Mark shook himself. “I’m really sorry.”
“Would you like to come in for coffee?”
“Yes and no. Can I take another raincheck on that? I don’t feel like good company right now.”
He still had several things to do before he saw the Director at 7:00 A.M. and it was already midnight. Also he hadn’t slept properly for a day and a half.
“Can I call you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that,” she said. “Be sure to keep in touch, whatever happens.”
Mark would carry those few words around with him like a talisman for the next few days. He could recall her every word and its accompanying gesture. Were they said in fun, were they said seriously, were they said teasingly? Lately, it hadn’t been fashionable to fall in love; very few people seemed to be getting married and a lot of people who had were getting divorced. Was he really going to fall madly in love in the middle of all this?
He kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave, his eyes darting up and down the road again. She whispered after him:
“I hope you find the man who killed my mailman and your Greek.”
Your Greek, your Greek, Greek Orthodox priest, Father Gregory. God in heaven, why hadn’t he thought of it before? He’d forgotten Elizabeth for a moment as he started to run towards his car. He turned to wave; she was staring at him with a puzzled expression, wondering what she had said. Mark leaped into the car and drove as fast as he could to his apartment. He must find Father Gregory’s number. Greek Orthodox priest, what did he look like, the one who came out of the elevator, what did he look like; it was all coming back, there had been something unusual with him: what the hell was it? His clothes? No, they were fine, or was it his face? His face was wrong somehow. Of course. Of course. How could he have been so stupid. When he arrived home, he called the Washington Field Office immediately. Polly, on the switchboard, was surprised to hear him.
“Aren’t you on leave?”
“Yes, sort of. Do you have Father Gregory’s number?”
“Who is Father Gregory?”
“A Greek Orthodox priest whom Mr. Stames used to contact occasionally; I think he was his local priest.”
“Yes, you’re right. Now I remember.”
Mark waited.
She checked Stames’s Rolodex and gave him the number. Mark wrote it down, and replaced the phone. Of course, of course, of course. How stupid of him. It was so obvious. Well past midnight, but he had to call. He dialed the number. The telephone rang several times before it was answered.
“Father Gregory?”
“Yes.”
“Do all Greek Orthodox priests have beards?”
“Yes, as a rule. Who is this asking such a damn silly question in the middle of the night?”
Mark apologized. “My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I worked under Nick Stames.”
The man at the other end, who had sounded sleepy, immediately woke up. “I understand, young man. What can I do for you?”
“Father Gregory, last night Mr. Stames’s secretary called you and asked you to go to Woodrow Wilson to check a Greek who had a bullet wound in his leg?”
“Yes, that’s right — I remember, Mr. Andrews. But somebody else called about thirty minutes later, just as I was leaving, in fact, to tell me I needn’t bother because Mr. Casefikis had been discharged from the hospital.”
“He’d been what?” Mark’s voice rose with each word.
“Discharged from the hospital.”
“Did the caller say who he was?”
“No, the man gave no other details. I assumed he was from your office.”
“Father Gregory, can I see you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock?”
“Yes, of course, my son.”
“And can you be sure you don’t talk to anybody else about this phone call, whoever they say they are?”
“If that is your wish, my son.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Mark dropped the telephone and tried to concentrate. He was taller than I was, so he was over six feet. He was dark, or was that just his priest’s robes? No, he had dark hair, he had a big nose, I remember he had a big nose, eyes, no I can’t remember his eyes, he had a big nose, a heavy chin, a heavy chin. Mark wrote everything down he could remember. A big heavy man, taller than me, big nose, heavy chin, big nose, heavy... he collapsed. His head fell on the desk and he slept.
Saturday morning
5 March
6:32 A.M.
Mark had awoken, but he wasn’t awake. His head was swimming with incoherent thoughts. The first vision to flash across his mind was Elizabeth; he smiled. The second was Nick Stames; he frowned. The third was the Director. Mark woke with a start and sat up, trying to focus his eyes on his watch. All he could see was the second hand moving: 6:35. Hell. He shot up from the chair, his stiff neck and back hurting him; he was still dressed. He threw off his clothes and rushed into the bathroom and showered, without taking time to adjust the water temperature. Goddamn freezing. At least it woke him up and made him forget Elizabeth. He jumped out of the shower and grabbed a toweclass="underline" 6:40. After throwing the lather on his face, he shaved too quickly, mowing down the stubble on his chin. Damn it, three nicks; the aftershave lotion stung viciously: 6:43. He dressed: clean shirt, same cuff links, clean socks, same shoes, clean suit, same tie. A quick look in the mirror: two nicks still bleeding slightly, the hell with it. He bundled the papers on his desk into his briefcase and ran for the elevator. First piece of luck, it was on the top floor. Downstairs: 6:46.
“Hi, Simon.”
The young black garage attendant didn’t move. He was dozing in his little cubbyhole at the garage entrance.
“Morning, Mark. Hell, man, is it eight o’clock already?”
“No, thirteen minutes to seven.”
“What are you up to? Moonlighting?” asked Simon, rubbing his eyes and handing over the car keys. Mark smiled, but didn’t have time to answer. Simon dozed off again.
Car starts first time. Reliable Mercedes. Moves on the road: 6:48. Must stay below speed limit. Never embarrass the Bureau. At 6th Street, held up by lights: 6:50. Cut across G Street, up 7th, more lights. Cross Independence Avenue: 6:53. Corner of 7th and Pennsylvania. Can see FBI Building: 6:55. Down ramp, park, show FBI pass to garage guard, run for elevator: 6:57; elevator to seventh floor: 6:58. Along the corridor, turn right, Room 7074, straight in, past Mrs. McGregor as instructed. She barely glances up; knock on door of Director’s office; no reply; go in as instructed. No Director: 6:59; sink into easy chair. Director going to be late; smile of satisfaction. Thirty seconds to seven: glance around room, casually, as if been waiting for hours. Eyes land on grandfather clock. Strikes: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
The door opened, and the Director marched in. “Good morning, Andrews.” He did not look at Mark, but at the clock on the wall. “It’s always a little fast.” Silence. The Old Post Office Tower clock struck seven.
The Director settled into his chair, and once again the large hands took possession of the desk.
“We’ll start with my news first, Andrews. We have just received some identification on the Lincoln that went into the Potomac with Stames and Calvert.”
The Director opened a new manilla file marked “Eyes only” and glanced at its contents. What was in the file that Mark didn’t know about and ought to know about?
“Nothing solid to go on. Hans-Dieter Gerbach, German. Bonn has reported that he was a minor figure in the Munich rackets until five years ago, then they lost track of him. There is some evidence to suggest he was in Rhodesia and even hitched up with the CIA for a while. The White-Lightning Brigade. The CIA is not being helpful on him. I can’t see much information coming from them before Thursday. Sometimes I wonder whose side they’re on. In 1980, Gerbach turned up in New York, but there’s nothing there except rumors and street talk, no record to go on. It would have helped if he’d lived.”