Shall We Tell The President (1977) by Jeffrey Archer

Author:Jeffrey Archer [Archer, Jeffrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Jeffrey Archer
ISBN: 9780002245203
Publisher: Harper Collins
Published: 1977-05-31T23:00:00+00:00

The Eastern Airlines shuttle flight arrived a few minutes after seven. Mark made his way through the crowd milling around the baggage pickup and headed for the taxi stand. A potbellied, middle-aged, unshaven New Yorker with an unlit cigar stub bobbing up and down in his mouth drove him towards Manhattan. He never stopped talking the whole way, a monologue that required few replies. Mark could have used the time to compose his thoughts.

‘This country’s full of shit,’ said the bobbing cigar.

‘Yes,’ said Mark.

‘And this city is nothing more than a garbage hole.’

‘Yes,’ said Mark.

‘And that daughter of a bitch Kane’s to blame. They ought to string her up.’

Mark froze. It was probably said a thousand times a day; someone in Washington was saying it and meaning it.

The cab driver pulled up to the curb.

‘Eighteen dollars even,’ said the bobbing cigar.

Mark put a ten and two fives into the little plastic drawer in the protective screen that divided driver from passenger, and climbed out. A heavy-set man in his mid-fifties and wearing a tweed overcoat headed towards him. Mark shivered. He had forgotten how cold New York could be in March.

‘Andrews?’

‘Yes. Good guess.’

‘When you spend your life studying criminals, you begin to think like them.’ He was taking in Mark’s suit. ‘G-men are certainly dressing better than they did in my day.’

Mark looked embarrassed. Stampouzis must know that an FBI agent was paid almost double the salary of a New York cop.

‘You like Italian food?’ He didn’t wait for Mark’s reply. ‘I’ll take you to one of Nick’s old favourites.’ He was already on the move. They walked the long block in silence, Mark’s step hesitating as he passed each restaurant entrance. Suddenly, Stampouzis disappeared into a doorway. Mark followed him through a run-down bar full of men who were leaning on the counter and drinking heavily. Men who had no wives to go home to, or if they did, didn’t want to.

Once through the bar, they entered a pleasant, brickwalled dining area. A tall, thin Italian guided them to a corner table: obviously Stampouzis was a favoured customer. Stampouzis didn’t bother with the menu.

‘I recommend the shrimp marinara. After that, you’re on your own.’

Mark took his advice and added a piccata al limone and half a carafe of Chianti. Stampouzis drank Colt 45. They talked of trivia while they ate. Mark knew the residual Mediterranean creed after two years with Nick Stames - never let business interfere with the enjoyment of good food. In any case, Stampouzis was still sizing him up, and Mark needed his confidence. When Stampouzis had finished an enormous portion of zabaglione and settled down to a double espresso with sambuca on the side, he looked up at Mark and spoke in a different tone.

‘You worked for a great man, a rare lawman. If one tenth of the FBI were as conscientious and intelligent as Nick Stames, you would have something to be pleased about in that brick coliseum of yours.’

Mark looked at him, about to speak.

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