he should
try and get in touch with the Director, although it was an extreme course. A
man of Mark’s rank, two years out of training, didn’t just pick up a phone and
call the Director. In any case he could still keep Stames’s appointment with that Director at 10:30 the next morning. 10:30 the next
morning. That was half a day away. More than twelve hours of not knowing what
to do. Nursing a secret that he had been told not to discuss with anyone.
Holding information he couldn’t impart to anybody else.
The phone rang and he heard Polly’s voice.
He prayed it would be Stames , but his prayer was not
answered.
‘Hey, Mr Andrews, are you still there? I’ve
got Homicide on the line. Captain Hogan wants to talk to you.’
‘Andrews?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘What can you tell me?’
Mark reported truthfully that Casefikis was an illegal immigrant who had delayed seeking
treatment for his leg, and untruthfully that he alleged he had been shot by a
crook who had subjected him to blackmail, threatening exposure of his illegal
entry into the States. A full written report would be sent around to his office
by tomorrow morning.
The detective sounded disbelieving.
‘Are you holding out on me, son? What was
the FBI doing there in the first place? There’s going to be one hell of a scene
if I find out you’re withholding information. I wouldn’t hesitate to roast your
ass over the hottest coals in Washington .’
Mark thought of Stames’s repeated injunctions about secrecy.
‘No, I’m not withholding information,’ he
said in a raised voice; he knew he was trembling and could hardly have sounded
less convincing. The Homicide detective grumbled to himself, asked a few more
questions, and hung up. Mark put the phone down. The receiver was clammy with
sweat, his clothes still stuck to him. He tried Norma Stames again; still the boss hadn’t reached home. He called Polly again, and asked her
to go through the whole routine with the radio channels again; still nothing
except a buzzing sound on Channel One. Finally, Mark abandoned the telephone
and told Aspirin he was leaving. Aspirin didn’t seem interested.
Mark headed for the elevator and walked
quickly in his car. Must get on to home ground. Then call the Director. Once
again he was speeding through the streets towards his home.
It wasn’t the most luxurious part of town,
but the renovated south-west section of Washington was home for many young,
single professionals. It was on the waterfront near the Arena Stage,
conveniently located next to a Metro station. Pleasant, lively, not too
expensive - the place suited Mark perfectly.
As soon as he reached his apartment, he ran
up the stairs, burst through the door and picked up the phone. After several
rings, the Bureau answered. ‘Director’s office. Duty officer speaking.’
Mark drew a deep breath. ‘My name is
Special Agent Andrews, Washington Field Office,’ Mark began slowly. ‘I want to
speak to the Director, priority and immediate.’
The Director, it seemed, was dining with
the Attorney General at her home. Mark asked for the telephone number. Did he
have special authority to contact the Director at this time of night? He had
special authority, he had an appointment with him at 10:30 tomorrow morning
and, for God’s sake, he had special authority.
The man must have sensed Andrews was
desperate.
‘I’ll call you right back, if you’ll give
me your number.’
Andrews knew that this was simply to check
that he was an FBI agent and that he was scheduled to see the Director in the
morning. The phone rang after one minute and the duty officer was back.
‘The Director is still with the Attorney
General. Herprivate number is 761-4386.’
Mark dialled the number.
‘Mrs Edelman’s residence,’ said a
deferential voice.
This is Special Agent Mark Andrews,’ he
began. ‘I need to speak to the Director of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation.’
He said it slowly, he said it
try and get in touch with the Director, although it was an extreme course. A
man of Mark’s rank, two years out of training, didn’t just pick up a phone and
call the Director. In any case he could still keep Stames’s appointment with that Director at 10:30 the next morning. 10:30 the next
morning. That was half a day away. More than twelve hours of not knowing what
to do. Nursing a secret that he had been told not to discuss with anyone.
Holding information he couldn’t impart to anybody else.
The phone rang and he heard Polly’s voice.
He prayed it would be Stames , but his prayer was not
answered.
‘Hey, Mr Andrews, are you still there? I’ve
got Homicide on the line. Captain Hogan wants to talk to you.’
‘Andrews?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘What can you tell me?’
Mark reported truthfully that Casefikis was an illegal immigrant who had delayed seeking
treatment for his leg, and untruthfully that he alleged he had been shot by a
crook who had subjected him to blackmail, threatening exposure of his illegal
entry into the States. A full written report would be sent around to his office
by tomorrow morning.
The detective sounded disbelieving.
‘Are you holding out on me, son? What was
the FBI doing there in the first place? There’s going to be one hell of a scene
if I find out you’re withholding information. I wouldn’t hesitate to roast your
ass over the hottest coals in Washington .’
Mark thought of Stames’s repeated injunctions about secrecy.
‘No, I’m not withholding information,’ he
said in a raised voice; he knew he was trembling and could hardly have sounded
less convincing. The Homicide detective grumbled to himself, asked a few more
questions, and hung up. Mark put the phone down. The receiver was clammy with
sweat, his clothes still stuck to him. He tried Norma Stames again; still the boss hadn’t reached home. He called Polly again, and asked her
to go through the whole routine with the radio channels again; still nothing
except a buzzing sound on Channel One. Finally, Mark abandoned the telephone
and told Aspirin he was leaving. Aspirin didn’t seem interested.
Mark headed for the elevator and walked
quickly in his car. Must get on to home ground. Then call the Director. Once
again he was speeding through the streets towards his home.
It wasn’t the most luxurious part of town,
but the renovated south-west section of Washington was home for many young,
single professionals. It was on the waterfront near the Arena Stage,
conveniently located next to a Metro station. Pleasant, lively, not too
expensive - the place suited Mark perfectly.
As soon as he reached his apartment, he ran
up the stairs, burst through the door and picked up the phone. After several
rings, the Bureau answered. ‘Director’s office. Duty officer speaking.’
Mark drew a deep breath. ‘My name is
Special Agent Andrews, Washington Field Office,’ Mark began slowly. ‘I want to
speak to the Director, priority and immediate.’
The Director, it seemed, was dining with
the Attorney General at her home. Mark asked for the telephone number. Did he
have special authority to contact the Director at this time of night? He had
special authority, he had an appointment with him at 10:30 tomorrow morning
and, for God’s sake, he had special authority.
The man must have sensed Andrews was
desperate.
‘I’ll call you right back, if you’ll give
me your number.’
Andrews knew that this was simply to check
that he was an FBI agent and that he was scheduled to see the Director in the
morning. The phone rang after one minute and the duty officer was back.
‘The Director is still with the Attorney
General. Herprivate number is 761-4386.’
Mark dialled the number.
‘Mrs Edelman’s residence,’ said a
deferential voice.
This is Special Agent Mark Andrews,’ he
began. ‘I need to speak to the Director of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation.’
He said it slowly, he said it
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