Shall We Tell the President? by Jeffrey Archer Page A

please.”
    â€œMr. Stames and Special Agent Calvert left about forty-five minutes ago—on their way home, I think, Mr. Andrews.”
    â€œThat can’t be right. It can’t be right.”
    â€œYes, they did leave, sir. I saw them go.”
    â€œCould you double-check?”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œThere’s no answer, Mr. Andrews.”
    â€œThanks, 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.”
    â€œYes, I’ll tell Nick as soon as he comes in. They probably stopped off on the way.”
    â€œYes, 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 six hundred 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 he had things under control. Homicide would be there at any moment. He told Mark they’d want to talk to him later that night. Mark nodded and left him.
    When he arrived back at his car, he took the flashing red light out of the side compartment and fixed it to the roof, placing the switch into its special slot. He was going to get back to the office, at top speed, to people he knew, to reality, to men who would make some sense out of his nightmare.
    Mark flicked on the car radio. “WFO 180 in service. Please try and locate Mr. Stames and Mr. Calvert. Urgent. I am returning to Field Office immediately.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Andrews.”
    â€œWFO 180 out of service.”
    Twelve minutes later, he arrived at the Washington
Field Office and parked his car. He ran to the elevator. The operator took him up. He rushed out.
    â€œAspirin, Aspirin. Who the hell’s on duty tonight?”
    â€œI’m the only one on tonight, boy, I’m here on my own,” said Aspirin, looking over his glasses,