Murder at the FBI (8 page)

It had been a top-secret project until columnist Jack Anderson broke the story and questioned whether the training would be used to enhance the secret and powerful police force to carry out Communist policies. George Pritchard, before his demise, had voiced loud objections to the project, which had not endeared him to the bureau hierarchy. He’d confined his comments, of course, to within the bureau, but he’d been vocal enough to receive a reprimand from Assistant Director Gormley, and to prompt a heated and not very private argument with the CIA’s liaison at the bureau, Bert Doering.

Hoyt Griffith carefully arranged himself in a stuffed chair and quietly observed as Jacob Stein placed a yellow legal pad on his lap, cleared his throat, and said, “Mr. Teng, I appreciate you sitting down with me like this. As you know, one of our special agents, George L. Pritchard, recently died in this building under unusual circumstances. I’ve been assigned to a unit investigating that death,
which is why I wanted to talk to you.” He checked Teng for a reaction. There was none.

“We know, Mr. Teng, that you were in the building the night of Special Agent Pritchard’s death. Would you mind telling me why you were here, and what you were doing?”

Teng looked at Griffith, who said, “Mr. Stein, it’s no secret that Mr. Teng is here on a very important mission for his country, and for the United States. His activities are the concern of those who are responsible for the success of his visit.”

Stein looked at Griffith and smiled. “I’m well aware of that, but I’m sure you understand that it’s my job to pursue certain avenues of investigation regarding the death of Agent Pritchard.”

Griffith returned the smile. “I’m not suggesting that you not investigate this matter, Mr. Stein. What I
am
saying is that interviewing Mr. Teng is, at once, unnecessary, unfruitful, and perhaps foolhardy.”

“Foolhardy? Why is that?”

“Because you are crossing the line into areas that are beyond your limited scope.”

Stein let the comment go. He said to Teng, “Do
you
mind telling me of your movements the night Mr. Pritchard was—died?”

“It is my position that I am not to speak of things within this bureau. I will tell you this, however. I did not kill your Agent Pritchard.”

Stein laughed. “Of course not, Mr. Teng. I never suggested that.”

“Then why talk to me?”

“Because you were here, and you are not a member of the FBI.”

Griffith chuckled. “That’s it, is it?”

“What’s it, Mr. Griffith?”

Griffith sighed and shook his head. “The old protect-your-own syndrome.”

Stein sensed his temper rising. He put the cap on his pen, stood, and offered his hand to Teng. The Asian shook it without getting up. Stein glanced over at Griffith, decided not to bother, and left the office.

“How did it go?” Saksis asked him when he’d returned to Ranger.

“Wonderful. Mr. Teng told me he didn’t kill Pritchard, and I think it’s hands off our Asian colleague for the duration. He had a spook with him.” He told Saksis of Griffith’s participation, and of his picking up on looking outside the bureau for a suspect.

“He’s right,” Saksis said.

“I know. I just don’t like people like him being right. You know what crossed my mind while I was sitting there?”

“What?”

“I doubt if Walter Teng would have murdered George Pritchard, but what about the CIA?”

“Why?”

Stein sat on a couch and examined the fingers of his right hand. He said, “George Pritchard had a reputation of being a big mouth around here. I also happen to know that he’d been slapped down a few times for giving interviews to the press without clearance.”

“So?”

“So, maybe it was Pritchard who leaked the China story to Jack Anderson. Maybe he was talking
out of school to other people. Maybe he had to be shut up.”

Saksis wanted to dismiss the theory as pure James Bond, but she couldn’t. The same scenario had flashed through her mind a few times. In her version, however, there was an added incentive for the CIA. By creating an incident that pointed to an FBI agent being murdered by one of its own, it cast a long and dark shadow over the bureau.

“Remember,” Stein said, “the CIA is not one of our biggest boosters.”

“I’m remembering, Jake, I’m remembering.”

An hour later Ross Lizenby received a call from Assistant Director Gormley. “Walter Teng is not to be approached again,” he said.

“Well, sir, he was included on the list because he was in the building and was
not
bureau personnel.”

“I don’t care about the ‘whys,’ Mr. Lizenby, I’m simply telling you to leave Mr. Teng alone. That comes from the director himself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe Perone interviewed Sergio Nariz at four that afternoon. Nariz was a Paraguayan who was also attending the FBI academy training program for foreign law enforcement professionals. Physically, Nariz came off to Perone like a young Caesar Romero, very handsome and smooth, impeccably dressed in a dark blue vested summerweight suit, shoes shined to a mirror finish, every salt-and-pepper hair perfectly in place. Nariz lacquered his fingernails, a habit Perone disliked in men. He also wondered whether Nariz wore facial makeup. It looked it, although if he did he was skillful at it. You couldn’t be sure.

They talked for an hour. Nariz was expansive in his answers, gregarious, charming. He frankly admitted that he disliked Pritchard.

“Why?” Perone asked.

“Because he was an arrogant and abusive man, Mr. Perone. He insulted me on a number of occasions. Because I am a guest here, I did not retaliate, but had it happened in my own country, I would have.”

“How would you have retaliated?” Perone asked.

Nariz smiled broadly and offered Perone a cigar. Perone accepted it. They both sat back and enjoyed the taste and aroma. “Excellent,” Perone said.

“Cuban,” Nariz said, “but don’t tell anyone.”

Perone laughed. “I wouldn’t even consider it.”

“Good. How would I have retaliated? Not by murdering him and hanging him in a target range.”

“No?”

“No.”

Perone thanked Nariz for the cigar at the end of the interview, packed up his recorder, and returned to Ranger.

“Well?” Saksis asked.

“He can account for his actions that night, but I’ll check it out. By the way, I asked the people Loeffler, the German, said he was with that night.

“What’d they say?” Lizenby asked.

“He disappeared for about an hour, said he was sick.”

“He didn’t tell you that?” Saksis said.

“Nope.”

“Ask him about it,” Lizenby said.

“I intend to. By the way, Nariz carries damn good Cuban cigars.”

Later, Lizenby sat with Saksis in his office. He was pensive, and she asked why.

“I was just thinking about George Pritchard and his life. You know, he just about single-handedly infiltrated and disrupted that terrorist group operating out of New York. Remember, when he was with the Long Island field office?”

“I only heard bits and pieces. I do recall Director Shelton giving him a commendation.”

“Yeah. Funny, but what sticks in my mind is that the terrorists had ties to Paraguay.”

“They did?”

“Yup, and George maintained a contact within the group, a Paraguayan. In fact, I think they got together the day he was killed.”

She sat forward on her chair. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t
know
it for certain, but I’d bet on it. Just something he said that morning before he went to lunch that made me think he was meeting up with the guy.”

“Do you have his name?”

“No. George Pritchard had refined to an art form the concept of keeping it to yourself. Even mentioning that the guy was a Paraguayan was a slip. I did a little research on the group he infiltrated. There’s strong evidence that it’s hooked up with a faction of Paraguay’s national police force that’s dedicated to overthrowing the government down there.”

“Nariz?”

“Maybe. What about the others on the list?”

“Nonbureau types? There aren’t many. I had Barbara run a comparison of the initials and names in Pritchard’s phone book with everyone who was known to have seen him that day.”

“Anything?”

“No, except for that set of initials, R.K., which matches up with Raymond Kane, who signed in to see Pritchard at 11:30 that night.”

“Who is he?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. He listed himself as a consultant. I checked with the guard who was on that night and he remembers that Pritchard had left word to admit Mr. Kane the moment he arrived.”

Lizenby leaned his head far back and stretched his arms in front of him. “Check out the number in the phone book.”

“I am. There was no area code, and the exchange isn’t from around here. We’ll try them all tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He got up and did a series of waist bends. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Going home, soaking in a hot tub, and getting to bed early. I had a tennis game tonight but I canceled.”

“Maybe you’d feel better if you played.”

“I doubt it. You?”

“I need gym time. I’m tight. Want to meet for breakfast?”

“Sure. Au Pied De Cochon?”

“Sounds good to me.”

***

Chris Saksis decided to jog once she got home. She ran for an hour along Massachusetts Avenue,
past the stately mansions of Embassy Row, then back by way of Dumbarton Oaks Park. As she was letting herself in her apartment, the phone started ringing. She ran to it and picked it up. “Hello,” she said.

“Chris. It’s Bill.”

“Bill, it’s so good to hear from you.”

“I wanted to touch base and let you know I’ll be in Washington in a couple of days.”

“That’s wonderful. Tell me about it.”

Bill Tse-ay and Chris Saksis had been lovers. His father was an Apache, and had started a national newspaper covering American Indian affairs. When his father died, Bill continued to publish it. He was even more of a crusader for Indian rights than his father had been, and it was his single-mindedness that contributed, in part, to the relationship with Chris ending. Bill had been quietly critical of Chris’s decision to join the FBI. He considered it, in some symbolic way, selling out. She saw it differently, felt that a good way to help her people was to achieve status and influence within the prevailing power structure. There were other factors, of course, that caused them to drift apart, at least romantically, but there remained a strong bond that each of them understood.

Bill gave her his travel plans and said he’d call the minute he arrived. They started to exchange stories about their current lives but decided to save them for when they were together. He did ask before hanging up whether there was anyone new in her life.

“I guess not, Bill, although I have met someone
who—well, I
am
interested, but it’s early in the relationship. You?”

“Afraid not. Once you’ve met a Christine Saksis, everybody else pales, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

They laughed. “I forgive you. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Bill called last night,” Chris said as she and Ross lingered over a second cup of coffee at Au Pied De Cochon.

“Bill?”

“Bill Tse-ay.”

“Really?”

“He’s coming to Washington in a couple of days. I’d love you to meet him.”

Lizenby looked past her to an adjacent table.

“Ross.”

He returned his attention to her. “What?”

“I said I’d like you to meet Bill.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because—because he’s a nice guy and he’s part of my life and—”

“We’ll see. What are you doing today?”

“Specifically? Well, I’m running down the phone
number for Raymond Kane and following up on some other aspects of the list of people who’d seen Pritchard the day he was killed and—”

Lizenby waved for a check.

“Ross, are you angry about something?”

The waitress brought the check and Lizenby pulled money from his wallet. When the waitress was gone, he stood and said, “Let’s go.”

She started to ask again whether he was angry, decided to drop it, and walked to her car.

“This thing is dragging on too long,” he said as she put the key in the lock.

“What thing?”

“Pritchard, this whole Ranger crap. The guy wasn’t worth it.”

She cocked her head and looked at him. “What does that matter?”

“It matters to me. I want this resolved fast so I can get the hell out of this fiasco called Washington, D.C.”

She was hurt, but she fought against demonstrating it. “I’ll see you at the office,” she said curtly.

“Yeah. Let’s have a meeting and shake up the troops.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Everyone’s doing what they’re supposed to be doing.”

“Are they? I’m not sure about that.”

He turned and walked away. He hadn’t bothered to close the door behind her, to kiss her on the cheek, to display anything that might have smacked of caring. She watched him walk, erect and sure, eyes straight ahead. She hoped he’d look back, wave, do something to acknowledge her. He didn’t.

She felt the sting of tears in her eyes, willed
them away, and started the car. It doesn’t matter, she told herself as she joined the flow of traffic on Wisconsin. But then she had to admit that it did. She was in love with him. “Damn it all,” she said as she cut off a cab and made a right turn.