“I’m sorry to react so strongly. I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”
“Like to tell me about it?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid. It’s personal and my father has asked me not to discuss it with anyone yet.”
Mark froze. “Can’t you tell me?”
“No. I guess we’ll both have to be patient.”
They went to a drive-in movie and sat in the comfortable, semi-darkness, arms companionably intertwined. Mark sensed she didn’t wish to be touched, and indeed he was in no mood to do so. They were both concerned about the same man, but for different reasons — or was it the same reason? And how would she react if she discovered that he had been investigating her father since the day after they met? Maybe she knew. Damn it, why couldn’t he simply believe in her? Surely, she wasn’t setting him up. He could remember very little about the film, and when it ended he took her home and left immediately. Two cars were still following him.
A figure jumped out of the shadows. “Hi, stud!” Mark swung around and checked his holster nervously.
“Oh, hi, Simon.”
“Listen, man, I can show you some dirty postcards if you’re still desperate, ’cause it seems that you’re just not good enough, man. I had a black one last night, I’m having a white one tonight.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Mark.
“I check in advance, man, I ain’t got time to waste with my pretty body.” Simon burst out laughing. “Think about me when you go to bed tonight, all alone, Mark, ’cause I sure will have forgotten you. Cool your jets, man.”
Mark threw him the keys and watched him as he walked towards the Mercedes swinging his hips, dancing and laughing.
“You ain’t got it, baby, whatever it is.”
“Bullshit! You’re a jive-ass bastard,” Mark said, and laughed.
“Now, you’re just jealous, man, or prejudiced,” said Simon, as he revved up the car and moved to a parking space. As he passed Mark, he shouted, “Either way, I’m the winner.”
Mark wondered if he ought to apply for a job as a garage attendant at the apartment building. It seemed to have its compensations. He looked around; something moved; no, it was just his nerves or his imagination. Once in his room, he wrote his report for the morning session with the Director and fell into bed.
Two days to go.
Wednesday morning
9 March
1:00 A.M.
The phone rang. Mark was just falling asleep, still in that world between sleeping and waking. The phone insisted. Try to answer it, it could be Julius.
“Hello,” he said, yawning.
“Mark Andrews?”
“Yes,” he said wearily, shifting himself to a more comfortable position in the bed, fearing if he woke up fully he would never get back to sleep.
“It’s George Stampouzis. Sorry to wake you, but I’ve come up with something I thought you would want to know about immediately.”
Stampouzis’s statement acted like cold water. Mark was wide awake instantly.
“Right, don’t say anything else, I’ll call you from a pay phone. What’s your number?” Mark wrote it down on the back of a Kleenex box, the only thing he could reach. He threw on a bathrobe, forced his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and started for the door. He opened the door, looked both ways. Hell, he was getting paranoid. There was no sound in the hall; there wouldn’t be even if someone were waiting for him. He took the elevator down to the garage level, where there was a pay phone. Simon was asleep on the chair — how did he manage it? Mark had found it hard enough to sleep in bed.
He dialed the 212 area code.
“Hello, Stampouzis. Mark Andrews.”
“Do you G-men always play games at one in the morning? I would have thought you’d figured out a better system by now.”
Mark laughed; the sound echoed in the garage; Simon twitched.
“What can I do for you?”
“I traded some information today, now you owe me two stories.” Stampouzis paused. “The Mafia had nothing to do with Stames’s death, and they are not going overboard for the Gun Control bill, although they basically oppose it. So you can eliminate them. I wouldn’t have gone this far for anyone but Nick, so make sure you handle it right.”
“I’m doing my best,” Mark replied. “Thanks for your help.”
He put the phone on the hook and walked back to the elevator, thinking about the tousled bed which he hoped was still warm. Simon was still asleep.
Wednesday morning
9 March
5:50 A.M.
“It’s for you, sir.”
“What?” mumbled the Director, still half-asleep.
“The phone, sir, it’s for you.” His housekeeper was standing by the doorway in her dressing-gown.
“Ugh. What time is it?”
“Ten to six, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Elliott, sir.”
“Right, switch it through.”
“Yes, sir.”
Elliott had woken him up. A decision he would never have taken unless it was urgent.
“Good morning, Elliott, what is it?” He paused. “Can you be sure? That changes the whole situation. What time is he due in? 7:00, of course. I’ll see you at 6:30.”
The Director put the phone down, and sat on the edge of the bed, and said very loudly: “Damn,” which by the Director’s standards was extreme. His big feet placed firmly on the floor, his large hands splayed on his equally large thighs, he was deep in thought. Eventually he rose, put on a dressing-gown, and disappeared into the bathroom, repeating the expletive several times.
Mark also had a phone call, not from the anonymous man, but from Elizabeth. She needed to see him urgently. They agreed to meet at eight o’clock in the lobby of the Mayflower. He felt sure no one would recognize him there, but he wondered why Elizabeth had chosen that particular meeting place.
Mark took off his dressing-gown and returned to the bathroom.
The Senator took an early-morning phone call as well, not from the anonymous man or from Elizabeth, but from the Chairman, who was confirming their midday meeting for the final briefing at the Sheraton Hotel in Silver Spring. The Senator agreed, replaced the phone, and roamed around the room in his dressing-gown thinking.
“Coffee for three, Mrs. McGregor. Are they both here?” the Director asked as he passed her.
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. McGregor looked very chic in a new turquoise, two-piece suit, but the Director didn’t notice. He strolled into his office.
“Good morning, Matt. Good morning, Mark.” When should he drop the bomb? He decided to let Andrews speak first. “Right, let’s hear what you’ve found out.”
“As I told you yesterday, sir, I think I’ve cut the list of senators down to five — Brooks of Massachusetts, Byrd of West Virginia, Dexter of Connecticut, Harrison of South Carolina, and Thornton of Texas. The only common factor is their interest in the Gun Control bill, which as we know, sir, is likely to become law on 10 March. Assassination of the President would now be about the only way of holding that bill up.”
“I would have thought,” said Rogers, “that that could be the one act that would make certain the bill passed through both Houses.”
“You tell that to two Kennedys, Martin Luther King, George Wallace and Ronald Reagan and see what they all have to say,” responded the Director. “Continue, Mark.”
Mark summarized what Lykham and Stampouzis had briefed him on each man, and explained how he was able to eliminate two other men from the list of seven — namely Pearson and Nunn. “That completes my report, sir, unless, of course, we are approaching this thing in the wrong way and I’m heading down a blind alley. And as far as I’m concerned that is entirely possible, as I seem to be boxing with shadows.”