Free Shall We Tell the President? by Jeffrey Archer

number. Make sure you use a pay phone and I’ll call you back immediately. Don’t bother me before 7:15 in the morning, unless it’s really important. Have you understood all that?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œRight. I think I’ll get back to dinner.”
    Mark stood up, ready to leave. The Director put a hand on his shoulder.
    â€œDon’t worry, young man. These things happen from time to time and you made the right decision. You showed a lot of self-possession in a lousy situation. Now get on with the job.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Mark was relieved that someone else knew what he was going through; someone else with far bigger shoulders was there to share it.
    On his way back to the FBI office, he picked up the car microphone. “WFO 180 in service. Any word from Mr. Stames?”

    â€œNothing yet, WFO 180, but I’ll keep trying.”
    Aspirin was still there when he arrived, unaware that Mark had just been talking with the Director of the FBI. Aspirin had met all four directors at cocktail parties, though none of them would have remembered his name.
    â€œEmergency over, son?”
    â€œYes,” Mark said, lying. “Have we heard from Stames or Calvert?” He tried not to sound anxious.
    â€œNo, must have dropped in somewhere on the way home. Never you worry. The little sheep will find their way back without you to hold their tails.”
    Mark did worry. He went to his office and picked up the phone. Polly had still heard nothing. Just a buzz that continued on Channel One. He called Norma Stames, still no news. Mrs. Stames asked if there might be anything to worry about.
    â€œNothing at all.” Another lie. Was he sounding too unconcerned? “We just can’t find out which bar he’s ended up in.”
    She laughed, but she knew Nick never frequented bars.
    Mark tried Calvert; still no reply from the bachelor apartment. He knew in his bones something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. At least the Director was there, and the Director knew everything now. He glanced at his watch: 11:15. Where had the night gone? And where was it going? 11:15. What was he supposed to have done tonight? Hell. He had persuaded a beautiful girl to have dinner with him. Yet again, he picked up the
telephone. At least she would be safely at home, where she ought to be.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œHello, Elizabeth, it’s Mark Andrews. I’m really sorry about not making it tonight. Something happened that got way out of my control.”
    The tension in his voice was apparent.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she said lightly. “You warned me you were unreliable.”
    â€œI hope you’ll let me take a raincheck. Hopefully, in the morning, I can sort things out. I’ll probably see you then.”
    â€œIn the morning?” she said. “If you’re thinking of the hospital, I’m off duty tomorrow.”
    Mark hesitated, thinking quickly of what he could prudently say. “Well, that may be best. I am afraid it’s not good news. Casefikis and the other man in his room were brutally murdered tonight. The Met is following it up, but we have nothing to go on.”
    â€œMurdered? Both of them? Why? Who? Casefikis wasn’t killed without reason, was he?” The words came out in a torrent. “What’s going on, for heaven’s sake? No, don’t answer that. You wouldn’t tell me the truth in any case.”
    â€œI wouldn’t waste my time lying to you, Elizabeth. Look, I’ve had it for tonight, and I owe you a big steak for messing up your evening. Can I call you some time soon?”
    â€œI’d like that. Murder isn’t food for the appetite, though. I hope you catch the men responsible. We see
the results of a great deal of violence at Woodrow Wilson, but it isn’t usually inflicted within our walls.”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry it involves you. Good night, Elizabeth. Sleep