Shall We Tell the President?

Thursday evening 3 March

8:15 P.M.

“Hello, Liz.”

There was a moment’s pause at the other end of the phone.

“Hello, G-man. Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

“Only wishful thinking. Listen, Elizabeth, I’ve had to come back to the hospital and keep an eye on your Mr. Casefikis until the police arrive. It’s just possible that he could be in some danger, so we’re having to put a guard on him which means I’m bound to be late for our date. Do you mind waiting?”

“No, I won’t starve. I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays, and he’s a big eater.”

“That’s good. Because I think you need to be fed. You look as though you might be hard to find in the dark. I’m still trying to get the flu, incidentally.”

She laughed warmly. “See you later.”

Mark put the telephone back on the hook and walked over to the elevator, and pressed the arrow on the Up-button.

He only hoped the Met policeman had arrived and was already on duty. Christ. How long was the elevator going to take to return to the ground floor? Patients must have died just waiting for it. Eventually the doors slid open and a burly Greek Orthodox priest hurried out and past him. He could have sworn it was a Greek Orthodox priest, from the high dark hat and long trailing veil and the Orthodox Cross around his neck, although something about the priest struck Mark as strange, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stood, puzzling for a moment, staring at his retreating back and only just managing to jump into the elevator before the doors closed. He pressed the fourth-floor button several times. Come on, come on. Get going, you bastard, but it had no ears for Mark, and proceeded upward at the same stately pace as it had earlier in the afternoon. It cared nothing for his date with Elizabeth Dexter. The door opened slowly, and he went through the widening gap sideways and ran down the corridor to Room 4308 but there was no sign of any policeman. In fact, the corridor was deserted. It looked as if he were going to be stuck there for some time. He peered through the little window in the door at the two men, asleep in their beds, the voiceless television set was still on giving out a square of light. Mark left to look for the staff nurse and eventually found her tucked away in the head nurse’s office enjoying a cup of coffee. She was pleased to see that it was the better-looking of the two FBI men who had returned.

“Has anyone come from the Metropolitan Police to keep an eye on Room 4308?”

“No, no one’s been anywhere near the place tonight. Silent as the grave. Were you expecting someone?”

“Yes, damn it. Guess I’ll have to wait. Do you think I could take a chair? I’m going to have to stick around till an officer from the Metropolitan Police comes. I hope I won’t be in your way.”

“You won’t be in my way. You can stay as long as you like. I’ll see if I can find you a nice comfortable chair.” She put her mug down. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I certainly would.” Mark looked at her more carefully. It might be an evening with the nurse rather than the doctor. Mark decided he had better go back and check the room first, reassure Casefikis, if he were still awake, and then call the Met and ask where the hell their man was. He walked slowly to the door a second time; he felt no need to hurry now. He opened the door quietly. It was pitch black except for the light from the TV, and his eyes were not quite focused. He glanced at the two of them in bed. They were quite still. He wouldn’t have bothered to look any further if it hadn’t been for the dripping.

Drip, drip, drip.

It sounded like tap water but he couldn’t remember a tap.

Drip, drip.

He moved quietly to the bedside of Angelo Casefikis, and glanced down.

Drip, drip.

Warm fresh blood was flowing over the bottom sheet, trickling from Casefikis’s mouth, his dark eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue was hanging loose and swollen. His throat had been cut, ear to ear, just below the chin line. The blood was starting to make a pool on the floor. Mark was standing in it. He felt his legs sink, and he was barely able to grip the side of the bed and stop himself falling. He lurched over towards the deaf man. Mark’s eyes were now focused, and he retched loudly. The postman’s head was hanging loose from the rest of his body; only the color of his skin showed that they were once connected. Mark managed to scramble out of the door and get to the pay phone, his heartbeat thudding madly in his ears. He could feel his shirt clinging to his body. His hands were covered with blood. He fumbled ineffectually for a couple of quarters. He dialed Homicide and gave the bare outline of what had happened. This time they wouldn’t be casual about sending someone. The nurse on duty returned with a cup of coffee.

“Are you okay? You look a bit pale,” she said, and then she saw his hands and screamed.

“Don’t go into Room 4308 whatever you do. Don’t let anyone into that room unless I say so. Send me a doctor immediately.”

The nurse thrust the cup of coffee at him, forcing him to take it, and ran down the corridor. Mark made himself go back into Room 4308, although his presence was irrelevant. There was nothing he could do except wait. He switched on the lights and went over to the bathroom; he tried to remove the worst of the blood and vomit from himself and his clothes. Mark heard the swinging door and rushed back into the room. Another young, whitecoated female doctor... “Alicia Delgado, M.D.” said her plastic label.

“Don’t touch anything,” said Mark.

Dr. Delgado stared at him and then the bodies, and groaned.

“Don’t touch anything,” repeated Mark, “until Homicide arrive; they will be here shortly.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Special Agent Mark Andrews, FBI.” He instinctively took out his wallet and showed his credentials.

“Do we just stand here staring at each other or are you going to allow me to do something about this mess?”

“Nothing until Homicide has completed their investigation and given clearance. Let’s get out of here.” He passed her and pushed the door with his shoulder, not touching anything.

They were back in the corridor.

Mark instructed Dr. Delgado to wait outside the door and to allow no one else inside while he phoned the Metropolitan Police again.

She nodded reluctantly.

He went over to the pay phone, two more quarters; he dialed the Metropolitan Police and asked for Lieutenant Blake.

“Lieutenant Blake went home about an hour ago. Can I help you?”

“When had you been planning to send someone over to guard Room 4308 at Woodrow Wilson Medical Center?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“Andrews, FBI, Washington Field Office.” Mark repeated the details of the double murder.

“Well, our man should be with you now. He left the office over half an hour ago. I’ll inform Homicide immediately.”

“I’ve already done that,” snapped Mark.

He put the phone down and collapsed into a nearby chair. The corridor was now full of white coats. Two gurneys were being wheeled up to Room 4308. They were all waiting. What was the right thing to do?

Two more quarters, he dialed Nick Stames’s home. The phone seemed to ring for a long time. Why didn’t he answer? Eventually a female voice came on.

Mustn’t show panic, he thought, holding on to the phone box. “Good evening, Mrs. Stames. It’s Mark Andrews. Can I speak to your husband?” An even tone, no sign of stress.

“I’m afraid Nick is not home, Mark. He went back to the office about two hours ago. Funny, he said he was going to see you and Barry Calvert.”

“Yes, we saw him, but he left the office to go back home about forty minutes ago.”

“Well, he hasn’t arrived yet. He only managed to finish the first course of his dinner and said he would come straight back. No sign of him. Maybe he returned to the office. Why don’t you try him there?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry to have bothered you.” Mark hung up, looked over to check that no one had gone into Room 4308. No one had. He put two more quarters in and phoned the office. Polly was on duty.

“Mark Andrews. Put me through to Mr. Stames, quickly, please.”

“Mr. Stames and Special Agent Calvert left about forty-five minutes ago — on their way home, I think, Mr. Andrews.”

“That can’t be right. It can’t be right.”

“Yes, they did leave, sir. I saw them go.”

“Could you double-check?”

“If you say so, Mr. Andrews.”

Mark waited, it seemed to him, for an interminable time. What should he be doing? He was only one man, where was everyone else? What was he supposed to do? Christ, nothing in his training covered this — the FBI are meant to arrive twenty-four hours after a crime, not during it.

“There’s no answer, Mr. Andrews.”

“Thanks, Polly.”

Mark looked desperately at the ceiling for inspiration. He had been briefed not to tell anybody about the earlier events of the evening, not to say a word whatever the circumstances until after Stames’s meeting with the Director. He must find Stames; he must find Calvert. He must find somebody he could talk to. Two more quarters. He tried Barry Calvert. The phone rang and rang. No reply from the bachelor apartment. Same two quarters. He called Norma Stames again. “Mrs. Stames, Mark Andrews. Sorry to trouble you again. The moment your husband and Mr. Calvert arrive, please have them call me at Woodrow Wilson.”

“Yes, I’ll tell Nick as soon as he comes in. They probably stopped off on the way.”

“Yes, of course, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe the best thing will be for me to go back downtown as soon as the relief arrives. So perhaps they could contact me there. Thank you, Mrs. Stames.” He hung up the receiver.

As he put the phone down Mark saw the Met policeman jauntily walking towards him down the middle of the now crowded corridor, an Ed McBain novel under his arm. Mark thought of bawling him out for his late arrival, but what was the point. No use crying over spilt blood he thought, morbidly, and began to feel sick again. He took the young officer aside, and briefed him on the killings, giving no details of why the two men were important, only of what had happened. He asked him to inform his chief and added that the Homicide Squad were on their way, again adding no details. The policeman called his own duty officer, and reported all he had been told, matter-of-factly. The Washington Metropolitan Police handled over six hundred murders a year.

The medical personnel were all waiting impatiently; it was going to be a long wait. Professional bustle seemed to have replaced the early panic. Mark still wasn’t sure where to turn, what to do. Where was Stames? Where was Calvert? Where the hell was anybody?

He went over to the policeman again, who was explaining in detail why no one must enter the room... they were not convinced but waited; Mark told him he was leaving for the Field Office. He still gave him no clue why Casefikis had been important. The Metropolitan policeman felt he had things under control. Homicide would be there at any moment. He told Mark they’d want to talk to him later that night. Mark nodded and left him.

When he arrived back at his car, he took the flashing red light out of the side compartment and fixed it to the roof, placing the switch into its special slot. He was going to get back to the office, at top speed, to people he knew, to reality, to men who would make some sense out of his nightmare.

Mark flicked on the car radio. “WFO 180 in service. Please try and locate Mr. Stames and Mr. Calvert. Urgent. I am returning to Field Office immediately.”

“Yes, Mr. Andrews.”

“WFO 180 out of service.”

Twelve minutes later, he arrived at the Washington Field Office and parked his car. He ran to the elevator. The operator took him up. He rushed out.

“Aspirin, Aspirin. Who the hell’s on duty tonight?”

“I’m the only one on tonight, boy, I’m here on my own,” said Aspirin, looking over his glasses, rather bored. “What’s the matter?”

“Where’s Stames? Where’s Calvert?” Mark demanded.

“They went home just over an hour ago.”

Oh hell, what should he do now? Aspirin was not a man to confide in, but he was the only person Mark could seek any advice from. And although Stames had carefully instructed him not to speak to anyone about the details until they had seen the Director, this was an emergency. He wouldn’t give away any of the details, he would just find out what a Hoover man would have done.

“I have to find Stames and Calvert, wherever they are. Any suggestions?”

“Well, first of all, have you tried the car radio stations?” asked Aspirin.

“I asked Polly to check. I’ll try her again.”

Mark picked up the nearest phone. “Polly, did you locate Mr. Stames or Mr. Calvert on the car radio?”

“Still trying, sir.”

He seemed to wait endlessly, endlessly; and nothing happened. “What’s going on, Polly, what’s going on?”

“I’m trying as hard as I can, sir. All I can get is a buzzing sound.”

“Try One, Two, Three, or Four. Doesn’t matter what you try. Try every station.”

“Yes, sir. I can only do one at a time. There are four stations and I can only do one at a time.”

Mark realized he was panicking. It was time to sit down and think things through. The end of the world hadn’t come — or had it?

“They’re not on One, sir. Not on Two. Why would they be on Three or Four at this time of night? They’re only on their way home.”

“I don’t care where they’re going. Just find them. Try again.”

“Okay, okay.” She tried Three. She tried Four. She had to have authorization to break the code for Five and Six. Mark looked at Aspirin. The duty officer was authorized to break the code.

“This is an emergency — I swear to you it’s an emergency.”

Aspirin told Polly to try Five and Six. Five and Six are Federal Communications Commission to the FBI. They are known by the initial KGB: it always amused FBI men to have KGB as their network call code. But at that moment it didn’t seem particularly funny. There was no reply to be had on KGB 5. Then KGB 6 was raised; likewise nothing. Now what, dear God, now what? Where did he turn next? Aspirin looked at him inquiringly, not really wanting to get involved.

“Always remember, son, C-Y-A. That’s the ticket. C-Y-A.”

“Covering your ass will not help me to locate Mr. Stames,” said Mark, forcing himself to speak calmly. “It doesn’t matter, Aspirin, you get back to your crossword puzzle.”

Mark left him and went into the men’s room, cupped his hands under the tap and washed his mouth out; he still smelled of vomit and blood. He cleaned up as best he could. He returned to the Criminal Room, sat down, and counted to ten very slowly. He had to make up his mind what to do, and then to carry it out, come what may. Something had probably happened to Stames and Calvert, he knew something had happened to the black postman and the Greek. Perhaps he should try and get in touch with the Director, although it was an extreme course. A man of Mark’s rank, two years out of training, didn’t just pick up a phone and call the Director. In any case he could still keep Stames’s appointment with the Director at 10:30 the next morning. 10:30 the next morning. That was half a day away. More than twelve hours of not knowing what to do. Nursing a secret that he had been told not to discuss with anyone. Holding information he couldn’t impart to anybody else.

The phone rang and he heard Polly’s voice. He prayed it would be Stames, but his prayer was not answered.

“Hey, Mr. Andrews, are you still there? I’ve got Homicide on the line. Captain Hogan wants to talk to you.”

“Andrews?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“What can you tell me?”

Mark reported truthfully that Casefikis was an illegal immigrant who had delayed seeking treatment for his leg, and untruthfully that he alleged he had been shot by a crook who had subjected him to blackmail, threatening exposure of his illegal entry into the States. A full written report would be sent around to his office by tomorrow morning.

The detective sounded disbelieving.

“Are you holding out on me, son? What was the FBI doing there in the first place? There’s going to be one hell of a scene if I find out you’re withholding information. I wouldn’t hesitate to roast your ass over the hottest coals in Washington.”

Mark thought of Stames’s repeated injunctions about secrecy.

“No, I’m not withholding information,” he said in a raised voice; he knew he was trembling and could hardly have sounded less convincing. The Homicide detective grumbled to himself, asked a few more questions, and hung up. Mark put the phone down. The receiver was clammy with sweat, his clothes still stuck to him. He tried Norma Stames again; still the boss hadn’t reached home. He called Polly again, and asked her to go through the whole routine with the radio channels again; still nothing except a buzzing sound on Channel One. Finally, Mark abandoned the telephone and told Aspirin he was leaving. Aspirin didn’t seem interested.

Mark headed for the elevator and walked quickly to his car. Must get on to home ground. Then call the Director. Once again he was speeding through the streets towards his home.

It wasn’t the most luxurious part of town, but the renovated southwest section of Washington was home for many young, single professionals. It was on the waterfront near the Arena Stage, conveniently located next to a Metro station. Pleasant, lively, not too expensive — the place suited Mark perfectly.

As soon as he reached his apartment, he ran up the stairs, burst through the door and picked up the phone. After several rings, the Bureau answered. “Director’s office. Duty officer speaking.”

Mark drew a deep breath.

“My name is Special Agent Andrews, Washington Field Office,” Mark began slowly. “I want to speak to the Director, priority and immediate.”

The Director, it seemed, was dining with the Attorney General at her home. Mark asked for the telephone number. Did he have special authority to contact the Director at this time of night? He had special authority, he had an appointment with him at 10:30 tomorrow morning and, for God’s sake, he had special authority.

The man must have sensed Andrews was desperate.

“I’ll call you right back, if you’ll give me your number.”

Andrews knew that this was simply to check that he was an FBI agent and that he was scheduled to see the Director in the morning. The phone rang after one minute and the duty officer was back.

“The Director is still with the Attorney General. Her private number is 761-4386.”

Mark dialed the number.

“Mrs. Edelman’s residence,” said a deferential voice.

“This is Special Agent Mark Andrews,” he began. “I need to speak to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

He said it slowly, he said it clearly, although he was still trembling. The reply came back from a man whose biggest worry that night had been that the potatoes had taken longer than expected.

“Will you hold the line one moment please, sir?”

He waited, he waited, he waited.

A new voice said: “Tyson here.”

Mark drew a deep breath and plunged in.

“My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I have an appointment to see you with SAC Stames and Special Agent Calvert at 10:30 tomorrow morning. You don’t know the details, sir, because it was made through Mrs. McGregor after you had left your office. I have to see you immediately, you may wish to call me back. I’m at home.”

“Yes, Andrews,” said Tyson. “I’ll call you back. What is your number?”

Mark gave it.

“Young man,” Tyson said, “this had better be a priority.”

“It is, sir.”

Mark waited again. One minute passed, and then another. Had Tyson dismissed him as a fool? What was going on? Three minutes passed. Four minutes passed; he was obviously checking more thoroughly than his duty officer had done.

The phone rang. Mark jumped.

“Hi, Mark, it’s Roger. Want to come out for a beer?”

“Not now, Roger, not now.” He slammed the phone down.

It rang again immediately.

“Right, Andrews, what do you have to tell me? Make it quick and to the point.”

“I want to see you now, sir. I need fifteen minutes of your time and I need you to tell me what the hell to do.”

He regretted “hell” the moment he had said it.

“Very well, if it’s that urgent. Do you know where the Attorney General lives?”

“No, sir.”

“Take this down: 2942 Edgewood Street, Arlington.”

Mark put the phone down, wrote the address carefully in block capitals on the inside of a matchbook advertising life insurance, and called Aspirin, who just couldn’t get 7-across.

“If anything happens, I’ll be on my car radio; you can get me there, I’ll leave the line on Channel Two open the whole time. Something’s wrong with Channel One.”

Aspirin sniffed: the young agents took themselves far too seriously nowadays. It wouldn’t have happened under J. Edgar Hoover, shouldn’t be allowed to happen now. Still, he only had one more year and then retirement. He returned to the crossword. 7-across, ten letters: gathering of those in favor of buccaneering. Aspirin started to think.

Mark Andrews was thinking too as he rushed into the elevator, into the street, into his car, and moved off at speed to Arlington. He raced up East Basin Drive to Independence Avenue, past the Lincoln Memorial to get onto Memorial Bridge. He drove as fast as possible through the early night, cursing the people calmly strolling across the road on this mild, pleasant evening, casually on their way to nowhere in particular, cursing the people who took no notice of the flashing red light he had affixed to the car roof, cursing all the way. Where was Stames? Where was Barry? What the hell was going on? Would the Director think he was crazy?

He crossed Memorial Bridge and took the G.W. Parkway exit. A tie-up. He couldn’t move an inch. Probably an accident. A goddamn accident right now. That was all he needed. He pulled into the center lane and leaned on his horn. Most people assumed he was connected with the police rescue team: most people let him by. Eventually he made it to the group of police cars and rescue-squad ambulances. A young Metropolitan policeman approached the car. “Are you on this detail?”

“No. FBI. I’ve got to get to Arlington. Emergency.”

He flashed his credentials. The policeman ushered him through. He raced away from the accident. Goddamn accident. Once he was clear of it, the traffic became light. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at 2942 Edgewood Street, Arlington. One last check with Polly at the Washington Field Office on the car phone. No, neither Stames nor Calvert had called in.

Mark jumped out of the car. Before he had taken a step, a Secret Service man stopped him. Mark showed his credentials and said that he had an appointment with the Director. The Secret Service man courteously asked him to wait by his car. After consultation at the door, Mark was shown into a small room just on the right of the hall which was obviously used as a study. The Director came in. Mark stood up.

“Good evening, Director.”

“Good evening, Andrews. You’ve interrupted a very important dinner. I hope you know what you are doing.”

The Director was cold and abrupt, clearly displeased at being summoned to a meeting by an unknown junior agent.

Mark went through the whole story from the first meeting with Stames through to his decision to go over everybody’s head. The Director’s face remained impassive throughout the long recital. It was still impassive when Mark had finished. Mark’s only thought was: I’ve done the wrong thing. He should have gone on trying to reach Stames and Calvert. They were probably home by now. He waited, a little sweat appearing on his forehead. Perhaps this was his last day in the FBI. The Director’s first words took him by surprise.

“You did exactly the right thing, Andrews. I’d have made the same decision in your place. It must have taken guts to bring the whole thing to me.” He looked hard at Mark. “You’re absolutely certain only Stames, Calvert, you, and I know all the details of what happened this evening? No one from the Secret Service, and no one from the Metropolitan Police Department?”

“That’s correct, sir, just the four of us.”

“And the three of you already have an appointment with me at 10:30 tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Take this down.”

Mark took out a pad from his inside coat pocket.

“You have the Attorney General’s number here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And my number at home is 721-4069. Learn them and then destroy them. Now I’ll tell you exactly what you do next. Go back to the Washington Field Office. Check on Stames and Calvert again. Call the morgue, call the hospitals, call the highway police. If nothing turns up, I’ll see you in my office at 8:30 tomorrow morning, not 10:30. That’s your first job. Second, get me the names of the Homicide officers working on this detail with the Metropolitan Police. Now tell me if I have this right — you told them nothing about the reason you went to see Casefikis?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good.”

The Attorney General put her head around the door.

“Everything under control, Halt?”

“Fine, thanks, Marian. I don’t think you’ve met Special Agent Andrews of the Washington Field Office.”

“No. Nice to meet you, Mr. Andrews.”

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“Will you be long, Halt?”

“No, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve finished briefing Andrews.”

“Anything special?”

“No, nothing to worry about.”

The Director had obviously decided nobody was going to be told the story until he got to the bottom of it himself.

“Where was I?”

“You told me to return to the Washington Field Office, sir, and check on Stames and Calvert.”

“Yes.”

“And then to call the morgue, the hospitals, and the highway police.”

“Right.”

“And you told me to check on the Homicide officers, get their names.”

“Right. Take down the following: check the names of all hospital employees and visitors, as well as any other persons who can be identified as having been in the vicinity of Room 4308 between the time the two occupants were known to be alive and the time you found them dead. Check the names of the two dead men through NCIC and Bureau indexes for any background information we may have. Get fingerprints of all persons on duty and all visitors and all others who can be identified as having been near Room 4308, as well as fingerprints of the two dead men. We will need all these prints both for elimination purposes and possible suspect identification. If you don’t find Stames and Calvert, as I said, see me at 8:30 in my office tomorrow morning. If anything else arises tonight, you call me here or at home. Don’t hesitate. If it’s after 11:30, I’ll be home. If you call me on the phone, use a code name — now let me think — Julius — let’s hope it’s not prophetic, and give me your number. Make sure you use a pay phone and I’ll call you back immediately. Don’t bother me before 7:15 in the morning, unless it’s really important. Have you understood all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. I think I’ll get back to dinner.”

Mark stood up, ready to leave. The Director put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, young man. These things happen from time to time and you made the right decision. You showed a lot of self-possession in a lousy situation. Now get on with the job.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mark was relieved that someone else knew what he was going through; someone else with far bigger shoulders was there to share it.

On his way back to the FBI office, he picked up the car microphone. “WFO 180 in service. Any word from Mr. Stames?”

“Nothing yet, WFO 180, but I’ll keep trying.”

Aspirin was still there when he arrived, unaware that Mark had just been talking with the Director of the FBI. Aspirin had met all four directors at cocktail parties, though none of them would have remembered his name.

“Emergency over, son?”

“Yes,” Mark said, lying. “Have we heard from Stames or Calvert?” He tried not to sound anxious.

“No, must have dropped in somewhere on the way home. Never you worry. The little sheep will find their way back without you to hold their tails.”

Mark did worry. He went to his office and picked up the phone. Polly had still heard nothing. Just a buzz that continued on Channel One. He called Norma Stames, still no news. Mrs. Stames asked if there might be anything to worry about.

“Nothing at all.” Another lie. Was he sounding too unconcerned? “We just can’t find out which bar he’s ended up in.”

She laughed, but she knew Nick never frequented bars.

Mark tried Calvert; still no reply from the bachelor apartment. He knew in his bones something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. At least the Director was there, and the Director knew everything now. He glanced at his watch: 11:15. Where had the night gone? And where was it going? 11:15. What was he supposed to have done tonight? Hell. He had persuaded a beautiful girl to have dinner with him. Yet again, he picked up the telephone. At least she would be safely at home, where she ought to be.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Elizabeth, it’s Mark Andrews. I’m really sorry about not making it tonight. Something happened that got way out of my control.”

The tension in his voice was apparent.

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “You warned me you were unreliable.”

“I hope you’ll let me take a raincheck. Hopefully, in the morning, I can sort things out. I’ll probably see you then.”

“In the morning?” she said. “If you’re thinking of the hospital, I’m off duty tomorrow.”

Mark hesitated, thinking quickly of what he could prudently say. “Well, that may be best. I am afraid it’s not good news. Casefikis and the other man in his room were brutally murdered tonight. The Met is following it up, but we have nothing to go on.”

“Murdered? Both of them? Why? Who? Casefikis wasn’t killed without reason, was he?” The words came out in a torrent. “What’s going on, for heaven’s sake? No, don’t answer that. You wouldn’t tell me the truth in any case.”

“I wouldn’t waste my time lying to you, Elizabeth. Look, I’ve had it for tonight, and I owe you a big steak for messing up your evening. Can I call you some time soon?”

“I’d like that. Murder isn’t food for the appetite, though. I hope you catch the men responsible. We see the results of a great deal of violence at Woodrow Wilson, but it isn’t usually inflicted within our walls.”

“I know. I’m sorry it involves you. Good night, Elizabeth. Sleep well.”

“And you, Mark. If you can.”

Mark put the phone down, and immediately the burden of the day’s events returned. What now? There was nothing practicable he could do before 8:30, except keep in touch on the radio phone until he was home. There was no point just sitting there looking out of the window, feeling helpless, sick, and alone. He went in to Aspirin, told him he was going home, and that he’d call in every fifteen minutes because he was still anxious to speak to Stames and Calvert. Aspirin didn’t even look up.

“Fine,” he said, his mind fully occupied by the crossword puzzle. He had completed eleven clues, a sure sign it was a quiet evening.

Mark drove down Pennsylvania Avenue towards his apartment. At the first traffic circle, a tourist who didn’t know he had the right of way was holding up traffic. Damn him, thought Mark. Visitors to Washington who hadn’t mastered the knack of cutting out at the right turn-off could end up circling around and around many more times than originally planned. Eventually, Mark managed to get around the circle and back on Pennsylvania Avenue. He continued to drive slowly towards his home, at the Tiber Island Apartments, his thoughts heavy and anxious. He turned on the car radio for the midnight news; must take his mind off it somehow. There were no big stories that night and the newscaster sounded rather bored; the President had held a press conference about the Gun Control bill, and the situation in South Africa seemed to be getting worse. Then the local news; there had been an automobile accident on the G.W. Parkway and it involved two cars, both of which were being hauled out of the river by cranes, under floodlights. One of the cars was a black Lincoln, the other a blue Ford sedan, according to eyewitnesses, a married couple from Jacksonville vacationing in the Washington area. No other details as yet.

A blue Ford sedan. Although he had not really been concentrating, it kept repeating itself in his brain — a blue Ford sedan? Oh no, God, please no. He veered right off 9th Street onto Maine Avenue, narrowly missing a fire hydrant, and raced back towards Memorial Bridge, where he had been only two hours before. The roads were clearer now and he was back in a few minutes. At the scene of the accident the Metropolitan Police were still thick on the ground and one lane of the G.W. was closed off by barriers. Mark parked the car on the grassy verge and ran up to the barrier. He showed his FBI credentials and was taken to the officer in charge; he explained that he feared one of the cars involved might have been driven by an agent from the FBI. Any details yet?

“Still haven’t got them out,” the inspector replied. “We only have two witnesses to the accident, if it was an accident. Apparently there was some very funny driving going on. They should be up in about thirty minutes. All you can do is wait.”

Mark went over to the side of the road to watch the vast cranes and tiny frogmen groping around in the river under vast klieg lights. The thirty minutes wasn’t thirty minutes; he shivered in the cold, waiting and watching. It was forty minutes, it was fifty minutes, it was over an hour before the black Lincoln came out. Inside the car was one body. Cautious man, he was wearing a seat belt. The police moved in immediately. Mark went back to the officer in charge and asked how long before the second car.

“Not long. That Lincoln wasn’t your car, then?”

“No,” said Mark.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, he saw the top of the second car, a dark blue car; he saw the side of the car, one of the windows fractionally opened; he saw the whole of the car. Two men were in it. He saw the license plate. For a second time that night, Mark felt sick. Almost crying, he ran back to the officer in charge and gave the names of the two men in the car, and then ran on to a pay phone at the side of the road. It was a long way. He dialed the number, checking his watch as he did so; it was nearly one o’clock. After one ring he heard a tired voice say, “Yes.”

Mark said, “Julius.”

The voice said, “What is your number?”

He gave it. Thirty seconds later, the telephone rang.

“Well, Andrews. It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, sir, it’s Stames and Calvert, they’re dead.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, the voice was awake now.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mark gave the details of the car crash, trying to keep the weariness and emotion out of his voice.

“Call your office immediately, Andrews,” Tyson said, “without releasing any of the details that you gave me this evening. Only tell them about the car crash — nothing more. Then get any further information about it you can from the police. See me in my office at 7:30, not 8:30; come through the wide entrance on the far side of the building; there will be a man waiting there for you. He’ll be expecting you; don’t be late. Go home now and try to get some sleep and keep yourself out of sight until tomorrow. Don’t worry, Andrews. Two of us know, and I’ll put agents on the routine checks that I gave you to do earlier.”

The phone clicked. Mark called Aspirin, what a night for him to have to be on duty, told him about Stames and Calvert, hanging up abruptly before Aspirin could ask any questions. He returned to his car and drove home slowly through the night. There was hardly another car on the streets and the early-morning mist gave everything an unearthly look.

At the entrance to his apartment garage he saw Simon, the young black attendant, who liked Mark and, even more, Mark’s Mercedes. Mark had blown a small legacy from his aunt on the car just after graduating from college, but never regretted his extravagance. Simon knew Mark had no assigned spot in the garage and always offered to park his car for him — anything for a chance to drive the magnificent silver Mercedes SLC 580. Mark usually exchanged a few bantering words with Simon; tonight he passed him the keys without even looking at him.

“I’ll need it at seven in the morning,” he said, already walking away. “Okay, man,” came back the reply.

Mark heard Simon restart the car with a soft whoosh before the elevator door closed behind him. He arrived at his apartment; three rooms, all empty. He locked the door, and then bolted it, something he had never done before. He walked around the room slowly, undressed, throwing his sour-smelling shirt into the laundry hamper. He washed for the third time that night and then went to bed, to stare up at the white ceiling. He tried to make some sense out of the night’s events; he tried to sleep. Six hours passed, and if he slept it was never for more than a few minutes.

Someone else who didn’t sleep that night for more than a few minutes was tossing and turning in her bed at the White House.

Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, John Lennon and Robert Kennedy. How many citizens distinguished and unknown needed to sacrifice their lives before the House would pass a bill to outlaw such self-destruction?

“Who else must die?” she remarked. “If I myself there is no hour so fit as...”

She turned over and looked at Edward whose expression left no doubt that such morbid thoughts were not on his mind.