But then the bombing of the café occurred, and Robert Brixton was injected into her life.
* * *
Alvi got up from behind his desk, took her hand, and said, “Thank you for coming, Asal. I hope that it isn’t inconvenient for you at this late hour.”
“No, not at all,” she said.
“Sit, please,” he said, indicating a chair with a high back upholstered in red and yellow silk. “Something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”
“No, I … yes, tea would be fine.”
He picked up the phone and instructed someone to bring tea and basbousa pastries. “With almonds,” he instructed.
He sat back, his fingers laced beneath his chin, and smiled. “So, my dear, it seems that you have been spending time with interesting people,” he said, the smile not fading. “Tell me about this Robert Brixton.”
Asal shook her head and extended her hands. “I don’t know much about him,” she said. “I’ve only met him once or twice.”
“What were the circumstances?” he said.
“I was at a dinner party with him and we … well, we ended up having a drink afterwards.”
“At a nice place I hope.”
“It was … yes, it was nice. The Watergate.”
“This dinner party you attended, Asal. Tell me about that.”
She’d become increasingly uncomfortable and was certain that her posture and voice betrayed it. He continued to smile, his brown eyes sustaining his questions.
“They’re friends of mine,” Asal said, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith. He is a law professor and she, Annabel, owns a gallery in Georgetown and is in my book discussion group.”
“I know of them,” Alvi said. “They are friends of Mr. Brixton.”
He sat back and stared at her.
Alvi’s sudden silence was disconcerting for Asal. It was accompanied by a harsh expression that replaced the smile. She’d seen him employ this ability to instantly switch gears during previous meetings. His intent was to create unrest in the other person, a threat unstated but unmistakable. It became evident to her that while she was paid to keep tabs on people whom Alvi considered enemies, others were being paid to keep tabs on her. That realization was chilling.
“I can’t help but wonder, Asal, why you never mentioned to Kahn your relationship with Mr. Brixton.”
“I would hardly call it a relationship, Mr. Alvi,” she said, realizing how defensive she sounded.
“What would you call it, my dear?”
“I was introduced to him by the Smiths,” she said. “Mrs. Smith and I are friends. It didn’t occur to me to say anything to Kahn about him.”
“Even though he is very much in the news these days? He is, after all, the man who claims that the son of a prominent American congressman was involved in that tragic bombing of the café near the Department of State, and the same man who shot that son in cold blood. It seems to me that befriending such a man would be very much on your mind when reporting to Kahn.”
Asal had indeed weighed telling Kahn about her drinks and dinner with Brixton but decided to avoid the subject. She’d withheld the information out of deference to Annabel and because she was attracted to Brixton and hoped he wouldn’t be someone who would be of particular interest to Alvi. She was obviously wrong. She’d lied to Brixton when he’d asked whether she knew a man named Zafar Alvi, because she wasn’t sure that she was free to acknowledge their relationship.
She hated the situation in which she’d placed herself. She’d become a spy for Alvi. He now controlled her, and as long as she needed the money and held out hope that he would intervene on her brother’s behalf in Iraq, she would continue in that role.
“I admit that I am disappointed in you, Asal,” Alvi said. “I expect more from people who benefit from my generosity.”
“I’m not sure that I understand, Mr. Alvi. It didn’t occur to me that Robert Brixton would be of interest to you.”
“Well, Asal, you now know that I do have an interest in him. The reason isn’t important. What is important is that you use your relationship with him”—the smile returned—“or however you wish to characterize it, to learn everything he does, every place he goes, the people he sees, every aspect of his life. Do I make myself clear?”
“I still do not understand. Robert—Mr. Brixton—is a man who has just lost his daughter and—”
“Yes, a tragedy to be sure, but irrelevant. There are so many tragedies in this world, Asal, so much heartache for our people. Wrongs must be made right. I’m sure you agree. Your brother is a good example.”
“My brother,” she said. “Why do you raise my brother? You told me that you were working through your contacts in Iraq to free him.”
“And I have been making progress, but these things are complex. They take time. Of course, if you prefer to no longer accept my generosity, I’ll have no choice but to curtail my activities on his behalf, and on your behalf, too, of course.”
“No, I do not want that, and I am grateful for what you are doing for my brother. It’s just that…”
“Yes, Asal?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing,” she said.
“So, suppose you tell me what your social engagements with this Brixton fellow have resulted in.”
Asal told Alvi that Brixton had asked about him.
“Did he say why?”
“He said that the young man, the congressman’s son, had been driving one of your cars before the bombing.”
Alvi scribbled a note on a pad. “Go on,” he said.
“That was all.”
“Did you say that we were friends?”
“No. I said that I knew of you, that’s all.”
“What else, Asal?”
She shrugged. “He also mentioned another man, someone named Prisler.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Alvi noted the name on the pad.
“You remain friends with him and with Mrs. Smith?” Alvi asked.
“Annabel Smith and I are friends but I did not plan to see Mr. Brixton anymore until…”
“Until what, Asal?”
“Until he has worked out his many problems. He’s very volatile.”
“I suggest that you make contact with him soon and perhaps help him work out his problems. A beautiful woman is often of considerable aid to a troubled man, eases his tensions, renews faith in his manhood.”
Asal understood the meaning of what he was saying but did not reply.
“And because Mrs. Smith is his friend, she might be a source of information about his activities.”
Asal sat silently.
“Do we understand each other?” Alvi asked.
“Yes” was all Asal said as she stood.
“Here,” Alvi said. He handed her an envelope.
“What is this?”
“A bonus for the good work I know that you will do for me and for our cause. Your brother is safe, although I am not sure how long he will be without my direct intervention. I assure you I am working closely with those who possess the power to release him.”
“And I am grateful for all you are doing, Mr. Alvi. I would like to call a taxi.”
“No need for that. One of my staff will drive you home.”
He came around the desk and placed his hands on her shoulders. “We make a good team, Asal. It will be a mutually beneficial relationship. Safe home. Kahn will be in regular touch from now on.”
Alvi’s conversation with Asal had been recorded. It had also been piped into an adjoining room where Samuel Prisler listened intently. When he was sure that she’d left, he opened the door and joined Alvi.
“I don’t understand you, Zafar,” the large man said as he took the chair that Asal had occupied and shoved a basbousa in his mouth.
Alvi cocked his head.
“Why are you dragging your feet with this Brixton character? You heard her. He knows about you, and he mentioned me to her. He’s obviously hell-ben
t on proving that the Skaggs boy was involved with the young woman you recruited, and has traced him back to me and Hawaii. He has to be gotten rid of—and fast!”
Alvi’s face turned hard. “I am not accustomed to being told what to do,” he said. “You will remember that I am the one who provides a conduit for the weapons you sell. I suggest strongly that you remember that, Sam.”
“You’re not the only customer I have,” Prisler snapped back.
“Perhaps not, but I am your best customer. I must also remind you of your involvement in the project I have undertaken here in Washington.”
“Against my better judgment.”
“No matter. The project is under way. You are tied to it whether you want to be or not.”
“Which makes my point, Zafar. Brixton is dangerous. He’s got to be taken out. If you won’t, I will.”
“Which will be done in all due time, Samuel. You were equally as concerned about Mr. McQuaid. There is no reason for you to be concerned about him any longer. Now, my friend, I suggest we enjoy some of my best cognac and discuss more pleasant things. You’ll be flying home tomorrow. Enjoy your trip and leave everything here to me.”
CHAPTER
22
Two young people were being laid to rest.
As mourners crowded the Mississippi church for the funeral of Paul Skaggs, the priest in Virginia at Janet Brixton’s church service, Father Monroe, combined a standard Catholic Mass with words of his own. “There’s evil in this world,” he said, “and evil took the life of this precious young woman. Those who commit acts such as these often claim to have done it in the name of the God they worship. But there is no God who condones the killing of innocent people. To claim this is to indulge in blasphemy of the worst kind. To claim that their God is a conspirator in such senseless slaughter is to slander that God. Janet’s family and friends have gathered here together to celebrate her much too short life and to give thanks for having known her. As we mourn her death we…”
At the conclusion of the priest’s comments, three laypeople came forward to pay tribute to the young woman whose body lay at rest in the closed coffin. The first to speak was Janet’s sister, Jill, who managed to get through her remarks, written on wrinkled sheets of legal-size yellow paper, despite frequent breaks to regain her composure. She spoke of her sister’s spirit and love of life and the joy she took from music. She also elicited occasional laughs when she mentioned the differences between her and her sister. “We were so different, such different personalities. I will always remember her infectious laugh, which could always be counted on to get her out of scrapes, while I, the serious one, often took the blame.”
Brixton smiled against his tears.
She was followed by Janet’s most recent beau, whose trio had performed at the funeral home. He kept his comments short, stressing what a wonderful partner she’d been, both professionally and romantically. Brixton was impressed with the young man’s poise and the words he spoke, although not necessarily with what he’d chosen to wear for the occasion—black jeans, checkered shirt with what passed for a tie that came halfway down his torso, and a powder-blue suit jacket that needed a dry cleaner. But Brixton silently reminded himself as he sat in a front pew with Marylee, Jill, his grandson, and Miles Lashka, that this was no time to be critical. Janet’s boyfriend had tried to dress appropriately, and his heartfelt sentiments were more important than what he wore. Besides, he was a rock musician on whom a three-piece gray pinstripe suit—even if he owned one—would have looked silly.
Lashka was the final speaker. As much as Brixton disliked the slick lawyer, he had to give him points for smoothly delivering a thoughtful series of vignettes about Janet that her mother had undoubtedly provided him. If you didn’t know better, you’d have thought that he was her natural father.
Throughout the service Brixton was aware that a number of worshippers took notice of him, not because he was Janet’s father but because of the attention the press had paid him. He was uncomfortable with that and wished that the events leading up to his notoriety had never happened. More than anything he wanted it all to disappear—the café bombing, Janet’s death, and the confrontation in the alley with Paul Skaggs. As Father Monroe’s amplified words filled the church, Brixton’s mind drifted away to another dimension.
The bombing and the chaos surrounding it, and facing Skaggs in that alley, occupied what seemed to be a permanent place in his thoughts; he relived those moments over and over. He wondered whether that would always be the case. Was it a definition of hell? It would do.
As people filed from the church and headed for cars to take them to the cemetery, Willis Sayers and Mac and Annabel Smith came up to Brixton. Annabel gave him a hug.
“A nice turnout,” Mac commented.
“Yeah,” Brixton agreed. “She deserved it.”
“We won’t be going to the cemetery,” Annabel said.
“That’s okay,” said Brixton. “I appreciate you coming to the service.”
“Thanks for being here,” Brixton told Sayers after the Smiths had left.
“I liked the priest’s words,” Sayers said, “more down-to-earth than what I hear at most funerals.”
“Coming to the cemetery?” Brixton asked.
“No. Listen, Robert, you heard about Charlie McQuaid.”
“I was supposed to have dinner with him the day he was killed. I ended up having dinner with his sister, a terrific woman, and she gave me papers that he was going to turn over to me when we met. They’re all about Samuel Prisler, his cult on Maui, and his arms dealing.”
“I was told that McQuaid drowned, a fishing accident,” Sayers said.
“Like hell he did,” Brixton growled. “He told me the day before that he’d given up fishing after his wife died. He wasn’t fishing, and he knew his way around boats and the water. Somebody killed him, Will, and whoever did it went through his office. He was a real neatnik, but the office was a mess.”
“Who would have done that?”
“I’m going to find out. Trust me, Will. I will find out!”
“You say he had papers that his sister gave you.”
“Yeah. I’ve read them.”
“They indict Prisler?”
“Damn near. No smoking gun, no definitive piece of evidence, but maybe enough to make law enforcement take notice. McQuaid told me that politics got in the way every time he tried to bring a case against Prisler. Prisler has Congressman Skaggs in his pocket, other politicians too. I’m sure he shovels lots of loot to our esteemed congressmen.”
“Skaggs kept a case from being brought against Prisler?” Sayers said.
“According to McQuaid.”
“I’d love to read those papers.”
“Happy to share them with you.”
“Robert.”
“What?”
“You do realize that whoever killed Charlie McQuaid might have targeted him because of you.”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“Which means—”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll watch my back.”
Brixton heard Marylee calling to him.
“Got to go,” he told Sayers. “We’ll catch up later.”
Brixton had originally wanted to drive his own car in the procession to the Greene burial site, but his daughter Jill convinced him that he should be in the black stretch limo carrying the immediate family. It took a while for the procession of vehicles, flashers on, to fall in line, but it eventually pulled away from the church behind the hearse bearing the casket, uniformed officers directing traffic at the two major intersections that the group had to navigate.
Brixton thought he recognized a few reporters at the church, but they had the decency to not attempt to interview anyone. He saw them again at the cemetery, standing apart from the mourners surrounding the open grave site. His son-in-law, Frank, stood ramrod straight, his arm around his wife, Jill. As Father Monroe recited traditional prayers heard at virtually all Catholic burials, Brixton took
note of another person, a man with a pockmarked tan face, small white mustache, and wearing a tan safari jacket. He didn’t seem to be part of any group. He stood in a clump of trees, his eyes trained on the solemn ritual being performed, and Brixton wondered whether he was one of the gravediggers who’d prepared the plot.
As the mourners walked from the grave site to their cars, two reporters approached Brixton.
“I don’t have a comment,” Brixton said in reply to their questions.
“Do you still claim that Congressman Skaggs’s son was with the suicide bomber?”
Brixton stopped walking and turned to the questioner. “You bet I do, and one of these days I’ll prove it.”
“Congressman Skaggs says that—”
“I don’t care what Congressman Skaggs says,” Brixton snapped. “Maybe you should look into his relationship with gun dealers and cult leaders.”
“Who are you talking about?”
The rest of the family had reached the limo and called to Brixton.
“Who were they?” Jill asked when he caught up with them.
“Media types. I blew them off.”
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