Murder in Foggy Bottom (13 page)

15

A Few Days Later
The State Department

“. . . and so it is with the greatest of pleasure that I am able to stand here today, side by side with my able and honorable counterparts from the United States, to announce that after a long but pleasant round of negotiations, an agreement has been reached that is fair and equitable to both countries.”

The Canadian minister of trade went on to explain the details of an accord reached on what had been a contentious issue between the United States and Canada— direct access to U.S. ports and markets by Canadian fishing vessels. His remarks completed, the negotiator for the United States stepped to the podium and said the requisite nice things about the Canadian negotiators. A small gathering of press in the second-floor briefing room took dutiful notes while former secretaries of state— William Rogers, Dean Rusk, Cordell Hull—kept unmoving eyes on them from their framed portraits on the wall. When the briefing was concluded and press kits handed out, reporters for whom State was a regular beat went to their cubicles in the press court to file their stories.

Two hours later, fifty or so members of Canada’s embassy staff, led by the Canadian ambassador, traveled from the chancery on Pennsylvania Avenue to the State Department to join fifty invited American guests at a reception to celebrate the success of the negotiations. Roseann Blackburn, who’d been booked just that afternoon by her agent to provide background music for the occasion—“Johnny Johnson was booked but the jerk hurt his wrist in a tennis game this afternoon”—made sure she rehearsed “Canadian Sunset” before leaving the apartment, and had run through “New York, New York” after being told it was the Canadian ambassador’s favorite song.

“What, nobody ever write ‘Toronto, Toronto’ or ‘Montreal, Montreal’?” Potamos had said before she left for the job.

They’d argued that afternoon. Potamos, knowing he’d been less than a pleasant companion the past week, had planned to make it up to her that evening, starting with cocktails and the spectacular views of the White House and the Mall from the Sky Terrace on the roof of the Hotel Washington, then dinner at the romantic Coeur de Lion, and capping off the evening at Blues Alley, where jazz pianist Pete Malinverni, one of Roseann’s favorites, was appearing with a trio.

“We don’t have to make it such a big evening,” she’d said in response to his disappointment that she’d taken the last-minute job. “I’ll be home by eight, eight-thirty. We can grab a quick bite someplace and still catch a set at the club.”

“Sure,” he’d said, turning on the computer and logging on to AOL to check his e-mail.

She came around behind him and kissed his head. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

He turned, looked up at her, and smiled. “Just go on and play your gig. You’re right, we’ll skip the big dinner and catch Malinverni at Blues Alley when you get back. Besides, I’ve got all this e-mail to answer.” He raised his lips to hers. “You’re delicious,” he said when they disengaged.

“You taste pretty good yourself,” Roseann said happily. “Got to scoot. Thanks for understanding.”

Roseann knew he’d meant well, wanting to treat her to a special evening out. Earlier, she questioned whether she should have taken the job, considering the plans Joe had made for them that evening. Bill Walters, her agent at Elite Music, had been persuasive: “I really need you for this one, Roseann,” he’d said. “I’m in a bind. They’re in a bind. Besides, there’s some nice opportunities brewing for you. We’ll get together next week and discuss them.”

So she said yes, acting out of her freelance musician’s sense of survival: You didn’t turn down a paying job because you never knew when the next one would come along.

Now, as the taxi went toward Foggy Bottom, she was pleased, and relieved, at Joe’s easy reaction. She always played better when things were good between them.

“You play beautifully.”

Roseann had just finished “Night and Day” and was about to begin another when the middle-aged man, who’d been standing behind her, complimented her.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

“Nobody wrote better music than Cole Porter.”

“One of my favorites,” she said. “I love playing him. Any particular tune of his you’d like to hear?”

“ ‘Easy to Love’?”

“Sure.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Glad to . . . ? Oh. I was referring to the song, not to . . .”

“I’m sure you were.”

As she started to play, he came around and leaned on the grand’s closed lid, watching her intently, listening closely to the music and never taking his eyes from her. She always played with more passion when she knew someone was really listening; others at the reception, as expected, paid no attention to her. When she ended on a dissonant minor chord, he quietly applauded.

“Thank you,” she said. This was a handsome man by any definition—square jaw, lively blue eyes, wide, comforting smile. A gentle man, Roseann thought, easygoing, pleasant to be with, probably a good listener. Unlike . . .

“How late are you playing?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch: “Another hour.”

“Free for dinner when you’re through?”

“I, ah—no, I’m sorry, I’m not.”

It wasn’t an easy answer for her to give.

“Sorry you’re not. I’m Craig Thomas.” He handed her a business card: CRAIG THOMAS, PUBLIC INFORMATION OFFICER, THE CANADIAN EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, DC.

“I’m Roseann Blackburn,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

She laughed. No one at such gatherings ever knew the name of the pianist providing background music, or cared.

“I read about you in the
Washingtonian.
”

“Oh, I forgot about that.”

“Very flattering piece. Or maybe just accurate.”

“Yes . . . I mean . . .”

“You won’t be offended if I say you’re even more attractive than your picture?”

“No, I’m not offended. Thank you.”

She realized she’d better start another song and had played the first soft notes of “Memories of You” when he asked, “Having dinner with your reporter friend?”

She kept playing and cocked her head. “You really
read
the piece, didn’t you?”

His laugh was easy. “I like keeping up with what’s going on in the city.” He plucked one of her business cards from a glass on the piano, put it in the pocket of his gray suit jacket, and said, “Your playing is the highlight of my evening, Ms. Blackburn. In fact, my week. These events can be deadly dull. Enjoy your dinner, and thanks for playing my request.”

She watched him join a group of people a few yards away, and was tempted to catch his eye again and accept his invitation. It had been a stressful week with Joe; a pleasant evening in a restaurant with this Craig Thomas was appealing. It wouldn’t be cheating to simply go to dinner, nothing more than that. But she didn’t follow through. Joe expected her home right after the job, and she was looking forward to enjoying the music with him at Blues Alley.

She flipped through a small notebook in which hundreds of song titles were arranged by composer and chose “I’m Always True to You in My Fashion.” Cole Porter said it all.

16

The Next Day
The State Department

Diplomatic Security Special Agent Bruce Wray sat behind the wheel of the long, blue diplomatic sedan in front of “Main State,” as the State Department building is called by those who serve it. A second vehicle, identical to the first, was parked directly behind. The radio in Special Agent Wray’s car was tuned to an all-news station, the volume low.

Inside the building, Elizabeth Rock conferred with staff in her warm, wood-paneled inner office, light from lamps giving life to the burnished boiserie. Multiple photos of her daughter and two grandchildren, the Secretary of State with numerous heads of state, plus memorabilia testifying to her lifelong love of baseball provided an eclectic background for the meeting.

“These are the latest briefing papers, Madam Secretary,” her confidential clerk said, handing her a file folder, which she placed on a growing pile.

Rock turned to Eva Young, her chief of staff. “The president is still in the meeting?”

“Yes, ma’am, with Director Templeton and Mr. Hoctor. Mr. Cammanati says it’s due to break any minute.”

Rock looked up at a stunning antique clock on the wall, a gift from her daughter. “You’d better call flight ops and tell them we’re running late,” she instructed her COS.

Her executive assistant entered the room to inform Rock that the assistant to the Russian ambassador to the United States, Nikolai Sorokin, was on a secured line.

“Excuse me,” the Secretary said, standing to go to a small room off her office to take the call. “Fourth call today from the charming, insufferable Counselor Sorokin,” she said over her shoulder.

In her absence, those at the meeting relaxed and exchanged small talk until Rock reappeared. She hadn’t even resumed her seat when her chief of staff opened the door: “The president, Madam Secretary.”

Rock took this call at her desk.

“Yes, Mr. President . . . No, I’m running late, should be leaving here in ten minutes . . . What? . . . Oh, yes, sir, the meetings in Moscow are set.” She laughed at something the president said. “I wouldn’t miss them, Mr. President. Thank you.”

She hung up and said, “He wants me to be sure and get back in time for the play-offs.”

Her assistant secretary for public affairs, Phil Wick, silently thought that considering the severity of what was happening, and the gravity of the Secretary’s sudden trip to Moscow, the president should be thinking of things other than baseball. Wick hated baseball, something he kept to himself.

“Ready?” her chief of staff asked.

“Yes, unless you have something else for me, Eva.”

Nothing was offered.

“Let’s go then.”

Special Agent Wray had been notified on his cell phone that his passenger was on her way. He stood erect at the open car door and watched her exit the building, trailed by members of her staff and two uniformed security guards.

“Good afternoon, Madam Secretary,” Wray said sharply.

“Good afternoon, Bruce. Any score?”

“Two-nothing,” he said. “Yankees. Top of the third.”

“Is Ripken playing?”

“No, ma’am. Erickson’s pitching.”

“Plenty of innings left,” Rock said, climbing into the backseat, where she was joined by Phil Wick and Eva Young. Wray closed the door, got in behind the wheel, and slowly pulled away, followed by the second car, containing two armed diplomatic-security special agents. They made their way to the Capital Beltway and took it until reaching Prince Georges County, Maryland. Soon, the monstrous water tower at Andrews Air Force Base came into view. After being checked through security at the main gate, and joined by a military-police vehicle, they proceeded to where the Secretary’s designated aircraft awaited her arrival, a converted pre-jumbo-jet 707 especially reconfigured to provide comfort, communications, and efficient working areas. The seal of the United States was boldly displayed on its tail.

Secretary Rock, Assistant Secretary for Public Affairs Wick, and Eva Young climbed the movable boarding stairs, returned a greeting from an Air Force major, and entered the aircraft. In the cockpit, the three-man crew, Air Force veterans, went over their preflight lists while ground maintenance personnel readied the plane for takeoff.

Already on board in the passenger cabin—actually a series of cabins created for specific functions: the Secretary’s bedroom, bath, and small private office; a conference room; a communications center manned by Air Force technicians; lavatories; a press center; and other designated areas—were three men. They’d removed their suit jackets and sat at the small conference table on which pads of paper, materials from the briefcases they’d carried aboard, and a pitcher of ice water and glasses rested. They stood and greeted the Secretary.

“Please, sit down,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As Rock went to her private quarters, Wick joined the men at the table.

“The Secretary’s looking well,” Mike McQuaid, special assistant on terrorism to President Ashmead, said.

Wick frowned. “She handles pressure well.”

“How are
you
holding up?” Herbert Shulman asked. Dr. Shulman was the highest-ranking civilian in the Air Force’s Weapons Division, which reported directly to the Directorate of Special Programs, his area of particular expertise shoulder-launched missiles.

“Just fine.”

“This should be like a minivacation for you,” McQuaid said through a small laugh. “No press to coddle.”

“I was thinking just that,” Wick said, standing. “Excuse me.” He retreated to the press center, where he sat alone. Usually, the seats were filled with journalists invited to accompany the Secretary on her many trips abroad. But this wasn’t travel as usual. Wick had spent the day fielding questions from the press about the purpose of this particular trip. Despite his programmed denials—“The Secretary is going to Moscow to congratulate the new Russian minister of foreign affairs, Mr. Orlov, and to establish a working relationship with him. That is the only reason for the trip!”—the press were convinced that Secretary Rock was heading for Moscow because of the aircraft downings, and they let Wick know they knew. Some had become testy, prompting a few angry responses from the assistant secretary. He was glad the day was over and that the plane’s press center was empty. With any luck, he’d be able to catch up on some of the sleep he’d missed since the attacks on the planes.

Elizabeth Rock was also grateful for a few moments of solitude. She stood in the private bath off her bedroom and looked at herself in the recessed mirror. This bathroom had been the subject of controversy after she’d been confirmed seven years ago. She’d taken an active role in the renovation and decorating of her office at Main State, and of the aircraft in which she would travel the world. She’d chosen Italian marble for the aircraft’s lavatory and the bath off her office, the cost raising eyebrows among members of Congress already critical of the administration’s spending policies, and journalists writing about it. Shades of Pentagon-ordered nine-hundred-dollar toilet seats and hundred-dollar ash-trays, they said. The flap eventually blew over, and Rock, sixty-four years old, widowed at thirty, with a Ph.D. in political science and a succession of increasingly important diplomatic jobs on her résumé, had her wood-paneled office and Italian-marble baths to enjoy.

As she leaned against a short wall, closed her eyes, and allowed her cheek to touch the cool marble, the 707’s commander taxied to the end of the runway and then applied full thrust to the engines. Rock knew she should take a seat and buckle up, but she didn’t move. No one would come looking for the secretary of state and insist she sit. A minute later, the Boeing four-engine aircraft was airborne and headed across the Atlantic on a new, important mission of many important missions.

Before the planes had been shot down, she’d been mired in days and nights of diplomatic game playing, feting heads of state large and small, gregarious and dour, friendly and antagonistic. Strange, and wearying, this business of diplomacy, she sometimes thought. She’d read Isaac Goldberg’s
The Reflex
and jotted down one of his observations about diplomacy: “Diplomacy is to do and say the nastiest things in the nicest way.” Once, when she’d recited that line to a friend at dinner, he’d retorted with something Adlai Stevenson had said on the subject: “A diplomat’s life is made up of three ingredients, protocol, Geritol, and alcohol.”

All of it true; so much ceremony, disingenuous rhetoric, accommodation of those not deserving of being accommodated, speeches—always a speech to give, an award to bestow, or a plaque to graciously receive.

But then there were those times when the froth of the job gave way to substance, when brokering a peace between a small country’s warring factions took hard-nosed skill and attitude. Those were the times when the stakes were high for America, and the secretary of state’s resolve matched that of others in the government charged with preserving and protecting the nation’s sovereignty and vital interests.

This was one of those times.

She returned to the conference room and rejoined the three men. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I appreciate you joining me on this trip at the last minute.”

“We’ve all had our bags packed and under the desk since it happened,” McQuaid said.

“I know,” Rock said grimly.

The Secretary turned to Dr. Shulman, the weapons expert from the Pentagon. “Why don’t you begin.”

He adjusted half-glasses, consulted typewritten notes, and began the briefing with, “The fact is, Madam Secretary, that the three planes were caused to crash by missile strikes, Russian-made missiles, a type generically known as MANPADs.”

“Which means?” Rock said.

“Man Portable Air Defense Systems, shoulder-launched missiles.”

“Go on.”

She knew what MANPADs were because she’d been briefed more than once on the type of missiles used in the attacks. But she wanted to hear it again before the meetings in Moscow. It was as though that by hearing it repeatedly, some spark of understanding might emerge to help her understand how and why anyone would shoot down commercial aircraft carrying the most innocent of civilians—men, women, and children living ordinary yet important lives, lives that no other person had a right to take from them. Finding who was responsible for these inhuman acts, and bringing them to justice, had come to consume her, as it had everyone else involved in the investigation.

Shulman continued.

“Actually, Madam Secretary, our own Stinger missiles are the most common example of MANPADs; there are probably more of them in the hands of terrorist groups than any other type. Our estimate is that tens of thousands of Stingers have ended up on the world weapons underground.”

“That’s a lot of missiles,” Rock said.

“Yes, it is,” Shulman said. “We don’t know how many missiles have been used to bring down civilian planes over the years—Stingers, French Mistrals, Soviet SA-18s and 14s—they’re all available on the black market—but we know that some have.”

Rock pulled a State Department report from her briefcase before he could continue. “This report goes back almost ten years,” she said. “The intelligence agencies and terrorism experts were deeply concerned back then that these MANPADs would be used to bring down civilian planes.”

She consulted another piece of paper prepared for her prior to leaving Washington and read from it: “Twentyfive commercial planes attacked by missiles between 1978 and 1993. Six hundred people killed in those attacks.”

The third man at the meeting now spoke. He was Tom Hoctor, third in command of the Central Intelligence Agency’s counterterrorism task force and Russian desk, and Max Pauling’s boss at the Company. “Most occurred in Third World countries, Madam Secretary,” Hoctor said, “and a few breakaway states from the old Soviet Union.”

“We’re not a Third World country,” the Secretary said, lips drawn into a thin line, dark eyes that had stared down dictators across negotiation tables narrowed. She turned to Shulman, the Pentagon’s weapons expert. “You say tens of thousands of our own missiles, the Stingers, have ended up on the black market. How many Russian SAMs do you estimate are in those same hands?”

“Easily as many, Madam Secretary. Once the Soviet Union fell apart, any semblance of weapons control collapsed, too. If you had the right connections, you could buy Russian SAMs, and worse, as easily as buying cases of Russian vodka.”

Hoctor added, “It’s compounded, Madam Secretary, by the situation in China, Poland, other countries who bought thousands of SAMs from the Soviet Union. They’re a good source of weapons to terrorists, too. Poland does a brisk business with Colombian drug lords, and we have information that China recently sold SAMs to an organized-crime syndicate in Sicily.”

“I find it strange,” she said, “that no one has claimed credit for the attacks. Isn’t that what these terrorist groups want, after all, credit and publicity for their twisted aims?”

“Give it time,” McQuaid said. “Someone will.”

They continued to brief her for almost another hour. Toward the end of the meeting, the Secretary fell silent, her eyes on the tabletop, her mouth moving almost indiscernibly as she processed what was on her mind. She looked up, slowly shook her head, and said, “No matter how successful we are in bringing whoever did this to justice, they’ve won, haven’t they?”

The men said nothing.

“They proved their point. The dislocation is complete. No matter what security is put in place, no matter how diligent we are, they’re able to kill us. We fortify our embassies, ring the White House with concrete barriers, run luggage through sophisticated electronic machines, issue warnings about travel to foreign hot spots, do every damn thing we’re capable of doing and they still . . . kill us.” A rush of air came from her. “They didn’t go after an enemy, someone in government whose policies are contrary to theirs. They went after the easiest targets, people who didn’t give a damn about their politics or grievances, didn’t give a damn about them at all, just Americans who happened to be flying to visit a parent or attend a graduation or—”