Shall We Tell the President? (28 page)

Thursday morning, 10 March

5:00 am The Director woke suddenly. He lay there,
frustrated; there was nothing he could do at this hour except look at the
ceiling and think, and that didn’t help much. He went over and over in his mind
the events of the past six days, always leaving until last the thought of
cancelling the whole operation, which would probably mean even now that the
Senator and his cohorts would get away scot-free. Perhaps they already knew and
had disappeared to lick their wounds and prepare for another day. Either way it
would remain his problem.

The Senator woke at 5:35 in a cold sweat -
not that he had really slept for more than a few minutes at any one time. It
had been an evil night, thunder and lightning and sirens. It was the sirens
that had made him sweat. He was even more nervous than he had expected to be;
in fact just after he heard three chime he had nearly dialled the Chairman to
say that he couldn’t go through with it, despite the consequences that the
Chairman had so delicately, but so frequently, adumbrated. But the vision of
President Kane dead beside him reminded the Senator that everybody even now
could remember
exacdy
where they were when John F.
Kennedy was assassinated, and he himself was never going to be able to forget
where he was when
Florentyna
Kane died. Even that
seemed less appalling than the thought of his own name in the headlines, his
public image irreparably damaged, and his career ruined. Even so, he nearly
called the Chairman, as much for reassurance as anything, despite their
agreement that they had contacted each other for the last time until late the
following morning, when the Chairman would be in Miami.

Five men had already died and that had
caused only a ripple: President Kane’s death would reverberate around the
world.

The Senator stared out of the window for
some time, focusing on nothing, then turned away. He kept looking at his watch,
wishing he could stop time. The second hand moved relentlessly - relentlessly
towards 10:56. He busied himself with breakfast and the morning paper. The
Post
informed him that many buildings had caught fire during the night in one of
the worst storms in Washington’s history, and the Lubber Run in
Virginia
had overflowed
its banks, causing heavy property damage. There was little mention of President
Kane. He wished he could read tomorrow’s papers today.

The first call the Director received was
from Elliott, who informed him that the recent activities of Senators Dexter
and Harrison revealed nothing new about the situation - not that the anonymous
man knew exactly what the situation was. The Director grumbled to himself,
finished his egg - sunny-side up - and read the
Posts
description of the
demonic weather that had assailed
Washington
during the night. He glanced out of the window at the day, now clear and dry. A
perfect day for an assassination, he thought. The bright day that brings forth
the adder. How late could he leave it before letting everyone know everything?
The President was scheduled to leave the White House at 10:00 am. The Director
would have to brief the head of the Secret Service, H. Stuart Knight, long
before then and, if necessary, the President at least one hour before that. To
hell with it, he would leave it to the last minute and make a full explanation
afterwards. He was willing to risk his career to catch this pernicious Senator
red-handed. But risking the President’s life...

He drove to the Bureau soon after 6:00. He
wanted to be there a full two hours before Andrews to study all the reports he
had ordered the evening before. Not many of his senior aides would have had
much sleep last night, though they were probably still wondering why. They
would know soon enough. His deputy Associate Director for Investigation, his
Assistant Director for Planning and Evaluation, and the head of the Criminal
Section of that division would help him decide if he should go ahead or cancel.
His Ford
sedan slid down the ramp to the underground parking lot and his
reserved parking place.

Elliott was there to meet him at the
elevator – he was always there, never late. He’s not human, he’ll have to go,
thought the Director, if I don’t have to go first. He suddenly realised that he
could be handing his resignation in to the President that night. Which
President? He put it out of his mind - that would all take care of itself in
its own time, he must now take care of the next five hours.

Elliott had nothing useful to say. Dexter
and Harrison had both received and made phone calls during the night and early
morning, but nothing incriminating had been picked up. No other information was
forthcoming. The Director asked where the two senators were at that moment.

‘Both eating breakfast at their homes.
Dexter in Kensington, Harrison in
Alexandria
.
Six agents have been watching them since five o’clock this morning and have
been detailed to follow them all day.’

‘Good. Report back to me immediately if
anything unusual happens.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The fingerprint man was next. When he
arrived, the Director first apologised for keeping him up all night, though the
man’s face and eyes looked more alight and alive than his own had been in the
shaving mirror that morning.

Five feet four, inches tall, slight and
rather pale, Daniel
Sommerton
began his report. He
was like a child with a toy. For him, working with prints had always been a
passion as well as a job. The Director remained seated while
Sommerton
stood. If the Director had stood, he would not
have been head and shoulders above
him
_f
but head, shoulders, and chest above him.

‘We have found seventeen different fingers,
and three different thumbs, Director,’ he said gleefully, ‘We’re putting them
through the
Ninhydrin
rather than the iodine-fume
process, since we were unable to do them one at a time for technical reasons
that won’t bother you with.’

He waved his arm imperiously to imply that
he would not waste a scientific explanation on the Director, who would have
been the first to acknowledge such a pointless exercise.

‘We think there are two more prints we
might identify,’
Sommerton
continued, ‘and we will
have a read-out for you on all twenty-two of them within two, at the most three
hours.’

The Director glanced at his watch - already
6:45.

‘Well done. That won’t be a minute too
soon. Get me the results — even if they are negative — as quickly as possible,
and please thank all of your staff for working through the night.’

The fingerprint expert left the Director,
anxious to return to his seventeen fingers, three thumbs and two unidentified
marks. The Director pressed a button and asked Mrs McGregor to send in the
Assistant Director for Planning and Evaluation.

Two minutes later, Walter Williams was
standing in front of him.

Five feet eleven, fair with a thin pallid
face, dominated by a magnificent high-domed forehead, lined with amusement not
grief, Williams was known in the Bureau either as the Brain or W.W. His primary
responsibility was to head the Bureau’s think tank of six lesser but still
impressive brains. The Director often confronted him with hypothetical
situations to which W.W. would later provide an answer which often proved, in
retrospect, to be the right one. The Director placed great faith in his
judgement, but he could not take any risks today. W.W. had better come up with
a convincing answer to his hypothetical question of last night or his next call
would be to the President.

‘Good morning, Director.’

‘Good morning, W.W. What is your decision
concerning my little problem?’

‘Most interesting, Director ... I feel, to
be fair, the answer is simple, even when we look at the problem from every
angle.’

For the first time that morning a trace of
a smile appeared on the Director’s face.

‘Assuming I haven’t misunderstood you,
Director.’

The Director’s smile broadened slightly;
W.W. neither missed nor misunderstood anything, and was so formal that he
didn’t address the Director even in private as Halt. W.W. continued, his
eyebrows moving up and down like the Dow-Jones index in an election year.

‘You asked me to assume that the President
would be leaving the White House at X hundred hours and then travelling by car
to the Capitol. That would take her six minutes. I’m assuming her car is
bullet-proof and well covered by the Secret Service. Under these conditions
would it be possible to assassinate her? The answer is, it’s possible but
almost impossible, Director. Nevertheless, following the hypothesis through to
its logical conclusion, the assassination team could use three methods: (a)
explosives; (b) a handgun at close range; (c) a rifle.’

W.W, always sounded like a textbook. ‘The
bomb can be thrown at any point on the route, but it is never used by
professionals, because professionals are paid for results, not attempts. If you
study bombs as a method of removing a President, you will find there hasn’t
been a successful one yet, despite the fact that we have had four Presidents
assassinated in office. Bombs inevitably end up killing innocent people and
quite often the perpetrator of the crime as well. For that reason, since you
have implied that the people involved would be professionals, I feel they must
rely on the handgun or the rifle. Now the short-range gun, Director, is not a
possible weapon on the route itself because it is unlikely that a pro would
approach the President and shoot him at close range, thereby risking his own
life. It would take an elephant gun or an anti-tank gun to pierce the
President’s limousine, and you can’t carry those around in the middle of
Washington
without a
permit.’

With W.W., the Director could never be sure
if it were meant to be a joke or just another fact. The eyebrows were still
moving up and down, a sure signal not to interrupt him with foolish questions.

‘When the President arrives at the steps of
the Capitol, the crowd is too far away from her for a handgun to (a) be
accurate and (b) give the assassin any hope of escape. So we must assume that
it’s the best-tested and most successful method of assassination of a Head of
State - the rifle with telescopic sights for long range. Therefore, the only
hope the assassin would have must be at the Capitol itself. The assassin can’t
see into the White House, and in any case the glass in the windows is four
inches thick, so he must wait until the President actually leaves the limousine
at the steps of the Capitol. This morning we timed a walk up the Capitol steps
and it takes around fifty seconds. There are very few vantage points from which
to make an assassination attempt, but we have studied the area carefully and
you will find them all listed in my report. Also the conspirators must be
convinced that we know nothing about the plot, because they know we can cover
every possible shooting site. We think an assassination here in the heart of
Washington
unlikely, but
nevertheless just possible by a man or team daring and skilful enough.’

‘Thank you, W.W. I’m sure you’re right.’

‘A pleasure, sir. I do hope it’s only
hypothetical.’

‘Yes, W.W.’

W.W. smiled like the only schoolboy in the
class who can answer the teacher’s questions. The Brain left the room to return
to other problems. The Director paused and called for his other Assistant
Director.

Matthew Rogers knocked and entered the
room, waiting to be asked to take a seat. He understood authority. Like W.W. he
would never become the Director, but no one who did would want to be without
him.

‘Well, Matt?’ said the Director, pointing
to the leather chair.

‘I read Andrews’ latest report last night,
Director, and I really think the time has come for us to brief the Secret
Service.’

‘I will be doing so in about an hour,’ said
the Director. ‘Don’t worry. Have you decided how you’ll deploy your men?’

‘It depends where the maximum risk is,
sir.’

‘All right, Matt, let’s assume that the
point of maximum risk is the Capitol itself, at 10:06, right on the steps -
what then?’

‘First, I would surround the area for about
a quarter of a mile in every direction. I’d close down the Metro, stop all traffic,
public and private, pull aside for interrogation anyone who has a past record
of making threats, anyone who’s on the Security Index. I’d get assistance from
the Met to provide perimeter security. We’d want as many eyes and ears in the
area as possible. We could get two to four helicopters from Andrews Air Force
Base for close scanning. In the immediate vicinity of the President, I’d use
the full Secret Service Presidential detail in tight security.’

‘Very good, Matt. How many men do you need
for such an operation, and how long would it take them to be ready if I
declared an emergency procedure now?’

The Assistant Director looked at his watch
– just after 7:00. He considered the matter for a moment. ‘I need three hundred
special agents briefed and fully operational in two hours.’