A half hour after leaving the boatyard McQuaid pulled into a shallow inlet and dropped anchor. “Hungry?” he said.
“Yeah,” Brixton replied, “hungry for information about Samuel Prisler.”
“I’ll feed you plenty of that,” McQuaid said. “Let’s sit down and eat—and talk. First of all, tell me what you know about Prisler.”
“Not much. I’m told he runs some sort of cult on Maui in Hawaii. He’s also been accused of being an arms dealer. That’s it.”
“Not a bad start, Mr. Brixton. You’re right on both accounts. Sam Prisler is an evil guy, a twisted son of a bitch, the Antichrist, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Brixton was taken by McQuaid’s bluntness. “I’m not into higher beings,” Brixton said, “but go ahead. I’m listening.”
While McQuaid methodically set up their lunch on a small folding table, each item placed just so, napkins neatly folded, plastic utensils lined up with the napkins’ edges—Charles McQuaid was obviously a well-organized man—he spoke about Samuel Prisler and the years he’d spent at the Justice Department trying to build a case against him.
“I suppose you could say that Prisler became an obsession of mine,” McQuaid said. “I used to get kidded a lot about it when I was at Justice. I deserved it, I guess. I even took trips to Maui to try and dig up information about him from the locals there, used my vacation time for my wife and me to make those trips, and on my dime, I might add.”
“What was it about Prisler that caused you to—well, to become so obsessed about him?”
McQuaid laughed. “You mean to cause me to go off the deep end?”
Brixton added his own laugh. “I didn’t put it that way.”
“Wouldn’t bother me if you did,” McQuaid said. “It’s hard to explain, Robert. I spent most of my later years at Justice in a division whose responsibilities included building cases against arms dealers. We worked with the CIA and other intelligence groups, although it’s never easy to get disparate government agencies to cooperate with each other. The arms smuggling world is a fascinating one. These smugglers share a few things in common, like a total disregard for who their weapons end up slaughtering, and a penchant for being able to rationalize the morality of what they do. It doesn’t matter to them who ends up with the weapons, what their goals are, or who pays the tab. As far as gunrunners are concerned, they’re helping to right wrongs, giving honorable people the wherewithal to accomplish what they consider to be lofty aims. Sometimes it works out that way. The overthrow of a brutal dictatorship is an example. The common people, the downtrodden and disenfranchised, take up arms and bring down a despot. That’s a pretty lofty aim, isn’t it, helping oppressed people achieve freedom through democracy?”
“You’re talking to the wrong guy about lofty aims and bringing down tyrants. That’s the way politicians talk. I avoid politics.”
“That in itself is a lofty aim, Robert,” McQuaid said, laughing and emptying more potato chips from the bag onto a paper plate. “But there’s really no way to escape politics, especially here in Washington, D.C. The point is that there are times when arming people, even when done illegally, can be justified. But then there are times when those being armed are anything but noble. Those are the people who use arms and munitions to kill the innocent, to terrorize—people such as the young woman who blew up that café and killed your daughter, and those who provided her with the weapon. Those people are Samuel Prisler’s clients, Robert. He sells weapons and munitions to terrorists.”
Brixton ate a few chips and finished his beer while McQuaid carefully gathered up the remnants of lunch and placed them in a plastic bag.
“Let me ask you something,” Brixton said. “You talk as though you’ve got the goods on Prisler. You and the people you worked with at the Justice Department spent how many years building a case—five, ten?”
“More like five.”
“Okay, so you spent five years trying to nail the guy. Why didn’t you?”
McQuaid smiled. “You’re asking why we failed?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“A number of factors, Robert. First, it wasn’t as though we had a large department whose only job was to make a case against arms dealers. Far from it. There were just a few of us, and every time we thought we might be getting close, we were pulled off to deal with another case. We were always shorthanded; other priorities kept coming up.”
Brixton interrupted him. “What could be a more important priority than making a case against a guy who arms terrorists, the same people who are out to kill us all? I lost a daughter to one of them. Maybe the bomb that young Islamic woman used was provided by Samuel Prisler.”
Another McQuaid smile, more rueful this time. “That’s always a possibility, although Prisler isn’t the only man providing weapons to terrorists.” He paused and seemed to Brixton to be weighing what he would say next. Content that he had the right words, he said, “You say that you have no interest in politics. I envy that. Working for the Justice Department—for any government department, for that matter—is all politics, or so it sometimes seems. Not only is Sam Prisler a very clever man—of all the arms dealers I’ve tracked, he’s the absolute best at covering his tracks—he also knows how to curry favor with those who call the shots.”
“Politicians?”
“Certain ones. He has a number of them in his pocket, including…”
Brixton cocked his head.
“… including Congressman Walter Skaggs.”
Brixton sat back and bit his lip. He said, “Skaggs is in Prisler’s pocket?”
“According to what I’ve learned. Of course, Skaggs wrapped himself in the flag when derailing any progress we were making in building a case against Prisler. It was always something about national security—isn’t that the usual convenient reason? Skaggs’s staff claimed that Prisler was in sensitive negotiations with freedom-loving groups in the Middle East and that we were to do nothing to jeopardize those negotiations. Skaggs has always been a law-and-order man, a hawk when it came to the so-called war on terror, a real saber rattler. Of course, he never personally interfered with me or my colleagues, but the higher-ups got the message. They knew which side of the bread was buttered for them. Skaggs’s committee holds the purse strings for Justice. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” McQuaid laughed. “My dear departed wife always said that I was too fond of clichés.”
“They’re okay if they get the point across.”
“Exactly my thinking. You do know that Skaggs has a daughter who lives inside the Prisler cult and works for him?”
“Yeah. Will Sayers filled me in on that. I also know that the guy I shot, Paul Skaggs, the congressman’s son, spent some time on Maui with his sister, which means he also spent time with Prisler.” Brixton processed what he’d just been told. “What I don’t get is that if Skaggs is in Prisler’s pocket, as you claim, and Prisler had something to with Skaggs’s son accompanying the young girl into the café just before she blew the place up, why wouldn’t Skaggs be out for Prisler’s scalp?”
“Maybe between us we can get answers to that question and others. I may be retired, Robert, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped looking into Prisler’s dealings. In a sense, having gotten out from under the yoke of working for the Justice Department has freed me up to keep digging without anyone looking over my shoulder. I’ve put together quite a set of files since retiring. I’m happy to share what’s in those files with you.”
“Mind if I ask why you’d do that for me?” Brixton asked.
“As I said when you first arrived, I became angry when I read about what had happened to you, the loss of your daughter, and the incident with Congressman Skaggs’s son.”
“You believe me when I say that Paul Skaggs was with the suicide bomber, and that I shot him because I thought he was holding a weapon?”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you, Robert? I know that Paul Skaggs spent considerable time with Sam Prisler in Hawai
i. His sister has been with Prisler for years. Prisler runs a cult in addition to dealing arms and munitions to terrorists. Those facts don’t necessarily add up, of course, to linking Prisler to the café bombing. But I’d say that there is that possibility. Wouldn’t you?”
“A possibility? Yes. But nothing more than that.”
“Unless you can nail down the link.”
When Brixton didn’t respond, McQuaid continued. “I told you that I was well aware of you and the dilemma you’re in before Will Sayers called and asked that we get together. I should have also mentioned that I had your FBI file pulled. You’ve had an interesting life: four years with the Washington PD, twenty years with the police in Savannah, your marital history, the woman you’ve most recently been involved with, a Ms. Combes, I believe.”
Brixton stared at McQuaid.
“There was also, of course, your fracas with a member of the Russian consulate in New York City, and we can never overlook the case you worked on here in D.C. that struck fear in the heart of the city’s leading social hostess and in the hearts of the occupants of the White House itself.”
“Why did you go to the bother?” Brixton asked, feeling both offended and impressed.
“Let me put it this way, Robert. I’m afraid that unless I can finish what I’ve started where Samuel Prisler is concerned, I’ll never enjoy a peaceful death. From everything I’ve read about you, one of your trademarks is tenaciousness. I admire that. I also assume that you have sufficient motive to want to get to the bottom of your daughter’s tragic death. If that involved Prisler, I’m sure that you’d like to see justice done.”
McQuaid turned from Brixton and peered into the western sky. “That front’s coming in faster than was forecast. We’d better be getting back.”
The two men didn’t speak during the return trip to the dock, where McQuaid secured his boat and deposited garbage in a bin. He’d been right; the rain started coming down the minute they walked into McQuaid’s house.
“I apologize if I’ve confused you, Robert,” McQuaid said. “It’s obvious that I’m obsessive about Samuel Prisler.”
“Apologize for what, wanting to rid the world of somebody like him?”
“For being presumptuous about you,” McQuaid replied.
The retired Justice Department lawyer walked from the kitchen and motioned for Brixton to follow him. They went into a small room off the kitchen that served as McQuaid’s home office. Like the rest of the house and the boat, the room was neat. File folders on the desk were lined up square with each other. A computer occupied the center of the desk, along with two cordless phones in their bases.
“Sorry for the mess,” McQuaid said, indicating a chair on which other file folders rested.
Brixton laughed. “You call this a mess?” he said.
“I don’t usually leave things on chairs,” McQuaid replied as he removed the files and indicated that Brixton should sit there, “but when I knew that you were coming I pulled out folders whose contents I thought you’d be interested in seeing.”
Brixton opened the first folder and started reading.
“Coffee?” McQuaid asked. “Another beer?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Brixton said.
McQuaid left Brixton alone in the office for twenty minutes. When he returned, Brixton said, “I’m having trouble keeping track of Prisler’s corporations.”
“Many of them are shells,” McQuaid said. “As I told you, he’s a clever man, always a few steps ahead of those looking into his business dealings.”
“Maybe if I had more time to make sense of it,” Brixton said.
“I’d suggest we stay and give you all the time you need, but I’m afraid I have to leave. My younger sister lives in Maryland, and I try to visit with her as often as possible. She’s very ill—terminal cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Brixton said.
“But how about you coming back tomorrow, say, for dinner? Those files you’ve been looking at are only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve put together a lot of information about Prisler’s cult that you should see.”
“Sure I won’t be intruding?” Brixton asked.
“Not at all. It will be my pleasure. I see from the FBI file on you that you’re a martini drinker.”
“They even know that about me?”
“Afraid so, Robert. You should pay cash for your drinks. You have a preference in vodka?”
“Vodka? I’m a purist when it comes to martinis. Nothing but gin.”
“Then gin it shall be. See you at five tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here. Thanks for being so open with me, Charles.”
“My pleasure, Robert. Maybe between us we can take Mr. Samuel Prisler down. And call me Charlie.”
CHAPTER
16
Brixton drove from McQuaid’s house to Arlington, where he decided to drop in on Mike Kogan. He was in luck; Kogan was alone in his office.
“How are you doing, Robert?” his boss asked.
“Okay, I suppose. I’ve got Janet’s funeral coming up. If anyone suggested that I’d be attending my daughter’s funeral, I’d have called them nuts. But it’s true. It’ll be a closed casket because…” He fought against the catch in his voice.
Kogan said, “I made some inquiries at MPD about Paul Skaggs and his movements after returning to D.C. from Hawaii.”
“I appreciate that, Mike. What did you come up with?”
“Not a lot. I did learn that he stopped off in New York City before coming here.”
“Why?”
Kogan shrugged. “Airline records show that he flew from Hawaii to JFK three weeks before the bombing.”
“How long did he stay in New York?”
“I don’t know. I had my guy at MPD check plane, train, and rental-car records for the time between his arrival in New York and the bombing. Nothing.”
“What did he do, walk here?”
“Or got a ride with someone.”
“Why didn’t I think of that? Who do you figure drove him?”
“Maybe he hitched a ride.”
“I just came from a meeting with Charles McQuaid. I told you about him.”
“Was he helpful?”
“Yeah, he was. I’m going back tomorrow for dinner and to go through material he’s developed on Samuel Prisler. Did your PD contact have any info on where Paul Skaggs went and what he did once he was back in D.C.?”
“Just one thing, Robert. He got a traffic ticket a week before the bombing.”
“He had a car?”
“Not his. Skaggs couldn’t produce the registration, said it belonged to someone else—Zafar Alvi.”
“Sounds Middle Eastern.”
“Yeah, it is. You know about him, Robert?”
“No.”
“He’s a big shot in the Arab-American community here in D.C., an Iraqi, although he’s wired into the Pakistan and Afghanistan embassies.”
“And he loans his car to the Skaggs kid?”
“Evidently, unless Skaggs stole it.” Kogan laughed. “I kind of doubt that. Aside from knowing that Skaggs was driving a borrowed car during the weeks before the bombing, MPD says there’s no record of him, no credit-card use, nothing to indicate where he stayed—zippo, like he didn’t exist.”
“Maybe this guy Alvi rented him a room,” Brixton said. “You have an address for him?”
“It’s on this slip.” He handed it to Brixton, who saw that the car Skaggs had been driving was registered to Zafar Alvi on Thirty-first Street NW, on the fringes of Georgetown.
“Thanks, Mike. I appreciate this.”
“Just don’t stick your neck out too far, Robert. By the way, you heard about another murder of an embassy employee?”
“No.”
“A guy from the French embassy on Reservoir Road. He was found this morning in Rock Creek Park, shot twice.”
“Anything else about him?”
“DSS is having a briefing. I’ll know more then.” He checked his watc
h. “I’d better get over to State. I wish your situation would resolve itself, Robert. With embassy people dropping like flies, I could really use you.”
Brixton left the building with Kogan and watched him get into his car and head for the State Department. The rain had let up; it was more of a mist-cum-fog that hung over the area. He paused to look at faded color photographs of featured dishes in the window of the Thai restaurant, which didn’t tempt him. Among many rules Robert Brixton had adopted over the years was to never eat in a restaurant that had color pictures of its food in the window.
Since signing on with SITQUAL, he’d explored Arlington watering holes. There were plenty of them near where he lived on Capitol Hill, but he was turned off by too much political talk, too many cocksure young men in suits and self-assured young women, all basking in the glow of the politicians they worked for. Working for a member of Congress never seemed to Brixton to be cause for celebration or ego gratification. Besides, the crowd that gathered at those watering holes tended to be twenty-somethings, a demographic with which he wasn’t comfortable. Not that he considered himself old. At fifty-one and with a full head of coarse gray hair that he wore in a modified crew cut, he was confident that he could take any of them one-on-one. Not that any of them were issuing any challenges. Still, not a workout freak, he exercised regularly and had managed to keep his midsection fairly flat.
He’d liked Eventide’s rooftop bar, and its next-door neighbor Spider Kelly’s. But he finally settled on the downstairs bar at the Liberty Tavern on Arlington’s Wilson Boulevard strip, preferring its dark atmosphere (which often matched his mood) and the quiet professionalism of its adult bartenders. He also appreciated its clientele, who tended to keep to themselves and didn’t consider conversation a requisite for enjoying a drink.
“How are you, Robert?” the bartender asked as Brixton slid onto a barstool.
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