Shall We Tell the President?

Wednesday morning 9 March

1:00 A.M.

The phone rang. Mark was just falling asleep, still in that world between sleeping and waking. The phone insisted. Try to answer it, it could be Julius.

“Hello,” he said, yawning.

“Mark Andrews?”

“Yes,” he said wearily, shifting himself to a more comfortable position in the bed, fearing if he woke up fully he would never get back to sleep.

“It’s George Stampouzis. Sorry to wake you, but I’ve come up with something I thought you would want to know about immediately.”

Stampouzis’s statement acted like cold water. Mark was wide awake instantly.

“Right, don’t say anything else, I’ll call you from a pay phone. What’s your number?” Mark wrote it down on the back of a Kleenex box, the only thing he could reach. He threw on a bathrobe, forced his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and started for the door. He opened the door, looked both ways. Hell, he was getting paranoid. There was no sound in the hall; there wouldn’t be even if someone were waiting for him. He took the elevator down to the garage level, where there was a pay phone. Simon was asleep on the chair — how did he manage it? Mark had found it hard enough to sleep in bed.

He dialed the 212 area code.

“Hello, Stampouzis. Mark Andrews.”

“Do you G-men always play games at one in the morning? I would have thought you’d figured out a better system by now.”

Mark laughed; the sound echoed in the garage; Simon twitched.

“What can I do for you?”

“I traded some information today, now you owe me two stories.” Stampouzis paused. “The Mafia had nothing to do with Stames’s death, and they are not going overboard for the Gun Control bill, although they basically oppose it. So you can eliminate them. I wouldn’t have gone this far for anyone but Nick, so make sure you handle it right.”

“I’m doing my best,” Mark replied. “Thanks for your help.”

He put the phone on the hook and walked back to the elevator, thinking about the tousled bed which he hoped was still warm. Simon was still asleep.