He looked across the table at his wife and thought, I’m going to have to fight you, too.
“He told me what was happening.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.” She leaned across the table. “And I think what you’re going to do is wonderful.”
It took a moment for Oliver to understand. “But your father’s against it.”
“I know. And he’s wrong. If they’re willing to make peace—you have to help.”
Oliver sat there listening to Jan’s words, studying her. He thought about how well she had handled herself as the First Lady. She had become involved in important charities and had been an advocate for a half-dozen major causes. She was lovely and intelligent and caring and—it was as though Oliver were seeing her for the first time. Why have I been running around? Oliver thought. I have everything I need right here.
“Will it be a long meeting tonight?”
“No,” Oliver said slowly. “I’m going to cancel it. I’m staying home.”
That evening, Oliver made love to Jan for the first time in weeks, and it was wonderful. And in the morning, he thought, I’m going to have Peter get rid of the apartment.
The note was on his desk the next morning.
I want you to know that I am a real fan of yours, and I would not do anything to harm you. I was in the garage of the Monroe Arms on the 15th, and I was very surprised to see you there. The next day when I read about the murder of that young girl, I knew why you went back to wipe your fingerprints off the elevator buttons. I’m sure that all the newspapers would be interested in my story and would pay me a lot of money. But like I said, I’m a fan of yours. I certainly would not want to do anything to hurt you. I could use some financial help, and if you are interested, this will be just between us. I will get in touch with you in a few days while you think about it.
Sincerely,
A friend
“Jesus,” Sime Lombardo said softly. “This is incredible. How was it delivered?”
“It was mailed,” Peter Tager told him. “Addressed to the president, ‘Personal.’”
Sime Lombardo said, “It could be some nut who’s just trying to—”
“We can’t take a chance, Sime. I don’t believe for a minute that it’s true, but if even a whisper of this gets out, it would destroy the president We must protect him.”
“How do we do that?”
“First, we have to find out who sent this.”
Peter Tager was at the Federal Bureau of Investigation headquarters at 10th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, talking to Special Agent Clay Jacobs.
“You said it was urgent, Peter?”
“Yes.” Peter Tager opened a briefcase and took out a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk. Clay Jacobs picked it up and read it aloud:
“ ‘I want you to know that I’m a real fan of yours…I will get in touch with you in a few days while you think about it.’ ”
Everything in between had been whited out.
Jacobs looked up. “What is this?”
“It involves the highest security,” Peter Tager said. “The president asked me to try to find out who sent it. He would like you to check it for fingerprints.”
Clay Jacobs studied the paper again, frowning. “This is highly unusual, Peter.”
“Why?”
“It just smells wrong.”
“All the president wants is for you to give him the name of the individual who wrote it.”
“Assuming his fingerprints are on it.”
Peter Tager nodded. “Assuming his fingerprints are on it.”
“Wait here.” Jacobs rose and left the office.
Peter Tager sat there looking out the window, thinking about the letter and its possible terrible consequences.
Exactly seven minutes later, Clay Jacobs returned.
“You’re in luck,” he said.
Peter Tager’s heart began to race. “You found something?”
“Yes.” Jacobs handed Tager a slip of paper. “The man you’re looking for was involved in a traffic accident about a year ago. His name is Carl Gorman. He works as a clerk at the Monroe Arms.” He stood there a moment, studying Tager. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about this?”