Murder in Foggy Bottom Page 18

  “Any more questions?” Lerner asked.

  “No.”

  “You’ll see Sutherland before you meet.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Ah, our burgers and fries have arrived.” He turned to the waiter: “Ketchup, please.”

  When Pauling walked into the Red Cat discotheque, he was engulfed in an orgiastic, undulating phantasmagoria. Music blared from six-foot-high speakers throughout the room, the thundering bass notes coming up from the floor and assaulting his legs like a jackhammer, the deafening, discordant scream of guitars and shrill voices numbing the senses. The vast dance floor was packed with gyrating men and women, mostly young, but with a few Pauling would have assumed had outgrown the disco craze.

  This was music? He scanned the room. He’d been told to seek out the club’s manager, who would be at a raised podium on the north side of the club, from which the man could oversee what was going on. Pauling spotted him and skirted the dance floor. As he got closer, he saw that the manager was flanked by two large men in black suits holding fully automatic AK-47s. Subtlety wasn’t in the Russian vocabulary, he thought as he closed the gap and looked up at the manager, a thin man with a beaked nose and a forehead that sloped back into baldness. The two bouncers eyed Pauling, then one nudged the manager, who looked down.

  “Misha Glinskaya,” Pauling shouted over the music’s din.

  The manager frowned and narrowed his already narrow eyes.

  “Glinskaya,” Pauling repeated, louder this time and hoping he had the pronunciation of the mafioso’s name right. “He’s waiting for me.”

  The manager leaned close to one of the bouncers and said something into his ear. The heavyset man with the automatic weapon came down off the platform and motioned with his head for Pauling to follow. The bouncer didn’t bother trying to avoid the dancers. They gave him wide berth as he walked through them, Pauling close behind, until reaching a door manned by another AK-47-toting man, who stepped aside and allowed the bouncer to open it. Beyond the door was a large room with concrete-block walls, a high ceiling with black metal industrial beams, and no windows. Two men played pool; six others sat at a table playing cards. What Pauling especially noticed was the relative silence of the room compared with the clangorous pandemonium outside.

  His eyes went to a couch on his left, along the wall. Seated on it was a young Russian man wearing a double-breasted white jacket, black slacks, a teal silk shirt with the top buttons undone, and black alligator loafers. Pauling noted he wasn’t wearing socks, like a trendy Beverly Hills or East Hampton yuppie. The man smiled and motioned for Pauling to join him.

  “Pauling?” he said.

  “Da. You’re Glinskaya?”

  “Yes. Speak English, huh? I speak good English.”

  “Fine.” Pauling took in the other men in the room. “Can we go somewhere a little more private?” he asked.

  “We are fine here. My friend tells me you are seeking information.”

  “Your friend would be the banker, Miziyano.”

  “It is not important who my friend is. He tells me you are interested in buying some missiles.”

  Pauling was taken aback for a moment, both because he hadn’t expected to be identified as a weapons buyer, and because the young Russian had said missiles as though he were talking about shoes or tennis racquets.

  “He is wrong?”

  “Maybe not. Actually, I’m interested in finding out about someone else who might have bought some missiles from you a while ago.”

  As Glinskaya laughed, Pauling saw that the Russian had a false eye that never moved. “I am not in the business of selling missiles, Mr. Pauling. You have been given false information.”

  “Then maybe you know somebody who might have sold missiles to this friend of mine.”

  “I might. Would you care for a drink? Vodka?”

  “No. Look, I don’t have much time to play word games, Mr. Glinskaya, and I don’t care whether you sell missiles or your mother does. I’m looking for information and I’m willing to pay for it.”

  The Russian looked for a moment as though he might be offended at what Pauling said. But then he laughed and said, “Ah, the American way of doing business, aggressive—what is the term?—proactive, no time for a pleasant drink. It is not our way of doing business, Mr. Pauling.”

  “Then we’ve both wasted our time,” Pauling said, standing and realizing two men from the card table had left the game and stood a few feet from either side of the couch. The bulges in their suits were not, Pauling knew, growths, although they were undoubtedly malignant.

  “Your government is willing to pay a lot of money for the information, I am told.”

  “Yes, a lot of money—for good information.”

  Glinskaya calmly reached in the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small slip of paper, and handed it to Pauling. At first, all Pauling saw were a series of numbers. But then the meaning of them became only too evident. There were two sets of numbers, one preceded by Serial #, the other by Batch #—the same numbers he’d been shown by Lerner designating the three missiles that had been used to down the American planes.

  Pauling looked down at the mafioso and nodded.

  “Two hundred thousand, U.S., huh?” Glinskaya said flatly.

  Pauling nodded.

  Glinskaya stood and slicked back dirty-blond hair on his temples. “Now, we will have a drink together and discuss how and when you will be able to meet with my friend. Come. I become—what do you say?—agitated when my hospitality is refused.”

  26

  That Night

  Washington, DC

  “Look, Roseann, if this guy Thomas shows up at your gig, give me a call and I’ll head right over,” he said as she was leaving for her engagement at the Four Seasons.

  “Okay,” she said, “but I don’t expect to see him.”

  “Just in case. I’ll be here.”

  “All right,” she said, stopping on her way out the door to admire the three dozen long-stemmed roses he’d bought her as a peace offering for blowing the dinner date with the Meads. It was a good thing he’d brought three dozen. A dozen wouldn’t have done it.

  Strange, she thought as she worked her way through a medley of Michel Legrand, that her boyfriend was hoping the man she’d gone out with showed up again. She understood, of course, that for Joe it was business, and that there was nothing quirky about it. Still, it was amusing, and she thought she might try and write a song about it.

  She played a major B chord instead of the minor going into the bridge of “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” and grimaced, looked around to see if it had jarred anyone’s ears as it had hers. Not to worry. As usual, it seemed that the music was only a distant melodic cushion under conversation. Then again, there was the occasional customer who seemed to be listening, at least with one ear, and Roseann looked for such a person in the room, someone like Craig, who’d appreciated the music. Or had he? Had he feigned interest in Cole Porter in order to ingratiate himself? She dismissed that cynical thought as she segued into “I Will Wait for You” and continued to scan the room in search of a music lover. She found her, she thought, in a short, chunky blond woman seated alone at a small table between the piano and the service bar. Being alone helped, Roseann knew. If there was no one to talk to, you might as well listen to the piano player. The woman returned Roseann’s smile.

  She continued playing until a surreptitious glance at her watch said it was time for a break. The blond woman stopped her on her way to the bar.

  “You play beautifully,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I love Michel Legrand. Do you know ‘You Must Believe in Spring’?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ll play it next set.”

  “Join me? May I buy you a drink?”

  “I, ah—sure. Thank you.” She stopped a waitress and ordered a Diet Coke.

  “I’m Connie Vail,” the woman said, extending her hand and breaking into a wide smile.


  “I’m Roseann Blackburn.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Must have seen my photo and name on the easel in the lobby, Roseann thought.

  “Do you know Oliver Jones?” Connie asked.

  “The Canadian pianist? I’ve never met him but I have some of his recordings. He’s wonderful.”

  “Oh, yes, he is. We’re quite proud of him.”

  “You’re Canadian?”

  “Yes.”

  Roseann’s soda was served along with a second white wine for Connie Vail. She raised her glass: “Here’s to good music.”

  “I’ll always drink to that,” Roseann said with a laugh.

  An awkward silence ensued, and after a short time Roseann decided to leave the woman to freshen her makeup and hair in the ladies’ room. Connie seemed to sense that she was about to depart and said, “Would you be offended to know that I didn’t just happen to stop in here for a drink this evening?”

  “Why would I be offended?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I suppose I’m still not being completely honest. I was hoping your friend the reporter, Mr. Potamos, would be here with you.”

  “I see. You don’t happen to know Craig Thomas from the Canadian embassy?”

  Connie nodded.

  “My friend Joe Potamos has been trying to reach him. He took me to dinner a few nights ago and gave me his card, asked me to give it to Joe.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you also know why he hasn’t returned Joe’s calls?”

  “Ms. Blackburn, Craig is out of the country and probably will be for some time.”

  “He told me he had a story for Joe, something to do with the murder of a man from the Canadian embassy.”

  “Jeremy Wilcox.”

  “That’s right. You knew him?”

  “Yes, quite well.”

  Roseann hesitated, thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you know the story Craig Thomas was going to tell Joe?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call him and have him come here.”

  “No, not here, Ms. Blackburn. Could I meet him someplace private and quiet, where we can really talk?”

  “How about my apartment? We have a dog but—”

  “I get along quite well with dogs.”

  “Will you stay until I finish the next set? It’s my last. Forty-five minutes.”

  “Of course. ‘You Must Believe in Spring’?”

  “My first song.”

  Roseann took a detour to a pay phone outside the ladies’ room.

  “I’ll be right over,” Joe said.

  “No, Joe, she doesn’t want to meet here. I’m bringing her back to the apartment.”

  “You sure she won’t take off?”

  “Not likely, Joe. She really wants to talk with you. She drinks white wine. Why don’t you buy some before we get there.”

  “What are we having, a party? You want caviar and pâté, too?”

  “Absolutely. We never have caviar. Be there in an hour.”

  27

  That Same Night

  Washington, DC

  “Jessica, it’s Annabel.”

  “Hi.”

  “Interrupting anything important?”

  “Just getting my gear ready for the trip.”

  “What trip?”

  “Canada. This weekend. My bird-watching group. The annual trek into the wilds in search of Lanius excubitor, among others.”

  “I always wondered what happened to them,” Annabel said, unable to stifle a giggle.

  “Better known as the northern shrike,” Jessica said, not offended. “People confuse it with a mockingbird but it has a facial mask, and a heavy, hooked bill. We’re only going for three days.”

  “Feel like some dinner? Mac and I decided to abandon the kitchen and eat out. Join us?”

  “Love to, Annie, but too much to do. Between work and getting ready for the trip, I don’t seem to have time to breathe, let alone have a leisurely dinner with friends. Rain check when I get back?”

  “Sure. Has your gentleman friend returned yet?”

  “No, and just as well. He views me and my bird-watching friends as a little kooky.” There was silence on the other end. “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Think we’re kooky?”

  “Of course not. I get as excited over a Teotihuacán urn as you do over a . . . what was that loggerhead bird you mentioned? Sounds like the official bird of Congress.”

  “Lanius excubitor. A northern shrike.”

  “Right. A northern shrike.”

  “Teoti—?”

  “Teotihuacán. A Mexican culture. Some wonderful pre-Columbian art was created by them. I’ll let you go. Have a great trip, Jess, see lots of rare birds.”

  “Thanks. It’ll be good to get away from the insanity around here.”

  Annabel hung up and turned on the TV news. The downing of the three commuter aircraft continued to dominate, although other world events had forced the networks and all-news cable channels to find time to cover them, too. With official information about the investigation virtually nonexistent, speculation was the basis for newscast after newscast, and news-oriented talk shows. And the Internet had spawned hundreds of web sites and chat rooms in which the wildest rumors and theories made the rounds, some ending up as fodder for the fact-starved mainstream press. Without anything solid to report, the media and repetition and speculation fueled the national paranoia, and a growing sense that the White House, CIA, Pentagon, FBI, Justice Department, and every other agency charged with bringing the terrorists to justice weren’t up to the task. One report claimed that Secretary of State Rock was in Russia laying the groundwork for a declaration of war against the former Soviet Union, according to “reliable sources.” Other “reliable sources” pointed the finger at Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, China, or domestic hate groups such as Aryan Nations, the Silent Brotherhood—the list went on and on.

  “We’ve learned on good authority that . . .” Annabel turned off the TV and stood on the balcony overlooking the Potomac, her hand resting on Rufus’s head. From that peaceful vantage point, all was well, the lights of Georgetown and Rosslyn giving dimension to the buildings in which people went about their lives. Yet Annabel knew that everyone’s sense of well-being and calm, like her own, had been assaulted by the missiles and, no matter what, that sense of peace would never be fully restored, just as the lives lost could never be.

  “Damn you!” she muttered to whoever had sent those missiles up on their deadly trajectories. The potency of the feeling of doom that had suddenly consumed her caused her to cry silently. She wiped her eyes, gave the folds of the dog’s neck a squeeze, and returned inside her Watergate apartment, closing the sliding glass doors to the balcony as though to shut out any evil lurking outside.

  28

  Three Days Later

  Blaine, Washington

  “This is Roberta Dougherty reporting live from Blaine, Washington, on the Canadian border. I’m standing near a ranch owned by Zachary Jasper, head of the so-called Jasper Project, a militant antigovernment, white-supremacist group suspected of having played a role in the downing of three American commuter airliners almost three weeks ago. The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the ATF have moved a sizable contingent of armed men and assault equipment into the area in anticipation of some sort of military action against the ranch and its occupants. We’ve learned from reliable sources that the FBI has obtained a warrant to enter the ranch and search for possible evidence linking the Jasper Project to the aircraft downings. We’ve also been told that Jasper, the head of the group, has refused to accept the warrant and to allow the government to enter the property, setting up a potential siege and armed conflict. We’ll keep you abreast of developments in this increasingly tense situation.”

  The camera pulled back to reveal a virtual army lined up along the road leading to the ranch’s main entrance. SWAT teams in flak j
ackets and helmets, carrying high-powered rifles with scopes and automatic weapons, flanked a dozen vehicles, including two armored personnel carriers with weaponry mounted above the bulletproof windshields. A three-bedroom RV, rented from a nearby recreational-vehicle rental company, had been established as a command center. Dozens of FBI agents wearing windbreakers bearing the agency’s seal in large letters on the back stood with other special agents in suits. The ranch was kept under constant surveillance through two large telescopes and binoculars. State police had been brought in to establish a perimeter behind which onlookers and the press were corralled.

  Inside the main house, Zachary Jasper stood in the kitchen, phone in hand. On the other end of the line was the FBI’s Joe Harris, who’d flown to the scene to take personal charge of the operation. Standing next to him was a hostage negotiator who’d accompanied Harris from Washington.

  “. . . and I’m telling you, Mr. Harris, you’ve got no right coming on this property, warrant or no warrant,” Jasper said in a measured voice. “You’re looking for a damn scapegoat because you’ve got nothing else on who shot those planes down.”

  “Look, Mr. Jasper, you’re setting up an ugly situation here,” Harris said. “You’ve got innocent people in there who are going to get hurt if you don’t listen to reason.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Harris, women and children in here who haven’t done a damn thing except stand up for their rights as free, white citizens of this country. And I’ll tell you this, sir. Every person here, right down to the youngest, is ready to fight for their birthright.”

  The negotiator had been listening to the conversation on a set of earphones attached to the battery-powered phone Harris held. They looked at each other without expression before Harris said, “Mr. Jasper, I’m putting you on with Special Agent Simone.” He heard the click of the phone being replaced in its cradle.