Shall We Tell the President?

Thursday morning 10 March

5:00 A.M.

The Director woke suddenly. He lay there, frustrated; there was nothing he could do at this hour except look at the ceiling and think, and that didn’t help much. He went over and over in his mind the events of the past six days, always leaving until last the thought of canceling the whole operation, which would probably mean even now that the Senator and his cohorts would get away scot-free. Perhaps they already knew and had disappeared to lick their wounds and prepare for another day. Either way it would remain his problem.

The Senator woke at 5:35 in a cold sweat — not that he had really slept for more than a few minutes at any one time. It had been an evil night, thunder and lightning and sirens. It was the sirens that had made him sweat. He was even more nervous than he had expected to be; in fact just after he heard three chime he had nearly dialed the Chairman to say that he couldn’t go through with it, despite the consequences that the Chairman had so delicately, but so frequently, adumbrated. But the vision of President Kane dead beside him reminded the Senator that everybody even now could remember exactly where he was when John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and he himself was never going to be able to forget where he was when Florentyna Kane died. Even that seemed less appalling than the thought of his own name in the headlines, his public image irreparably damaged, and his career ruined. Even so, he nearly called the Chairman, as much for reassurance as anything, despite their agreement that they had contacted each other for the last time until late the following morning, when the Chairman would be in Miami.

Five men had already died and that had caused only a ripple: President Kane’s death would reverberate around the world.

The Senator stared out of the window for some time, focusing on nothing, then turned away. He kept looking at his watch, wishing he could stop time. The second hand moved relentlessly — relentlessly towards 10:56. He busied himself with breakfast and the morning paper. The Post informed him that many buildings had caught fire during the night in one of the worst storms in Washington’s history, and the Lubber Run in Virginia had overflowed its banks, causing heavy property damage. There was little mention of President Kane. He wished he could read tomorrow’s papers today.

The first call the Director received was from Elliott, who informed him that the recent activities of Senators Dexter and Harrison revealed nothing new about the situation — not that the anonymous man knew exactly what the situation was. The Director grumbled to himself, finished his egg — sunny-side up — and read the Post’s description of the demonic weather that had assailed Washington during the night. He glanced out of the window at the day, now clear and dry. A perfect day for an assassination, he thought. The bright day that brings forth the adder. How late could he leave it before letting everyone know everything? The President was scheduled to leave the White House at 10:00 A.M. The Director would have to brief the head of the Secret Service, H. Stuart Knight, long before then and, if necessary, the President at least one hour before that. To hell with it, he would leave it to the last minute and make a full explanation afterward. He was willing to risk his career to catch this pernicious Senator red-handed. But risking the President’s life...

He drove to the Bureau soon after 6:00. He wanted to be there a full two hours before Andrews to study all the reports he had ordered the evening before. Not many of his senior aides would have had much sleep last night, though they were probably still wondering why. They would know soon enough. His deputy Associate Director for Investigation, his Assistant Director for Planning and Evaluation, and the head of the Criminal Section of that division would help him decide if he should go ahead or cancel. His Ford sedan slid down the ramp to the underground parking lot and his reserved parking place.

Elliott was there to meet him at the elevator — he was always there, never late. He’s not human, he’ll have to go, thought the Director, if I don’t have to go first. He suddenly realized that he could be handing his resignation in to the President that night. Which President? He put it out of his mind — that would all take care of itself in its own time, he must now take care of the next five hours.

Elliott had nothing useful to say. Dexter and Harrison had both received and made phone calls during the night and early morning, but nothing incriminating had been picked up. No other information was forthcoming. The Director asked where the two senators were at that moment.

“Both eating breakfast at their homes. Dexter in Kensington, Harrison in Alexandria. Six agents have been watching them since five o’clock this morning and have been detailed to follow them all day.”

“Good. Report back to me immediately if anything unusual happens.”

“Of course, sir.”

The fingerprint man was next. When he arrived, the Director first apologized for keeping him up all night, though the man’s face and eyes looked more alight and alive than his own had been in the shaving mirror that morning.

Five feet four inches tall, slight and rather pale, Daniel Sommerton began his report. He was like a child with a toy. For him, working with prints had always been a passion as well as a job. The Director remained seated while Sommerton stood. If the Director had stood, he would not have been head and shoulders above him, but head, shoulders, and chest above him.

“We have found seventeen different fingers, and three different thumbs, Director,” he said gleefully. “We’re putting them through the Ninhydrin rather than the iodine-fume process, since we were unable to do them one at a time for technical reasons that I won’t bother you with.”

He waved his arm imperiously to imply that he would not waste a scientific explanation on the Director, who would have been the first to acknowledge such a pointless exercise.

“We think there are two more prints we might identify,” Sommerton continued, “and we will have a readout for you on all twenty-two of them within two, at the most three hours.”

The Director glanced at his watch — already 6:45.

“Well done. That won’t be a minute too soon. Get me the results — even if they are negative — as quickly as possible, and please thank all of your staff for working through the night.”

The fingerprint expert left the Director, anxious to return to his seventeen fingers, three thumbs and two unidentified marks. The Director pressed a button and asked Mrs. McGregor to send in the Assistant Director for Planning and Evaluation.

Two minutes later, Walter Williams was standing in front of him.

Five feet eleven, fair with a thin pallid face, dominated by a magnificent high-domed forehead, lined with amusement not grief, Williams was known in the Bureau either as the Brain or W.W. His primary responsibility was to head the Bureau’s think tank of six lesser but still impressive brains. The Director often confronted him with hypothetical situations to which W.W. would later provide an answer which often proved, in retrospect, to be the right one. The Director placed great faith in his judgment, but he could not take any risks today. W.W. had better come up with a convincing answer to his hypothetical question of last night or his next call would be to the President.

“Good morning, Director.”

“Good morning, W.W. What is your decision concerning my little problem?”

“Most interesting, Director... I feel, to be fair, the answer is simple, even when we look at the problem from every angle.”

For the first time that morning a trace of a smile appeared on the Director’s face.

“Assuming I haven’t misunderstood you, Director.”

The Director’s smile broadened slightly; W.W. neither missed nor misunderstood anything, and was so formal that he didn’t address the Director even in private as Halt. W.W. continued, his eyebrows moving up and down like the Dow-Jones index in an election year:

“You asked me to assume that the President would be leaving the White House at X hundred hours and then traveling by car to the Capitol. That would take her six minutes. I’m assuming her car is bullet-proof and well covered by the Secret Service. Under these conditions would it be possible to assassinate her. The answer is, it’s possible but almost impossible, Director. Nevertheless, following the hypothesis through to its logical conclusion, the assassination team could use three methods: (a) explosives; (b) a handgun at close range; (c) a rifle.”

W.W. always sounded like a textbook. “The bomb can be thrown at any point on the route, but it is never used by professionals, because professionals are paid for results, not attempts. If you study bombs as a method of removing a President, you will find there hasn’t been a successful one yet, despite the fact that we have had four Presidents assassinated in office. Bombs inevitably end up killing innocent people and quite often the perpetrator of the crime as well. For that reason, since you have implied that the people involved would be professionals, I feel they must rely on the handgun or the rifle. Now the short-range gun, Director, is not a possible weapon on the route itself because it is unlikely that a pro would approach the President and shoot him at close range, thereby risking his own life. It would take an elephant gun or an anti-tank gun to pierce the President’s limousine, and you can’t carry those around in the middle of Washington without a permit.”

With W.W., the Director could never be sure if it were meant to be a joke or just another fact. The eyebrows were still moving up and down, a sure signal not to interrupt him with foolish questions.

“When the President arrives at the steps of the Capitol, the crowd is too far away from her for a handgun to (a) be accurate and (b) give the assassin any hope of escape. So we must assume that it’s the best-tested and most successful method of assassination of a Head of State — the rifle with telescopic sights for long range. Therefore, the only hope the assassin would have must be at the Capitol itself. The assassin can’t see into the White House, and in any case the glass in the windows is four inches thick, so he must wait until the President actually leaves the limousine at the steps of the Capitol. This morning we timed a walk up the Capitol steps and it takes around fifty seconds. There are very few vantage points from which to make an assassination attempt, but we have studied the area carefully and you will find them all listed in my report. Also the conspirators must be convinced that we know nothing about the plot, because they know we can cover every possible shooting site. We think an assassination here in the heart of Washington unlikely, but nevertheless just possible by a man or team daring and skillful enough.”

“Thank you, W.W. I’m sure you’re right.”

“A pleasure, sir. I do hope it’s only hypothetical.”

“Yes, W.W.”

W.W. smiled like the only schoolboy in the class who can answer the teacher’s questions. The Brain left the room to return to other problems. The Director paused and called for his other Assistant Director.

Matthew Rogers knocked and entered the room, waiting to be asked to take a seat. He understood authority. Like W.W. he would never become the Director, but no one who did would want to be without him.

“Well, Matt?” said the Director, pointing to the leather chair.

“I read Andrews’ latest report last night, Director, and I really think the time has come for us to brief the Secret Service.”

“I will be doing so in about an hour,” said the Director. “Don’t worry. Have you decided how you’ll deploy your men?”

“It depends where the maximum risk is, sir.”

“All right, Matt, let’s assume that the point of maximum risk is the Capitol itself, at 10:06, right on the steps — what then?”

“First, I would surround the area for about a quarter of a mile in every direction. I’d close down the Metro, stop all traffic, public and private, pull aside for interrogation anyone who has a past record of making threats, anyone who’s on the Security Index. I’d get assistance from the Met to provide perimeter security. We’d want as many eyes and ears in the area as possible. We could get two to four helicopters from Andrews Air Force Base for close scanning. In the immediate vicinity of the President, I’d use the full Secret Service Presidential detail in tight security.”

“Very good, Matt. How many men do you need for such an operation, and how long would it take them to be ready if I declared an emergency procedure now?”

The Assistant Director looked at his watch — just after 7:00. He considered the matter for a moment. “I need three hundred special agents briefed and fully operational in two hours.”

“Right, go ahead,” said the Director crisply. “Report to me as soon as they’re ready but leave the final briefing to the last possible moment, and, Matt, I want no helicopters until 10:01. I don’t want there to be a chance of a leak of any sort; it’s our one hope of catching the assassin.”

“Why don’t you simply cancel the President’s visit, sir? We’re in enough deep water as it is, and it’s not entirely your responsibility in the first place.”

“If we pull out now, we only have to start all over again tomorrow,” said the Director, “and I may never get another chance like this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t let me down, Matt, because I am going to leave the ground operations entirely in your hands.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Rogers left the room. The Director knew his job would be done as competently as it could be by any professional law-enforcement officer in America.

“Mrs. McGregor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me the head of the Secret Service at the White House.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Director glanced at his watch: 7:10. Andrews was due at 8:15. The phone rang.

“Mr. Knight on the line, sir.”

“Stuart, can you call me on my private line and be sure you’re not overheard?”

H. Stuart Knight knew Halt well enough to realize that he meant what he said. He called back immediately on his special scrambler.

“Stuart, I’d like to see you immediately, usual place, take about thirty minutes, no more. Top priority.”

Damned inconvenient, thought Knight, with the President leaving for the Capitol in two hours, but Halt only made this request two or three times a year, and he knew that other matters must be put to one side for the moment. Only the President and the Attorney General took priority over Halt.

The Director of the FBI and the head of the Secret Service met at a line of cabs in front of Union Station ten minutes later. They didn’t take the first cab in the line, but the seventh. They climbed in the back without speaking or acknowledging each other. Elliott drove the Max’s Yellow Cab off to circle the Capitol. The Director talked and the head of the Secret Service listened.

Mark’s alarm woke him at 6:45. He showered and shaved and thought about those transcripts he had left in the Senate, trying to convince himself that they would have thrown no light on whether it was Dexter or Harrison. He silently thanked Senator Stevenson for indirectly disposing of Senators Brooks, Byrd, and Thornton. He would thank anybody who could dispose of Senator Dexter. He was beginning to agree with the Director’s reasoning — it all pointed to Dexter. His motive was particularly compelling, but... Mark looked at his watch; he was a little early. He sat on the edge of his bed; he scratched his leg which was itching; something must have bitten him during the night. He continued trying to figure out if there was anything he had missed.

The Chairman got out of bed at 7:20 and lit his first cigarette. He couldn’t remember exactly when he had woken. At 6:10 he had phoned Tony, who was already up and waiting for his call. They weren’t to meet that day unless the Chairman needed the car in an emergency. The next time they would speak to each other would be on the dot of 9:30 for a check-in to confirm they were all in position.

When he had completed the call, the Chairman dialed room service and ordered a large breakfast. What he was about to do that morning was not the sort of work to be tackled on an empty stomach. Matson was due to ring him any time after 7:30. Perhaps he was still asleep. After that effort last night, Matson deserved some rest. The Chairman smiled to himself. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower; a feeble trickle of cold water emerged. Goddamn hotels. One hundred dollars a night and no hot water. He splashed around ineffectively and began to think about the next five hours, going over the plan again carefully to be sure he had not overlooked even the smallest detail. Tonight, Kane would be dead and he would have $2,000,000 in the Union Bank of Switzerland, Zurich, account number AZL-376921-B, a small reward from his grateful friends in the gun trade. And to think Uncle Sam wouldn’t even get the tax.

The phone rang. Damn. He dripped across the floor, his heartbeat quickened. It was Matson.

Matson and the Chairman had driven back from Mark’s apartment at 2:35 that morning, their task completed. Matson had overslept by thirty minutes. The damned hotel had forgotten his wake-up call; you couldn’t trust anyone nowadays. As soon as he had woken, he phoned the Chairman and reported in.

Xan was safely in the top of the crane and ready — probably the only one of them who was still asleep.

The Chairman, although dripping, was pleased. He put the phone down and returned to the shower. Damn, still cold.

Matson masturbated. He always did when he was nervous and had time to kill.

Florentyna Kane did not wake until 7:35. She rolled over, trying to recall the dream she had just had, but none of it would come back to her, so she let her mind wander. Today, she would be going to the Capitol to plead her case for the Gun Control bill before a special session of the Senate and then on to have lunch with all the key supporters and opponents of the bill. Since the bill had been approved in committee, as she had been confident it would be, she had concentrated on her strategy for the final day of floor battle; at least the odds now seemed to be with her. She smiled at Edward, although he had his back to her. It had been a busy session, and she was looking forward to going to Camp David and spending more time with her family. Better get moving, more than half of America is already up, she thought, and I am still lying in bed... Still, that waking half of America had not had to dine the previous evening with the four-hundred-pound King of Tonga, who wasn’t going to leave the White House until he was virtually thrown out. The President wasn’t absolutely certain she could pinpoint Tonga on the map. The Pacific was after all a large ocean. She had left her Secretary of State, Abe Chayes, to do the talking; he at least knew exactly where Tonga was.

She stopped thinking about the overweight king and put her feet on the floor — or to be more exact, on the Presidential Seal. The damned thing was on everything except the toilet paper. She knew that when she appeared for breakfast in the dining-room across the hall, she would find the third edition of the New York Times, the third edition of the Washington Post, the first editions of the Los Angeles Times and the Boston Globe, all ready for her to read, with the pieces referring to her marked in red, plus a prepared digest of yesterday’s news. How did they get it all completed before she was even dressed? Florentyna went to the bathroom and turned on the shower; the water pressure was just right. She began to consider what she could say finally to convince the waverers in the Senate that the Gun Control bill must become law. Her train of thought was interrupted by her efforts to reach the middle of her back with the soap. Presidents still do that for themselves, she thought.

Mark was due to be with the Director in twenty minutes. He checked his mail — just an envelope from American Express, which he left on the kitchen table unopened.

A yawning O’Malley was sitting in the Ford sedan a hundred yards away. He was relieved to be able to report that Mark had left the apartment building and was talking to the black garage attendant. Neither O’Malley nor Thompson had admitted to anybody that they had lost Mark for several hours the previous evening.

Mark walked around the side of the building and disappeared from the view of the man in the blue Ford. It didn’t worry him. O’Malley had checked the location of the Mercedes an hour earlier; there was only one way out.

Mark noticed a red Fiat as he came around the corner of the building. Looks like Elizabeth’s, he thought to himself, except for the damage to a bumper. He stared at it again and was taken by surprise to see Elizabeth sitting in it. He opened the door. If he were to be Ragani and she were Mata Hari, he was now past caring. He climbed in beside her. Neither of them spoke until they both spoke at once and laughed nervously. She tried again. Mark sat in silence.

“I’ve come to say I’m sorry about being so touchy last night. I should have at least given you a chance to explain. I really don’t want you to sleep with any other senator’s daughter,” she said, trying to force a smile.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, Liz. Trust me, as they say in Hollywood. Whatever happens, let’s meet this evening and then I’ll try to explain everything. Don’t ask me anything before then and promise that whatever happens you will see me tonight. If after that you never want to see me again I promise I’ll leave quietly.”

Elizabeth nodded her agreement. “But not as abruptly as you left once before, I hope.”

Mark put his arm around her and kissed her quickly. “No more nasty cracks about that night. I’ve spent every night since looking forward to a second chance.”

They both laughed. He started to get out.

“Why don’t I drive you to work, Mark? It’s on my way to the hospital and we won’t have to bother with two cars this evening.”

Mark hesitated. “Why not?”

As she drove around the corner, Simon waved them down. “Apartment Seven’s car won’t be back until late this morning, Mark. I’ll have to park the Mercedes on the street for now but don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on it.” Simon looked at Elizabeth and grinned. “You won’t be needing my sister after all, man.”

Elizabeth pulled out and joined the traffic on 6th Street. A hundred yards away, O’Malley was chewing gum.

“Where shall we have dinner tonight?”

“Let’s go back to that French restaurant and try the whole evening again. This time we’ll complete the final act of the play.”

I hope it begins, “This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he...” Mark thought.

“This time it’s my treat,” said Elizabeth.

Mark accepted, remembering his unopened bill from American Express. The lights turned red at the corner of G Street. They stopped and waited. Mark started scratching his leg again, it really felt quite painful.

The cab was still circling the Capitol but Halt was coming to the end of his briefing for H. Stuart Knight.

“We believe that the attempt will be made when the President gets out of her car at the Capitol. We’ll take care of the Capitol itself if you can manage to get her into the building unharmed. I’ll have my men cover the buildings and roofs of buildings and every elevated vantage point from which it would be possible to shoot.”

“It would make our job a lot easier if the President didn’t insist on walking up the steps. Ever since Carter took his little stroll up Pennsylvania Avenue in ’77...” His voice trailed off in exasperation. “By the way, Halt, why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

“There’s a strange quirk to it, Stuart. I still can’t give you all the details, but don’t worry, they’re not relevant to the task of protecting the President.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that. But are you sure my men can’t help at your end?”

“No, I’m happy as long as I know you’re keeping a close watch on the President. It will give me the freedom I need to catch the bastards red-handed. They mustn’t be allowed to get suspicious. I want to catch the killer while he still has the weapon in his hand.”

“Shall I tell the President?” asked Knight.

“No, just inform her that it’s a new security measure you are putting into practice from time to time.”

“She’s had so many of those she’s bound to believe it,” said Knight.

“Stick to the same route and timetable and I’ll leave the finer points to you, Stuart. And I don’t want any leaks. I’ll see you after the President’s lunch. We can bring each other up-to-date then. By the way, what’s today’s code name for the President?”

“Julius.”

“Good God, I don’t believe it.”

“You are telling me everything I need to know, aren’t you, Halt?”

“No, of course I’m not, Stuart. You know me, Machiavelli’s younger brother.”

The Director tapped Elliott on the shoulder and the cab slipped back into the seventh place in line. The two passengers got out and walked in opposite directions, Knight to catch the Metro to the White House, the Director a cab to the Bureau. Neither looked back.

Lucky Stuart Knight, thought the Director, he’s gone through the last seven days without the information I have. Now the meeting was over, the Director’s confidence in his own stratagem was renewed, and he was resolved that only he and Andrews would ever know the full story — unless they had conclusive proof on which to secure the Senator’s conviction. He had to catch the conspirators alive, get them to testify against the Senator. The Director checked his watch with the clock on the Old Post Office Tower over the Washington Field Office. It was 7:58. Andrews would be due in two minutes. He was saluted as he went through the revolving doors of the Bureau. Mrs. McGregor was standing outside his office, looking agitated.

“It’s Channel Four, sir, asking for you urgently.”

“Put them through,” said the Director. He moved quickly into his office and picked up the extension.

“It’s Special Agent O’Malley from the patrol car, sir.”

“Yes, O’Malley?”

“Andrews has been killed, sir, and there must have been another person in the car.”

The Director couldn’t speak.

“Are you there, Director?” O’Malley waited. “I repeat are you there, Director?”

Finally the Director said, “Come in immediately.” He put the phone down, and his great hands gripped the Queen Anne desk like a throat he wanted to strangle. The fingers then curled and clenched slowly into the palms of his hands until they made massive fists, the nails digging into the skin. Blood trickled slowly down onto the leather-work on the desk, leaving a dark stain. Halt Tyson sat alone for several minutes. Then he instructed Mrs. McGregor to get the President at the White House. He was going to cancel the whole damned thing; he’d already gone too far. He sat silently waiting. The bastards had beaten him. They must know everything.

It took Special Agent O’Malley ten minutes to reach the Bureau, where he was ushered straight in to the Director.

My God, he looks eighty, thought O’Malley.

The Director stared at him. “How did it happen?” he asked quietly.

“He was blown up in a car; we think someone else was with him.”

“Why? How?”

“Must have been a bomb attached to the ignition. It blew up right there in front of us. Made an unholy mess.”

“I don’t give a fuck for the mess,” began the Director on a slowly rising note, when the door opened.

Mark Andrews walked in. “Good morning, sir. I hope I’m not interrupting something. I thought you said 8:15.”

Both men stared at him.

“You’re dead.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Well, who the hell,” said Special Agent O’Malley, “was driving your Mercedes?”

Mark stared at him uncomprehending.

“My Mercedes?” he said quickly. “What are you talking about?”

“Your Mercedes has just been blown to smithereens. I saw it with my own eyes. My colleague down there is trying to put the pieces together; he’s already reported finding the hand of a black man.”

Mark steadied himself against the wall. “The bastards have killed Simon,” he cried in anger. “There will be no need to call Grant Nanna to screw their balls off. I’ll do it myself.”

“Please explain yourself,” said the Director.

Mark steadied himself again, turned around and faced them both. “I came in with Elizabeth Dexter this morning; she came by to see me. I came in with her,” he repeated, not yet coherent.

“Simon moved my car because it was occupying a reserved daytime parking space and now the bastards have killed him.”

“Sit down, Andrews. You too, O’Malley.”

The telephone rang. “The President’s Chief of Staff, sir. The President will be with you in about two minutes.”

“Cancel it and apologize. Explain to Janet Brown that it was nothing important, just wanted to wish the President luck on the Gun Control bill today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So they think you’re dead, Andrews, and they have now played their last card. So we must hold ours back. You’re going to remain dead — for a little while longer.”

Mark and O’Malley looked at each other, both puzzled.

“O’Malley, you return to your car. You say nothing, even to your partner. You have not seen Andrews alive, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get going.”

“Mrs. McGregor, get me the head of External Affairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Director looked at Mark. “I was beginning to miss you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me, I’m just about to kill you again.”

A knock on the door, and Bill Gunn came in. He was the epitome of the public relations man, better dressed than anyone else in the building, with the biggest smile and a mop of fair hair that he washed every two days. His face as he entered was unusually grim.

“Have you heard about the death of one of our young agents, sir?”

“Yes, Bill. Put out a statement immediately that an unnamed special agent was killed this morning and that you will brief the press fully at eleven o’clock.”

“They’ll be hounding me long before then, sir.”

“Let them hound you,” said the Director sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

“At eleven, you will put out another statement saying the agent is alive...”

Bill Gunn’s face registered surprise.

“...and that a mistake has been made, and the man who died was a young garage attendant who had no connection with the FBI.”

“But sir, our agent?”

“No doubt you would like to meet the agent who is supposed to be dead. Bill Gunn — this is Special Agent Andrews. Now not a word, Bill. This man is dead for the next three hours and if I find a leak, you can find a new job.”

Bill Gunn looked convincingly anxious. “Yes, sir.”

“When you’ve written the press statement, call me and read it over to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill Gunn left, dazed. He was a gentle, easy-going man and this was way above his head, but he like so many others trusted the Director.

The Director was becoming very aware just how many men did trust him and how much he was carrying on his own shoulders. He looked back at Mark, who had not recovered from the realization that Simon had died instead of him — the second man to do so in eight days.

“Right, Mark, we have under two hours left, so we will mourn the dead later. Have you anything to add to yesterday’s report?”

“Yes, sir. It’s good to be alive.”

“If you get past eleven o’clock, young man, I think you have a good chance for a long and healthy life, but we still don’t know if it’s Dexter or Harrison. You know I think it’s Dexter.” The Director looked at his watch again: 8:29 — ninety-seven minutes left. “Any new ideas?”

“Well, sir, Elizabeth Dexter certainly can’t be involved, she saved my life by bringing me in this morning. If she wanted me dead, that sure was a funny way of going about it.”

“I’ll accept that,” said the Director, “but it doesn’t clear her father.”

“Surely he wouldn’t kill a man he thought might marry his daughter,” said Mark.

“You’re sentimental, Andrews. A man who plans to assassinate a President doesn’t worry about his daughter’s boy friends.”

The phone rang. It was Bill Gunn from Public Relations.

“Right, read it over.” The Director listened carefully. “Good. Issue it immediately to radio, television, and the papers, and release the second statement at eleven o’clock, no earlier. Thank you, Bill.” The Director put the phone down.

“Congratulations, Mark, you’re the only dead man alive and, like Mark Twain, you will be able to read your own obituary. Now, to bring you quickly up-to-date. I have three hundred field agents already out covering the Capitol and the area immediately surrounding it. The whole place will be sealed off the moment the Presidential car arrives.”

“You’re letting her go to the Capitol?” said Mark in astonishment.

“Listen carefully, Mark. I’ll have a minute-by-minute briefing on where the two senators are from 9:00 A.M. on and six men are tailing both of them. At 9:15, we’re going into the streets ourselves. When it happens, we’re going to be there. If I’m going to carry the ultimate responsibility, I may as well carry it in person.”

“Yes, sir.”

The intercom buzzed.

“It’s Mr. Sommerton. He wants to see you urgently, sir.” The Director looked at his watch: 8:45. On the minute, as he promised.

Daniel Sommerton rushed in, looking rather pleased with himself. He came straight to the point. “One of the prints has come up on the criminal file, it’s a thumb, his name is Matson — Ralph Matson.”

Sommerton produced a photograph of Matson, an Identikit picture, and an enlarged thumbprint.

“And here’s the part you’re not going to like, sir. He’s an ex-FBI agent.” He passed Matson’s card over for the Director to study. Mark looked at the photo. It was the Greek Orthodox priest, big nose, heavy chin.

“Something professional about him,” said the Director and Mark simultaneously.

“Well done, Sommerton, make three hundred copies of the picture immediately and get them to the Assistant Director in charge of the Investigation Division — and that means immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” The fingerprint expert scurried away, pleased with himself. They wanted his thumb.

“Mrs. McGregor, get me Mr. Rogers.”

The Assistant Director was on the line; the Director briefed him.

“Shall I arrest him on sight?”

“No, Matt. Once you’ve spotted him, watch him and keep your boys well out of sight. He could still call everything off if he got suspicious. Keep me briefed all the time. Move in on him at 10:06. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“Yes, sir. Have you briefed the Secret Service?”

“Yes, I have.” He slammed the phone down.

The Director looked at his watch: 9:05. He pressed a button and Elliott came in. “Where are the two senators?”

“Harrison’s still in his Alexandria town house, Dexter has left Kensington and is heading towards the Capitol, sir.”

“You stay here in this office, Elliott, and keep in radio contact with me and the Assistant Director on the street. Never leave this room. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be using my walkie-talkie on Channel Four. Let’s go, Andrews.” They left the anonymous man.

“If anybody calls me, Mrs. McGregor, put them through to Special Agent Elliott in my office. He will know where to contact me.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few moments later, the Director and Mark were on the street walking up Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Capitol. Mark put on his dark glasses and pulled his collar up. They passed several agents on the way. None of them acknowledged the Director. On the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 9th Street, they passed the Chairman, who was lighting a cigarette and checking his watch: 9:30. He moved to the edge of the sidewalk, leaving a pile of cigarette butts behind him. The Director glanced at the cigarette butts: litter bug, ought to be fined a hundred dollars. They hurried on.

“Come in, Tony. Come in, Tony.”

“Tony, boss. The Buick’s ready. I’ve just heard it announced on the car radio that pretty boy Andrews bought it.”

The Chairman smiled.

“Come in, Xan.”

“Ready, await your signal.”

“Come in, Matson.”

“Everything’s set, boss. There’s a hell of a lot of agents around.”

“Don’t sweat, there’s always a lot of Secret Service men around when the President is traveling. Don’t call again unless there’s a real problem. All three keep your lines open. When I next call, I will only activate the vibrators on the side of your watches. Then you have three minutes forty-five seconds, because Kane will be passing me. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

The Chairman broke the circuit and lit another cigarette: 9:40.

The Director spotted Matthew Rogers in a special squad car and went quickly over to him. “Everything under control, Matt?”

“Yes, sir. If anybody tries anything, no one will be able to move for half a mile.”

“Good; what time do you have?”

“Nine-forty-five.”

“Right, you control it from here. I’m going to the Capitol.”

Halt and Mark left the Assistant Director and walked on.

“Elliott calling the Director.”

“Come in, Elliott.”

“They have spotted Matson at the junction of Maryland Avenue and 1st Street, other side of the Garfield statue, southwest corner of the Capitol grounds, near the west front renovation site.”

“Good. Observe and post fifty men around the area, don’t move in yet, brief Mr. Rogers and tell him to keep his men out of Matson’s field of vision.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What the hell is he doing on that side of the Capitol?” said Mark softly. “You couldn’t shoot anyone on the Capitol steps from the northwest side unless you were in a chopper.”

“I agree, it beats me,” said the Director.

They reached the police cordon surrounding the Capitol. The Director showed his credentials to get himself and Andrews through. The young Capitol policeman double-checked them; he couldn’t believe it; he was looking at the real live object. Yes, it was the Director of the FBI. H.A.L. Tyson himself.

“Sorry, sir. Please come through.”

“Elliott to the Director.”

“Yes, Elliott?”

“Head of the Secret Service for you, sir.”

“Stuart.”

“The advance car is leaving the front gate now. Julius will leave in five minutes.”

“Thank you, Stuart. Keep your end up and surprise me.”

“Don’t worry, Halt. We will.”

Five minutes later, the Presidential car left the South Entrance and turned left onto E Street. The advance car passed the Chairman on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 9th. He smiled, lit another cigarette and waited. Five minutes later, a large Lincoln, flags flying on both front fenders, the Presidential Seal on the doors, passed by the Chairman. Through the misty gray windows, he could see three figures in the back. A limousine known as the “gun car” and occupied by Secret Service agents and the President’s personal physician, followed the President’s car. The Chairman pressed a button on his watch. The vibrator began to tickle his wrist. After ten seconds, he stopped it, walked one block north and hailed a taxi.

“National Airport,” he said to the cab driver, fingering the ticket in his inside pocket.

The vibrator on Matson’s watch was touching his skin. After ten seconds, it stopped. Matson walked to the side of the construction site, bent down and tied his shoelace.

Xan started to take off the tape. He was glad to be moving; he had been bent double all night. First he screwed the barrel into the sight finder.

“Assistant Director to Director. Matson is approaching the construction site. Now he has stopped to tie his shoe. No one on the construction site but I’m asking a helicopter to check it out. There’s a huge crane in the middle of the site which looks deserted.”

“Good. Stay put until the last minute. I’ll give you the timing the moment the President’s car arrives. You must catch them red-handed. Alert all agents on the roof of the Capitol.”

The Director turned to Mark, more relaxed. “I think it’s going to be all right.”

Mark’s eyes were on the steps of the Capitol. “Have you noticed, sir, both Senator Dexter and Senator Harrison are in the welcoming party for the President?”

“Yes,” said the Director. “The car is due to arrive in two minutes; we’ll catch the others even if we can’t figure out which Senator it is. We’ll make them talk in due course. Wait a minute — that’s odd.”

The Director’s finger was running down a couple of closely typed sheets he held in his hand.

“Yes, that’s what I thought. The President’s detailed schedule shows that Dexter will be there for the special address to Congress but isn’t attending the luncheon with the President. Very strange: I’m sure all the key leaders of the opposition were invited to lunch. Why won’t Dexter be present?”

“Nothing strange about that, sir. He always has lunch with his daughter on Thursdays. Good God! ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’”

“Yes, Mark, I heard you the first time.”

“No, sir, ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’”

“Mark, the car will be here in one minute.”

“It’s Harrison, sir. It’s Harrison. I’m a fool — Thursday, 24 February, in Georgetown. I always thought of it as 24 February, not as Thursday. Dexter was having lunch with Elizabeth. ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’ That’s why he was seen in Georgetown that day, must be. They never miss it.”

“Are you sure? Can you be certain? There’s a hell of a lot riding on it.”

“It’s Harrison, sir. It can’t be Dexter. I should have realized it on the first day. Christ, I’m stupid.”

“Right, Mark. Up those steps quickly, watch Harrison’s every move and be prepared to arrest him whatever the consequences.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rogers.”

The Assistant Director came in. “Sir?”

“The car is pulling up. Arrest Matson immediately; check the roof of the Capitol.” The Director stared up into the sky. “Oh my God, it’s not a helicopter, it’s that damn crane. It has to be the crane.”

Xan nestled the butt of the yellow rifle into his shoulder and watched the President’s car. He had attached a feather to a piece of thread on the end of the gun barrel, a trick he had picked up when training for the Olympics — no wind. The hours of waiting were coming to an end. Senator Harrison was standing there on the Capitol steps. Through the thirty-power Redfield scope he could even see the beads of sweat standing out on the man’s forehead.

The President’s car drew up on the north side of the Capitol. All was going according to plan. Xan leveled the telescopic sight on the car door and waited for Kane. Two Secret Service men climbed out, scanned the crowd, and waited for the third. Nothing happened. Xan put the sight on the Senator, who looked anxious and bemused. Back at the car, still no Kane. Where the hell was she, what was going on? He checked the feather; still no wind. He moved his sight back on the President’s car. Good God, the crane was moving and Kane wasn’t in the car. Matson had been right all along, they knew everything. Xan knew exactly what had to be done in these circumstances. Only one man could ditch them and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Xan moved his sight up the Capitol steps. One and one-half inches above the forehead. A moment’s hesitation before he squeezed the trigger once... twice, but the second time he didn’t have a clear shot, and a fraction of a second later he could no longer see the Capitol steps. He looked down from the moving crane. He was surrounded by fifty men in dark suits, fifty guns were pointing up at him.

Mark was about a yard away from Senator Harrison when he heard him cry out and fall. Mark jumped on top of the Senator and the second bullet grazed his shoulder. There was a panic among the other senators and officials on the top steps. The welcoming party scurried inside. Thirty FBI men moved in quickly. The Director was the only man who remained on the Capitol steps, steady and motionless, staring up at the crane. They hadn’t nicknamed him Halt by mistake.

“May I ask where I’m going, Stuart?”

“Certainly, Madam President. To the Capitol.”

“But this isn’t the normal route to the Capitol.”

“No, Madam. We’re going down Constitution Avenue to the Russell Building. We hear there has been a little trouble at the Capitol. A demonstration of some kind. The National Rifle Association.”

“So I’m avoiding it, am I? Like a coward, Stuart.”

“No, Madam, I’m slipping you through the basement. Just as a safety precaution and for your own convenience.”

“That means I’ll have to go on that damned subway. Even when I was a senator, I preferred to walk outside.”

“We’ve cleared the way for you, Madam. You’ll still be there bang on time.”

The President grumbled as she looked out of the window and saw an ambulance race in the opposite direction.

Senator Harrison died before he reached the hospital and Mark had his wound patched up by a house doctor. Mark checked his watch and laughed. It was 11:04 — he was going to live.

“Phone for you, Mr. Andrews. The Director of the FBI.”

“Sir?”

“Mark, I hear you’re fine. Good. I am sorry to say the Senate went into recess out of respect for Senator Harrison. The President is shocked but feels this is precisely the moment to emphasize the significance of gun control, so we’re all now going into lunch early. Sorry you can’t join us. And we caught three of them — Matson, a Vietnamese sharpshooter, and a petty crook called Tony Loraido. There may still be more, I’ll let you know later. Thank you, Mark.”

The telephone clicked before Mark could offer any opinion.