Shall We Tell the President?

Saturday morning 5 March

6:32 A.M.

Mark had awoken, but he wasn’t awake. His head was swimming with incoherent thoughts. The first vision to flash across his mind was Elizabeth; he smiled. The second was Nick Stames; he frowned. The third was the Director. Mark woke with a start and sat up, trying to focus his eyes on his watch. All he could see was the second hand moving: 6:35. Hell. He shot up from the chair, his stiff neck and back hurting him; he was still dressed. He threw off his clothes and rushed into the bathroom and showered, without taking time to adjust the water temperature. Goddamn freezing. At least it woke him up and made him forget Elizabeth. He jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel: 6:40. After throwing the lather on his face, he shaved too quickly, mowing down the stubble on his chin. Damn it, three nicks; the aftershave lotion stung viciously: 6:43. He dressed: clean shirt, same cuff links, clean socks, same shoes, clean suit, same tie. A quick look in the mirror: two nicks still bleeding slightly, the hell with it. He bundled the papers on his desk into his briefcase and ran for the elevator. First piece of luck, it was on the top floor. Downstairs: 6:46.

“Hi, Simon.”

The young black garage attendant didn’t move. He was dozing in his little cubbyhole at the garage entrance.

“Morning, Mark. Hell, man, is it eight o’clock already?”

“No, thirteen minutes to seven.”

“What are you up to? Moonlighting?” asked Simon, rubbing his eyes and handing over the car keys. Mark smiled, but didn’t have time to answer. Simon dozed off again.

Car starts first time. Reliable Mercedes. Moves on the road: 6:48. Must stay below speed limit. Never embarrass the Bureau. At 6th Street, held up by lights: 6:50. Cut across G Street, up 7th, more lights. Cross Independence Avenue: 6:53. Corner of 7th and Pennsylvania. Can see FBI Building: 6:55. Down ramp, park, show FBI pass to garage guard, run for elevator: 6:57; elevator to seventh floor: 6:58. Along the corridor, turn right, Room 7074, straight in, past Mrs. McGregor as instructed. She barely glances up; knock on door of Director’s office; no reply; go in as instructed. No Director: 6:59; sink into easy chair. Director going to be late; smile of satisfaction. Thirty seconds to seven: glance around room, casually, as if been waiting for hours. Eyes land on grandfather clock. Strikes: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

The door opened, and the Director marched in. “Good morning, Andrews.” He did not look at Mark, but at the clock on the wall. “It’s always a little fast.” Silence. The Old Post Office Tower clock struck seven.

The Director settled into his chair, and once again the large hands took possession of the desk.

“We’ll start with my news first, Andrews. We have just received some identification on the Lincoln that went into the Potomac with Stames and Calvert.”

The Director opened a new manilla file marked “Eyes only” and glanced at its contents. What was in the file that Mark didn’t know about and ought to know about?

“Nothing solid to go on. Hans-Dieter Gerbach, German. Bonn has reported that he was a minor figure in the Munich rackets until five years ago, then they lost track of him. There is some evidence to suggest he was in Rhodesia and even hitched up with the CIA for a while. The White-Lightning Brigade. The CIA is not being helpful on him. I can’t see much information coming from them before Thursday. Sometimes I wonder whose side they’re on. In 1980, Gerbach turned up in New York, but there’s nothing there except rumors and street talk, no record to go on. It would have helped if he’d lived.”

Mark thought of the slit throats in Woodrow Wilson Medical Center and wondered.

“The interesting fact to emerge from the car crash is that both black tires of Stames’s and Calvert’s car have small holes in them. They could have been the result of the fall down the bank, but our laboratory boys think they are bullet holes. If they are, whoever did the shooting makes Wyatt Earp look like a boy scout.”

The Director spoke into his intercom. “Have Assistant Director Rogers join us please, Mrs. McGregor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Rogers’s men have found the catering outfit Casefikis was working for, for what that’s worth.”

The Assistant Director knocked and entered. The Director indicated a chair. Rogers smiled at Mark and sat down.

“Let’s have the details, Matt.”

“Well, sir, the owner of the Golden Duck wasn’t exactly co-operative. Seemed to think I was after him for contravening employers’ regulations. I threatened to shut him down if he didn’t talk. Finally he admitted to employing a man matching Casefikis’s description on 24 February. He sent Casefikis to serve at a small luncheon party in one of the rooms at the Georgetown Inn on Wisconsin Avenue. The man who made the arrangement was a Lorenzo Rossi. He insisted on a waiter who couldn’t speak English. Paid in cash. We’ve run Rossi through all the computers — nothing. Obviously a false name. Same story at the Georgetown Inn. The proprietor said the room had been hired for the day of 24 February by a Mr. Rossi, food to be supplied, but no service, cash paid in advance. Rossi was about five-feet-eight, dark complexion, no distinguishing features, dark hair, sunglasses. The proprietor thought he “seemed Italian.” No one at the hotel knows or cares who the hell went to lunch in that room that day. I’m afraid it doesn’t get us very far.”

“I agree. I suppose we could pull every Italian answering that description off the street,” said the Director. “If we had five years, not five days. Did you turn up anything new at the hospital, Matt?”

“It’s a hell of a mess, sir. The place is full of people coming and going, all day and most of the night. The staff all work shifts. They don’t even know their own colleagues, let alone outsiders. You could wander around there all day with a torchlight in your hand and no one would stop you unless they wanted a light.”

“That figures,” said Tyson. “Right, Andrews, what have you been up to for the past twenty-four hours?”

Mark opened his regulation blue plastic portfolio. He reported that there were sixty-two senators left, the other thirty-eight accounted for, most of them having been a long way from Washington on 24 February. He passed the list of names over to the Director, who glanced through them.

“Some pretty big fish still left in the muddy pond, Andrews. Go on.”

Mark proceeded to outline his encounter with the Greek Orthodox priest. He expected a sharp reprimand for failing to remember the matter of the beard immediately. He was not disappointed. Chastened, he continued: “I am seeing Father Gregory at eight o’clock this morning, and I thought I would go on to see Casefikis’s widow afterwards. I don’t think either will have much to offer, but I imagine you want those leads followed up, sir. After that I intended to return to the Library of Congress to try and figure out why any of those sixty-two senators might wish to see an end of President Kane.”

“Well, to start with, put them in categories,” said the Director. “First political party, then committees, then outside interests, then their personal knowledge of the President. Don’t forget, Andrews, we do know that our man had lunch in Georgetown on 24 February and that should bring the numbers down.”

“But sir, presumably they all had lunch on 24 February.”

“Exactly, Andrews, but not all in private. Many of them would have been seen in a public place or lunched officially, with constituents or federal employees or lobbyists. You have to find out who did what, without letting the senator we’re after get suspicious.”

“How do you suggest I go about doing that, sir?”

“Simple,” replied the Director. “You call each of the senators’ secretaries and ask if the boss would be free to attend a luncheon on—” He paused. “—‘The Problems of Urban Environment.’ Yes, I like that. Give them a date, say 5 May, then ask if they attended either the one given on,” the Director glanced at his calendar, “17 January or 24 February, as some senators who had accepted didn’t attend, and one or two turned up without invitations. Then say a written invitation will follow. All the secretaries will put it out of their minds unless you write, and if any of them does remember on 5 May, it will be too late for us to care. One thing is certain: no senator will be letting his secretary know that he is planning to kill the President.”

The Assistant Director grimaced slightly. “If he gets caught, sir, all hell will break loose. We’ll be back in the dirty-tricks department.”

“No, Matt, if I tell the President one of her precious brethren is going to knife her in the back, she won’t see anything particularly pleasant in that trick.”

“We haven’t got any real proof, sir,” said Mark.

“Then you had better find it, Andrews, or we’ll all be looking for a new job, trust my judgment.”

Trust my judgment, Mark thought.

“All we have is one strong lead,” the Director continued. “That a senator may be involved, but we have only five days left. If we fail next Thursday, there will be enough time during the next twenty years to study the inquiry and you, Andrews, will be able to make a fortune writing a book about it.”

Mark looked apprehensive.

“Andrews, don’t get too worried. I have briefed the head of the Secret Service. I told him no more and no less than was in your report, as we agreed yesterday, so that gives us a clear run right through to 10 March. I’m working on a contingency plan, in case we don’t know who Cassius is before then; but I won’t bore you with it now. I have also talked to the boys from Homicide; they have come up with very little that can help us. It may interest you to know that they have seen Casefikis’s wife already. Their brains seem to work a little faster than yours, Andrews.”

“Perhaps they don’t have as much on their minds,” said the Assistant Director.

“Maybe not. Okay, go see her if you think it might help. You may pick up something they missed. Cheer up, you’ve covered a lot of ground. Perhaps this morning’s investigation will give us some new leads to work on. I think that covers everything for now. Right, Andrews, don’t let me waste any more of your time.”

“No, sir.”

Mark rose.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to offer you coffee, Andrews.”

I didn’t manage to drink it the last time, Mark wanted to say. He left as the Director ordered coffee for himself and the Assistant Director. He decided that he too could do with some breakfast and a chance to collect his thoughts. He went in search of the Bureau cafeteria.

The Director drank his coffee and asked Mrs. McGregor to send in his personal assistant. The anonymous man appeared almost instantly, a grey folder under his arm. He didn’t have to ask the Director what it was that he wanted. He placed the folder on the table in front of him, and left without speaking.

“Thank you,” said the Director to the closing door. He turned the cover of the folder and browsed through it for twenty minutes, a chuckle here, and a grunt there, the odd comment to Matthew Rogers. There were facts in it about Mark Andrews of which Mark himself would have been unaware. The Director finished his second cup of coffee, closed the file, and locked it in the personal drawer of the Queen Anne desk. Queen Anne had never held as many secrets as that desk.

Mark finished a much better breakfast than he could have hoped for at the Washington Field Office. There, you had to go across the street to the Lunch Connection, because the snack bar downstairs was so abominable, much in keeping with the rest of the building. Not that he wouldn’t have liked to return to it now instead of the underground garage to pick up his car. He didn’t notice the man across the street who watched him leave, but he did wonder whether the blue Ford sedan that stayed in his rear-view mirror so long was there by chance. If it wasn’t, who was watching whom, who was trying to protect whom?

He arrived at Father Gregory’s church just before 8:00 A.M. and they walked together to the priest’s house. The priest’s half-rim glasses squatted on the end of a stubby nose. His large, red cheeks and even larger basketball belly led the uncharitable to conclude that Father Gregory had found much to solace him on earth while he waited for the eternal kingdom of heaven. Mark told him that he had already breakfasted, but it didn’t stop the Father from frying two eggs and bacon, plus toast, marmalade, and a cup of coffee. Father Gregory could add very little to what he had told Mark on the telephone the previous night, and he sighed deeply when he was reminded of the two deaths at the hospital.

“Yes, I read the details in the Post.” When they talked about Nick Stames, a light came into his grey eyes; it was clear that priest and policeman had shared a few secrets, this was no jolly old Jesus freak.

“Is there any connection between Nick’s death and the accident in the hospital?” Father Gregory asked suddenly.

The question took Mark by surprise. There was a shrewd brain behind the half-rim glasses. Lying to a priest, Greek Orthodox or otherwise, seemed somehow worse than the usual lies which were intended to protect the Bureau from the general public.

“Absolutely none,” said Mark. “Just one of those horrible auto accidents.”

“Just one of those weird coincidences?” said Father Gregory quizzically, peering at Mark over the top of his glasses. “Is that right?” he sounded almost as unconvinced as Grant Nanna. He continued: “There’s one more thing I would like to mention. Although it’s hard to remember exactly what the man said when he called me and told me not to bother to go to the hospital, I’m fairly certain he was a well-educated man. I feel sure by the way he carried it off that he was a professional man, and I am not sure what I mean by that; it’s just the strange feeling that he had made that sort of call before; there was something professional about him.”

Father Gregory repeated the phrase to himself — “Something professional about him” — and so did Mark, while he was in the car on the way to the house in which Mrs. Casefikis was staying. It was the home of the friend who had harbored her wounded husband.

Mark drove down Connecticut Avenue, past the Washington Hilton and the National Zoo, into Maryland. Patches of bright, yellow forsythia had begun to appear along the road. Connecticut Avenue turned into University Boulevard, and Mark found himself in Wheaton, a suburban satellite of stores, restaurants, gas stations, and a few apartment buildings. Stopped by a red light near Wheaton Plaza, Mark checked his notes. 11501 Elkin Street. He was looking for the Blue Ridge Manor Apartments. Fancy name for a group of squat, three-story faded-brick buildings lining Blue Ridge and Elkin streets. As he approached 11501, Mark looked for a parking space. No luck. He hovered for a moment, then decided to park in front of a fire hydrant. He draped the radio microphone carefully over his rear-view mirror, so that any observant meter maid or policeman would know that this was an official car on official business.

Ariana Casefikis burst into tears at the mere sight of Mark’s badge. She looked frail; only twenty-nine, her clothes unkempt, her hair all over the place, her eyes gray and still full of tears. The lines on her face showed where the tears had been running, running for two days. She and Mark were about the same age. She didn’t have a country, and now she didn’t have a husband. What was going to happen to her? If Mark had felt alone, he was certainly better off than this poor woman.

Mrs. Casefikis’s English turned out to be rather better than her husband’s. She had already seen two policemen. She told them that she knew nothing. First the nice man from the Metropolitan Police who had broken the news to her and been so understanding, then the Homicide lieutenant who had come a little later and been much firmer, wanting to know things she hadn’t the faintest clue about, and now a visit from the FBI. Her husband had never been in trouble before and she didn’t know who shot him or why anybody would want to. He was a gentle, kind man. Mark believed her.

He also assured her that she had no immediate cause for worry and that he would deal personally with the Immigration Office and the Welfare people about getting her some income. It seemed to cheer her up and make her a little more responsive.

“Now please try to think carefully, Mrs. Casefikis. Have you any idea where your husband was working on 23 or 24 February, the Wednesday and Thursday of last week, and did he tell you anything about his work?”

She had no idea. Angelo never told her what he was up to and half the jobs were casual and only for the day, because he couldn’t risk staying on without a work permit, being an illegal immigrant. Mark was getting nowhere, but it wasn’t her fault.

“Will I be able to stay in America?”

“I’ll do everything I can to help, Mrs. Casefikis. That I promise you. I’ll talk to a Greek Orthodox priest I know about finding some money to tide you over till I’ve seen the Welfare people.”

Mark opened the door, despondent about the lack of any hard information either from Father Gregory or from Ariana Casefikis.

“The priest already give me money.”

Mark stopped in his tracks, turned slowly, and faced her. He tried to show no particular interest.

“Which priest was that?” he asked casually.

“He said he help. Man who came to visit yesterday. Nice man, very nice, very kind. He give me fifty dollars.”

Mark turned cold. The man had been ahead of him again. Father Gregory was right, there was something professional about him.

“Can you describe him, Mrs. Casefikis?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did he look like?”

“Oh, he was a big man, very dark, I think,” she began. Mark tried to remain offhand. It must have been the man who had passed him in the elevator, the man who had earlier kept Father Gregory from going to the hospital and who, if Mrs. Casefikis had known anything at all about the plot, would no doubt have dispatched her to join her husband.

“Did he have a beard, Mrs. Casefikis?”

“Of course he did,” she hesitated, “but I can’t remember him having one.”

Mark asked her to stay in the house, not to leave under any circumstances. He made an excuse that he was going to check on the Welfare situation and talk to the Immigration officials. He was learning how to lie. The clean-shaven Greek Orthodox priest was teaching him.

He jumped into the car and drove a few hundred yards to the nearest pay phone on Georgia Avenue. He dialed the Director’s private line. The Director picked up the phone.

“Julius.”

“What is your number?” asked the Director.

Thirty seconds later the phone rang, Mark went over the story carefully.

“I’ll send an Identikit man down to you immediately. You go back there and hold her hand. And, Andrews, try to think on your feet. I’d like that fifty dollars. Was it one bill, or several? There may just be a fingerprint on them.” The telephone clicked. Mark frowned. If the phony Greek Orthodox priest weren’t always two steps ahead of him, the Director was.

Mark returned to Mrs. Casefikis and told her that her case would be dealt with at the highest level; he must remember to speak to the Director about it at the next meeting, he made a note about it on his pad. Back to the casual voice again.

“Are you sure it was fifty dollars, Mrs. Casefikis?”

“Oh, yes, I don’t see a fifty-dollar bill every day, and I was most thankful at the time.”

“Can you remember what you did with it?”

“Yes, I went and bought food from the supermarket just before they closed.”

“Which supermarket, Mrs. Casefikis?”

“Wheaton Supermarket. Up the street.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday evening about six o’clock.”

Mark realized that there wasn’t a moment to lose. If it weren’t already too late.

“Mrs. Casefikis, a man will be coming, a colleague of mine, a friend, from the FBI, to ask you to describe the kind Father who gave you the money. It will help us greatly if you can remember as much about him as possible. You have nothing to worry about because we’re doing everything we can to help you.”

Mark hesitated, took out his wallet and gave her fifty dollars. She smiled for the first time.

“Now, Mrs. Casefikis, I want you to do just one last thing for me. If the Greek priest ever comes to visit again, don’t tell him about our conversation, just call me at this number.”

Mark handed her a card. Ariana Casefikis nodded, but her lackluster gray eyes followed Mark to his car. She didn’t understand, or know which man to trust: hadn’t they both given her fifty dollars?

Mark pulled into a parking space in front of the Wheaton Supermarket. A huge sign in the window announced that cases of cold beer were sold inside. Above the window was a blue and white cardboard representation of the dome of the Capitol. Five days, thought Mark. He went into the store. It was a small family enterprise, privately owned, not part of a chain. Beer lined one wall, wine the other, and in between were four rows of canned and frozen foods. A meat counter stretched the length of the rear wall. The butcher seemed to be minding the store alone. Mark hurried towards him, starting to ask the question before he reached the counter.

“Could I please see the manager?”

The butcher eyed him suspiciously. “What for?”

Mark showed his credentials.

The butcher shrugged and yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, Flavio, FBI. Wants to see you.”

Several seconds later, the manager, a large red-faced Italian, appeared in the doorway to the left of the meat counter. “Yeah? What can I do for you, Mr., uh...”

“Andrews, FBI.” Mark showed his credentials once again.

“Yeah, okay. What do you want, Mr. Andrews? I’m Flavio Guida. This is my place. I run a good, honest place.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Guida. I’m simply hoping you can help me. I’m investigating a case of stolen money, and we have reason to believe that a stolen fifty-dollar bill was spent in this supermarket yesterday and we wonder now if there is any way of tracing it.”

“Well, my money is collected every night,” said the manager. “It’s put into the safe and deposited in the bank first thing in the morning. It would have gone to the bank about an hour ago, and I think—”

“But it’s Saturday,” Mark said.

“No problem. My bank is open till noon on Saturday. It’s just a few doors down.”

Mark thought on his feet.

“Would you please accompany me to the bank immediately, Mr. Guida?”

Guida looked at his watch and then at Mark Andrews.

“Okay. Give me just half a minute.”

He shouted to an invisible woman in the back of the store to keep an eye on the cash register. Together he and Mark walked to the corner of Georgia and Hickers. Guida was obviously getting quite excited by the whole episode.

At the bank Mark went immediately to the chief cashier. The money had been handed over thirty minutes before to one of his tellers, a Mrs. Townsend. She still had it in piles ready for sorting. It was next on her list. She hadn’t had time to do so yet, she said rather apologetically. No need to feel sorry, thought Mark. The supermarket’s take for the day had been just over five thousand dollars. There were twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills. Christ Almighty, the Director was going to tear him apart, or to be more exact, the fingerprint experts were. Mark counted the fifty-dollar notes using gloves supplied by Mrs. Townsend and put them on one side — he agreed there were twenty-eight. He signed for them, gave the receipt to the chief cashier, and assured him they would be returned in the very near future. The bank manager came over and took charge of the receipt and the situation.

“Don’t FBI men usually work in pairs?”

Mark blushed. “Yes, sir, but this is a special assignment.”

“I would like to check,” said the manager. “You are asking me to release one thousand four hundred dollars on your word.”

“Of course, sir, please do check.”

Mark had to think quickly. He couldn’t ask the manager of a local bank to ring the Director of the FBI. It would be like charging your gasoline to the account of Henry Ford.

“Why don’t you ring the FBI’s Washington Field Office, sir, ask for the head of the Criminal Section. Mr. Grant Nanna.”

“I’ll do just that.”

Mark gave him the number, but he ignored it and looked it up for himself in the Washington directory. He got right through to Nanna. Thank God he was there.

“I have a young man from your Field Office with me. His name is Mark Andrews. He says he has the authority to take away twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills. Something to do with stolen money.”

Nanna also had to think quickly. Deny the allegation, defy the alligator — Nick Stames’s old motto.

Mark, meanwhile, offered up a little prayer.

“That’s correct, sir,” said Nanna. “He has been instructed by me to pick up those notes. I hope you will release them immediately. They will be returned as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nanna. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I just felt I ought just to check; you never can be sure nowadays.”

“No bother, sir, a wise precaution. We wish everybody were as careful.” The first truth he’d uttered, thought Grant Nanna.

The bank manager replaced the receiver, put the pile of fifty-dollar bills in a brown envelope, accepted the receipt, and shook hands with Mark apologetically.

“You understand I had to check?”

“Of course,” said Mark. “I would have done the same myself.”

He thanked Mr. Guida and the manager and asked them both not to mention the matter to anybody. They nodded with the air of those who know their duty.

Mark returned to the FBI Building immediately and went straight to the Director’s office. Mrs. McGregor nodded at him. A quiet knock on the door, and he went in.

“Sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

“Not at all, Andrews. Have a seat. We were just finishing.”

Matthew Rogers rose and looked carefully at Andrews and smiled.

“I’ll try and have the answers for you by lunch, Director,” he said, and left.

“Well, young man, do you have our Senator in the car downstairs?”

“No, sir, but I do have these.”

Mark opened the brown envelope and put twenty-eight fifty-dollar bills on the table.

“Been robbing a bank, have you? A federal charge, Andrews.”

“Almost, sir. One of these notes, as you know, was given to Mrs. Casefikis by the man posing as the Greek Orthodox priest.”

“Well, that will be a nice little conundrum for our fingerprint boys; fifty-six sides with hundreds, perhaps thousands of prints on them. It’s a long shot and it will take a considerable time, but it’s worth a try.” He was careful not to touch the notes. “I’ll have Sommerton deal with it immediately. We’ll also need Mrs. Casefikis’s prints. I’ll also put one of our agents on her house in case the big man returns.” The Director was writing and talking at the same time. “It’s just like the old days when I ran a field office. I do believe I’d enjoy it if it weren’t so serious.”

“Can I mention just one other thing while I’m here, sir?”

“Yes, say whatever you want to, Andrews.” Tyson didn’t look up, just continued writing.

“Mrs. Casefikis is worried about her status in this country. She has no money, no job, and now no husband. She may well have given us a vital lead and she has certainly been as co-operative as possible. I think we might help.”

The Director pressed a button.

“Ask Sommerton from Fingerprints to come up immediately, and send Elliott in.”

Ah, thought Mark, the anonymous man has a name.

“I’ll do what I can. I’ll see you Monday at seven, Andrews. I’ll be home all weekend if you need me. Don’t stop working.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mark left. He stopped at the Riggs Bank and changed fifteen dollars into quarters. The teller looked at him curiously.

“Have your own pinball machine, do you?”

Mark smiled.

He spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon with a diminishing pile of quarters, calling the weekend-duty secretaries of the sixty-two senators who had been in Washington on 24 February. All of them were most gratified that their senator should be invited to an Environmental Conference; the Director was no fool. At the end of sixty-two phone calls, his ears were numb. Mark studied the results... thirty senators had eaten in the office or with constituents, fifteen had not told their secretaries where they were having lunch or had mentioned some vague “appointment,” and seventeen had attended luncheons hosted by groups as varied as the National Press Club, Common Cause, and the NAACP. One secretary even thought her boss had been at that particular Environmental Luncheon on 24 February. Mark hadn’t been able to think of a reply to that.

With the Director’s help he was now down to fifteen senators.

He returned to the Library of Congress, and once again made for the quiet reference room. The librarian did not seem the least bit suspicious of all his questions about particular senators and committees and procedure in the Senate; she was used to graduate students who were just as demanding and far less courteous.

Mark went back to the shelf that held the Congressional Record. It was easy to find 24 February: it was the only thumbed number in the pile of unbound latest issues. He checked through the fifteen remaining names. On that day, there had been one committee in session, the Foreign Relations Committee; three senators on his list of fifteen were members of that committee, and all three had spoken in committee that morning, according to the Record. The Senate itself had debated two issues that day: the allocation of funds in the Energy Department for solar-energy research, and the Gun Control bill. Some of the remaining twelve had spoken on one or both issues on the floor of the Senate: there was no way of eliminating any of the fifteen, damn it. He listed the fifteen names on fifteen sheets of paper, and read through the Congressional Record for every day from 24 February to 3 March. By each name he noted the senator’s presence or absence from the Senate on each working day. Painstakingly, he built up each senator’s schedule; there were many gaps. It was evident that senators do not spend all their time in the Senate.

The young librarian was at his elbow. Mark glanced at the clock: 7:30. Throwing-out time. Time to forget the senators and to see Elizabeth. He called her at home.

“Hello, lovely lady. I think it must be time to eat again. I haven’t had anything since breakfast. Will you take pity on my debilitated state, Doctor, and eat with me?”

“And do what with you, Mark? I’ve just washed my hair. I think I must have soap in my ears.”

“Eat with me, I said. That will do for the moment. I just might think of something else later.”

“I just might say no later,” she said sweetly. “How’s the breathing?”

“Coming on nicely, thank you, but if I go on thinking what I am thinking right now, I may break out in pimples.”

“What do you want me to do, pour cold water in the phone?”

“No, just eat with me. I’ll pick you up in half an hour, hair wet or dry.”

They found a small restaurant called Mr. Smith’s in Georgetown. Mark was more familiar with it in the summer, when one could sit at a table in the garden at the back. It was crowded with people in their twenties. The perfect place to sit for hours and talk.

“God,” said Elizabeth. “This is just like being back at college; I thought we had grown out of that.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it,” Mark smiled.

“It’s all so predictable. Folksy wooden floors, butcherblock tables, plants. Bach flute sonatas. Next time we’ll try McDonald’s.”

Mark couldn’t think of a reply, and was saved only by the appearance of a menu.

“Can you imagine, four years at Yale, and I still don’t know what ratatouille is,” said Elizabeth.

“I know what it is, but I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.”

They both ordered chicken, baked potato, and salad.

“Look, Mark, there, that ghastly Senator Thornton with a girl young enough to be his daughter.”

“Perhaps she is his daughter.”

“No civilized man would bring his daughter here.” She smiled at him.

“He’s a friend of your father’s, isn’t he?”

“Yes, how do you know that?” asked Elizabeth.

“Common knowledge.” Mark already regretted his question.

“Well, I’d describe him as more of a business associate. He makes his money manufacturing guns. Not the most attractive occupation.”

“But your father owns part of a gun company.”

“Daddy? Yes, I don’t approve of that either, but he blames it on my grandfather who founded the firm. I used to argue with him about it when I was at school. Told him to sell his stock and invest it in something socially useful, saw myself as a sort Major Barbara.”

“How is your dinner?” a hovering waiter asked.

“Um, just great, thanks,” said Elizabeth looking up. “You know, Mark, I once called my father a war criminal.”

“But he was against the war, I thought.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about my father,” said Elizabeth looking at him suspiciously.

Not enough, thought Mark, and how much could you really tell me? If Elizabeth picked up any sign of his anxiety, she didn’t register it but simply continued.

“He voted to approve the MX missile, and I didn’t sit at the same table with him for almost a month. I don’t think he even noticed.”

“How about your mother?” asked Mark.

“She died when I was fourteen, which may be why I’m so close to my father,” Elizabeth said. She looked down at her hands in her lap, evidently wanting to drop the subject. Her dark hair shone as it fell across her forehead.

“You have very beautiful hair,” Mark said softly. “I wanted to touch it when I first saw you. I still do.”

She smiled. “I like curly hair better.” She leaned her chin on her cupped hands and looked at him mischievously. “You’ll look fantastic when you’re forty and fashionably gray at the temples. Provided you don’t lose it all first, of course. Did you know that men who lose their hair at the crown are sexy, those who lose it at the temples, think, and those who lose it all over, think they are sexy?”

“If I go bald at the crown, will you accept that as a declaration of intent?”

“I’m willing to wait but not that long.”

On the way back to her house he stopped, put his arm around her and kissed her, hesitantly at first, unsure of how she would respond.

“You know, my knees are feeling weak, Elizabeth,” he murmured into her soft, warm hair. “What are you going to do with your latest victim?”

She walked on without speaking for a little way.

“Get you some knee pads,” she said.

They walked on hand in hand, silently, happily, slowly. Three not very romantic men were following them.

In the pretty living room, on the cream-colored sofa, he kissed her again.

The three unromantic men waited in the shadows outside.

She sat alone in the Oval Office going over the clauses in the bill one by one, searching for any line that still might trip her up when the bill was voted on tomorrow.

She looked up suddenly startled to see her husband standing in front of her, a mug of steaming cocoa in his hand.

“An early night won’t harm your chances of influencing that lot,” he said pointing towards the Capitol.

She smiled, “Darling Edward, where would I be without your common sense?”