Murder in Foggy Bottom (11 page)

“Yeah, they didn’t release me, just sent me to the minors.”

“You know what I always wondered, Joe?”

“What?”

“How come you didn’t pick up and get the hell outta DC, hook up with another paper someplace. You could’ve gotten another job, right?”

“Right.”

“So? How come you didn’t?”

“Because I don’t run from anybody or anything. You run, the bad guys win. Every day Bowen sees me, he feels that shot to his nose again. I like that. I also like DC. Enough of an explanation?”

“You havin’ another?”

“No, but go ahead. I’ve got to go.” Potamos stood and placed his American Express card on the bar.

“You put this on the expense account?”

“Sure. Getting sloshed in a fancy bar with a homicide detective who tells me nothing.”

“Joe.”

“What?”

Languth brought his lips close to Potamos’s ear. “You want the scoop on the Canadian in the park?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet me here tomorrow, six o’clock.”

“You buyin’?”

“Hell, no. I’m the seller, you’re the buyer.”

“You’d better be selling something good. I’ll be here at six.” He turned to Nathan. “Thanks, buddy. See ya.”

“Say hello to your lady.”

“Shall do.”

Potamos paused in the lobby to call Roseann. He got the machine, then remembered it was Friday, the night of her regular stint at the Four Seasons Hotel. He stopped in a stationery store and bought the last six copies of the
Washingtonian,
hailed a taxi, and went to the Four Seasons, where Roseann was seated at a grand piano in the center of the hotel’s opulent lounge. Well-dressed, well-heeled men and women sat on overstuffed chairs and love seats in pockets of partial seclusion throughout the grand space. Roseann saw Potamos enter, smiled, finished “Summertime,” left the piano, and gracefully crossed the lobby to him.

“Hi, babe,” he said, kissing her cheek.

She saw the magazines, laughed, and kissed him on the mouth. “You saw it and bought all these,” she said. “You are so sweet.”

“Yeah, well, I figured you’d want to send a couple to your mother, other people.”

“I do, I do. I’m almost finished. Another ten minutes.”

“I figured we’d catch some dinner someplace.”

“Love it. Good day?”

“The same. I’ll wait outside. A little too rich here for my blood, or bank account.”

She joined him outside twenty minutes later and they went to Bacchus, near Dupont Circle, a favorite spot when they were in the mood for Lebanese food. Instead of a full meal, they opted for a variety of appetizers,
mezze,
and beer, and settled back as the small dishes were brought in succession—hummus topped with pine nuts and ground meat, eggplant with pomegranates and sesame paste, stuffed grape leaves, and phyllo dough filled with piquant sausage and cheese. Roseann looked across the table and smiled. Potamos seemed relaxed; she loved being with him at times like this, when the edge was off.

“You weren’t mad they mentioned you and Bowen in the piece?” she asked, picking up a radish and taking a bite.

“No, of course not. It’s no secret what happened. The piece should get you plenty of work.”

“Bill Walters called,” she said. Walters owned Elite Music, Roseann’s booking agent. “He said the same thing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s great.”

“He wants me to start taking jobs out of the area.”

“Yeah? Like where?”

“Not far. Fancy resorts in West Virginia, Delaware, maybe even some of the better piano bars in New York.”

“Makes sense to me, as long as you remember Joe Potamos when you’re on Broadway.”

She placed her hand on his. With all his bluster, all his cynical, tough-guy persona, his dyspeptic view of the world, especially since the incident with Bowen, she knew a painful vulnerability and lack of confidence were an inch below the surface.

“When I’m on Broadway—why would you think I’d be on Broadway? I’m just a saloon piano player.”

“The Four Seasons; some saloon.”

“I’ll never be on Broadway. And as for forgetting Joe Potamos, that’s as likely as forgetting the C scale.”

His mood picked up as the appetizers and bottles of beer kept coming. She knew he’d been drinking earlier in the day, which he confirmed by telling her he’d met Languth at the Carlton Hotel: “He’s getting me some stuff on the Canadian who was murdered.”

“Canadian? Oh, in the park.”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you want more information about him?”

“I don’t know. This guy wasn’t mugged. It was no street robbery, nothing like that.”

“How do you know?”

“Instinct.”

“Why do you think he was killed?”

“No idea. But I want to know.
Have
to know. I don’t write unfinished stories. Maybe what I get from Languth will give me some answers.”

“I hope so.”

They finished their meal with strong coffee and a shared piece of lemony yogurt pie. When they were finished, Potamos asked, “Ready?”

“Uh huh.”

They stopped to chat with one of the restaurant’s owners before venturing out onto Jefferson Place. Inside, it had been quiet. The moment they opened the door, they were confronted with a noisy, angry group of a half-dozen young men who’d surrounded a well-dressed, dark-skinned couple who’d left Bacchus ten minutes earlier. One of the young men was the loudest and most vocal: “Why don’t you get the hell out of this country and go back with the rest of your raghead terrorists!” he screamed. “You don’t shoot down Americans, you bastard, and get away with it.”

The man and woman were terrified. She crouched behind him as he tried to reason with them. “We know nothing of the planes being shot down,” he pleaded, his hands held in a defensive position, his voice breaking.

“Let’s show ’em,” another man yelled.

The leader closed the gap and held up his fist.

“Hey!”

Potamos pushed through the men and confronted the leader. He’d pulled a small, sophisticated point-and-shoot camera he always carried with him and aimed it at the attacker’s face. “Joe Potamos,
Washington Post.
You want your ugly face in the paper tomorrow?”

For a moment, Roseann thought Potamos would be physically assaulted. But the young man backed away, mumbling obscenities. The group dispersed, grumbling.

“Thank you, thank you,” the man said, pumping Potamos’s hand.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay. Buncha jerks, that’s all.”

“We know nothing about any planes. We have lived here for ten years. We love this country.”

“I’m sure you do. Have a nice night.”

Later that night, Potamos and Roseann lay in bed with Jumper at their feet.

“That’s just the beginning,” he said.

“What is?”

“Looking for scapegoats. Pick on anybody who looks different, like that couple. You look like you come from some Arab country, you’re automatically a terrorist. Some stuff came over the wire this afternoon, same kind of stuff happening around the country.”

“That was gutsy what you did, Joe. I thought they were going to turn on you.”

“So did I.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, babe.”

They kissed and she turned over, her feet pushing Jumper and bringing forth a groan from the sleeping dog. Potamos stayed awake for a long time, thinking about nothing and everything. His final thought was a growing question: Should he ask Roseann to marry him?

He fell asleep before he had to answer it.

13

The Next Morning

It was as though the world had suddenly ceased spinning. It was one of those moments in American news— or what passed for news in America. No revolution, no incursions, no deaths of heads of state or movie stars, not even a B-plus scandal in Washington.

“In other news today . . .”

What news? The downing of the three commuter aircraft, and the involvement of shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles, was the
only
news.

Television programmers engaged in a fierce competition for relevant guests to discuss the horrific crimes against innocent American citizens. Retired generals were interviewed about missiles, their range, speed, and destructive capability. Spokespeople from Justice, State, the FBI, ATF, and the administration ran from studio to studio answering the same questions over and over, reassuring the public while at the same time inadvertently heightening its fear that other such attacks could be imminent. The afternoon talk shows paraded every available, anxious-to-appear psychiatrist and psychologist before their cameras:

INTERVIEWER: “What’s the psychology of someone so filled with hatred that he would target civilian airliners?”

ANSWER: “That’s hard to say without having the opportunity to examine the perpetrator, to see what sort of background, childhood, life experiences might have impacted his adult actions.”

INTERVIEWER: “How can people conquer what is now a natural fear of climbing aboard a commercial airplane?”

ANSWER: “There isn’t much anyone can do except to adopt a fatalistic attitude. Because the victims were chosen at random, we’re all possible victims. But life is a random exercise. We never know whether we’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Terrorists don’t discriminate.”

INTERVIEWER: “What are family members of those who died in the attacks feeling at this moment?” ANSWER: “Shock, sadness, remorse, anger—yes, extreme anger.”

Wally Watson’s wife, Celia, succumbed to incessant pressure and agreed to appear on a local talk show.

INTERVIEWER: “How is the family holding up?”

ANSWER: “We’re doing the best we can under the circumstances. Wally—that was my husband—is missed very much.” She began to cry.

INTERVIEWER: “If you could come face-to-face with the person who shot down the plane with your husband on it, what would you say to that person?” ANSWER: “I would say . . . I would ask why.”

INTERVIEWER: “Yes, indeed,
why
is the question all America is asking. We’ll take a brief commercial break. When we come back, we’ll ask this courageous lady what the future holds for her and her family now that her husband is no longer with them.”

The story multiplied, fed on itself. CNN devoted two hours to the activities of local police across the country. San Jose’s police chief was among those interviewed:

INTERVIEWER: “What’s the mood here in San Jose?” ANSWER: “The mood is somber and concerned.”

INTERVIEWER: “What is your department doing— what
can
your department do to allay these fears?”

ANSWER: “Well, we know that incidents like these aren’t going to happen every day. The citizens of San Jose are being encouraged to go about their daily activities in a normal manner.”

INTERVIEWER: “Including getting aboard airplanes?”

ANSWER: “Yes, that too. Look, I don’t want to minimize what’s happened. We’ve gone to full alert in our emergency crisis center as a precaution, and known hate groups are being sought out and questioned. But—”

INTERVIEWER: “Do you have information we don’t have that a domestic hate group is behind these attacks, not a foreign terrorist organization?”

ANSWER: “No, but every potential source of information is being pursued. Thank you.”

Warren Forrester held the APB his office had received as its subject, Zachary Jasper, approached.

WANTED—CAUTION—FOR QUESTIONING—JASPER, ZACHARY—SEX/M—RAC/W—POB/IDAHO— DOB/020752—HGT/601—WGT/290—EYE/BRO— HAI/BLACK—MIS/EXTRM PARANOID—AFFIL W/KNOWN HATE GROUPS—FOUNDR THE JASPER PROJECT—HEVLY ARMED—LV/RANCH, NORTH WASH, CALLED JASPER, NRST CTY BELLINGHAM (TWN/BLAINE)—RANCH POP APPROX 30.

Jasper wore a black T-shirt. Despite being the largest size available, it was stretched thin over his massive body. An unfurled American flag was emblazoned on its front. On the back, in white letters, was CSA, which stood for the Covenant, the Sword, and the Arm of the Lord, a militia group whose survival training school was considered among the best in the amalgamation of such groups across the United States. Jasper had been given the shirt after completing a refresher course there, and wore it with pride.

Huge, sunburned arms, covered with tattoos, bulged against the shirt’s short sleeves. His hair was black and shaved daily into a buzz-cut. He wore a leather vest over the shirt, dark blue jeans—waist size forty-eight— leather sandals over bare feet, and a thick gold chain around his neck. A sizable, custom-crafted medallion, on which a lightning bolt cut across a shield containing a large red letter
J,
hung from the chain.

At first glance, Jasper might have been considered a fat man. He wasn’t. He was a
big
man, muscular and hard, including his large belly. The only thing that mitigated the imposing figure he presented were round, rimless glasses that were absurdly small on his broad, flushed face.

He walked down the long road to where the six FBI special agents dressed in suits stood next to three unmarked sedans they’d driven to the remote area known as Jasper, Washington, a name given it by its only permanent resident, Zachary Jasper. Flanking him were six younger men, none of whom were armed. The deal struck by phone the night before called for Jasper to surrender to the agents the next morning, and that no weapons were to be carried. The firearms carried by the agents remained in their shoulder holsters beneath their suit jackets, although their eyes scrutinized the approaching men carefully, seeking any sign that the agreement might be breached.

Jasper and his entourage stopped ten feet away.

“Mr. Jasper,” the lead agent, Warren Forrester, said.

“Hello,” Jasper said. “Here I am, just as I promised.”

“That’s good, Mr. Jasper. Ready to come with us?”

“Yes. I’m being questioned only. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

“I’m not being arrested. I have witnesses here.”

“You don’t need them, Mr. Jasper. We keep our word.”

Jasper got in the backseat of one of the cars, and the three vehicles and six agents left the area. They drove to Bellingham, ninety miles north of Seattle, fifty-seven miles south of Vancouver, and pulled into a parking lot behind the city’s police headquarters. Jasper was led inside and down a long corridor to a general-purpose room at the east end of the one-story building.

“Hello, Zachary,” Bellingham’s police chief said as Jasper entered the room.

“Allan,” Jasper said, going directly to a table, pulling out a wooden armchair, and sitting heavily. Agents took the remaining four chairs. The two others stood. The police chief left the room and closed the door. A Sony cassette recorder sat on the table. One of the agents turned it on, saying, “We’ll be taping this, Mr. Jasper, for your sake and ours.”

Jasper laughed gently. “For
my
sake? I don’t think so.”

The lead agent said, “You know the chief of police, I see.”

“Allan? Sure, I do. Nice fella. We don’t bother him, he doesn’t bother us.”

It struck the agents that this bear of a man, dressed like a Hell’s Angels biker, was surprisingly well spoken. A few of them knew, however, that Jasper had been a political science professor in California before shucking that persona and taking the right-wing road that led him to form the Jasper Project, a hundred-acre ranch in a heavily wooded area outside Blaine, Washington, north of Bellingham, a busy port of entry between the United States and Canada. It was Jasper’s dream to establish a colony for white Christians, insular, secure, self-contained. Most of the people living at the ranch had come from other parts of the country, lured there by Jasper’s promotional materials promising a white, God-fearing nirvana.

“Mind if I smoke?” Jasper asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his vest.

“Prefer that you didn’t,” he was told.

“Go right ahead,” Forrester said, tossing a critical look at the antismoking member of his team. Another agent brought an ashtray from a table and placed it in front of Jasper.

“All right,” Jasper said, “you want to know if I shot down those three planes. Right?”

“We’d like to know if you have any information that would help us find who did, Mr. Jasper.”

Jasper ran a hand over his chin and frowned. “You’re aware I could consider this harassment,” he said, smiling. “You’ve got me here because I and my people aren’t especially fond of you and the whole damn government you represent.”

“No one’s harassing you, Mr. Jasper,” Forrester said. “You came voluntarily.”

“I’m glad you’ve taken note of that,” said Jasper. “I know nothing about those planes being shot down. I’m as appalled as anybody at what happened.”

“How many people live with you at the ranch?”

“That’s none of your business, no insult intended. I’m here to answer your questions about those planes. Nothing else.”

“Discussing weapons you have at the ranch would be fair game, wouldn’t it?” Forrester asked.

“No.”

“Weapons brought down those planes, Mr. Jasper.”

“Soviet-made SAMs, as I hear on TV.”

“Do you have any missiles at the ranch?”

A dismissive laugh this time. “Now, why would I have missiles on a working ranch? Hell of a way to shoot a deer or a rabbit. Maybe overkill.”

“You could help us, Mr. Jasper,” Forrester said. “You get around the circuit.”

“The ‘circuit’? You mean other groups that share my dislike for the government and all it stands for?”

A simple nod, and a small smile, from the agent.

Jasper sat up straight and leaned his elbows on the table. “Let me tell you something,” he said, his voice demonstrating the first sign of pique since he had sat down. “I may hate the Jew-nited States of America and its fascist government. I may be a white supremacist. I might be all those things. But I don’t approve of innocent American citizens being slaughtered by some foreign terrorist group.”

“Why are you so sure it was a foreign group?”

“Had to be. You know how they are.”

“ ‘They’?”

“Yes, foreigners.”

They talked for another fifteen minutes before Jasper was escorted from the building, placed in one of the cars, and driven back to his ranch, where two of the young men who’d accompanied him waited. This time, they cradled rifles in their arms.

Forrester said as Jasper was about to depart the vehicle, “You’d make me very happy, Mr. Jasper, if you’d invite me inside to see this ranch of yours.”

Jasper’s tongue worked the inside of one cheek before he responded, “That sort of invitation is usually called a warrant.”

“I’d rather not go to the trouble of having it printed. You know, just a friendly visit.”

“You know what Harry Truman said: ‘If you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog.’ Sorry, but I’m not in the mood for a party. It was a pleasure meeting you. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Forrester called a number from a secured radio telephone in the car as he and the driver drove away from the ranch: “Forrester. We just dropped Zachary Jasper back at his ranch.”

The agent on the other end of the call sat in a large room at FBI headquarters in San Francisco that had been designated and equipped as the western-sector command center for investigating the downing of the aircraft. She’d been taking calls all day from teams assigned to seek out and question known right-wing militia groups.

“Anything?” she asked.

“No. Claims to know nothing. I’d like a warrant to go in.”

“No can do, at least at this stage. Justice is doing its usual blinders-on act, turned down a blanket request to search all known hate group locations. No probable cause.”

“I thought—”

“Careful. That can get you in trouble.”

“I thought they were getting info from inside Jasper’s so-called ranch.”

“Be a good soldier, Warren. It’s not for us to question wisdom at the top.”

“Christ,” Forrester said into the phone, loud enough for the driver to turn and raise his eyebrows. “What are they waiting for, another plane to come down?”

“No, they’re operating on the theory that it was the act of a foreign terrorist group.”

“What do they back that up with?”

“Looks like the administration wants it that way. You’re heading for Portland?”

“Yeah. We have the two groups to check out there.”

“Keep in touch.”

As Special Agent Forrester and his colleagues headed for Portland, Oregon, to check out two known white supremacist groups, one comprised of neo-Nazi skinheads, the other led by an aging minister who used his self-consecrated church as headquarters, Mac and Annabel Smith watched the news on TV in their Watergate apartment. A special report was in progress about a rash of bias crimes that had sprung up across the country in response to the assaults on the aircraft. The window of a clothing store in Detroit, owned by a Pakistani family, was smashed by a chanting crowd; two black teenagers, the sons of a Nigerian diplomat, were attacked on Mass. Avenue. An Arab man in Houston was chased by a club-wielding gang and forced into a busy street, where he was struck by a car and taken to a hospital. His injuries were reported as not being life-threatening.

The anchor’s report ended with:

“The president himself has asked the American people not to take the law into their own hands or judge people by their national origins. Every resource of the federal government is being utilized to determine who was behind the callous destruction of civilian commuter planes that took the lives of eighty-seven men, women, and children.”

Mac switched off the set. “Doesn’t take much, does it, to turn loose the posse?”

“Inevitable,” Annabel said, “and unfortunate. I’d better pack.”