Murder on Embassy Row

by Margaret Truman

  There was a small bar and refrigerator in the room, stocked with wines, whiskeys, juices, and mixes. She had a glass of Solita orange juice, sat at a desk, and organized things for the day. She looked at Inga Lindstrom’s address:

  Lindstrom Import-Export: 7–12k Overgaden neden Vandet, Christianshavn, Denmark. She wondered if it were close to Overgaden, the street Rosner had mentioned. She studied a street map she’d purchased at the airport. The streets were across a canal from each other in Christianshavn.

  She rigged her raincoat with tape recorder and microphone, dressed in a tan camel-hair blazer, cranberry tweed skirt, and white blouse and went downstairs for breakfast in the terrace, a room surrounded by glass and decorated with hundreds of plants. She’d decided not to call Lindstrom ahead of time. Just showing up had worked with Callender in Washington, and she hoped it would in this instance, too. She had a continental breakfast and read the European Herald Tribune. The waitress was a pleasant middle-aged woman who refilled Lake’s coffee cup every time she took a sip.

  “I’m going to Christianshavn,” Lake said. “Can I walk there?” It looked on the map that she could, but map mileages could be deceiving.

  “Ja,” the waitress said, “or you could take the boat from Nyhaven. It’s only a few blocks.”

  The idea of a boat ride appealed. Lake had assumed that the famed Copenhagen passenger boats that traveled the canals would have stopped running once the tourist season ended. She received directions to the Nyhaven dock, said, “Tak,” which meant “Thank you,” the only Danish word she knew, and started walking. The streets were filled with robust people on bicycles and on foot, and Lake reminded herself that she, too, was of Scandinavian stock. It was hard for her to focus on approaching Inga Lindstrom. How nice it would be to simply be on vacation, to soak up Copenhagen without the pressures of clearing their names. That hit her hard, the fact that she and Sal had ended up in a state of dishonor, suspended from jobs they liked and worked hard at. It wasn’t fair. They’d tried to do the right thing and had ended up being punished. For what? For caring? What was wrong with people? Were they all so frightened that doing what was right became wrong? She was angry, could have cried, except that she wouldn’t. “Damn it,” she mumbled as she approached the Nyhaven dock where a broad, flat boat called the Kobenhaven was loading passengers. Lake paid her 160 krona and took a seat. The captain looked like a boat captain was supposed to look, face rendered leather by a lifetime in the sun, a white capped hat at a jaunty angle, a confident expression that promised he wouldn’t run them into a piling or a shifting sand bar.

  A teenage boy flipped the rope free of a spike and they backed into the canal. Lake sat back and watched Copenhagen slide by, bridges with impossible names; the Stock Exchange with a serpent’s tail on top; the current Christiansborg Palace: the previous five castles, dating back to 1167, having been destroyed by fire and pillage; red brick buildings covered with ivy, churches and government institutions in which bureaucracy flourished as it did in Washington—“Could this mess have happened here?” Connie asked herself. “Probably,” she answered.

  They passed fishing boats and luxurious passenger liners, tattoo parlors and seedy bars; the Hydrofoil dock that ran people across to Malmö, Sweden, where her grandmother lived, lovers kissing as they sat in the sun, old men drinking beer and smoking pipes. They stopped at designated areas to discharge and pick up new passengers, mostly tourists reveling in the mild weather while natives bundled up against it and chose enclosed, heated transportation.

  They entered Christianshavn’s main canal and Connie took in the sights on both sides. Overgaden, where Mark Rosner had said the caviar transactions took place, was lined with well-kept apartment buildings and quaint little restaurants. There were trees and brightly painted window frames on the red and gray buildings, and every apartment had flower boxes beneath its windows.

  The other side of the canal, Overgaden neden Vandet, contained a series of warehouses, yellow and red and gray brick with hoists in between. Lake squinted to read the numbers; 7–12 was on a three-story modern structure with numerous windows that was attached to one of the warehouses.

  The Kobenhaven docked and Lake disembarked into the midst of a bustling Christianshavn. Salty commercial fishermen repaired flaking boats alongside counterculture men and women preparing for another leisurely day with earnest determination. Lake was reminded of Seattle where hundreds of miles of waterfront were peacefully shared by residences and industry.

  She crossed a pedestrian bridge over the canal and walked along Overgaden naden Vandet until reaching 7–12. There was a vertical row of signs in front, gold lettering on a black background. At the top was Lindstrom Import-Export. Lake went inside and read a building directory. Lindstrom’s offices were on the next floor. She climbed a staircase, paused in front of a wooden door with the company name etched in gold leaf, decided not to knock and entered. The reception area was panelled in light oak. A display case to her left held a variety of canned foods illuminated by recessed fluorescent fixtures. The carpeting was a black, hard-finished industrial grade. Chairs for visitors were covered in orange vinyl. A young blond man wearing a white shirt and red tie sat behind a desk. He glanced up from his newspaper. “God morgen,” he said.

  “Good morning,” Lake said. “I’d like to see Ms. Lindstrom.”

  “American?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “My brother lives in America.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “I’ve never been. Does he like it?”

  “Ja. You have an appointment with Ms. Lindstrom?”

  “No. I won’t take much of her time. I’m a friend of Berge Nordkild…” She hesitated, then added, “And Erl Rekstad.”

  The young man’s blond eyebrows went up; Lake wasn’t sure at which name. “You are here on business?”

  “Yes, I am. I can probably explain it better to Ms. Lindstrom. It’s complicated, business and pleasure. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to me.”

  “Undskyld,” he said, getting up and going to a door that led from the room. “Vaer sa venlig at vente.” He smiled. “I am sorry. I forget. I should speak English. Please wait.”

  He returned a few minutes later and said, “She has someone with her now. It won’t be long.”

  Connie passed the next twenty minutes browsing through a copy of Copenhagen This Week she’d brought with her from the hotel. The Glyptotek Museum was on the cover, and inside was a day-to-day listing of events around the city: chamber concerts at every hour of the day, jazz festivals, readings, theater, tours and guided walks, organ recitals, trotting races and craft demonstrations; and always music, bluegrass and jazz and opera. She hoped she and Morizio would have time to enjoy a little of it. It dawned on her that the next day was Thanksgiving. It was easy to forget it, not being home.

  The door opened and a tall, slender blonde appeared. They did look alike, Connie thought, could have been sisters. Lindstrom wore a tailored suit the color of blanched straw. Her blouse, full of ruffles and with large pearl buttons, was deep purple. She wore black, high-heeled pumps. She was deeply tanned; her eyes were large and very blue. “Miss Lake,” she said, crossing the room to Lake and extending her hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Connie stood. “I’m sorry to barge in without an appointment,” she said.

  Lindstrom’s smile was big and bright, perfect teeth rendered whiter by her bronze skin. “No problem. This is a light day. You say you’re a friend of Erl Rekstad.”

  “Yes, not close friends but…”

  “I called him. He speaks highly of you.”

  “Does he?”

  “Yes. He said you were together last night, with Mark Rosner. Interesting men.”

  “Yes, they were very… very pleasant.”

  “And Berge Nordkild? You know him?”

  “Yes, in Washington.”

  “You know, of course, of his recent trouble.”

 
; “Yes. I was so sorry to hear it.”

  “He deserved it, I fear. Come, we’ll talk in my office.”

  “The lady’s sharp,” Lake thought as she followed her through the door. “I’d better be on my toes.”

  Lindstrom’s suite of offices was spacious and flooded with light from floor-to-ceiling windows. Connie sat in a brown Hans Wegner armchair, one of a pair in front of a large Danish modern desk. Lindstrom asked, “Coffee, tea? Akvavit?”

  Connie had had akvavit with Aunt Eva and hadn’t liked it. “Tea,” she said.

  Lindstrom ordered it over the phone, sat behind her desk, dangled one long leg over the other, and said, “So you’re here from Washington. My receptionist said it was business and pleasure. Pleasure is easy in Copenhagen. What business are you on?”

  Connie had anticipated this moment and had decided to be honest and direct. She thought for a moment, framed her words, and said, “I’m a police officer, Ms. Lindstrom. I’m with the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington. I’m not here officially, but I do have a vested interest in the Geoffrey James and Paul Pringle murders.”

  Lake waited for a response. Lindstrom sat passively, her eyes on Connie. Finally, she said, “And?”

  “There are questions that concern you, Ms. Lindstrom, that might help us fit some pieces into the puzzle.”

  “What questions?”

  “All right, to begin with…”

  Lindstrom held up a hand. “Before you begin, Miss Lake, let me say that one of the murders you mention means nothing to me. His name was Pinger?”

  “Pringle, Paul Pringle, a security officer at the British Embassy in Washington.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You didn’t read about his murder?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then we’ll stick to Ambassador James. You knew him.”

  “Yes, I did. You do realize I have no obligation to answer any questions about his death. I’m happy to help, but please understand that it’s out of a desire to cooperate, nothing more.”

  “Of course, and I appreciate it. I’m sure you’ve been interviewed before about Ambassador James’s murder.”

  Lindstrom nodded. The young man from the reception desk arrived carrying a tray. He placed it on the desk. “Anything else?” he asked Lindstrom.

  “Nej. Tak. Ah, ja. Vil De Bestille en samtale for mig til London? En time.”

  “Ja.” He left the room.

  Lake wished she understood Danish. The only thing she knew was that it had to do with London.

  “Your tea,” Lindstrom said. They poured and sat back. “Now, your questions.”

  Lindstrom’s composure impressed Lake. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned at having an American police officer visit her and ask questions about an ambassador’s murder. She was in complete control of herself, beautiful and charming and friendly without becoming patronizing.

  “Ambassador James called you at the Madison Hotel the night he was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to see me. No, to be more precise, I wanted to see him.”

  “About what?”

  “About what?” She raised champagne eyebrows and grinned. “About love.”

  “You were in love with Ambassador James?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “You were having an affair?”

  “I suppose when you’re in love with a married man and share his bed, it must be called an affair. How unfortunate.”

  It was going to be too fast and neat for Lake. She’d expected some cat-and-mouse exchanges, some attempt on Lindstrom’s part to couch her answers, but there was none of that. The lady was more impressive by the minute. “How long had you and the ambassador been seeing each other?”

  Lindstrom shifted position in her high-back leather chair and adopted an expression of honest reflection. “A long time, years, ever since Iran.”

  “You were there?”

  “In and out. I did business there.”

  “And you met him and…”

  “Yes, and fell in love.”

  Lake had to fight against a growing feeling that she was intruding into Lindstrom’s personal life. She wouldn’t have liked it herself. She continued. “Did you see him the night he died?”

  “No. He wouldn’t come to the hotel.”

  “Why not?”

  “He said he was tired. We argued.”

  “I see.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Should there be? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant, Miss Lake. Geoffrey’s death was a great shock to me. I’ve lost not only a good friend but the only man I’ve ever really loved.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lake said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You said you’d met the ambassador in Iran. There was a rumor that he’d benefitted from the American hostages being taken captive, that he had business dealings in Iran. Do you know anything about that?”

  Lindstrom shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. More tea?”

  “No, thank you. Miss Lindstrom, what about the smuggling of caviar from Iran through Copenhagen. You knew Nuri Hafez, didn’t you?”

  Lindstrom’s eyes opened and she formed a bridge over her lap with her fingers, rapidly tapping them together. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, so I’ve read. Was he involved with the ambassador in any… well, any caviar trade that might have been illegal?”

  Lindstrom laughed and poured more tea into her cup. “Miss Lake, Geoffrey James was many things, some good, some bad, but one thing he was not was a smuggler… of anything.”

  “What about Nuri Hafez? Did you know him?”

  Lindstrom returned to a relaxed pose in her chair, her teacup in her hands, steam rising gently into her face. “Yes, I knew him.”

  “Because of Ambassador James.”

  “Yes, and here in Copenhagen.”

  Lake’s heart tripped at Lindstrom’s easy admission. She asked, “What was he doing here in Copenhagen?”

  “Smuggling caviar.”

  “I thought you said…”

  “I said that Geoffrey James would not be involved in anything like that. He wasn’t, but Nuri was. He and his brother in Iran took advantage of the political turmoil there and undercut the state caviar commission by paying fishermen much more than they were receiving from the government. They devised an elaborate means of spiriting the caviar out of Iran and to Copenhagen. They made a lot of money, Miss Lake, particularly from America where Iranian goods were banned.”

  Lake blew an imagined strand of her hair from her forehead and poked at a note pad with the tip of her felt pen. “I understand it’s still going on.”

  “Smuggling? Yes, it is.” She smiled warmly and took a cigarette from a tile box on her desk. “Smoke?” Lake declined. Lindstrom lighted the cigarette, recrossed her legs and slowly exhaled.

  “Are you involved in caviar smuggling?” Lake asked.

  “If I were, do you think I’d admit it? Look, Miss Lake, Copenhagen is a free port. That doesn’t mean that illegal products are accepted here more readily than other cities, but things are a little easier. That’s all, just a little easier.”

  “Is the caviar coming through here connected with Nuri Hafez and his brother?”

  “I wouldn’t know. My assumption is that once Nuri was executed, their operation stopped. You must understand, Miss Lake, that my only knowledge of Nuri Hafez’s trade in caviar stems from what Geoffrey told me. He was furious when he learned that a trusted servant had abused his position for profit. Had Geoffrey ever suspected that Nuri would do such a thing, I can assure you he’d never have fought to bring the boy out of Iran.”

  “Yes, I believe that,” Lake said. “Did he confront Hafez about it?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did Hafez react?”

  “With sullen anger.”

  “Enough to murder Ambassador James?”

  Lindstrom looked sur
prised that Lake would even ask such a question. She said, “That’s exactly why he did murder Geoffrey.”

  Now it was Lake’s turn to register surprise. “You say it, Ms. Lindstrom, as though you haven’t a doubt in the world.”

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Based upon what?”

  “Instinct, pieces that don’t quite fit. There’s a great deal that you naturally wouldn’t be aware of.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to say.”

  Lindstrom stubbed out her cigarette in a tile ashtray that matched the cigarette case. “But you expect me to be open and candid with you.”

  “Yes. It happens to be the position I’m in.”

  Lindstrom’s face had hardened. Now, it was soft again as she said, “I understand. The difference is that I have nothing to hide, no reason to withhold everything I know. That’s why I’m talking to you at all about it. There’s tremendous comfort in not having things to hide, isn’t there?”

  “I was brought up that way, Ms. Lindstrom.”

  “So was I. Have you been told that we look alike?”

  Lake laughed. “Yes.”

  “Who told you, Berge?”

  “No. Melanie Callender, for one.”

  Lindstrom lighted another cigarette. “The ever-faithful secretary. She was madly in love with Geoffrey, you know.”

  “I surmised that.”

  “He had an interesting effect upon women, magnetic. It was part charm, part power. Your Dr. Werner Gibronski once said in an interview that the reason women found him attractive was because women love power.”

  “I remember reading that,” Connie said. “What about Mrs. James? Did she know?”

  “About me? Of course. I was never on her A-List for parties.”

  Lake wasn’t sure where to lead the conversation. She mentioned Sami Abdu’s name, which caused Lindstrom to chortle. “A fat fool,” she said of him. “Harmless.”

  “What about Nuri Hafez?” Lake asked. “When did you last see him?”

  “Shortly before he returned to Iran. He hid here in Copenhagen for a week after leaving the States. He came to see me, wanted to borrow money. I refused.”