“It’s not that simple,” she said, an edge to her voice.
“Why? Is there someone who can say that it happened? Is there someone who can prove it?”
“No. I mean, there is something that can be twisted to make it look as though it’s true.”
She’d never before mentioned such a “thing” in their conversations. He frowned while waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he asked, “What are you talking about?”
She swallowed hard. “A diary,” she said.
“A diary? Whose diary?”
“Mine.”
The word stung him. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of vodka, then returned to where Marge continued to sit, her lips pressed together, eyes focused on the rug’s geometric pattern.
“You kept a diary about how Latham made sexual advances to you?”
“Yes. No, it was not that. It was not a diary of facts.”
“Then what was it?” he asked angrily.
“It was …” She wept softly. “It was my fantasy.”
Alekseyev glared at her, his focused dark eyes mirroring what he was feeling. “Fantasy?” he repeated. “What fantasy could you have?”
She turned from his hard stare, pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “Anatoly,” she said quietly, “I was in love with Paul Latham.”
He muttered in Russian.
She faced him. “I was in love with him from the first day I went to work in his office. This man represented everything I wanted from life. I met his wife and children, and I won’t deny the envy I felt for them. I saw how he treated them, with love and respect. Not like so many men I’ve been involved with. Paul was gentle and kind, like a father to me.”
“And you were in love with your father?” A Russian curse came from him.
“No, Anatoly. I wasn’t in love with Paul Latham because he was like a father to me. I was in love with him as a man. God, how I wanted to change places with his wife, be there at home for him after a difficult day in Congress, counsel and soothe him, proud to be on his arm at parties and political functions. Love him. Is that so difficult to understand?”
“And you wrote down these feelings? These fantasies?”
“Yes. Almost every night. Just a word sometimes. Other nights, many pages.”
Alekseyev poured another drink.
“Would you get me one, too?” she said.
He did, reluctantly, spilling some as he handed it to her because his hand shook.
“Where is this diary?” he asked.
“Someplace safe.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why? I thought we cared for each other.”
She forced a smile onto her quivering lips. “I thought we loved each other.”
“How can you love me, Marge. You love him. A dead man.”
“God!” She stood, hands held up in frustration as she crossed the room. “Can’t you understand what I mean when I say I loved Paul Latham? Is there something in the Russian mentality that makes it impossible to accept a love based upon fantasy and wishing? Yearning for something better?” She spun around to face him. “I fell in love with my science teacher in junior high school, Anatoly. I had a crush on my college psych professor. Haven’t you ever fantasized about a woman you couldn’t have?”
“Nyet!”
His use of Russian startled her. They’d spoken only English to each other since meeting.
“Then you aren’t human,” she said.
That charge further angered him.
She came to where he stood and placed her hands on his arms, spoke softly to him: “Please try to understand, Anatoly.”
The deep breaths he’d drawn had been calming. He stepped back and said, “I am trying to understand, Marge. But how can you expect me to—what?—to stand by you if you tell me only some of the story? This diary of your false love for him.”
“Not false, Anatoly.”
“False. Fantasy. Whatever. You share just so much of it with me, yet do not trust me to know where the diary is. To see it so that I can help you.”
Her pause seemed an eternity.
“I just want to help,” he repeated.
“Let’s sit down.” She went to the couch. He joined her.
“One of my diaries ended up with my half sister,” she said.
“Half sister?”
“My mother’s daughter. From her first marriage.”
“How did she get the diary?”
“Does it matter?”
“I think it matters. Did you give it to her, Marge?”
“No. Of course not. She and I were not friendly. We didn’t speak for years. Then, one day, she called me. She’d moved to this area, and thought it was time for us to get together. We shared the same mother, she said, and should try to honor our blood tie.
“I agreed, and we started seeing each other, a few lunches, dinner, then weekends together, usually at her house in Ashburn. That’s in Virginia.”
“And you gave her this diary?”
She shook her head. “No. But I showed it to her one weekend. Silly, I know, but we’d become very close in a short period of time. I told her about it because … girl kind of talk. Do you understand?”
“Girl talk?”
“Something girls do when they’re together.” She smiled. “I told her about my fantasy of being married to Paul. She … Well, we had a good laugh over it.”
“And then what happened?”
“I left the diary at her house by mistake. Completely forgot about it for a few days. We were so busy at the office, major legislation being prepared, everyone wanting some of Paul’s time.” A small laugh. “No time for fantasizing.”
“Call her and tell her to give it back.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She said she didn’t have it.”
“How could she say that?”
“She said it disappeared.”
“Impossible.”
“I asked if I could come help her look. She said she was too busy for that and hung up. Each time I call, she refuses to talk to me.”
“I could go there and demand she give it to me.”
“Anatoly, I’m sure she means what she says. She doesn’t have it. Someone else has it, the same someone who’s using it to back up the claim that I was sexually harassed by Paul Latham.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone she gave it to. Someone she sold it to. What does it matter?”
He poured another drink in the kitchen, saying when he returned, “If the diary is nothing more than what you say is fantasy, then it does not prove that Congressman Latham made advances to you.”
“Of course,” she said. “But how do you think I’ll look, writing a schoolgirl diary about my crush on my boss, one of the leading members of Congress? I was explicit at times about my sexual fantasies. I’ll be disgraced.”
“And if the diary is released, even without you? You’ll be disgraced also. Your name.”
She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms about them. He looked at her. “So, Marge, what will you do?”
“I don’t know.” Then, almost inaudibly, “There’s more.”
“What did you say?”
“I said there’s more.”
“Tell me.”
She twisted and looked into his earnest olive face and soft brown eyes. “There is another diary, Anatoly. A second diary. A report, actually. A very important one.”
29
“Mr. Brazier will see you now, Mr. Smith.”
He followed the secretary down a hallway to Brazier’s private office. Although the morning was cool—the city’s unrelenting summer heat was fast becoming an unpleasant memory—the air-conditioning blasted frigid air into the office. Mac Smith decided as he stepped through the door that Warren Brazier either had an out-of-whack internal body thermostat, or cranked up the AC to freeze unwelcome visitors.
“Mr
. Smith, how nice to see you.” Brazier, in shirtsleeves and tie, came from behind his desk, smiling broadly, hand extended. Smith shook it. “Sit down, sit down. Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing, thank you. I’ve had my caffeine ration for the morning.” More accurately, he didn’t trust anyone else’s hand at coffee.
When both were seated, Brazier said, “I’m intrigued at your reason for being here, Mr. Smith. Let me refer to my notes of our brief phone conversation. You said—and I think I took it down verbatim—‘I have information to share with you that I think you’ll be vitally interested in.’ ” He looked up, eyebrows arched. “Accurate?”
“Yes.”
“You also said, and I quote, ‘I think you should hear what I have to say before the information goes to other people.’ Right again?”
“Right again,” Smith said, smiling.
Brazier pushed aside the paper, extended his hands palms up, and said, “I’m listening with great interest.”
Smith had spent two hours that morning going over in his mind the “script” suggested to him by Giles Broadhurst and Jessica Belle. After they’d given him a thumbnail sketch of what they hoped to accomplish, and he’d agreed to listen, they left the soggy Washington Harbor complex for the warmth and dryness of a nearby luncheonette. Over cups of remarkably bad coffee, Broadhurst went into more detail on the mission they hoped Smith would undertake for them.
Instead of going home after the meeting, Smith stopped by Annabel’s gallery.
“How did your clandestine meeting go?” she asked.
Smith grinned. “I feel like a character in an Eric Ambler novel. Almost comical, if the ramifications weren’t so dire.”
“What did Jessica want?”
“It wasn’t just her. Her boss, Giles Broadhurst, was there, too.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Jessica just acted as the go-between,” Smith replied. “Broadhurst wants me to take on an assignment for him.”
“For the CIA.”
“For the CIA. And the FBI.”
“The heavy-hitting alphabet soups. What do they want you to do, Mac?”
“It could help get to the bottom of Paul’s murder, Annabel.”
“Oh? How?”
“If what I do is successful, it might flush out Paul’s killer.”
“Why the CIA? It’s an FBI case.”
“Because the information they’re acting upon came through Broadhurst and his people. They’re cooperating. Rare, indeed.”
“Mac.”
“What?”
“You haven’t told me what it is they want you to do.”
“Oh. Right. It’s not terribly difficult. Not a big deal.”
“Why do I have the feeling you don’t want to tell me?”
“I can’t imagine … why you’d feel that way. Interesting, how Broadhurst’s division of the CIA came up with what they have.”
“Mac!”
“They want me to …”
It took him ten minutes to explain the scheme set forth by Broadhurst and Belle. When he was finished, Annabel’s furrowed brow and tight lips spoke volumes about what she thought.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s what they want me to do.”
“And you agreed to do it.”
“Yes.”
“I am not happy, Mac.”
“Funny how I sensed that right away.”
“Do you realize what you’re getting into?”
“I think so. I deliver this message to Brazier, and walk away. If he reacts the way Broadhurst hopes he will, he might provide the proof they need that he was behind Paul’s murder. If he doesn’t, I did my part and can forget about it.”
“Mac.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say my name with that tone, Annie. It sets my teeth on edge.”
“I’d like to set something else on edge.”
“Like what?”
“Your head.”
“Are we about to have an argument?”
“No, Mac. We are not about to have an argument. We are about to have a war!”
“Why?”
“Because what you’ve agreed to do is dangerous. What if Brazier was behind Paul’s murder? You confront him, claiming you were given information by Paul that points to Brazier as a crook, a traitor to his own country, and a menace to society. What do you think he does then?”
“I have no idea what he’ll do.”
“He’ll have you killed, too.”
“Oh, Annie, that’s stretching things.”
“No, it’s not. Have you stopped to think that this scheme—I love the word—this farchadat scheme—this crazy idea has been cooked up by the Central Intelligence Agency? They go around trying to kill Castro by poisoning his cigars. The northern Iraq fiasco. Running drugs. Crazy mind-control experiments. They tell you there’s information enough to implicate Brazier in a number of criminal acts, but they also tell you they don’t have ‘physical possession’ of it.” Her tone was derisive.
“Yet.”
“Yet. Maybe they don’t have a thing.”
“They say someone close to Paul and Brazier documented all of Brazier’s illegal acts.”
“Sell that to a jury.”
“There’s more. The CIA has been delving into Brazier’s Russian operations for years, way back before the breakup of the Soviet Union. According to Broadhurst, they’ve amassed a huge file on his wrongdoings.”
“Good for them. Mac, don’t do it. Call Jessica and say you’ve thought it over and have decided not to become involved.”
“Tell her my wife doesn’t approve?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Look, ever since Paul was killed, my life has been on hold and will stay that way until his murder is solved. If I can do something to speed up that process, I want to do it. Make sense?”
“Sure it does. But to put yourself out front like this, be the messenger for the CIA? That’s asking too much of anyone.”
“I want to play a role in finding Paul’s killer, Annie.”
Her face and voice softened. “I know how important that is to you, Mac. And I’m also aware that I have a role to play, too, to support you in it. Just as you supported me when I went undercover to recover that Caravaggio masterpiece. You weren’t happy when I did that, but you understood, and stood by me.”
“Yes, I did. And I’d do it again.”
“I love you, Mackensie Smith, more than anything in this world. I don’t want to see a single hair on your head injured. You—”
“I don’t have as many hairs as I used to have to worry about. Was that what you were about to say?”
Her laugh was cathartic.
They talked for another half hour. He left the gallery, secure in her support for what he was about to do, and more madly in love with her than ever.
Now, the following morning, he was about to put into play what he’d been asked to do by Broadhurst and Belle.
“Mr. Brazier,” Smith said, “you’re aware, I’m sure, that I was very close to Paul Latham, personally and professionally.”
“Yes, I am, Mr. Smith.”
“Our relationship went back many years.”
“How many years?”
He’s taking the offensive, Smith thought. Brazier’s arrogance wasn’t surprising, or off-putting. Smith had dealt with enough rich, powerful, contumelious men to understand it was their style to attempt to turn things around, to bully others into submission.
“Paul shared a great deal with me, Mr. Brazier,” Smith said, ignoring his question.
Brazier held up his left arm and studied his Rolex for longer than it took to tell the time.
“And he was open with me regarding some of his dealings with you.”
“Cold, Mr. Smith?”
It took Smith a second to realize Brazier was referring to the air-conditioning. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m quite comfortable in here with you.”
Brazier’s expression was
blank. He sat back and formed a tent with his hands beneath his chin.
“You go back a long way with Paul Latham, too. Lots of legislation that benefited you, lots of deals in the Soviet Union and Russia.”
“Are you looking to be my biographer, Mr. Smith?”
“You’ve been known to hire some people whose résumés aren’t what might be called mainstream.”
No reaction.
“Security people, they’re called.”
A stare.
“And then there’s your involvement in Russian politics.”
“I don’t get involved in politics,” Brazier said. “In Russia or anywhere else.”
“As I understand it, Mr. Brazier, things were better for you when the Communists were in power.”
“Things are good for me now.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
Brazier abruptly stood, went to a window behind the desk, and sat on its deep sill. He folded his arms across his chest, lowered his head, and looked at Smith from that perspective.
Smith met his gaze and said nothing.
“Paul often spoke of you, Mr. Smith, and always with the highest praise.”
“The feeling was entirely mutual.”
“You were a big-time attorney in this town, Mr. Smith. Darrow, Nizer, and Bennett rolled into one.”
“You put me in good company.”
“Obviously, you didn’t achieve your success by being imprecise.”
“A lack of precision was useful at times.”
“But this isn’t one of them.”
“You’d like me to be precise about what Paul told me and gave to me about you.”
“I like people who pick up on cues. I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have other commitments.”
“Of course.”
It took no more than ten minutes for Smith to deliver to Brazier the information provided by Broadhurst and Belle. Brazier didn’t interrupt, his face painted with indifference. When Smith concluded his remarks, Brazier said, “How much do they pay you to teach law, Mr. Smith?”
“GW is generous with me, Mr. Brazier.”
“Not as much as when you were burning up the courtroom.”
“Too much of that was blood money,” Smith said. “I’m content to be out of that fire.”
“I’ve always paid men of your caliber generously,” Brazier said. “You come with pristine references.”
Murder in the House Page 22
