Members of President Joe Scott’s cabinet spoke, as did leaders of the House and Senate, and close personal friends of the deceased secretary.
“Go in peace,” St. James said, sending the temporarily bereaved out of the cathedral and back to their busy lives. Baumann would be buried in the presence of a small group of people, immediate family and specially invited friends, which included Congressman Paul Latham and his wife, Ruth, a short, trim, neat brunette with well-turned calves, testimony to her pre-Latham life as a dancer. It was virtually impossible for her to wear anything that didn’t look good on her.
Baumann’s body was lowered into the ground with appropriate ceremony. The honored few left the gravesite and walked across the peaceful, verdant cemetery to waiting limos. Baumann’s wife, Patricia, guided Latham away from the group.
“Anything I can do, just call,” Latham said.
“I know that, Paul. You’ve been a good friend.”
“There’ll be hearings into the crash,” he said, seeking words of encouragement to offer. “I thought after Ron Brown died, the air force would get its act together and upgrade the navigational equipment on its planes. It’s been over four years now. It’s just not happening fast enough. If Jake’s death has any meaning, it will prompt them to—”
“Paul,” Patricia Baumann said, hand on his arm, “I know that. What I wanted to say was that if the president asks you to replace Jake as secretary of state, I hope you’ll accept. It’s what he would have wanted.”
“The president hasn’t offered anything, Pat.”
“But he will. That’s what I hear. All I ask is that if he does, you seriously consider it. For Jake. Please?”
“I will.”
“So much good has been initiated by the Scott administration. It would be a tragedy if that work isn’t carried forward.”
“I understand. I’ll keep in touch.”
“I know you will, Paul. Thanks.”
They hugged, and climbed into their respective limousines.
“Are you going back to the Hill?” Ruth Latham asked her husband as they headed for Washington.
“Yes. I have a committee hearing at one. I’ll be late tonight. Two fund-raisers to drop in on, and that reception for Giles Broadhurst.”
“When does the president get back from the G-Seven meeting?”
“Tonight. He hated to miss Jake’s service. I’m glad the veep was there.”
“Will you have a chance to speak with the president tonight about—?”
“I don’t think so.” Latham visually confirmed that the partition between the driver and passenger compartments was closed. He whispered to his wife, “I promise, Ruth, I won’t make a decision about the nomination until we’ve had a good long stretch of time to discuss it. I won’t do anything without your support.”
“I know.” She managed a small smile and gripped his hand. “We’ll talk.”
Congressman Latham’s administrative office was in the Rayburn House Office Building, south of the Capitol Building at Independence and First Street, N.W., built in 1965, the newest of three buildings accommodating the offices of the 435 elected members of the House of Representatives. Shortly after its completion, New York Times architectural critic, Ada Louise Huxtable, described it as “profligate, elephantine … the apotheosis of humdrum,” concluding her review with “to be both dull and vulgar may be an achievement of sorts.”
Paul Latham usually agreed when friends commented negatively about the building’s jumble of columns, pediments, cornucopias, and other marble overkill. But the Rayburn Building, named after famed Texas House Speaker Sam Rayburn—whose statue greeted you when you came through the main entrance—provided the most modern facilities of the three buildings. The statue of Rayburn had originally been installed with its back to the entrance, perhaps to mirror the former Speaker’s disdain for ostentatious, expensive, and complicated architecture. (The Rayburn Building was one of the most costly public buildings ever constructed in the nation’s capitol.) But enough people complained about the deceased Speaker’s apparent rudeness, and he was turned.
Because Latham had sufficient seniority, he enjoyed one of the building’s 169 suites, giving him and his staff room in which to function. His suite was situated on the north side of the building, its splendid view of the Capitol more than making up for the suite’s drab, tan walls, the color of all offices on the north and west sides of the building. East- and south-side offices were painted robin’s egg blue. It was the rule. Why? No one knew. The Congressional Building Committee operated behind closed doors, answering to no one.
“How was the funeral?” Bob Mondrian asked as he followed his boss into the imposing office.
“Tough,” Latham replied. He tossed his jacket on a leather couch and, standing, scanned papers neatly arranged on his desk. Mondrian hung the jacket on an antique coat tree.
“What’s this?” Latham asked, holding up a sheet of paper.
Mondrian came around the desk and looked over Latham’s shoulder. “Jack Emerson brought it over this morning,” he said. Emerson was staff director of the International Relations Committee, chaired by Paul Latham.
“Where did he get it?” Latham asked.
“Kelley at Ops and Rights.” International Operations and Human Rights was one of five subcommittees under control of the full committee.
Latham sat heavily and directed a stream of air through pursed lips. “The Commies won’t give it up, will they?” he said.
“If the analysis is correct,” Mondrian said.
Robert Mondrian had been Latham’s chief of staff for twelve years. He was considered by other congressional staffers to be one of the best in the House, bright and insightful, hard-nosed when necessary, conciliatory at other times, and fiercely loyal to his boss, one of the most powerful members of Congress because of his chairmanship of the International Relations Committee.
Mondrian was divorced, his marriage a casualty of the often insane demands of the job. The father of two teenage daughters, he was a short, squat, swarthy man who’d suffered male pattern baldness at an early age, and did nothing to compensate for it. His square build rendered suits shapeless; he never took offense at jibes by fellow staffers that he’d been voted worst-dressed by a nonpartisan House panel.
Prior to joining Latham as chief of staff, Mondrian had worked for the Export-Import Bank in its international business development division, and had put in six years as a Washington lobbyist. He’d been around, and knew how to get things done on the Hill. More important, he knew how to keep them from happening. And he was fully aware of his importance to the legislative process. Every survey of Washington lobbyists confirmed that their number-one target was always congressional staff members, so potent was their input into their elected bosses’ decisions.
Latham’s appointment secretary, Marge Edwards, entered the office. “Good morning, Paul,” she said, handing him his schedule for the rest of the day. Latham glanced at it. “How did this Asian-American group get on the slate?” he asked.
Mondrian answered: “Just five minutes, Paul. A quick give-and-take, a shot or two, they’re gone. They carry a lot of weight back home—in California.”
“All right.” He looked at the antique grandfather clock, a gift many years ago from his mother-in-law. One o’clock. He was due at his committee meeting.
They turned their attention to side-by-side color TV sets. One was tuned to C-SPAN 1, offering gavel-to-gavel coverage of the House of Representatives. The other, C-SPAN 2, carried debate from the Senate. Mondrian turned down the sound on the House, and boosted volume on C-SPAN 2. Republican Senate minority whip Frank Connors, a three-term senator from Southern California, had stepped into the well: “It is no secret to any of my colleagues in this body, on both sides of the aisle, that while my personal admiration and respect for Jacob Baumann was great, my view of this administration’s foreign policy, as carried out by the secretary of state, was not as generous. The president will soon nomina
te someone to replace Jake Baumann. I take this opportunity to extend my sincerest sympathy to Secretary Baumann’s fine family—and to put the White House on notice that the soft policy generously granted our enemies in this volatile world will not be allowed to be repeated.…”
“Great timing,” Mondrian said. “Baumann isn’t even cold.”
“The meeting,” Marge said. As she left the office, both men cast admiring glances at her nicely turned body, and long, shapely legs extending from a black leather miniskirt.
Latham grabbed his jacket from the coat tree and headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, “Get me a list of who’ll be at Broadhurst’s reception tonight. And check up on Molly, see if she moved into the page dorm. She was supposed to this afternoon.” Molly, the Lathams’ youngest daughter, had been accepted as a House page for that session of Congress. Because he was a prudent man, believing in protocol, he’d asked another member, close to the House leadership, to arrange for Molly’s appointment. In return, that member’s son was granted an internship on Latham’s International Relations Committee. Entre nous. The way of the House.
He went to the Rayburn Building’s basement, where the subway connected all House and Senate office buildings, and with the Capitol itself. He was the only elected representative in the open car, sharing it with a dozen tourists. A woman recognized him: “You’re Congressman Latham.”
Latham grinned, said, “For better or worse. Enjoying your visit to D.C.?”
“Sure are,” her husband replied, “ ’cept for the heat. Hottest damn place I’ve ever been.”
The short ride ended and Latham bounded off, papers under his arm, a farewell wave for his fellow passengers. A few minutes later he came through the door of H 139, on the southwest corner of the Capitol’s ground floor in a cluster of House committee offices. Jack Emerson was waiting.
“Sorry I’m late,” Latham said. “The funeral.”
“Everybody seems to be running late today,” Emerson replied. He was a veteran of House and Senate committee staffs, minority or majority, depending on which party dominated Congress during any given period. Latham knew he’d hired a top staff director in Emerson; the young man’s reputation was pristine.
“Did Bob give you that report from Russia?”
“Yes. I have it with me. It’s shocking—if true. Is it? True?”
“No reason not to think so,” Emerson answered. “The four murders happened, Mr. Chairman. That’s fact. All four were members of the old Soviet Writers’ Union. Still exists, different name—Russian Writers’ Union.”
“All of them shot?”
“Execution style, according to the report.”
“Why the assumption it was the Communists? Sounds more like the mob. I don’t recognize any of these names, Jack.”
“No reason you should, Mr. Chairman. None of the four were widely published. Wannabe writers, I suppose. Mr. Stassi wants to hold hearings on it.”
Congressman Mario Stassi, a Republican, was the ranking minority member of both the International Operations and Human Rights Subcommittee and Latham’s International Relations Committee.
“It doesn’t warrant a hearing,” Latham said.
“I told Stu that,” Emerson said, referring to Stassi’s subcommittee staff director.
“And?”
“He says Mr. Stassi is adamant. He’s talking about going to the floor to ask for a resolution calling for hearings on human rights abuse in Russia. Widen the scope, but use these four killings as the pivot.”
“I’ll talk to him. He still wants the tariff reduction for that manufacturer in his district. If he pushes for hearings, he can kiss that good-bye. Who are we meeting with this afternoon?”
“Mr. Brazier’s advisors. They have reservations about some of the provisions the policy and trade staff want included in the bill.”
“Can’t staff resolve it?”
“We’ve tried, Mr. Chairman. I think it needs your direct input at this point. Frankly, I don’t see it getting out of subcommittee without you putting on the screws.”
“Are they here?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get on with it.”
An hour later, Latham rode the subway back to his office. He’d no sooner arrived when Molly called.
“Hi, sweets,” he said. “You get moved in all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help. Mom get you settled?”
“Uh-huh. Are you coming with us to the shore this weekend?”
“I can’t, sweets. All tied up. But you and Mom enjoy yourself. Maybe in a few weeks when things slow down.”
“I understand. I think I told you before, Dad, but I really appreciate your getting me into the page program. It’ll look great on college applications.”
“And it’s good real-world experience. Or as close as Washington ever gets to the real world. Besides, I’ll be able to see you every day.”
She laughed. “So you can keep your eye on me.”
“That’s my job, isn’t it? I’m your father.”
Bob Mondrian poked his head through the open door. “The A-A group is here, Paul.”
“Got to run, Molly,” Latham said. “Picture time with some voters. Love you.”
“Love you, Dad.”
He spent fifteen minutes with his Asian-American visitors, the session ending with a photo taken on the Capitol steps. He had just settled back behind his desk when Marge Edwards appeared. “Here’s the guest list for Mr. Broadhurst’s reception tonight.”
Latham perused it. Quickly. “Oh, Mac Smith will be there. Good. Time we scheduled a little tennis to let me get even for the last match. Nice man, wicked backhand. Probably illegal. Thanks, Marge. Everything good with you? You don’t look happy.”
Her lovely, full mouth broke into a smile. “Considering my love life is on hold, everything’s great.”
“I thought you were dating that exec from Brazier’s office.”
“Anatoly? I am. I mean, we go out now and then. But nothing heavy. Russian guys are strange.”
Latham laughed. “They come out of a very different experience, Marge.”
“I know. Which makes them strange. Hear from Martin?”
Latham’s son, Martin, who now crafted wood furniture in upstate New York, as distant geographically and philosophically from politics as he could take himself, had briefly dated Marge when she first came to work for Latham. Latham wasn’t especially pleased with that arrangement, convinced that Martin had done it deliberately to nettle him. But he did nothing to get in the way of the relationship, which ended abruptly two months after it had commenced when Martin moved away. Being dumped, as Marge put it, had upset her. But she had seemed to bounce back quickly, much to Latham’s relief.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. He’ll be in town for a week.”
“Say hello for me.”
“Say hello yourself. He’ll be stopping by the office.”
Don’t count on it, she thought. She said, “Okay. I will.”
“Well,” Latham said, “any time you want to vent, come on in, close the door, and let it all hang out, as they say.”
“I just may do that.”
“By the way, Marge—now that Molly’s going to be here on the Hill every day, and I never know where I’ll be, I thought you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her. You know, sort of be the one she can come to if she has a problem, and I’m not available.”
“Happy to, Paul. Don’t worry about it.”
Latham thought about Marge Edwards after she left.
She’d been his scheduler for almost two years. It was one of the toughest jobs on the Hill, keeping track of members’ hectic days and nights, fielding requests for “just a minute of his time,” and managing the office as well, juggling the $900,000 budget allotted each House member.
Most of Latham’s colleagues complained about their appointment secretaries, not because they didn’t do a good job; they blamed them for their busy
schedules. A no-win situation was the way Latham viewed it.
Marge Edwards was good at her difficult job, and Latham knew it. He also knew firsthand how volatile she could be when under personal stress. Her emotions seemed always to be on the edge, or out in the open, and he’d ended up becoming her father-confessor on more than one occasion. He never resented that additional duty. Marge reminded him in some ways of his oldest daughter, whom he seldom saw these days.
Did Marge view him as a father figure? He assumed she did.
Did counseling her about her personal trials and travails, including some highly personal aspects of her life, provide him with a psychological substitution for the time he didn’t have for his own daughter? Help assuage his guilt?
He hoped not.
He just wished he had more time to figure it out.
4
Annabel Reed-Smith pulled the blue Chevy Caprice up to the curb in front of the National Democratic Club on Ivy Street, S.E. The Republican hangout on the Hill was the Capitol Hill Club on First Street, S.E. The two clubs were closer in geographic proximity than political philosophy, but Mac commented that the top-shelf liquor served in both was distinctly nonpartisan.
“How late will you be?” Annabel asked her husband.
“A few hours,” Mackensie Smith said. “I’ll be home before you, unless the concert drives you out early.”
“Not likely. The National Symphony seldom disappoints.”
Smith smiled, leaned over, and kissed his wife on the cheek. It was one of those moments that occurred for him with regularity since marrying Annabel Reed. He was immensely grateful to her for having said yes to his proposal.
* * *
They were practicing attorneys when first introduced at a British Embassy party, she specializing in matrimonial law, he one of Washington’s most respected criminal lawyers.
Annabel had never married. (How could this be? Mac mused after that initial introduction, and a long, pleasant conversation over glasses of white wine.) Her face was open and lovely, framed by hair the color of burnished copper. Her five-foot-seven-inch figure was nicely proportioned. Most appealing at that first meeting was her ready, wide smile and sincere interest in everything he said. An impressive package, Mac thought at first.
Murder in the House Page 3
