“Yes,” said the Director. “The car is due to arrive in two minutes; we’ll catch the others even if we can’t figure out which Senator it is. We’ll make them talk in due course. Wait a minute — that’s odd.”
The Director’s finger was running down a couple of closely typed sheets he held in his hand.
“Yes, that’s what I thought. The President’s detailed schedule shows that Dexter will be there for the special address to Congress but isn’t attending the luncheon with the President. Very strange: I’m sure all the key leaders of the opposition were invited to lunch. Why won’t Dexter be present?”
“Nothing strange about that, sir. He always has lunch with his daughter on Thursdays. Good God! ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’”
“Yes, Mark, I heard you the first time.”
“No, sir, ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’”
“Mark, the car will be here in one minute.”
“It’s Harrison, sir. It’s Harrison. I’m a fool — Thursday, 24 February, in Georgetown. I always thought of it as 24 February, not as Thursday. Dexter was having lunch with Elizabeth. ‘I always have lunch with my father on Thursdays.’ That’s why he was seen in Georgetown that day, must be. They never miss it.”
“Are you sure? Can you be certain? There’s a hell of a lot riding on it.”
“It’s Harrison, sir. It can’t be Dexter. I should have realized it on the first day. Christ, I’m stupid.”
“Right, Mark. Up those steps quickly, watch Harrison’s every move and be prepared to arrest him whatever the consequences.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rogers.”
The Assistant Director came in. “Sir?”
“The car is pulling up. Arrest Matson immediately; check the roof of the Capitol.” The Director stared up into the sky. “Oh my God, it’s not a helicopter, it’s that damn crane. It has to be the crane.”
Xan nestled the butt of the yellow rifle into his shoulder and watched the President’s car. He had attached a feather to a piece of thread on the end of the gun barrel, a trick he had picked up when training for the Olympics — no wind. The hours of waiting were coming to an end. Senator Harrison was standing there on the Capitol steps. Through the thirty-power Redfield scope he could even see the beads of sweat standing out on the man’s forehead.
The President’s car drew up on the north side of the Capitol. All was going according to plan. Xan leveled the telescopic sight on the car door and waited for Kane. Two Secret Service men climbed out, scanned the crowd, and waited for the third. Nothing happened. Xan put the sight on the Senator, who looked anxious and bemused. Back at the car, still no Kane. Where the hell was she, what was going on? He checked the feather; still no wind. He moved his sight back on the President’s car. Good God, the crane was moving and Kane wasn’t in the car. Matson had been right all along, they knew everything. Xan knew exactly what had to be done in these circumstances. Only one man could ditch them and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Xan moved his sight up the Capitol steps. One and one-half inches above the forehead. A moment’s hesitation before he squeezed the trigger once... twice, but the second time he didn’t have a clear shot, and a fraction of a second later he could no longer see the Capitol steps. He looked down from the moving crane. He was surrounded by fifty men in dark suits, fifty guns were pointing up at him.
Mark was about a yard away from Senator Harrison when he heard him cry out and fall. Mark jumped on top of the Senator and the second bullet grazed his shoulder. There was a panic among the other senators and officials on the top steps. The welcoming party scurried inside. Thirty FBI men moved in quickly. The Director was the only man who remained on the Capitol steps, steady and motionless, staring up at the crane. They hadn’t nicknamed him Halt by mistake.
“May I ask where I’m going, Stuart?”
“Certainly, Madam President. To the Capitol.”
“But this isn’t the normal route to the Capitol.”
“No, Madam. We’re going down Constitution Avenue to the Russell Building. We hear there has been a little trouble at the Capitol. A demonstration of some kind. The National Rifle Association.”
“So I’m avoiding it, am I? Like a coward, Stuart.”
“No, Madam, I’m slipping you through the basement. Just as a safety precaution and for your own convenience.”
“That means I’ll have to go on that damned subway. Even when I was a senator, I preferred to walk outside.”
“We’ve cleared the way for you, Madam. You’ll still be there bang on time.”
The President grumbled as she looked out of the window and saw an ambulance race in the opposite direction.
Senator Harrison died before he reached the hospital and Mark had his wound patched up by a house doctor. Mark checked his watch and laughed. It was 11:04 — he was going to live.
“Phone for you, Mr. Andrews. The Director of the FBI.”
“Sir?”
“Mark, I hear you’re fine. Good. I am sorry to say the Senate went into recess out of respect for Senator Harrison. The President is shocked but feels this is precisely the moment to emphasize the significance of gun control, so we’re all now going into lunch early. Sorry you can’t join us. And we caught three of them — Matson, a Vietnamese sharpshooter, and a petty crook called Tony Loraido. There may still be more, I’ll let you know later. Thank you, Mark.”
The telephone clicked before Mark could offer any opinion.
Thursday evening
10 March
7:00 P.M.
Mark arrived in Georgetown at seven that evening. He had gone to Simon’s wake and paid his respects to the bewildered parents that afternoon. They had five other children, but that never helped. Their grief made Mark long for the warmth of the living.
Elizabeth was wearing the red silk shirt and black skirt in which he had first seen her. She greeted him with a cascade of words.
“I don’t understand what’s been going on. My father called earlier and told me you tried to save Senator Harrison’s life. What were you doing there anyway? My father is very upset about the shooting. Why have you been following him around? Was he in any danger?”
Mark looked at her squarely. “No, he wasn’t involved in any way so let’s try and start over again.”
Still she didn’t understand.
When they arrived at the Rive Gauche, the maître d’ welcomed them with open arms.
“Good evening, Mr. Andrews, how nice to see you again. I don’t remember your booking a table.”
“No, it’s in my name. Dr. Dexter,” said Elizabeth.
“Oh, yes, Doctor, of course. Will you come this way?”
They had baked clams, and, at last, a steak with no fancy trimmings and two bottles of wine.
Mark sang most of the way home. When they arrived, he took her firmly by the hand and led her into the darkened living room.
“I’m going to seduce you. No coffee, no brandy, no music, just straightforward seduction.”
“I should be so lucky.”
They fell on the couch.
“You’re too drunk,” Elizabeth added.
“Wait and see.” He kissed her fully on the lips for a long time and started to unbutton her shirt.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, quite sure,” he said as he pulled the shirt slowly free from her skirt and felt her back, his other hand moving on to her leg.
“What about some music?” she said lightly. “Something special.” Elizabeth touched the start button on the hi-fi. It was Sinatra again, but this time it was the right song: