Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “Hey, Annabel, no need to explain. I agree with everything you say and I want to see her. It’s just that it’s a tough time right now.”

  “Mind a suggestion?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Don’t leave her hanging. Either find the time to get together or tell her to go back to New York.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then get your tail over here.”

  Her directness caused Brixton to pull the phone away from his ear and look at it.

  “Robert, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’m tied up tonight, but maybe she and I could have dinner tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure she’d like that,” Annabel said. “Should I mention it to her?”

  “Sure, I guess. I’ll keep it open.”

  “Good. Please don’t think poorly of me for getting in the middle of this.”

  “Are you kidding? Me think poorly of you? Come on, Annabel. Tell Flo that we’re on for tomorrow night. I’ll take her someplace nice where we can talk.”

  “Good. Hope your day is going well. Thanks for hearing me out.”

  Brixton looked at his watch. There was still plenty of time to return to his apartment to catch up on paperwork, check his e-mail—which he hadn’t done in days—and maybe even squeeze in a nap before heading out to pick up Asal. He’d ridden out the attack on him in Lafayette Park the previous night, hadn’t succumbed to the severity of it, but he was feeling it now, and the thought of getting in between the sheets—What had the TV host Jack Paar once said? “They can’t hurt you under the covers”—suddenly had powerful appeal.

  He arrived at his apartment and went directly to his desk to check e-mails. But after a few minutes online, the allure of the bed won out. He kicked off his shoes, discarded his suit and shirt, and climbed beneath the covers. He was asleep within minutes.

  The problem with napping during the day, he knew, was that you woke up groggy. When his eyes opened after his uncharacteristic afternoon slumber, it took a few moments for him to realize where he was. His watch read 4:30. He sat on the edge of the bed until he was sure that everything in his body was where it should be, went to the bathroom, and checked his image in the mirror. Unhappy with what he saw, he stripped down and got into the shower, hoping the hot water would wash away what the mirror had displayed.

  * * *

  While Brixton slept, Asal had sat in Zafar Alvi’s study. He had called her and sent Kahn to her office to escort her back to his house. Her initial instincts were to decline, but Alvi’s tone, if not menacing, was sufficiently authoritative to secure her assent. Kahn remained present during the meeting, and his looming physical presence unnerved her.

  “Did you know that our mutual acquaintance was going to be at my dinner?” Alvi asked.

  “I had no idea. I don’t know how he got a ticket.”

  “What were you and Brixton talking about last night?”

  “Nothing really,” she responded. “He was surprised to see me there, that’s all.”

  “Why would he be surprised?” Alvi asked.

  “Because … because I’d told him that I didn’t know you.”

  “And seeing you at the dinner caused him to disbelieve you?”

  “Yes. We’re having dinner tonight to discuss it.”

  “Good.”

  “I really don’t want to go.”

  “But you must, my dear. As we’ve agreed you will keep me informed of what he’s up to. Don’t misjudge Mr. Brixton. I have no doubt that he can be charming, but keep in mind that he represents a threat to me and to you, not to mention your organization.”

  She had to fight not to cry.

  “He’s said terrible things about you,” she managed.

  “I am sure he has,” Alvi said. “Untrue things, of course. A man like him is dangerous, very dangerous. The son of an esteemed congressman is dead because of Brixton. He is desperate to pass along the blame to bring down me and my powerful friends to save his own worthless skin. Believe me when I tell you that by keeping me informed about Brixton you do a great service for our people.”

  As Asal listened to him her mind swirled, at times threatening to short-circuit. She wished that she’d never agreed to act as a conduit to Alvi about Brixton. What had she gotten herself into? It seemed so innocuous at the time, to pass along tidbits of information in return for desperately needed money for herself and the Islamic Partnership. But, of course, it hadn’t only been the money, she reasoned. Her brother was in jail in Iraq, and Alvi had pledged to use his influence to free him. But what had he done? He used the promise to keep her bound to him. She hated the position she was now in. She wanted to save her brother, and she enjoyed the money that her association with Alvi provided. But she didn’t have any animosity toward Brixton. She was sympathetic for his having lost a daughter in such a brutal way and for being accused of killing the congressman’s son without provocation. She felt trapped sitting in Alvi’s opulent home, Kahn fixing her in a harsh stare without saying anything, arms folded, lights shining off his bald pate. She realized that she could easily scream, say that she wanted her brother out of the cruel Iraqi jail. She would scream that Alvi should donate to her organization simply because it did good work, and not in return for being a spy. That’s what she was, a spy. The thought chilled her.

  “Enjoy your dinner with Mr. Robert Brixton, Asal,” Alvi was saying, “and let me know if anything of interest comes out of it. I sense that you’re uncomfortable telling tales out of school, or in this case telling tales from dinner. I assure you that your contribution is extremely worthwhile. I also assure you that you will not be in this position much longer.”

  Asal shivered. “My brother,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, your beloved brother. I have already put into the works with the right people initiatives that will free him. You have my word, Asal.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Kahn drove her back to her office. Not a word was exchanged during the short drive. She thanked him for the ride.

  “Thank Mr. Alvi,” Kahn said, looking straight ahead. “I just do what he tells me to do.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Brixton got in the car to pick up Asal and realized he hadn’t given a thought as to what he would bring in for dinner. Chinese? That was the easiest solution. Maybe pizza. There was a Moroccan restaurant on the block. Perhaps she’d prefer that. He’d ask when he picked her up.

  She buzzed him into the lobby, and he rode the elevator to her floor. She greeted him at the door dressed in a teal pantsuit. She looked beautiful. He wasn’t sure whether to kiss her, but she spared him having to make that decision by closing the door and telling him she was busy in the kitchen.

  “Why?” he asked. “I thought we were going back to my place.”

  “I’d rather stay here if it’s all right with you.”

  “I suppose so. Look, Asal, I—”

  “I know that we have things to discuss, but can’t it wait until we’ve eaten?”

  “If you say so. What are you cooking?”

  “A special lamb dish that my mother used to make. I hope you like it. Excuse me. You can make yourself a drink over there.” She pointed to a small bar on which various liquors had been poured into crystal decanters, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Brixton noticed that the dining table that occupied a part of the open living room had been nicely set with linen napkins, sparkling silverware, and two tapered white candles. This change in plans was disconcerting. He’d come revved up to confront her about Alvi. Instead, it appeared that she was hosting a dinner party for the two of them as though nothing had happened, as though there wasn’t a more-pressing reason to get together.

  He plucked cubes from a metal ice bucket, plopped them in a glass, and poured gin from a decanter that had a small etched silver sign hanging from it that announced what it contained. He peeked into the kitchen and saw that she was busy at the stove, went out onto the terrace, and le
aned on the railing.

  If her intention was to provide him with a romantic, candlelit evening to soften the discussion they needed to have, it was working. As he stood peering out over Foggy Bottom, he questioned whether he was, as Will Sayers had suggested, looking for conspiracies behind every door and in every corner. Was his anger at people like Zafar Alvi, Samuel Prisler, and anyone else who might have played a role in Janet’s death tainting everyone who had even a casual connection with them? Maybe she was right when she claimed that being at Alvi’s dinner was a last-minute occurrence, that she had not personally known him prior to that. He had trouble accepting that but resigned to give her the benefit of the doubt. He understood the need for an organization like hers to raise money from as many sources as possible. Speakers at the dinner had praised Alvi’s generosity as a benefactor to a variety of nonprofit organizations.

  He sipped his drink and was deep in such thoughts when she suddenly appeared at his side holding a glass of white wine.

  “Enjoying your drink?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I am. How’s dinner coming?”

  “Almost ready. Did you have a good day?”

  “As good as they can be these days. I had breakfast with Will Sayers.”

  She laughed. “Your funny friend. What did he have to say?”

  “About what?”

  “About anything. Have you made any progress in clearing your name?”

  “About shooting Congressman Skaggs’s son? No. Oh, maybe you’d like to read this.”

  He retrieved the feature story Sayers had written about him from his pocket. “He says it’s being syndicated.”

  “Which means it will be read by people everywhere,” she said as she seated herself at a table to read the article.

  “Quite a story,” she commented when he joined her, and she handed it back. “I like the picture of you.”

  “It’s not my best side,” he joked. “It’s kind of odd thinking of so many people reading about me and knowing what drives me. But Will’s a good writer—and a good friend.” He took a sip of his drink before adding, “I did something today that I seldom do. I took a nap this afternoon.”

  “You must have been tired.”

  “I’ve been tired ever since the café bombing. Tired and sore. See this?” He raised his chin and pulled open his collar to reveal the fading pink line on his neck.

  “What happened?”

  “I was attacked after I left Alvi’s dinner. Somebody tried to strangle me with a rope.”

  Asal gasped. “How awful. Did you see who it was?”

  “No, but it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it, that it happened right after I left the dinner?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that your buddy, Alvi, sicced somebody on me.”

  “Oh, Robert, isn’t that—?”

  “Isn’t that what—paranoia? Maybe so, but it works for me. Look, Asal, we said we’d get together to talk about what’s been bothering me ever since Alvi’s dinner. I—”

  “I don’t want to burn the lamb,” she said, and left him standing on the balcony.

  Ten minutes later they were seated at the dining table enjoying her culinary efforts. Brixton had decided not to raise the subject of Alvi again until they’d finished eating. She told stories about when her brother and she were children in Iraq and what life was like then. He related a few stories of his own about his daughters, especially Janet, and mentioned that her stepfather, Miles Lashka, was going to finance a CD of her songs.

  After he’d helped clear the table and had his offer to help load the dishwasher declined—“Men always do such a bad job of it,” she’d said—they carried cups of strong Turkish coffee to the living room.

  “Is it time?” he asked

  “To ask why I was at Zafar Alvi’s dinner?”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  She reiterated what she’d told him earlier, that Alvi provided financial aid to her organization but that she’d not met him until shortly before the dinner.

  “But you were seated at a prime table with some of his closest friends. Or are they friends? They look to me more like hired thugs.”

  “I don’t know the others at the table,” she said, “not very well, and I know nothing of what you accuse Mr. Alvi of being. You paint him as some ogre, some criminal. You say he had someone try to murder you. Why do you say those things, Robert? What do you base those things on?”

  “Let’s start with his connection to Paul Skaggs, the congressman’s son. Skaggs and his sister have been involved with a cult on Maui, in Hawaii. The guy who runs the cult is a known gunrunner named Samuel Prisler. Prisler—at least it’s alleged—sells weapons to terrorist organizations around the world through Zafar Alvi. With me so far?”

  She said nothing

  “Paul Skaggs came to D.C. from Hawaii a few weeks before the café bombing that killed my daughter. He flew into New York. Nobody knows how he traveled from New York to Washington, no trace of an airline reservation, a bus, Amtrak, nothing. Okay, now he’s here in D.C., and nobody knows where he stayed, who he spent time with, where he ate and drank, nothing, zippo, zilch. But, lo and behold, he gets a traffic ticket while driving a car registered to your benefactor, Zafar Alvi. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe there is a logical explanation for it.”

  “The only explanation I can come up with is that Alvi was harboring him, feeding him, giving him a car to drive, all in preparation for Skaggs bringing that poor misguided girl to the café and buying her a lemonade before she blew up herself and everybody else in the place.”

  “But you don’t know that for a fact, Robert.”

  “Do I have proof? Not yet. Charlie McQuaid, a lovely guy, a lawyer who retired from the U.S. Justice Department, built a case against Prisler for his gunrunning. He gave me his papers, and they included references to Alvi as Prisler’s conduit to Middle Eastern arms buyers. What happens to this nice guy, Charlie McQuaid, who’s enjoying his retirement on his little boat? He’s murdered. Whoever did it made it seem as though he’d drowned after getting entangled in his own fishing line and falling into the Potomac. Didn’t happen that way. Somebody killed him, somebody who knew about those papers and who was looking for them in his office.”

  “Are you saying that Zafar Alvi might have had something to do with this Charlie Something-or-other’s death?”

  Brixton drew a breath and wished he hadn’t quit smoking. He said in measured tones, “Look, Asal, I’m looking for answers. I wouldn’t even be thinking about Alvi or Samuel Prisler if it weren’t for two facts. One: Paul Skaggs was driving a car that belonged to Alvi shortly before the bombing. Why? Why would Alvi lend him a car? Two: Alvi is alleged to be a conduit for Prisler’s arms sales to Middle Eastern countries.” He paused and took a breath. “I believe that Paul Skaggs came back to D.C. from Hawaii, where he was a member of Prisler’s cult. Did Prisler arrange for Skaggs to make contact with Alvi and drive one of his cars? Questions, Asal. I have questions that have to be answered.”

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  Her question surprised him. He wasn’t looking for her help. That wasn’t why he was there. He needed to satisfy himself that she hadn’t lied when she said that she didn’t personally know Alvi. But that now seemed almost irrelevant. She was indicating that she was in his corner.

  He leaped on it.

  “Asal, if you mean that, that you want to help me, there’s a way for you to do it. You obviously have an in with Alvi. He funds your organization, invites you to be at a prime table when he’s being honored at a dinner. You might be able to find out what Alvi’s connection was with Paul Skaggs.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “Get together with Alvi and ask him, maybe not directly, but lead him into a conversation in which the truth might come out.”

  When she didn’t reply, he added, “I know that you need his money to keep your organization going, and I respect that.
I’m not looking for you to jeopardize that on my behalf. Whatever you find out stays with me. I don’t mention it to anyone. I promise you that.”

  “What about your friend, the journalist Sayers, and your friends Mac and Annabel? If I find out what you want and you use it against Alvi, how can you not share it with them?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me,” he said. “And you can trust me.”

  “I will have to think about it,” she said.

  “Sure, I understand that, but don’t think about it for too long. I have the feeling I’m running out of time.”

  It was natural that both Brixton and Asal were considering whether to repeat their previous romantic evening together on this night. Asal softened after their conversation, and Brixton knew that should he make the advance, they would end up in bed again.

  But he steeled against the urge and said, “I’d better leave.”

  “Sure you don’t want to stay?” she said, running her fingertips over his hand.

  “I’d like to but…”

  “But you’re tired and sore, as you said.”

  “Yeah, something like that. I appreciate what you’re considering doing with Alvi. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can get together again. The dinner was terrific. You’re a good cook.”

  “My mother was a better cook.”

  With that, she wrapped her arms about him and initiated a long and passionate kiss. He disengaged, touched her nose with his fingertip, and said, “I’m sorry that I doubted you. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  As Brixton drove home he second-guessed his decision to leave rather than enjoy being entangled in the sheets with Asal Banai. Lately he found himself vacillating between devoting all his energies to revenging Janet’s death and clearing his name, and saying the hell with it and putting together whatever life he could, post-bombing. He hated being indecisive. He’d spent his adult life analyzing a situation, making a decision, and acting on it. That approach to life had gotten him into trouble, but that was better than wallowing in self-doubt and indecision. What did the shrinks say? “Any action was better than no action.” At least by acting you stood a fifty-fifty chance of being right.