Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “The AP. Any chance of getting together after this is over so I can ask you a few questions?”

  “I’d rather not,” Brixton said. “Like I said, I don’t like to talk about it.”

  A woman across the table who’d overheard the conversation said, “Are you here to write about the evening?”

  “You might say that,” Brixton replied.

  They were interrupted by the woman at the podium, who invited everyone to enjoy their meal, and announced that the formal portion of the event would start after dinner.

  It hadn’t occurred to Brixton that he would be seated at a table of journalists, and that fact made him uncomfortable. He knew that he’d become the focus of attention, not only among his tablemates, but at other tables too. His seatmate from the Associated Press had visited guests at nearby tables during the meal and had mentioned who Brixton was. People turned to look at him. The reporter tried a few times to engage Brixton in conversation about the café bombing and the shooting of Paul Skaggs but was politely rebuffed, although Brixton found it increasingly difficult to continue to be courteous.

  When the meal finally ended—rather than rubber chicken, the entrée was nicely cooked beef medallions—the evening’s emcee took the microphone to introduce a member of Congress, who gushed ten minutes of praise for Zafar Alvi and his efforts to foster better relations between the United States and Middle Eastern nations. Brixton pulled a pad and pen from his breast pocket and pretended to take notes. The congresswoman sat to applause as the evening’s next speaker, a Washington businessman with offices in Iraq and Pakistan, lauded Alvi for creating an atmosphere in which American companies could establish businesses in those countries, leading to a better quality of life for their citizens. At the conclusion of his speech, the emcee introduced the reason for the gathering, Zafar Alvi.

  Brixton watched the Arab American take the podium and wait for the applause to ebb, before saying, “I am truly humbled to stand here before you and to be honored in such a lovely way.” He looked down to guests at the front tables and said, “My life is rich with friends, and I thank each and every one of you for sharing this evening with me.”

  Brixton strained to make out who was at those tables, aside from Alvi’s young assistants, but he was too far away and couldn’t see past the sea of heads separating him from the front of the room.

  Alvi, who was dressed in what could only be described as a silver suit, white shirt, and red tie, and whose rings glistened when caught by the lights, went on to extol the American people and their efforts to bring democracy to Iraq and Afghanistan. Brixton surveyed others at his table. A few were making notes. Would they really write about the evening, or were they there for a free meal? It didn’t matter, nor did it concern him. He’d come to the dinner, compliments of Will Sayers, to see in person this man who might have had something to do with his daughter’s grisly death and the slaughter of so many other innocent victims.

  Alvi went on for another ten minutes. When he’d finished and basked in the applause, Brixton excused himself and took a circuitous route along the wall in the direction of the dais. He didn’t know what he intended to do or what he would say, but he knew that he had to get closer, see Alvi in person and if possible let him know that he was in Brixton’s sights.

  Alvi was in a receiving line of well-wishers, and Brixton joined it. He took note that the guest of honor was flanked by his two young aides, their faces unsmiling, their eyes taking in each person who extended a hand and told Alvi how impressed they were with his work and his efforts to bring about a better understanding between cultures. Behind Alvi was a tall bulky man in a black suit and shirt, a white tie, and whose head was shaved. His dusky face was a blank slate.

  As Brixton inched forward, he kept his eyes on Alvi, ignoring everything else that was going on in the vicinity. It was when he was four people removed from shaking the great man’s hand that he saw her seated at one of the front tables, laughing at something a companion had said. He was stunned. Asal Banai was at the table reserved for Alvi’s closest friends. How could it be? She’d told him that she knew of Alvi, not that she was personally involved with him.

  He was now one person away from Alvi. Brixton kept shifting his gaze from Alvi to Asal, who had not yet seen him in the receiving line. The guest in front of Brixton stepped away, and Brixton was now face-to-face with Alvi, who extended his hand. Brixton took it and said while gripping it, “Robert Brixton. You know who I am.”

  The broad smile that had crossed Alvi’s face disappeared.

  “I’m the guy who shot Paul Skaggs,” Brixton said, leaning close to keep the person behind him from hearing. “You know, the congressman’s kid who was driving one of your cars before he and his girlfriend blew up the café and my daughter.”

  It took the young men flanking Alvi a moment to realize that this was a confrontation, not a congratulatory handshake. They moved closer to their boss, one tucking his hand into his jacket, where Brixton surmised he carried his holster. The other recognized Brixton from the encounter at the car and said, “It’s him.”

  Alvi forcefully pulled his hand free and said, “You are holding up the line.”

  “That’s okay,” Brixton said. “I want private time with you, Mr. Alvi. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

  Alvi’s bodyguards were poised to grab Brixton but knew that they couldn’t without drawing attention to the scene. The smile returned to Alvi’s face as he said, “I would be pleased to meet with you, Mr. Brixton, extremely pleased. Call me and we’ll arrange a time.”

  He turned to greet the person behind Brixton, but Brixton didn’t move.

  “How about after this nice little affair is over?” Brixton said.

  The smile disappeared. “I suggest you make way for someone else,” Alvi said, his voice low and menacing.

  Brixton realized that there was nothing to be gained by holding his ground. He moved to his left, which brought him closer to the table at which Asal sat. She looked up and their eyes met. Her face flooded and paled in quick succession, and her body language mirrored her dilemma—acknowledge him or bolt? He made the decision for her by approaching the table and saying, “Hello, Asal. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Hello, Robert,” she said, forcing a light tone. “I didn’t know that you would be coming to the dinner.”

  He started to respond but she quickly got up, excused herself to the others at the table, and walked away. He followed. He caught up with her in the vestibule. “I thought you didn’t know Alvi,” he said.

  “I didn’t.”

  He guffawed. “Then how come you’re seated at one of his prime tables?”

  She’d obviously been shaken at seeing Brixton, but now she injected a steely quality into her voice. “Zafar Alvi has made a generous donation to my organization, and he invited me along with others who benefit from his generosity.”

  “When did he do that, this morning?”

  “I resent your tone, Robert.”

  “And I resent being lied to, Asal. Come on, level with me. How long have you known him?”

  Her deep, prolonged sigh said much. “I refuse to be questioned by you,” she said. “Excuse me. There are others I need to speak with inside. You may not be aware of it, Mr. Brixton, but running a nonprofit organization takes time. It takes meeting people with money who believe in what you are doing and who put their funds behind those beliefs.”

  Brixton lowered his voice. “What about his belief in selling illegal arms and taking care of a guy like Paul Skaggs before he kills my daughter, lending him a car to drive, and who knows what else?”

  “I don’t wish to discuss this here, Robert. If you still want to have dinner tomorrow night I’ll—”

  The man in the black suit and the shaved head suddenly stepped between them. “Is there a problem, Ms. Banai?” he asked through a heavy accent.

  “No, Kahn, no problem,” she said. “I’m going back inside.”

  Brixton watched her
walk back into the ballroom, skirting tables and stopping to greet someone, her wide smile never leaving her. He considered going after her but resisted. He would call her, and if dinner was still on the agenda, he’d pursue it then.

  Kahn, who stood a full four inches taller than Brixton, remained at his side, arms folded, face devoid of expression.

  “You work for Alvi?” Brixton said.

  “Good night,” the man named Kahn said.

  “Yeah, good night to you, pal,” Brixton muttered. When he turned, he saw that Alvi had left the ballroom along with his two young acolytes.

  Brixton walked away, aware that Kahn’s eyes were boring holes into his back. He felt at a loss. His attempt to shake up Alvi had failed. His brief words with Asal Banai had resulted only in her anger at being confronted. As he walked through the lobby and stepped out onto Sixteenth Street NW, anger welled up in him. He was back in Washington, D.C., where it seemed that nothing good had ever happened to him. He’d spent four years there as an unhappy cop, had married the wrong woman, was almost killed by a psychopath when he’d pursued a case while a PI in Savannah, had lost a daughter in a senseless suicide bombing, and just now learned that he really didn’t know the woman he was involved with. “I hate this city,” he said under his breath, and for a moment thought he might be capable of going crazy, attacking passersby, screaming invectives, betraying himself.

  Instead, he drew a series of deep breaths and walked in the direction of Lafayette Park, also known as the President’s Park, part of Lafayette Square across from the White House. He’d spent time there while a D.C. cop, finding a modicum of solace when things went downhill with Marylee or with his superiors.

  He had a favorite spot, a fountain dedicated to a couple of obscure Washingtonians of another era—Archibald Butt, a military aide to President Taft, and an artist named Francis Davis Millet. Brixton wasn’t into history but he found the men for whom the fountain was constructed in 1913 to be of particular interest. From what he’d read Butt and Millet had shared an elegant house in Washington. (Millet’s wife, Lily, spent most of the year in their home in Italy.) The men had died together as passengers on the Titanic. Brixton was fascinated about the Titanic lore and had often imagined himself on that ship, fighting for survival. Now he was fighting to stay calm.

  He sat on a bench and struggled to put his thoughts in order, to decide what to do next. Was it all a wasted exercise? he wondered. Was it possible that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how doggedly he pursued the truth, that nothing would change? He’d seen it too many times before in Washington, D.C., crimes buried under layers of lobbyists’ cash and influence, elected officials avoiding being called to account for their misdeeds because they belonged to the D.C. “insiders’ club.” He knew that Samuel Prisler and Zafar Alvi were involved in some way with the bombing. He knew that Charlie McQuaid had been murdered because he’d gotten too close to making them account for their crimes. Was the string of murders of homosexual employees of foreign embassies somehow involved? Was Lalo Reyes in Prisler’s cult on Maui? If so, what did that mean? Had Paul Skaggs been a member of that cult, too? His sister was. Those facts swirled around in his head like a cyclone, and he knew that making the right connections at that moment was difficult, if not impossible.

  He leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes. It was quiet and serene. He thought of Flo Combes at dinner with Mac and Annabel Smith. He thought of Asal seated at a prime table for a dinner honoring Zafar Alvi, someone she’d said she’d never met. He was deep into those thoughts when he sensed that he was no longer alone in this secluded area of the park. There wasn’t any noise, no footsteps on the walk, no breathing, no inadvertent cough or sneeze. But he felt the presence of someone.

  He tensed as he kept his eyes closed, his hand sliding down his leg toward the Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver in his ankle holster. He slowly opened his eyes. As he did, a length of cord was slipped over his head and pulled tight against his throat. It yanked him against the back of the bench with such force that it was almost ripped from its ground anchors. Brixton’s hands frantically went to his throat as he tried to pull loose the rope that dug into his flesh and threatened to cut off his breathing. Instinctively, he reversed his actions. He slid his rear end forward, which caused the noose around his neck to move up to beneath his jaw. Simultaneously, he twisted to his right, almost lying down on the bench. Then, he kicked up one leg and directed it at the head of his assailant. That he was able to do this surprised both him and his attacker. His foot smashed into the man’s face and sent him tumbling into bushes behind the bench. Brixton rolled off the bench to his knees. He fumbled for the weapon in his ankle holster, retrieved it, and leveled the barrel at where the rope wielder’s head had been. He was gone. Brixton stumbled to his feet and stood unsteadily, his revolver pointed into the black void behind the bench. The sound of someone crashing through bushes sent Brixton limping around the bench to where his attacker had stood only seconds earlier. He desperately wanted to follow, but a searing pain shot down his back into his right leg and he dropped to the ground, his chest heaving as he gulped in air. He used the bench to haul himself up again and peered in the direction his assailant had taken, but there was no sign of him. All was quiet and serene again.

  Brixton slumped on the seat. He stuffed the abandoned rope in his pocket, returned the Smith & Wesson to its holster on his ankle, and continued to draw in the night air until he was again breathing normally and the pain in his back and leg had subsided. Slowly he got to his feet and walked from Lafayette Square to H Street, where he hailed a taxi that took him home.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Brixton stood in his bathroom and examined his neck in the mirror. The braided strand of rope his attacker used had sliced into his flesh, leaving a vivid red line. The pain in his back and leg had returned, and he’d popped a couple of Tylenols, washed down with gin on the rocks.

  He had debated going to the police to report the assault but decided it wouldn’t accomplish anything. He would mention it to Kogan at SITQUAL, and it would provide dinner table conversation with Sayers and the Smiths. But the resolution would not come from the police or any other agency. It was his problem and his alone.

  As vicious as the attack had been, it didn’t take center stage in his thinking as he carried his drink to the balcony and looked up into an overcast sky that promised rain before morning.

  Asal’s presence at the dinner pushed all other thoughts aside. There had to be a plausible explanation for why she had denied knowing Alvi. She owed him an explanation.

  He figured the attack had to have been the result of his confrontation with Alvi. It would be too much of a coincidence for him to have been mugged by some street type immediately following the dinner. Besides, muggers didn’t usually strangle their victims. This was a planned hit, and it took its place in the jumble of incidents that marked his life these days.

  Alvi had said to set up an appointment. He obviously didn’t mean it; it was a ploy to avoid the confrontation that was taking place. The last person Zafar Alvi wanted to meet with was Robert Brixton. A better bet was that the mover and shaker wanted Robert Brixton dead. Still, he decided that he would take Alvi up on his empty offer, if only to reinforce that he was still pursuing the Arab American.

  Brixton took a swallow of gin and smiled to himself. In a sense, what had happened that night had been beneficial, and a wave of satisfaction washed over him. He was now free of any lingering doubts he’d had up to that juncture about whether Alvi was involved in the café bombing. He felt liberated. Until then he’d been a victim, just as his daughter had been the victim of the crazed young woman who’d blown up herself and others in the name of God knew what. No, he told himself, you’ve allowed yourself to be a victim. That’s past tense. It was time to answer all the questions, put the pieces together, identify who was responsible for Janet’s brutal murder, and take action.

  * * *

  Brixton was
n’t the only person contemplating taking action that night.

  Zafar Alvi returned home from the dinner honoring him, went directly to his study, and summoned Kahn from the garage, where he’d been busy running a chamois over the car they’d used that night.

  “Well?” Alvi said when his large right-hand man appeared.

  “It should be taken care of by now,” Kahn said.

  “‘Should be’? You don’t sound certain.”

  “I don’t think that Mr. Brixton will be a problem any longer,” Kahn said.

  “You’d better be right,” Alvi said. He pushed a button on the answering machine on his desk and listened to incoming messages. Two were from Samuel Prisler in Hawaii. He’d just picked up the phone to return those calls, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Peter, one of Alvi’s young assistants, sheepishly entered the room holding a bloody rag to his face.

  “What’s this?” Alvi demanded.

  “I was … he was … I tried but—”

  “He’s alive?” Kahn asked.

  “I thought I had him, but he was stronger than I figured and—”

  Alvi slapped his hand on the desk. “You idiot!” he said.

  “I couldn’t help it. I thought—”

  “Where is he?” Alvi asked.

  “I don’t know,” Peter replied. “We were in the park across from the White House. We were alone. No one saw us.”

  “Except for Brixton.”

  “No, he didn’t see me,” Peter said. “I ran before he got up.”

  “Get out of here. Get out of my sight!” Alvi yelled.

  Peter started to protest, but Kahn physically pushed him through the door and slammed it behind them.

  Alvi picked up the phone and dialed Prisler’s number in Maui. “I’m returning your calls,” he said when Prisler came on the line.

  “You’re damn right I called. What’s going on there?”

  “Nothing. Everything is fine.”

  “Like hell it is. That fruitcake Reyes is back.”