Page 32 of Shall We Tell the President? (Kane & Abel 3)

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be in the mood for another bedtime story for a while,” she replied. “The last one gave me a bad dream.”

Elizabeth was very quiet and Mark could get little response from her. He turned right off Independence and stopped the car on one of the side streets on the Mall, facing the Jefferson Memorial and the sunset.

“Is it last night?” asked Mark.

“Partly,” she said. “You made me feel pretty silly walking off like that. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it was all about?”

“I can’t do that,” said Mark uneasily. “But believe me, it had nothing to do with you. At least that’s almost—” He stopped abruptly.

Never embarrass the Bureau.

“‘At least that’s almost’ what? Almost true? Why was that call so important?”

“Let’s stop this and go eat.”

Elizabeth didn’t reply.

He started the car again. Two cars pulled out at the same time as he did. A blue Ford sedan and a black Buick. They’re certainly making sure today, he thought. Perhaps one of them is just looking for a parking space. He glanced at Elizabeth to see if she’d noticed them too; no, why should she, only he could see in the rear-view mirror. He drove to a small, warm Japanese restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue. He couldn’t take her home, while the damned Bureau had the place bugged. Deftly, the Oriental waiter sliced the fat shrimps, cooked them on the metal slab in the center of their table. He flicked each shrimp as he finished it onto their plates, giving them small, delicious bowls of sauces in which to dip the pieces. Elizabeth brightened under the influence of the hot sake.

“I’m sorry to react so strongly. I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”

“Like to tell me about it?”

“I can’t, I’m afraid. It’s personal and my father has asked me not to discuss it with anyone yet.”

Mark froze. “Can’t you tell me?”

“No. I guess we’ll both have to be patient.”

They went to a drive-in movie and sat in the comfortable, semi-darkness, arms companionably intertwined. Mark sensed she didn’t wish to be touched, and indeed he was in no mood to do so. They were both concerned about the same man, but for different reasons—or was it the same reason? And how would she react if she discovered that he had been investigating her father since the day after they met? Maybe she knew. Damn it, why couldn’t he simply believe in her? Surely, she wasn’t setting him up. He could remember very little about the film, and when it ended he took her home and left immediately. Two cars were still following him.

A figure jumped out of the shadows. “Hi, stud!” Mark swung around and checked his holster nervously.

“Oh, hi, Simon.”

“Listen, man, I can show you some dirty postcards if you’re still desperate, ’cause it seems that you’re just not good enough, man. I had a black one last night, I’m having a white one tonight.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Mark.

“I check in advance, man, I ain’t got time to waste with my pretty body.” Simon burst out laughing. “Think about me when you go to bed tonight, all alone, Mark, ’cause I sure will have forgotten you. Cool your jets, man.”

Mark threw him the keys and watched him as he walked towards the Mercedes swinging his hips, dancing and laughing.

“You ain’t got it, baby, whatever it is.”

“Bullshit! You’re a jive-ass bastard,” Mark said, and laughed.

“Now, you’re just jealous, man, or prejudiced,” said Simon, as he revved up the car and moved to a parking space. As he passed Mark, he shouted, “Either way, I’m the winner.”

Mark wondered if he ought to apply for a job as a garage attendant at the apartment building. It seemed to have its compensations. He looked around; something moved; no, it was just his nerves or his imagination. Once in his room, he wrote his report for the morning session with the Director and fell into bed.

Two days to go.

Wednesday morning

9 March

1:00 A.M.

The phone rang. Mark was just falling asleep, still in that world between sleeping and waking. The phone insisted. Try to answer it, it could be Julius.

“Hello,” he said, yawning.

“Mark Andrews?”

“Yes,” he said wearily, shifting himself to a more comfortable position in the bed, fearing if he woke up fully he would never get back to sleep.

“It’s George Stampouzis. Sorry to wake you, but I’ve come up with something I thought you would want to know about immediately.”

Stampouzis’s statement acted like cold water. Mark was wide awake instantly.

“Rig

ht, don’t say anything else, I’ll call you from a pay phone. What’s your number?” Mark wrote it down on the back of a Kleenex box, the only thing he could reach. He threw on a bathrobe, forced his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and started for the door. He opened the door, looked both ways. Hell, he was getting paranoid. There was no sound in the hall; there wouldn’t be even if someone were waiting for him. He took the elevator down to the garage level, where there was a pay phone. Simon was asleep on the chair—how did he manage it? Mark had found it hard enough to sleep in bed.

He dialed the 212 area code.

“Hello, Stampouzis. Mark Andrews.”

“Do you G-men always play games at one in the morning? I would have thought you’d figured out a better system by now.”

Mark laughed; the sound echoed in the garage; Simon twitched.

“What can I do for you?”

“I traded some information today, now you owe me two stories.” Stampouzis paused. “The Mafia had nothing to do with Stames’s death, and they are not going overboard for the Gun Control bill, although they basically oppose it. So you can eliminate them. I wouldn’t have gone this far for anyone but Nick, so make sure you handle it right.”

“I’m doing my best,” Mark replied. “Thanks for your help.”

He put the phone on the hook and walked back to the elevator, thinking about the tousled bed which he hoped was still warm. Simon was still asleep.

Wednesday morning

9 March

5:50 A.M.

“It’s for you, sir.”

“What?” mumbled the Director, still half-asleep.

“The phone, sir, it’s for you.” His housekeeper was standing by the doorway in her dressing-gown.

“Ugh. What time is it?”

“Ten to six, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Elliott, sir.”

“Right, switch it through.”

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