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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

Shall We Tell the President? (9 page)

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“I know, boss, but I don't like it; I know that we've covered all the angles, but it's possible that three or more men left the Washington Field Office and that there is still at least one agent running around who knows what actually happened.”
“It seems unlikely,” said the Senator. “As you will discover when you hear my report.”
The lips compressed in the heavy jaw.
“You're not happy are you, Matson?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well, check it out. If you come up with anything report back to me.”
The Chairman never left a stone unturned. He looked at the Senator.
The Senator despised these men. They were so small-minded, so greedy. They only understood money, and Kane was going to take it away from them. How their violence had frightened and sickened him. He should never have allowed that smooth-talking plausible bastard Nicholson to pump so much into his secret campaign funds, although God knows he would never have been elected without the money. Lots of money, and such a small price to pay at the time; steadfast opposition to any gun control proposals. Hell, he was genuinely opposed to gun control anyway. But assassinating the President to stop the bill, by God, it was lunacy, but the Chairman had him by the balls. “Co-operate, or be exposed, my friend,” he had said silkily. The Senator had spent half a lifetime sweating to reach the Senate and what's more, he did a damned good job there. If they stopped him now he would be finished. A public scandal. He couldn't face it. “Co-operate, my friend, for your own good. All we need is some inside information, and your presence at the Capitol on 10 March. Be reasonable, my friend, why ruin your whole life for a Polish woman?” The Senator cleared his throat.
“It is highly unlikely that the FBI knows any details about our plans. As Mr. Matson knows, if the Bureau
had anything to go on, any reason to think that this supposed threat is any different from a thousand others the President has received, the Secret Service would have been informed immediately. And my secretary has ascertained that the President's schedule for this week remains unchanged. All her appointments will be kept. She will go to the Capitol on the morning of 10 March for a special address to the Senate—”
“But that's exactly the point,” Matson interrupted with a contemptuous sneer. “All threats against the President, no matter how far-fetched, are routinely reported to the Secret Service. If they haven't reported anything, it must mean that—”
“It may mean that they don't know a thing, Matson,” said the Chairman firmly. “I told you to look into it. Now let the Senator answer a more important question: If the FBI knew the details, would they tell the President?”
The Senator hesitated. “No, I don't think so, or only if they were absolutely certain of danger on a particular day; otherwise they'd go ahead as planned. If every threat or suggestion of a threat were taken seriously, the President would never be able to leave the White House. The Secret Service report to Congress last year showed that there were 1,572 threats against the President's life, but thorough investigations revealed that there were no actual known attempts.”
The Chairman nodded. “Either they know everything or they know nothing.”
Matson persisted. “I am still a member of the Society
of Former Special Agents and I attended a meeting yesterday, and no one there knew a damn thing. Someone would have heard something by now. Later, I had a drink with Grant Nanna, who was my old boss at the Washington Field Office, and he seemed almost uninterested, which I found strange. I thought Stames was a friend of his, but I obviously couldn't push it too far, since Stames was no friend of mine. I'm still worried. It doesn't make sense that Stames went to the hospital and no one in the Bureau is saying anything about his death.”
“Okay, okay,” said the Chairman. “If we don't get her on 10 March, we may as well quit now. We go ahead as if nothing had happened, unless we hear any rumbles—and that's in your hands, Matson. We'll be there on the day, unless you stop us. Now let's plan ahead. First I'll go over Kane's schedule for that day. Kane”—no one in that room except for the Senator ever called her the President—“leaves the White House at 10 A.M. She passes the FBI Building at three minutes past, she passes the Peace Monument at the northwest corner of the Capitol grounds at five minutes past. She gets out of her car at the east front of the Capitol at six minutes past. Normally, she would go in the private entrance, but the Senator has assured us that she will milk this visit for all it's worth. It takes her forty-five seconds to walk from the car to the top of the Capitol steps. We know that Xan can easily complete the job in forty-five seconds. I will be watching at the
corner of Pennsylvania Avenue when Kane passes the FBI Building. Tony will be there with a car, in case of an emergency, and the Senator will be on the Capitol steps to stall her, if we need more time. The most important part of the operation is Xan's, which we have worked out to a split second. So listen and listen carefully. I have arranged for Xan to be on the construction crew working on the renovation of the front of the Capitol. And, believe me, with that union it was no mean feat to place an Oriental. Take over, Xan.”
Xan looked up. He had said nothing since his last invitation to speak.
“Construction on west front of Capitol has been going on for nearly six months. No one is more enthusiastic about it than Kane. She wants it finished in time for her second Inaugural.” He grinned. All eyes were upon the little man, intent on his every word. “I have been part of work force now for just over four weeks. I am in charge of checking all supplies that come onto site, which means I am in site office. From there, it has not been hard to discover movements of everybody connected with construction. The guards are not from FBI, Secret Service, or from CIA, but from Government Building Security Service. They are usually a lot older than normal agents, often retired from one of services. There are sixteen in all, and they work in fours on four shifts. I know where they drink, smoke, play cards, everything; no one is very interested in site because at moment it overlooks nothing and it's on
least-used side of Capitol. A little petty theft from site but not much else to excite guards.” Xan had total silence. “Right in middle of site is biggest American Hoist Co. crane in world, number 11-3-10, specially designed for lifting new parts of Capitol into place. Fully extended, it is 322 feet, almost double regulation height allowed in Washington buildings. Nobody expect us on west side, and nobody figure we can see that far. On top is small covered platform for general maintenance of pulleys, used only when it is flat and parallel to ground, but platform becomes like a small box in effect. It is four feet long, two feet three inches in width, and one foot five inches in height. I have slept there for last three nights. I see everything, no one can see me, not even White House helicopter.”
There was a stunned silence.
“How do you get up there?” asked the Senator.
“Like cat, Senator. I climb. An advantage of being very small. I go up just after midnight and come down at five. I overlook all Washington and no one see me.”
“Do you have a good view of the Capitol steps from such a small platform?” asked the Chairman.
“Perhaps it will take four seconds,” Xan replied. “View allows me to see White House as no one has ever seen it. I could have killed Kane twice last week. When she make official visits, it will be easy. I can't miss—”
“What about the other workers on Thursday? They may want to use the crane,” the Senator interrupted.
This time the Chairman smiled. “There will be a
strike next Thursday, my friend. Something to do with unfair rates for overtime, no work while Kane is visiting the Capitol to emphasize their point. One thing is certain, with no one on the site other than some ageing guards, nobody will be eager to climb to the top of a crane that is all but open to the world. From the ground it doesn't look as if a mouse could hide up there, let alone a human being.” The Chairman paused. “Xan flies to Vienna tomorrow and will be back in time to report the results of his trip at our final meeting next Wednesday. By the way, Xan, have you got your can of yellow paint?”
“Yes, stole one from site.”
The Chairman looked around the table—silence. “Good, we seem to be well organized. Thank you, Xan.”
“I don't like it,” mumbled Matson. “Something's wrong. It's all too easy, it's all too clever.”
“The FBI has taught you to be overly suspicious, Matson. You'll discover that we're better prepared than they are, because we know what we're going to do and they don't. Fear not, you'll be able to attend Kane's funeral.”
Matson's big chin moved up and down. “You're the guy that wants her dead,” he said sourly.
“And you're being paid to see it happens,” said the Chairman. “Right, we meet again in five days to go over the final plan. You will be told where to report on Wednesday morning. Xan will have returned from Austria long before then.”
The Chairman smiled and lit another cigarette. The Senator slipped out. Five minutes later, Matson left. Five minutes later, Tony left. Five minutes later, Xan left. Five minutes later, the Chairman ordered lunch.
4 March
4:00 P.M.
Mark was too hungry to work efficiently any longer, so he left the Library in search of some food. When the elevator stopped, the opening doors provided a view of the card catalog: “Harrison-Health” confronted him. Some subconscious word association triggered in his mind the welcome vision of the beautiful, witty girl he had met the previous day, walking along the corridor in her black skirt and red shirt, heels tapping on the tiles. A big grin spread across Mark's face. It was amazing the pleasure it gave him just to know he could call her and rearrange the date, unusual for him to find just how much he wanted to.
Mark found the snack bar and munched his way through a hamburger, letting his mind recall all the things she had said, and the way she had looked while she was saying them. He decided to call Woodrow Wilson.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Dexter is not on duty today,” said a nurse. “Can Dr. Delgado help?”
“No thank you,” said Mark. “I'm afraid she can't.” He took out his diary, and dialed Elizabeth Dexter's home number. He was delighted to find her in.
“Hello, Elizabeth. It's Mark Andrews. Any hope of giving you dinner tonight?”
“Promises, promises. I continue to live in the hope of a real meal.”
“Not a laughing matter,” said Mark, almost to himself.
“You sound a bit low, Mark. Perhaps you really do have a touch of flu.”
“No, I don't think it's flu, just thinking of you makes it hard to breathe. I'd better hang up now, before I turn blue.”
It was good to hear her laugh.
“Why don't you come by about eight?”
“Fine. See you around eight, Elizabeth.”
“Take care, Mark.”
He put the telephone down, suddenly conscious that once again he was smiling from ear to ear. He glanced at his watch: 4:30. Good. Three more hours in the Library, then he could go in pursuit of her. He returned to his reference books and continued to make biographical notes on the sixty-two senators.
His mind drifted for a moment to the President. This wasn't just any President. This was the first woman President. But what could he learn from the last presidential assassination of John F. Kennedy. Were there any senators involved with those deaths? Or was this another lunatic working on his own? All the evidence on this
inquiry so far pointed to teamwork. Lee Harvey Oswald, long since dead, and still there was no convincing explanation of his assassination or, for that matter, of Robert Kennedy's.
Some people still claimed the CIA was behind President Kennedy's death because he had threatened to hang them out to dry in 1961, after the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Others said Castro had arranged the murder in revenge; it was known that Oswald had an interview with the Cuban ambassador in Mexico two weeks before the assassination, and the CIA had known about that all along. Thirty years after the event, and still no one could be certain.
A smart guy from L.A., Jay Sandberg, who had roomed with Mark at law school, had maintained that the conspiracy reached the top, even the top of the FBI: they knew the truth but said nothing.
Maybe Tyson and Rogers were two of those who knew the truth and had sent him out on useless errands to keep him occupied: he hadn't been able to tell anyone the details of yesterday's events, not even Grant Nanna.
If there were a conspiracy, whom could he turn to? Only one person might listen and that was the President, and there was no way of getting to her. He'd have to call Jay Sandberg, who had made a study of presidential assassinations. If anyone would have a theory, it would be Sandberg. Mark retraced his steps to the pay phone, checked Sandberg's home number in New York, and dialed the ten digits. A woman's voice answered the telephone.
“Hello,” she said coolly. Mark could visualize the cloud of cocaine smoke that went with the voice.
“Hello, I'm trying to reach Jay Sandberg.”
“Oh.” More cocaine smoke. “He's still at work.”
“Can you tell me his number?” asked Mark.
After more smoke, she gave it to him, and the phone clicked.
Sheeesh, Mark said to himself, Upper East Side women.
A very different voice, warm Irish-American, answered the phone next.
“Sullivan and Cromwell.”
Mark recognized the prestigious New York law firm. Other people were getting ahead in the world.
“Can I speak to Jay Sandberg?”
“I'll connect you, sir.”
“Sandberg.”
“Hi, Jay, it's Mark Andrews. Glad I caught you. I'm calling from Washington.”
“Hello, Mark, nice to hear from you. How's life for a G-man? Rat-a-tat-tat and all that.”
“It can be,” said Mark, “sometimes. Jay, I need some advice on where to find the facts on political assassination attempts, particularly the one in Massachusetts in 1979; do you remember it?”
“Sure do. Three people arrested; let me think.” Sandberg paused. “All released as harmless. One died in an auto accident in 1980, another was knifed in a brawl in San Francisco, later died in 1981, and the third disappeared
mysteriously last year. I tell you it was another conspiracy.”
“Who this time?”
“Mafia wanted Edward Kennedy out of the way in '76 so they could avoid an inquiry he was pressing for into the death of those two hoodlums, Sam Giancana and John Rosselli; they don't love President Kane now with the way she is running the Gun Control bill.”
“Mafia? Gun Control bill? Where do I start looking for the facts?” asked Mark.
“I can tell you it's not in the Warren Commission Report or any of the later inquiries. Your best bet is
The Yankee and Cowboy Wars
by Carl Oglesby—you'll find it all there.”
Mark made a note.
“Thanks for your help, Jay. I'll get back to you if it doesn't cover everything. How are things in New York?”
“Oh, fine, just fine. I'm one of about a million lawyers interpreting the constitution at an exorbitant fee. Let's get together soon, Mark.”
“Sure, next time I'm in New York.”
Mark went back to the Library thoughtfully. It could be CIA, it could be Mafia, it could be a nut, it could be anyone—even Halt Tyson. He asked the girl for the Carl Oglesby book. A well-thumbed volume beginning to come apart was supplied. Sheed Andrews & McMeel, Inc., 6700 Squibb Road, Mission, Kansas. It was going to make good reading, but for now it was back to the senators' life histories. Mark spent two more hours trying
to eliminate senators or find motives for any of them wanting President Kane out of the way: he wasn't getting very far.
“You'll have to leave now, sir,” said the young librarian, her arms full of books, looking as if she would like to go home. “I'm afraid we lock up at 7:30.”
“Can you give me two more minutes? I'm very nearly through.”
“I guess so,” she said, staggering away under a load of Senate Reports, 1971-73, which few but herself would ever handle.
Mark glanced over his notes. There were some very prominent names among the sixty-two “suspects,” men like Alan Cranston of California, often described as the “liberal whip” of the Senate; Ralph Brooks of Massachusetts, whom Florentyna Kane had defeated at the Democratic Convention. Majority Leader Robert C. Byrd of West Virginia. Henry Dexter of Connecticut. Elizabeth's father, he shuddered at the thought. Sam Nunn, the respected senator for Georgia, Robert Harrison of South Carolina, an urbane, educated man with a reputation for parliamentary skill; Marvin Thornton, who occupied the seat vacated by Edward Kennedy in 1980; Mark O. Hatfield, the liberal and devout Republican from Oregon; Hayden Woodson of Arkansas, one of the new breed of Southern Republicans; William Cain of Nebraska, a staunch conservative who had run as an independent in the 1980 election; and Birch Bayh of Indiana, the man who had pulled Ted Kennedy from a plane wreck in 1967, and probably saved his life. Sixty-two
men under suspicion, thought Mark. And six days to go. And the evidence must be iron-clad. There was little more he could do that day.
Every government building was closing. He just hoped the Director had covered as much and could bring the sixty-two names down to a sensible number quickly. Sixty-two names; six days.
He returned to his car in the public parking lot. Six dollars a day for the privilege of being on vacation. He paid the attendant, eased the car out on Pennsylvania Avenue, and headed down 9th Street back towards his apartment in N Street, SW, the worst of the rush-hour behind him. Simon was there, and Mark tossed him the car keys. “I'm going out again as soon as I've changed,” Mark called over his shoulder as he went up to his eighth-floor apartment.
He showered and shaved quickly and put on a more casual suit than the one he had worn for the Director. Now for the good part of the day.
When he came back down, the car was turned around so that Mark could, to quote Simon, make a quick getaway. He drove to Georgetown, turned right on 30th, and parked outside Elizabeth Dexter's house. A small red-brick town house, very chic. Either she was doing well for herself or her father had bought it for her. Her father, he couldn't help remembering …
She looked even more beautiful on the doorstep than she had in his imagination. That was good. She wore a long red dress with a high collar. It set off her dark hair and deep brown eyes.
“Are you going to come in, or are you just going to stand there looking like a delivery boy?”
“I'm just going to stand here and admire you,” he said. “You know, Doctor, I've always been attracted to beautiful, clever women. Do you think that says something about me?”
She laughed and led him into the pretty house.
“Come and sit down. You look as though you could do with a drink.” She poured him the beer he asked for. When she sat down, her eyes were serious.
“I don't suppose you want to talk about the horrible thing that happened to my mailman.”
“No,” said Mark. “I'd prefer not to, for a number of reasons.”
Her face showed understanding.
“I hope you'll catch the bastard who killed him.” Again, those dark eyes flashed to meet his. She got up to turn over the record on the stereo. “How do you like this kind of music?” she asked lightly.
“I'm not much on Haydn,” he said. “I'm a Mahler freak. And Beethoven, Aznavour. And you?”
She blushed slightly.
“When you didn't turn up last night, I called your office to see if you were there.”
Mark was surprised and pleased.
“Finally I got through to a girl in your department. You were out at the time, and besides she said you were very busy, so I didn't leave a message.”
“That's Polly,” said Mark. “She's very protective.”
“And pretty?” She smiled with the confidence of one who knows she is good-looking.
“Good from far but far from good,” said Mark. “Let's forget Polly. Come on, you ought to be hungry by now, and I'm not going to give you that steak I keep promising you. I've booked a table for nine o'clock at Tio Pepe.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Since you managed to get your car parked, why don't we walk?”
“Great.”
It was a clear, cool evening and Mark enjoyed the fresh air. What he didn't enjoy was the continual urge to look over his shoulder.
“Looking for another woman already?” she teased.
“No,” said Mark. “Why should I look any further?” He spoke lightly, but he knew he hadn't fooled her. He changed the subject abruptly. “How do you like your work?”
“My work?” Elizabeth seemed surprised, as though she never thought of it in those terms. “My life, you mean? It's just about my entire life. Or has been so far.”
She glanced up at Mark with a somber expression on her face. “I hate the hospital. It's a big bureaucracy, old and dirty and a lot of the people there, pretty administrative types, don't really care about helping people. To them it's just another way of earning a living. Only yesterday I had to threaten to resign in order to convince the Utilization Committee to let an old man remain in the hospital. He had no home to go back to.”
They walked down 30th Street, and Elizabeth continued to tell him about her work. She spoke with spirit, and Mark listened to her with pleasure. She showed a pleasant self-assurance, as she told him about a soulful Yugoslav who would sing incomprehensible Slavic songs of love and of longing as she inspected his ulcerated armpit and who had finally, in a misplaced gesture of passion, seized her left ear and licked it.
Mark laughed and took her arm as he guided her into the restaurant. “You ought to demand combat pay,” he said.
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