Read Online Shall We Tell the President? by Jeffrey Archer - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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clearly,
although he was still trembling. The reply came back from a man whose biggest
worry that night had been that the potatoes had taken longer than expected.
‘Will you hold the line one moment please,
sir?’
He waited, he waited, he waited.
A new voice said: ‘Tyson here.’
Mark drew a deep breath and plunged in.
‘My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I
have an appointment to see you with SAC Stames and
Special Agent Calvert at 10:30 tomorrow morning. You don’t know the details,
sir, because it was made through Mrs McGregor after you had left your office. I
have to see you immediately, you may wish to call me back. I’m at home.’
‘Yes, Andrews,’ said Tyson. ‘I’ll call you
back. What is your number?’
Mark gave it.
‘Young man,’ Tyson said, ‘this had better
be a priority.’
‘It is, sir.’
Mark waited again. One minute passed, and
then another. Had Tyson dismissed him as a fool? What was going on? Three
minutes passed. Four minutes passed; he was obviously checking more thoroughly
than his duty officer had done.
The phone rang. Mark jumped.
‘Hi, Mark, it’s Roger. Want to come out for
a beer?’
‘Not now, Roger, not now.’ He slammed the
phone down.
It rang again immediately.
‘Right, Andrews, what do you have to tell
me? Make it quick and to the point.’
‘I want to see you now, sir. I need fifteen
minutes of your time and I need you to tell me what the hell to do.’
He regretted ‘hell’ the moment he had said
it.
‘Very well, if it’s that urgent. Do you
know where the Attorney General lives?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Take this down: 2942 Edgewood Street Arlington .’
Mark put the phone down, wrote the address
carefully in block capitals on the inside of a matchbook advertising life
insurance, and called Aspirin, who just couldn’t get 7-across.
‘If anything happens, I’ll be on my car
radio; you can get me there, I’ll leave the line on Channel Two open the whole
time. Something’s wrong with Channel One.’
Aspirin sniffed: the young agents took
themselves far too seriously nowa -days. It wouldn’t
have happened under J. Edgar Hoover, shouldn’t be allowed to happen now. Still,
he only had one more year and then retirement. He returned to the crossword.
Seven-across, ten letters: gathering of those in favour of buccaneering.
Aspirin started to think.
Mark Andrews was thinking too as he rushed
into the elevator, into the street, into his car, and moved off at speed to Arlington . He raced up East Basin Drive to Independence Avenue ,
past the Lincoln Memorial to get on to Memorial Bridge .
He drove as fast possible through the early night, cursing the people ’ calmly strolling across the road on
this mild, pleasant evening, casually on their way to nowhere in particular,
cursing the people who took no notice of the flushing red light he had affixed
to the car roof, cursing all the way. Where was Stames ?
Where was Barry? What the hell was going on? Would the Director think he was
crazy?
He crossed Memorial Bridge and took the G.W. Parkway exit. A tie-up. He couldn’t move an inch. Probably an accident. A goddamn
accident right now.
That was all he needed. He pulled into the
centre lane- and leaned on his horn. Most people assumed he was connected with
the police rescue team: most people let him by. Eventually he made it to the
group of police cars and rescue-squad ambulances. A young Metropolitan
policeman approached the car. ‘Are you on this detail?’
“No. FBI. I’ve got to get to Arlington . Emergency.’
He flashed his credentials. The policeman
ushered him through. He raced away from the accident. Goddamn accident. Once he
was clear of it, the traffic became light. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at 2942 Edgewood Street , Arlington . One last check with
Polly at the Washington Field Office on the car phone. No, neither Stames nor Calvert had called in.
Mark jumped out of the car. Before he had take a step, a Secret Service man
although he was still trembling. The reply came back from a man whose biggest
worry that night had been that the potatoes had taken longer than expected.
‘Will you hold the line one moment please,
sir?’
He waited, he waited, he waited.
A new voice said: ‘Tyson here.’
Mark drew a deep breath and plunged in.
‘My name is Special Agent Mark Andrews. I
have an appointment to see you with SAC Stames and
Special Agent Calvert at 10:30 tomorrow morning. You don’t know the details,
sir, because it was made through Mrs McGregor after you had left your office. I
have to see you immediately, you may wish to call me back. I’m at home.’
‘Yes, Andrews,’ said Tyson. ‘I’ll call you
back. What is your number?’
Mark gave it.
‘Young man,’ Tyson said, ‘this had better
be a priority.’
‘It is, sir.’
Mark waited again. One minute passed, and
then another. Had Tyson dismissed him as a fool? What was going on? Three
minutes passed. Four minutes passed; he was obviously checking more thoroughly
than his duty officer had done.
The phone rang. Mark jumped.
‘Hi, Mark, it’s Roger. Want to come out for
a beer?’
‘Not now, Roger, not now.’ He slammed the
phone down.
It rang again immediately.
‘Right, Andrews, what do you have to tell
me? Make it quick and to the point.’
‘I want to see you now, sir. I need fifteen
minutes of your time and I need you to tell me what the hell to do.’
He regretted ‘hell’ the moment he had said
it.
‘Very well, if it’s that urgent. Do you
know where the Attorney General lives?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Take this down: 2942 Edgewood Street Arlington .’
Mark put the phone down, wrote the address
carefully in block capitals on the inside of a matchbook advertising life
insurance, and called Aspirin, who just couldn’t get 7-across.
‘If anything happens, I’ll be on my car
radio; you can get me there, I’ll leave the line on Channel Two open the whole
time. Something’s wrong with Channel One.’
Aspirin sniffed: the young agents took
themselves far too seriously nowa -days. It wouldn’t
have happened under J. Edgar Hoover, shouldn’t be allowed to happen now. Still,
he only had one more year and then retirement. He returned to the crossword.
Seven-across, ten letters: gathering of those in favour of buccaneering.
Aspirin started to think.
Mark Andrews was thinking too as he rushed
into the elevator, into the street, into his car, and moved off at speed to Arlington . He raced up East Basin Drive to Independence Avenue ,
past the Lincoln Memorial to get on to Memorial Bridge .
He drove as fast possible through the early night, cursing the people ’ calmly strolling across the road on
this mild, pleasant evening, casually on their way to nowhere in particular,
cursing the people who took no notice of the flushing red light he had affixed
to the car roof, cursing all the way. Where was Stames ?
Where was Barry? What the hell was going on? Would the Director think he was
crazy?
He crossed Memorial Bridge and took the G.W. Parkway exit. A tie-up. He couldn’t move an inch. Probably an accident. A goddamn
accident right now.
That was all he needed. He pulled into the
centre lane- and leaned on his horn. Most people assumed he was connected with
the police rescue team: most people let him by. Eventually he made it to the
group of police cars and rescue-squad ambulances. A young Metropolitan
policeman approached the car. ‘Are you on this detail?’
“No. FBI. I’ve got to get to Arlington . Emergency.’
He flashed his credentials. The policeman
ushered him through. He raced away from the accident. Goddamn accident. Once he
was clear of it, the traffic became light. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at 2942 Edgewood Street , Arlington . One last check with
Polly at the Washington Field Office on the car phone. No, neither Stames nor Calvert had called in.
Mark jumped out of the car. Before he had take a step, a Secret Service man
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