Read Shall We Tell the President? Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
Shall We Tell the President? (11 page)
“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.”
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 himselfâ“Something professional about him”âand 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 thinkâ”
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 thinkâ”
“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 sideâhe 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.
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 alligatorâNick 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.
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