He went over to the policeman again, who was explaining in detail why no one must enter the room... they were not convinced but waited; Mark told him he was leaving for the Field Office. He still gave him no clue why Casefikis had been important. The Metropolitan policeman felt he had things under control. Homicide would be there at any moment. He told Mark they’d want to talk to him later that night. Mark nodded and left him.
When he arrived back at his car, he took the flashing red light out of the side compartment and fixed it to the roof, placing the switch into its special slot. He was going to get back to the office, at top speed, to people he knew, to reality, to men who would make some sense out of his nightmare.
Mark flicked on the car radio. “WFO 180 in service. Please try and locate Mr. Stames and Mr. Calvert. Urgent. I am returning to Field Office immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. Andrews.”
“WFO 180 out of service.”
Twelve minutes later, he arrived at the Washington Field Office and parked his car. He ran to the elevator. The operator took him up. He rushed out.
“Aspirin, Aspirin. Who the hell’s on duty tonight?”
“I’m the only one on tonight, boy, I’m here on my own,” said Aspirin, looking over his glasses, rather bored. “What’s the matter?”
“Where’s Stames? Where’s Calvert?” Mark demanded.
“They went home just over an hour ago.”
Oh hell, what should he do now? Aspirin was not a man to confide in, but he was the only person Mark could seek any advice from. And although Stames had carefully instructed him not to speak to anyone about the details until they had seen the Director, this was an emergency. He wouldn’t give away any of the details, he would just find out what a Hoover man would have done.
“I have to find Stames and Calvert, wherever they are. Any suggestions?”
“Well, first of all, have you tried the car radio stations?” asked Aspirin.
“I asked Polly to check. I’ll try her again.”
Mark picked up the nearest phone. “Polly, did you locate Mr. Stames or Mr. Calvert on the car radio?”
“Still trying, sir.”
He seemed to wait endlessly, endlessly; and nothing happened. “What’s going on, Polly, what’s going on?”
“I’m trying as hard as I can, sir. All I can get is a buzzing sound.”
“Try One, Two, Three, or Four. Doesn’t matter what you try. Try every station.”
“Yes, sir. I can only do one at a time. There are four stations and I can only do one at a time.”
Mark realized he was panicking. It was time to sit down and think things through. The end of the world hadn’t come — or had it?
“They’re not on One, sir. Not on Two. Why would they be on Three or Four at this time of night? They’re only on their way home.”
“I don’t care where they’re going. Just find them. Try again.”
“Okay, okay.” She tried Three. She tried Four. She had to have authorization to break the code for Five and Six. Mark looked at Aspirin. The duty officer was authorized to break the code.
“This is an emergency — I swear to you it’s an emergency.”
Aspirin told Polly to try Five and Six. Five and Six are Federal Communications Commission to the FBI. They are known by the initial KGB: it always amused FBI men to have KGB as their network call code. But at that moment it didn’t seem particularly funny. There was no reply to be had on KGB 5. Then KGB 6 was raised; likewise nothing. Now what, dear God, now what? Where did he turn next? Aspirin looked at him inquiringly, not really wanting to get involved.
“Always remember, son, C-Y-A. That’s the ticket. C-Y-A.”
“Covering your ass will not help me to locate Mr. Stames,” said Mark, forcing himself to speak calmly. “It doesn’t matter, Aspirin, you get back to your crossword puzzle.”
Mark left him and went into the men’s room, cupped his hands under the tap and washed his mouth out; he still smelled of vomit and blood. He cleaned up as best he could. He returned to the Criminal Room, sat down, and counted to ten very slowly. He had to make up his mind what to do, and then to carry it out, come what may. Something had probably happened to Stames and Calvert, he knew something had happened to the black postman and the Greek. Perhaps he should try and get in touch with the Director, although it was an extreme course. A man of Mark’s rank, two years out of training, didn’t just pick up a phone and call the Director. In any case he could still keep Stames’s appointment with the Director at 10:30 the next morning. 10:30 the next morning. That was half a day away. More than twelve hours of not knowing what to do. Nursing a secret that he had been told not to discuss with anyone. Holding information he couldn’t impart to anybody else.
The phone rang and he heard Polly’s voice. He prayed it would be Stames, but his prayer was not answered.
“Hey, Mr. Andrews, are you still there? I’ve got Homicide on the line. Captain Hogan wants to talk to you.”
“Andrews?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“What can you tell me?”
Mark reported truthfully that Casefikis was an illegal immigrant who had delayed seeking treatment for his leg, and untruthfully that he alleged he had been shot by a crook who had subjected him to blackmail, threatening exposure of his illegal entry into the States. A full written report would be sent around to his office by tomorrow morning.
The detective sounded disbelieving.
“Are you holding out on me, son? What was the FBI doing there in the first place? There’s going to be one hell of a scene if I find out you’re withholding information. I wouldn’t hesitate to roast your ass over the hottest coals in Washington.”
Mark thought of Stames’s repeated injunctions about secrecy.
“No, I’m not withholding information,” he said in a raised voice; he knew he was trembling and could hardly have sounded less convincing. The Homicide detective grumbled to himself, asked a few more questions, and hung up. Mark put the phone down. The receiver was clammy with sweat, his clothes still stuck to him. He tried Norma Stames again; still the boss hadn’t reached home. He called Polly again, and asked her to go through the whole routine with the radio channels again; still nothing except a buzzing sound on Channel One. Finally, Mark abandoned the telephone and told Aspirin he was leaving. Aspirin didn’t seem interested.
Mark headed for the elevator and walked quickly to his car. Must get on to home ground. Then call the Director. Once again he was speeding through the streets towards his home.
It wasn’t the most luxurious part of town, but the renovated southwest section of Washington was home for many young, single professionals. It was on the waterfront near the Arena Stage, conveniently located next to a Metro station. Pleasant, lively, not too expensive — the place suited Mark perfectly.
As soon as he reached his apartment, he ran up the stairs, burst through the door and picked up the phone. After several rings, the Bureau answered. “Director’s office. Duty officer speaking.”
Mark drew a deep breath.
“My name is Special Agent Andrews, Washington Field Office,” Mark began slowly. “I want to speak to the Director, priority and immediate.”
The Director, it seemed, was dining with the Attorney General at her home. Mark asked for the telephone number. Did he have special authority to contact the Director at this time of night? He had special authority, he had an appointment with him at 10:30 tomorrow morning and, for God’s sake, he had special authority.
The man must have sensed Andrews was desperate.
“I’ll call you right back, if you’ll give me your number.”