Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (33 page)

I told him about Ali.

He pulled my head down on his shoulder. “You couldn’t have known what would happen to her. You’re not responsible for someone else’s actions.”

“Then you’re not responsible for Colin’s death, either,” I said. “Jack O’Hara said the exact same thing. I know it’s true, but I don’t feel any less guilty. Just like you.”

He kissed my hair. “I’m glad you have Jack . . . he’s a good friend. I miss seeing him.”

I sat up. “You know who else I saw, speaking of good friends? Baz. Just this afternoon. He’s in town on business for a few days. Nick, he figures you’re broke by now, with no access to money. The CIA knows you’re not using your phone, your e-mail accounts, or your credit cards. Baz wants to help. He said if I set up a meeting, he’ll get you some cash until this gets straightened out.”

“No. ” Nick was adamant. “No meeting. You can’t tell Baz or anyone else you saw me, okay? I don’t trust anyone except you. And I’m already putting you at risk just being here.”

“Don’t say that. We’re going to get through this.”

“We are. It’s going to be over soon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Taras Attar, the Abadi political leader, is in Washington this weekend.” He offered me the last square of chocolate. I shook my head and he ate it.

“I know. Harry dragged me to a fund-raiser at Scott and Roxanne Hathaway’s home last night. Attar is staying with them. I met him.”

He stopped chewing. “You met Attar?”

“For about thirty seconds. He has no idea who I am. Why did you bring him up?”

“I’m meeting him during his trip here to brief him privately,” he said. “Attar is pro-U.S. Vasiliev, on the other hand, has been getting friendly with the Iranians—we have information that he flew to Tehran for meetings with their energy minister. You know how easy it would be to transport crude across the Caspian Sea from Abadistan to Iran? If Abadistan should secede from Russia, that oil would belong to a friendly ally, not controlled by someone who wants to get in bed with a country we’ve got sanctions against because they’re trying to build a nuclear weapon.”

“I thought the United States didn’t interfere in the internal politics of another nation,” I said, my expression deadpan. “Or at least, that’s what Scott Hathaway said the other night to the Russian ambassador.”

Nick made a face and drained his wineglass. “You know better. Of course we do. We just try not to get caught.”

I didn’t want to look at my watch because I knew our two hours were almost up. “Before you go, there’s one more thing you should know about Taras Attar,” I said and quickly told him about the conversation I’d overheard at the National Gallery.

“Are you sure about Hathaway being involved?” Nick asked.

“You sound like Duval. He doesn’t believe me, either.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he said. “But Attar’s in D.C. to take a pulse on how much U.S. support he’d get if the Abadi separatist movement heated up. The book tour’s a convenient cover. Hathaway’s chaperoning him all over town. Sorry, baby, but it doesn’t really add up.”

I felt like the kid trying to insist the monsters hiding under my bed were honest-to-God real. “I know what I heard.”

His eyes searched my face. “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone tried to go after Attar while he’s in the U.S. Makes a hell of a mess for us if they succeed.”

“Probably a hell of a mess for Attar, too,” I said and he grinned. “How are you going to meet him when you’ve got Duval and God knows who else stalking you?”

“I have a friend or two left,” he said. “They don’t all work for the CIA. And some of them happen to be pretty highly placed.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve said enough. More than I should have.”

“Then what? What happens after you talk to Attar?”

“I’m going after whoever killed Colin and Dani,” he said. “And find out who set me up.”

“Nick—”

He stood up and pulled me to him. “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry, darling.”

I tilted my face to his. “When am I going to see you again?”

“I don’t know,” he said, kissing me. “But I know where you live. And I know a great florist.”

22

I waited until Nick was long gone, vanished into the rain-slicked night as silently and stealthily as he’d come, before I cleaned up our picnic and moved the furniture back where I’d found it. By the time I walked across the alley to Max’s place just before three, the rain had tapered to a light drizzle. I restored the key to its spot above the doorjamb and let myself into my own apartment and went straight to the tower bedroom. When I finally fell asleep, Nick’s scent, which had stayed on my skin and embedded itself in the fabric of my clothes, filtered into my dreams. For what remained of the night, we were both on the run from faceless men who chased us and would not give up.

My phone rang at eight o’clock, the noise slicing through my druggy sleep. I sat up in bed and wondered where I was and what day it was.

“Soph? Are you all right?” Grace asked. “Did I wake you? I figured you’d be getting ready for work. Sorry I’m calling so early. We were out of town all day yesterday . . . this is the first chance I’ve had to call back.”

My message yesterday . . . what was it? I climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. Last night’s storm had blown away the clouds, leaving behind a clear pale blue sky. Then I remembered: I wanted to ask Grace about Jenna Paradise, Scott Hathaway’s girlfriend, who had vanished without a trace.

“I’m fine, Gracie . . . I slept through my alarm. It’s a good thing you woke me up.”

“What’s going on?”

I told her and asked if she knew anyone at the MPD who might be willing to look into a cold case.

“A priest friend of Jack’s from Georgetown told me Scott Hathaway was questioned by the police after Jenna Paradise disappeared. His father, who was a big shot lawyer, flew to D.C. and intervened, so that was the end of the questioning. I wondered what happened to the investigation,” I said. “There must have been a report.”

“Thirty years is a long time ago,” she said. “Look, I’m taking a detective who helps me out from time to time to breakfast this morning. I’ll ask him, but don’t hold your breath.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll find out anything. But if I do, I’ll let you know.”

Baz called next, while I was finishing breakfast. Unknown caller. This time, I recognized the phone number.

“I just wanted to hear your voice, love,” he said. “And to apologize for rushing you out the door yesterday. Sorry about that call . . . I had to take it. You know how it is.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I said. “I know you’re busy. How was your dinner last night?”

“Long and dull,” he said. “Listen, darling, I thought I’d check in and ask if you’ve had any word from our boy?”

You can’t tell Baz or anyone else you saw me. I don’t trust anyone except you.

That was the real reason he was calling, to ask about Nick. I said, smooth as silk, “No. Nothing.”

“Keep me posted, will you, Sophie? Make sure you let him know I’m there to help.”

“Of course,” I said. “Have a safe trip home. And give my love to Isabella.”

“I shall,” he said. “Cheerio.”

I hung up and cleared away my breakfast dishes. Was it my imagination, or had Baz been fishing because he knew Nick was in town?

More important, had I been a convincing enough liar?

*

I got dressed for work, found my IPS press badge, which Perry never asked me to turn in, and called Luke.

“I thought I’d cover Taras Attar’s book signing at the Library of Congress,” I said. “It starts at noon.”

I waited during the long silence on his end, guessing he already knew he couldn’t tell me not to do it. Still, he sounded irked.

“First, I think you need to be accredited, and second, we’re not a news agency.”

“I think I can swing the accreditation and I know we’re not. But I’d like to do it.”

“I could use you here. I got a voice mail from someone at the Turkish embassy who wants to talk about a project. She asked me to give her a call to set up a meeting at my earliest convenience,” he said. “And Roxanne Hathaway’s people went into high gear. A huge package of historical photographs arrived first thing this morning. We really don’t have time for something no one asked us to do.”

“I’ll be in as soon as the signing’s finished. I promise.”

When he hung up I knew he was mad. I nearly called him back, but I’d already decided to do this, and I’d probably only get him more irritated and spun up. I rode the Vespa to the IPS Washington bureau on DeSales Street next door to ABC News and a block from St. Matthew’s. The bureau chief was a short brunette named Monica who was a good friend of Perry’s.

“I heard you laid off two shooters on Friday,” I said, “so I know you’re short staffed. You got anyone covering Taras Attar’s book signing on Capitol Hill?”

She looked at me like I’d just dropped in from a remote planet. “Are you kidding? We’ve now got precisely one and a half people covering the entire Hill. You can bet your ass no one’s going to be covering a book signing.”

I wondered who the half person was and said, “Then let me do it. Can you get me in?”

“What’s so special about this one?”

“Senator Hathaway’s sponsoring it and the Russian embassy is furious. It might be newsworthy.”

“We haven’t got any money. You’d have to do it on spec.”

“I just want the accreditation.”

She shrugged with a look that said,
It’s your funeral,
made a call, and found me talking to a reporter I knew from a couple of TDY rotations in London.

“Medina,” Monica said. “Get going. You’re on the list.”

*

Half an hour later I chained the Vespa to a streetlamp on 2nd Street behind the Supreme Court and walked over to the Library of Congress. It had turned into a spectacular early autumn day, the light breeze a warm caress on my skin and the kind of sharp sunshine that made colors so vivid they hurt your eyes. The Capitol dome looked like a cutout pasted on a perfect cobalt sky.

The bronze doors to the library were closed and signs outside on the plaza informed all visitors they needed to use the old carriage entrance on the lower level. As I walked down the broad granite staircase, a limousine pulled into the narrow drive, stopping under the portico. Scott Hathaway’s bulky driver got out and went around to open the rear passenger door. I expected Hathaway to emerge, but instead Taras Attar, in a well-cut double-breasted suit and red tie, was the only one who got out. He took off his sunglasses and checked something on his phone.

I stopped to watch him. Even after thirty years it wasn’t hard to imagine Attar and Hathaway cutting a wide swath through the female population of Georgetown as Father Pat had said. But where Scott Hathaway was the all-American golden boy your mother wanted you to marry, Attar was the one you wanted to know: dark and dangerous looking with the hardened features—hawklike nose, firm mouth, penetrating eyes—of a warrior-king.

“I’ll expect to find you here when I’m finished,” Attar said to the chauffeur as Napoleon Duval, also dressed like a New York banker, got out of a second car that had pulled up behind the limousine.

“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded and took a handkerchief out of his pocket as he sneezed and blew his nose. As he hustled Attar into the building, Duval looked up and noticed me hanging over the railing. He gave me a grim nod and followed Attar inside.

By the time I passed through the metal detector and had my equipment bag searched and my credentials checked, Attar and Duval were vanishing into an elevator with an ascetic-looking man in a pale gray suit.

“The book signing has been moved from the Main Reading Room to the Members Room off the Great Hall,” the security guard said to me. “Up the stairs and take the corridor to your right.”

I nodded. “I know where it is. Thanks.”

Much of the federal architecture of Washington pays homage to the ancient Greek and Roman civilizations because the Founding Fathers, who saw temples like the Parthenon in Athens and the Roman Pantheon as symbols of democracy and liberty, wanted their new capital to reflect those same ideals. But by the time plans for the Library of Congress were drawn up in the late 1800s during the Gilded Age, its architects chose the elaborate Paris Opera House as their inspiration, building a lavish, richly decorated Italian Renaissance–style palace of mosaics, paintings, and statuary depicting mythology, legend, and flesh-and-blood icons of poetry and literature.

The Members of Congress Room was a dark, elegant jewel with heavy paneling, coffered frescoed ceilings, Oriental carpets, and two enormous marble fireplaces at opposite ends of the room that could have been plucked from the residence of a Venetian prince. Today rows of red velvet chairs facing a podium had been placed in front of one of the fireplaces. It looked like they were expecting a good crowd; I counted roughly one hundred seats. A table with neat piles of copies of
Growing Up Among the Holy Shadows of the Dead
by Taras Attar stacked on it, a small bar, and a buffet table with platters of sandwiches, cheese, fruit, and cookies were at the other end of the room. A few people had already taken their seats, but most of the invitation-only guests from the library, the Hill, and the State Department were enjoying the free lunch and a glass of wine.

Except for a young woman manning a camera for C-SPAN’s Book TV and a gray-haired reporter in a navy blazer, T-shirt, jeans, and red high-tops from the AP, I was the only member of the press. I staked a place between two windows with views of the House of Representatives across the street and made a couple of test shots.

“Where is everybody?” I asked the AP reporter, whose name was Keith. “Nobody else is covering this after the blowup the other night between Senator Hathaway and the Russian ambassador over Hathaway sponsoring this book signing?”

“I think it lost a lot of traction when Hathaway pulled out,” he said.

“What are you talking about? He did what?”

He scratched behind his ear and shrugged. “Our Senate correspondent says Hathaway plans to give a floor speech later today that’s probably going to throw Attar under a bus. Reaffirm our relationship with Russia, dating back to our days as allies in World War II.”