Page 19 of Shall We Tell the President? (Kane & Abel 3)

He kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave, his eyes darting up and down the road again. She whispered after him:

“I hope you find the man who killed my mailman and your Greek.”

Your Greek, your Greek, Greek Orthodox priest, Father Gregory. God in heaven, why hadn’t he thought of it before? He’d forgotten Elizabeth for a moment as he started to run towards his car. He turned to wave; she was staring at him with a puzzled expression, wondering what she had said. Mark leaped into the car and drove as fast as he could to his apartment. He must find Father Gregory’s number. Greek Orthodox priest, what did he look like, the one who came out of the elevator, what did he look like; it was all coming back, there had been something unusual with him: what the hell was it? His clothes? No, they were fine, or was it his face? His face was wrong somehow. Of course. Of course. How could he have been so stupid. When he arrived home, he called the Washington Field Office immediately. Polly, on the switchboard, was surprised to hear him.

“Aren’t you on leave?”

“Yes, sort of. Do you have Father Gregory’s number?”

“Who is Father Gregory?”

“A Greek Orthodox priest whom Mr. Stames used to contact occasionally; I think he was his local priest.”

“Yes, you’re right. Now I remember.”

Mark waited.

She checked Stames’s Rolodex and gave him the number. Mark wrote it down, and replaced the phone. Of course, of course, of course. How stupid of him. It was so obvious. Well past midnight, but he had to call. He dialed the number. The telephone rang several times before it was answered.

“Father Gregory?”

“Yes.”

“Do all Greek Orthodox priests have beards?”

“Yes, as a rule. Who is this asking such a damn silly question in the middle of the night?”

Mark apologized. “My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I worked under Nick Stames.”

The man at the other end, who had sounded sleepy, immediately woke up. “I understand, young man. What can I do for you?”

“Father Gregory, last night Mr. Stames’s secretary called you and asked you to go to Woodrow Wilson to check a Greek who had a bullet wound in his leg?”

“Yes, that’s right—I remember, Mr. Andrews. But somebody else called about thirty minutes later, just as I was leaving, in fact, to tell me I needn’t bother because Mr. Casefikis had been discharged from the hospital.”

“He’d been what?” Mark’s voice rose with each word.

“Discharged from the hospital.”

“Did the caller say who he was?”

“No, the man gave no other details. I assumed he was from your office.”

“Father Gregory, can I see you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock?”

“Yes, of course, my son.”

“And can you be sure you don’t talk to anybody else about this phone call, whoever they say they are?”

“If that is your wish, my son.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Mark dropped the telephone and tried to concentrate. He was taller than I was, so he was over six feet. He was dark, or was that just his priest’s robes? No, he had dark hair, he had a big nose, I remember he had a big nose, eyes, no I can’t remember his eyes, he had a big nose, a heavy chin, a heavy chin. Mark wrote everything down he could remember. A big heavy man, taller than me, big nose, heavy chin, big nose, heavy … he collapsed. His head fell on the desk and he slept.

Saturday morning

5 March

6:32 A.M.

Mark had awoken, but he wasn’t awake. His head was swimming with incoherent thoughts. The first vision to flash across his mind was Elizabeth; he smiled. The second was Nick Stames; he frowned. The third was the Director. Mark woke with a start and sat up, trying to focus his eyes on his watch. All he could see was the second hand moving: 6:35. Hell. He shot up from the chair, his stiff neck and back hurting him; he was still dressed. He threw off his clothes and rushed into the bathroom and showered, without taking time to adjust the water temperature. Goddamn freezing. At least it woke him up and made him forget Elizabeth. He jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel: 6:40. After throwing the lather on his face, he shaved too quickly, mowing down the stubble on his chin. Damn it, three nicks; the aftershave lotion stung viciously: 6:43. He dressed: clean shirt, same cuff links, clean socks, same shoes, clean suit, same tie. A quick look in the mirror: two nicks still bleeding slightly, the hell with it. He bundled the papers on his desk into his briefcase and ran for the elevator. First piece of luck, it was on the top floor. Downstairs: 6:46.

“Hi, Simon.”

The young black garage attendant didn’t move. He was dozing in his little cubbyhole at the garage entrance.

“Morning, Mark. Hell, man, is it eight o’clock already?”

“No, thirteen minutes to seven.”

“What are you up to? Moonlighting?” asked Simon, rubbing his eyes and handing over the car keys. Mark smiled, but didn’t have time to answer. Simon dozed off again.

Car starts first time. Reliable Mercedes. Moves on the road: 6:48. Must stay below speed limit. Never embarrass the Bureau. At 6th Street, held up by lights: 6:50. Cut across G Street, up 7th, more lights. Cross Independence Avenue: 6:53. Corner of 7th and Pennsylvania. Can see FBI Building: 6:55. Down ramp, park, show FBI pass to garage guard, run for elevator: 6:57; elevator to seventh floor: 6:58. Along the corridor, turn right, Room 7074, straight in, past Mrs. McGregor as instructed. She barely glances up; knock on door of Director’s office; no reply; go in as instructed. No Director: 6:59; sink into easy chair. Director going to be late; smile of satisfaction. Thirty seconds to seven: glance around room, casually, as if been waiting for hours. Eyes land on grandfather clock. Strikes: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

The door opened, and the Director marched in. “Good morning, Andrews.” He did not look at Mark, but at the clock on the wall. “It’s always a little fast.” Silence. The Old Post Office Tower clock struck seven.

The Director settled into his chair, and once again the large hands took possession of the desk.

“We’ll start with my news first, Andrews. We have just received some identification on the Lincoln that went into the Potomac with Stames and Calvert.”

The Director opened a new manilla file marked “Eyes only” and glanced at its contents. What was in the file that Mark didn’t know about and ought to know about?

“Nothing solid to go on. Hans-Dieter Gerbach, German. Bonn has reported that he was a minor figure in the Munich rackets until five years ago, then they lost track of him. There is some evidence to suggest he was in Rhodesia and even hitched up with the CIA for a while. The White-Lightning Brigade. The CIA is not being helpful on him. I can’t see much information coming from them before Thursday. Sometimes I wonder whose side they’re on. In 1980, Gerbach turned up in New York, but there’s nothing there except rumors and street talk, no record to go on. It would have helped if he’d lived.”

Mark thought of the slit throats in Woodrow Wilson Med

ical Center and wondered.

“The interesting fact to emerge from the car crash is that both black tires of Stames’s and Calvert’s car have small holes in them. They could have been the result of the fall down the bank, but our laboratory boys think they are bullet holes. If they are, whoever did the shooting makes Wyatt Earp look like a boy scout.”

The Director spoke into his intercom. “Have Assistant Director Rogers join us please, Mrs. McGregor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Rogers’s men have found the catering outfit Casefikis was working for, for what that’s worth.”

The Assistant Director knocked and entered. The Director indicated a chair. Rogers smiled at Mark and sat down.

“Let’s have the details, Matt.”

“Well, sir, the owner of the Golden Duck wasn’t exactly co-operative. Seemed to think I was after him for contravening employers’ regulations. I threatened to shut him down if he didn’t talk. Finally he admitted to employing a man matching Casefikis’s description on 24 February. He sent Casefikis to serve at a small luncheon party in one of the rooms at the Georgetown Inn on Wisconsin Avenue. The man who made the arrangement was a Lorenzo Rossi. He insisted on a waiter who couldn’t speak English. Paid in cash. We’ve run Rossi through all the computers—nothing. Obviously a false name. Same story at the Georgetown Inn. The proprietor said the room had been hired for the day of 24 February by a Mr. Rossi, food to be supplied, but no service, cash paid in advance. Rossi was about five-feet-eight, dark complexion, no distinguishing features, dark hair, sunglasses. The proprietor thought he “seemed Italian.” No one at the hotel knows or cares who the hell went to lunch in that room that day. I’m afraid it doesn’t get us very far.”

“I agree. I suppose we could pull every Italian answering that description off the street,” said the Director. “If we had five years, not five days. Did you turn up anything new at the hospital, Matt?”

“It’s a hell of a mess, sir. The place is full of people coming and going, all day and most of the night. The staff all work shifts. They don’t even know their own colleagues, let alone outsiders. You could wander around there all day with a torchlight in your hand and no one would stop you unless they wanted a light.”

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