Folsom looked around. Instinct told him time had run out.
The cloakroom door behind them opened, and two hostage negotiators joined them. Folsom looked to where Fodorov continued to hold Molly, his gun pressed to her temple. “This guy’s going to try to talk to him,” Folsom told the negotiators. “They’re friends.”
“Go ahead,” Brazier said. “Go on!”
Folsom glanced at the industrialist, taken slightly aback at his having taken charge.
Vladimir Donskoi, who’d returned to the meeting in H 139 after running from Latham’s office, walked slowly in Fodorov’s direction. As he did, he spoke in Russian, his tone friendly, almost joking. “Hey, Yvgeny, calm down, man.” He raised his hands to show they were empty. “It’s all worked out. We can leave here. Diplomatic immunity. No problem.”
“What’s he saying?” Folsom asked one of his negotiators.
“Beats the hell out of me.”
Donskoi continued toward Fodorov. “Hey, Yvgeny, cool it, man. Brazier worked everything out. We’re out of here, on his private goddamn jet back to Moscow.”
He stopped six feet from Fodorov and Molly. Fodorov’s eyes were open wide—frightened, confused eyes. He stared at Donskoi, then said, “Brazier? We can leave?”
“Da.”
Donskoi broke into a wide smile. “Everything’s okay, man. Everything’s cool.”
He closed the gap between them and stood at Fodorov’s side.
“Who’s he?” one of C-SPAN’s camera operators asked another as they zoomed in, Donskoi’s face filling the screen.
“I don’t know. Widen the shot.”
It happened so fast no one saw it coming, especially Yvgeny Fodorov. Donskoi’s hand came up holding a revolver. In one continuous motion, it moved from his belt to beneath Fodorov’s chin. The weapon’s discharge was picked up and magnified by the microphone at the podium. Simultaneously, Fodorov’s jaw and a portion of his face erupted in a vivid red cloud of blood. The hand holding the gun next to Molly’s head flew up in the air, Fodorov’s finger squeezing tightly against the trigger in a reflexive action, sending a hail of bullets from the automatic weapon up to the visitors gallery, where onlookers dove for cover.
Molly Latham, now free of her abductor’s grasp, slumped to the floor, on top of Fodorov’s lifeless body. They were immediately surrounded by Capitol police, two of whom lifted Molly and ran with her to the front row of the Republican side of the aisle. They gently laid her across the seats. “Get a doctor!” one yelled.
Molly opened her eyes. Her fingers went to her bosom, then came away with Yvgeny Fodorov’s blood on them. She shuddered, allowed a cry of anguish that had been bottled up to come forth, and then began to sob.
Vladimir Donskoi handed his weapon to Chief Folsom.
“Nice going,” Folsom said. He turned to Warren Brazier. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Brazier.”
“I’m just glad the girl wasn’t hurt. Her father was one of my best friends.”
34
“Wonderful, as usual,” Mac Smith said to the manager as he and Annabel prepared to leave the restaurant.
“Always good to see you,” the manager said. “Safe home.”
The Smiths had parked their car a half block away. They stepped out onto the street and took deep breaths. “Lovely evening,” Smith said.
“Delightful. Care to carry me to the car?” Annabel asked. “I’m so full I’m not sure I can walk.”
“Of course,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and pretending to try and lift her.
“I was only kidding,” she said, giggling. “Mac, stop it!”
The two men who’d waited across Connecticut Avenue for them to leave the restaurant crossed the street and approached. They held weapons.
But before they could reach the couple, four armed men emerged from a car parked two removed from the Smiths’ Chevy. They ran into the street: “Drop the guns,” one commanded.
The two men crossing stopped in the middle of the avenue.
“What the hell—?” Mac said.
He was interrupted by the sound of a single gunshot, then the sting of a bullet entering his thigh. As he fell to the sidewalk, the usually peaceful Connecticut Avenue became a battleground. The four men opened fire on the other two. One fell to the street, mortally wounded. The other attempted to flee, but was cut down by a fusillade of bullets ripping across his legs. His weapon flew from his hand and skidded across the avenue. He swore in Russian.
Annabel crouched over her husband. “Mac, are you all right?”
“My leg,” he said, grimacing against the pain.
Annabel stood and shouted, “Help! My husband’s been shot!”
Two of the four men came to her side. “We’ve called for an ambulance, Mrs. Smith,” one said.
“Good. You know who I am?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” He held out his badge for her to see. “FBI.”
“FBI? You just happened to—?”
“Annabel,” Smith said. He was now in a sitting position, his hands gripping his thigh.
“Yes?” she said, her hand lightly resting on his cheek.
“It was a good dinner.”
“Yes, it was,” she said, a large lump in her throat. “A very good dinner.”
35
Mac Smith was taken to the George Washington University Medical Center, where emergency room physicians treated his wound. The bullet had passed cleanly through the fleshy portion of his thigh; no damage to muscles or nerves. He wanted to go home, but doctors prevailed upon him to stay overnight.
He sat up in bed. Annabel perched on its edge and held his hand. They watched the news on TV. Footage from C-SPAN had been provided to other stations, which ran special programs on the events that evening at the House of Representatives.
The station they watched reported that the murderer of Robert Mondrian, and abductor of Molly Latham, Yvgeny Fodorov, had been killed by another employee of Brazier Industries, Vladimir Donskoi. Donskoi was hailed as the hero of the evening. He declined to be interviewed. But Warren Brazier faced reporters outside the Capitol:
“This has been a tragedy of immense proportions,” he said. “That an employee of Brazier Industries would turn into such a demented villain is beyond my comprehension. I’m just thankful that another of my people bravely intervened, and that the daughter of my good friend, Congressman Paul Latham, was spared.”
The replay of how Yvgeny Fodorov’s threat to Molly Latham was resolved was run over and over as interviews continued to be aired. One was of Ruth Latham, flanked by Martin and Molly.
“I just thank God that it ended the way it did,” Ruth said.
“Does it bother you that an employee of your late husband’s good friend Warren Brazier almost took your daughter’s life?” a reporter asked.
“No,” she replied. “A crazy person can work for any company. All the shootings in post offices by disgruntled employees proves that.”
Another question: “Your husband was murdered, Mrs. Latham. Now his chief of staff. And your daughter is kidnapped. Do you see a pattern here?”
“No. Please, we just want to get home.”
Melissa had been standing just behind Molly. She said quickly, leaning into the camera, “When I heard Molly—she’s my roommate at the page dorm; we’re both pages—when Ah heard what was happening to her, I could just have died right on the spot.”
The program shifted to a statement by Capitol Police Chief Henry Folsom, who said all circumstances of the evening would be investigated thoroughly by the appropriate law enforcement agencies.
Smith shifted his position in the bed and growled, “Ruth doesn’t see a pattern? What else can you see?”
“Once the attack on you becomes part of the mix, Mac, that pattern will become painfully clear.”
A doctor entered the room. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Not bad,” Smith replied.
“Up to some visitors?”
“Who
?” Annabel asked.
The doctor consulted a piece of paper. “A Ms. Belle and a Mr. Broadhurst. There are two FBI agents with them. I assume they’re with the Bureau, too.”
Mac looked at Annabel and smiled. “At least they’re not asking me to meet them in a rowboat on the Potomac.” He said to the doctor, “Sure, send them up. But have them check their guns at the door.”
An hour later, Belle, Broadhurst, and the two special agents left Mac and Annabel alone once again. They sat silently, each trying to sort out what they’d just been told. It was Annabel who broke the silence.
“The man is evil incarnate,” she said of Warren Brazier.
Smith nodded.
“He tried to eliminate every person who might know of his criminal acts. Paul. Bob Mondrian. Marge Edwards. And then you. Even Molly Latham.”
“I know.”
Annabel shook her head and sighed. “I never understand rich and powerful people resorting to crime to become even more rich and powerful.”
“Avaritia,” Mac said.
“Spoken like a true lawyer, reverting to the Latin,” said Annabel.
“I’d say it in Russian if I knew how. Greed. Money corrupting. Egos running amuck. What surprises me is the claim that Brazier is actually a major figure in the Russian mob, here and in Moscow, laundering their dirty drug money and God knows what else. A man can be brilliant, even brilliantly criminal, brilliantly corrupt, and then finally stupid. What did he think—because he was in a meeting at the Capitol when the mayhem went on that he had a perfect alibi? Or had he stopped thinking? From what Giles and Jessica and the agents said, all the strings lead right back to Brazier. They have him dead-to-rights—the money laundering, payoffs, contract killings, the works. And he’s not the least impenitent.”
“Giles is confident that the FBI will make a solid case against him, based upon what the CIA has come up with over the past year, and Paul’s investigation and report. I hope he’s right.”
At eleven, Annabel prepared to leave. “You’ll be okay?” she asked.
“It’s you I worry about,” Smith said. “Hate to see you alone in the house.”
“I’m never alone, not with the Beast there.”
He smiled. “Give Rufus an ear rub for me.”
The eleven o’clock news came on, updating the events in the House that evening. Annabel stopped to watch.
“We have two important additions to this ongoing story,” the anchor said in dulcet tones. “First, we’ve learned that another murder attempt took place tonight in Washington, this also involving Russians. An attempt was made on the life of Mackensie Smith, former noted criminal attorney and professor of law at George Washington University. Smith was also counsel to murdered congressman Paul Latham. The incident took place outside a restaurant on Connecticut Avenue, when two men, Russian national citizens with alleged ties to organized crime, attempted to kill Smith and his wife. The FBI, which had been quietly protecting Smith because of his link to Latham, killed one of the assailants and severely wounded another. Smith, according to our source, received a superficial wound, and is spending the night in the GW Medical Center.”
“The FBI protecting me,” Smith muttered.
“I’m glad they were there,” Annabel said.
“You were right.”
“About what?”
“About not getting involved. If I hadn’t, there never would have been any need to ‘protect’ me.”
Their attention returned to the screen. The newscaster said, “In still another related development, an employee of Brazier Industries, Anatoly Alekseyev, was found shot to death in his Georgetown apartment. His body was discovered following the tense scene at the Capitol by Marge Edwards, an employee in Congressman Latham’s office, who disappeared after it was rumored she intended to charge President Scott’s nominee for secretary of state with sexual harassment, a rumor she emphatically denied tonight. Ms. Edwards, it’s reported, was romantically involved with the murdered Brazier Industries employee, Mr. Alekseyev. She has been admitted to a local hospital.”
Smith used the remote to click off the set. “It seems the cold war didn’t end, Annabel,” he said. “We’ve been invaded by the Russians.”
“No, Mac. The invader was a sick individual named Warren Brazier. And he’s been defeated.” She kissed him on the lips. “Get some sleep, which is what I intend to do. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
The Smiths made their trip to Russia, where he met with a variety of legal experts. The corruption in the judicial and law enforcement communities there was more pervasive than he’d ever imagined from his research. There was much to be done before the former Soviet Union would become a true democracy, and where a free people and a free market could flourish. Mac and his colleagues promised to return to the United States and draw up a list of recommendations for their Russian hosts to consider.
They enjoyed the trip, although the ghost of Warren Brazier, and the havoc he created, followed wherever they went.
They returned to Washington and settled into their routines, Mac back to teaching at the university, Annabel to managing her art gallery.
Federal charges, ranging from money laundering to racketeering to murder, were filed against Warren Brazier and some of his associates. Brazier vowed to fight them, but the overwhelming legal opinion was that despite his money, the case against him was strong enough to assure a conviction.
Smith met with Marge Edwards only once, the day before she was to leave Washington to live with her father in Indianapolis: “Just until I put the pieces together,” she told him.
“A smart move,” he said.
“You know I never intended to hurt Paul,” she said.
“Of course I know that. He was a good man. I miss him. The country misses him.”
“Well, I’m sorry for all the upset I caused. I acted like a silly schoolgirl.”
Smith smiled, said, “It’s all in the past, Marge. Say hello to your father. I like him. It’s a good place for you to be right now. And it will brighten his life.”
Molly Latham, according to her mother, had settled back into being a House page, and was thoroughly enjoying the experience. “I think she’ll run for Congress one day,” Ruth said.
“She’ll have my vote,” Smith replied. “Provided Annabel and I move to Northern California.”
Senator Connors fired his AA, Dennis Mackral, who returned to California to attempt to build a base for his own run for Congress. His prospects were considered to be 15-watt, although it was, after all, California.
President Scott put up another nominee for secretary of state, a former ambassador to the Soviet Union whose reputation had been carefully built over the years to preclude the ruffling of feathers—anywhere, with anyone—including Senator Frank Connors. The nominee passed Senate scrutiny with ease.
That evening, Mac received a call at home from Jessica Belle.
“Hello, Jessica,” he said.
“Hi, Mac. Giles and I were wondering if we could get together.”
“Get together?”
“Maybe dinner? Our treat. There’s something we wanted to bounce off you.”
A twinge of pain in his thigh where he’d been shot caused him to wince. He slowly recrossed his legs.
“Mac?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Dinner? Tomorrow?”
“I, ah—I’m tied up, Jessica. Will be for quite a while.”
“Sure. I understand,” she said. “How about giving me a call when things ease up?”
“A good suggestion.”
Rufus placed his large canine head on Smith’s lap. Smith scratched him behind the ears, smiled, and said, “I’ll get back to you, Jessica.”
“In a year or so,” he said to Rufus after hanging up. “And maybe later. Come on, big guy. I’ve got a few things to talk over with you. Need your advice. Need a walk.”
By Margaret Truman
IN THE CAPITAL CRIMES SERIES
&nbs
p; MURDER IN THE WHITE HOUSE*
MURDER ON CAPITOL HILL*
MURDER IN THE SUPREME COURT*
MURDER IN THE SMITHSONIAN*
MURDER ON EMBASSY ROW*
MURDER AT THE FBI*
MURDER IN GEORGETOWN*
MURDER IN THE CIA*
MURDER AT THE KENNEDY CENTER*
MURDER AT THE NATIONAL CATHEDRAL*
MURDER AT THE PENTAGON*
MURDER ON THE POTOMAC*
MURDER AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY*
MURDER IN THE HOUSE*
MURDER AT THE WATERGATE*
MURDER AT THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS*
MURDER IN FOGGY BOTTOM*
MURDER IN HAVANA*
MURDER AT FORD’S THEATRE*
MURDER AT UNION STATION*
MURDER AT THE WASHINGTON TRIBUNE*
MURDER AT THE OPERA*
MURDER ON K STREET*
MURDER INSIDE THE BELTWAY*
Nonfiction:
FIRST LADIES*
BESS W. TRUMAN
SOUVENIR
WOMEN OF COURAGE
HARRY S. TRUMAN
LETTERS FROM FATHER:
The Truman Family’s Personal Correspondences
WHERE THE BUCK STOPS
WHITE HOUSE PETS
THE PRESIDENT’S HOUSE*
*Published by Ballantine Books
MURDER IN THE WHITE HOUSE
The First Capital Crimes Novel
by
Margaret Truman
In a town where the weapon of choice is usually a well-aimed rumor, the strangling of Secretary of State (and accomplished womanizer) Lansard Blaine in the Lincoln Bedroom is a gruesome first.
In death as in life, Blaine is a power to be reckoned with. Only a few highly placed insiders had access to the Lincoln Bedroom that fateful evening. And one of them was the president.…
“The plot builds up to a superb denouement.
One wonders if all is fiction.”
—Time
Murder in the House Page 27
