Shall We Tell the President? by Jeffrey Archer

were being wheeled up to Room 4308. They were all
waiting. What was the right thing to do?
    Two more quarters, he dialled Nick Stames’s home. The phone seemed to ring for a long time Why
didn’t he answer? Eventually a female voice came on.
    Mustn’t show panic, he thought, holding on
to the phone box. ‘Good evening, Mrs Stames . It’s
Mark Andrews. Can I speak to your husband?’ An even tone, no sign of stress.
    ‘I’m afraid Nick is not home, Mark. He went
back to the office about two hours ago. Funny, he said he was going to see you
and Barry Calvert.’
    ‘Yes, we saw him, but he left the office to
go back home about forty minutes ago.’
    ‘Well, he hasn’t arrived yet. He only
managed to finish the first course of his dinner and said he would come
straight back. No sign of him. Maybe he returned to the office. Why don’t you
try him there?’
    ‘Yes, of course. Sorry to have bothered
you.’ Mark hung up, looked over to check that no one had gone into Room 4308.
No one had. He put two more quarters in and phoned the office. Polly was on
duty. ‘Mark Andrews. Put me through to Mr Stames ,
quickly, please.’
    ‘Mr Stames and
Special Agent Calvert left about forty-five minutes ago - on their way home, I
think, Mr Andrews.’
    ‘That can’t be right. It can’t be right.’
    ‘Yes, they did leave, sir. I saw them go.’
    ‘Could you double-check?’
    ‘If you say so, Mr Andrews.’
    Mark waited, it seemed to him, for an
interminable time. What should he be doing? He was only one man, where was
everyone else? What was he supposed to do? Christ, nothing in his training
covered this - the FBI are meant to arrive twenty-four hours after a crime, not
during it.
    ‘There’s no answer, Mr Andrews.’
    ‘Thanks, Polly.’
    Mark looked desperately at the ceiling for
inspiration. He had been briefed not to tell anybody about the earlier events
of the evening, not to say a word whatever the circumstances until after Stames’s meeting with the Director. He must find Stames ; he must find Calvert. He must find somebody he
could talk to. Two more quarters. He tried Barry Calvert. The phone rang and
rang. No reply from the bachelor apartment. Same two quarters. He called Norma Stames again. ‘Mrs Stames , Mark
Andrews. Sorry to trouble you again. The moment your husband and Mr Calvert
arrive, please have them call me at Woodrow Wilson.’
    ‘Yes, I’ll tell Nick as soon as he comes
in. They probably stopped off on the way.’
    ‘Yes, of course, I hadn’t thought of that.
Maybe the best thing will be for me to go back downtown as soon as the relief
arrives. So perhaps they could contact me there. Thank you, Mrs Stames .’ He hung up the receiver.
    As he put the phone down Mark saw the Met
policeman jauntily walking towards him down the middle of the now crowded
corridor, an Ed McBain novel under his arm. Mark
thought of bawling him out for his late arrival, but what was the point. No use
crying over spilt blood he thought, morbidly, and began to feel sick again. He
took the young officer aside, and briefed him on the killings, giving no
details of why the two men were important, only of what had happened. He asked
him to inform his chief and added that the Homicide Squad were on their way,
again adding no details. The policeman called his own duty officer, and
reported all he had been told, matter-of-factly. The Washington Metropolitan
Police handled over 600 murders a year.
    The medical personnel were all waiting
impatiently; it was going to be a long wait. Professional bustle seemed to have
replaced the early panic. Mark still wasn’t sure where to turn, what to do.
Where was Stames ? Where was Calvert? Where the hell
was anybody?
    He went over to the policeman again, who
was explaining in detail why no one must enter the room. They were not
convinced but waited; Mark told him he was leaving for the Field Office. He
still gave him no clue why Casefikis had been
important. The Metropolitan policeman felt