Murder in Foggy Bottom (22 page)

31

That Same Night
Washington, DC

“How awful!”

Jessica watched the news in her Foggy Bottom apartment with her friends and fellow bird-watchers Cindy and Horace, who’d returned from Canada with her after spending a few days in search of uncommon species and photographing them. Upon arrival in Washington early that afternoon, Jess took everyone’s undeveloped rolls of film into a local one-hour processing service on her way home, including two rolls shot by Cindy on a similar trip six months earlier that she hadn’t gotten around to having processed.

They’d decided to extend the trip by having Chinese food at Jessica’s apartment that night and going over the pictures. A dozen envelopes containing the prints were piled on a coffee table in the living room. Jess had called in the takeout order, and they were about to begin going through the photos when their attention was diverted by a special TV report on the siege in Blaine, Washington.

“Tension has increased dramatically here with the shooting of a young woman inside the Jasper compound that’s been under siege by federal authorities since yesterday. There are conflicting reports about who killed the woman, whose name was Patty Davidson, and whose eleven-year-old son, Mark, escaped. FBI spokesman Special Agent Joseph Harris, who’s in charge of the operation here, denies vehemently that any member of the siege team killed Ms. Davidson, and insists that she was shot by someone inside the compound. At the same time, Zachary Jasper, whose Jasper Project, an antigovernment, white-supremacy group, is accused of being involved in the missile downing of three commuter aircraft almost three weeks ago, has claimed in a call to a local radio station that the woman was gunned down by FBI marksmen. Whether this incident causes the siege team to step up its announced deadline of forty-eight hours for Jasper and his people to surrender peacefully remains unknown at this moment. When informed of the woman’s murder, President Ashmead stated, ‘Killing all those innocent men, women, and children on the planes, and now this senseless slaughter of a member of Jasper’s cult, reflects on the cowardice of Jasper and his followers, and their total disregard for human life.’ Aside from the denial by Special Agent Harris, no statement has been forthcoming from FBI headquarters or the Justice Department.”

“If this Jasper character was involved in shooting down those planes, they should go in and blow him and his crazy followers up,” said Horace, a retired actuary who’d spent his professional career at the General Accounting Office.

“God, no,” said Cindy, a tall, angular woman who permed her brunette hair in a 1940s style, and who worked as a secretary in a ten-term congressman’s office on Capitol Hill. “Killing more people won’t solve anything.”

“Only way to stop people like him,” said Horace in a pinched, nasal voice testifying to chronic sinus problems. “We ought to round up all the nuts and put ’em on an island someplace, get ’em out of society before they destroy it.”

Jessica liked Horace as a bird-watching companion as long as they didn’t discuss politics; his were to the right of John Birch’s, just below Ivan the Terrible’s.

“Have you heard from Max?” Cindy asked Jessica, changing the topic.

“No.” She was glad the delivery of the food spared her from having to say more.

“Well, now, what say we take a look at what we got,” Horace said after they’d eaten, hiding a small belch behind his hand and yawning. “Flying always makes me tired.”

“There’s no jet lag between eastern Canada and Washington, Horace,” said Cindy, winking at Jess.

Horace ignored the dig and opened the first of the envelopes, one of his, and began explaining every aspect of each of the pictures: the name of the bird, his camera setting, and his state of mind at the moment he pushed the shutter button. His painfully slow commentary was mitigated by the pictures themselves—in fact, he’d shot a lovely series of a rose-breasted grosbeak, which was joined at the end of his roll by another bird he claimed was a black-headed grosbeak.

“Can’t be,” Cindy said, using a magnifying glass provided by Jess to examine the picture more closely. “Black-headed grosbeaks don’t come that far east or north. Strictly the Southwest.”

“And I’m telling you it’s a black-headed grosbeak,” said Horace. “If you’re jealous because I spotted it and managed to get a picture, say so, Cindy.”

Cindy sighed and sat back as Horace finished going through his twenty-four shots. Now, it was Cindy’s turn. Of the group, she was acknowledged as the best photographer. She certainly had the best equipment, including a telephoto lens the size of a small cannon. Although she hadn’t seen an especially impressive array of birds, her photographs of what she’d come across were professional quality.

“Where did you shoot this sequence?” Jess asked, referring to a set of three prints that had caught a pair of Canada warblers feeding in underbrush. As was usually the case, Cindy had gone off on her own during the trip, not to be seen again until the end of the day.

“A beautiful ridge I discovered six months ago,” she said. “It overlooks a gorgeous valley right on the border, just north of Plattsburgh. I sat up there for an hour. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“They certainly are,” agreed Jess, speaking of the pair of warblers, the male with its distinctive black necklace on its yellow breast, the female’s necklace less distinct.

An hour later, they’d gone through the pictures from this more recent trip, and Cindy turned to an envelope containing the six-month-old material. She’d asked Jess to have three sets of prints made from that period: “One for you, and one for Horace,” she said, handing envelopes to both. They opened the third envelope and went through the pictures, which represented brilliant photographic work.

“These are stunning,” Jessica said, pulling one of the prints from the batch and admiring it. “I’ll have it blown up and framed, add to my collection on the wall. Thanks so much.”

Cindy started to put the set back in the envelope.

“Wait a minute,” Horace said, pulling a couple of shots from the pack. “What are these? Looks like birds of a different feather.”

Cindy laughed. “Oh, just forget those. I saw this group of men down in the valley and couldn’t resist taking a few shots of them.”

“We’ve got a Peeping Tom here, Jess,” Horace said, chuckling.

“A Peeping Tomasina,” Jess corrected, looking more closely at the men in the photos. “What were they doing?”

“Beats me. Running around in the valley. Probably some male bonding group.” Cindy looked up at a clock on the wall. “Oh, speaking of running, I’ve got to run. The congressman’s an early-morning guest tomorrow on C-SPAN. Wants me to go with him to the studio.”

“I believe it’s time for me to leave, too,” said Horace, standing stiffly and arching his back. “Lovely evening, Jess.”

“Great trip,” Cindy said. “Dinner was fine, too.”

They left after dividing the cost of the photo processing and the meal. Alone now, Jessica cleaned up the remains of the dinner, removed her makeup, washed her face, brushed her teeth, dressed for bed, and settled on the couch. She was tempted to turn on the television again but decided not to. The news from Washington State was too depressing to watch before trying to sleep. Instead, she briefly browsed through the latest copy of
The Washington Monthly
, felt her eyes closing after ten minutes, and went to bed. Her final conscious thoughts were of Max. What was he doing at the moment, who was he with? A woman? His pal Bill Lerner? Some Russian lowlife?

“I miss you, Pauling,” she muttered as she turned on her side, fluffed up the pillow beneath her head, and allowed sleep to take hold.
Come home.

32

Early Morning
Moscow

Hoctor led Pauling to a car that had been parked around the corner from Bill Lerner’s apartment. The young Russian driver said nothing as Pauling and Hoctor got in the rear seat. “Sheremetevo,” Hoctor said.

The 707 with the seal of the United States of America on its tail was bathed in light at Moscow’s international airport, twenty miles outside the city. It was parked away from the main terminal, an area specially designated for the aircraft of foreign dignitaries, and had been there since Secretary of State Rock and her party arrived. It was surrounded by a dozen uniformed, armed Russian soldiers, supervised by diplomatic security special agents assigned to the Secretary, some of whom had flown with her from Washington, others from the American embassy in Moscow. The Air Force crew had been billeted in a former Soviet military barracks a mile outside the airport. Now, six hours after they’d been alerted they’d be leaving, the pilots busied themselves in the cockpit preparing to depart; cabin stewards had provisioned the aircraft and awaited the arrival of the passengers, most notably Elizabeth Rock. A bottle of Rombauer chardonnay chilled in an ice bucket in her private quarters.

Pauling and Hoctor’s car was stopped at a gate by two Russian soldiers and an American security officer. He greeted Hoctor by name but still asked for identification. Pauling’s temporary ID card from the embassy indicated he worked in the ECO/COM division. They were waved through.

They hadn’t spoken for the entire ride from the city to the airport, nor did they say anything now as the driver maneuvered the car close to the 707’s boarding stairs. Hoctor was first out; Pauling hesitated, then joined him on the tarmac. Moving lights in the distance caused them to turn. Secretary Rock’s black limousine, followed by four other vehicles, came to a stop at the foot of the boarding stairs. The Secretary got out, spoke to a few people, and went up into the aircraft.

“Time to board, Mr. Hoctor,” a security man said.

“Max,” Hoctor said, touching Pauling’s arm to indicate they were to go to the stairs.

When he didn’t follow, Hoctor turned and glared at him.

“I want to know what happened to Bill Lerner,” Pauling said.

“And you will, Max, but not now. You’ve done a good job. Don’t screw it up by being obstinate.”

They bounded up the stairs, ignored the salute of the uniformed Marine at the top, and entered the plane. Pauling glanced to his left, into the cockpit, where the three-man crew, dressed in blue Air Force flight fatigues, were still calmly going through their preflight routine. The Secretary’s chief of staff, Eva Young, greeted Hoctor as they moved through the aircraft to the conference table, where Mike McQuaid and Air Force weapons expert Dr. Herbert Shulman were seated. Leaving the area as they arrived was Phil Wick, who, as State’s assistant secretary for public affairs, was a familiar face on TV. Hoctor started to introduce Pauling when Rock entered.

“Madam Secretary,” Hoctor said. McQuaid and Shulman stood.

“Please, sit,” Rock said, plopping a thick file on the table and taking the seat reserved for her.

“Madam Secretary, this is Max Pauling,” Hoctor said.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “We’ve met before.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pauling said, extending his hand across the table.

Rock locked eyes with him as she took his hand, dropped it, opened the folder in front of her, and quickly read a secured e-mail Eva Young had handed her on the way to the airport. She looked up from the document and said, “The situation with the Jasper Project has changed. Dramatically!”

“How so?” Shulman asked.

McQuaid started to respond but the secretary cut him off. “One of the members of Jasper’s group, a young woman, has been shot and killed,” she said, “by someone inside the compound.”

“That’s verified?” Hoctor asked.

“Yes. The schedule for an assault on the ranch has been moved up. Six hours.” She looked at her watch. “Five hours now.”

“Madam Secretary,” Hoctor said, “maybe you’d better let Pauling here report on what he’s come up with.”

Everyone paused as the sound of the jet’s engines being fired up broke the relative silence of the conference room.

Rock turned to Pauling and cocked her head, an invitation to speak.

“I managed to trace the source of the missiles, Madam Secretary,” Pauling said.

“Oh? You work fast.”

“In this sort of operation, speed counts, as you know,” Pauling said.

“Obviously, the source was Russian.”

“They were made here,” Pauling said, “and sold through the Russian so-called mafia. Arms dealers.”

“To the Chinese.”

“That’s not what my informants told me.”

“The FBI’s undercover agent who infiltrated the Jasper ranch reported that the Chinese were involved, didn’t he?” She directed the question to McQuaid, the president’s terrorism man.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what we’ve been told by Director Templeton.”

Rock said to Pauling, “You’re saying the FBI is wrong.”

“Not my place to say they’re wrong. All I’m doing is reporting what I learned from my Russian informants.”

“Maybe we should just let him tell us what he’s learned,” McQuaid said.

“Go ahead,” said Rock, sitting back.

“Could I have that paper, Tom?” Pauling said to Hoctor, who pulled it from his pocket. Pauling read it, cleared his throat, and said, “I was handed this note by my Russian contact. He’d been given it by the arms dealer who sold the missiles. According to him, missiles from the batch used in the attacks on the planes were sold to a Canadian buyer. They were brought into the U.S. on a Canadian fishing vessel, specifically to Bath, Maine.”

“And transported out to Jasper in Washington?” Secretary Rock asked.

“No, ma’am. The Canadian buyer told the arms dealer the missiles were going to a right-wing group in upstate New York, Plattsburgh, New York, to be precise, on the Canadian border. A group called the Freedom Alliance.”

“I’m not familiar with it.”

“A small but particularly violent group,” McQuaid said. “We’ve recently been taking a closer look at it.”

“Is this Freedom Alliance tied to Canada?” Rock asked.

“Its members move back and forth across the border, Madam Secretary. Many of them live in Canada but are U.S. citizens.”

The Secretary closed her eyes, opened them, and took in the men at the table one by one, coming to rest on Tom Hoctor. “What do you think?” she asked him.

“I think the FBI might be about to attack the wrong group,” Hoctor said.

“Based upon the claim of a Russian thug?” Rock said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Pauling said.

“Over the word of an FBI special agent?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you have anything to substantiate this Russian’s claim, Mr. Pauling?”

“First of all, it’s information given to this Russian thug by the arms dealer who sold the missiles.” He found himself becoming protective of Misha Glinskaya, whom he’d left just hours ago in a pool of blood on the sidewalk in front of the Gold Coin bar. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way about a hoodlum he’d encountered while working the Moscow underworld. “I’ve no reason to doubt that the FBI undercover agent did come up with something at the Jasper Project, but that doesn’t mean the agent was right. At the very least, the information I’ve now brought to the table is worth further investigation, and reason for the Bureau to reevaluate its planned action against Jasper. Second—”

They were interrupted by the captain’s voice over the PA system. “We’re beginning our taxi to the runway, ladies and gentlemen. Please prepare for takeoff.” The engines whined louder, and the aircraft began to move.

McQuaid spoke: “Frankly, Madam Secretary, I’m unconvinced by what Mr. Pauling has said.”

“Will the president share that view, Mr. McQuaid?” Rock asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure he will. It doesn’t make any sense to take the word of a Russian lowlife over a dedicated, veteran FBI undercover agent.”

“Anyone else?” Rock asked.

“Not for me to say,” Dr. Shulman said.

“Mr. Hoctor?”

“It’s reason enough to hold off any action against the Jasper Project until the stories are sorted out.”

“Mr. Pauling?”

“I just told you what I learned, Madam Secretary,” he said. “What’s done with it isn’t my call.”

The Secretary stared at Pauling like a trial lawyer deciding whether to ask another question of a witness. Pauling’s eyes remained fixed on hers, not challenging but silently testifying to the truth of what he’d said.

“I don’t know what credence to give the source of your information, Mr. Pauling, and I’m having trouble weighing it against what the FBI says. But I do know that if what you say has any validity, a monumental mistake might be in the making.”

She pushed a button on the wall behind her. Eva Young opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Get me the president.”