Murder at the FBI (7 page)

They made love for a long time that night. He seemed perpetually ready, and constantly asked her what he could do to please her. Once, he suggested he play one of a number of XXX-rated videotapes he had in his library, but she said, “We don’t need that, Ross. We’re doing fine all by ourselves.” He had dozens of tapes, and when he first made Chris aware of them she’d been surprised and disappointed. She certainly wasn’t a prude, but some of them were kinky and featured sadomasochism. She’d refused to watch those, but she had watched a few of the milder tapes. She hated to admit it, but they had generated erotic feelings in her.

As they were falling asleep, he asked, “Do you ever hear from the guy in Arizona?”

“Bill? He calls. We’re good friends.”

“That’s all?”

“There was more once, not anymore. Friends, that’s all.” He said nothing. She leaned over him and asked, “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“I hope not, because there’s no reason to be.”

“I just know what he meant to you.”

“He meant a lot and still does, but not in the same way.”

“Do you miss him?”

She laughed. “Yes, as a friend. We share something, an American Indian heritage. He works hard to expose what happens on reservations. I admire him.”

“You loved him.”

“Once, yes, but now… this is ridiculous.”

“Hey, Chris, understand me.
We’re
together now. I just don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Forget it. Let’s get some sleep. Are you happy?”

“Ross, I’m happy, about some things, about—”

“Satisfied?”

“Sexually? Do you have to ask?”

“Good. I want you to be happy.”

“I am.” She kissed his forehead. “Good night.”

“Good night. Pleasant dreams.”

Dawn broke as hot and sticky as the previous seven dawns, although the forecast promised relief within forty-eight hours.

Ross Lizenby went directly to the Hoover Building. Chris Saksis went home for a change of clothes and to check on her mail. She arrived at the Ranger offices at 8:15 and poured herself a cup of coffee in the makeshift kitchen. Lizenby poked his head in and asked her to come to his office.

“Shut the door,” he said. She sat across the desk from him as he placed in front of her the contents of the envelope Gormley had delivered the night before. Pritchard’s wallet and keys were there, along with gold cuff links, a watch, scraps of paper, an appointment book, and a wallet-size address book.

“Have you gone through it?” Saksis asked.

“No. I can’t get past wondering why Gormley sat on it so long.”

“Is this all there was?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the items they took from the apartment? His desk must have had more than this.”

Lizenby shook his head. “I’ll ask Gormley when I see him later this morning. In the meantime, go through everything and see if it rings any bells. Are Perone and Stein interviewing the people on the list?”

“I’m going to talk to them now. You want to start with the German and Teng and Nariz?”

“Might as well. Leave Doering for me.”

“Okay.”

She started to leave.

“You know, Chris, how much I appreciate having you on this assignment.”

“Sure.”

“It’s going to fall more and more on your shoulders. I’m a lousy administrator. Besides, there are a couple of SPOVAC commitments I have to follow through on.”

“I’ll give it my best.”

She went to her office, where Perone and Stein waited. She filled them in on their assignment—to interview the three foreigners who’d been training with the FBI over the past months, and who’d been in the building the night Pritchard was killed. Stein drew Walter Teng, Perone would talk to Hans Loeffler. They’d get to Sergio Nariz later in the day.

Once they were gone, Saksis refilled her cup, settled back behind her desk, and slowly started to
go through Pritchard’s phone book. Most of the entries were initials. There were few addresses. Most initials were followed by a single telephone number.

She went to where Barbara Twain and the second computer operator were at work in front of their terminals. “Barbara, can you break away?” she asked.

“Sure.” The chubby blonde followed Saksis back to her office, where Saksis handed her the small phone book. “Set up a program to compare the initials and names in here to the list of people who signed in to see Pritchard that day, or who were known to visit him in his office. Will it take long?”

Twain shook her head and smiled. “Not long at all.”

***

Hans Loeffler was a large, square man with sparse hair that he combed in wet strands across a bumpy bald head. He had high color in his cheeks and a bulbous nose. He wasn’t fat, but it was obvious that keeping his weight down was not easy for him. Back home in Munich, Germany, he was deputy commissioner of that city’s
polizei
, with its undercover division under his direct supervision. He’d been in Washington attending a special training program offered to foreign law enforcement officials at the bureau’s Quantico academy. He’d completed the Quantico phase of his training, but instead of returning directly to Germany had been invited by Assistant Director Jonathan Mack, who headed up the bureau’s law enforcement division, to spend two weeks at headquarters coordinating
Munich’s link-up with the FBI’s CLIS program (Criminalistics Laboratory Information System), which shares a massive general rifling characteristics file with national and international agencies. Loeffler had a special interest in weapons and often bragged of his personal collection at home.

Perone and Loeffler met in a small conference room on the Tenth Street side of the Hoover Building. Perone took a seat at one end of a six-foot-long teak conference table and invited Loeffler to sit in the first chair to his right. Instead, the bulky German sat at the opposite end of the table. He was overtly nervous. His face was moist, and Perone noticed that when he lit a cigarette—which he seemed to do constantly—his hand trembled. The small tape recorder Perone had placed on the table didn’t help.

“Well, Mr. Loeffler, I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you this morning,” said Perone.

“Pritchard,” Loeffler said bluntly.

“Yes. We’re interviewing everyone who was in the building the night he—he died.”

“You have a lot of interviewing to do. There must be thousands here at night.”

“Yes, that’s true, but we’re starting with those who aren’t employees of the FBI.”

“I see. Well, I can tell you nothing you do not already know.”

Perone smiled and leaned back. “Frankly, Mr. Loeffler, I don’t know anything at this stage except that you were here that night. What were you doing?”

Loeffler lit another cigarette and tried to make
his large body more comfortable within the arms of the narrow chair.

“Can’t you remember?” Perone asked.

“Yes, yes, of course I remember, but I am not sure I am free to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it involves secret matters.”

Perone raised an eyebrow and leaned forward to see that the cassette tape was running. He sat back again and stared at Loeffler.

“Please, Mr. Perone, try to understand the position you place me in. I wish to cooperate but…”

Perone continued to stare. He’d been told over the years with the bureau that his stare could melt a diamond, and he used it effectively during interrogations. It had unglued the coolest of suspects.

“I do not wish to break trusts,” Loeffler said. “I feel privileged to be here and to have been taken into the confidence of Assistant Director Mack and the others. Please, it is not right to ask me to betray that trust.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for from you, Mr. Loeffler. I understand what you’re saying, and I respect it. Let’s forget about the nature of what kept you here so late that night. Just tell me who can vouch for your movements.”

Another cigarette. “Many people, those I met with.”

“Names?”

He mentioned three people.

Perone squinted. Smoke from Loeffler’s chain of cigarettes floated in his direction and caused his eyes to sting. He said, “I don’t think we have anything more to discuss, Mr. Loeffler. I’ll talk to
the people you’ve mentioned and confirm what you’ve said.”

Perone shut off the tape recorder and slipped a narrow notebook back into his jacket pocket. He glanced up at Loeffler, who looked as though he wanted to say something.

“Is there something else?” Perone asked.

Loeffler, who’d just ground out a cigarette and was lighting another, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, shook his head, and said, “No, nothing else.” He stood. Perone came around the table and shook his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I understand you’ve had a successful stay here.”

Loeffler smiled for the first time. “Yes, yes, most successful. What a tragedy this thing that happened to Mr. Pritchard. Shameful.”

“Did you know him very well?”

“No. Oh, yes, he taught one of the classes I took at Quantico but—no, not well.”

“Did you like him?” Perone asked as they opened the conference room door.

“Well, no, there was some trouble. Minor trouble.”

Perone drew a breath, looked at the German, and asked, “Should we go back in and talk again?”

Loeffler shook his head. “No, of course not,” he said. He laughed. Perone read it as forced. “It was a little conflict of personalities. Mr. Pritchard was—how shall I say it?—not the easiest man to like. Please, do not misunderstand. I had the highest regard for him as a colleague. It was more personal.”

Perone decided to drop it for the moment. He’d check out Loeffler’s witnesses and ask around about
any problems between him and Pritchard. “When are you due to go back to Germany, Mr. Loeffler?”

“In two weeks.”

“That’s good. You’ll be here in Washington, here in the building for the next fourteen days?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll catch up again. Thanks.” He left him with a remnant of his famous stare and returned to the Ranger offices.

***

Jacob Stein interviewed Walter Teng in an office adjacent to Director Shelton’s suite. Determining the place where the meeting would take place proved difficult, which Stein hadn’t bargained for. Obviously, there was official concern from high up that the Chinese gentleman be dealt with in a delicate and courteous manner.

When Stein arrived at the office, Teng was there with a tall, slender, professorial man wearing a colorful madras jacket, white buttondown shirt, and bright yellow bow tie. He introduced himself as Hoyt Griffith.

Stein shook his hand and asked. “Do you plan to be present during the interview?”

“Yes,” Griffith said pleasantly. “It’s been cleared with the director.”

“I wasn’t told,” Stein said. “Are you with the bureau?”

“Yes.”

“May I see your credentials, please?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Your director—”

“I don’t want to be difficult, Mr. Griffith, but I’d
be derelict to allow you to be here without instructions from someone in authority.”

Teng said nothing during the exchange. He sat in a red leather easy chair and glared at Stein. Stein tried to ignore him, finally said, “Mr. Teng, I’m Special Agent Jacob Stein. I’m the one who’ll be talking with you. Maybe you can help straighten this out.”

The severe expression of Teng’s face never changed as he said in perfect English, “Mr. Gormley wishes Mr. Griffith to be present during our talk.”

“That may be true, sir, but I can’t proceed without his direct authorization.”

Griffith, who’d sustained his pleasant facade, now appeared to be losing patience. He said, “If that’s true, Mr. Stein, I suggest you obtain it or conclude this little get-together. Mr. Teng and I have busy schedules.”

“So do I, Mr. Griffith. I’ll see what I can do in the next ten minutes.”

Stein hurried to the Ranger suite and found Chris Saksis in the computer room reading a print-out Barbara Twain had just given her. He quickly explained the situation and they went to Lizenby’s office. He wasn’t there.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Saksis said. “Maybe Griffith is from the CIA. They’re the ones who brought Teng over here.”

One of the secretaries came to the door and said, “Mr. Stein, there’s a call for you. Assistant Director Gormley.

Stein looked at Saksis. “He’s never called
me
before,” he said, going to a phone and picking it up. “Special Agent Stein here.”

“This is Assistant Director Gormley, Mr. Stein. The interview with Mr. Teng can go forward as scheduled
with
Mr. Griffith present.”

“Yes, sir, I just wanted to hear it from higher authority.”

“I appreciate that. You now have it from higher authority.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Griffith—is he agency personnel?”

“No, but that doesn’t impact on you or your interview. Simply proceed and treat Mr. Teng with tact and courtesy.”

“Yes, sir, I intended to do that from the beginning. Sir.”

“Yes?”

“I would like to call you back just to confirm that I’m speaking with you.”

“Mr. Stein, that’s… Yes, of course.”

The return call to Gormley’s number was picked up immediately.

“Thank you, sir,” Stein said as he hung up.

Saksis, who’d been standing behind Stein, started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. “Standard procedure. How the hell do I know it isn’t somebody talking like Gormley and—?”

“I’m not arguing, Jake, it’s just a first for me.”

“Me, too,” he said, grinning. “I’ll be back.”

Walter Teng’s face defined the word impassive, a flat mask of noncommitment. He wore a cream-colored Mao suit. On the pinky of his right hand was a large diamond ring. There was a small tattoo on the back of his right hand. It was blue and green, and looked to Jake Stein like a large dog, or wolf with its fangs bared.

The first time Stein had seen Teng walking around the building he could think only of old war movies in which a Japanese camp commandant extracted information from downed American flyers. Of course, Teng was Chinese, not Japanese, but that was a minor hitch in Stein’s vision of the squat, powerfully built Asian.

Stein knew why Teng had been in the Hoover Building for the past two months. The Central Intelligence Agency had arranged for Teng to receive training, first at Quantico, then at headquarters, so that he could return to China to update its own version of the FBI.