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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

Shall We Tell the President? (24 page)

BOOK: Shall We Tell the President?
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“Andrews has been killed, sir, and there must have been another person in the car.”
The Director couldn't speak.
“Are you there, Director?” O'Malley waited. “I repeat are you there, Director?”
Finally the Director said, “Come in immediately.” He put the phone down, and his great hands gripped the Queen Anne desk like a throat he wanted to strangle. The fingers then curled and clenched slowly into the palms of his hands until they made massive fists, the nails digging into the skin. Blood trickled slowly down onto the leather-work on the desk, leaving a dark stain. Halt Tyson sat alone for several minutes. Then he instructed Mrs. McGregor to get the President at the White House. He was going to cancel the whole damned thing; he'd already gone too far. He sat silently waiting. The bastards had beaten him. They must know everything.
It took Special Agent O'Malley ten minutes to reach the Bureau, where he was ushered straight in to the Director.
My God, he looks eighty, thought O'Malley.
The Director stared at him. “How did it happen?” he asked quietly.
“He was blown up in a car; we think someone else was with him.”
“Why? How?”
“Must have been a bomb attached to the ignition. It blew up right there in front of us. Made an unholy mess.”
“I don't give a fuck for the mess,” began the Director on a slowly rising note, when the door opened.
Mark Andrews walked in. “Good morning, sir. I hope I'm not interrupting something. I thought you said 8:15.”
Both men stared at him.
“You're dead.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Well, who the hell,” said Special Agent O'Malley, “was driving your Mercedes?”
Mark stared at him uncomprehending.
“My Mercedes?” he said quickly. “What are you talking about?”
“Your Mercedes has just been blown to smithereens. I saw it with my own eyes. My colleague down there is trying to put the pieces together; he's already reported finding the hand of a black man.”
Mark steadied himself against the wall. “The bastards have killed Simon,” he cried in anger. “There will be no need to call Grant Nanna to screw their balls off. I'll do it myself.”
“Please explain yourself,” said the Director.
Mark steadied himself again, turned around and faced them both. “I came in with Elizabeth Dexter this morning; she came by to see me. I came in with her,” he repeated, not yet coherent.
“Simon moved my car because it was occupying a reserved daytime parking space and now the bastards have killed him.”
“Sit down, Andrews. You too, O'Malley.”
The telephone rang. “The President's Chief of Staff, sir. The President will be with you in about two minutes.”
“Cancel it and apologize. Explain to Janet Brown that it was nothing important, just wanted to wish the President luck on the Gun Control bill today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So they think you're dead, Andrews, and they have now played their last card. So we must hold ours back. You're going to remain dead—for a little while longer.”
Mark and O'Malley looked at each other, both puzzled.
“O'Malley, you return to your car. You say nothing, even to your partner. You have not seen Andrews alive, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get going.”
“Mrs. McGregor, get me the head of External Affairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Director looked at Mark. “I was beginning to miss you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don't thank me, I'm just about to kill you again.”
A knock on the door, and Bill Gunn came in. He was the epitome of the public relations man, better dressed than anyone else in the building, with the biggest smile and a mop of fair hair that he washed every two days. His face as he entered was unusually grim.
“Have you heard about the death of one of our young agents, sir?”
“Yes, Bill. Put out a statement immediately that an unnamed special agent was killed this morning and that you will brief the press fully at eleven o'clock.”
“They'll be hounding me long before then, sir.”
“Let them hound you,” said the Director sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“At eleven, you will put out another statement saying the agent is alive …”
Bill Gunn's face registered surprise.
“ … and that a mistake has been made, and the man who died was a young garage attendant who had no connection with the FBI.”
“But sir, our agent?”
“No doubt you would like to meet the agent who is supposed to be dead. Bill Gunn—this is Special Agent Andrews. Now not a word, Bill. This man is dead for the next three hours and if I find a leak, you can find a new job.”
Bill Gunn looked convincingly anxious. “Yes, sir.”
“When you've written the press statement, call me and read it over to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill Gunn left, dazed. He was a gentle, easy-going man and this was way above his head, but he like so many others trusted the Director.
The Director was becoming very aware just how many men did trust him and how much he was carrying on his own shoulders. He looked back at Mark, who had not recovered from the realization that Simon had died instead of him—the second man to do so in eight days.
“Right, Mark, we have under two hours left, so we will mourn the dead later. Have you anything to add to yesterday's report?”
“Yes, sir. It's good to be alive.”
“If you get past eleven o'clock, young man, I think you have a good chance for a long and healthy life, but we still don't know if it's Dexter or Harrison. You know I think it's Dexter.” The Director looked at his watch again: 8:29—ninety-seven minutes left. “Any new ideas?”
“Well, sir, Elizabeth Dexter certainly can't be involved, she saved my life by bringing me in this morning. If she wanted me dead, that sure was a funny way of going about it.”
“I'll accept that,” said the Director, “but it doesn't clear her father.”
“Surely he wouldn't kill a man he thought might marry his daughter,” said Mark.
“You're sentimental, Andrews. A man who plans to assassinate a President doesn't worry about his daughter's boy friends.”
The phone rang. It was Bill Gunn from Public Relations.
“Right, read it over.” The Director listened carefully. “Good. Issue it immediately to radio, television, and the papers, and release the second statement at eleven o'clock, no earlier. Thank you, Bill.” The Director put the phone down.
“Congratulations, Mark, you're the only dead man alive and, like Mark Twain, you will be able to read
your own obituary. Now, to bring you quickly up-to-date. I have three hundred field agents already out covering the Capitol and the area immediately surrounding it. The whole place will be sealed off the moment the Presidential car arrives.”
“You're letting her go to the Capitol?” said Mark in astonishment.
“Listen carefully, Mark. I'll have a minute-by-minute briefing on where the two senators are from 9:00 A.M. on and six men are tailing both of them. At 9:15, we're going into the streets ourselves. When it happens, we're going to be there. If I'm going to carry the ultimate responsibility, I may as well carry it in person.”
“Yes, sir.”
The intercom buzzed.
“It's Mr. Sommerton. He wants to see you urgently, sir.” The Director looked at his watch: 8:45. On the minute, as he promised.
Daniel Sommerton rushed in, looking rather pleased with himself. He came straight to the point. “One of the prints has come up on the criminal file, it's a thumb, his name is Matson—Ralph Matson.”
Sommerton produced a photograph of Matson, an Identikit picture, and an enlarged thumbprint.
“And here's the part you're not going to like, sir. He's an ex-FBI agent.” He passed Matson's card over for the Director to study. Mark looked at the photo. It was the Greek Orthodox priest, big nose, heavy chin.
“Something professional about him,” said the Director and Mark simultaneously.
“Well done, Sommerton, make three hundred copies of the picture immediately and get them to the Assistant Director in charge of the Investigation Division—and that means immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” The fingerprint expert scurried away, pleased with himself. They wanted his thumb.
“Mrs. McGregor, get me Mr. Rogers.”
The Assistant Director was on the line; the Director briefed him.
“Shall I arrest him on sight?”
“No, Matt. Once you've spotted him, watch him and keep your boys well out of sight. He could still call everything off if he got suspicious. Keep me briefed all the time. Move in on him at 10:06. I'll let you know if anything changes.”
“Yes, sir. Have you briefed the Secret Service?”
“Yes, I have.” He slammed the phone down.
The Director looked at his watch: 9:05. He pressed a button and Elliott came in. “Where are the two senators?”
“Harrison's still in his Alexandria town house, Dexter has left Kensington and is heading towards the Capitol, sir.”
“You stay here in this office, Elliott, and keep in radio contact with me and the Assistant Director on the street. Never leave this room. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'll be using my walkie-talkie on Channel Four. Let's go, Andrews.” They left the anonymous man.
“If anybody calls me, Mrs. McGregor, put them
through to Special Agent Elliott in my office. He will know where to contact me.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few moments later, the Director and Mark were on the street walking up Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Capitol. Mark put on his dark glasses and pulled his collar up. They passed several agents on the way. None of them acknowledged the Director. On the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 9th Street, they passed the Chairman, who was lighting a cigarette and checking his watch: 9:30. He moved to the edge of the sidewalk, leaving a pile of cigarette butts behind him. The Director glanced at the cigarette butts: litter bug, ought to be fined a hundred dollars. They hurried on.
“Come in, Tony. Come in, Tony.”
“Tony, boss. The Buick's ready. I've just heard it announced on the car radio that pretty boy Andrews bought it.”
The Chairman smiled.
“Come in, Xan.”
“Ready, await your signal.”
“Come in, Matson.”
“Everything's set, boss. There's a hell of a lot of agents around.”
“Don't sweat, there's always a lot of Secret Service men around when the President is traveling. Don't call again unless there's a real problem. All three keep your lines open. When I next call, I will only activate the
vibrators on the side of your watches. Then you have three minutes forty-five seconds, because Kane will be passing me. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
The Chairman broke the circuit and lit another cigarette: 9:40.
The Director spotted Matthew Rogers in a special squad car and went quickly over to him. “Everything under control, Matt?”
“Yes, sir. If anybody tries anything, no one will be able to move for half a mile.”
“Good; what time do you have?”
“Nine-forty-five.”
“Right, you control it from here. I'm going to the Capitol.”
Halt and Mark left the Assistant Director and walked on.
“Elliott calling the Director.”
“Come in, Elliott.”
“They have spotted Matson at the junction of Maryland Avenue and 1st Street, other side of the Garfield statue, southwest corner of the Capitol grounds, near the west front renovation site.”
“Good. Observe and post fifty men around the area, don't move in yet, brief Mr. Rogers and tell him to keep his men out of Matson's field of vision.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell is he doing on that side of the Capitol?” said Mark softly. “You couldn't shoot anyone on the Capitol steps from the northwest side unless you were in a chopper.”
“I agree, it beats me,” said the Director.
BOOK: Shall We Tell the President?
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