“If I go bald at the crown, will you accept that as a declaration of intent?”
“I’m willing to wait but not that long.”
On the way back to her house he stopped, put his arm around her and kissed her, hesitantly at first, unsure of how she would respond.
“You know, my knees are feeling weak, Elizabeth,” he murmured into her soft, warm hair. “What are you going to do with your latest victim?”
She walked on without speaking for a little way.
“Get you some knee pads,” she said.
They walked on hand in hand, silently, happily, slowly. Three not very romantic men were following them.
In the pretty living room, on the cream-colored sofa, he kissed her again.
The three unromantic men waited in the shadows outside.
She sat alone in the Oval Office going over the clauses in the bill one by one, searching for any line that still might trip her up when the bill was voted on tomorrow.
She looked up suddenly startled to see her husband standing in front of her, a mug of steaming cocoa in his hand.
“An early night won’t harm your chances of influencing that lot,” he said pointing towards the Capitol.
She smiled, “Darling Edward, where would I be without your common sense?”
Sunday morning
6 March
9:00 A.M.
Mark spent Sunday morning putting the finishing touches to his report for the Director. He began by tidying his desk; he could never think clearly unless everything was in place. Mark gathered all his notes together and put them in a logical sequence. He completed the task by two o’clock, without noticing that he had missed lunch. Slowly he wrote down the names of the fifteen senators who were left, six under the heading Foreign Relations Committee, nine under Gun Control bill — Judiciary Committee. He stared at the lists, hoping for inspiration but none came. One of these men was a killer and there were only four days left to find out which one. He put the papers into his briefcase, which he locked in his desk.
He went into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. He looked at his watch. What could he do that would be useful for the rest of the day? Elizabeth was on duty at the hospital. He picked up the phone and dialed the number. She could only spare a minute, due in the operating theater at three o’clock.
“Okay, Doctor, this won’t take long and it shouldn’t hurt. I can’t call you every day just to tell you that you are lovely and intelligent and that you drive me crazy, so listen carefully.”
“I’m listening, Mark.”
“Okay. You are beautiful and bright and I’m crazy about you... What, no reply?”
“Oh, I thought there might be more. I’ll say something nice in return when I’m three inches away from you, not three miles.”
“Better make it soon, or I am going to crack up. Off you go, and cut out someone else’s heart.”
She laughed. “It’s an ingrown toenail actually...”
She hung up. Mark roamed about the room, his mind jumping from fifteen senators, to Elizabeth, back to one Senator. Wasn’t it going just a little too well with Elizabeth? Was one Senator looking for him, rather than the other way around? He cursed and poured himself a Michelob. His mind switched to Barry Calvert; on Sunday afternoons they usually played squash. Then to Nick Stames, Stames who had unknowingly taken his place. If Stames were alive now, what would he do?... A remark that Stames had made at the office party last Christmas came flashing across Mark’s mind: “If I’m not available, the second best crime man in this goddamn country is George Stampouzis of The New York Times” — another Greek, naturally. “He must know more about the Mafia and the CIA than almost anyone on either side of the law.”
Mark dialed Information in New York, and asked for the number, not quite sure where it was leading him. The operator gave it to him.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
He dialed it.
“Crime desk, George Stampouzis, please.” They put him through.
“Stampouzis,” said a voice. They don’t waste words on The New York Times.
“Good afternoon. My name is Mark Andrews. I’m calling from Washington. I was a friend of Nick Stames; in fact, he was my boss.”
The voice changed. “Yes, I heard about the terrible accident, if it was an accident. What can I do for you?”
“I need some inside information. Can I fly up and see you immediately?”
“Does it concern Nick?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes. Meet me at eight o’clock, northeast corner of Twenty-first and Park Avenue South?”
“I’ll be there,” said Mark looking at his watch.
“And I’ll be waiting for you.”
The Eastern Airlines shuttle flight arrived a few minutes after seven. Mark made his way through the crowd milling around the baggage pickup and headed for the taxi stand. A potbellied, middle-aged, unshaven New Yorker with an unlit cigar stub bobbing up and down in his mouth drove him towards Manhattan. He never stopped talking the whole way, a monologue that required few replies. Mark could have used the time to compose his thoughts.
“This country’s full of shit,” said the bobbing cigar.
“Yes,” said Mark.
“And this city is nothing more than a garbage hole.”
“Yes,” said Mark.
“And that daughter of a bitch Kane’s to blame. They ought to string her up.”
Mark froze. It was probably said a thousand times a day; someone in Washington was saying it and meaning it.
The cab driver pulled up to the curb.
“Eighteen dollars even,” said the bobbing cigar.
Mark put a ten and two fives into the little plastic drawer in the protective screen that divided driver from passenger, and climbed out. A heavy-set man in his midfifties and wearing a tweed overcoat, headed towards him. Mark shivered. He had forgotten how cold New York could be in March.
“Andrews?”
“Yes. Good guess.”
“When you spend your life studying criminals, you begin to think like them.” He was taking in Mark’s suit. “G-men are certainly dressing better than they did in my day.”
Mark looked embarrassed. Stampouzis must know that an FBI agent was paid almost double the salary of a New York cop.
“You like Italian food?” He didn’t wait for Mark’s reply. “I’ll take you to one of Nick’s old favorites.” He was already on the move. They walked the long block in silence, Mark’s step hesitating as he passed each restaurant entrance. Suddenly, Stampouzis disappeared into a doorway. Mark followed him through a run-down bar full of men who were leaning on the counter and drinking heavily. Men who had no wives to go home to, or if they did, didn’t want to.
Once through the bar, they entered a pleasant, brickwalled dining area. A tall, thin Italian guided them to a corner table: obviously Stampouzis was a favored customer. Stampouzis didn’t bother with the menu.
“I recommend the shrimp marinara. After that, you’re on your own.”
Mark took his advice and added a piccata al limone and half a carafe of Chianti. Stampouzis drank Colt 45. They talked of trivia while they ate. Mark knew the residual Mediterranean creed after two years with Nick Stames — never let business interfere with the enjoyment of good food. In any case, Stampouzis was still sizing him up, and Mark needed his confidence. When Stampouzis had finished an enormous portion of zabaglione and settled down to a double espresso with Sambuca on the side, he looked up at Mark and spoke in a different tone.
“You worked for a great man, a rare lawman. If one tenth of the FBI were as conscientious and intelligent as Nick Stames, you would have something to be pleased about in that brick coliseum of yours.”