Free Shall We Tell the President? by Jeffrey Archer Page A

watch as he did so; it was nearly one o’clock. After one ring he
heard a tired voice say, ‘Yes.’
    Mark said, ‘Julius.’
    The voice said, ‘What is your number?’
    He gave it. Thirty seconds later, the
telephone rang.
    ‘Well, Andrews. It’s one o’clock in the
morning.’
    ‘I know, sir, it’s Stames and Calvert, they’re dead.’
    There was a moment’s hesitation, the voice was
awake now.
    ‘Are you certain?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Mark gave the details of the car crash,
trying to keep the weariness and emotion out of his voice.
    ‘Call your office immediately, Andrews,’
Tyson said, ‘without releasing any of the details that you gave me this
evening. Only tell them about the car crash - nothing more. Then get any
further information about it you can from the police. See me in my office at
7:30, not 8:30; come through the wide entrance on the far side of the building;
there will be a man waiting there for you. He’ll be expecting you; don’t be
late. Go home now and try to get some sleep and keep yourself out of sight
until tomorrow. Don’t worry, Andrews. Two of us know, and I’ll put agents on
the routine checks that I gave you to do earlier.’
    The phone clicked. Mark called Aspirin,
what a night for him to have to be on duty, told him about Stames and Calvert, hanging up abruptly before Aspirin could ask any questions. He
returned to his car and drove home slowly through the night. There was hardly
another car on the streets and the early morning mist gave everything an
unearthly look.
    At the entrance to his apartment garage he
saw Simon, the young black attendant, who liked Mark and, even more, Mark’s
Mercedes. Mark had blown a small legacy from his aunt on the car just after
graduating from college, but never regretted his extravagance. Simon knew Mark
had no assigned spot in the garage and always offered to park his car for him -
anything for a chance to drive the magnificent silver Mercedes SLC 580. Mark
usually exchanged a few bantering words with Simon; tonight he passes him the
keys without even looking at him.
    ‘I’ll need it at seven in the morning,’ he
said, already walking away.
    ‘Okay, man,’ came back the reply.
    Mark heard Simon restart the car with a
soft whoosh before the elevator door closed behind him. He arrived at his
apartment; three rooms, all empty. He locked the door, and then bolted it,
something he had never done before. He walked around the room slowly,
undressed, throwing his sour-smelling shirt into the laundry hamper. He washed
for the third time that night and then went to bed, to stare up at the white
ceiling. He tried to make some sense out of the night’s events; he tried to
sleep. Six hours passed, and if he slept it was never for more than a few
minutes.
     
    Someone else who didn’t sleep that night
for more than a few minutes was tossing and turning in her bed at the White
House.
    Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, Martin
Luther King, John Lennon and Robert Kennedy. How many citizens distinguished
and unknown needed to sacrifice their lives before the House would pass a bill
to outlaw such self-destruction?
    ‘Who else must die?’ she remarked. ‘If I
myself there is no hour so fit as. . .’
    She turned over and looked at Edward whose
expression left no doubt that such morbid thoughts were not on his mind.

Friday morning, 4 March
    6:27 am Eventually Mark could stand it no
longer and at 6:30 am he rose-, showered, and put on a clean shirt and a fresh
suit. From his apartment window, he looked out across the Washington Channel to East Potomac Park and went over in his mind all that had happened yesterday. In a few weeks the
cherry trees would bloom. In a few weeks…
    He closed the apartment door behind him,
glad simply to be on the move again. Simon gave him the car keys; he had
managed to find a space for the Mercedes in one of the private parking lots.
Mark drove the car slowly up 6th
Street , turns left on G and right on 7th. No
traffic at