Shall We Tell the President?

Thursday evening 3 March (two years later)

5:45 P.M.

Nick Stames wanted to go home. He had been at work since seven that morning and it was already 5:45 P.M. He couldn’t remember if he had eaten lunch; his wife, Norma, had been grumbling again that he never got home in time for dinner, or, if he did, it was so late that her dinner was no longer worth eating. Come to think of it, when did he last find time to finish a meal? Norma stayed in bed when he left for the office at 6:30 A.M. Now that the children were away at school, her only real task was to cook dinner for him. He couldn’t win; if he had been a failure, she would have complained about that, too, and he was, goddamn it, by anybody’s standards, a success; the youngest special agent in charge of a Field Office in the FBI and you don’t get a job like that at the age of forty-one by being at home on time for dinner every night. In any case, Nick loved the job. It was his mistress; at least his wife could be thankful for that.

Nick Stames had been head of the Washington Field Office for nine years. The third largest Field Office in America, although it covered the smallest territory — only sixty-one square miles of Washington, D.C. — it had twenty-two squads; twelve criminal, ten security. Hell, he was policing the capital of the world. Of course, he must be expected to be late sometimes. Still, tonight he intended to make a special effort. When he had the time to do so, he adored his wife. He was going to be home on time this evening. He picked up his internal phone and called his Criminal Coordinator, Grant Nanna.

“Grant.”

“Boss.”

“I’m going home.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Not you, too.”

Nick Stames put the phone down, and pushed his hand through his long dark hair. He would have made a better movie criminal than FBI agent, since everything about him was dark — dark eyes, dark skin, dark hair, even a dark suit and dark shoes, but the last two were true of any special agent. On his lapel he wore a pin depicting the flags of the United States and of Greece.

Once, a few years ago, he had been offered promotion and a chance to cross the street to the Bureau Headquarters and join the Director as one of his thirteen assistants. Being an assistant chained to a desk wasn’t his style, so he stayed put. The move would have taken him from a slum to a palace; the Washington Field Office is housed on floors four, five, and eight of the Old Post Office Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, and the rooms are a little like railroad coaches. They would have been condemned as slums if they had been sited in the ghetto.

As the sun began to disappear behind the tall buildings, Nick’s gloomy office grew darker. He walked over to the light switch. “Don’t Be Fuelish,” commented a fluorescent label glued to the switch. Just as the constant movement of men and women in dark sober suits in and out of the Old Post Office Building revealed the location of the FBI Washington Field Office, so this government graffito served notice that the czars of the Federal Energy Administration inhabited two floors of the cavernous building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Nick stared out of his window across the street at the new FBI Headquarters, which had been completed in 1976, a great ugly monster with elevators that were larger than his office. He didn’t let it bother him. He’d reached Grade 18 in the service, and only the Director was paid more than he was. In any case, he was not going to sit behind a desk until they retired him with a pair of gold handcuffs. He wanted to be in constant touch with the agent in the street, feel the pulse of the Bureau. He would stay put at the Washington Field Office and die standing up, not sitting down. Once again, he touched the intercom. “Julie, I’m on my way home.”

Julie Bayers looked up and glanced at her watch as if it were lunchtime.

“Yes, sir,” she said, sounding disbelieving.

As he passed through the office he grinned at her. “Moussaka, rice pilaf, and the wife; don’t tell the Mafia.” Nick managed to get one foot out of the door before his private phone rang. One more step and he would have made it to the open lift, but Nick never could resist the ring of a phone. Julie rose and began to walk toward his office. As she did so Nick admired, as he always did, the quick flash of leg. “It’s all right, Julie. I’ll get it.” He strode back into his room and picked up the ringing telephone.

“Stames.”

“Good evening, sir. Lieutenant Blake, Metropolitan Police.”

“Hey, Dave, congratulations on your promotion. I haven’t seen you in...” he paused, “...it must be five years, you were only a sergeant. How are you?”

“Thank you, sir, I’m doing just fine.”

“Well, Lieutenant, moved into big-time crime, now have you? Picked up a fourteen-year-old stealing a pack of chewing gum and need my best men to find where the suspect has hidden the goods?”

Blake laughed. “Not quite that bad, Mr. Stames. I have a guy in Woodrow Wilson Medical Center who wants to meet the head of the FBI, says he has something vitally important to tell him.”

“I know the feeling, I’d love to meet him myself. Do you know whether he’s one of our usual informers, Dave?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s his name?”

“Angelo Casefikis.” Blake spelled out the name for Stames.

“Any description?” asked Stames.

“No. I only spoke to him on the phone. All he would say is it will be worse for America if the FBI doesn’t listen.”

“Did he now? Hold on while I check the name. He could be a nut.”

Nick Stames pressed a button to connect him with the Duty Officer. “Who’s on duty?”

“Paul Fredericks, boss.”

“Paul, get out the nut box.”

The nut box, as it was affectionately known in the Bureau, was a collection of white index cards containing the names of all the people who liked to call up in the middle of the night and claim that the Martians had landed in their back yards, or that they had discovered a CIA plot to take over the world.

Special Agent Fredericks was back on the line, the nut box in front of him.

“Right, boss. What’s his name?”

“Angelo Casefikis,” said Stames.

“A crazy Greek,” said Fredericks. “You never know with these foreigners.”

“Greeks aren’t foreigners,” snapped Stames. His name, before it was shortened, had been Nick Stamatakis. He never did forgive his father, God rest his soul, for anglicizing a magnificent Hellenic surname.

“Sorry, sir. No name like that in the nut box or the informants’ file. Did this guy mention any agent’s name that he knows?”

“No, he just wanted the head of the FBI.”

“Don’t we all?”

“No more cracks from you, Paul, or you’ll be on complaint duty for more than the statutory week.”

Each agent in the Field Office did one week a year on the nut box, answering the phone all night, fending off canny Martians, foiling dastardly CIA coups, and, above all, never embarrassing the Bureau. Every agent dreaded it. Paul Fredericks put the phone down quickly. Two weeks on this job and you could write out one of the little white cards with your own name on it.

“Well, have you formed any view?” said Stames to Blake as he wearily took a cigarette out of his left desk drawer. “How did he sound?”

“Frantic and incoherent. I sent one of my rookies to see him, but he couldn’t get anything out of him other than that America ought to listen to what he’s got to say. He seemed genuinely frightened. He’s got a gunshot wound in his leg and there may be complications. It’s infected; apparently he left it for some days before he went to the hospital.”

“How did he get himself shot?”

“Don’t know yet. We’re still trying to locate witnesses, but we haven’t come up with anything so far, and Casefikis won’t give us the time of day.”

“Wants the FBI, does he? Only the best, eh?” said Stames. He regretted the remark the moment he said it; but it was too late. He didn’t attempt to cover himself. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ll put someone on it immediately and brief you in the morning.” Stames put the telephone down. Six o’clock already — why had he turned back? Damn the phone. Grant Nanna would have handled the job just as well and he wouldn’t have made that thoughtless remark about wanting the best. There was enough friction between the FBI and the Metropolitan Police without his adding to it. Nick picked up his intercom phone and buzzed the head of the Criminal Section.

“Grant.”

“I thought you said you had to be home.”

“Come into my office for a moment, will you?”

“Sure, be right there, boss.”

Grant Nanna appeared a few seconds later along with his trademark cigar. He had put on his jacket which he only did when he saw Nick in his office.

Nanna’s career had a storybook quality. He was born in El Campo, Texas, and received a B.A. from Baylor. From there, he went on to get a law degree at SMU. As a young agent assigned to the Pittsburgh Field Office, Nanna met his future wife, Betty, an FBI stenographer. They had four sons, all of whom had attended Virginia Polytechnic Institute: two engineers, a doctor, and a dentist. Nanna had been an agent for over thirty years. Twelve more than Nick. In fact, Nick had been a rookie agent under him. Nanna held no grudge, since he was head of the Criminal Section, and greatly respected Nick — as he called him in private.

“What’s the problem, boss?”

Stames looked up as Nanna entered the office. He noted that his five-feet-nine, fifty-five-year-old, robust, cigar-chewing Criminal Coordinator was certainly not “desirable,” as Bureau weight requirements demanded. A man of five-feet-nine was required to keep his weight between a hundred and fifty-four and a hundred and sixty-one pounds. Nanna had always cringed when the quarterly weigh-in of all FBI agents came due. Many times he had been forced to purge his body of excess pounds for that most serious transgression of Bureau rules, especially during the Hoover era, when “desirability” meant lean and mean.

Who cares, thought Stames. Grant’s knowledge and experience were worth a dozen slender, young athletic agents who can be found in the Washington Field Office halls every day. As he had done a hundred times before, he told himself he would deal with Nanna’s weight problem another day.

Nick repeated the story of the strange Greek in Woodrow Wilson Medical Center as it had been relayed to him by Lieutenant Blake. “I want you to send down two men. Who’s on duty tonight?”

“Aspirin, but if you suspect it might be an informer, boss, I certainly can’t send him.”

“Aspirin” was the nickname of the oldest agent still employed in the WFO. After his early years under Hoover, he played everything by the book, which gave most people a headache. He was due to retire at the end of the year and exasperation was now being replaced by nostalgia.

“No, don’t send Aspirin. Send two youngsters.”

“How about Calvert and Andrews?”

“Agreed,” replied Stames. “If you brief them right away, I can still make it in time for dinner. Call me at home if it turns out to be anything special.”

Grant Nanna left the office, and Nick smiled a second flirtatious goodbye to his secretary. She was the only attractive thing in the WFO. Julie looked up and smiled nonchalantly. “I don’t mind working for an FBI agent, but there is no way I would ever marry one,” she told her little mirror in the top drawer.

Grant Nanna returned to his office and picked up the extension phone to the Criminal Room.

“Send in Calvert and Andrews.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a firm knock on the door. Two special agents entered. Barry Calvert was big by anybody’s standards, six-feet-six in his stockinged feet and not many people had seen him that way. At thirty-two, he was thought to be one of the most ambitious young men in the Criminal Section. He was wearing a dark green jacket, dark nondescript trousers, and clumpy black leather brogues. His brown hair was cut short and parted neatly on the right. His tear-drop aviator glasses had been his sign of nonconformity. He was always on duty long after the official check-out time of 5:30 and not just because he was fighting his way up the ladder. He loved the job. He didn’t love anybody else, so far as his colleagues knew, or at least not on more than a temporary basis. Calvert was a Midwesterner by birth and he had entered the FBI after leaving college with a B.A. in sociology from Indiana University and then took the fifteen-week course at Quantico, the FBI Academy. From every angle, he was the archetypal FBI man.

By contrast, Mark Andrews had been one of the more unusual FBI entrants. After majoring in history at Yale he finished his education at Yale Law School, and then decided he wanted some adventure for a few years before he joined a law firm. He felt it would be useful to learn about criminals and the police from the inside. He didn’t give this as his reason for applying to the Bureau — no one is supposed to regard the Bureau as an academic experiment. In fact, Hoover had regarded it so much as a career that he did not allow agents who left the service ever to return. At six feet Mark Andrews looked small next to Calvert. He had a fresh, open face with clear blue eyes and a mop of curly fair hair long enough to skim his shirt collar. At twenty-eight he was one of the youngest agents in the department. His clothes were always smartly fashionable and sometimes not quite regulation. Nick Stames had once caught him in a red sports jacket and brown trousers and relieved him from duty so that he could return home and dress properly. Never embarrass the Bureau. Mark’s charm got him out of a lot of trouble in the Criminal Section, but he had a steadiness of purpose which more than made up for the Ivy League education and manner. He was self-confident, but never pushy or concerned about his own advancement. He didn’t let anyone in the Bureau know about his career plan.

Grant Nanna went over the story of the frightened man waiting for them in Woodrow Wilson.

“Black?” queried Calvert.

“No, Greek.”

Calvert’s surprise showed in his face. Eighty percent of the inhabitants of Washington were black, and ninety-eight percent of those arrested on criminal charges were black. One of the reasons the infamous break-in at the Watergate had been suspicious from the beginning to those who knew Washington at all well was the fact that no blacks were involved, though no agents had admitted it.

“Okay, Barry, think you can handle it?”

“Sure, you want a report on your desk by tomorrow morning?”

“No, the boss wants you to contact him direct if it turns out to be anything special, otherwise just file a report overnight.” Nanna’s telephone rang. “Mr. Stames on the radio line from his car for you, sir,” said Polly, the night switchboard operator.

“He never lets up, does he?” Grant confided to the two junior agents, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with his palm.

“Hi, boss.”

“Grant, did I say that the Greek had a bullet wound in his leg, and it was infected?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Right, do me a favor will you? Call Father Gregory at my church, Saint Constantine and Saint Helen, and ask him to go over to the hospital and see him.”

“Anything you say.”

“And get yourself home, Grant. Aspirin can handle the office tonight.”

“I was just going, boss.”

The line went dead.

“Okay, you two — on your way.” The two special agents headed down the dirty gray corridor and into the service elevator. It looked, as always, as if it required a crank to start it. Finally outside on Pennsylvania Avenue, they picked up a Bureau car.

Mark guided the dark blue Ford sedan down Pennsylvania Avenue past the National Archives and the Mellon Gallery. He circled around the lush Capitol grounds and picked up Independence Avenue going toward the south-east section of Washington. As the two agents waited for a light to change at 1st Street, near the Library of Congress, Barry scowled at the rush-hour traffic and looked at his watch.

“Why didn’t they put Aspirin on this damn assignment?”

“Who’d send Aspirin to a hospital?” replied Mark.

Mark smiled. The two men had established an immediate rapport when they first met at the FBI Academy at Quantico. On the first day of the training course, every trainee received a telegram confirming his appointment. Each new agent was then asked to check the telegram of the person on his right and his left for authenticity. The maneuver was intended to emphasize the need for extreme caution. Mark had glanced at Barry’s telegram and handed it back with a grin. “I guess you’re legit,” he said, “if FBI regulations allow King Kong in the ranks.”

“Listen,” Calvert had replied, reading Mark’s telegram intently. “You may just need King Kong one day, Mr. Andrews.”

The light turned green, but a car ahead of Mark and Barry in the inside lane wanted to make a left turn on 1st Street. For the moment, the two impatient FBI men were trapped in a line of traffic.

“What do you imagine this guy could tell us?”

“I hope he has something on the downtown bank job,” replied Barry. “I’m still the case agent, and I still don’t have any leads after three weeks. Stames is beginning to get uptight about it.”

“No, can’t be that, not with a bullet in his leg. He’s more likely to be another candidate for the nut box. Wife probably shot him for not being home on time for his stuffed vine leaves.”

“You know, the boss would only send a priest to a fellow Greek. You and I could wallow in hell as far as he’s concerned.”

They both laughed. They knew if either of them were to land in trouble, Nick Stames would move the Washington Monument stone by stone if he thought it would help. As the car continued down Independence Avenue into the heart of south-east Washington, the traffic gradually diminished. A few minutes later, they passed 19th Street and the D.C. Armory and reached Woodrow Wilson Medical Center. They found the visitors’ parking lot and Calvert double-checked the lock on every door. Nothing is more embarrassing for an agent than to have his car stolen and then for the Metropolitan Police to call and ask if he could come and collect it. It was the quickest way to a month on the nut box.

The entrance to the hospital was old and dingy, and the corridors gray and bleak. The girl on night duty at the reception desk told them that Casefikis was on the fourth floor, in Room 4308. Both agents were surprised by the lack of security. They didn’t have to show their credentials, and they were allowed to wander around the building as if they were a couple of interns. No one gave them a second look. Perhaps, as agents, they had become too security conscious.

The elevator took them gradually, grudgingly, to the fourth floor. A man on crutches and a woman in a wheelchair shared the elevator, chatting to one another as though they had a lot of time to spare, oblivious to the slowness of the elevator. When they arrived at the fourth floor, Calvert walked over to a nurse and asked for the doctor on duty.

“I think Dr. Dexter has gone off duty, but I’ll check,” the staff nurse said and bustled away. She didn’t get a visit from the FBI every day and the shorter one with the clear blue eyes was so good-looking. The nurse and the doctor returned together down the corridor. Dr. Dexter came as a surprise to both Calvert and Andrews. They introduced themselves. It must have been the legs, Mark decided. The last time he had seen legs like that was when the Yale Cinema Club had shown a re-run of Anne Bancroft in The Graduate. It was the first time he had ever really looked at a woman’s legs, and he hadn’t stopped looking since.

“Elizabeth Dexter, M.D.” was stamped in black on a piece of red plastic that adorned her starched white coat. Underneath it, Mark could see a red silk shirt and a stylish skirt of black crepe that fell below her knees. Dr. Dexter was of medium height and slender to the point of fragility. She wore no make-up, so far as Mark could tell; certainly her clear skin and dark eyes were in no need of any help. This trip was turning out to be worthwhile, after all. Barry, on the other hand, showed no interest whatever in the pretty doctor and asked to see the file on Casefikis. Mark thought quickly for an opening gambit.

“Are you related to Senator Dexter?” he asked, slightly emphasizing the word Senator.

“Yes, he’s my father,” she said flatly, obviously used to the question and rather bored by it — and by those who imagined it was important.

“I heard him lecture in my final year at Yale Law,” said Mark, forging ahead, realizing he was now showing off, but he realized that Calvert would finish that damn report in a matter of moments.

“Oh, were you at Yale, too?” she asked. “When did you graduate?”

“Three years ago, Law School,” replied Mark.

“We might even have met. I left Yale Med last year.”

“If I had met you before, Dr. Dexter, I would not have forgotten.”

“When you two Ivy Leaguers have finished swapping life histories,” Barry Calvert interrupted, “this Midwesterner would like to get on with his job.”

Yes, thought Mark, Barry will end up as Director one day.

“What can you tell us about this man, Dr. Dexter?” asked Calvert.

“Very little, I’m afraid,” the doctor replied, taking back the file on Casefikis. “He came in of his own volition and reported a gun wound. The wound was septic and looked as if it had been exposed for about a week; I wish he had come in earlier. I removed the bullet this morning. As you know, Mr. Calvert, it is our duty to inform the police immediately when a patient comes in with a gunshot wound, and so we phoned your boys at the Metropolitan Police.”

“Not our boys,” corrected Mark.

“I’m sorry,” replied Dr. Dexter rather formally. “To a doctor, a policeman is a policeman.”

“And to a policeman, an M.D. is an M.D., but you also have specialties — orthopedics, gynecology, neurology — don’t you? You don’t mean to tell me I look like one of those flatfoots from the Met Police?”

Dr. Dexter was not to be beguiled into a flattering response. She opened the manilla folder. “All we know is that he is Greek by origin and his name is Angelo Casefikis. He has never been registered in this hospital before. He gave his age as thirty-eight... Not a lot to go on, I’m afraid.”

“Fine, it’s as much as we usually get. Thank you, Dr. Dexter,” said Calvert. “Can we see him now?”

“Of course. Please follow me.” Elizabeth Dexter turned and led them down the corridor.

The two men followed her, Barry looking for the door marked 4308, Mark looking at her legs. When they arrived, they peered through the small window and saw two men in the room, Angelo Casefikis and a cheerful-looking black, who was staring at a television set which emitted no sound. Calvert turned to Dr. Dexter.

“Would it be possible to see him alone, Dr. Dexter?”

“Why?” she asked.

“We don’t know what he is going to tell us, and he may not wish to be overheard.”

“Well, don’t worry yourself,” said Dr. Dexter, and laughed. “My favorite mailman, Benjamin Reynolds, who is in the next bed is as deaf as a post, and until we operate on him next week, he won’t be able to hear Gabriel’s horn on the Day of Judgment, let alone a state secret.”

Calvert smiled for the first time. “He’d make a hell of a witness.”

The doctor ushered Calvert and Andrews into the room, then turned and left them. See you soon, lovely lady, Mark promised himself. Calvert looked at Benjamin Reynolds suspiciously, but the black mailman merely gave him a big happy smile, waved, and continued to watch the soundless $25,000 Pyramid; nonetheless, Barry Calvert stood on that side of the bed and blocked his view of Casefikis in case he could lip-read. Barry thought of everything.

“Mr. Casefikis?”

“Yes.”

Casefikis was a gray, sick-looking individual of medium build, with a prominent nose, bushy eyebrows, and an anxious expression that never left his face. His hair was thick, dark, and unkempt. His hands seemed particularly large on the white bedspread, and the veins stood out prominently. His face was darkened by several days of unshaven beard. One leg was heavily bandaged and rested on the cover of the bed. His eyes darted nervously from one man to the other.

“I am Special Agent Calvert and this is Special Agent Andrews. We are officers with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We understand you wanted to see us.”

Both men withdrew their FBI credentials from their right inside coat pockets, and displayed them to Casefikis while holding the credentials in their left hands. Even such a seemingly insignificant maneuver was carefully taught to all new FBI agents so that their “strong hand” would be free to withdraw and fire when necessary.

Casefikis studied their credentials with a puzzled frown, pressing his tongue over his lips, obviously not knowing what to look for. The agent’s signature must pass partly over the seal of the Department of Justice to insure authenticity. He looked at Mark’s card number, 3302, and his badge number, 1721. He didn’t speak, as if wondering where to start, or perhaps whether to change his mind and say nothing at all. He stared at Mark, clearly the more sympathetic, and began his tale.

“I never been in any trouble with police before,” he said. “Not with any of police.”

Neither agent smiled or spoke.

“But I in big mess now and, by God, I need help.”

Calvert stepped in. “Why do you need our help?”

“I am illegal immigrant and so is wife. We both Greek nationals, we came in Baltimore on ship and we been working here two years. We’ve nothing to go back to.”

It came out in spurts and dashes.

“I have information to trade if we not deported.”

“We can’t make that sort—” began Mark.

Barry touched Mark’s arm. “If it’s important and you are able to help us solve a crime, we will speak to the Immigration authorities. We can promise no more than that.”

Mark mused; with six million illegal immigrants in the United States, another couple was not going to sink the boat.

Casefikis looked desperate. “I needed job, I needed money, you understand?”

Both men understood. They faced the same problem a dozen times a week behind a dozen different faces.

“When I offered this job as waiter in restaurant, my wife very pleased. On second week I was given special job to serve lunch in a hotel room for big man. The only trouble that the man wanted waiter who not speak English. My English very bad so bossman tell me I could go, keep my mouth shut, speak only Greek. For twenty dollars I say yes. We go in back of van to hotel — I think in Georgetown. When we arrive I sent to kitchen, join staff in basement. I dress and start taking food to private dining-room. There five-six men and I heard big man say I no speak English. So they talk on. I don’t listen. Very last cup of coffee, when start talking about President Kane, I like Kane, I listen. I heard say, ‘We have to blow her away.’ Another man say: ‘The best day would still be 10 March, the way we planned it.’ And then I heard: ‘I agree with Senator, let’s get rid of the bitch.’ Someone was staring at me, so I left room. When I downstairs washing up, one man came in and shouted, ‘Hey, you, catch this.’ I looked around put arms up. All at once he start come for me. I run for door and down street. He shoot gun at me, I feel bit pain in leg but I able to get away because he older, big and slower than me. I hear him shout but I knew he couldn’t catch me. I scared. I get home pretty damn quick, and wife, and I move out that night and hide out of town with friend from Greece. Hoped all would be okay, but my leg got bad after few days so Ariana made me come to hospital and call for you because my friend tell they come around to my place look for me because if they find me they kill me.” He stopped, breathed deeply, his unshaven face covered in sweat, and looked at the two men imploringly.

“What’s your full name?” said Calvert, sounding about as excited as he would if he were issuing a traffic ticket.

“Angelo Mexis Casefikis.”

Calvert made him spell it in full.

“Where do you live?”

“Now at Blue Ridge Manor Apartments, 11501 Elkin Street, Wheaton. Home of my friend, good man, please don’t give trouble.”

“When did this incident take place?”

“Last Thursday,” Casefikis said instantly.

Calvert checked the date. “24 February?”

The Greek shrugged. “Last Thursday,” he repeated.

“Where is the restaurant you were working in?”

“A few streets from me. It called Golden Duck.” Calvert continued taking notes. “And where was this hotel you were taken to?”

“Don’t know, in Georgetown. Maybe could take you there when out of hospital.”

“Now, Mr. Casefikis, please be careful about this. Was there anyone else working at this luncheon who might have overheard the conversation in that room?”

“No, sir. I only waiter attend in room.”

“Have you told anyone what you overheard? Your wife? The friend whose house you’re staying at? Anyone?”

“No, sir. Only you. No tell wife what I hear. No tell no one, too scared.”

Calvert continued to interview, asking for descriptions of the other men in the room and making the Greek repeat everything to see if the story remained the same. It did. Mark looked on silently.

“Okay, Mr. Casefikis, that’s all we can do for this evening. We’ll return in the morning and have you sign a written statement.”

“But they going to kill me. They going to kill me.”

“No need to worry, Mr. Casefikis. We’ll put a police guard on your room as soon as possible; no one is going to kill you.”

Casefikis dropped his eyes, not reassured.

“We’ll see you again in the morning,” said Calvert, closing his notebook. “You just get some rest. Good night, Mr. Casefikis.”

Calvert glanced back at a happy Benjamin, still deeply absorbed in $25,000 Pyramid with no words, just money. He waved again at them and smiled, showing all three of his teeth, two black and one gold. Calvert and Andrews returned to the corridor.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Barry said immediately. “With his English, he could easily have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. It was probably quite innocent. People curse the President all the time. My father does, but that doesn’t mean he would kill her.”

“Maybe, but what about that gunshot wound? That’s for real,” said Mark.

“I know. I guess that’s the one thing that worries me,” Barry said. “It could just be a cover for something completely different. I think I’ll speak to the boss to be on the safe side.”

Calvert headed for the pay phone by the side of the elevator and took out two quarters. All agents carry a pocketful of quarters; there are no special telephone privileges for members of the Bureau.

“Well, was he hoping to rob Fort Knox?” Elizabeth Dexter’s voice startled Mark, although he had half-expected her to return. She was obviously on her way home: the white coat had been replaced by a red jacket.

“Not exactly,” replied Mark. “We’ll have to come around tomorrow morning to tidy things up; probably get him to sign a written statement and take his fingerprints, then we’ll pick up the gold.”

“Fine,” she said. “Dr. Delgado will be on duty tomorrow.” She smiled sweetly. “You’ll like her, too.”

“Is this hospital entirely staffed by beautiful lady doctors?” said Mark. “How does one get to stay the night?”

“Well,” she said, “the flu is the fashionable disease this month. Even President Kane has had it.”

Calvert looked around sharply at the mention of the President’s name. Elizabeth Dexter glanced at her watch.

“I’ve just completed two hours’ unpaid overtime,” she said. “If you don’t have any more questions, Mr. Andrews, I ought to get home now.” She smiled and turned to go, her heels tapping sharply against the tiled floor.

“Just one more question, Dr. Dexter,” said Mark, following her around the corner beyond the range of Barry Calvert’s disapproving eyes and ears. “What would you say to having dinner with me later tonight?”

“What would I say?” she said teasingly. “Let me see, I think I’d accept gracefully and not too eagerly. It might be interesting to find out what G-men are really like.”

“We bite,” said Mark. They smiled at each other. “Okay, it’s 7:15 now. If you’re willing to take a chance on it, I could probably pick you up by 8:30.”

Elizabeth jotted her address and phone number on a page of his diary.

“So you’re a left-hander, are you, Liz?”

The dark eyes flashed momentarily up to meet his. “Only my lovers call me Liz,” she said, and was gone.

“It’s Calvert, boss. I can’t make my mind up about this one. I don’t know if he’s a jerk or for real so I’d like to run it past you.”

“Fine, Barry. Shoot.”

“Well, it could be serious, or just a hoax. He may even be nothing more than a small-time thief trying to get off the hook for something bigger. But I can’t be sure. And if every word he said turned out to be true, I figured you ought to know immediately.” Barry relayed the salient parts of the interview without mentioning the Senator, stressing that there was an added factor he did not want to discuss over the phone.

“What are you trying to do, get me in the divorce courts — I suppose I’ll have to come back to the office,” said Nick Stames, avoiding his wife’s expression of annoyance. “Okay, okay. Thank God I got to eat at least some of the moussaka. I’ll see you in thirty minutes, Barry.”

“Right, boss.”

Calvert depressed the telephone cradle with his hand momentarily and then dialed the Metropolitan Police. Two more quarters, leaving sixteen in his pockets. He often thought the quickest way to check out an FBI agent would be to make him turn his pockets inside out; if he produced twenty quarters, he was a genuine member of the Bureau.

“Lieutenant Blake is on the front desk. I’ll put you right through.”

“Lieutenant Blake.”

“Special Agent Calvert. We’ve seen your Greek and we’d like you to put a guard on his room. He’s scared to hell about something so we don’t want to take any chances.”

“He’s not my Greek, damn it,” said Blake. “Can’t you use one of your own fancy guys?”

“There’s no one we can spare at the moment, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not exactly overstaffed myself, for God’s sake. What do you think we’re running, the Shoreham Hotel? Oh hell, I’ll do what I can. But they won’t be able to get there for a couple of hours.”

“Fine. Thanks for your help, Lieutenant. I’ll brief my office.” Barry replaced the receiver.

Mark Andrews and Barry Calvert waited for the elevator, which was just as slow and reluctant to take them down as it had been to take them up. Neither of them spoke until they were inside the dark blue Ford.

“Stames is coming back to hear the story,” said Calvert. “I can’t imagine he’ll want to take it any further, but we’d better keep him informed. Then maybe we can call it a day.”

Mark glanced at his watch; another hour and forty-five minutes’ overtime, technically the maximum allowed an agent on any one day.

“I hope so,” said Mark. “I just got myself a date.”

“Anyone we know?”

“The beautiful Dr. Dexter.”

Barry raised his eyebrows. “Don’t let the boss know. If he thought you picked up someone while you were on duty, he’d send you for a spell in the salt mines in Butte, Montana.”

“I didn’t realize that they had salt mines in Butte, Montana.”

“Only FBI agents who really screw it up know there are salt mines in Butte.”

Mark drove back to downtown Washington while Barry wrote up his report of the interview. It was 7:40 by the time they had returned to the Old Post Office Building, and Mark found the parking lot almost empty. By this time at night most civilized people were at home doing civilized things, like eating moussaka. Stames’s car was already there. Goddamn him. They took the elevator to the fifth floor and went into Stames’s reception room. It looked empty without Julie. Calvert knocked quietly on the chief’s door and the two agents walked in. Stames looked up. He had already found a hundred and one things to do since he’d been back, almost as if he had forgotten that he had specifically come back to see them.

“Right, Barry. Let’s have it from the top, slowly and accurately.”

Calvert recounted exactly what had happened from the moment they had arrived at Woodrow Wilson to the moment he had asked the Metropolitan Police to put a guard on the room to protect the Greek. Mark was impressed by Barry’s total recall. At no point had he exaggerated or revealed any personal prejudice. Stames lowered his head for a few moments and then suddenly turned to Mark.

“Do you want to add anything?” he asked.

“Not really, sir. It was all a bit melodramatic. Although he didn’t come over as a liar, he was certainly frightened. Also there’s no trace of him in any of our files. I radioed the Night Super for a name check. Negative on Casefikis.”

Nick picked up the phone and asked to be put through to Bureau Headquarters. “Give me the National Computer Information Center, Polly.” He was put straight through. A young woman answered the phone.

“Stames, Washington Field Office. Would you please have the following suspect checked out on the computer immediately? — Angelo Casefikis: Caucasian; male; Greek ancestry; height, five feet nine inches; weight, about a hundred and sixty-five pounds; hair, dark brown; eyes, brown; age, thirty-eight; no distinguishing marks or scars known; no identifying numbers known.” He was reading from the report Calvert had placed in front of him. He waited silently.

“If his story is true,” Mark said, “we should have no listing for him at all.”

“If it’s true,” said Calvert.

Stames continued to wait. The days of waiting to find out who was in the FBI files and who wasn’t had long gone. The girl came back on the line.

“We have nothing on a Casefikis, Angelo. We don’t even have a Casefikis. The best the computer can offer is a Casegikis who was born in 1901. Sorry I can’t help, Mr. Stames.”

“Thanks very much.” Stames put the phone down. “Okay boys, for the moment let’s give Casefikis the benefit of the doubt. Let’s assume he is telling the truth and that this is a serious investigation. We have no trace of him in any of our files, so we’d better start believing his story until it’s disproved; he just might be on to something, and if he is, then it goes way above me. Tomorrow morning, Barry, I want you back at the hospital with a fingerprint expert; take his prints in case he is giving a false name, put them through the identification computer right away and make sure you get a full written statement, signed. Then check the Met files for any shooting incidents on 24 February he could have been involved in. As soon as we can get him out, I want him in an ambulance showing us where that luncheon took place. Push the hospital into agreeing to that tomorrow morning, if possible. To date, he’s not under arrest or wanted for any crime we know about, so don’t go too far, not that he strikes me as a man who would know much about his rights.

“Mark,” Stames said, turning his head, “I want you to go back to the hospital immediately and make sure the Met are there. If not, stay with Casefikis until they do arrive. In the morning, go round to the Golden Duck and check him out. I’m going to make a provisional appointment for us to see the Director tomorrow morning, at 10:00 A.M., which will give you enough time to report back to me. And if, when we check the fingerprints through the identification computer, nothing comes up at all, and the hotel and the restaurant exist, we may be in a whole heap of trouble. If that’s the case, I’m not taking it one inch further without the Director knowing. For the moment, I want nothing in writing. Don’t hand in your official memorandum until tomorrow morning. Above all, don’t mention that a senator could be involved to anybody — and that includes Grant Nanna. It’s possible tomorrow, after we have seen the Director, that we will do no more than make a full report and hand the whole thing over to the Secret Service. Don’t forget the clear division of responsibility — the Secret Service guards the President, we cover federal crime. If a senator is involved, it’s us; if the President’s involved, it’s them. We’ll let the Director decide the finer points — I’m not getting involved in Capitol Hill, that’s the Director’s baby, and with only seven days to play with, we don’t have time to sit and discuss the academic niceties.”

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.