Shall We Tell the President?

Monday morning 7 March

7:00 A.M.

The Director listened to the results of Mark’s research in attentive silence and then added his own unexpected piece of information.

“Andrews, we may be able to narrow your list of fifteen senators even further. Last Thursday morning a couple of agents picked up an unauthorized transmission on one of our KGB channels. Either temporary interference from some commercial station caused us to tune in a different frequency momentarily or else some guy is in possession of an illegal transmitter for our frequency. The only thing our boys heard was: ‘Come in, Tony. I just dropped the Senator back for his committee meeting and I’m...’ The voice stopped transmitting abruptly and we couldn’t find it again. Perhaps the conspirators had been listening in on our conversations, and this time one of them without thinking started to transmit on our frequency as well; it’s easy enough to do. The agents who heard it filed a report concerning the illegal use of our frequency without realizing its particular significance.”

Mark was leaning forward in his chair.

“Yes, Andrews,” said the Director. “I know what’s going through your mind: 10:30 A.M. The message was sent at 10:30 A.M.”

“10:30 A.M., 3 March,” said Mark urgently. “Let me just check... which committees were already in progress...” He opened his file. “Dirksen Building... that hour... I have the details at hand somewhere, I know,” he continued as he flicked through his papers. “Three possibilities, sir. The Foreign Relations and Government Operations committees were in session that morning. On the floor of the Senate they were debating the Gun Control bill: that seems to be taking up a lot of their time right now.”

“Now we may be getting somewhere,” said the Director. “Can you tell from your records how many of your fifteen were in the Capitol on 3 March and what they were up to?”

Mark leafed through the fifteen sheets of paper and slowly divided them into two piles. “Well, it isn’t conclusive, sir, but I have no record of these eight” — he placed his hand on one of the piles — “being in the Senate that morning. The remaining seven were definitely there. None on the Government Operations Committee. Two on Foreign Relations — Pearson and Nunn, sir. The other five are Brooks, Byrd, Dexter, Harrison and Thornton. They were all on the floor. And they were all on the Judiciary Committee, Gun Control bill, as well.”

The Director grimaced. “Well, as you say, Andrews, it’s hardly conclusive. But it’s all we have, so you concentrate on those seven. With only four days, it’s a chance we will have to take. Don’t get too excited just because we had one lucky break, and double-check that those eight could not have been in Dirksen that morning. Now, I am not going to risk putting seven senators under surveillance. Those folks on the Hill are suspicious enough of the FBI as it is. We’ll have to use different tactics. Politically, we can’t take a chance on a full-scale investigation. I’m afraid we’ll have to find our man by using the only clues we’re certain of — where he was on Thursday, 24 February at lunchtime, and this 10:30 Judiciary Committee meeting last week. So don’t bother with the motive — we needn’t waste time second-guessing that, Andrews. Just keep looking for ways of narrowing the list, and spend the rest of the day at the Foreign Relations Committee and the floor of the Senate. Talk to the staff directors. There is nothing they don’t know — public or private — about the senators.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And one more thing. I’m having dinner with the President tonight so I may be able to glean some information from her which could help us reduce the number of suspects.”

“Will you tell the President, sir?”

The Director of the FBI paused. “No, I don’t think so. I still believe we have the problem under control. I see no reason for worrying her at this stage, certainly not before I’m convinced we’re likely to fail.”

Finally the Director passed over an Identikit picture of the Greek priest. “Mrs. Casefikis’s version,” he said. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s not a bad likeness at all,” said Mark. “Maybe a little fleshier around the jaws than that. Those men really know their job.”

“What worries me,” said the Director, “is that I’ve seen that damn face before. So many criminals have come across my path that to remember one of them is almost impossible. Maybe it will come to me.”

“I do hope it comes before Thursday, sir,” said Mark, without thinking.

“So do I,” Tyson replied grimly.

“And to think I was only twenty-four hours behind him. It hurts.”

“Think yourself lucky, young man. If you had been ahead of him, I think Ariana Casefikis would now be dead and so might you. I’ve still got a man on Mrs. Casefikis’s home just in case he returns, but I think he is far too professional a bastard to risk that.”

Mark agreed. “Professional bastard,” he repeated.

The red light on the internal telephone winked.

“Yes, Mrs. McGregor?”

“You’ll be late for your appointment with Senator Hart.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McGregor.” He put the phone down. “I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow, Mark.” It was the first time he called him Mark. “Leave no stone unturned; only four days left.”

Mark took the elevator down and left the building by his usual route. He didn’t notice he was being followed from the other side of the street. He went to the Senate Office Building and made appointments to see the staff directors of the Foreign Relations and Judiciary committees. The earliest either could manage was the following morning. Mark returned to the Library of Congress to research more thoroughly the personal histories of the seven senators left on his list. They were a rather varied bunch, from all over the country, with little in common; one of them had nothing in common with the other six, but which one? Nunn — it didn’t add up. Thornton — Stampouzis obviously didn’t care for him but what did that prove. Byrd — surely not the majority leader? Harrison — Stampouzis said he was against the Gun Control bill, but so was almost half the Senate. Dexter — what was the trouble Stampouzis wouldn’t tell him about? Perhaps Elizabeth would enlighten him tonight. Ralph Brooks, a strangely intense, driven man and certainly lacking any affection for Kane, that was for sure. Pearson — if he turned out to be the villain, no one would believe it: thirty-three years in the Senate, and always playing honest Casca in public and private.

Mark sighed — the long weary sigh of a man who has come to an impasse. He glanced at his watch: 10:45; he must leave immediately if he were to be on time. He returned the various periodicals, Congressional Records, and Ralph Nader reports to the librarian, and hurried across the street to the parking lot to pick up his car. He drove quickly down Constitution Avenue and over Memorial Bridge — how many times had he done that this week? Mark glanced in his rear-view mirror and thought he recognized the car behind him, or was it just the memory of last Thursday?

Mark parked his car at the side of the road. Two Secret Service men stopped him. He produced his credentials and walked slowly down the path just in time to join a hundred and fifty other mourners standing around two graves, freshly dug to receive two men who a week ago were more alive than most of the people attending their burial. The Vice President, former Senator Bill Bradley, was representing the President. He stood next to Norma Stames, a frail figure in black, being supported by her two sons. Hank, the eldest, stood next to a giant of a man, who must have been Barry Calvert’s father. Next was the Director, who glanced around and saw Mark, but didn’t acknowledge him. The game was being played out even at the graveside.

Father Gregory’s vestments fluttered slightly in the cold breeze. The hem was muddy, for it had rained all night. A young chaplain in white surplice and black cassock stood silently at his side.

“I am the image of Thine inexpressible glory, even though I bear the wounds of sin,” Father Gregory intoned.

His weeping wife bent forward and kissed Nick Stames’s pale cheek and the coffin was closed. As Father Gregory prayed, Stames’s and Calvert’s coffins were lowered slowly, slowly into their graves. Mark watched sadly: it might have been him going down, down; it should have been him.

“With the saints give rest, O Christ, to the souls of Thy servants, where there is neither sickness nor sorrow, nor sighing, but Life everlasting.”

The final blessing was given, the Orthodox made the sign of the cross and the mourners began to disperse.

After the service Father Gregory was speaking warmly of his friend Nick Stames and expressed the hope that he and his colleague Barry Calvert had not died without purpose; he seemed to be looking at Mark as he said it.

Mark saw Nanna, Aspirin, Julie, and the anonymous man, but realized he mustn’t speak to them. He slipped quietly away. Let the others mourn the dead: his job was to find their living murderers.

Mark drove back to the Senate, more determined than ever to find out which senator should have been present at the poignant double funeral. Had he stayed a little longer, he would have seen Matson talking casually to Grant Nanna, saying what a good man Stames was and what a loss he would be to law enforcement.

Mark spent the afternoon at the Foreign Relations Committee listening to Pearson and Nunn. If it were either of them, they were cool customers, going about their job without any outward signs of anxiety. Mark wanted to cross their names off the list but he needed one more fact confirmed before he could. When Pearson finally sat down, Mark felt limp. He also needed to relax tonight if he were going to survive the next three days. He left the committee room and called Elizabeth to confirm their dinner date. He then called the Director’s office and gave Mrs. McGregor the telephone numbers at which he could be reached: the restaurant, his home, Elizabeth’s home. Mrs. McGregor took the numbers down without comment.

Two cars tailed him on his way back: a blue Ford sedan and a black Buick. When he arrived home, he tossed the car keys to Simon, dismissed the oppressive but familiar sensation of being continually watched, and started thinking of more pleasant things, an evening with Elizabeth.

6:30 P.M.

Mark walked down the street thinking about the evening ahead of him. Already I adore that girl. That’s the one thing I am certain of at the moment. If only I could get rid of the nagging doubt about her father — even about her.

He went into Blackistone’s and ordered a dozen roses, eleven red, one white. The girl handed him a card and an envelope. Quickly, he wrote Elizabeth’s name and address on the envelope, and he pondered the blank card, fragments of sentences and poems flashing through his mind. Finally, he smiled. He wrote, carefully:

“Have them sent at once, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Good. Back home. What to wear? A dark suit? Too formal. The light blue suit? Too much like a gay, should never have bought it in the first place. The double-breasted suit — latest thing. Shirt. White, casual, no tie. Blue, formal, tie. White wins. Too virginal? Blue wins. Shoes: black slip-on or laces? Slip-on wins. Socks: simple choice, dark blue. Summing up: denim suit, blue shirt, dark blue tie, dark blue socks, black slip-on shoes. Leave clothes neatly on bed. Shower and wash hair — I like curly hair better. Damn, soap in eyes. Grope for towel, soap out, drop towel, out of shower. Towel around waist. Shave; twice in one day. Shave very carefully. No blood. Aftershave. Dry hair madly with towel. Curls all over the place. Back to bedroom. Dress carefully. Get tie exactly — that won’t do, tie again. Better, this time. Pull up zipper — could stand to lose inch around waist. Check in mirror. Seen worse. To hell with modesty, have seen a whole lot worse. Check money, credit cards. No gun. All set. Bolt door. Press button for elevator.

“Can I have my keys, please, Simon?”

“Well, goddamn.” Simon’s eyes opened very wide. “Found yourself a new fox!”

“You better not wait up, because if I fail, Simon, I’ll probably jump on top of you.”

“Thanks for the warning, Mark. Tough it out, man.”

Beautiful evening, climb into car, check watch: 7:34.

The Director checked his dinner jacket again.

I miss Ruth. Housekeeper does a great job, but not the same thing at all. Pour a scotch, check clothes. Tuxedo just pressed — a little out of fashion. Dress shirt back from the cleaners. Black tie to be tied. Black shoes, black socks, white handkerchief — all in order. Turn on shower. Ah, how to get something useful out of the President? Damn, where’s the soap? Have to get out of shower and soak bathmat and towel. Only one towel. Grab soap, revolting smell. Nowadays, they must only make it for gays. Wish I could still get army surplus. Out of the shower. Overweight; I need to lose about fifteen pounds. Body too white. Hide it quickly and forget. Shave. Good old trusty cutthroat. Never shave twice a day except when dining with the President. Good. No damage. Get dressed. Fly buttons; hate zippers. Now to tie black tie. Damn it. Ruth could always do it the first time, perfectly. Try again. At last. Check wallet. Don’t really need money, credit cards, or anything else. Unless the President’s going through hard times. Tell housekeeper I’ll be back about eleven. Put on overcoat. Special agent there with car, as always.

“Good evening, Sam, beautiful evening.”

The only chauffeur in the employ of the FBI opened the back door of the Ford sedan.

Climb into car, check watch: 7:45.

Drive slowly — lots of time — don’t want to be there early — never seems to be any traffic when you have all the time in the world — hope roses have arrived — take longer route to Georgetown, past Lincoln Memorial and up Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway — it’s prettier — at least con yourself that’s why you’re doing it. Don’t run yellow lights, even though man behind you is obviously late and gesticulating. Obey the law — con yourself again — you’d shoot through the lights if you were running late for her. Never embarrass the Bureau. Careful of trolley lines in Georgetown, so easy to skid on them. Turn right at end of street and find parking space. Circle slowly looking for perfect spot — no such thing. Double-park and hope no traffic cop’s around. Stroll nonchalantly towards house — bet she’s still in the tub. Check watch: 8:04. Perfect. Ring doorbell.

“We’re running a bit late, Sam.” Perhaps unwise to say that because he’ll break the speed limit and might embarrass the Bureau. Why is there so much traffic when you’re in a hurry? Damn Mercedes in front of us at the circle, stopping even before the lights turned red. Why have a car that can do 120 mph if you don’t even want to do thirty? Good, the Mercedes has turned off towards Georgetown. Probably one of the beautiful people. Down Pennsylvania Avenue. At last the White House in sight. Turn on to West Executive Avenue. Waved on by guard at gate. Pull up to West Portico. Met by Secret Service man in dinner jacket. His tie looks better than mine. Bet it’s a clip-on. No, come to think of it, it’s regulation to have to tie them in the White House. Damn it, the man must be married. Didn’t do it himself. Follow him through foyer to West Wing Reception Room past Remington sculpture. Met by another Secret Service man also in dinner jacket. Also better tie. I give up. Escorted to elevator. Check watch: 8:06. Not bad. Enter West Sitting Hall.

“Good evening, Madam President.”

“Hello, lovely lady.”

She looks beautiful in that blue dress. Fantastic creature. How could I have any suspicions about her?

“Hello, Mark.”

“That’s a terrific dress you’re wearing.”

“Thank you. Would you like to come in for a minute?”

“No, I think we’d better go, I’m double-parked.”

“Fine, I’ll just grab my coat.”

Open car door for her. Why didn’t I just take her by the hand into the bedroom and make mad passionate love to her? I would have happily settled for a sandwich. That way we could do what we both want to do and save a lot of time and trouble.

“Did you have a good day?”

“Very busy. How about you, Mark?”

Oh, managed to think about you for a few hours while I got some work done, but it wasn’t easy.

“Busy as all hell. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to make it.”

Start car, right on M Street to Wisconsin. No parking spaces. Past Roy Rogers’ Family Restaurant. Let’s just get some chicken legs and head back home.

“Aah, success.”

Hell, where did that Volkswagen come from?

“What lousy luck. You’ll find another one.”

“Yes, but four hundred yards away from the restaurant.”

“The walk will do us good.”

Did the roses come? I’ll put that florist’s girl in jail in the morning if she forgot to send them.

“Oh, Mark, how thoughtless of me not to mention it before; thank you for those glorious roses. Are you the white one? And the Shakespeare?”

“Think nothing of it, lovely lady.”

Liar. So you liked the Shakespeare, but what was your answer to the Cole Porter? Enter supersmooth French restaurant. Rive Gauche. Gauche is right. A Fed in a place like this? Bet it’ll cost an arm and a leg. Full of snotty waiters with their hands out. What the hell, it’s only money.

“Did you know that this place is responsible for making Washington the French-restaurant capital of America?”

Trying to impress her with a little inside dope.

“No, why?”

“Well, the owner keeps bringing his chefs over from France. One by one they quit and go off to start their own restaurants.”

“You G-men really do carry around a store of useless information.”

Look for the maître d’.

“Table in the name of Andrews.”

“Good evening, Mr. Andrews. How nice to see you.”

Damn man’s never seen me before and probably will never see me again. Which table is he going to give me? Not too bad. She might even believe I’ve been here before. Slip him a five-dollar bill.

“Thank you, sir. Enjoy your dinner.”

They settled back in the deep red leather chairs. The restaurant was crowded.

“Good evening. Would you care for an aperitif, sir?”

“What will you have, Elizabeth?”

“Campari and soda, please.”

“One Campari and soda and I’ll have a spritzer.”

Glance at menu. Chef Michel Laudier. The restaurant motto: Fluctuat nec mergitur. Oh, I’ll mergitur, all right, cover charges, service charges. Ouch. And she has no way of knowing. This is one of those sexy places where the man is given a menu with the prices.

“I’ll have a first course, but only if you’ll join me.”

“Of course, I’m going to have one, lovely lady.”

“Good, I’ll have the avocado...”

Without prawns?

“...with prawns, and then...”

...Caesar salad?

“...the filet mignon Henri IV — rare, please.”

$20.50. To hell with it, she’s worth every penny. I think I’ll have the same.

“Have you decided, sir?”

“Yes, we’ll both have the avocado with prawns and the filet mignon Henri IV, rare.”

“Would you care to look at the wine list?”

No, thank you, I’ll have a beer.

“Would you like some wine, Elizabeth?”

“That would be lovely, Mark.”

“A bottle of Hospice de Beaune, soixante-dix-huit, please.”

I bet he can tell the only damn French I learned at school was the numbers.

“Very good, sir.”

The first course arrived and so did the sommelier with the wine.

If you think you’re going to sell us two bottles, you damn frog, think again.

“Shall I serve the wine, sir?”

“Not yet, thank you. Open it and then serve it with the main course.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Your avocado, Mademoiselle.”

Prawns go before the fall.

“Good evening, Halt. How’s life at the Bureau?”

“We’re surviving, Madam.”

What banal remarks the mighty make to each other.

The Director glanced around the pleasant blue and gold room. H. Stuart Knight, the head of the Secret Service, stood alone at the far end. On the sofa, by the window overlooking the West Wing and the Executive Office Building, sat the Attorney General, Marian Edelman, talking to Senator Birch Bayh, the man who had succeeded Ted Kennedy as chairman of the Judiciary Committee. The hackneyed phrase “boyish good looks,” which had been applied to Bayh constantly during his campaigning in the 1976 Democratic presidential primaries, was still an accurate description. The thin, gaunt senator from Texas, Marvin Thornton, hovered over his colleague and Marian Edelman.

My God, let me have men about me that are fat...

“You see I’ve invited Thornton.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“We must try and talk him round on the Gun Control bill.”

The West Sitting Hall was a comfortable room on the family floor of the White House, adjacent to the First Gentleman’s dressing-room. It was an honor to be entertained in this part of the White House. And to eat in the small dining-room, rather than the President’s dining-room downstairs, was a special privilege, since the former was usually reserved for strictly family dining. The fact that the President’s husband was absent only confirmed how private this occasion had to be.

“What will you drink, Halt?”

“Scotch on the rocks.”

“Scotch on the rocks for the Director and an orange juice for me. I’m watching my weight.”

Doesn’t she know orange juice is the last thing to drink if you’re dieting?

“How are the votes stacking up, Madam?”

“Well, the numbers are forty-eight for and forty-seven against at the moment, but it’s got to go through on the tenth or I’ll have to forget the whole thing until the next session. That’s my biggest worry at the moment, what with my European tour and the New Hampshire primary less than a year off. I would have to drop the bill until I was re-elected and I can’t afford it to be the main election issue. I want it out of the way and seen to be working before then.”

“Then let’s hope it passes on the tenth, because it would certainly make my job easier, Madam President.”

“Marian’s too. Another drink, Halt?”

“No, thank you, Madam.”

“Shall we go in to dinner?”

The President led her five guests into the dining-room. The wallpaper in the room depicted scenes from the American Revolution. It was furnished in the Federal style of the early nineteenth century.

I never get bored with the beauty of the White House.

The Director gazed at the plaster-composition mantel designed by Robert Welford of Philadelphia in 1815. It bore the famous report of Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry after the Battle of Lake Erie during the War of 1812: “We have met the enemy, and they are ours.”

“Five thousand people passed through this building today,” H. Stuart Knight was saying. “Nobody really grasps the security problems. This building may be the home of the President, but it still belongs to the people and that makes one continuous democratic headache.”

If he knew everything...

The President sat at the head of the table, the Attorney General at the other end, Bayh and Thornton on one side, the Director and Knight on the other. The first course was avocado with prawns.

I always get sick when I eat prawns.

“It’s good to see my law officers together,” said the President. “I want to take this opportunity to discuss the Gun Control bill, which I remain determined will pass on 10 March. That’s why I invited Birch and Marvin here tonight, because their support will influence the fate of this bill.”

10 March again. Perhaps Cassius has to keep to a deadline. Seem to remember Thornton being firmly against this bill, and he’s on Andrews’ list of seven.

“The rural states are going to be a problem, Madam President,” Marian Edelman was saying. “They won’t be willing to hand over their guns all that readily.”

“A long amnesty period, say about six months, might be the answer,” the Director offered. “So the law remains unaffected for a statutory period. It’s what always happens after a war. And the public relations boys can keep announcing that hundreds of weapons have been handed in to local police stations.”

“Good thinking, Halt,” said the President.

“It’s going to be a hell of an operation,” said the Attorney General, “with seven million members of the National Rifle Association and probably fifty million firearms in America.”

No one disagreed with that conclusion.

The second course arrived.

Dover sole. Obviously the President is serious about her diet.

“Coffee or brandy, sir?”

“Don’t let’s bother,” said Elizabeth, touching Mark’s hand gently. “Let’s have it at home.”

“Nice idea.”

He smiled into her eyes and tried to guess what was going on in her mind...

“No, thank you. Just the check.”

The waiter scurried away obediently.

They always scurry away obediently when you ask for the check. She hasn’t let go of my hand.

“A delicious meal, Mark. Thank you very much.”

“Yes, we must come here again sometime.”

The check arrived. Mark glanced at it in rueful bemusement.

$87.20, plus tax. If you can understand how a restaurant gets to its final figure you deserve to be Secretary of the Treasury. Hand over the American Express Card. The little piece of blue paper comes back to sign. Make it up to $100.00 and forget it until the envelope marked American Express arrives in the mail.

“Good night, Mr. Andrews.” Much bowing and scraping. “I hope we will see you and Mademoiselle again soon.”

“Yes, indeed.”

You’ll need a very good memory to recognize me next time I come. Open car door for Elizabeth. Will I do this when we’re married? Christ, I’m thinking about marriage.

“I think I must have eaten too much. I’m rather sleepy.”

Now what does that mean? You could take that about twenty different ways.

“Oh, really, I feel ready for anything.”

A bit clumsy, maybe. Look for parking space again. Good. There’s one right in front of the house and no Volkswagen to stop me grabbing it. Open car door for Elizabeth. She fumbles with front door keys. Into kitchen. Kettle on.

“What a nice kitchen.”

Silly remark.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Equally silly.

Into living room.

Good, there are the roses.

“Hello, Samantha. Come and meet Mark.”

Christ Almighty, she has a roommate.

Samantha rubbed up against Mark’s leg and purred.

Relief. Samantha is Siamese, not American.

“Where shall I sit?”

“Anywhere.”

She’s no help at all.

“Black or with cream, darling?”

“Darling.” The odds must be better than 50–50.

“Black, please, with one sugar.”

“Amuse yourself till the water boils. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“More coffee, Halt?”

“No thank you, Madam, I have to be getting home, if you’ll excuse me.”

“I’ll walk you to the door. There are one or two things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Yes, of course, Madam President.”

The Marines at the West Entrance came to attention. A man in a dinner jacket hovered in the shadows behind the pillars.

“I’ll need your backing a hundred percent for this Gun Control bill, Halt. The committee is bound to be pushing for your views. And although the numbers are just with us on the floor of the House, I don’t want any last-minute hiccups; I’m running out of time.”

“I’ll be with you, Madam. I’ve wanted it ever since the death of John F. Kennedy.”

“Have you any particular worries about it, Halt?”

“No, Madam. You deal with the politics and sign the bill, and I’ll see that the law is enforced.”

“Any advice, perhaps?”

“No, I don’t think so...”

Beware the ides of March.

“...although it’s always puzzled me, Madam President, why in the end you left the bill this late. If something goes wrong on 10 March and if you were to lose next year’s election, we would all be back at square one.”

“I know, Halt, but I had to decide between my Medicare bill, which was a controversial enough way to start an administration, and pushing a Gun Control bill through at the same time; I might have ended up losing both. To tell you the truth, it had been my intention to start the bill in committee a year earlier, but no one could have anticipated Nigeria attacking South Africa without warning, and America finally having to decide where she stood on that continent.”

“You sure stuck your neck out on that one, Madam President, and I confess at the time I thought you were wrong.”

“I know, Halt. I had a few sleepless nights myself. But, getting back to the Gun Control bill: don’t ever forget that Dexter and Thornton have run the most successful two-man filibuster in the history of the Senate. By 10 March, this damn bill will have been going the rounds for nearly two years despite the tacit support of Senator Byrd as Majority Leader. But I’m not too worried. I still believe we’ll pull it off. I can’t foresee anything that can stop it now, can you, Halt?”

The Director hesitated. “No, Madam.”

The first lie I have ever told the Chief. Would an investigating commission believe my reasons if the President is assassinated in three days’ time?

“Good night, Halt, and thank you.”

“Good night, Madam President, and thank you for an excellent dinner.”

The Director stepped out, and into his car. The special agent in the driver’s seat looked around at him.

“An important message has just come in for you, sir. Could you return to the Bureau immediately?”

Not again.

“All right, but it might be simpler to keep a bed in the place, except someone would accuse me of trying to live rent-free on taxpayers’ money.”

The driver laughed; the Director had obviously had a good dinner, which was more than he had.

Elizabeth brought the coffee in and sat down by him.

Only the brave deserve the fair. Lift arm casually, place at the back of the couch, touch her hair lightly.

Elizabeth rose. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Would you like a brandy?”

No, I don’t want a brandy. I want you to come back.

“No, thank you.”

She settled back into Mark’s shoulder.

Can’t kiss her while she’s got the coffee cup in her hand. Ah, she’s put the cup down. Hell, she’s up again.

“Let’s have some music.”

No thank you.

“Great idea.”

“How about ‘In Memory of Sinatra’?”

“Great.”

“...This time we almost made the pieces fit... didn’t we... gal?”

It’s got to be absolutely the wrong song. Ah, she’s back. Try the kiss again. Damn, still more coffee. The cup’s down at last. Gentle. Yes, very nice. Christ, she’s beautiful. Long kiss — are her eyes open? — no, closed. She’s enjoying it — good — longer and even better.

“Would you like some more coffee, Mark?”

No no no no no no no.

“No, thank you.”

Another long kiss. Start moving hand across back — I’ve been this far before with her — can’t possibly be any objection — move hand to leg — pause — what fabulous legs and she’s got two of them. Take hand off leg and concentrate on kissing.

“Mark, there’s something I have to tell you.”

Oh, Christ! It’s the wrong time of the month. That’s all I need now.

“Uh-mh?”

“I adore you.”

“I adore you too, darling.”

He unzipped her skirt, and began to caress her gently.

She began to move her hand up his leg.

Heaven is about to happen.

Ring, ring, ring, ring.

Jee-sus!

“It’s for you, Mark.”

“Andrews?”

“Sir.”

“Julius.”

Shit.

“I’m coming.”