An Honorable Man (9 page)

“What arrangement?”

“Vasilenko has agreed to meet. I got their attention. It's a start.”

“Tell Coffin. Keep the Council in the loop.”

It was a short lunch. They cleaned their hands with lemon water and warm towels, but skipped dessert. On their way out they passed a large round table in the center of the restaurant occupied by a loud, smoking, drinking bunch, jackets off.

One man stood. He was average height in a double-breasted suit, fleshy-faced, a bead of sweat hanging on his upper lip. His graying hair was combed back over a receding hairline and he'd loosened a canary tie around his thick neck. He blocked their path.

“Senator,” the director said, feigning surprise.

The senator thrust out his thick hand with the practiced movement of a man who sought votes for a living. “Good to see you.”

“And you.”

Mueller also got the courtesy of a politician working the room, and he received the man's muscular handshake. Mueller nodded at the four seated junior staffers, but none rose.

“Good speech at Wheeling,” the director said. There was no enthusiasm in his compliment and it hung in the air like day-old fish.

“We look forward to your testimony next month,” the senator said. His cheeks had the warm blush of gin. “You are not immune from investigation, you know. Some of your men are on a list. We've got questions for you.”

The director stepped around the senator with a brusque maneuver and smiled savagely. “You'll have your questions. I'll have the answers.”

Mueller and the director were at the restaurant's front door waiting for their checked coats, out of earshot of other customers. The director leaned toward Mueller and lowered his voice. “Godawful speech. Demagoguery at its worst. Baseless defamation. Mudslinging. He does bare-knuckle politics with his sleeves rolled up. He is a danger to us, make no mistake about that. He'd start a goddamn witch hunt if he knew what we know.”

The director added with a sly wink, “A fat worthless bastard. Rude and unhousebroken.”

8

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

E
ARLY THE
next morning, Mueller got an urgent call to go to Mrs. Leisz's apartment. Mueller flashed his ID at the Metropolitan Police officer standing guard outside and he passed through the lobby to the stairs. A skylight over the stairwell let in morning sunlight, which held the dusty air in suspension, and he was a fly caught in amber. His footsteps on the stairs excited squeaks in the wood treads and upon reaching the first landing he felt himself observed, but when he glanced at the apartment door, it shut. He heard the greedy hush of whispers.

Yellow police tape blocked the open door of Mrs. Leisz's apartment. Mueller tried to duck under, but he was too tall, so he pushed down on the tape, lowering the threshold, and lifted one leg, then the other, to clear the barrier. He found a chaotic crime scene inside. Two police detectives with latex gloves crouched on the rug talking over each another, or at each other, in the short
hand of workingmen coordinating evidence collection. A short beefy man in a gray fedora snapped flash photographs, careful each time to include a six-inch ruler in focus to provide a sense of scale, and with it, a chalk slate marked with time, date, and place.

Two other men stood together in the center of the room, backs to the door. They turned when Mueller entered. The shorter man, smoker thin, wore a loose-fitting suit tightly cinched with a belt several sizes too large. His sucking cheeks drew on a Lucky Strike and he released a steady stream of smoke when he spoke. His eyes were enormous above sunken cheeks and they bulged when they caught sight of Mueller. “The hell are you?”

“My colleague.” This from James Coffin, who wore his black mackintosh and had not yet removed his gloves. “The one I called. George, this is the coroner.”

“Coroner, no. Medical examiner. We're medical examiners in the District.” The medical examiner extinguished his half-­finished cigarette, saved the butt end to his shirt pocket, and looked Mueller over with the authority of a man exercising his claim to the room.

Mueller nodded politely. He stood near the two men, but kept his distance. He was by them, but not among them, close enough to hear what they said, but far enough away that he could ignore their comments while he glanced around. It was easy for him to recognize the signs of a burglary. The bureau in the living room, as well as the one visible through the open bedroom door, had ranks of drawers tipped fully open. Burglars open bottom drawers first so they don't have to waste time shutting one to get to the next. Shirts, underwear, pants, and embroidered linens spilled
out of the open drawers or lay in a heap on the floor. Bureaus were an obvious place to search for jewelry or cash, so Mueller was more curious about the books taken from the shelves and flung to the floor. He glanced at loose papers littering the pile, and then reached down for a torn manila envelope. It was the one he'd left behind with Alfred Leisz's death certificate, release form, and the police report.

“Hey, put that down,” one detective snapped. “Don't touch anything.”

Good
, he thought. He had a story to explain his fingerprints on the documents. A story if he needed one. Mueller moved to the bedroom door, peering in, and then returned to the living room. His calm face, clear eyeglass frames, and combed hair gave him the expression of a man who could see or hear anything without surprise. He listened to what the medical examiner had to say about the corpse on the floor under a bedsheet. Mueller saw telltale blood stains on the white cotton. He gazed at the sheeted form and lifted his eyes to the medical examiner, who continued in a staccato tenor.

“We found her lying here where she is now, on her stomach, when I arrived. I could flex her fingers so the body wasn't in full rigor, which means she'd been dead at least eight hours, but not much longer than that. I would put time of death around midnight. There was pronounced purplish discoloration on her stomach from postmortem lividity and she was at room temperature, which at three degrees an hour—what you'd see in a slight woman—confirms midnight.

“Cause of death is strangulation. Manner of death, murder.”
The medical examiner lifted piano wire turned into a garrote with toggled wood at either end. “Neck lacerations match the spiral pattern on the wire.”

Coffin turned to Mueller. “Would you confirm that it's her, George, if you don't mind? I think you're the only one who actually met her.”

Mueller slowly came off the doorjamb, face expressionless, manner accommodating, but his mind was in revolt. The medical examiner lifted a corner of the bedsheet, enough for Mueller to see it was Mrs. Leisz. Someone had closed her eyes, so he was spared that discomfort. The angry purple laceration on her throat was a necklace of blood. There was no pain in her face to haunt his imagination, and that too made his quick glance tolerable. Her lips were bloodless and she had the cold void face of death. He nodded.

Mueller stepped back when the sheet again covered the body. He said to Coffin, “Where are the children?” There was a beat of silence. “She had two children. A boy and an infant.”

A detective, rising from the floor, removed his latex gloves. “Human services got them. The boy found her in the morning. He knocked on a neighbor's door and they called the police. That's where they are. They'll be there until they find a relative.”

There was more conversation and more questions, but nothing further was learned, nothing important shared, and the two CIA officers left shortly afterward. Mueller and Coffin did not talk as they descended the stairs, keeping a deliberate silence against inquisitive eyes peering from cracked open doors. When they were finally seated in Coffin's parked car they allowed them
selves to talk candidly. Coffin had rolled up his window in an act of extreme caution.

“It wasn't burglary,” Coffin said.

Mueller turned his head to Coffin.

“It's convenient to let the police think it was a burglary. That keeps it a local police matter.” Coffin added, “No one will link it to her husband's death, except as a bizarre coincidence. He died in an office accident. She the victim of a burglary. We will be helpful if they call us, but we need to stay away.”

Coffin paused for a long moment. The two men sat silently in the small cramped English sports car, imported, so Coffin sat on the right behind its lacquered wood steering wheel. Coffin spoke at last. “Everything begins and ends with the right application of methodology that allows us to see things that we might not wish to see. It's our wishfulness, George, that blinds us to the facts.” He turned to Mueller. “The Soviets think Leisz found out who Protocol is. They thought the wife might know. I doubt she knew anything. That's what you said in your report. Why would she? But if you want to keep someone from talking, you don't concern yourself with whether or not they know something, you just make sure they can't talk about it. Collateral damage, George. They will go to great lengths to protect Protocol. We have our work cut out for ourselves. Have you advanced things?”

“Tomorrow.”

Coffin started his sports car, completely unsuited for a real winter, the floor drafty and cold. His bespoke leather gloves clenched the wheel. “Altman didn't show up. Wasn't he to come too?”

“No.”

“Oh, my mistake. I thought you'd asked him to come along so we could get his take.” Coffin threw out, “I think of him as sitting on the porch while the help toils in the garden. It's symbolic of his attitude. He can be so condescending sometimes. Born into privilege with a silver spoon. I call him the Instant Enthusiast. He has an idea, like the one he came up with in our meeting, and then he loses interest. He forgets it was his idea. He says, ‘Where did that terrible idea come from.'”

Mueller recognized the new tendency to gossip about the man not in the room. He didn't know where Coffin had developed his grudge against Altman.

Coffin added, “Altman recruited Leisz. Is that right?”

“No, I did.”

“Oh! I didn't realize. Good to know.”

Too much surprise
. Mueller looked at Coffin, tall frame hunched over the diminutive steering wheel, neck craned back checking for traffic as he pulled away from the curb. He thought:
Too much surprise for Coffin's ignorance to be convincing.

9

COLONEL YURI VASILENKO

M
UELLER WAITED
at the stoplight. Rain came in a cold steady drizzle and pooled in the street. He'd left his umbrella in the office, optimistically thinking the weather would pass. He lifted his coat's collar and suffered getting wet. When the light changed he made a long-reaching stride over water backed up at the clogged gutter and ran past cars stopped on Pennsylvania Avenue. He glanced at the faces of drivers behind windshield wipers, confident he didn't know them, and confident too there was no one he should worry about.

Mueller reached the Carlton Hotel's sidewalk canopy and shook the water from his coat. He entered the revolving doors that the porter set in motion, and he was ejected into the lobby, crowded with guests waiting out the storm. He made his way across the room, coat over arm, eyes alert to anyone he might know, and slipped into the Whiskey Bar. There was a raucous din
in the dark, mahogany-paneled room, thick with cigarettes and eager drinkers kicking back after a day's office drudgery.

Mueller had no problem spotting Vasilenko. The Russian was alone in a booth. A large man, well over six feet, big chest, thick hands, and the appearance some big men have of bulk without weight. He'd stretched one arm leisurely across the booth and the other was on the table, fingers caressing the stem of a martini glass.

Mueller acknowledged Vasilenko's quick wave and crossed the room. He slipped into the booth, leaving a wide space between them.

“Well, well. Good to see you.” Vasilenko signaled the waiter.

“I'm late. The rain.”

“Of course. Always shitty weather here. Sweaty in summer. Damp in winter.” Vasilenko smiled without amusement.

“Worse than New York?” Mueller followed the Russian's eyes.

“We're not alone,” Vasilenko said. He nodded at the bar. “He must work for you. The short one with moustache. He sits in a car outside the embassy. Where do you get these amateurs?”

FBI, Mueller thought. Walker's man. He wasn't happy about that. He ordered a beer when the waiter arrived. He turned to Vasilenko. “Well?”

“The driver is going back to Moscow. It was an error of judgment. He had no qualifications, but he knew someone.” Vasilenko drummed his fingers. “A stupid mistake.”

“And you?” Mueller asked.

“Me?”

“Things good?”

“I can't complain.” He fingered his martini glass and then threw back the drips that remained. He signaled the waiter for a refill. “My wife is in Moscow with our son. Good kid. You met him once. Fifteen now.”

“I remember. Smart. Like you.”

Vasilenko looked away, disgusted. “And you? Married still?”

“Divorced.”

“Long?”

“Couple of years.”

There was a beat of silence. “I liked her. Charming. Young. Too young maybe. This life is hard on a marriage.”

“Yes. It is.” Mueller wasn't ready to share the many other faults of their work. This was as close as he was going to get. Anything more personal had to be a lie.

“What will it take for you to come over, George?”

Mueller gave a husky laugh. He knew where this was going. “What are you going to offer me?” He looked at the Russian. “Four hours in a bread line, ten square meters of living space in an apartment block in Moscow? One of your cars?”

“We pay for information.”

“I'm doing fine.”

“You'll have a dacha. A girl. Two girls. Or a boy if you prefer.”