Murder on Embassy Row Page 18

  “I don’t know the financial arrangement.”

  “Except yours,” Morizio said. “Your friend, Nuri Hafez, told you this and you sold it to Paul Pringle.”

  Yes.

  “Some friend.”

  “I must live, just as you must live. This is an expensive city.”

  Morizio waited a few moments before responding. He knew he had the Iranian on the ropes. He was telling tales out of school, was admitting to selling out a friend and a countryman. He was also exhibiting basic instincts—survival, fear. The break-in had shaken him; he believed that his life was in jeopardy. Honor was one thing. Waking up in the morning, taking a deep breath, and discovering that the lungs worked was another.

  “Did Nuri Hafez kill Ambassador James?” Morizio asked.

  Abdu’s head snapped back. He looked at Morizio as though he’d uttered a blasphemy, had defiled an Arab woman, or feasted on pork at noon during Ramadan.

  “I didn’t say he did,” Morizio said, “but everybody else does. I’m asking.”

  “It does not matter,” Abdu said.

  “It did to Ambassador James,” Lake said.

  Abdu stood and pressed his hands to his corpulent belly, as if there was something inside struggling to come out. “When the ambassador died,” he said slowly and softly, “Nuri knew that he would be blamed. It did not matter if it was a heart attack, as it was first thought. The ambassador, Nuri’s protector, was dead. He came to me and asked for my help.”

  “You gave it to him,” Connie said.

  “Of course. He was my friend. I had a key to the Iranian Embassy. I took him there.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. I did not see him again after that.”

  Lake stepped close to Abdu. “Did he kill the ambassador?” she asked.

  “I told you it did not matter. Once he was dead, Nuri had lost all protection, as though his house had blown away, leaving him to the winds.”

  “Very poetic,” Morizio said.

  “We are a poetic people,” said Abdu.

  “And practical,” Lake said.

  “That, too,” said Abdu.

  “Sal, please,” said Lake. Morizio stifled a smile. She knew what was going on and was playing the game. She continued. “He didn’t do anything wrong, Sal. He’s a victim. He’s been broken into, robbed, violated.”

  He sneered and punched the back of a chair. “Sure, take it easy, she says. See what happens, Abdu, when you put a female in a cop’s uniform? You get sentiment instead of action. You know what that’s worth to you? Zero! Bubkes! That’s a Jewish word. How do you say it in Arabic? How do you say dead in your language?”

  “Please,” Abdu said.

  “What about Berge Nordkild?” Morizio asked. “You involved in that, running drugs from Iran?”

  “That is a lie.”

  “Everything with you’s a lie, Abdu.”

  He was close to breaking down. He extended his hands palm-up and said, “I have told you the truth. I do not know why Pringle paid me for what I knew about Hafez. I do not know anything about drugs and Berge Nordkild. I escaped Iran to save my life, and now it is in as much danger as if I had stayed there. This is America. You are American. Help me.”

  Morizio glanced at Connie, then asked, “Where’s Hafez?”

  “Dead,” said Abdu.

  “He’s not dead, Abdu, and you know it.”

  “Let’s go,” Morizio said to Lake.

  “What about me?” Abdu asked.

  “What about you?” Morizio parroted. “You haven’t leveled with us. You tell us bits and pieces, whatever you figure will keep us happy. Not enough, Abdu. The next time they come through the window they’ll be looking for you, not what you have.”

  “I have been honest with you,” Abdu said.

  “Depends on how you define it,” said Morizio. He knew that Connie was sympathetic to his predicament and would have preferred to drop it. He didn’t share her feelings. Their timing had been perfect. They had a live one on the string and Morizio wasn’t about to let him off the hook. Abdu was scared, and fear was a powerful asset when in the right hands. He decided to take advantage of it. He stepped close to Abdu and said in a harsh, threatening voice, “You’re pathetic, Abdu. You’re sitting here in the middle of your own mess wondering who’s going to do you in, the Ayatollah, the mailman, the woman you’re sleeping next to, your best friend. You’re dead, Abdu, a former journalist who made a few bucks selling out his friends and…”

  “I read it.”

  “Yeah, so did I. Answer me this. If he’s not dead, where would he be?”

  “Copenhagen.”

  “Why do you say that?” Lake asked.

  “That is where he went when he left Washington. The caviar comes through there. It is a free port.”

  “He’s there?” Morizio asked.

  “He’s dead,” Abdu said, “but you ask hypothetical questions.”

  “What about Inga Lindstrom?” Lake asked.

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Come on, Abdu, of course you do,” Morizio said scornfully.

  “I’ve never met her,” Abdu said in a sing-song voice. “I’ve heard of her. What does she matter?”

  “Maybe a lot,” Morizio said. “I want to know more about Hafez and this caviar scam.”

  Abdu threw up his hands. “What can I tell you?”

  “More than you know,” Morizio shouted. He turned to Lake and said, “Come on, let’s go.”

  “What about me?” Abdu asked.

  “What about you?” Morizio said.

  “You promised.”

  Morizio laughed. It was deliberately cruel but he didn’t care. That was the problem, you sometimes got carried away in the role of tough cop. “Close the windows,” he said.

  “Sal,” said Lake, “be reasonable. They might come back.”

  “Exactly,” Abdu said.

  “Take a vacation,” Morizio said.

  “Vacation? Where do I take a vacation?”

  “Your choice, just get out of Washington for awhile, someplace sunny with pretty girls in skimpy little bathing suits and tall jelly bean drinks. It’s that time of year.”

  Abdu stared at him.

  “Stay at my place,” Morizio said, “at least for the night.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious, but I have lots of questions. That’s the deal, a safe bed for answers.”

  “I understand a deal,” Abdu said. He smiled, exposing gold in two teeth. “You’re a good man, Captain.”

  “I’m a survivor like you, Abdu, that’s all. Close the windows and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  20

  “Well, what do you think?” Lake asked in the first-class cabin of a Pan Am 747, 38,000 feet over the Atlantic.

  Morizio stretched and yawned. “Yeah, it’s okay,” he said.

  He didn’t want to admit how much he was enjoying the opulence of first class, the footrest that turned the massive seat into a bed, the little slippers on his feet, linen and China and white-and-red carnations on his tray. He’d had Beefeater gin in a chilled snifter and canapés of pâté with grapes, eggs with anchovies and seafood. Now, the flight attendant served caviar and smoked salmon.

  “Does this caviar contain borax?” Morizio asked the young woman.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but I’ll find out.”

  “Nah, don’t bother,” he said. “Just curious.”

  She served them and moved on. Morizio tasted his caviar, turned to Lake and said, “you can have it.”

  “I’ll take it. It’s excellent.”

  “I’ll never develop a taste for it, not after everything that’s gone down.” He spooned his portion onto her plate. “Do you think it’s really possible that this whole thing, two murders, us being suspended is because of salty fish eggs?”

  She shrugged and put some of the caviar on a small wedge of toast. “Let’s hope we find out in the next few days, Sal.”


  After rare roast beef carved at their seats, and champagne, they fell asleep, ignoring the in-flight movie. They were awakened hours later by the sound of the captain’s voice over the intercom. London was getting close, and breakfast was being served.

  “How do you feel?” Lake asked.

  “Pretty good.” In truth, he felt even better than that. He was glad they were making the trip. It felt good to get away from the city that had been the scene of so much grief in past weeks, and it occurred to him, although he didn’t express it to her, that if things didn’t work out in London and Copenhagen, if they failed to shed any light on their dilemma, maybe they’d just stay in Europe, bum around, tell the world, especially MPD, to go to hell. Could he do it, he wondered, throw away a life that had been carefully charted and executed? He decided not to answer the question because it probably would have been a “No,” and he preferred “Yes.”

  Although the young Cockney taxi driver talked nonstop from the moment they entered his cab at Heathrow Airport, Morizio thoroughly enjoyed the ride to the May Fair Hotel on Stratton Street, in the heart of London’s fashionable Mayfair section. He couldn’t get over the taxi itself, spotlessly clean and wonderfully spacious, a far cry from the dirty, cramped vehicles of Washington and Boston.

  Their room was large and tastefully furnished and appointed. Morizio flipped on the color television and watched a documentary on Australian wildlife over the BBC as he and Lake emptied their suitcases. When everything was put away, they ordered up club sandwiches, two bottles of Ben Truman lager, and a pot of tea. Morizio stripped down to his shorts, put on his robe and opened a leather shoulder bag. In it was an array of electronic equipment. He inserted fresh batteries and cassettes in each of two identical recorders, advanced the tapes past the white leader, plugged in microphones the size of hearing aid batteries, and tested them. He substituted a black ring for one of the mikes, slipped it over the phone’s earpiece, and called the desk. “I’d like to leave a wake-up call for six,” he said. “Yes, sir,” the operator said. He hung up and played back their brief conversation. Perfect. He rewound the tape and pulled out a small address book. “I’m going to call Ethel Pringle, see if I can see her tonight.”

  The phone rang a dozen times at Ethel Pringle’s home. When she answered she sounded out of breath. Morizio checked to see that his tape was rolling and that the recording needle moved, then said, “Hello, Ethel, it’s Sal Morizio.”

  There was a long pause. “Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m…”

  “I won’t hold you up, Ethel. I’m here, in London, and want very much to see you.”

  “Oh, I really don’t think I can.”

  “Just for a brief chat, Ethel. I think… I think that under the circumstances it might be nice if you saw me. I need your help, just the way you and Paul needed mine a few years ago.” He hoped he’d be successful in pricking her conscience.

  “When?” she asked in a voice dripping with resignation.

  “Tonight? Tomorrow? Whatever is convenient for you.”

  Another pause, even longer this time. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said, “in the morning, at Harriet’s shop.”

  “Sure, that’d be fine. I’d like to see her, too. What time, and where?”

  “Ten. It’s the Little Soldier Shop, on Curzon, near Park Lane.”

  “I’ll be there. Will you have had breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, thanks, Ethel. I’m looking forward to it.”

  He played the tape back for Lake, who was in a lacy, short pink nightgown and who wore her blue Pan Am slippers from the flight. When the recorded conversation was finished, Lake said, “Harriet, the daughter. What happened there, Sal? I asked you once and you said it was too private. The rules have changed, haven’t they?”

  “I guess they have,” he said. He joined her on the bed. “I promised Paul I’d never talk about what happened, and I wanted to keep my word.”

  “I understand, but now there’s a…”

  “I know, I know. It wasn’t anything terrible, but it was to Paul. His daughter, Harriet, got pregnant. Hell, she was only sixteen or seventeen when it happened. Paul was beside himself. Ethel tried to convince her to have an abortion but she refused. She wanted the kid, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. He asked me for help and I arranged for her to have the child in a home for unwed mothers outside of Boston. I knew the people who ran it pretty well, knew they’d keep it confidential. She had a baby boy and never came back to Washington. Ethel took her directly from the home to London. As far as I knew she was living with friends or some distant relatives. I asked Paul about it once but he wouldn’t discuss it. He told me she was doing fine, had opened some sort of shop in London, and was very happy.”

  “What about the boy?” Lake asked. “He’s still with her?”

  “I assume so. She wanted him so bad that I can’t imagine her ever giving him up.”

  “Who was the father?” Lake asked.

  “No idea,” said Morizio. “I figured Paul knew, but he never told me. He wanted it buried and that was that.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Sal. I like to feel I’m a full partner.”

  “No doubt about that,” he said. “How about a nap?”

  “You’re on,” she said.

  “What about dinner?” he asked.

  She’d been reading travel guides on the plane. “The Red Lion Pub in Mayfair sounds good,” she said. “It’s not far. And then, I thought, what we need is a good murder mystery. The Mayfair Theater’s right downstairs, and Georgia Watson, who just came back from London, says the play is terrific. It’s called The Business of Murder. It’s been running for years. Game?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  They called in a reservation, curled up together and didn’t awaken until the operator called at six.

  They enjoyed the evening, an early dinner, a good play, and sleepy love-making at the end. Morizio was up early. Lake lingered in bed. He showered, skimmed the newspaper that had been left at their door, and carefully arranged the recording equipment in his raincoat. He looked outside. It was gray and misty. “London weather,” he said.

  “I’ll trade it off against the tourist crush anytime,” Lake said from bed. She’d declined his offer of breakfast in the room. “I just want to sleep a little longer,” she said. “Good luck with the Pringle ladies.”

  He had porridge and toast in the hotel’s coffee shop, asked the doorman how to get to Curzon Street, and walked in that direction. He was early; the doorman said it would take him ten minutes and it was 9:15. He strolled up Stratton to Curzon and took a left, as he’d been instructed. It occurred to him as he strolled along, stopping now and then to look in a shop window, that he was actually in London. It hadn’t made any difference the night before, but now it did. He’d always wanted to visit London but never seemed to find the opportunity, or the time. He was like his father in that respect, reluctant to travel far from home unless pushed into it. His mother had managed to get his father to spend an occasional weekend on Cape Cod, and once they even took a week’s vacation to Nova Scotia. Morizio tried to encourage his father to get away, especially after he’d retired. He’d even yelled at him once. His mother had been complaining that they never went anywhere and Morizio took her side. The result was his mother telling him to speak respectfully to his father and to mind his own business.

  He took deep breaths as he approached the wide boulevard of Park Lane. Across it was Hyde Park, gray and lifeless in the moist, cold mist of London in November.

  He didn’t notice the shop until he was almost past it. It was on the second floor of a small, older building. A tiny sign—red lettering on a faded blue background, said: Little Soldier Shop: Military Miniatures: H. Worth—Prop.

  Morizio smiled. It was fitting that Paul Pringle’s daughter ended up with such a shop, if owning a shop was her ambition. Her father had been a history buff, particularly military history, and miniature figures held a special fas
cination for him. He’d talked to Morizio about the hours he spent creating authentic figures of soldiers of history and of the world, painstakingly painting and arranging them in appropriate groupings. He had thousands, he said, most of them in London. The back bar at Piccadilly held a dozen or so tiny military figures, gifts from Pringle to Johnny and the management. He also had what he termed, “as good a collection of books on military dress as anyone in the world.”

  He’d given Morizio two hand-crafted miniatures of South Wales Borderers as a Christmas gift, as well as a book about that regiment. Pringle often asked Morizio, “How are they?” as though they were prize dogs, or fragile family mementos. “Tip-top,” Morizio always answered, “all spit and polish.” And they’d laugh.

  What was particularly interesting to Morizio was Pringle’s focus on the Mexican-American War that spanned 1846 to 1848. He knew it in intimate detail, every battle, the underlying political forces that shaped it and, most of all, the military organization of the opposing armies, every battalion, regiment and rag-tag volunteer militia. The United States’ Third Regiment was his favorite: “The best disciplined regiment the U.S. had to throw against the Mexicans,” he said. From a uniform perspective, however, he preferred the Mexicans who, even though there was little money and few facilities to produce the uniforms, always added brilliant splashes of color. Mexico’s Fourth Light Infantry Regiment especially pleased him. It had been issued uniforms that differed dramatically from other light regiments—dark blue coats with green collars, piping, and arabesques; crimson lapels, cuffs, and turnbacks with eagle decorations on the turnbacks; and medium blue trousers with crimson piping down the legs.

  Pringle bragged that he had a complete collection of miniatures from the Fourth Regiment, two battalions of eight companies, grenadiers and fusiliers, drummers, buglers, and fifers, right down to surgeons and chaplains, every detail of their uniforms perfect, British Brown Bess muskets and Baker rifles, iron bayonets and sabres meticulously crafted and placed in the tiny soldiers’ hands.

  Pringle had photographed most of his collection in color, and he’d showed Morizio the photographs of the Mexican and American armies. “Evidence of a misspent youth.” Morizio had said, “Why weren’t you out bashing grannies?” and Pringle had laughingly agreed. “One day,” he said, “when I retire from Her Majesty’s service, I’d like to open a shop back home and sell to collectors. They’re quite mad, you know, will pay shocking prices to round out their collections.”