“He’s a nice young man,” Alvi said.
“Did this ‘nice young man’ tell you that Brixton attacked him before he left D.C.?”
“Hold on a second, Samuel,” Alvi said as he switched on a small digital recorder attached to the phone. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“Reyes comes back here looking like a scared rabbit. He starts babbling how Brixton broke into his apartment, held a gun to his head, and asked him questions about me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Alvi. “What specifically did he tell Mr. Brixton?”
“Who the hell knows? He babbled on, says he told him nothing about my operation here on Maui, but I don’t believe a word he says. The point is that Brixton suspects that Reyes is involved with me. What I want to know is who else has Brixton told?” Before Alvi could respond, Prisler said, “I told you that Brixton has to be taken care of, and you said you’d do it.”
“I don’t think we should be discussing this on the phone, Samuel. Perhaps you could make another trip to Washington.”
“Why, to get another runaround from you? Take care of Brixton and anybody else he’s been blabbing to, damn it, or I will!”
“I’ll speak with you again in a few days, Samuel. In the meantime I suggest that you compose yourself. Men who lose their equilibrium also often lose their lives.” He hung up.
Kahn returned to Alvi’s study.
“I am very disappointed with Peter,” Alvi said. “It would have been better to assign Jacob to take care of Brixton. He proved himself with Mr. McQuaid.”
“I’ll have him come in, Zafar.”
“Yes, please do. In the meantime add to our security at the house, at least until we can read the tenacious Mr. Brixton’s obituary in The Post.”
* * *
Brixton had just left his balcony to refresh his drink when the phone rang.
“Robert, it’s Asal. We must talk.”
“That’s right, Asal, we have to talk.”
“I know that you think I’ve lied to you about Mr. Alvi, but I haven’t. You don’t understand how important it is to me and to my organization to have the financial backing of such a man.”
“You’re probably right,” Brixton said wearily. “You see him as this guy on a white horse, coming to the rescue of people like you and your organization. What you don’t know is that he’s someone who deals illegal arms to terrorist groups around the world, and who took good care of Paul Skaggs before the kid brought the suicide bomber to the café that killed my daughter.”
“I cannot believe that,” she said.
“Tell you what, Asal. We’re on for dinner tomorrow night. Let’s keep that date, only let’s do it someplace private, like your apartment or mine. I’m not up to being in public. Make it my place. I’ll order in food and we can hash this thing out. Okay?”
“What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at six and bring you back here.”
* * *
The following night Mac and Annabel Smith spent the evening at a dinner party hosted by the British ambassador to the United States at the British embassy on Massachusetts Avenue NW. Mac had been on a panel of American and British legal scholars whose mission was to explore the differences between the two country’s legal systems, and how those differences impacted relations between them. Recently there had been two cases of Americans tried in British courts who’d been found guilty but whose lawyers had filed appeals based upon the actions of the trial judge.
“We’ve always had a problem with your judges summarizing the evidence for the jury before it deliberates,” Mac commented during dinner. “It can be prejudicial.”
“But necessary to ensure that the jury understands the weight of each side’s presentation,” one of Smith’s British colleagues countered.
A law professor from Harvard backed up Smith’s view, which led to a strident defense of the British system by another British panel member.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the ambassador said, laughing. “I thought this was all hashed out during your meetings.”
“I’m not sure that we can ever come to an agreement about it,” said the Brit.
“Especially considering the language barrier,” Smith joked.
At one point Annabel, a former attorney herself, weighed in and delivered a reasoned view of the debate, which had one of the Brits at the table actually applauding.
And so it went for the remainder of the evening. As the group filed from the stately home, the ambassador and the Smiths engaged in a final conversation.
“A splendid evening,” said the ambassador, “despite the tragic event today.”
“What was that?” Annabel asked.
“I’m afraid that a trusted staff member assigned to our military attaché office, was gunned down in cold blood.”
Mac and Annabel looked at each other.
“When did this happen?” Mac asked.
“Four o’clock this afternoon. I was informed of it an hour before everyone arrived. I’m sure you’ll read about it in tomorrow’s papers”
“Another embassy murder,” Mac commented.
“It does seem that there have been a raft of them lately,” the ambassador said grimly. “He was a good chap, extremely well liked by everyone. He’ll be missed dearly.”
“Do the authorities have any leads?” Annabel asked.
“Too soon, I’m sure,” said the ambassador. “I asked to be briefed on a regular basis.”
Both Mac and Annabel immediately thought of The Post feature article speculating that a gay-and-lesbian-hating serial killer might be on the loose in D.C. Tactfulness kept them from bringing it up to the ambassador despite their being curious as to the sexual orientation of this latest victim. Instead, they expressed their condolences, thanked him for a lovely evening, and drove home.
* * *
Flo Combes was watching the TV news in her robe when the Smiths arrived home. The murder of the British military attaché came up in the report and provided some additional information. His name was Geoffrey Thomas, age thirty-eight, married and with two children. His body was found late that afternoon in a parking lot in the Adams Morgan section of D.C. Authorities were investigating his movements leading up to the killing, and canvassing the Adams Morgan neighborhood for anyone who might have seen the victim prior to his death.
“How many murders of embassy people does that make?” Flo asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mac answered, silently running through those he knew about. “At least six, maybe seven.”
“I’m glad I don’t work for an embassy here in Washington,” she said.
“It does seem like high-risk employment these days,” Mac said. “It’s got everyone, embassy worker or not, on edge. Nightcap, Flo?”
“Love one.”
“You won’t mind if we get changed, too?” Annabel asked.
“Please, get comfortable. Forget I’m here.”
The Smiths changed into their nightclothes and carried snifters of cognac to the balcony, where Flo joined them.
“I’ll be interested in hearing Robert’s take on this,” Mac said.
“Despite what The Post speculated, this victim wasn’t homosexual,” Annabel commented.
“Or doesn’t appear to be,” Mac said. “Being married and having kids isn’t a guarantee that he didn’t have a second, secret life.”
“I know that, Mac, but it doesn’t make sense that the gays and lesbians who’ve been murdered also happen to work for foreign embassies.”
“Have you spoken with Robert again?” Flo asked.
“No, but I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”
“He’s … he’s a good guy,” Flo commented.
“Robert?” Annabel said. “We’d certainly agree with that.”
“Breaking up with him was stupid,” Flo said. “He can be exasperating at times, bullheaded and cynical, but I’m afraid I overreacted.”
“We all do at times,” Annabel offered.
<
br /> “I think that leaving Savannah caused the breakup,” Flo said. “Robert never especially liked it, but at least he had a presence there that he lost once we were back in New York. He spent twenty years on the Savannah police force and had his own PI agency. Once we were in New York, he seemed to be struggling to find himself.”
“From what he’s told us, he wasn’t crazy about Washington either,” Mac said.
Flo laughed. “I don’t think Robert will ever like where he is. Maybe that’s part of his problem, or maybe that’s part of his charm. I’ve already extended my stay to two nights. I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow. I’ll move to a hotel. I’m not going to stay in Washington long.”
“Then why do that?” Annabel said. “We enjoy having you with us, and there’s no sense in spending money if you don’t have to.”
“That’s really sweet of you but … well, I’m hoping that Robert and I can find some time for a serious talk about our relationship. I know he’s insanely busy trying to work out his problems, but I at least need a chance to tell him how sorry I am that we broke up and maybe, just maybe, give it another go.”
“Staying with us might help grease those skids,” Mac said. “I can talk to Robert and encourage him to find time to discuss things with you.”
“You would do that?” Flo said.
“I’d be happy to.”
Flo was silent for a few moments before saying, “There is another woman in his life, isn’t there?”
Annabel visually checked her husband before saying, “He met a woman here one evening, Asal Banai, and I believe they’ve had dinner together once or twice. But I wouldn’t say that there’s anything special between them. That’s something you can ask him when you get together.”
“What an unusual name,” Flo said.
“Asal was born in Iraq, but she’s been here for at least ten years. We’re in a book discussion group together. She’s very nice. I’m sure you’d like her.”
Mac didn’t necessarily agree with his wife, considering the situation, but withheld comment.
Later, after everyone had gone to bed, Annabel said to Mac in their darkened bedroom, “I like Flo.”
“You like Asal too.”
“That’s right. I like them both. I just hope that Robert doesn’t hurt either one.”
“He’s a big boy, Annabel, and they’re grown women. Whatever happens, happens.”
“Good night, Mac,” she said, rolling over to kiss him.
“Good night, Annie.”
As he turned onto his side, she heard him mutter, “Another embassy murder. What in hell is going on?”
CHAPTER
28
Brixton was about to leave his apartment to get breakfast when Will Sayers called.
“How was dinner?” Sayers asked.
“Do you mean the food?” Brixton said. “Not bad. As for the rest of it, I’ve got a bloody line on my neck from ear to ear and a squashed Adam’s apple.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll buy you breakfast. I want to show you something.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
They met a half hour later at The Diner on Eighteenth Street NW, in Adams Morgan. Brixton got there first, and while he waited he read about the murder of the British military attaché in a parking lot not far from where he sat.
“Another one,” Brixton said, pointing to The Washington Post’s open page when Sayers arrived.
“I saw it. What do you hear from your pal, Mike Kogan?”
“Nothing yet, but I’m sure I will.”
Sayers leaned closer and looked at Brixton’s neck. “So what happened to you?”
Brixton gave him a play-by-play of the dinner and its aftermath.
“Did you see who attacked you?”
“No, but I’d bet my last nickel that he was dispatched by the night’s guest of honor.”
“And you say that that pretty lady we met at the Smiths’ apartment was at the dinner, front row center?”
“Right. I’ll see what she has to say tonight. We’re having dinner. To add to my soap opera life, Flo, my ex, is in town, staying with the Smiths.”
“Oh, ho,” Sayers said. “You think you have problems with gunrunners and terrorists? Wait until you get in between two women vying for the attention of the handsome, erudite Robert Brixton.”
“No one has ever called me that before,” Brixton said, laughing.
The waitress broke into their conversation and took their orders.
“You seem to end up in trouble everywhere you go,” Sayers said after she’d gone.
“Seems that way. You said you had something to show me.”
“Right.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out the multipage article he’d written about the café bombing and Brixton’s involvement with it, including his shooting Paul Skaggs in the alley.
“It’s long,” Brixton said, “and you could have picked a better picture of me, like the ones that make me look like George Clooney.”
“Don’t give me a hard time, Robert.”
“This for me to keep?”
“Yeah. I was surprised when the paper’s syndicate decided to put it out on their wire.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’ll be picked up by newspapers around the world. At least it might be.”
“Will it make me rich?”
“No, but you’ll have dozens of adoring fans clamoring for your autograph.”
“Or coming after me with a rope.” Brixton grunted, folded the piece, and put it in his suit jacket pocket. Their breakfast came and they ate in silence until Sayers asked, “So, what’s next, now that Alvi set his goon on you and gave you a necklace?”
“Not sure what to do next.”
“What about Asal? Think she’s involved with Alvi?”
Brixton shrugged and finished the last bite of his western omelet. “She says he’s just a benefactor supporting her organization. What bothers me is that she claimed she’d never met him, but only a few days later she’s at table numero uno. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, but there’s something not quite right.”
“Sure you’re not seeing conspiracies behind every door?”
“That’s not me, and you know it, Will.”
“Mea culpa,” Sayers said. “Where are you going when we leave here?”
“SITQUAL to see Mike Kogan.”
“What about your lady friend, Flo Combes?”
Brixton grimaced and drained the last of his coffee. “I’ve been avoiding that.”
“Don’t,” Sayers said with finality. “I always liked her, Robert. Don’t blow her off.”
“Advice to the lovelorn?”
“I’m full of advice, my friend. Just don’t be a jackass and screw up your life any more than it is.” He motioned for the check. “And start sitting with your back to the wall. Whoever gave you that crimson necklace is likely to try again.”
* * *
Brixton met with Kogan at SITQUAL.
“This Brit who got it,” Brixton said. “What’s new on it?”
“Not much. MPD came up empty when they canvassed Adams Morgan. The guy was evidently going to his car when somebody came up from behind and put two in his head.”
“Nobody knows why he was there in the afternoon? He was a military attaché. Seems he’d be at the embassy doing whatever military attachés do.”
“Between us?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“MPD talked to somebody who claims that Thomas—that’s his name—that he might have been with a girlfriend just before he died.”
“Not gay.”
“That’s a fair assumption.”
“Who’s the girlfriend?”
A shrug of Kogan’s broad shoulders. “I don’t have that information. Wish you were back in the saddle, Robert. We’re swamped here.”
“I’m yours for the asking. Sure he wasn’t playing kissy-face with a guy?�
��
Kogan shook his head, not in response to Brixton’s question, but as a general display of how he was feeling. “Despite what The Post says, these embassy murders aren’t the work of a homophobe. That’s too easy an answer. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s something far deeper here than bias crimes.
“I won’t argue with you,” Brixton said.
“How are you making out?” Kogan asked.
“Okay.”
Kogan hadn’t noticed the thin red line on Brixton’s neck until now. “Cut yourself shaving?” he asked.
“No.”
Brixton explained.
“And you think that Zafar Alvi put the hit out on you?”
“It’s a solid bet that he did. He’s not going to like this. I’m an international celebrity now.” He handed Kogan Sayers’s syndicated piece about him.
Kogan perused the article. “Hollywood’s next,” he quipped.
“I’ll make sure you’re invited when I win the Oscar. I’ll get out of your hair. Give me a call if you come up with anything new on this latest embassy murder.”
Brixton left SITQUAL’s office and meandered along the street, gazing in shop windows and trying to come up with his next step. His conflict with Asal would hopefully be resolved at dinner that night. He’d intended to try confronting Alvi again but now thought better of it. He’d been lucky to escape with his life last night, and based upon the attack on him, Mr. Zafar Alvi wasn’t likely to welcome another intrusion. No sense walking into the lion’s den and pulling his beard.
Having Flo Combes in town posed a new wrinkle. He wanted to spend time with her but wasn’t sure how to approach it. That dilemma was resolved when his cell phone rang.
“Robert, it’s Annabel Smith.”
“Annabel. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m calling for two reasons. One, Mac wanted me to tell you that he’s at the Justice Department today pursuing the case against Samuel Prisler.”
“Great!”
“The second reason is that … I mean, I hope you find some time to get together with Flo. I know you’re busy, but she came all this way.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“I know that I probably shouldn’t get involved like this—Mac doesn’t think I should—but she has driven here from New York to see you, and I know how much she cares about you and what you’re going through and—”
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