Shall We Tell the President?

Tuesday morning 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?

“...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?

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 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.

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.

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.”

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.”

“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-in-law? 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 Mark — a 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.

“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.

“I know that some of my colleagues will argue that, since we require registration of cars and drivers, we ought also to register guns. But gentlemen, we have no national car- or driver-registration law. These matters are left to the states to determine. Each state should be allowed to decide for itself, taking into account the interests of its people, what is reasonable and necessary.”

Senator Dexter monopolized the floor for twenty minutes before yielding to the Chair, occupied today by Senator Kemp, who recognized Senator Brooks. When Brooks had finished his preliminary remarks, he launched into a prepared speech:

“...have consistently decried the killing in the Middle East, in Africa, in Northern Ireland, in Chile. We ended the bloodshed in Vietnam. But when are we going to confront the killing that takes place in our own communities, our own streets, our own homes, every day of every year?” Brooks paused and looked at Senator Harrison from South Carolina, one of the leading opponents of the bill. “Are we waiting for another national tragedy to compel us to take action? Only after the assassination of John F. Kennedy was Senator Thomas Dodd’s Handgun Control bill taken seriously by a Senate committee. No legislation was passed. After the Watts riots of August 1965, in which purchased, not looted guns were used, the Senate held hearings about control of handguns. No action was taken. It took the slaying of Martin Luther King, before the Judiciary Committee passed legislation, controlling interstate sale of handguns as a rider to the omnibus Crime Control bill. The Senate approved the bill. The House concurred after Robert Kennedy was murdered too. In response to the violence of 1968, we enacted the Handgun Control act. But the act, gentlemen, contained a huge loophole — it did not regulate domestic production of these weapons, because at that time eighty percent of available handguns were manufactured overseas. In 1972, after George Wallace was shot with a Saturday-Night Special, the Senate finally acted to close the loophole. But the bill died in a House Committee.

“Now, some twenty years or more later, having disregarded the fact that President Reagan was seriously wounded in 1981 by a man wielding a handgun in the streets of Washington, even with all that history someone in America is killed or injured by gunfire every two minutes, and we are still without an effective gun control law. What are we waiting for? Someone to try again to assassinate the President?” He paused for effect. “The American people favor gun control legislation. Every poll indicates that this is the case, and it has been true for a decade. Why do we allow the National Rifle Association to manipulate us, to persuade us that they and their views are compelling when in fact they are hollow? What has happened to our capacity for the clear weighing of alternatives, and for outrage at the violence in our society?”

Mark, along with many other observers, was astonished by this impassioned outburst. His impression from informed political journalists was that Brooks would not support the President as, quite apart from personal animosity, he had been a key figure on a number of constitutional issues and in the fight against two of Kane’s Supreme Court appointees, Haynsworth and Carswell.

Senator Harrison of South Carolina, an urbane, quietly distinguished man, asked to be recognized. “Will the distinguished Senator from Massachusetts yield?”

Brooks nodded to the Chair.

Harrison addressed his colleagues in a soft, firm voice.

“This bill completely negates the concept of self-defense. It asserts that the only legitimate reason for owning a handgun, a shotgun, or a rifle is for sporting purposes. But I would like to ask my distinguished colleagues from the urban states to consider for a moment — just a moment — the plight of a family on a farm in Iowa or on a homestead in Alaska which needs a gun in the house to protect itself. Not for sport, but for self-defense. In my estimation, they have a right to take that step. For what we face in this country, in urban as well as rural areas, is increasing lawlessness. That is the root problem — lawlessness — not the number of guns in circulation. Increased lawlessness means more crimes involving guns, to be sure. But guns do not cause crimes, people cause crimes. If we want to fight crime, we should investigate its root causes instead of trying to take guns away from people who would use them legally. As many a bumper sticker in this great land proclaims, ‘If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns’.”

Senator Thornton of Texas, thin and gaunt, with greasy black hair, whom Mark remembered from Mr. Smith’s Restaurant, had only just begun to express his agreement with the views of Senator Dexter and Senator Harrison when six lights around the numbers on the clock at Mark’s end of the chamber came alive. A buzzer sounded six times to signal that morning business was concluded. The “morning hour” on the floor of the Senate, from midday until no later than 2:00 P.M., was set aside for the presentation of petitions and memorials, reports of standing and select committees, and introduction of bills and resolutions.

Senator Kemp looked at his watch. “Excuse me, Senator Thornton, but it is noon and now that morning business is over, a number of us are expected to appear in committee to debate the Clean Air bill which is on the calendar for this afternoon. Why don’t we reconvene at 2:30? As many of us who can get away from the committee at that time can meet back here to discuss this bill. It’s important that we move as quickly as possible on this legislation, as we are still hoping to vote on it in this session.”

The Senate floor was cleared in a minute. The actors had said their lines and left the stage. Only those who had to get the theater ready for the afternoon performance remained. Mark asked the guard which was Henry Lykham, the other staff director he had to see. The doorman in the official blue uniform of the Senate Security Staff pointed to a short fat man with a thin moustache and a jolly open face sitting firmly in a large seat at the far side of the gallery, making notes and checking papers. Mark strolled over to him, unaware that a pair of eyes behind dark glasses was following his every movement.

“My name is Mark Andrews, sir.”

“Ah, yes, the graduate student. I’ll be free in a moment, Mr. Andrews.”

Mark sat down and waited. The man in dark glasses left the chamber by the side door.

“All right, Mr. Andrews, how about some lunch?”

“Great,” replied Mark. He was taken to the ground floor, to G-211, the Senators’ Dining Room. They found a table at the side of the room. Mark chatted convincingly about the hard work a committee staff director must have to do, while others get the praise and publicity. Henry Lykham readily agreed. They both chose their meal from the fixed menu; so did the man three tables away, who was watching them both carefully. Mark told the committee staff director that he intended to write his thesis on the Gun Control bill if it became law, and that he wanted some interesting inside information that the general public wouldn’t get from the newspapers. “Therefore, Mr. Lykham,” he concluded, “I have been advised to speak to you.”

The fat man beamed; he was duly flattered, as Mark had hoped, and he began.

“There is nothing I can’t tell you about this bill or the bunch of politicians involved in it.”

Mark smiled, he had studied the Watergate hearings in an elective seminar at Yale and he recalled a particular remark of Anthony Ulasewicz, a retired NYPD detective. “Why bother to bug the place? Politicians and officials will tell you anything you want to know, over the phone, they’ll even want to send it to you in the mail, whoever you are.”

Senator Sam Irvin of North Carolina, the committee chairman, had reprimanded him for treating the committee lightly and turning the matter into a joke. “It’s no joke — it’s the truth,” was Ulasewicz’s reply.

Mark asked which of the eleven senators on the committee were for the bill. Only four of them had been present at the morning discussion. From his research, Mark was fairly certain about the opinions of most of them but he wanted his assessments confirmed.

“Among the Democrats, Brooks, Burdick, Stevenson, and Glenn will vote for the measure. Abourezk, Byrd, and Moynihan are keeping their own counsel, but will probably come through in support of the Administration position. They voted for the bill in committee. Thornton is the only Democrat who may vote against it. You heard him start to speak in favor of Dexter’s states’ rights position. Well, for Thornton, young man, it’s not a matter of principle. He wants it both ways. Texas has a strong state gun control measure, so he can claim that his stance means that states can take whatever action they deem necessary to protect their citizens. But Texas also has a number of firearms companies — Smith and Wesson, GKN Powdermet, Harrington and Richardson — which would be seriously affected by a federal gun control act. The specter of unemployment again. As long as those companies can sell their wares outside Texas, they’re okay. So Thornton fools his constituents into thinking they can control guns and manufacture them at the same time. Strange games are being played by that particular man. As for the Republicans, Mathias of Maryland will vote for the bill. He’s a very liberal guy — I’ll never understand why he stays in the GOP. McCollister of Nebraska is against, along with Woodson of Arkansas. Harrison and Dexter you heard. No question where they stand.

“Harrison despite being a Democrat knows damn well that his constituents wouldn’t tolerate gun control and will vote him out if he goes with it. Hard to tell if he’s been brainwashed by the National Rifle Association, because he seems to be sincere when he talks about the idea of self-defense. He’s a strange guy. Everyone in this place regards him as a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, but no one really knows him. He hasn’t been here all that long. He succeeded Sparkman when he retired — bit of an unknown quantity.”

Mark let him talk on. Lykham was enjoying the role of the expert, the man who knew everything. Normally, he sat for hours in the hearing room, unable to say a word, listening and making notes and occasionally whispering a suggestion in the ear of the chairman. Only his wife listened to his opinions and she never understood their significance. Lykham was delighted to have found an academic who had come to him for the facts.

“Dexter talks a good game — smooth character, that one. He beat the guy who was appointed to fill Ribicoff’s term when Abe was picked by the President for a roving ambassadorship. Surprise winner. Wouldn’t have thought that Connecticut would be represented by two Republicans. Guess all those rich New Yorkers moving to Stamford are making a difference. Anyway, just between the two of us, Mark, I have my suspicions about the purity of his principles. Do you know how many gun companies there are in Connecticut? Remington, Colt, Olin, Winchester, Marlin, Sturm-Ruger. Now, that never stopped Senator Ribicoff from voting for gun control, but Dexter... well, he owns a big slice of one of them, that’s no secret. Something’s biting him at the moment, he’s as grouchy as hell, and he hasn’t missed a session yet.”

Mark had a sick feeling in his stomach. My God, Elizabeth’s father? He just didn’t want to believe it.

“So you think the bill will be passed?” said Mark in a conversational tone.

“No question, while the Democrats remain in control of both Houses. The minority report was vicious, but it’ll get a majority on 10 March. There wasn’t much doubt about that after the House put it through. By Thursday, nothing can stop it. The Majority Leader is only too aware of the importance the President attaches to this bill.”

Byrd, thought Mark. He’s on the list. “Could you tell me a little about the Majority Leader? He was on the Judiciary Committee, right? Where does he stand?”

“That’s an interesting question, Andrews. Senator Byrd is a humorless, driven, ambitious individual. He has ulcers. He was born in poverty, always makes a point of emphasizing his origins, so much so that some of his colleagues call him Uriah Heep. In the 1940s, when he was only nineteen, he belonged to the Ku Klux Klan; yet he managed to overcome that handicap and rise to the most powerful post in the Senate in a party dominated by liberals. He got where he is because he’s a team player. He does favors for other senators, and always has. He’s diligent, conscientious about meeting their needs. His attention to detail has paid off in spades. He had always supported the Democratic — with a capital D — position. And he’s a very effective Majority Leader.

“No love lost in that relationship, but since Byrd has become Majority Leader he has fallen into line. With his background, it’s unlikely that he’s genuinely in favor of gun control, but he hasn’t spoken out against the bill, naturally, because he has been shepherding it through the Senate for the President. He’s done it very efficiently. He’s scheduled it early, avoided recesses—”

“Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Lykham, but what do you mean he’s avoided recesses? The committee didn’t sit round the clock, surely?”

“No, young man, I was referring to a technical, procedural distinction between adjournment and recess. You see, the Senate usually recesses from one day to the next. The day after a recess, the unfinished business of the previous day is in order; the morning business can be dispensed with. Whenever the Majority Leader opts for a recess rather than adjournment, he thereby lengthens the ‘legislative day’. And since bills reported from committee must lay over one legislative day before a motion to consider is in order, the recess can be used to delay action on a particular measure. The so-called legislative day can extend for days, weeks, conceivably even months now she only has two years left. This bill has been put through in the minimum possible time. If the President doesn’t get support on 10 March, she will not have time to put it up again before she goes for re-election. It will be a victory for those against the bill. And she may not be re-elected if the polls are to be believed. Americans get sick of their presidents very quickly nowadays. So it’s 10 March or forget it.”

“What could stop it on 10 March?”

“Nothing I can think of offhand, except the death of the President, which could recess the Senate for seven days. Still the President looks pretty fit to me, perhaps a little tired, not that I’m one to comment.”

Mark was about to question Lykham about Brooks, when the staff director glanced at his watch.

“Look at the time,” Lykham expostulated, “I must get back. I have to be the first, you know, get everything in order, so those senators think that we haven’t been away at all.”

Mark thanked him. Lykham picked up the check and signed it.

“Any time you want more help or information, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

“I certainly will,” said Mark.

The fat staff director waddled away at what for him was full speed. Mark pondered over his coffee. The man three tables away had finished his and was waiting for Mark’s next move. Those damn bells were ringing again. Only one this time, indicating that the yeas and nays were being tallied on the Senate floor. As soon as the vote was over, the senators would be flocking back to committee meetings. The bell brought Mark sharply out of his thoughts.

Once again he returned to the Dirksen Building and the Foreign Relations Committee Suite, where he asked if he could see Mr. Kenneck.

“Who shall I say is asking for him?” the receptionist inquired.

“Andrews, I’m a Yale student.”

She picked a phone up and pressed two digits, informed the listener of what Mark had told her.

“He’s in Room 4491.”

Mark thanked her and left for Room 4491, which was only a few doors down the corridor.

“Well, Andrews, what can I do for you?” he asked, even before Mark had closed the door.

Mark was taken aback by the suddenness of his question; he recovered.

“I’m doing some research for a thesis, Mr. Kenneck, on the work of senators, and Mr. Lykham said you were the man to speak to. I wondered if Senators Nunn and Pearson were in the Senate on Thursday, 3 March, at 10:30, for the Foreign Relations Committee?”

Kenneck bent over a red leather-bound book. “Nunn — no,” he paused. “Pearson — no. Anything else, Mr. Andrews?” He obviously hadn’t any time to waste.

“No, thank you,” said Mark and left.

Mark headed for the Library. Suddenly he was down to five senators, if the Bureau were right about what they had overheard on the illegal radio transmission when their man must have been in the Senate on the morning of 3 March. He checked his notes: each one of the remaining suspects — Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, and Thornton — had sat on the Judiciary Committee on the Gun Control bill and was in the Senate for the debate. Five men and a motive?

He was followed out of the room and into the elevator that took him to the ground floor. He used the pay phone across the hall from the elevator, near the Constitution Avenue entrance, to call the Director.

He dialed the Director’s private number.

“Julius.”

“What’s your number?”

Mark gave it. A few seconds later the Director called him back.

“Nunn and Pearson are off. I’m down to five and the one thing they have in common is that all of them were on the committee of the Gun Control bill.”

“Good,” said the Director. “Much as I had expected. Getting better, Mark, but your time is running out, we’ve only about forty-eight hours left.”

“Yes, sir.”

The phone clicked.

He waited for a moment and then dialed Woodrow Wilson. There was the usual interminable wait while they found Elizabeth. What could he say about last night? What if the Director were right and her father—”

“Dr. Dexter.”

“When do you finish work tonight, Liz?”

“Five o’clock, lover,” she said mockingly.

“May I pick you up?”

“If you like, now that I know your intentions are pure and honorable.”

“Listen, one day, but not today, I’ll be able to explain about that.”

“See you at five, Mark.”

“See you at five, Liz.”

Mark put Elizabeth out of his mind by a conscious effort of will, and walked across the street to the Capitol grounds. He sat down under a tree on the grassy area between the Supreme Court and the Capitol. Protected, he thought, by law and legislature, bounded by Constitution and Independence. Who would dare to confront him here in front of the Capitol, the favored haunt of Senate staff, law clerks, and the Capitol police? A blue and white sight-seeing tourmobile passed by on 1st Street, blocking his view of the fountains in front of the Supreme Court. Tourists gaped at Washington’s white-marbled splendor. “And on your right, ladies and gentlemen, the United States Capitol. The cornerstone of the original building was laid in 1793. The British burned the Capitol building on 24 August, 1814...”

And some crazy senator is going to defile it on 10 March, added Mark silently as the tourmobile moved on. Foreboding oppressed him; it really is going to happen, we can’t stop it. Comes Caesar to the Capitol... Blood on the steps.

He forced himself to look at his notes. Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, Thornton. He had two days to transform five into one. The conspirator he sought was Cassius, not Brutus. Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison, and Thornton. Where were they at lunchtime on 24 February? If he knew the answer, he would know which four men were innocent and which man was so desperate that he would plot to assassinate the President. Even if we find out which man is behind this, he thought, as he stood up and brushed the grass from his trousers, how do we stop the murder? Obviously, the Senator isn’t going to commit the killing himself. We must keep the President away from the Capitol. The Director must have a plan, he surely wouldn’t let it go that far. Mark closed his file and walked to the Metro.

Once home, he picked up his car and drove slowly to Woodrow Wilson. He looked in the rear-view mirror. A different car was following him today, a black Buick. Someone looking after me again, he thought. He arrived at the hospital at 4:45 but Elizabeth wasn’t free yet, so he went back to his car and turned on the evening news. An earthquake in the Philippines that had killed 112 people was the lead story. President Kane was still confident of support for the Gun Control bill. The Dow-Jones index had moved up three points to 1,411. The Yankees beat the Dodgers in a spring training game, what’s new?

Elizabeth came out of the hospital looking depressed and jumped in beside him.

“What can I say about last night?” Mark asked.

“Nothing,” said Elizabeth. “It was like reading a book with the last chapter torn out. Who tore it out, Mark?”

“Perhaps I’ve brought the last chapter with me,” said Mark, avoiding the question.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be in the mood for another bedtime story for a while,” she replied. “The last one gave me a bad dream.”

Elizabeth was very quiet and Mark could get little response from her. He turned right off Independence and stopped the car on one of the side streets on the Mall, facing the Jefferson Memorial and the sunset.

“Is it last night?” asked Mark.

“Partly,” she said. “You made me feel pretty silly walking off like that. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it was all about?”

“I can’t do that,” said Mark uneasily. “But believe me, it had nothing to do with you. At least that’s almost—” He stopped abruptly.

Never embarrass the Bureau.

“‘At least that’s almost’ what? Almost true? Why was that call so important?”

“Let’s stop this and go eat.”

Elizabeth didn’t reply.

He started the car again. Two cars pulled out at the same time as he did. A blue Ford sedan and a black Buick. They’re certainly making sure today, he thought. Perhaps one of them is just looking for a parking space. He glanced at Elizabeth to see if she’d noticed them too; no, why should she, only he could see in the rear-view mirror. He drove to a small, warm Japanese restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue. He couldn’t take her home, while the damned Bureau had the place bugged. Deftly, the Oriental waiter sliced the fat shrimps, cooked them on the metal slab in the center of their table. He flicked each shrimp as he finished it onto their plates, giving them small, delicious bowls of sauces in which to dip the pieces. Elizabeth brightened under the influence of the hot sake.

“I’m sorry to react so strongly. I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”

“Like to tell me about it?”

“I can’t, I’m afraid. It’s personal and my father has asked me not to discuss it with anyone yet.”

Mark froze. “Can’t you tell me?”

“No. I guess we’ll both have to be patient.”

They went to a drive-in movie and sat in the comfortable, semi-darkness, arms companionably intertwined. Mark sensed she didn’t wish to be touched, and indeed he was in no mood to do so. They were both concerned about the same man, but for different reasons — or was it the same reason? And how would she react if she discovered that he had been investigating her father since the day after they met? Maybe she knew. Damn it, why couldn’t he simply believe in her? Surely, she wasn’t setting him up. He could remember very little about the film, and when it ended he took her home and left immediately. Two cars were still following him.

A figure jumped out of the shadows. “Hi, stud!” Mark swung around and checked his holster nervously.

“Oh, hi, Simon.”

“Listen, man, I can show you some dirty postcards if you’re still desperate, ’cause it seems that you’re just not good enough, man. I had a black one last night, I’m having a white one tonight.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Mark.

“I check in advance, man, I ain’t got time to waste with my pretty body.” Simon burst out laughing. “Think about me when you go to bed tonight, all alone, Mark, ’cause I sure will have forgotten you. Cool your jets, man.”

Mark threw him the keys and watched him as he walked towards the Mercedes swinging his hips, dancing and laughing.

“You ain’t got it, baby, whatever it is.”

“Bullshit! You’re a jive-ass bastard,” Mark said, and laughed.

“Now, you’re just jealous, man, or prejudiced,” said Simon, as he revved up the car and moved to a parking space. As he passed Mark, he shouted, “Either way, I’m the winner.”

Mark wondered if he ought to apply for a job as a garage attendant at the apartment building. It seemed to have its compensations. He looked around; something moved; no, it was just his nerves or his imagination. Once in his room, he wrote his report for the morning session with the Director and fell into bed.

Two days to go.