Murder in Foggy Bottom (23 page)

33

Early Morning
Washington, DC

Joe Potamos got off the plane at Reagan National Airport and climbed into the first available taxi outside the terminal. The flight from Vermont had been delayed an hour, something to do with a malfunctioning warning light in the cockpit. It seemed like ten hours to Potamos.

The driver took him to his condo in Rosslyn, where he checked messages on his machine, emptied his overnight bag on the bed, rammed a change of clothes back into it, and went downstairs to hail another taxi, this time going to Roseann Blackburn’s Capitol Hill apartment. He went up the stairs two at a time and burst through the door. Roseann was at the piano, her attention divided between finger exercises she was doing and the television. The all-news cable channels had been covering the siege at Blaine almost continually, interrupting the growing crisis only for commercials.

Roseann got up and greeted him with a tender kiss and a hug while Jumper climbed up the back of his leg. “How was the trip?” she asked.

“How was the trip?
How was the trip?
The trip was . . . the trip was incredible. Your buddy, Connie Vail, was right, baby, on-the-nose right. Craig Thomas was in Burlington, just like she said he was.” Potamos made two fists, pumped them into the air, did a turn in the middle of the living room, and collapsed on the couch. “I have got the story of the year, Roseann. Of the decade.” He stood, straightened, and addressed her as he might from a podium: “Ladies and gentlemen of the Pulitzer committee, I am both honored and humbled by your having bestowed this coveted award on me. I want to thank my father, Frank, and my mother and—”

“Joe,” Roseann said, laughing, “calm down and tell me what happened.”

He responded by pulling a red director’s chair up in front of the TV set. Joe Harris, FBI special agent in charge of the Jasper ranch siege, had just begun a press conference, one of two scheduled that day.

“The situation here continues to be without resolution,” Harris said into the bouquet of microphones. “We have been in constant contact with Mr. Jasper, and we continue to urge him and his people to leave the ranch peaceably. As of this time, he has refused to comply with that order. His posture at this juncture is one of defiance. I’m afraid that’s all I have to report at this time.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy, buddy!” Potamos said to the screen.

A reporter asked whether it was true that the timetable for an assault on the ranch had been pushed up, and that the assault was imminent.

“I have no comment about that at this time,” Harris said, the powerful TV lights catching the perspiration on his shaved head and creating what looked like a halo above it.

“Joe, Gil Gardello’s been calling while you were gone,” Roseann said. “He’s called at least four times.”

“You didn’t tell him where I was?”

“No. You told me not to. Aren’t you going to tell me what happened with Craig Thomas?”

“Yeah, sure, I am, but I have to make a call first. A couple of calls, okay, babe?” He pecked her on the cheek as he went into the kitchen and took the receiver from a wall phone.

She followed. “It wasn’t that group in Washington who shot down the planes?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. The FBI’s about to blast the wrong people.”

“Shouldn’t you be calling the FBI, the attorney general, the president?”

“I—Gil, it’s Joe.”

Potamos held the phone away from his ear, then brought it back to his mouth. “Hey, Gil, back off a little, huh? I really don’t need abuse from you. Especially now.”

“Joe, where the hell have you been?”

“Vermont. I was a little early for the changing of the leaves, but—”

“You’re fired, Joe.”

“Ah, come on, Gil, here I am sitting on the story of the century and—”

It had gone from year to decade to century, Roseann thought as she sat at the kitchen table listening. “What story?” Gardello asked.

Potamos laughed. “You know that party going on out in the boondocks of Washington, the Jasper ranch?”

“Of course I do. I’m looking at it on TV right now.”

“What would you say, Gil, if I told you I had proof that those crazies at the Jasper ranch didn’t have a damn thing to do with shooting down those commuter planes?”

“Where did you get
that
?”

“From the horse with the mouth. You remember that Canadian trade rep from their embassy who got whacked in the park, the story you told me to drop?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I stayed with it. The guy who was stabbed in the park, Jeremy Wilcox, wasn’t about to win the Canadian good citizenship award. He made some extra pocket change greasing the skids for arms dealers to sell to groups in this country, Canada, too. Paperwork went through him and he made sure there weren’t any hitches. Been doing it for a couple of years before certain associates he thought were his friends— Russian guys with funny noses—decided not to be friends anymore.”

“Where did you get this, Joe?”

“Oh, suddenly there’s interest. I’d better not say any more. I’m fired, remember?”

Gardello ignored him. “Where did you get it, Joe?”

“A fella named Craig Thomas. He put the make on my girlfriend, Roseann and—”

“Joe!” Roseann said, coming up out of her chair. He quieted her with a smile and a wave of his hand.

“This guy Thomas—”

“Hold on a second, Joe,” Gardello said, his attention going back to the small television set hanging from the wall. “There’s something breaking out in Washington.”

Potamos stretched the phone cord so that he could look into the living room. A reporter was standing on a low rise, from which he had an overview of the federal forces outside the ranch.

“We get a sense here that something is about to happen. Behind me, armored vehicles that have been stationary for most of the day have now started to move into positions closer to the ranch.”

The sound of helicopters was heard.

“These ATF and Washington State choppers have also gone into action. The SWAT teams seem to be spreading out along the front perimeter of the ranch. Officials here won’t confirm whether they’re poised to make a move on Jasper and his people, but something’s up. Back to you, Ray, in the studio.”

Potamos heard his name being yelled through the receiver. “See that, Gil,” he said, bringing the phone back to his mouth, “we’re watching a major scandal in progress.”

“Who else have you told?” Gardello asked.

“Nobody, but I’m about to. The FBI, the attorney general, hell, maybe the president himself.”

“Come in, Joe. We can call from here.”

“We?”

“You’re still an employee of this newspaper, damn it.”

“If I heard right,
former
employee. Look, Gil, I know I’ve been a pain and you’re one of the white hats, and I appreciate you’ve been saving my ass and all that, and I don’t have a beef with you. But here I am sitting on the kind of scoop I’ve wanted all my professional life, Gil.
Every
journalist worth his salt looks for this break, getting inside, digging out the truth with his fingernails, not the way the spin doctors want the truth to appear to be, but the
real
truth.” He looked to Roseann, whose satisfied grin and emphatic nod of her head were energizing— as if he needed it.

“Look, Joe, why don’t we sit down and—”

“Gil,” Joe said, slowly and without the passion of his previous words, “I’ve got some sorting out to do, got to figure what to do with this. Yeah, I owe you and the paper, and I’d love sticking it under Bowen’s pompous, WASP nose, but give me some time. I need some time.”

“Do your thinking here in my office,” Gardello said.

“Maybe I will. I’ll get back to you.”

He hung up and let out a sustained sigh.

“Joe, please, come down to earth and tell me what’s going on,” Roseann said.

“Okay.” He joined her at the table. “Connie Vail works for Craig Thomas, but you already know that. Everything she said here at the apartment three days ago panned out. By the way, there’s more to their relationship than just working together. They’ve had a thing going for years, according to Thomas. Anyway, I don’t blame her for being afraid for his life—hers, too, if the same creeps who killed Wilcox in the park find out she knows what’s been going on.” He leaned across the table and covered her hand. “Roseann, Wilcox and maybe a few others in the Canadian embassy have been conduits for Russian arms sales to North America for a couple of years now. Nice deal they had going. Our government keeps a pretty tight lid on ships and planes coming into the country from other places, especially the obvious ones—Middle East, South America, Greece, Turkey, the Balkans. But we don’t take as hard a look at stuff crossing the border from Canada. Hell, they’re our best friends, right? Allies, neighbors, we talk the same language, look the same. You know that fishing treaty we just signed with the Canadians? Man, the trade group Wilcox was involved with pushed hard for that. Guess why.”

“To have easier access to American ports.”

He blew a kiss across the table. “Right you are, Rosie, my beautiful, bright, and talented friend.”

“You know I don’t like being called Rosie.”

“Yeah, sorry. Where was I? Right, so your friend Mr. Craig Thomas gets wind of what’s happening and decides to blow the whistle, but subtle-like, leak it to the American press, aka Joseph Potamos, son of Frank Potamos, deceased Greek diner owner, rising star at
The
Washington Post
until he punched George Alfred Bowen’s lights out, and who happens to be in love with a ravishing piano player named Roseann Blackburn, who happens to have her picture in the
Washingtonian
and this Joseph Potamos is mentioned, which sends Mr. Craig Thomas in search of the disgraced journalist through this beautiful and talented Ms. Blackburn.”

He sat back and recaptured his breath.

Another report could be heard from the TV: “It looks like troops at the Jasper ranch are ready to go in behind armored vehicles, including Washington State National Guard tanks that have been added to the arsenal.”

“Thomas told you the missiles didn’t go to that group?” Roseann asked.

“Right again,” Potamos said, grabbing the phone. “The day after he had dinner with you, Thomas got hold of paperwork from Wilcox’s files. Until then, he knew what was going on, sort of, but only the general picture. Once he came across a paper trail that traced specific shipments of arms, he knew he could end up like Wilcox. No wonder he took off.”

“Who are you calling? The FBI?”

“Fat chance of getting through—or believed. I’m calling Jim Bellis at CNN.”

“Why CNN? You don’t work for them.”

“I know, and I hate to stiff Gardello, but there’s no time to do this through the paper. If Bellis will go on the air with it, it’ll be out there right away and carry weight.”

Bellis answered the call on his direct line.

“Jim, it’s Joe Potamos.”

“Hey, Joe, how are you?”

“Good, good. The FBI’s about to attack the wrong group out in Washington.”

“Say again?”

“Jim, that Jasper bunch out in Washington weren’t the ones who shot down the planes.”

“How do you know?”

“Look, there’s not a hell of a lot of time to lose. I’m heading over to you. I’ll call on the way from my cell phone, give you the details. But believe me, Jim, I know what I’m talking about.”

“You can prove it?”

“Yeah, I can prove it, at least enough to get them to call off whatever they’re planning to do in Washington.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Back to you in a few minutes.”

“I’ll come with you,” Roseann said.

“Good. Jumper been out?”

“An hour ago.”

“Great.” He rubbed behind the dog’s ears. “Steak bones for life, Jump, for all of us.”

34

That Same Morning
Washington, DC

The Air Force 707 carrying Secretary of State Elizabeth Rock and her party landed with smooth precision at Andrews Air Force Base. The Secretary, Mike McQuaid, Tom Hoctor, and Max Pauling got into a long, black official limousine with the flag of the United States flying from both front bumpers and were whisked to Main State.

Rock had spent the trip on a telephone. The more she heard, the angrier her expression became; uncharacteristic four-letter words issued from this genteel female secretary of state, just loud enough to cause her passengers to look away, or glance at one another.

Pauling shared her anger. Rock’s attempts to reach President Ashmead from the plane had been unsuccessful the first few hours, although she had spoken with aides at the White House who promised to pass her information to the president. Eventually, Ashmead returned her calls.

“Mr. President, I assume you’ve been told what I told your aides,” she said.

“Yes, but I’m not clear on what it is you’re saying. You have this State Department employee with you who claims to have information about the missile attacks on the planes?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right. His name is Max Pauling. He’s been working undercover in Moscow tracing the source of the missiles.”

“We know they were Russian-made.”

“Yes, Mr. President, but the assumption that they ended up in the hands of the Jasper group is wrong, according to what Mr. Pauling has uncovered.”

“Uncovered? What’s his source?”

“The arms dealer who sold the missiles, Mr. President.”

There was silence on the other end. Ashmead, accompanied by National Security Advisor Tony Cammanati and Press Secretary Chris Targa, had placed the call from the Oval Office after being summoned from a diplomatic reception for the president and first lady of Guatemala. “An arms dealer?” he finally said, incredulity in his voice. “This Pauling believes what some arms dealer tells him? What, Russian? A Russian arms dealer? A criminal?”

The Secretary chose her words carefully. “Mr. President, I have every reason to believe that what Mr. Pauling has learned has an element of truth to it, at least enough so to call off the troops at the Jasper ranch until a further investigation can be conducted.”

Another silence. “Elizabeth, we have evidence from the FBI itself that the Jasper Project was behind those missile attacks. They had an undercover agent there for months.”

“All I’m urging, Mr. President, is that until this can be verified, the proposed attack on the Jasper ranch must be held off.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, Elizabeth.”

“Sir, it’s more urgent than that. What’s the harm in waiting until—”

“Call me as soon as you arrive back in Washington, Elizabeth. Safe flight.” The connection was broken.

“I don’t know what her problem is,” Ashmead said to Cammanati and Targa after hanging up. “She wants me to call off the action in Washington based upon what some Russian mafia guy told an undercover from State. Christ, we have inside information from the Bureau itself, from inside the group.”

“Sir, the latest poll indicates that almost eighty percent of the public wants action taken, and taken now,” said Targa.

Ashmead stood. “Chris, get hold of her public affairs secretary and tell him in no uncertain terms that State is not to issue any statements, answer any questions from the press without prior approval from this office.”

“Right.”

“The line remains open to Director Templeton, Mr. President,” Cammanati said.

“No movement on Jasper’s part?”

“No, sir. The concern is still that Jasper will kill more of his own people if this thing drags on, including kids.”

“Shouldn’t you get back to the reception, sir?” Targa asked.

“Tony, make an excuse for me. I need think time in here—alone!”

As Secretary Rock handed the phone to Eva Young, her face, youthful for someone sixty-four, with fewer lines than might be expected, was deeply creased, her mouth a tight, straight line. She turned to Pauling. “I want you to go over this again for me, give me as many tangible selling points as possible I can use with the president.”

Pauling sighed, drew a breath, looked at Tom Hoctor, and started at the beginning—again.

This time, he went into detail—bloody, chilling detail.