, we've got one hell of a week ahead of us,” said Nick Stames. “Did he seem sure of the date for the assassination attempt?”
“When I questioned him a second time about the details, he repeated 10 March, in Washington.”
“Hum-uh, seven days, not very long. Wonder what the Director will make of it,” said Stames.
“Hand it over to the Secret Police, if he's got any sense,” Barry said.
“Ah, let's forget it for the moment. Let's concentrate on warmed-over moussaka and deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes.”
The car came to a halt at a traffic light, just beyond the White House, where a bearded, long-haired, dirty youth, who had been picketing the home of the President, stood with a large poster advising the world: BEWARE! THE END IS NIGH. Stames glanced at it and nodded to Barry.
“That's all we need tonight.”
They passed under Virginia Avenue on the Expressway and sped across Memorial Bridge. A black 3.5 Lincoln passed them at about seventy miles an hour.
“Bet the Met pick him up,” said Stames.
“Probably late for Dulles Airport,” replied Barry.
The traffic was light, the rush-hour well behind them and when they turned on to George Washington Parkway they managed to stay in top gear. The Parkway, which follows the Potomac along the wooded Virginia shore, was dark and winding. Barry's reflexes were as fast as any man's in the service and Stames, although older, saw exactly what happened at the same time. A Buick, large and black, started to overtake them on their left. Calvert glanced toward it and when he looked forward again an instant later, another car, a black Lincoln, had swung in front of them on the wrong side of the highway. He thought he heard a rifle shot. Barry wrenched the wheel toward the center of the road but it didn't respond. Both cars hit him at once, but he still managed to take one of them with him down the rocky slope. They gathered speed until they hit the surface of the river with a thud. Nick thought as he struggled in vain to open the door that the sinking seemed grotesquely slow, but inevitable.
The black Buick continued down the highway as if nothing had happened; past a car skidding to a halt, carrying a young couple, two terrified witnesses to the accident. They leaped out of their car and ran to the edge of the slope. There was nothing they could do but watch helplessly for the few seconds it took the blue Ford sedan and the Lincoln to sink out of sight.
“Jee-sus, did you see what happened ahead?” said the young man.
“Not really. I just saw the two cars go over the top. What do we do now, Jim?”
“Get the police fast.”
Man and wife ran back to their car.
3 March
8:15 P.M.
“Hello, Liz.”
There was a moment's pause at the other end of the phone.
“Hello, G-man. Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“Only wishful thinking. Listen, Elizabeth, I've had to come back to the hospital and keep an eye on your Mr. Casefikis until the police arrive. It's just possible that he could be in some danger, so we're having to put a guard on him which means I'm bound to be late for our date. Do you mind waiting?”
“No, I won't starve. I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays, and he's a big eater.”
“That's good. Because I think you need to be fed. You look as though you might be hard to find in the dark. I'm still trying to get the flu, incidentally.”
She laughed warmly. “See you later.”
Mark put the telephone back on the hook and walked over to the elevator, and pressed the arrow on the Up-button.
He only hoped the Met policeman had arrived and was already on duty. Christ. How long was the elevator going to take to return to the ground floor? Patients must have died just waiting for it. Eventually the doors slid open and a burly Greek Orthodox priest hurried out and past him. He could have sworn it was a Greek Orthodox priest, from the high dark hat and long trailing veil and the Orthodox Cross around his neck, although something about the priest struck Mark as strange, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He stood, puzzling for a moment, staring at his retreating back and only just managing to jump into the elevator before the doors closed. He pressed the fourth-floor button several times. Come on, come on. Get going, you bastard, but it had no ears for Mark, and proceeded upward at the same stately pace as it had earlier in the afternoon. It cared nothing for his date with Elizabeth Dexter. The door opened slowly, and he went through the widening gap sideways and ran down the corridor to Room 4308 but there was no sign of any policeman. In fact, the corridor was deserted. It looked as if he were going to be stuck there for some time. He peered through the little window in the door at the two men, asleep in their beds, the voiceless television set was still on giving out a square of light. Mark left to look for the staff nurse and eventually found her tucked away in the
head nurse's office enjoying a cup of coffee. She was pleased to see that it was the better-looking of the two FBI men who had returned.
“Has anyone come from the Metropolitan Police to keep an eye on Room 4308?”
“No, no one's been anywhere near the place tonight. Silent as the grave. Were you expecting someone?”
“Yes, damn it. Guess I'll have to wait. Do you think I could take a chair? I'm going to have to stick around till an officer from the Metropolitan Police comes. I hope I won't be in your way.”
“You won't be in my way. You can stay as long as you like. I'll see if I can find you a nice comfortable chair.” She put her mug down. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I certainly would.” Mark looked at her more carefully. It might be an evening with the nurse rather than the doctor. Mark decided he had better go back and check the room first, reassure Casefikis, if he were still awake, and then call the Met and ask where the hell their man was. He walked slowly to the door a second time; he felt no need to hurry now. He opened the door quietly. It was pitch black except for the light from the TV, and his eyes were not quite focused. He glanced at the two of them in bed. They were quite still. He wouldn't have bothered to look any further if it hadn't been for the dripping.
Drip, drip, drip.
It sounded like tap water but he couldn't remember a tap.
Drip, drip.
He moved quietly to the bedside of Angelo Casefikis, and glanced down.
Drip, drip.
Warm fresh blood was flowing over the bottom sheet, trickling from Casefikis's mouth, his dark eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue was hanging loose and swollen. His throat had been cut, ear to ear, just below the chin line. The blood was starting to make a pool on the floor. Mark was standing in it. He felt his legs sink, and he was barely able to grip the side of the bed and stop himself falling. He lurched over towards the deaf man. Mark's eyes were now focused, and he retched loudly. The postman's head was hanging loose from the rest of his body; only the color of his skin showed that they were once connected. Mark managed to scramble out of the door and get to the pay phone, his heartbeat thudding madly in his ears. He could feel his shirt clinging to his body. His hands were covered with blood. He fumbled ineffectually for a couple of quarters. He dialed Homicide and gave the bare outline of what had happened. This time they wouldn't be casual about sending someone. The nurse on duty returned with a cup of coffee.
“Are you okay? You look a bit pale,” she said, and then she saw his hands and screamed.
“Don't go into Room 4308 whatever you do. Don't let anyone into that room unless I say so. Send me a doctor immediately.”
The nurse thrust the cup of coffee at him, forcing
him to take it, and ran down the corridor. Mark made himself go back into Room 4308, although his presence was irrelevant. There was nothing he could do except wait. He switched on the lights and went over to the bathroom; he tried to remove the worst of the blood and vomit from himself and his clothes. Mark heard the swinging door and rushed back into the room. Another young, whitecoated female doctor ⦠“Alicia Delgado, M.D.” said her plastic label.
“Don't touch anything,” said Mark.
Dr. Delgado stared at him and then the bodies, and groaned.
“Don't touch anything,” repeated Mark, “until Homicide arrive; they will be here shortly.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Special Agent Mark Andrews, FBI.” He instinctively took out his wallet and showed his credentials.
“Do we just stand here staring at each other or are you going to allow me to do something about this mess?”
“Nothing until Homicide has completed their investigation and given clearance. Let's get out of here.” He passed her and pushed the door with his shoulder, not touching anything.
They were back in the corridor.
Mark instructed Dr. Delgado to wait outside the door and to allow no one else inside while he phoned the Metropolitan Police again.
She nodded reluctantly.
He went over to the pay phone, two more quarters; he dialed the Metropolitan Police and asked for Lieutenant Blake.
“Lieutenant Blake went home about an hour ago. Can I help you?”
“When had you been planning to send someone over to guard Room 4308 at Woodrow Wilson Medical Center?”
“Who's speaking?”
“Andrews, FBI, Washington Field Office.” Mark repeated the details of the double murder.
“Well, our man should be with you now. He left the office over half an hour ago. I'll inform Homicide immediately.”
“I've already done that,” snapped Mark.
He put the phone down and collapsed into a nearby chair. The corridor was now full of white coats. Two gurneys were being wheeled up to Room 4308. They were all waiting. What was the right thing to do?
Two more quarters, he dialed Nick Stames's home. The phone seemed to ring for a long time. Why didn't he answer? Eventually a female voice came on.
Mustn't show panic, he thought, holding on to the phone box. “Good evening, Mrs. Stames. It's Mark Andrews. Can I speak to your husband?” An even tone, no sign of stress.
“I'm afraid Nick is not home, Mark. He went back to the office about two hours ago. Funny, he said he was going to see you and Barry Calvert.”
“Yes, we saw him, but he left the office to go back home about forty minutes ago.”
“Well, he hasn't arrived yet. He only managed to finish the first course of his dinner and said he would come straight back. No sign of him. Maybe he returned to the office. Why don't you try him there?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry to have bothered you.” Mark hung up, looked over to check that no one had gone into Room 4308. No one had. He put two more quarters in and phoned the office. Polly was on duty.
“Mark Andrews. Put me through to Mr. Stames, quickly, please.”
“Mr. Stames and Special Agent Calvert left about forty-five minutes agoâon their way home, I think, Mr. Andrews.”
“That can't be right. It can't be right.”
“Yes, they did leave, sir. I saw them go.”
“Could you double-check?”
“If you say so, Mr. Andrews.”
Mark waited, it seemed to him, for an interminable time. What should he be doing? He was only one man, where was everyone else? What was he supposed to do? Christ, nothing in his training covered thisâthe FBI are meant to arrive twenty-four hours after a crime, not during it.
“There's no answer, Mr. Andrews.”
“Thanks, Polly.”
Mark looked desperately at the ceiling for inspiration. He had been briefed not to tell anybody about the
earlier events of the evening, not to say a word whatever the circumstances until after Stames's meeting with the Director. He must find Stames; he must find Calvert. He must find somebody he could talk to. Two more quarters. He tried Barry Calvert. The phone rang and rang. No reply from the bachelor apartment. Same two quarters. He called Norma Stames again. “Mrs. Stames, Mark Andrews. Sorry to trouble you again. The moment your husband and Mr. Calvert arrive, please have them call me at Woodrow Wilson.”
“Yes, I'll tell Nick as soon as he comes in. They probably stopped off on the way.”
“Yes, of course, I hadn't thought of that. Maybe the best thing will be for me to go back downtown as soon as the relief arrives. So perhaps they could contact me there. Thank you, Mrs. Stames.” He hung up the receiver.
As he put the phone down Mark saw the Met policeman jauntily walking towards him down the middle of the now crowded corridor, an Ed McBain novel under his arm. Mark thought of bawling him out for his late arrival, but what was the point. No use crying over spilt blood he thought, morbidly, and began to feel sick again. He took the young officer aside, and briefed him on the killings, giving no details of why the two men were important, only of what had happened. He asked him to inform his chief and added that the Homicide Squad were on their way, again adding no details. The policeman called his own duty officer, and reported all
he had been told, matter-of-factly. The Washington Metropolitan Police handled over six hundred murders a year.
The medical personnel were all waiting impatiently; it was going to be a long wait. Professional bustle seemed to have replaced the early panic. Mark still wasn't sure where to turn, what to do. Where was Stames? Where was Calvert? Where the hell was anybody?
He went over to the policeman again, who was explaining in detail why no one must enter the room ⦠they were not convinced but waited; Mark told him he was leaving for the Field Office. He still gave him no clue why Casefikis had been important. The Metropolitan policeman felt he had things under control. Homicide would be there at any moment. He told Mark they'd want to talk to him later that night. Mark nodded and left him.
When he arrived back at his car, he took the flashing red light out of the side compartment and fixed it to the roof, placing the switch into its special slot. He was going to get back to the office, at top speed, to people he knew, to reality, to men who would make some sense out of his nightmare.
Mark flicked on the car radio. “WFO 180 in service. Please try and locate Mr. Stames and Mr. Calvert. Urgent. I am returning to Field Office immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. Andrews.”
“WFO 180 out of service.”
Twelve minutes later, he arrived at the Washington
Field Office and parked his car. He ran to the elevator. The operator took him up. He rushed out.
“Aspirin, Aspirin. Who the hell's on duty tonight?”
“I'm the only one on tonight, boy, I'm here on my own,” said Aspirin, looking over his glasses, rather bored. “What's the matter?”
“Where's Stames? Where's Calvert?” Mark demanded.
“They went home just over an hour ago.”
Oh hell, what should he do now? Aspirin was not a man to confide in, but he was the only person Mark could seek any advice from. And although Stames had carefully instructed him not to speak to anyone about the details until they had seen the Director, this was an emergency. He wouldn't give away any of the details, he would just find out what a Hoover man would have done.
“I have to find Stames and Calvert, wherever they are. Any suggestions?”
“Well, first of all, have you tried the car radio stations?” asked Aspirin.
“I asked Polly to check. I'll try her again.”