Murder in Foggy Bottom Page 12

  “That could take a while.”

  “I believe I can narrow it for you, perhaps as early as tonight, after dinner. Check in with me at the end of the day. Until then, nothing has changed at the embassy. It’s still a sieve. Our Russian nationals at the embassy profess loyalty to us, or at least wave off any thought that they might tell tales out of school. Don’t believe them. I don’t. Enjoying the pirozhki?”

  “I like the bread better,” Pauling said, taking a swig of beer from the bottle as he admired a stylishly dressed woman who sauntered past, her eyes playing with his.

  “You’re officially assigned to me and ECO/COM, as usual. Everything comes through me—as usual. You’re to have no contact with Langley, none with Barton at State. You’ll keep me informed of every move, Max, and I’ll pass along what information you develop to the appropriate people back home. And, Max, as a personal favor to me, try to control your impetuous impulses for as long as you’re here.”

  “Sometimes those impulses paid off.”

  “Yes, and sent me in search of antacid.”

  “Tom Hoctor told me the same thing.”

  “To curb your impulses?”

  “Yeah. I had a pleasant couple of days with him at Langley.”

  “So I understand. We’ve been in daily touch.”

  “Good. I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know, but it’s always nice to see Tom. I wish the Company would fix the air-conditioning, though. Sometimes you wonder about who’s running things. When they built the building, the air-conditioning contractor said he needed to know how many people would be working in it to come up with the right amount of AC. They wouldn’t tell him. National security. So he puts in a puny unit and everybody sweats. Brilliant.”

  Lerner smiled. He knew the story. He also knew that Pauling enjoyed telling it as an example of inept leadership to anyone who’d listen.

  “You’ll have my complete support, Max, money, resources, whatever you need to find out how those missiles left here and ended up in whoever’s hands. I suggest you stay in the hotel for a few weeks. The regular routine, seeking a suitable place for our new staff member to live. Hopefully, you won’t be here long enough to have to find more permanent quarters.”

  Pauling grinned. “Should I be offended that you want me out of here so fast?”

  “No. The seriousness of the mission dictates that.”

  “What if I can’t trace the missiles to who ultimately used them against the planes?” Pauling asked.

  “Then at least identify who here in Russia sold them. Hopefully, it will be a private party, organized crime, a morally bankrupt businessman—anyone but the Russian government.”

  “And if it was the Russian government?”

  “I prefer not to think about that. We should get back. Your old office is vacant, although I don’t suppose you’ll be spending much time there.”

  Pauling stood and returned the smile of another young woman wearing a miniskirt and a tank top that exposed her bare midriff. The prostitutes were dressing better these days, he thought. So much had changed in Moscow since the dissolution of the Soviet Union and this new Russia’s commitment, as painful as it was, to democracy, capitalism, crime, and prostitution. Western fashion had captured the women, cell phones and sport cars the men. The problem, he knew only too well, was that behind this flashy facade of economic prosperity in the city, there was a vastly wider country on the verge of economic collapse. And where the money flowed in the cities, you could count on organized crime to control the spigots. Pauling and Lerner retraced their steps to the embassy, but instead of accompanying Lerner inside, Pauling hesitated at the entrance gate manned by an armed, uniformed Marine.

  “Not coming?” Lerner asked.

  “No. I want to get my bearings again, Bill, maybe make a few contacts. What time is dinner?”

  “Eight. The Anchor in the Palace Hotel.”

  “I know it.”

  “I’ll be there at eight. Elena will join us a little later, a chance meeting.” A wan smile.

  Pauling understood.

  Lerner’s four-year affair with Elena Alekseyevna was conducted quietly and with pragmatic discretion. Sleeping with a Russian woman was not encouraged for embassy male employees, especially those in sensitive positions like Bill Lerner. In fact, more than one libidinous male had been sent packing for succumbing to a Russian woman’s wiles.

  Lerner’s superior in ECO/COM knew of the affair and, while not condoning it, chose to ignore it beyond cautioning Lerner on occasion to keep it low-key. Other supervisors might not have been quite so sanguine. But Lerner’s boss and his wife had been extremely close to Lerner and his wife, Jackie, and with him went through the agony of her long, painful battle with breast cancer, which eventually took her life.

  Lerner knew that he would one day have to face a decision about Elena, should his boss be transferred and a new one assigned. Until then, he reveled in the closeness he and Elena had forged, and viewed each day with her as a gift.

  Pauling watched his old friend disappear beyond the guard station, then slowly walked away. As tiring as the long trip from Washington had been, at that moment he felt no fatigue. The past year in Washington had been like retirement, the days predictable and tedious, the lack of action and challenge wearying.

  It was different in Moscow, and he welcomed the difference. Here, there was the element of tension, indeed of danger, puzzles to be solved, individuals to outfox, a need to be quick on your feet when someone you turned on decided to turn on you. He’d drunk vodka with Russian killers, and frolicked among the hookers and influence buyers with crooked Russian businessmen, whose approach to doing business, and to life, was not much different than that of Russia’s organized-crime managers.

  As he continued to walk, he thought of his most recent conversation with Doris about who he really was. He was glad he no longer felt the need to deny to his ex-wife that facing the challenges and dangers of his job was more satisfying than the challenges and, yes, dangers of a different sort, of being a husband and father. No more guilt, no more wondering whether something was wrong with him for not responding to family the way “normal” men were supposed to. Like Bill Lerner and his precarious need for Elena, Max Pauling needed something most “normal” men didn’t.

  So be it!

  He paused to peruse a display of cell phones in a store window. As he did, he saw a reflection in the window of two young men in suits, smoking, observing him from across the street. Or were they observing him? Like most people in his business, he’d developed an instinctive sense of when someone was paying him too much attention. Was he being followed so soon? Good to be back in business.

  He drew a deep breath, stepped away from the window, and picked up his pace. Might as well get some exercise, he thought—for himself and whoever might be tagging along.

  15

  A Few Days Later

  The State Department

  “. . . and so it is with the greatest of pleasure that I am able to stand here today, side by side with my able and honorable counterparts from the United States, to announce that after a long but pleasant round of negotiations, an agreement has been reached that is fair and equitable to both countries.”

  The Canadian minister of trade went on to explain the details of an accord reached on what had been a contentious issue between the United States and Canada— direct access to U.S. ports and markets by Canadian fishing vessels. His remarks completed, the negotiator for the United States stepped to the podium and said the requisite nice things about the Canadian negotiators. A small gathering of press in the second-floor briefing room took dutiful notes while former secretaries of state— William Rogers, Dean Rusk, Cordell Hull—kept unmoving eyes on them from their framed portraits on the wall. When the briefing was concluded and press kits handed out, reporters for whom State was a regular beat went to their cubicles in the press court to file their stories.

  Two hours later, fifty or so members of Canada’s emba
ssy staff, led by the Canadian ambassador, traveled from the chancery on Pennsylvania Avenue to the State Department to join fifty invited American guests at a reception to celebrate the success of the negotiations. Roseann Blackburn, who’d been booked just that afternoon by her agent to provide background music for the occasion—“Johnny Johnson was booked but the jerk hurt his wrist in a tennis game this afternoon”—made sure she rehearsed “Canadian Sunset” before leaving the apartment, and had run through “New York, New York” after being told it was the Canadian ambassador’s favorite song.

  “What, nobody ever write ‘Toronto, Toronto’ or ‘Montreal, Montreal’?” Potamos had said before she left for the job.

  They’d argued that afternoon. Potamos, knowing he’d been less than a pleasant companion the past week, had planned to make it up to her that evening, starting with cocktails and the spectacular views of the White House and the Mall from the Sky Terrace on the roof of the Hotel Washington, then dinner at the romantic Coeur de Lion, and capping off the evening at Blues Alley, where jazz pianist Pete Malinverni, one of Roseann’s favorites, was appearing with a trio.

  “We don’t have to make it such a big evening,” she’d said in response to his disappointment that she’d taken the last-minute job. “I’ll be home by eight, eight-thirty. We can grab a quick bite someplace and still catch a set at the club.”

  “Sure,” he’d said, turning on the computer and logging on to AOL to check his e-mail.

  She came around behind him and kissed his head. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  He turned, looked up at her, and smiled. “Just go on and play your gig. You’re right, we’ll skip the big dinner and catch Malinverni at Blues Alley when you get back. Besides, I’ve got all this e-mail to answer.” He raised his lips to hers. “You’re delicious,” he said when they disengaged.

  “You taste pretty good yourself,” Roseann said happily. “Got to scoot. Thanks for understanding.”

  Roseann knew he’d meant well, wanting to treat her to a special evening out. Earlier, she questioned whether she should have taken the job, considering the plans Joe had made for them that evening. Bill Walters, her agent at Elite Music, had been persuasive: “I really need you for this one, Roseann,” he’d said. “I’m in a bind. They’re in a bind. Besides, there’s some nice opportunities brewing for you. We’ll get together next week and discuss them.”

  So she said yes, acting out of her freelance musician’s sense of survival: You didn’t turn down a paying job because you never knew when the next one would come along.

  Now, as the taxi went toward Foggy Bottom, she was pleased, and relieved, at Joe’s easy reaction. She always played better when things were good between them.

  “You play beautifully.”

  Roseann had just finished “Night and Day” and was about to begin another when the middle-aged man, who’d been standing behind her, complimented her.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling.

  “Nobody wrote better music than Cole Porter.”

  “One of my favorites,” she said. “I love playing him. Any particular tune of his you’d like to hear?”

  “ ‘Easy to Love’?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Glad to . . . ? Oh. I was referring to the song, not to . . .”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  As she started to play, he came around and leaned on the grand’s closed lid, watching her intently, listening closely to the music and never taking his eyes from her. She always played with more passion when she knew someone was really listening; others at the reception, as expected, paid no attention to her. When she ended on a dissonant minor chord, he quietly applauded.

  “Thank you,” she said. This was a handsome man by any definition—square jaw, lively blue eyes, wide, comforting smile. A gentle man, Roseann thought, easygoing, pleasant to be with, probably a good listener. Unlike . . .

  “How late are you playing?” he asked.

  She glanced at her watch: “Another hour.”

  “Free for dinner when you’re through?”

  “I, ah—no, I’m sorry, I’m not.”

  It wasn’t an easy answer for her to give.

  “Sorry you’re not. I’m Craig Thomas.” He handed her a business card: CRAIG THOMAS, PUBLIC INFORMATION OFFICER, THE CANADIAN EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, DC.

  “I’m Roseann Blackburn,” she said.

  “I know,” he said.

  She laughed. No one at such gatherings ever knew the name of the pianist providing background music, or cared.

  “I read about you in the Washingtonian.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that.”

  “Very flattering piece. Or maybe just accurate.”

  “Yes . . . I mean . . .”

  “You won’t be offended if I say you’re even more attractive than your picture?”

  “No, I’m not offended. Thank you.”

  She realized she’d better start another song and had played the first soft notes of “Memories of You” when he asked, “Having dinner with your reporter friend?”

  She kept playing and cocked her head. “You really read the piece, didn’t you?”

  His laugh was easy. “I like keeping up with what’s going on in the city.” He plucked one of her business cards from a glass on the piano, put it in the pocket of his gray suit jacket, and said, “Your playing is the highlight of my evening, Ms. Blackburn. In fact, my week. These events can be deadly dull. Enjoy your dinner, and thanks for playing my request.”

  She watched him join a group of people a few yards away, and was tempted to catch his eye again and accept his invitation. It had been a stressful week with Joe; a pleasant evening in a restaurant with this Craig Thomas was appealing. It wouldn’t be cheating to simply go to dinner, nothing more than that. But she didn’t follow through. Joe expected her home right after the job, and she was looking forward to enjoying the music with him at Blues Alley.

  She flipped through a small notebook in which hundreds of song titles were arranged by composer and chose “I’m Always True to You in My Fashion.” Cole Porter said it all.

  16

  The Next Day

  The State Department

  Diplomatic Security Special Agent Bruce Wray sat behind the wheel of the long, blue diplomatic sedan in front of “Main State,” as the State Department building is called by those who serve it. A second vehicle, identical to the first, was parked directly behind. The radio in Special Agent Wray’s car was tuned to an all-news station, the volume low.

  Inside the building, Elizabeth Rock conferred with staff in her warm, wood-paneled inner office, light from lamps giving life to the burnished boiserie. Multiple photos of her daughter and two grandchildren, the Secretary of State with numerous heads of state, plus memorabilia testifying to her lifelong love of baseball provided an eclectic background for the meeting.

  “These are the latest briefing papers, Madam Secretary,” her confidential clerk said, handing her a file folder, which she placed on a growing pile.

  Rock turned to Eva Young, her chief of staff. “The president is still in the meeting?”

  “Yes, ma’am, with Director Templeton and Mr. Hoctor. Mr. Cammanati says it’s due to break any minute.”

  Rock looked up at a stunning antique clock on the wall, a gift from her daughter. “You’d better call flight ops and tell them we’re running late,” she instructed her COS.

  Her executive assistant entered the room to inform Rock that the assistant to the Russian ambassador to the United States, Nikolai Sorokin, was on a secured line.

  “Excuse me,” the Secretary said, standing to go to a small room off her office to take the call. “Fourth call today from the charming, insufferable Counselor Sorokin,” she said over her shoulder.

  In her absence, those at the meeting relaxed and exchanged small talk until Rock reappeared. She hadn’t even resumed her seat when her chief of staff opened the door: “The preside
nt, Madam Secretary.”

  Rock took this call at her desk.

  “Yes, Mr. President . . . No, I’m running late, should be leaving here in ten minutes . . . What? . . . Oh, yes, sir, the meetings in Moscow are set.” She laughed at something the president said. “I wouldn’t miss them, Mr. President. Thank you.”

  She hung up and said, “He wants me to be sure and get back in time for the play-offs.”

  Her assistant secretary for public affairs, Phil Wick, silently thought that considering the severity of what was happening, and the gravity of the Secretary’s sudden trip to Moscow, the president should be thinking of things other than baseball. Wick hated baseball, something he kept to himself.

  “Ready?” her chief of staff asked.

  “Yes, unless you have something else for me, Eva.”

  Nothing was offered.

  “Let’s go then.”

  Special Agent Wray had been notified on his cell phone that his passenger was on her way. He stood erect at the open car door and watched her exit the building, trailed by members of her staff and two uniformed security guards.

  “Good afternoon, Madam Secretary,” Wray said sharply.

  “Good afternoon, Bruce. Any score?”

  “Two-nothing,” he said. “Yankees. Top of the third.”

  “Is Ripken playing?”

  “No, ma’am. Erickson’s pitching.”

  “Plenty of innings left,” Rock said, climbing into the backseat, where she was joined by Phil Wick and Eva Young. Wray closed the door, got in behind the wheel, and slowly pulled away, followed by the second car, containing two armed diplomatic-security special agents. They made their way to the Capital Beltway and took it until reaching Prince Georges County, Maryland. Soon, the monstrous water tower at Andrews Air Force Base came into view. After being checked through security at the main gate, and joined by a military-police vehicle, they proceeded to where the Secretary’s designated aircraft awaited her arrival, a converted pre-jumbo-jet 707 especially reconfigured to provide comfort, communications, and efficient working areas. The seal of the United States was boldly displayed on its tail.