There was a flurry of activity in the room. A series of questions came from the floor, but Barnsworth shook his head and held up a hand. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to complete my statement.” When reporters continued to ask questions, Jack Boyington took the microphone and announced that if order was not restored, the press conference would be terminated. That did it, and Barnsworth continued. “Obviously, this loss has been felt deeply within this mission, and within Great Britain. It is little consolation that the identity of this great man’s murderer is known.”
Again, a roar of comment and question.
Barnsworth ignored the disruption this time. He cleared his throat with surprising gusto, grasped the flexible mike stand and said loudly, “Geoffrey James, Her Majesty’s ambassador to the United States, was poisoned to death by one Nuri Hafez, an Iranian who had been rescued from Iran by the deceased ambassador, and who had served as his valet and chauffeur ever since. The evidence against Nuri Hafez is overwhelming and beyond debate, and an international warrant has been issued for his arrest.”
The questions erupted. “Where is he?”… “What’s his background?”… “Was the limousine found this morning at the Iranian Embassy connected with it?”
Barnsworth pressed on, and his words caused the reporters to cease their questioning. “A printed statement regarding the death of Ambassador James and background information on his murder has been prepared and is available for each of you at the conclusion of this conference. I would like to express Her Majesty’s profound appreciation for the invaluable aid and cooperation of the United States government, and for the same spirit of friendship and help from this city’s Metropolitan Police Department, Donald J. Trottier, chief of police, and Detective Captain Salvatore Morizio, coordinator of intracity security. Their contributions and professional excellence have been exemplary. That concludes my official statement.”
Press secretary Boyington took the microphone and invited questions, then immediately turned it over to Trottier, who launched into answers that sounded more, to Morizio, like a campaign speech.
Morizio hopped down from the platform. “Can I help you?” Thorpe asked. Morizio shook his head and headed for the foyer where he cornered an embassy security guard. “Is Paul Pringle here?” he asked.
“Mr. Pringle? No, I can’t say I’ve seen him.”
“Thanks.”
Morizio crossed a corridor leading to the embassy’s main entrance and motioned to guards at a desk behind a series of sliding bulletproof doors. He waved his ID. After some scrutiny, a button was pushed and the doors slid open. “Captain Morizio, MPD,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Paul Pringle.”
“Pringle.” One of the guards consulted an internal directory. “Sorry, sir, Mr. Pringle is no longer with us.”
“That can’t be,” Morizio said. “He was here a few days ago.”
Another of the guards said pleasantly, “That he was, sir, but he’s been dispatched to special duty back home.”
“England?”
“Yes, sir, that is home.”
“Can you connect me with his office?”
The guard laughed. “He doesn’t have an office any longer.”
“Thanks,” said Morizio. “If Paul Pringle passes through on his way home, please give him this.” He took a business card from his pocket, scribbled on the back—“Paul, please call”—and handed it to the guard.
Morizio returned to the rotunda, which had emptied out considerably. Chief Trottier was still fielding questions. George Thorpe intercepted Morizio on his way to the platform. “Anything wrong, Captain?”
“Do you know the whereabouts of Paul Pringle?”
“Pringle? Can’t say that I’ve ever heard the name.”
“He worked in security here at the embassy.”
Thorpe shook his head. “That offer of a drink still holds.”
“I have something else to do,” Morizio said.
“Lucky man. Miss Lake?”
“I don’t like you, Thorpe.”
Thorpe laughed. “Pity. A drink might bring you around.”
“I doubt it.”
Thorpe belched, ran a large hand over his mouth, glared at Morizio and said, “Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“Doing such a splendid job in this messy case. Your chief has been praising you at every turn.”
Morizio looked up at Trottier, who’d answered his final question and was about to step down, then returned his attention to Thorpe, and said, “You buying?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Where?”
Thorpe rubbed his hands together and furrowed his brow. “I’m partial to Timberlake’s.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“I’ll wait.”
After confirming dinner at Trottier’s house and getting directions to it, Morizio called his office and was connected with Connie Lake. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“Smashingly.”
“You okay?”
“Tip-top. Look, Officer Lake, get yourself wired up and join me at Timberlake’s, on Connecticut.”
“Wired?”
“Yeah, but don’t check anything out of Surveillance. Keep it simple, grab something from my apartment and be there in an hour.”
“Who are we seeing?”
“A representative of Her Majesty’s government.”
“Huh?”
“George Thorpe. He belches a lot but ignore it. Got to go. See you in an hour.”
Lake immediately left the office and drove to Morizio’s condominium in Arlington. She let herself in, went to the bedroom and opened the only one of three closets that was locked. Inside were shelves of electronic and photographic equipment—microphones of every description, including shotgun mikes, FM transmitting mikes, watches, tie tacs and earrings containing microphones; ultra-sensitive devices that picked up whispers through cinderblock walls, telephone taps, a microphone woven into a scarf and the newest addition to the collection, a subminiature microphone designed to be implanted in a tooth, provided a cooperative dentist could be found. There were recorders of varying sizes and shapes, blank tapes, miniature cameras and film, infrared lighting equipment and a video camera with a lens powerful enough to pick a bug off a branch at 500 yards. The collection represented one of Morizio’s many hobbies. Everything in the closet was available through MPD’s Surveillance Unit, but Morizio enjoyed having his own capability. Besides, anything electronic fascinated him. There was an amaranthine quality about gadgets that he felt was lacking in people, an honesty, a directness, predictability. You took care of equipment, kept it clean and serviced, and it would always be there for you, like a good dog.
Lake often kidded him about it, but over the course of their relationship she’d learned to share his appreciation of the myriad gadgets in the closet. He’d spent hours teaching her how to use and service them. Morizio was a fanatic about the care of his collection of electronic gear—batteries always removed and stored in the refrigerator, tape heads cleaned and demagnetized at prescribed intervals, tapes thoroughly erased in a bulk eraser, rewound and stored outside the machines to avoid stretching, reel-to-reel tapes stored tails-out to avoid print-through and, most important, he thoroughly checked everything before taking it on a job.
Lake chose a small Sony cassette recorder attached to a VOX switch, which meant it would record only when there was someone speaking. The recorder’s internal mechanism had been modified to allow five hours of recording on a single side of the cassette. The microphone had been custom made by a small Virginia electronics firm that supplied exotic listening devices to police departments across the country. It would pick up hushed conversations across a large room even when inside a closed attaché case. She inserted batteries and a cassette, attached the microphone, and did a test. It worked perfectly. She slipped recorder and microphone into a pocket of her raincoat, reminded herself to turn it on before entering the tavern, and headed for Timberlake’s, a
popular D.C. neighborhood pub.
Morizio and Thorpe were in a booth when she arrived. Morizio introduced Lake to the Englishman. “Ah, yes, Miss Lake,” Thorpe said, standing and extending his hand. “Or should I say Officer Lake?”
“Are we on duty?” she asked.
Morizio laughed, shook his head and said, “No, we’re not. Call her Connie, Mr. Thorpe.”
“And George will do for me,” Thorpe said as he helped her off with her coat. “Check it for you?” he asked.
“No, here is fine.” Thorpe hung it on the booth’s upright nearest him. “Perfect placement,” Lake thought to herself as she sat next to Morizio, across from Thorpe.
Thorpe had a draft bitter in front of him, Morizio a bottle of Miller Lite. Lake ordered a white wine. The place had begun to fill up and the long bar was two deep. Thorpe raised his glass and said, “To you, Miss Lake. When Sal told me he’d invited you to join us, I was delighted.”
“To all of us,” she said, looking at Morizio.
They clinked glasses. Morizio said, “George and I were just getting to know each other, Connie. We’ve been involved, sort of, in this Geoffrey James thing and figured it was about time we knew who we were.”
Thorpe laughed, burped behind his hand, sipped his beer and said, “I was telling the captain a little about myself.”
“You were in Africa?” Morizio said.
“Yes, for six years, establishing trade agreements with African industrialists.”
“Must have been fascinating,” Lake said.
“More hot than fascinating, Connie. I’ve never been a fan of heat. It saps one. Don’t you agree?”
“I’m from Seattle,” she said. “It never gets too hot or too cold there. I like moderation.”
“In everything?”
“Usually. How long have you been here in the United States?”
Morizio sat back and drank his beer as Thorpe talked about his life as a trade representative for Great Britain. Twenty minutes later Thorpe said, “I’ve been going on forever, it seems. Time for another round and a little about you, Sal.”
They ordered. Morizio said. “There’s not much to tell about me, George. I suspect you know a great deal anyway, based upon comments you made earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“When we first met. I’m just a cop, a civil servant.” He told a little of his Boston family, his college days and what had led to his joining MPD. Thorpe listened quietly, his only reaction an occasional raise of an eyebrow, or a smile at a humorous aside. When Morizio was through, he looked at his watch. “I have a dinner date. I really have to go.”
Connie looked at him quizzically.
“Chief Trottier’s house. The missus is making me dinner.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Have you had dinner, Miss Lake?” Thorpe asked.
“No, I thought…”
“I’d be delighted,” said Thorpe. “That is, if your captain doesn’t have objections.”
“Why would he?” Lake asked.
“George is aware that we have a relationship aside from the department,” said Morizio.
She was surprised that he would have admitted such a thing, but knew this wasn’t the time to bring it up. She smiled at Thorpe and said, “I’d enjoy dinner and hearing more about Africa.”
Now, it was Morizio’s turn to be perplexed. He was certain she’d turn down Thorpe’s offer.
“The food here is surprisingly good for a pub,” Thorpe said, “which is why I’m partial to the establishment. I’d avoid the seafood, with the exception of oysters, and the quiches are uniformly satisfying.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” Morizio said, barely able to hide his annoyance that Connie decided to stay. “I’ll call you later,” he told her as he slipped into his coat.
“Okay, Captain.”
Morizio pondered her playful use of his title, let it pass and said to Thorpe, “Maybe you’ll have a chance to explain to Connie why someone who’s spent his life as a trade representative ends up in charge of an ambassador’s murder, George.”
“I’ll do my best,” Thorpe said. “Enjoy your chief’s wife’s cooking.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Morizio wanted to sit down, remove his coat, and ask the questions that were really on his mind. Instead, he shook Thorpe’s hand, nodded at Connie and left Timberlake’s.
***
He didn’t leave Chief Trottier’s house until eleven. Dinner was excellent, and Trottier’s wife, Maureen, was as plain and straightforward as her husband was pompous. Throughout dinner Trottier claimed the reason he’d invited Morizio was to get to know his key men better. “There’s a tendency for a gap to exist between a chief and his captains, Sal,” he said. “I’ve been impressed with the way you’ve handled this Geoffrey James matter and wanted you to know it on a more personal level than’s possible at headquarters.”
“More pie?” Maureen asked.
“No, ma’am,” Morizio said. “I’m stuffed. It was very good.”
Morizio had hoped to find time alone with Trottier to clear up some of his confusion over the handling of the James murder. That chance never materialized. As he stood at the front door and Trottier helped him on with his coat, he asked, “Can we catch some time together, Chief? I’ve got questions about the James case that are bothering me.”
“Nine?”
“Sure thing.”
“I’d intended to hold a briefing on it anyway. There’s still protocol to be followed, even though we’re out of it.”
“Out of it? What about finding Hafez?”
“I’m sure he’s long gone from D.C. by now. It’s an international matter. We’ll let them know what we know, which isn’t much, and get on with things. See you at nine.”
“Yes, sir. A wonderful meal, Mrs. Trottier. Thank you.”
“Come again, Captain. I enjoy meeting the men my husband works with.”
***
Morizio considered stopping by Connie’s apartment on his way home but decided not to. He didn’t call her either because he didn’t want to wake her. She called him at midnight. He was playing chess with Rasputin. “How was dinner?” she asked.
“She’s a good cook. You?”
“I’ve had better food, I’ve had worse.”
“I don’t care about the food. Anything come out of Thorpe?”
“It’s all on tape. He’s a charmer. I wish his stomach were under better control but aside from that, I enjoyed his company.”
“Well, I didn’t. I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I.”
“You sound as though you do.”
“Oh, Sal, that little vestige of jealousy peeks through now and then and I love you for it.”
“Jealous, hell. Thorpe’s not what you’d call a threat to a relationship.”
“He’s not that bad. But do you know what, Sal?”
“What?”
“One, I love you very much. Two, I’m anxious to listen to the tape with you and discuss it. And three, I sense a side of Mr. George Thorpe that would allow him to blow up his own mother if there were something in it for him.”
Morizio laughed. “He’s not that bad.”
“I think he could be. Sleep tight. See you in the office, Captain.”
Morizio had just climbed into bed at two when the phone rang. An overseas operator told him to wait. A few seconds later Paul Pringle came on the line.
“Paul, I was looking for you today at the embassy. They said you’d gone home on some special assignment.”
“Call it what you will, Sal. I didn’t want to just leave without saying good-bye.”
“I appreciate that, but what’s really going on? Why the sudden departure? The James thing? Do they know you’d been in touch with me?”
“Best not discuss it on the phone, Sal, best we just drop this whole James business and get on with our lives.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“We’re all different peop
le at different times, Sal. I really must scoot. Thanks so much for all you did for me in the States, and for your continuing friendship. I’ve left a little token of my appreciation with the bartender at Piccadilly. Johnny, the skinny one. Just ask for the envelope with S.M. on it. Perhaps we’ll meet once again. If you ever get over this way please ring up. And my best to your Connie Lake.”
“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate the call, Paul. Take care.”
There was the hint of a laugh. “Oh, yes, Sal, I certainly intend to do that, and I urge you to do the same.”
“Count on it. Best to the family.”
Morizio tossed and turned until five, then drifted into a light sleep. He sat bolt upright when the alarm went off at seven, immediately got out of bed and showered. He called Lake. “Don’t mention the meeting with Thorpe around MPD,” he told her.
“I didn’t plan to. Shall I bring the tape?”
“No. We’ll listen to it tonight. Where are we staying?”
“Your choice.”
“Here. Okay?”
“Sure. If Kissinger could get used to shuttle diplomacy, I can handle shuttle romance.”
8
Morizio and Lake had a chance to talk before his nine o’clock meeting with Chief Trottier. “Did you press Thorpe on why a so-called trade rep ends up representing England in a murder case?” he asked her.
“I pursued it. Pressing’s not my style.”
“What did he say?”
“He said… well, you might as well hear it tonight. It’s all on tape.”
“Give me a hint.”
“He said that he sometimes is called upon to perform other duties for ‘Her Majesty’s government.’”
“Like what?”
“Like… like overseeing a murder investigation that involved his country’s ambassador to the United States.”
“But why him? Why not somebody from Embassy Security, or Scotland Yard, or Interpol?”
“He seemed to say, Sal, that it’s really not the murder that involves him. It’s more a case of being on the scene to represent a government 3,500 miles away. I can buy that.”
“But you think he’d blow up his own mother.”
She laughed. “An overstatement. You can hear it all tonight. By the way, did you tape dinner at the chief’s house?”
Murder on Embassy Row Page 6
