Wide, frightened brown eyes testified that she did.
“American woman, blonde, with an Arab. They came here last night. Which room?”
She said nothing. “You don’t understanding English?” he said in the stage-whisper he’d been using.
She nodded, gulped, shook her head against the shotgun’s barrel. “Please, I’m American.”
“You are? Jesus. Good. Tell me, and tell me fast. Where are they?”
“Why?”
“Tell you later. Which room?”
Her eyes looked to her right.
“Which one?”
Her head slowly came up and a finger pointed to a door on the left side of the hall, at the end.
He leaned his face close to hers and said, “I’m going to let you go, but you stay here, right here, in the hall. Understand? No sound no movement. Just stay here or…”
“I understand.”
He was tempted to ask where in the States she was from, why she was there, all of it. The sociologist in him. Time for that later.
He approached the door she’d indicated, looking back to make sure she hadn’t moved. She hadn’t, not a muscle, still pressed against the wall as though he were holding her. He put his ear to the door, heard muffled voices, male and female.
He didn’t have any doubts about his next move. He took a step back, raised his foot and rammed it against the flimsy door. It flew open, coming off its top hinge. Morizio leaped into the room and assumed a combat stance, the shotgun at the ready.
Lake was sitting on the floor, a pea-green army blanket wrapped around her. Her abductor stood at the window. “One move, you bastard,” Morizio snarled, “and you’re with Allah.”
Lake scrambled to her feet and came to Morizio, who although he held the shotgun on the young Arab was concentrating on her. He put a free arm around her and pulled her close.
“Sal, it’s all right. He’s not armed. He didn’t hurt me. God, it’s good to see you.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yes.”
Morizio now faced the swarthy man, and it hit him just a shade slower than Lake said it. “It’s Nuri Hafez, Sal, and everything’s going to be all right.”
25
It was the first direct flight they could get to the States. It left at two that afternoon, and they had to scramble to make it. Morizio called Leif Mikkelsen, told him Lake was safe and that they were leaving immediately for Washington. He concluded the conversation with, “Thanks for everything, Leif. I promise that as soon as I square things away back home I’ll be in touch about the tape. Whatever I can do to help nail Inga Lindstrom will be my pleasure.”
Lake called her grandmother in Malmö, Sweden. The old woman didn’t speak English but her housekeeper did. Lake promised to return one day for a visit. She felt terrible to have gotten this close and not seen her grandmother, but she knew time was of the essence. She shed a few tears after she hung up.
After her call to Malmö, Lake went to the local travel agent and arranged to trade in their first-class return tickets for three coach seats. There wasn’t any problem booking the two o’clock flight to New York. It was light, always was that time of year, she was told.
Aunt Eva had gone home. Lake called her, thanked her profusely for everything she’d done and promised her, too, that she’d be back as soon as possible, “To enjoy Copenhagen this time.”
They checked out of the hotel at noon and took a cab to Kastrup Airport, checked their luggage and found a dark corner of the airport bar. Lake and Morizio had beers. Nuri Hafez ordered a Coke.
“They didn’t question it,” Morizio said, referring to the false passport Hafez used. “Must be a good one.”
Hafez nodded. He’d said little since they left Christiania. Morizio had expected him to be edgy but that wasn’t the case. The handsome young Iranian was calm to the point of placidity. There was profound sadness in his face, though, his large brown eyes looking through and beyond Morizio to something only he could see and comprehend. He wore a glove-soft brown leather jacket over a chambray work shirt. His jeans were tight and faded, his engineer’s boots highly polished. He’d brought nothing with him except the bogus passport. “I don’t need anything,” he said when Morizio offered to stop at his house to pack a bag.
They remained in the bar until only a few minutes before flight time, walked quickly to the gate, boarded, and settled in their seats, Lake and Morizio together in a two-seat section, Hafez directly in front of them next to the window. They’d made sure during seat selection that no one would sit next to him.
“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Morizio said to Lake as the giant aircraft rolled down the runway, groaned against gravity, and lumbered into the air. Almost immediately it was wrapped in fog, wings undulating in unsteady air, wing-tip lights creating a strobe effect through dense, gray clouds.
“Let’s wait,” she said, nodding at the back of Hafez’s seat. “By the way, Sal, happy Thanksgiving.”
It was a disgruntled laugh. “Yeah, you, too.”
Turkey was served in honor of the American holiday. Morizio finished his, got up and went to the lavatory. He looked down at Hafez when he returned to his seat. Hafez was sleeping soundly, his head against a pillow on the window, a blue blanket pulled up to his neck.
“Okay, let’s talk,” Morizio said to Lake. “He’s asleep.”
“I wish I were,” she said. “It was a tough night.”
“I’m sure it was.”
Lake had told Morizio enough to keep them in motion between Christiania and their flight. She’d evidently tripped an alarm in Lindstrom’s office when she pushed the wrong rocker switch. Hafez, who was with Lindstrom at the time, was dispatched to check on what had happened. He slammed the door on Lake and called Lindstrom from the warehouse. She instructed him to get rid of Lake. He took her to Christiania.
“Why didn’t he kill you?” Morizio had asked.
“He’s not a killer,” Lake had answered. “He’s never killed anyone in his life.”
Hafez told Lake during their night together that he’d initially stayed in Christiania after fleeing Washington. He’d hated it there and soon moved to a house owned by a friend in the Iranian section of the city. Lindstrom considered that unsafe and arranged for him to live in the tiny, idyllic coastal town of Falsterbo, Sweden, about twenty miles from Malmö, where Lindstrom owned a summer cottage. Hafez was provided a false set of papers and a car, and when it was necessary for him to come to Copenhagen, he used the frequent hydrofoil service from Malmö.
Lake hadn’t told Morizio much more than that, except that as her night of captivity progressed, she found herself engaging in long, probing conversations with Hafez. She realized that he was a victim of many forces, and had become severely disillusioned with everything that had happened to him, and with his current state of affairs. It had taken awhile, Lake told Morizio that morning, to gain Hafez’s full confidence, but once she did, the entire tenor of the situation changed. She asked him direct questions, and he answered them. No, he had not killed Ambassador James but knew he would be blamed. He didn’t know the murderer, but assumed it was Nigel Barnsworth.
“What else did you ask him?” Morizio had asked her that morning.
“Lots of things, Sal, but later,” she’d said. “The important thing is that I’ve convinced him to return to Washington with us to clear his name, and to help us clear ours. He knows his days are numbered here in Copenhagen, that Lindstrom will probably get rid of him.”
“Kill him?”
“Yes.”
Morizio had asked other questions, but was always met with, “All of it later, Sal, I promise. Let’s just get out of here before he changes his mind.”
“If he does, we’ll call in the Danish police. I made contact with that guy I knew, Leif Mikkelsen.”
“And we’ll lose Hafez to them,” Lake had said. “We need him back in Washington.”
Morizio knew she was right and didn’t press further
. But now, on the plane, it was time.
“Okay, Connie,” he said, “lay it all on me, every step, nice and slow.”
“All right. He was…”
“Hafez?”
“Yes, Hafez was as close to the ambassador as he was because of what he knew from James’s days in Iran. Listen to this, Sal. James knew at least a month in advance that the Ayatollah planned to take over the American Embassy. He knew every detail of the plan, the timetable, the works from his friend, Falik el-Qdar. He could have contacted American authorities, or his own people, but he didn’t. Instead, he cut a deal with the new regime allowing him to buy Iranian oil at reduced prices, run it through a brokerage operation, and sell it to the Western world, including the United States. It was like what you told me about caviar, the Iranians selling it to the Russians who slapped their own labels on it to get around the American embargo.”
“A swine. A traitor.”
“Grade-A.”
“Okay. Hafez knows about it, uses it as a wedge to get James to bring him to England, then to Washington?”
“Exactly. But our young friend isn’t all sweet and innocent. He saw a chance to get rich himself in caviar. That’s where Lindstrom came in, James’s mistress, one of them at least. Nuri’s brother in Teheran set up the network, paying fishermen a lot more than the state fisheries would. This, by the way, was done without any sanctions by the Ayatollah. James went along, more for the kick of it, I guess, and the chance to have a constant supply of caviar for his own dinner table. He let Lindstrom and Hafez work it out, which they did, and it functioned smoothly for awhile…”
“Until James wanted out.”
“Wrong, at least not yet. Our Ms. Lindstrom got greedy and saw bigger dollars than fish eggs. She went around Nuri, contacted his brother, and started using the caviar pipeline for drugs. Her primary middleman in the States was Berge Nordkild. Nuri didn’t like it. Running caviar was one thing but heroin, cocaine… That was big trouble, and he knew it. He balked, told the ambassador, who blew his stack. But James couldn’t do anything about it. He was swimming in illegal Iranian oil. He couldn’t blow the whistle because they’d return the favor.”
“Makes sense.” A flight attendant served them brandies they’d ordered. “To progress,” Morizio said, clinking with her glass.
“I’m afraid to. We’ve made some but…”
“But, what do we do with it? I’ve been thinking about that, too.”
They sipped their drinks in silence. Lake, who was at the window, looked out. The skies had broken and the rippling blue Atlantic Ocean was visible through puffy white clouds that looked dense enough to sit on. She was filled with conflicting emotions, her elation at finding Hafez butting heads with the reality of arriving with him in a few hours in New York, then to Washington, then… what then? Visions of her night with Hafez flooded her, then disappeared as she willed them away and focused on the here-and-now, and the tomorrow of their situation. She could see the back of Hafez’s head around the corner of his backrest, thick black curls resting on his neck, the edge of his blue shirt collar lost in them. Were they being smart in taking things into their own hands? Maybe it would have been better to turn him over to Danish authorities and work through them to fill the gaps that still existed. Maybe this, maybe that. It had to work, one way or the other. It had to.
“Connie.”
“Yes?”
“Everything you found out from Hafez is good, but how does it relate to the murders, especially to Paul Pringle. From what you’ve said, I think there’s more probability now that Hafez did kill James, no matter what he says. But Paul, did he know about the oil and the drugs? Did you ask Hafez that?”
“Yes. He assumes that Paul knew everything and was killed to keep him from revealing it, but he doesn’t know for certain.”
“Neither do we.”
“Maybe we will soon, Sal. What do we do once we arrive? Do we waltz him into MPD? I promised him we’d be on his side and do whatever we could to protect him. He’s still a fugitive because he’s alive. We’re harboring a fugitive. You realize that.”
“Of course I do. Damn, I knew from the minute I read about his so-called trial and execution in Iran that it was a phony.”
She squeezed his arm. “That’s what I forgot to tell you. Nuri’s brother was executed, but not for Geoffrey James’s murder. He got caught in the caviar mess and lost his head for stealing from the state. For some reason, the Ayatollah put it out that it had been Nuri. He either did it on his own, or in concert with somebody else who wanted that story public.”
“Okay,” Morizio said, sitting up and finishing the little bit of brandy that remained in his snifter. “We arrive in New York, grab the shuttle to D.C. There we are, two suspended cops and an international fugitive. What’s next?”
“We call someone, I suppose.”
“Who?”
“Chief Trottier?”
“No.”
“Werner Gibronski?”
“The last one I’d call. All that’ll result in is George Thorpe arriving on the scene. Maybe it has to be Trottier. Maybe we can strike a deal with him in return for Hafez.”
“I don’t want to betray him, Sal. We can’t do that.”
“I don’t either, Connie, but we can’t hide him forever. All I want is time to chase down the book Paul is supposed to have left for me.”
“Piccadilly?”
“I’ll start there. I thought of Abdu, but he’s a journalist. Paul never would have trusted him. If it isn’t Piccadilly, I’m lost. It’s the only link with Paul I can think of that he might have used. Jesus, I wish he hadn’t read so many spy novels. All he had to do was tell me.”
“He was afraid.”
“For good reason, I guess, judging from how he ended up.”
“So, who do we call when we get back?”
He said it through clenched teeth. “It has to be Trottier. I don’t see an alternative, unless what I come up with from Paul dictates something else. Let’s not call anybody until we get to that point.”
Hafez woke up and went to the lavatory. “How are you?” Connie asked as he returned to his seat.
“Fine,” he said softly. “Excuse me.” He disappeared behind the backrest.
Morizio looked at Lake. He leaned close and said, “Do you have any doubts about his coming back with us?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s so easy.”
“Not if you spent a night in a cold room like I did.”
“Ah, come on, Connie, I’m not minimizing that, and you know it. It’s just that… I was thinking of the cockroach theory.”
She screwed up her face.
“He’s coming with us because we assume he wants to clear his name and help us clear ours. What if there’s another motive?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have to go with what we have.”
“Yeah. I just wish I was sure what that was.”
***
Late that afternoon they arrived on time at New York’s Kennedy Airport and took a limousine to LaGuardia in time to catch the six o’clock shuttle to Washington. There’d been a tense moment at Kennedy Customs. The official took his time processing Hafez through Passport Control, checking the photograph against his face, slowly going through his passport’s pages, asking questions that Hafez answered calmly and to the official’s satisfaction. He waved him through. Then, the suitcase Morizio had given Hafez for appearance’s sake was thoroughly searched, every item of Morizio’s clothing removed and scrutinized, the bag’s lining carefully patted down. Morizio expected Hafez to be taken to a separate room for a personal search but it didn’t happen.
Morizio continued to be impressed with the young Arab’s demeanor. Nothing seemed to rattle him, the same tranquil expression stayed on his face whether he was sleeping or being interrogated. It wasn’t until they approached Washington in the Eastern 727 that Morizio discerned a hint of anxiety.
<
br /> “What will we do?” Hafez asked Connie.
“In Washington?” She looked across Hafez at Morizio.
“Any ideas?” Morizio asked Hafez.
He shook his head, his eyelids coming down slowly over his big brown eyes, then raising. Nuri Hafez blinked slower than anyone Morizio had ever met.
“Your apartment?” Lake said. “Mine?”
“I don’t think so, not until it’s resolved. They might have slapped another bug in them and…”
“I know where the key to the Iranian Embassy is,” said Hafez.
“The Iranian Embassy? Might make sense, Sal,” Connie said.
“Yeah, not a bad idea,” Morizio said. “We won’t be there long, just until I can dig up what Paul left. All right, the Iranian Embassy it is. That’s okay with you?” he asked Hafez.
“I suggested it.”
“Yeah, you did.” Hafez’s manner irked Morizio but he didn’t say anything.
They walked through Washington’s National Airport, grabbed a cab, and Morizio gave the driver his address in Arlington. They went immediately to his basement garage and took his Chevy Cavalier to 3005 Massachusetts Avenue, the abandoned Iranian Embassy. Morizio waited for a lull in traffic, then drove down the driveway to the rear garages and parked behind them, out of sight from the road. The key to one of the back doors was beneath a large, heavy concrete planter. Hafez moved it aside, found the key, opened the door, reached to his left until coming up with a large flashlight, switched it on, and led Morizio and Lake through the dark interior until reaching a room in the middle of the building. “This is where I stayed,” he said. “There are no windows.”
“No windows?”
Hafez explained. “Security. It is where the most important meetings took place.”
Three of the walls were red and blue ceramic tiles depicting Islamic scenes. The fourth wall, a short one, held a large fireplace. There were ashes in it. Split logs, kindling, and a pile of newspapers were on the hearth.
Morizio flipped a wall switch. “There is no electricity,” Hafez said. “I used the flashlight and the fire.”
“What about smoke?”
Murder on Embassy Row Page 27
