A flashing light probed the drapes over the front window. They went to it and looked outside. A TV news truck was parked in front of the house.
They looked quizzically at each other.
“What did Jack Paar say?” Smith asked. “They can’t hurt you under the covers?”
“My sentiments exactly,” Annabel said, turning off the television set. “The bedroom phone gets shut off, too.”
“I like the way you think, Annie.”
She grinned.
26
Molly Latham’s return to the page dorm was harder than she’d anticipated.
Her mother drove her there as the other pages were gathering for dinner. The welcome was overwhelming, causing her to break into tears with each hug and expression of sympathy.
Her roommate, Melissa, gushed at having Molly back. “Mah, how I missed you, girl,” she said. “Not the same without you. Come on, dinner’s served. At least that’s what they call it.”
“I want to walk my mom to the car,” Molly said. “Back in a minute.”
“You okay, Rabbit?” Ruth Latham asked as they stood on the sidewalk in front of the O’Neill House Office Building.
“I think so. Gee, they’re great, huh?”
“Yes, they are. They seem to really care. Well, you go on back in and I’ll head home.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Are you okay?”
Ruth wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m fine, sweetie. As long as I have you, Pris, and Martin, I’ll always be fine. Go on, now. Get to dinner. Call me tonight before you go to bed.”
After dinner in the page dining room, Molly and Melissa went upstairs.
“It must be tough losin’ your daddy like that,” Melissa said.
Molly had braced for such reminders of her loss, even when raised by the well-meaning. But her roommate’s sincere and certainly accurate comment released her tears again.
Melissa came to where Molly sat, bent over, and hugged her. “Maybe Ah shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, no,” Molly said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It’s okay. It’ll be this way for a while, I know, and then it won’t be. How’ve you been?”
“Wiped out. They run us ragged. That school’s rougher than anything back home, I can say. But bein’ on the floor is fun, in the cloakroom, deliverin’ messages to the most powerful people in the country. I’m glad Ah’m here.”
Molly smiled. She liked Melissa despite their overt differences in background and style, and felt warm and comfortable being back with her. Since dinner, she’d experienced a sense of positive anticipation at getting into the swing of things, actually working as a page in the House of Representatives, where her father had served with distinction for so many years.
“How’s John?” Molly asked.
“Heavenly,” Melissa said, “although boys from New York sure are different than boys from back home. They talk funny, they walk funny, and they do everything else funny, too.”
Molly smiled and nodded. The more Melissa talked, the more Molly liked her.
Eventually, the girls stopped chatting and slipped into their evening activities. Melissa complained about the amount of homework facing her—“How much can one girl’s brain absorb?”—but turned to it, leaving Molly to take a look at some of Melissa’s textbooks, the ones she wasn’t using at the moment. She glanced over often at her roommate, whose back was to her as she sat hunched over her desk, an occasional grunt of despair from her lips.
At ten, Molly announced she was going to call her mother from one of the pay phones. As she padded down the hallway in bare feet, a dorm counselor stopped her. “You had a call late this afternoon, Molly,” she said.
“Who?”
“A woman. Sorry I didn’t tell you right away.” She handed Molly a pink telephone message slip. Notations on it indicated the call was for Molly Latham, had been received at 4:30 P.M., that the caller did not leave a number at which she could be reached, and that she would call again.
All of which was irrelevant to Molly compared with the name of the caller written on the paper.
Marge.
27
A chilly mist slapped Mac Smith’s face as he left the house early the next morning to meet with Jessica Belle.
He’d slept fitfully, getting up twice to pace the house, thoughts spawned in the twilight of waking fleeing his mind no matter how he tried to capture them for further evaluation.
Annabel woke once, and came to where her husband sat behind the desk in the den, a pencil’s eraser tapping out an impatient paradiddle on a yellow legal pad.
“What’s keeping you awake? As if I had to ask.”
“Maybe it’s not what you think,” he said.
“Oh?”
“I’ve been so totally focused on Marge Edwards and her alleged charge that Paul’s murder itself has taken a backseat. But not tonight. The obvious fact that he was assassinated is keeping me up. If he’d been killed by a street criminal, a disgruntled constituent, an escapee from a mental institution, spurned lover, even a member of his own family, it would make some perverted sense. But an assassination? If you rule out personal or impersonal personal motives for shooting him, you’re left with only politics as a possible reason. Cold-blooded. Calculating. On Capitol Hill, Annie!”
“It’s a chilling realization, isn’t it? Worthy of insomnia.”
“I’m proving that tonight, Annabel. Ruling out other possible suspects, it leaves someone who viewed Paul Latham as a big enough political problem to warrant being killed.”
“Maybe it wasn’t politics. Maybe it was business.”
“Paul wasn’t a businessman. He had investments. We even shared investment ideas from time to time. But not business in the usual sense.”
“What about Warren Brazier?” Annabel said.
Mac sat forward at the desk. “He’s at the top of the list of people keeping me awake. But I can’t come up with any rational reason he’d want Paul dead. Paul was his protégé in Congress, maybe too much so, if some people are to be believed. He worked closely with Brazier on opening up the Soviet Union, forging alliances there that undoubtedly played a role in bringing down Communism and opening up a free, more or less democratic market.”
“Did he profit financially from his ties to Brazier?”
“I’m sure he didn’t, unless you consider retaining his seat in Congress to be ‘profiting.’ ”
“It is, you know.”
“Sure. And I’m fully aware we can never know everything about a person, even those close to us. But no, Annabel, Paul Latham was not the sort of man—not the sort of elected official—who would sell out to a businessman like Brazier. To anyone.”
“No argument from me. What about someone determined that Paul not become secretary of state?”
“A possibility. But a pretty dramatic way to block a nomination.” Smith narrowed his eyes. “The same person, maybe, who floated the sexual harassment rumor?”
“Who was?”
“My money’s on Senator Connors.”
“Or his aide.”
“One and the same, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not necessarily. He wouldn’t be the first congressional staffer to take matters into his own hands. Step over the line to help his boss. Protect the chief from direct knowledge of a nasty act.”
Smith grunted. “I’m going back to bed.”
“One more question. Do you think Paul’s family is in any danger?”
“No. Why would they be? If we’re right in assuming Paul was killed for political or business reasons, the family wouldn’t be brought into it.”
“Unless they know something they shouldn’t.”
“Something that Paul knew?”
“Yes.”
Smith yawned, stretched, looked at the clock on the wall. “Five o’clock. Maybe I should just stay up. Bagels with Jessica is at seven-thirty.”
“Come back to bed, Smith. I like to feel y
ou next to me.”
“An offer I can’t refuse.”
The TV remote truck was gone when Smith left the house and went to where he and Annabel garaged their car. Had the weather been better, he would have walked to Georgetown, not very far from Foggy Bottom. But the mist was a precursor to steady rain, the radio weatherman had promised as Smith shaved. No matter how often such meteorological promises were broken, Smith tended to heed them.
He retrieved the car, drove to the revitalized Georgetown waterfront, parked on Thirty-first Street, and checked his watch. He was fifteen minutes early. Carrying a small black pop-up umbrella, he got out of the car and entered the complex of expensive high-rise condominiums, beneath which a variety of shops and restaurants offered their wares and services to the thousands of visitors, locals and tourists, who enjoyed the views across the Potomac of the Kennedy Center to the south, and the Key Bridge to the north, leading into the busy Virginia city of Rosslyn.
The area was deserted at that hour, except for an occasional jogger detouring down the steps and running along the promenade until emerging again on K Street. The mist was thicker at Washington Harbor; fog, in fact, spreading an eerie charm along the waterfront.
Jessica Belle stood at the railing separating the promenade from the Potomac. Smith saw her through the haze and started in her direction. As he approached, a second person, who’d been behind her, stepped into Smith’s line of vision. A few steps closer revealed that it was Jessica’s boss at the CIA, Giles Broadhurst.
“Hello,” Smith said.
“Hi, Mac,” said Jessica.
“Hope we didn’t get you up too early,” Broadhurst added, smiling and shaking Smith’s hand. He and Jessica wore what appeared to be matching tan trench coats, collars up.
“You didn’t.” Smith looked around. “Is this where you usually hold power breakfasts?”
Broadhurst laughed, a little too energetically for Smith’s taste.
“It’s a nice, quiet spot to meet,” Jessica said.
“Quiet—and damp,” said Smith. It had started to rain. Smith opened his umbrella.
“Let’s go over there,” Broadhurst suggested, indicating an overhang in front of the string of restaurants.
“Better?” Broadhurst asked.
“I suppose so. Look, Jessica,” Smith said, “I’m here because you asked me to be, just as I met with you last time—under dryer circumstances. I asked you then why you told me—with your apparent encouragement, Giles—a number of things: that Paul Latham was unduly beholden to Warren Brazier, that Latham was pushing through a massive Russian trade bill to benefit Brazier, and that Brazier was funneling money to the Communists in Russia to help them return to power. Right?”
“That’s right,” Jessica said.
“Okay,” Smith said. “I also think you said that what was important to you was the damage this could do to the president’s reputation.”
“Right again,” said Jessica.
“Well, here I am, assuming there’s something else you want to tell me.”
Broadhurst ran his fingertips over a faint blond mustache on his upper lip. “First, Mac, let me say how appreciative we are of your cooperation and help.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Smith said. “I feel like old Admiral Stockdale during those vice-presidential debates—who am I, and why am I here? Meeting in the fog and rain early in the morning. Secrets being whispered. That’s your game, not mine.”
Broadhurst’s hand went up, meaning that he understood, but wanted to explain.
But Smith pressed on. “I met with Jessica the last time because she said it had something to do with my friend Paul Latham. And it did. You were the first one to tell me about the sexual harassment charge. Which leads me to a question, Jessica. Were you the reporter’s source for that story?”
“No,” she said.
“Where did you hear it?”
“Mac,” Broadhurst said, “it really doesn’t matter where we hear such things. The agency is like a sponge, soaking up thousands of pieces of information every day. Gathering it isn’t difficult. Evaluating it is.”
“I think we should get to the reason I asked you to meet me again,” Jessica said to Smith. To Broadhurst: “Agree?”
A nod from Broadhurst. “Mac, to be right up front with you, we’re here this morning to ask for your help.”
“Jessica asked for my help the last time,” Smith said. “She asked me to drip a few more drops of information about Paul onto your sponge. I don’t have any to offer.”
“This time, Mac, we have more information to offer you,” said Broadhurst.
“To what end?” Smith asked.
“To see whether you’d be willing to do something with this new information on our behalf.”
“That depends,” Smith said.
“On?” Broadhurst asked.
“On whether there’s a reason for me to do it. I’m a law professor. My involvement came about only because a close friend, Paul Latham, had been nominated for secretary of state and asked me to be his counsel during confirmation hearings. The only reason I ended up speaking with you was because Jessica was one of my students. When she asked that we get together, I immediately agreed. But when I left the bar, Jessica, and was driving home, I felt I was being used.”
“Oh, Mac, that isn’t true,” she said, touching his arm. “I just thought—we thought because you were so close to Congressman Latham, you might pick up on something useful to help clear his name.”
“Maybe even to get to the bottom of who killed him,” Broadhurst added.
“Used?” she said. “The last thing I would ever do is try to use someone like you, Mac.”
“I accept that. So why am I being asked to do something for the CIA?”
“For Paul Latham,” Broadhurst said. “For the country.”
Smith pinched off an expletive before it was audible.
Broadhurst continued: “It was never my intention when I took this job to get involved in anything but helping American industry flourish globally. I came over from ITC with that as my mission, one with which I fervently agree. But Congressman Latham’s murder immediately put me in a position I couldn’t foresee.”
“How?” Smith asked.
“How? Warren Brazier.”
“More about his allegedly pumping money into the Russian Communists?”
Broadhurst and Belle looked at each other. It was Jessica who spoke. “No,” she said. “This time it’s about murder. Paul Latham’s murder.”
“Why you?” Smith asked. “Why the CIA? Paul’s murder is an FBI matter.”
“It is,” said Broadhurst. “But that’s just a bureaucratic necessity. One agency, one voice. It doesn’t mean other agencies, including ours, aren’t involved. Sharing information. Feeding what we all know into a central source.”
Smith looked across the empty plaza. He couldn’t help but smile as he said, “I don’t mean to be critical, but the three of us standing here in the rain, the two of you in trench coats with collars turned up, me holding a black umbrella, is more conspicuous than if we were having coffee in the lobby of the Four Seasons.”
Broadhurst laughed, said, “You’re right, Mac. We’re new to this.”
“Forget I said it,” Smith said, “and let’s get on with this meeting. What’s the new information you claim has bearing upon Paul’s murder?”
“Intelligence from Russia,” Broadhurst said. “Concerning Brazier.”
“I’m listening,” Smith said.
“First, Mac,” Broadhurst said, “I need to know whether you’re willing to do something with the information.”
“What is the information? Once I know that, I’ll decide whether to ‘do something with it,’ as you put it.”
Another set of glances between Jessica and her boss.
Smith waited.
Broadhurst spoke. “What we ask of you, Mac, is to take the information to Brazier. Tell him you came into possession of it through your
close personal and professional relationship with Latham.”
“And why would I do that? More to the point, what is it intended to accomplish?”
“Prompt Brazier to take some action that will help prove what we are alleging.”
“And what is that?”
“That he ordered Congressman Latham to be eliminated.”
Warren Brazier had stayed in his Washington office overnight. He’d managed to delay questioning by the FBI on the Latham murder until this morning. The special agents were due at nine.
He’d slept only two hours, spending most of the night poring over financial reports received that day via a secure fax line from his Moscow office.
Now, at 8:45, dressed in a pearl-gray suit, white shirt, midnight-blue tie, and black wingtip shoes, all from favorite London custom clothing shops, he walked into the conference room, where three members of his Russian staff awaited his arrival.
“Good morning, sir,” Anatoly Alekseyev said, standing quickly along with his two fellow executives.
“Good morning,” Brazier said, sitting in his chair at the head of the table and opening a file folder he’d carried with him. “These figures. I’m not happy with them.”
The three younger men said nothing.
“It is not my intention to see everything I’ve worked for in the Soviet Union come to this!” He slammed his fist on the table, remarkably without moving the rest of his body.
“Mr. Brazier,” Alekseyev said, “you’re quite right. But the numbers are misleading when you factor in the Sidanco negotiations.”
If Brazier was surprised, dismayed, or angry that his young Russian executive was aware of what had been, to date, a secret undertaking, he did not demonstrate it. Instead, he ignored the comment and turned to another project that was, in his judgment, a new example of ineptitude on the part of his staff.
Alekseyev and his two colleagues sat glumly, taking their boss’s verbal blows without expression. Brazier ended with “I’m replacing the three of you at this office. You’ll return to Moscow. There will be lesser jobs for you there.”
“Mr. Brazier,” Alekseyev said, “if I might say something.”
Murder in the House Page 20
