Mark thought of the slit throats in Woodrow Wilson Medical Center and wondered.
“The interesting fact to emerge from the car crash is that both black tires of Stames’s and Calvert’s car have small holes in them. They could have been the result of the fall down the bank, but our laboratory boys think they are bullet holes. If they are, whoever did the shooting makes Wyatt Earp look like a boy scout.”
The Director spoke into his intercom. “Have Assistant Director Rogers join us please, Mrs. McGregor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Rogers’s men have found the catering outfit Casefikis was working for, for what that’s worth.”
The Assistant Director knocked and entered. The Director indicated a chair. Rogers smiled at Mark and sat down.
“Let’s have the details, Matt.”
“Well, sir, the owner of the Golden Duck wasn’t exactly co-operative. Seemed to think I was after him for contravening employers’ regulations. I threatened to shut him down if he didn’t talk. Finally he admitted to employing a man matching Casefikis’s description on 24 February. He sent Casefikis to serve at a small luncheon party in one of the rooms at the Georgetown Inn on Wisconsin Avenue. The man who made the arrangement was a Lorenzo Rossi. He insisted on a waiter who couldn’t speak English. Paid in cash. We’ve run Rossi through all the computers — nothing. Obviously a false name. Same story at the Georgetown Inn. The proprietor said the room had been hired for the day of 24 February by a Mr. Rossi, food to be supplied, but no service, cash paid in advance. Rossi was about five-feet-eight, dark complexion, no distinguishing features, dark hair, sunglasses. The proprietor thought he “seemed Italian.” No one at the hotel knows or cares who the hell went to lunch in that room that day. I’m afraid it doesn’t get us very far.”
“I agree. I suppose we could pull every Italian answering that description off the street,” said the Director. “If we had five years, not five days. Did you turn up anything new at the hospital, Matt?”
“It’s a hell of a mess, sir. The place is full of people coming and going, all day and most of the night. The staff all work shifts. They don’t even know their own colleagues, let alone outsiders. You could wander around there all day with a torchlight in your hand and no one would stop you unless they wanted a light.”
“That figures,” said Tyson. “Right, Andrews, what have you been up to for the past twenty-four hours?”
Mark opened his regulation blue plastic portfolio. He reported that there were sixty-two senators left, the other thirty-eight accounted for, most of them having been a long way from Washington on 24 February. He passed the list of names over to the Director, who glanced through them.
“Some pretty big fish still left in the muddy pond, Andrews. Go on.”
Mark proceeded to outline his encounter with the Greek Orthodox priest. He expected a sharp reprimand for failing to remember the matter of the beard immediately. He was not disappointed. Chastened, he continued: “I am seeing Father Gregory at eight o’clock this morning, and I thought I would go on to see Casefikis’s widow afterwards. I don’t think either will have much to offer, but I imagine you want those leads followed up, sir. After that I intended to return to the Library of Congress to try and figure out why any of those sixty-two senators might wish to see an end of President Kane.”
“Well, to start with, put them in categories,” said the Director. “First political party, then committees, then outside interests, then their personal knowledge of the President. Don’t forget, Andrews, we do know that our man had lunch in Georgetown on 24 February and that should bring the numbers down.”
“But sir, presumably they all had lunch on 24 February.”
“Exactly, Andrews, but not all in private. Many of them would have been seen in a public place or lunched officially, with constituents or federal employees or lobbyists. You have to find out who did what, without letting the senator we’re after get suspicious.”
“How do you suggest I go about doing that, sir?”
“Simple,” replied the Director. “You call each of the senators’ secretaries and ask if the boss would be free to attend a luncheon on—” He paused. “—‘The Problems of Urban Environment.’ Yes, I like that. Give them a date, say 5 May, then ask if they attended either the one given on,” the Director glanced at his calendar, “17 January or 24 February, as some senators who had accepted didn’t attend, and one or two turned up without invitations. Then say a written invitation will follow. All the secretaries will put it out of their minds unless you write, and if any of them does remember on 5 May, it will be too late for us to care. One thing is certain: no senator will be letting his secretary know that he is planning to kill the President.”
The Assistant Director grimaced slightly. “If he gets caught, sir, all hell will break loose. We’ll be back in the dirty-tricks department.”
“No, Matt, if I tell the President one of her precious brethren is going to knife her in the back, she won’t see anything particularly pleasant in that trick.”
“We haven’t got any real proof, sir,” said Mark.
“Then you had better find it, Andrews, or we’ll all be looking for a new job, trust my judgment.”
Trust my judgment, Mark thought.
“All we have is one strong lead,” the Director continued. “That a senator may be involved, but we have only five days left. If we fail next Thursday, there will be enough time during the next twenty years to study the inquiry and you, Andrews, will be able to make a fortune writing a book about it.”
Mark looked apprehensive.
“Andrews, don’t get too worried. I have briefed the head of the Secret Service. I told him no more and no less than was in your report, as we agreed yesterday, so that gives us a clear run right through to 10 March. I’m working on a contingency plan, in case we don’t know who Cassius is before then; but I won’t bore you with it now. I have also talked to the boys from Homicide; they have come up with very little that can help us. It may interest you to know that they have seen Casefikis’s wife already. Their brains seem to work a little faster than yours, Andrews.”
“Perhaps they don’t have as much on their minds,” said the Assistant Director.
“Maybe not. Okay, go see her if you think it might help. You may pick up something they missed. Cheer up, you’ve covered a lot of ground. Perhaps this morning’s investigation will give us some new leads to work on. I think that covers everything for now. Right, Andrews, don’t let me waste any more of your time.”
“No, sir.”
Mark rose.
“I’m sorry, I forgot to offer you coffee, Andrews.”
I didn’t manage to drink it the last time, Mark wanted to say. He left as the Director ordered coffee for himself and the Assistant Director. He decided that he too could do with some breakfast and a chance to collect his thoughts. He went in search of the Bureau cafeteria.
The Director drank his coffee and asked Mrs. McGregor to send in his personal assistant. The anonymous man appeared almost instantly, a grey folder under his arm. He didn’t have to ask the Director what it was that he wanted. He placed the folder on the table in front of him, and left without speaking.
“Thank you,” said the Director to the closing door. He turned the cover of the folder and browsed through it for twenty minutes, a chuckle here, and a grunt there, the odd comment to Matthew Rogers. There were facts in it about Mark Andrews of which Mark himself would have been unaware. The Director finished his second cup of coffee, closed the file, and locked it in the personal drawer of the Queen Anne desk. Queen Anne had never held as many secrets as that desk.