Murder at the Opera (19 page)

“Hello,” the passenger said with a wan smile. He extended a hand that held his British passport. The guard went to where another uniformed soldier leaned against the gate smoking a cigarette. They both looked at the document. One said something that made the other laugh. The passport was returned, the gate opened, and the vehicle was allowed to enter Jordan.

The passenger settled back and closed his eyes. He’d dreaded the six-hundred-mile trip since being told to go to Amman by his superior in the Baghdad office. He might have opted out of the assignment, using his senior status and age in the British Foreign Service—he was within a year of retirement—but decided to make the journey. This was important, he knew. Sending a younger, less experienced case officer would not be prudent. The man was Milton Crowley, the only son of a British father and Jewish mother. The Jewish side of his heritage was seldom acknowledged, especially since being posted to Iraq. The flames were high enough there without fanning them further.

His driver had said little during the leg from Baghdad to the Jordanian border, for which Crowley was grateful. Both he and the driver had been on the alert for any sign of “The Group of Death,” an Iraqi insurgency group that had recently been attacking vehicles on Route 10. Twice they’d had to pull far off to the side of the road to allow U.S. military convoys to pass, their soldiers’ weapons trained on the white Suburban. But now that they were in Jordan, the driver visibly relaxed and became verbose, looking in his rearview mirror while talking although somehow keeping his eyes on the road. Crowley could have done without the chatter. He wanted to nap but knew that was impossible. The endless, singsong flow of words from the driver, coupled with an inborn inability to sleep in vehicles or on planes, kept the slight British diplomat awake the entire trip.

They eventually reached downtown Amman and pulled up in front of the Le Royal Hotel in Jebal Amman, on Zahran Street, the Third Circle. The city’s newest luxury hotel, thirty-one stories high, was the tallest building in Amman. Crowley had stayed there before on a previous trip and suffered the same reaction he always had when in hotels, a profound yearning for his quaint, peaceful cottage on a river in Wareham, Dorset, England. One year to go before returning there permanently. It could not come fast enough.

His senior status would have allowed him to choose one of the suites on a high floor, with sweeping views of the city. But views no longer meant anything to Crowley. You’ve seen one view from a hotel window, you’ve seen them all. Besides, he was uncomfortable being surrounded by windows. A lesser room, on a lower floor, with but a single window was more to his liking.

He napped in the darkened room. Somewhat rested, he showered and shaved. His image in the mirror was not what he wished to see. He showed his age—the chicken neck, the sparse, unruly gray hair, and the gray stubble on his chin and cheeks. A discernible weariness in his eyes testified to there being far fewer days ahead for him than behind.

He dressed in the same wrinkled blue suit and the same shirt and tie he’d worn during the drive and went to one of the hotel complex’s thirteen restaurants, where he had a lager, a pasta dish, and a salad. His watch said he had another hour before he had to leave. He sat in the lobby for a few minutes but found it too busy. Two thousand people attending an affair in the Ishtar Ballroom kept spilling out into the lobby; nostalgia for his idyllic English countryside cottage was almost painful.

He returned to his room and passed the rest of the hour there before taking a cab from the hotel to the town of Debbin, approximately fifty miles to the north of Amman. After consulting a slip of paper, he instructed the driver to let him off at an entrance to the Debbin National Park, thirty miles of pine forest stretching from Debbin to Ajlun. The driver expressed his concern at letting the little Englishman off in such a dark and secluded spot, but Crowley assured him he would be fine. “Someone is picking me up any minute,” he said. The moment the taxi pulled away, a silver Mercedes that had been parked a few hundred feet away, its lights extinguished, came to life and approached. M.T., the burly Brit who’d been Ghaleb Rihnai’s handler, rolled down the window. “Evening, mate,” he said.

“Good evening,” Crowley replied, coming around to the passenger side and getting in.

“Not an especially cheery place to meet up,” M.T. said, “but safer than in town.”

Crowley said nothing as M.T. pulled away and drove into the park till they reached a secluded picnic area covered by a canopy of pines and oaks; a little, colorful field of wildflowers looked like a painting in the car’s halogen headlights.

M.T. turned off the lights and ignition and cracked windows on both sides. “Good trip?” he asked.

“Horrid. Tell me about Rihnai.”

“Not much to tell, really. Poor bugger had half his head blown off. We’d just had a meeting at one of the safe houses. Can’t use that place again. It’s been compromised. Not quite sure how that happened, or how Rihnai was found out, but working on it.”

“The young Iraqi he befriended as a source. Do you know him?”

“Afraid not. Never did meet him or know his name. Clever chap, the former Mr. Ghaleb Rihnai was. He evidently knew that as long as he kept his Iraqi source to himself, he held the trump card. Didn’t get him very far, though. A bloody shame what happened to him. He wanted out, wanted to go back to the States. Maybe he knew someone was on to him.”

“And to you,” Crowley said. “Look, I’ve been sent here to make sure that there’s a sense of urgency on your part. The Americans are damned edgy about what your Mr. Rihnai came up with. You said in your communiqués that the attack was being choreographed out of Cairo. Explain. How did this Iraqi patsy know that?”

“Through a brother in Iraq, according to Ghaleb. This brother, another name he wouldn’t share with me, is connected there. At least that’s what he claimed.”

“This concerns me,” said Crowley, lowering his window farther to allow more night air into the Mercedes. “All I hear from you is ‘he claimed’ and ‘as far as I know.’ If al-Qaeda successfully pulls off this attack, the fallout will be significant. We’ve got to have more specifics.”

“Back off, Crowley,” M.T. said. “I’m doing all I can here, with bloody little support. If Ghaleb hadn’t been taken out, I’ve no doubt that those ‘specifics’ you want would be forthcoming. But damn it, man, I’ve given you all I can. Ghaleb said that bin Laden has personally ordered the attack, and that it’s being activated through an al-Qaeda cell in Cairo. Oh, yes, and there’s some vague Canadian connection. Sorry, mate, but that’s all Ghaleb had to say about that. His Iraqi source was intending to go back to Baghdad and confer there with his brother. We would have learned more
specifics
if Ghaleb hadn’t gotten it.”

Crowley said nothing.

“You’d think the bloody Americans would do their own snooping,” M.T. said. “Hell, it’s them at the receiving end of the attack. Doesn’t make sense to me why we’re digging up dirt for them, sticking out our necks. I’ve got a contracting business to run here in Jordan, plenty of work to keep me busy without playing spy games for the Yanks.”

“When can you find out more?” Crowley asked, ignoring the diatribe.

“Probably not fast enough for you, Crowley. Not without Ghaleb and his Iraqi chum.”

“Keep trying.”

“Easy for you to say, mate. Staying in Amman long?”

“No.”

“Back to Baghdad?”

“No. Washington. Tomorrow morning.”

“I’m due for some R-and-R myself,” M.T. said.

“Take me back to the city,” Crowley said.

“Right you are, mate. I’m a full-service provider, handler, and chauffeur. On the side, I fix boilers in this bloody place.” He started the car, turned on the lights, and drove away, the angry sound of the engine mirroring his mood. He dropped Crowley off at a taxi stand on the outskirts of the city.

“Always a pleasure,” M.T. said as Crowley exited the car without saying a word and climbed into a waiting cab. “And your mother, too,” M.T. muttered as he watched the taxi disappear into a dense fog that had descended upon the city.

NINETEEN

S
ylvia Johnson and Carl Berry were going over the day’s schedule when Willie Portelain came through the door.

“What are you doing here?” Berry asked. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“Got sprung, man. I told them I was feeling topnotch and had important work to do, said the city needed me.”

He eyed the half-eaten jelly donut sitting on a napkin on the desk, which Sylvia moved behind a pile of file folders.

“So, Willie,” Berry said, “I understand you’re going on a diet.”

“Supposed to be,” he chortled, “only I don’t know what good it’ll do. These docs—man, they don’t know a hell of a lot. They poke around and stick you with all sorts a needles and then tell you to go on a diet and exercise. I’ve got pills, little white ones and little blue ones. You’d think they’d learn more than that in medical school, huh? Exercise? Get nothin’ but on this job. Right? The way I figure it, the man upstairs has everybody’s name on a list. He checks you off as you croak. When it’s your name that comes up, good-bye baby,
hasta la vista,
cash in your potato chips. All the diets in the world ain’t going to change that.”

“That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard from you, Willie,” Sylvia said.

“Watch your mouth, girl. Just ’cause you were born with good genes don’t mean everybody was. Our number comes up, that’s it. In the meantime, here I am, ready to save Washington from the bad guys.” Then, quietly, to Sylvia: “Thanks, baby, for taking care of ol’ Willie yesterday.”

“You’d do the same for me,” she said.

“I’d do more than that,” he said, giving her what passed for a leer. “So, what’s up for today?”

“The Lee case,” Berry said.

“How about that punk piano player?” Portelain asked.

“The one you coldcocked?” Berry said.

“That’s him,” Willie said. “Hey, I didn’t hit the punk. He ran right into my arm.”

“So I heard,” said Berry. “Look, in the first place, he’s no punk. He’s maybe a little stupid when it comes to self-preservation, but from what we know, he’s a first-rate pianist. He’s not bringing charges.”

Portelain guffawed. “Him? Bring charges? For what?”

“Police brutality.”

“Screw him,” Portelain said. “I—”

“Forget about that,” Berry said. “Our friend doesn’t have an alibi that can be corroborated. He stays bright on the radar screen. I figure we let him stew for a day or two, lick his wounds, and do some thinking. In the meantime, I want you two—I assumed it would only be Sylvia, but now that you’re here, Willie, I want both of you to question those agents, Melincamp and his partner…” He checked his notes. “Ms. Baltsa.”

“I already talked to Melincamp,” Portelain said. “He’s a strange-o.”

“Talk to him again. Public Affairs is swamped with media inquiries. We need something to feed them. PA is holding a press conference at five. It would be nice if I could tell them we’re making progress. Get back over to the Kennedy Center in your spare time and pump anyone who was there the night she was killed. Let’s not limit things to the victim’s inner circle.”

“In our spare time?” Willie snorted.

“PA will say we’re making progress whether we are or not,” Johnson said. “‘No specifics,’” she said, mimicking a department spokesman. “‘We aren’t able to comment on an ongoing investigation.’ The usual.”

Berry stood and stretched. “Let’s move,” he said. “Oh, did you two see this?” He held up a copy of
Washingtonian.

“No,” Johnson said, taking the magazine.

“Page one thirteen,” Berry said.

Johnson opened it.

“Man, what’s he got his picture in there for?” Willie asked.

“The Washington Opera,” Berry replied. “Remember? He used to hang out with those people.”

“He was in some of the shows,” Johnson said.

“Right,” said Berry. “Take it. I’ve read it. Talk to those two agents, and check in with me later. Good to see you back, Willie. Do what the doctors told you.”

As Portelain and Johnson headed out to interview Philip Melincamp and Zöe Baltsa, Berry met with his superior, Cole Morris.

“Anything new on the Kennedy Center case?” Morris asked.

“No,” Berry said. “Her roommate, the piano player from Toronto, Christopher Warren, isn’t off the hook. Johnson brought him in yesterday.”

“So I heard. He got banged up?”

“Yeah, but not to worry. He’s not bringing charges.”

“What’s with Willie Portelain?”

“He’s okay, out of the hospital. He and Johnson are interviewing two talent agents from Toronto, the ones who represented the victim and Warren. I’ve got the victim’s parents in town.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get over to their hotel. They didn’t want to come here.”

“Did you see the article on Ray Pawkins in
Washingtonian
?” Morris asked.

Berry laughed. “Yeah, I did. He always had a knack for self-promotion. I could never figure the guy. He was there the night they discovered the singer’s body at the Kennedy Center.”

“Was he? Why?”