Murder in Foggy Bottom

by Margaret Truman

  “Somehow, I don’t get the feeling you’re totally sincere, Joe.”

  “Sincere? My middle name. Thanks, Gil. I’ll keep you informed on the school board story. Ciao.”

  Gardello watched through his glass door as Potamos left, made his way through the newsroom, stopped to exchange greetings with a few people, then disappeared in the direction of the elevators. The anger the editor had displayed during their brief meeting had been for show. What he’d really felt was sadness and frustration. The truth was, he liked Joe Potamos and wanted to save him from himself, keep him around, play some small role in resurrecting his career at the Post. It was a salvage job he wasn’t sure was possible, but he knew he’d keep at it until he succeeded, or Potamos went down in a flaming, self-induced crash.

  Potamos stopped at his Rosslyn apartment to pick up some fresh clothes, then went to Roseann’s, where the answering machine was blinking; the digital readout indicated there were nine messages. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have bothered replaying them; virtually all would be for her. But he pushed PLAY and listened. The first seven calls were for Roseann. The eighth was a woman who asked for him.

  “I’m calling Mr. Joseph Potamos. I would like very much to speak with you. I presume you know what this is about. I’ll try you again at another time.”

  Potamos replayed the message. “Damn!” he muttered. Why didn’t she leave a number? She sounded Canadian, judging from her pronunciation of about, which became more nearly aboot. He called the number on Thomas’s business card again, received the same recorded message. He listened carefully to see if the woman’s voice on the embassy’s outgoing message was the same as on Roseann’s answering machine. He thought it was. He left a message. “This is Joe Potamos from the Post. I’m trying to reach Mr. Craig Thomas, or a woman who might have responded to my previous message. Please call me.”

  Again he left both numbers.

  He sat in front of the computer, pulled up a database he’d created of his Washington contacts, and scrolled to names from the District’s school system. The name of an administrator whom Potamos knew to be an alcoholic, and for whom he’d done favors in the past, appeared. Potamos jotted down his office and home numbers. He wasn’t in his office but he reached him at home.

  “Walker, Joe Potamos from the Post. How are you?”

  “All right.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About the hassle going on between the board and the superintendent.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Sure you do, Walker. Dinner? My treat.”

  “I, ah—”

  “You owe me, Walker.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Potamos made a date for them to meet at six at Martin’s Tavern in Georgetown, where the prices were low, the food good, and where they usually shaved the bill for him. He walked Jumper, splashed water on his face, wrote a fast note for Roseann saying he was out on an assignment, and left. He was determined to do a good job on the school story if only to get Gil Gardello off the hook with his boss, a driven woman with ambition in her veins and a heart made of brass. But as he rode in a cab to Georgetown’s oldest tavern, his thoughts turned to Canada and the small Foggy Bottom park in which Jeremy Wilcox had been murdered. A harmless-seeming man is murdered, a knife in his side, in a park. His job is innocuous enough, probably important, but one like a thousand others. Not much is known about the man, and it appears few will mourn him. There is heat on to close the books. But a human being remains dead, a knife user walks, and no one cares. Or no one has turned up yet who does.

  Why hadn’t Thomas returned his call? The Canadian was the one who initiated contact through Roseann, said he wanted to talk to Joe.

  Had Thomas taken Roseann to dinner because he wanted a line to Joe?

  Who was the woman who called? Why hadn’t she left a number? Did she have the story Thomas had mentioned to Roseann?

  And why was someone putting the arm on the paper to unpursue the Wilcox murder?

  Walker Appleyard drank vodka with orange juice. Buying drinks for a guy with a drinking problem caused Potamos only minor and fleeting guilt. He was there to get a story, not play Bill W. When Appleyard finally opened up, Potamos had enough leads on what was happening inside the school board and in the superintendent’s office to form the basis for the story.

  He raced back to Roseann’s apartment to see whether anyone had called him. No one had. The only message was a note from Roseann on the kitchen table: At dinner with Bill and Jane Mead. Hope you had a pleasant evening. Why don’t you and Jumper stay in Rosslyn tonight. Witnessing her master’s murder might upset her. R.

  24

  That Same Day

  The J. Edgar Hoover Building

  The director, Joe Harris, and Sydney Wingate listened intently, making only an occasional written note but saying nothing to interrupt Special Agent Skip Traxler as he presented his report on the months spent undercover with Jasper. He spoke for forty-five minutes, using a series of photographs, sketches, and an audiotape to illustrate the points he wished to make. Included in his evidence that the Jasper Project was behind the missile attacks were copies of maps and charts, including aeronautical charts of Boise, Idaho, San Jose, California, and Westchester County airport, New York, he’d managed to photocopy before being forced to flee the ranch.

  He concluded, “I think that covers it. Happy to answer any questions.”

  There was silence in Templeton’s office until the director said, “A most impressive job, Agent Traxler. You’re to be commended.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Templeton had watched Traxler make his presentation with a sense of pride. The forty-year-old special agent looked the way Templeton wanted FBI special agents to look—military bearing, physically fit, hair close-cropped, clear-eyed, dressed conservatively in a gray suit, white shirt, and muted tie. In the days when only accountants or lawyers were acceptable candidates to become special agents, there was that sense of a military unit. But as criteria for admission to the Bureau broadened, so did the style of its agents, resulting in the demise of the “IBM look”—dark suits and white shirts were now being replaced by the more casual attire of the new, Silicon Valley generation.

  The director referred to his notes. “That audiotape you played,” he said. “It’s not very audible.”

  “It was recorded under difficult circumstances, sir,” Traxler said. “But I think the thrust of it comes through loud and clear. Jasper intends further attacks.”

  “But it doesn’t specify what form those attacks might take,” Templeton said.

  “True, sir, but considering that he masterminded bringing down three civilian aircraft with innocent victims aboard, it’s reasonable to assume, I think, that future attacks will be similar in nature.”

  “Let me see those pictures,” Templeton said to Harris, who was staring at them. He handed them to the director, who adjusted his half-glasses and squinted as he took a close look. “These shots of the weapons storage shed,” he said to Traxler. “You say those bags on the shelf are the ones used to transport the missiles to California, Idaho, and New York?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And they’re empty.”

  “Yes, sir. There are only two of them. The one used to transport the missile to California never came back to the ranch.”

  “I’m a little confused, Agent Traxler. You say the missiles were carried from Jasper’s ranch to California, New York, and Idaho by members of his group, but that those same people weren’t necessarily the ones who actually fired them at the planes.”

  “That’s correct, sir. Jasper is affiliated with other groups around the country. I’ve included the names of the ones I know in my report. It’s my understanding that members of those splinter groups used the missiles supplied by Jasper, but I can’t be certain of that.”

  “Who actually transported the missiles from the ranch?”

 
“Page seven, sir. Those names are listed there.”

  Templeton sat back, removed his glasses, and frowned.

  “How did the three missiles end up in Jasper’s hands, Skip?” Harris asked. “You say they were smuggled into the country by Chinese arms dealers. How did Jasper make the contact with these dealers?”

  “I don’t know,” Traxler responded. “I tried to find out but didn’t want to push it. I sensed I was walking on thinner ice and wasn’t about to blow my cover.” He smiled. “As it turned out, my cover was blown, but you know about that.”

  “What blew it?” Templeton asked.

  A shrug from Traxler. “I don’t know specifically. Lots of times it isn’t any one thing. You just know that they’re looking at you in a different way from when you managed to infiltrate.”

  “And fortunately you recognized it when you did and were able to get out in one piece,” Sydney Wingate said.

  “Wasn’t hard to recognize it,” Traxler said, smiling. “Jasper sent two of his people after me with guns. I got the message.”

  Wingate asked Traxler, “As far as you know, Skip, they don’t have any other missiles in their possession.”

  “Correct,” Traxler replied. “At least I didn’t see any.”

  “You say the missiles came through Chinese arms dealers.”

  “According to Jasper.”

  Templeton came forward, elbows on his desk. “When did you learn of the missile attacks on the civilian aircraft, Agent Traxler?”

  “When? After the fact, sir. If I’d known in advance, I would have passed the information along to—” He looked at Wingate and almost said Elephant Man. “To Agent Wingate, sir. Jasper kept the operation very much to himself. It was only after the planes had been attacked that he talked openly about it, bragged about it, to be more accurate. He had the TV on day and night after it happened and damn near cheered as the news reports came through at how successful the attacks had been, the number of people dead as a result. Those times were the toughest for me. I wanted to shoot the bastard right there in the lodge.”

  “I can understand,” said Templeton, “and I applaud your restraint.” He turned to the others. “Anything else?”

  “Jasper gives the impression that he’s a reasonable man, sir,” Traxler said. “Former college professor, Bible reader, which he uses to bolster his claims, a father figure on the ranch. But beneath that veneer is a madman. He once told me that if the government ever attacked and tried to take the ranch from him, he’d kill every man, woman, and child there before he went down.”

  After a few moments of silence, Templeton said, “Thank you for coming here, Agent Traxler, and for your superb job of infiltration under what were obviously difficult circumstances.”

  “I was honored to be chosen to do it, sir.”

  Traxler stood.

  “Agent Traxler has requested an extended leave, sir,” Wingate said, “and I’ve granted it. He’ll remain in the safe house for a few more days, then go to a place of his choosing. Naturally, we’ll be in daily contact in the event he’s needed again.”

  “Good,” Templeton said, coming around the desk and shaking Traxler’s hand.

  When Traxler was gone, Templeton said to Harris and Wingate, “I’ve arranged a meeting with the attorney general at five. He’s been briefed on what Traxler’s report contains, and the nature of this briefing. If he now agrees, and the president does, too, and criminal charges are brought, we’ll make our move. In the meantime, we’re continuing to position ourselves for a possible assault on the Jasper ranch. Naturally, we’ll want to resolve it peacefully, have Jasper and his people give themselves up. But if they don’t . . .”

  “We’re ready for that possibility, sir,” Harris said.

  “Yes, we must be ready to move. Thank you, gentlemen, for a fine job. I wish Agent Traxler had better information on the other groups involved in this, Jasper’s partners.”

  “That’ll come,” said Harris, “through Jasper once he’s in custody. As I said this morning, sir, we got lucky. More than five hundred hate groups around the country and we placed Scope in the right one.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Templeton said. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation does not believe in luck. We make our own good luck. Excuse me. I have calls to make.”

  25

  Two Days Later

  Moscow

  Max Pauling had used his first five days back in Moscow to settle in at the United States embassy, occupying the office that had been his the year before, until he was reassigned to Washington. It was one of six such offices in the ECO/COM division under the leadership of William Lerner, ostensibly to foster trade and commerce, in reality providing intelligence to the CIA on Russian industry, legitimate and, increasingly, not so legitimate. He spent part of his time in the Russian city poring over reports generated by others in the division, and communiqués from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, channeled through Lerner. He found most of the information to be of little use. A more productive exercise was reestablishing contacts with sources in Moscow’s nether-world, men and, more recently, women who knew more about Russia’s economic and industrial landscape than those in official capacities, and who were willing to sell what they knew for the right price. Pauling quickly learned from calls he made, and two lunches, that inflation was alive and well in every sector of the Russian economy, including the price of information.

  Lerner had been away for the past two days at a conference in Ryazan, a hundred and fifty miles southeast of Moscow. He walked into Pauling’s office the morning after his return. A front had pushed through Moscow the previous night bringing a cold, drenching rain to the city on the broad Moskva River, home to more than nine million, and the unchallenged political, cultural, criminal, and economic center of all things Russian.

  Lerner shook water from his raincoat and hat.

  “You’re making puddles on my floor,” Pauling said.

  “Better your floor than mine.” Lerner hung the coat and hat on a coat tree and took a chair across the desk.

  “Good trip?” Pauling asked.

  “Excruciatingly boring,” Lerner replied, “but that’s expected. How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Making progress?”

  Pauling nodded. “I’m—”

  Lerner held up his hand and raised his bushy, grizzled eyebrows. “Free for lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Lerner stood and retrieved his coat and hat. “Sorry for the puddles, Max. One o’clock?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  At one, they took a taxi to Tren-Mos, on Ostozhenka ul, where Lerner was greeted by the owner, an American from Trenton, New Jersey, who’d opened the restaurant in 1989 in partnership with a Russian businessman. They were seated at a small table partially hidden from the rest of the dining area by a waist-high planter filled with flowers. A portrait of George Washington looked down at them from the wall above. A waiter who’d been working tables in the front of the room was dispatched by the owner to handle Lerner and his guest.

  “Like being back home,” Pauling said, taking in the rest of the red-white-and-blue decor, including flags from the fifty states.

  “A pleasant change,” Lerner said. “My friend named it Tren-Mos for Trenton and Moscow.”

  “Very democratic.”

  “Yes. I hadn’t thought of it that way. We can talk here. Too wet for the park.”

  “Better food, too. I’ve set up a meeting with the guy your banker friend passed to you.”

  “Good. When?”

  “Tonight. I may put in for combat pay. We’re meeting at a disco. The Red Cat.”

  “Disco not your musical cup of tea, Max?”

  “You know it’s not. I brought six tapes with me, Ellington, Basie, Ella, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, and a vintage Miles Davis. My desert-island collection. We’re meeting at eleven.”

  “Not past your bedtime?”

  “Sure it is, but I’ll m
anage, catch a nap.”

  Lerner chuckled. “Ah, yes, a nap. How did you reach this gentleman who’s fond of discotheques?”

  “I called the number you gave me before you left, got a woman who thought she spoke English. She gave me another number. He was there.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him the banker suggested I call and that I would appreciate a chance to meet with him in person.”

  “Did he balk, ask questions?”

  “No, but I had the feeling the banker prepped him that a call would be coming. I’m sure he knows exactly what this is about.”

  “I asked Mr. Miziyano for some background on this individual. He said he was a man of honor—”

  “Of course.”

  “A man of honor who could prove to be helpful in your business venture, provided you could come to terms.”

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  “That seems to be the asking price. Of course, others will have to be taken care of, too.”

  “Like your fat friend.”

  “And probably others. That’s not your concern.”

  “What do I tell him about the money? Tonight, I mean.”

  “That you’ll have to discuss what he has to offer with others.” Lerner smiled. “Your superior.”

  “I’d like to give him the sense that I have more authority than that, Bill.”

  “I’ve received final authorization for the money. Two hundred thousand. A bargain, actually, especially when you consider money is no object. If they demanded a million, they’d have it—provided their information is correct. You’ll have to make that judgment on the spot, Max. You’ll have the money with you; your discretion whether to turn it over.”

  “I somehow don’t think they’ll let me leave without handing it over.”

  “It’s out of my hands.”

  Translation: You’re on your own, Pauling, no ties to anyone, nothing to fall back on except your own wits and experience in dealing with such people. In a sense, he preferred it that way. He had infinitely more faith in himself than in his employers, as well-meaning as Bill Lerner and the others might be.