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He put the telephone down, suddenly conscious that once again he was smiling from ear to ear. He glanced at his watch: 4:30. Good. Three more hours in the Library, then he could go in pursuit of her. He returned to his reference books and continued to make biographical notes on the sixty-two senators.
His mind drifted for a moment to the President. This wasn’t just any President. This was the first woman President. But what could he learn from the last presidential assassination of John F. Kennedy. Were there any senators involved with those deaths? Or was this another lunatic working on his own? All the evidence on this inquiry so far pointed to teamwork. Lee Harvey Oswald, long since dead, and still there was no convincing explanation of his assassination or, for that matter, of Robert Kennedy’s.
Some people still claimed the CIA was behind President Kennedy’s death because he had threatened to hang them out to dry in 1961, after the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Others said Castro had arranged the murder in revenge; it was known that Oswald had an interview with the Cuban ambassador in Mexico two weeks before the assassination, and the CIA had known about that all along. Thirty years after the event, and still no one could be certain.
A smart guy from L.A., Jay Sandberg, who had roomed with Mark at law school, had maintained that the conspiracy reached the top, even the top of the FBI: they knew the truth but said nothing.
Maybe Tyson and Rogers were two of those who knew the truth and had sent him out on useless errands to keep him occupied: he hadn’t been able to tell anyone the details of yesterday’s events, not even Grant Nanna.
If there were a conspiracy, whom could he turn to? Only one person might listen and that was the President, and there was no way of getting to her. He’d have to call Jay Sandberg, who had made a study of presidential assassinations. If anyone would have a theory, it would be Sandberg. Mark retraced his steps to the pay phone, checked Sandberg’s home number in New York, and dialed the ten digits. A woman’s voice answered the telephone.
“Hello,” she said coolly. Mark could visualize the cloud of cocaine smoke that went with the voice.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Jay Sandberg.”
“Oh.” More cocaine smoke. “He’s still at work.”
“Can you tell me his number?” asked Mark.
After more smoke, she gave it to him, and the phone clicked.
Sheeesh, Mark said to himself, Upper East Side women.
A very different voice, warm Irish-American, answered the phone next.
“Sullivan and Cromwell.”
Mark recognized the prestigious New York law firm. Other people were getting ahead in the world.
“Can I speak to Jay Sandberg?”
“I’ll connect you, sir.”
“Sandberg.”
“Hi, Jay, it’s Mark Andrews. Glad I caught you. I’m calling from Washington.”
“Hello, Mark, nice to hear from you. How’s life for a G-man? Rat-a-tat-tat and all that.”
“It can be,” said Mark, “sometimes. Jay, I need some advice on where to find the facts on political assassination attempts, particularly the one in Massachusetts in 1979; do you remember it?”
“Sure do. Three people arrested; let me think.” Sandberg paused. “All released as harmless. One died in an auto accident in 1980, another was knifed in a brawl in San Francisco, later died in 1981, and the third disappeared mysteriously last year. I tell you it was another conspiracy.”
“Who this time?”
“Mafia wanted Edward Kennedy out of the way in ’76 so they could avoid an inquiry he was pressing for into the death of those two hoodlums, Sam Giancana and John Rosselli; they don’t love President Kane now with the way she is running the Gun Control bill.”
“Mafia? Gun Control bill? Where do I start looking for the facts?” asked Mark.
“I can tell you it’s not in the Warren Commission Report or any of the later inquiries. Your best bet is The Yankee and Cowboy Wars by Carl Oglesby—you’ll find it all there.”
Mark made a note.
“Thanks for your help, Jay. I’ll get back to you if it doesn’t cover everything. How are things in New York?”
“Oh, fine, just fine. I’m one of about a million lawyers interpreting the constitution at an exorbitant fee. Let’s get together soon, Mark.”
“Sure, next time I’m in New York.”
Mark went back to the Library thoughtfully. It could be CIA, it could be Mafia, it could be a nut, it could be anyone—even Halt Tyson. He asked the girl for the Carl Oglesby book. A well-thumbed volume beginning to come apart was supplied. Sheed Andrews & McMeel, Inc., 6700 Squibb Road, Mission, Kansas. It was going to make good reading, but for now it was back to the senators’ life histories. Mark spent two more hours trying to eliminate senators or find motives for any of them wanting President Kane out of the way: he wasn’t getting very far.
“You’ll have to leave now, sir,” said the young librarian, her arms full of books, looking as if she would like to go home. “I’m afraid we lock up at 7:30.”
“Can you give me two more minutes? I’m very nearly through.”
“I guess so,” she said, staggering away under a load of Senate Reports, 1971-73, which few but herself would ever handle.
Mark glanced over his notes. There were some very prominent names among the sixty-two “suspects,” men like Alan Cranston of California, often described as the “liberal whip” of the Senate; Ralph Brooks of Massachusetts, whom Florentyna Kane had defeated at the Democratic Convention. Majority Leader Robert C. Byrd of West Virginia. Henry Dexter of Connecticut. Elizabeth?
?s father, he shuddered at the thought. Sam Nunn, the respected senator for Georgia, Robert Harrison of South Carolina, an urbane, educated man with a reputation for parliamentary skill; Marvin Thornton, who occupied the seat vacated by Edward Kennedy in 1980; Mark O. Hatfield, the liberal and devout Republican from Oregon; Hayden Woodson of Arkansas, one of the new breed of Southern Republicans; William Cain of Nebraska, a staunch conservative who had run as an independent in the 1980 election; and Birch Bayh of Indiana, the man who had pulled Ted Kennedy from a plane wreck in 1967, and probably saved his life. Sixty-two men under suspicion, thought Mark. And six days to go. And the evidence must be iron-clad. There was little more he could do that day.
Every government building was closing. He just hoped the Director had covered as much and could bring the sixty-two names down to a sensible number quickly. Sixty-two names; six days.
He returned to his car in the public parking lot. Six dollars a day for the privilege of being on vacation. He paid the attendant, eased the car out on Pennsylvania Avenue, and headed down 9th Street back towards his apartment in N Street, SW, the worst of the rush-hour behind him. Simon was there, and Mark tossed him the car keys. “I’m going out again as soon as I’ve changed,” Mark called over his shoulder as he went up to his eighth-floor apartment.
He showered and shaved quickly and put on a more casual suit than the one he had worn for the Director. Now for the good part of the day.
When he came back down, the car was turned around so that Mark could, to quote Simon, make a quick getaway. He drove to Georgetown, turned right on 30th, and parked outside Elizabeth Dexter’s house. A small red-brick town house, very chic. Either she was doing well for herself or her father had bought it for her. Her father, he couldn’t help remembering …
She looked even more beautiful on the doorstep than she had in his imagination. That was good. She wore a long red dress with a high collar. It set off her dark hair and deep brown eyes.
“Are you going to come in, or are you just going to stand there looking like a delivery boy?”
