Murder on Embassy Row Read online

  More praise for Margaret Truman and Murder on Embassy Row

  “Another delightful example of Margaret Truman’s keen observation of the town she used to call home.”

  —Playboy

  “Margaret Truman has settled firmly into a career of writing murder mysteries, all evoking brilliantly the Washington she knows so well…. She comes up with a totally new way of poisoning.”

  —The Houston Post

  “In this book, Miss Truman has definitely moved toward the international spy genre. She’s up to the minute. And she’s good.”

  —Associated Press

  “Truman’s strong suit is her thorough knowledge of the Washington scene and her understanding of the perquisites of power, which she describes with enviable panache…. A good writer… in her fifth mystery novel she demonstrates an understanding of the genre which demands not simply an absorbing puzzle, but also engrossing and exotic details.”

  —The Washington Weekly

  Murder on Embassy Row

  Margaret Truman

  Murder on Embassy Row

  Copyright © 1985, 2015 by Margaret Truman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Electronic edition published 2015 by RosettaBooks

  Cover design by Brehanna Ramirez

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795344992

  www.RosettaBooks.com

  Contents

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  Other Books by Margaret Truman

  To all those many friends and colleagues in the world of publishing who have helped produce it, this book is gratefully dedicated.

  1

  7 A.M. Sunday morning, April, 1981,

  The Iranian Foreign Ministry,

  Foroughi Avenue, Teheran, Iran

  Geoffrey James, British ambassador to Iran, drew deeply on a gold-banded Turkish cigarette and slowly released the smoke toward a lethargic ceiling fan. On the other side of a leather inlaid desk sat the Iranian foreign minister, Falik el-Qdar. He, too, lit one of the cigarettes and inhaled.

  “I shall miss these, Mr. Ambassador,” Qdar said.

  “No need to, Mr. Foreign Minister,” said James. “Among many instructions I’ve left for my successor is that Sullivan and Powell continue sending their best Turkish in the daily pouch. I’m certain you’ll be well supplied.”

  “I appreciate that.” Qdar leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. James took the opportunity to shift his long, slender frame in his chair and to adjust a sharp crease in his trousers. His charcoal gray pinstripe suit was one of a dozen identical suits tailored for him by Henry Poole of London. His shirts, all white, were of Sea Island cotton and he wore only ties sanctioned by the three exclusive London clubs to which he belonged. His membership certificates were on file at Harvie and Hudson, London’s famed tiemaker; such proof was demanded before any of the firm’s six thousand different club ties could be sold.

  Qdar opened his eyes, rubbed them, then looked across the desk at a man who’d become a friend of sorts, as possible as that could be considering Iran’s recent turmoil. Qdar had succeeded Ibrahim Yazdi on November 6, 1979, forty-eight hours after the take-over of the American Embassy. A close confidant of the Ayatollah Khomeini, Qdar had been at the center of months of negotiations leading to the release of the embassy employees, negotiations that were carried out for the most part in deep secrecy and that involved diplomats from numerous countries, including Geoffrey James. Although Qdar was a loyal and vocal spokesman for the new regime and a dedicated foe of the deposed Shah of Iran, he secretly envied diplomats from Western nations, particularly the tall, well-educated, handsome, and urbane James.

  “You have many pieces to put together,” James said.

  “Yes. There is the economy, reestablishing relations with those we’ve angered, and, of course, Iraq. We have lost much.”

  James nodded and touched his gray hair, which he combed up from a part low on his temple to cover a growing bald spot. He affirmed that the knot in his tie was where it should be, reached down and picked up a thin leather briefcase. “I must be going,” he said.

  Qdar held up his hand. “Before you do, you must allow me one final gesture of friendship.” He spun around in his chair, unlocked a cabinet, and withdrew a half-filled bottle of Glenmorangie single-malt Scotch whiskey. Since the Ayatollah’s rise to power, it was virtually impossible to find liquor in Iran unless, of course, you knew members of the diplomatic corps who received their sacrosanct diplomatic pouches from home. “See?” Qdar said as he poured a tiny amount into each of two glasses. “I have been prudent with your last gift.”

  James smiled, accepted his glass, and held it up in a toast.

  “Not quite yet,” said Qdar. He turned again, opened the door on a small refrigerator in the cabinet, removed two tiny silver cups, and placed them on the desk. James leaned closer and examined their contents. In each was a spoonful of golden Iranian sterlet khavyah.

  “Oh my,” said James, his face an open reflection of his appreciation of what was in front of him. Of all the world’s caviar, the tiny gold eggs from the sterlet variety of sturgeon was the most prized. It was seldom seen outside of Iran or Russia, so limited was its supply, and what was found invariably ended up on the tables of those nations’ royalty, just as it had for the czars years ago when it was rushed to their tables wrapped in sable.

  “To peace,” Qdar said, raising his glass.

  “Yes, quite,” said James. He sipped the Scotch, licked his lips, picked up a spoon Qdar had supplied, and tasted the caviar. “Superb,” he said, finishing the small amount of roe.

  “It’s always a pleasure providing something precious to one who has a true appreciation of it.” Qdar again raised his glass. “To my friend, Geoffrey James.”

  “And to my friend, Falik el-Qdar. It’s been an interesting experience this past year.”

  Qdar laughed. “British understatement at its finest. But I am glad you have found it so.”

  “I have.”

  James finished the Scotch, placed the empty glass on the desk, and stood. He was considerably taller than Qdar, something they’d joked about before. They shook hands. “I’m certain we’ll meet again,” James said as he walked with the easy lope of someone at home in high places. James had what his wife sometimes termed “a socialite slouch.” Erect posture was for soldiers and men unsure of themselves. James’s club friends also slouched and seemed to fit into their leather club chairs as though they’d been their cradles.

  Qdar opened a door leading to a long corridor. Two armed soldiers who sat in straight-back chairs across from each other twenty feet from the office stood as Qdar and James passed them and proceeded down a set of stairs that led to the basement.

  “My sincere best to Mrs. James,” the Iranian said as they reached a secret and secure garage where James’s limousine was waiting. Without Persian rugs and wall hangings to soften their voices, their words came back to them as harsh reflections off the hard gray concrete.

  “I shall tell her,” said James. “I sp
oke with her last evening. She says things are well in London—wet, of course, but acceptably so.”

  “I enjoyed your wet weather when I was in London. What will you do now?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “The ambassadorship to the United States? That rumor persists.”

  “It would please Mrs. James. As you know, her mother was American.

  “Yes, she has told me how much she would like to live there.”

  “I have considerable business interests to tend to in London.”

  “I know, but the foreign service has its advantages.”

  “Of which we’re both aware, Mr. Foreign Minister.”

  An armed guard unbolted a door with considerable vigor. Qdar and James stepped into the garage. Two armed soldiers snapped to attention. A handsome young Iranian in a black suit, who’d been leaning against James’s limo, opened a rear door and casually stepped back. He was six feet tall. Large soft, serene brown eyes were set in a finely etched face. His hair was thick and black and curly, like hundreds of tiny, shiny black ribbons bunched together. His name was Nuri Hafez. He’d been Geoffrey James’s personal valet and driver for the past year and James had arranged for him to immigrate to London.

  James and Qdar looked at each other for a moment, then extended their hands. “You fly directly home?” Qdar asked.

  “No. I have business in Copenhagen.”

  Qdar smiled. “Miss Lindstrom is well?” he asked, his smile not fading.

  James’s face indicated pique, then softened and he, too, smiled. “Quite.”

  “My best to her.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have been privileged to know you, Mr. Ambassador,” said Qdar. “You return home a hero. I have known few heroes in my life.”

  James glanced across the garage at Nuri Hafez. “‘No man is a hero to his valet,’” he said.

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Madame de Cornuel. Be well.”

  “Allah be with you.”

  James climbed into the rear of the limo and Hafez closed the door behind him. The guards opened the overhead door. Hafez started the engine and pulled into an alley behind the Foreign Ministry. James leaned forward, slid open a Fiberglas partition, and asked, “You have everything?”

  “Yes, in the trunk.”

  They drove to Mehrabad Airport, where they were met by representatives of the Ayatollah’s internal security staff, who took the limousine, scrutinized their baggage, and escorted them to a Pan Am flight to Paris. James settled into his first-class seat. Hafez flew coach.

  2

  10 P.M., Saturday, November 5, 1983,

  The British Embassy,

  3100 Massachusetts Avenue, N. W.,

  Washington, D.C.

  “Even Shakespeare wrote of caviar,” Geoffrey James told a small group gathered around a table in the ballroom of his residence at the British Embassy. On the table were silver trays of smoked Scottish salmon, pâté of pheasant, partridge, and grouse, a coulibiac of salmon with a delicate butter sauce, tiny filets of haddock in a white cream sauce, and two trays heaped with glistening black beluga caviar surrounded by bowls of chopped egg whites and yolks, onions, chives, capers, and pimiento slivers. A separate tray held piles of thin toast and lemon wedges.

  “What did The Bard say?” someone asked.

  “He said, ‘The play, I remember, pleased not the million; ’twas caviare to the general.’ Hamlet, Act Two.”

  “I’ve never understood such reverence for fish eggs,” the wife of the Canadian ambassador said, shaking her head and laughing.

  James looked at her over half-glasses. “Fish eggs? Rather, God’s gift to the educated palate.”

  “You must miss Iran, Mr. Ambassador,” said an American under-secretary of agriculture, “having all that Iranian caviar within arm’s reach.”

  “Yes, quite,” said James. “The Iranians certainly are on a par with the Russians when it comes to”—he paused and looked at the Canadian ambassador’s wife—“when it comes to fish eggs. Excuse me.”

  He moved gracefully through the hundreds of people attending the party to celebrate his first anniversary as British ambassador to the United States. He’d discouraged large gatherings during his first year, despite his wife’s penchant for them. Marsha James, who carried herself regally and who always demonstrated an appropriate amount of British reserve, also possessed, as Geoffrey often said, “that damnable American love of frivolity she got from her mother.”

  The difference between them was grist for jokes among the household staff. Meg, the Irish head of housekeeping, often said that Mrs. James acted up when “the old man is too much gravel in her craw.” Meg’s perception of the ambassador was shared by most of the staff: a somber, calculating, mirthless stuffed shirt who held himself aloof from everyone except those to whom he was expected to display charm and wit.

  James’s appointment as ambassador to the United States had come as no surprise. There had been a stream of stories in the American press about his behind-the-scenes role in negotiating the release of the American hostages in Iran. He sat on the boards of numerous London banks and companies that had extensive dealings with America. And there was his wife’s parentage. Her mother was Philadelphia Main Line and had devoted considerable time and money to charitable organizations. Finally, Ronald Reagan, America’s fortieth president, had eagerly accepted Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher’s suggestion that James be named Britain’s representative to the United States, saying to his secretary of state, “I think James will see things our way.”

  Marsha James stood at the east end of the ballroom beneath a Gainsborough portrait of Sir Francis Gregg. With her were President Reagan’s special adviser, Dr. Werner Gibronski, and Elgin Harris, the Canadian ambassador. Gibronski had been the only member of Jimmy Carter’s inner circle to have been retained by President Reagan, and his influence over foreign policy was even greater than it had been before. He was a small man, thin to the point of delicacy, with an arrowhead nose upon which sat wire spectacles. His eyes were dark and marbled, and his threadlike mouth seemed to lack lips. He spoke with a Slavic accent.

  “Enjoying yourself, dear?” Marsha asked her husband.

  “Yes, quite. It’s all very congenial.”

  “One year,” said the Canadian. “Do you feel American yet?”

  “I daresay not,” James replied, his sarcastic tone not lost on Gibronski, who wrinkled his aquiline nose and touched his temple.

  “The president is well?” James asked as his eyes darted over the crowd.

  “Very well, Mr. Ambassador. He sends his personal regards. Pardon me, please.” Gibronski drifted away and disappeared into a knot of guests.

  “Strange little man,” the Canadian ambassador said conspiratorially.

  “Fairly obvious, I would say,” said James. He touched his wife’s arm. “I’d like a word with you, Marsha. Excuse us, please.”

  They found a relatively unoccupied corner of the room. “What was he saying?” James asked.

  “Dr. Gibronski?”

  “Harris.”

  “Small talk.”

  “Hmmmmm.”

  “Only that.”

  There had been open tension between the British and Canadian ambassadors ever since the release of the American hostages in Teheran. James had emerged the media hero, but Canada’s role in preserving American lives was well documented.

  The controversy had heated up when one of the released hostages, Richard Washburn, told an American underground newspaper that Geoffrey James had profited from his close association with the Ayatollah. He attributed it to unnamed sources, and the accusation died a quick death, but the shadow lingered—“The jury will ignore what the witness has said.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about, Geoffrey?” Marsha James asked.

  “Morris and Sylvia. I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off on the plans for later.” Morris and Sylvia Palington were old friends from London who happened to be visiting Was
hington and had been invited to the party. Marsha had suggested the four of them go downtown after the party to catch a performance by British singer and actress Robyn Archer, who was touring the United States with her one-woman show, A Star Is Torn. James had reluctantly agreed to the plans.

  “Why?” Marsha James asked angrily.

  “I’m not feeling up to it.”

  “You’re sick?”

  “No, but it’s been a filthy week. We’ll get together another time.”

  “I’ve made reservations, Geoffrey. I was looking forward to it.”

  “Then go yourself.”

  “I resent this, Geoffrey. There are times when…”

  “We should see to our guests.” He walked away, unmoved by her cold stare following him across the large and tastefully furnished ballroom that had been the scene of countless receptions and ceremonial functions. A forty-foot-long Tabriz carpet dominated the center of the room. Three antique Austrian chandeliers cast a flattering light over the two hundred guests, some of whom sat on chairs upholstered in the same specially woven blue floral brocade that had been used in Westminster Abbey for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. Other chairs in rose and gold and side tables and chests in Louis XVI style from the late eighteenth century graced the room beneath carved plaster friezes of Grinling Gibbons motifs.

  Some guests, particularly smokers, had spilled out of the French doors to a patio and rose garden. It was a surprisingly mild night for November and a gentle, cool breeze through the doors added freshness to the air inside. A black pianist and bass player in tuxedoes played show tunes in a corner of the room.

  The embassy’s head of chancery, Nigel Barnsworth, intercepted James. “What is it?” James snapped.

  “You have a telephone call.”

  “Who is it?”

  Barnsworth whispered in his ear.

  “I’ll call back later.”

  Barnsworth watched his superior negotiate the crowd with detached ease, stopping to chat with Sir Edwin Ferguson, a Scottish member of British Parliament and a business associate of James’s back in Great Britain, then to a cluster of guests that included the Irish minister of commerce to the United States and a rotund, exiled Iranian journalist, Sami Abdu, who’d been a Shah loyalist and who’d escaped Iran only hours before his head was to go on the Ayatollah’s chopping block.