There were actually two men on surveillance, Special Agent Kevin O’Malley and Assistant Field Supervisor Pierce Thompson, both selected by Tyson for their ability and discretion. Neither had shown any sign of surprise when the Director had instructed them to tail a fellow FBI man and report back to Elliott. It had been a long wait for Mark to emerge from Elizabeth’s house, and O’Malley didn’t blame him. Pierce left the churchyard and joined his colleague.
“Hey, Kevin, have you noticed that someone else is tailing Andrews for us?”
“Yeah. Matson. Why?”
“I thought he was retired.”
“He is. I just assumed old Halt was making sure.”
“I guess you’re right but I wonder why Tyson didn’t tell us.”
“Because the whole operation’s pretty irregular. No one seems to be telling anyone anything. You could always ask Elliott.”
“You ask Elliott. You might as well ask the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Or you could ask the Director.”
“No, thank you.”
A few minutes passed by.
“Think we should talk to Matson?”
“You remember the special orders. No contact with anyone. He probably has the same orders, and he would report us without thinking about it. He’s that sort of bastard.”
O’Malley was the first to see Mark leaving the house and could have sworn he was carrying one shoe. He was right and Mark was running, so he began to follow him. Must avoid getting burned, thought O’Malley. Mark stopped at the pay phone; his pursuer disappeared into some new shadows, to continue his vain attempts to keep warm. He was thankful for the brisk walk, which had helped a little.
Mark had only two quarters; the others were all lying uselessly on the floor by the side of Elizabeth’s couch. Where had the Director phoned from? Could it have been the Bureau? That didn’t make sense, what would he be doing there at this time of night? Wasn’t he supposed to be with the President? Mark looked at his watch. Hell, 1:15. He must be at home; if he isn’t I’ll be out of quarters. Mark put on his other shoe. Easy slip-on. He cursed, and tossed one of the quarters; George Washington, I call the Bureau. E pluribus unum, then I call him at home. The coin landed — George Washington. Mark dialed the Director’s private number at the Bureau.
“Yes.”
God bless George Washington.
“Julius?”
“Come in immediately.”
That didn’t sound very friendly. Perhaps he had just returned from the President with some important new information, or maybe something at the dinner had given him indigestion.
Mark walked quickly to his car, checking his shirt buttons and tie as he went. His socks felt uncomfortable, as if one of the heels were in the arch of his foot. He passed the man in the shadows, who watched as Mark returned to his car and hesitated. Should he return to Elizabeth and say, say what? He looked up at the light in the window, took a deep breath, cursed again, and fell into the bucket seat of the Mercedes. There hadn’t even been time for a cold shower.
It took only a few minutes to reach the Bureau. There was very little traffic, and with the streets so quiet, the computerized lights meant no stopping.
Mark parked the car in the basement garage of the FBI and immediately there was the anonymous man, the anonymous man who obviously was waiting for him. Didn’t he ever go to bed? A harbinger of bad tidings, probably, but he didn’t let him know, because as usual he didn’t speak. Perhaps he’s a eunuch, Mark thought. Lucky man. They shared the elevator to the seventh floor. The anonymous man led him noiselessly to the Director’s office; wonder what he does for a hobby, thought Mark. Probably a prompter at the National Theater for the Deaf.
“Mr. Andrews, sir.”
The Director offered no greeting. He was still in evening clothes and looked as black as thunder.
“Sit down, Andrews.”
Back to Andrews, thought Mark.
“If I could take you out into the parking lot, stick you up against the wall, and shoot you, I would.”
Mark tried to look innocent; it had usually worked with Nick Stames. It didn’t seem to cut any ice with the Director.
“You stupid, unthinking, irresponsible, reckless idiot.”
Mark decided he was more frightened of the Director than he was of those who might be trying to kill him.
“You’ve compromised me, the Bureau, and the President,” continued the Director. Mark could hear his heart pounding. If he could have counted it, it would have been a hundred and twenty. Tyson was still in full cry. “If I could suspend you or just dismiss you, if only I could do something as simple as that. How many senators are there left, Andrews?”
“Seven, sir.”
“Name them.”
“Brooks, Harrison, Thornton, Byrd, Nunn, Dex... Dexter, and...” Mark went white.
“Summa cum laude at Yale, and you have the naïvete of a boy scout. When we first saw you with Dr. Elizabeth Dexter, we, in our stupidity, knowing she was the doctor on duty on the evening of 3 March at Woodrow Wilson, assumed in our stupidity” — he repeated it even more pointedly — “that you were on to a lead, but now we discover that not only is she the daughter of one of the seven senators whom we suspect of wanting to murder the President but, as if that’s not enough, we find out you’re having an affair with her.”
Mark wanted to protest but couldn’t get his lips to move.
“Can you deny you’ve slept with her, Andrews?”
“Yes, sir, I can,” Mark said very quietly.
The Director was momentarily dumbfounded. “Young man, we wired the place; we know exactly what went on.”
Mark leaped out of his chair, stunned dismay yielding to fierce anger. “I couldn’t have denied it,” he cried, “if you hadn’t interrupted me. Have you forgotten what it feels like to love someone, if you ever knew? Fuck your Bureau, and I don’t use that word that often, and fuck you. I’ve been working sixteen hours a day and I’m not getting any sleep at night. Someone may be trying to murder me and I find that you, the only man I’ve trusted, have ordered your anonymous pimps to play Peeping Tom at my expense. I hope you all roast in hell. I’d rather join the Mafia because I’m sure they let their people have it off occasionally.”
Mark was angrier than he had ever been in his life. He collapsed back into the chair, and waited for the consequences. His only strength was that he no longer cared. The Director was equally silent. He walked to the window and stared out. Then he turned slowly; the heavy shoulders, the large head were turning towards him. This is it, thought Mark.
The Director stopped about a yard away from him, looking him square in the eyes, the way he had done from the first moment they had met.
“Forgive me,” said the Director. “I’ve been thoughtless but I’m becoming paranoid about the whole problem. I’ve just left the President, healthy, fit, full of plans for the future of this country, only to be told that her one hope of carrying out those dreams is sleeping with the daughter of one of the seven men who might at this very moment be planning to assassinate her. I didn’t think much further than that.”
A big man, thought Mark.
The Director’s eyes hadn’t left him.
“Let’s pray it’s not Dexter. Because if it is, Mark, you may well be in considerable danger.” He paused again. “By the way, those anonymous pimps have been guarding you night and day, also on a sixteen-hour day, without a break. Some of them even have wives and children. Now we both know the truth. Let’s get back to work, Mark, and let’s try and stay sane for three more days. Just remember to tell me everything.”
Mark had won. No, Mark had lost.
“There are seven senators left.” The words were slow and tired, the man was still on edge. Mark had never seen him like this and doubted that many members of the Bureau had.