Murder in Foggy Bottom (19 page)

26

That Night
Washington, DC

“Look, Roseann, if this guy Thomas shows up at your gig, give me a call and I’ll head right over,” he said as she was leaving for her engagement at the Four Seasons.

“Okay,” she said, “but I don’t expect to see him.”

“Just in case. I’ll be here.”

“All right,” she said, stopping on her way out the door to admire the three dozen long-stemmed roses he’d bought her as a peace offering for blowing the dinner date with the Meads. It was a good thing he’d brought three dozen. A dozen wouldn’t have done it.

Strange, she thought as she worked her way through a medley of Michel Legrand, that her boyfriend was hoping the man she’d gone out with showed up again. She understood, of course, that for Joe it was business, and that there was nothing quirky about it. Still, it was amusing, and she thought she might try and write a song about it.

She played a major B chord instead of the minor going into the bridge of “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” and grimaced, looked around to see if it had jarred anyone’s ears as it had hers. Not to worry. As usual, it seemed that the music was only a distant melodic cushion under conversation. Then again, there was the occasional customer who seemed to be listening, at least with one ear, and Roseann looked for such a person in the room, someone like Craig, who’d appreciated the music. Or had he? Had he feigned interest in Cole Porter in order to ingratiate himself? She dismissed that cynical thought as she segued into “I Will Wait for You” and continued to scan the room in search of a music lover. She found her, she thought, in a short, chunky blond woman seated alone at a small table between the piano and the service bar. Being alone helped, Roseann knew. If there was no one to talk to, you might as well listen to the piano player. The woman returned Roseann’s smile.

She continued playing until a surreptitious glance at her watch said it was time for a break. The blond woman stopped her on her way to the bar.

“You play beautifully,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I love Michel Legrand. Do you know ‘You Must Believe in Spring’?”

“Yes, I do. I’ll play it next set.”

“Join me? May I buy you a drink?”

“I, ah—sure. Thank you.” She stopped a waitress and ordered a Diet Coke.

“I’m Connie Vail,” the woman said, extending her hand and breaking into a wide smile.

“I’m Roseann Blackburn.”

“Yes, I know.”

Must have seen my photo and name on the easel in the lobby, Roseann thought.

“Do you know Oliver Jones?” Connie asked.

“The Canadian pianist? I’ve never met him but I have some of his recordings. He’s wonderful.”

“Oh, yes, he is. We’re quite proud of him.”

“You’re Canadian?”

“Yes.”

Roseann’s soda was served along with a second white wine for Connie Vail. She raised her glass: “Here’s to good music.”

“I’ll always drink to that,” Roseann said with a laugh.

An awkward silence ensued, and after a short time Roseann decided to leave the woman to freshen her makeup and hair in the ladies’ room. Connie seemed to sense that she was about to depart and said, “Would you be offended to know that I didn’t just happen to stop in here for a drink this evening?”

“Why would I be offended?”

“I came to see you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I suppose I’m still not being completely honest. I was hoping your friend the reporter, Mr. Potamos, would be here with you.”

“I see. You don’t happen to know Craig Thomas from the Canadian embassy?”

Connie nodded.

“My friend Joe Potamos has been trying to reach him. He took me to dinner a few nights ago and gave me his card, asked me to give it to Joe.”

“I know.”

“Do you also know why he hasn’t returned Joe’s calls?”

“Ms. Blackburn, Craig is out of the country and probably will be for some time.”

“He told me he had a story for Joe, something to do with the murder of a man from the Canadian embassy.”

“Jeremy Wilcox.”

“That’s right. You knew him?”

“Yes, quite well.”

Roseann hesitated, thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you know the story Craig Thomas was going to tell Joe?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call him and have him come here.”

“No, not here, Ms. Blackburn. Could I meet him someplace private and quiet, where we can really talk?”

“How about my apartment? We have a dog but—”

“I get along quite well with dogs.”

“Will you stay until I finish the next set? It’s my last. Forty-five minutes.”

“Of course. ‘You Must Believe in Spring’?”

“My first song.”

Roseann took a detour to a pay phone outside the ladies’ room.

“I’ll be right over,” Joe said.

“No, Joe, she doesn’t want to meet here. I’m bringing her back to the apartment.”

“You sure she won’t take off?”

“Not likely, Joe. She really wants to talk with you. She drinks white wine. Why don’t you buy some before we get there.”

“What are we having, a party? You want caviar and pâté, too?”

“Absolutely. We never have caviar. Be there in an hour.”

27

That Same Night
Washington, DC

“Jessica, it’s Annabel.”

“Hi.”

“Interrupting anything important?”

“Just getting my gear ready for the trip.”

“What trip?”

“Canada. This weekend. My bird-watching group. The annual trek into the wilds in search of
Lanius excubitor
, among others.”

“I always wondered what happened to them,” Annabel said, unable to stifle a giggle.

“Better known as the northern shrike,” Jessica said, not offended. “People confuse it with a mockingbird but it has a facial mask, and a heavy, hooked bill. We’re only going for three days.”

“Feel like some dinner? Mac and I decided to abandon the kitchen and eat out. Join us?”

“Love to, Annie, but too much to do. Between work and getting ready for the trip, I don’t seem to have time to breathe, let alone have a leisurely dinner with friends. Rain check when I get back?”

“Sure. Has your gentleman friend returned yet?”

“No, and just as well. He views me and my bird-watching friends as a little kooky.” There was silence on the other end. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Think we’re kooky?”

“Of course not. I get as excited over a Teotihuacán urn as you do over a . . . what was that loggerhead bird you mentioned? Sounds like the official bird of Congress.”

“
Lanius excubitor.
A northern shrike.”

“Right. A northern shrike.”

“Teoti—?”

“Teotihuacán. A Mexican culture. Some wonderful pre-Columbian art was created by them. I’ll let you go. Have a great trip, Jess, see lots of rare birds.”

“Thanks. It’ll be good to get away from the insanity around here.”

Annabel hung up and turned on the TV news. The downing of the three commuter aircraft continued to dominate, although other world events had forced the networks and all-news cable channels to find time to cover them, too. With official information about the investigation virtually nonexistent, speculation was the basis for newscast after newscast, and news-oriented talk shows. And the Internet had spawned hundreds of web sites and chat rooms in which the wildest rumors and theories made the rounds, some ending up as fodder for the fact-starved mainstream press. Without anything solid to report, the media and repetition and speculation fueled the national paranoia, and a growing sense that the White House, CIA, Pentagon, FBI, Justice Department, and every other agency charged with bringing the terrorists to justice weren’t up to the task. One report claimed that Secretary of State Rock was in Russia laying the groundwork for a declaration of war against the former Soviet Union, according to “reliable sources.” Other “reliable sources” pointed the finger at Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, China, or domestic hate groups such as Aryan Nations, the Silent Brotherhood—the list went on and on.

“We’ve learned on good authority that . . .” Annabel turned off the TV and stood on the balcony overlooking the Potomac, her hand resting on Rufus’s head. From that peaceful vantage point, all was well, the lights of Georgetown and Rosslyn giving dimension to the buildings in which people went about their lives. Yet Annabel knew that everyone’s sense of well-being and calm, like her own, had been assaulted by the missiles and, no matter what, that sense of peace would never be fully restored, just as the lives lost could never be.

“Damn you!” she muttered to whoever had sent those missiles up on their deadly trajectories. The potency of the feeling of doom that had suddenly consumed her caused her to cry silently. She wiped her eyes, gave the folds of the dog’s neck a squeeze, and returned inside her Watergate apartment, closing the sliding glass doors to the balcony as though to shut out any evil lurking outside.

28

Three Days Later
Blaine, Washington

“This is Roberta Dougherty reporting live from Blaine, Washington, on the Canadian border. I’m standing near a ranch owned by Zachary Jasper, head of the so-called Jasper Project, a militant antigovernment, white-supremacist group suspected of having played a role in the downing of three American commuter airliners almost three weeks ago. The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the ATF have moved a sizable contingent of armed men and assault equipment into the area in anticipation of some sort of military action against the ranch and its occupants. We’ve learned from reliable sources that the FBI has obtained a warrant to enter the ranch and search for possible evidence linking the Jasper Project to the aircraft downings. We’ve also been told that Jasper, the head of the group, has refused to accept the warrant and to allow the government to enter the property, setting up a potential siege and armed conflict. We’ll keep you abreast of developments in this increasingly tense situation.”

The camera pulled back to reveal a virtual army lined up along the road leading to the ranch’s main entrance. SWAT teams in flak jackets and helmets, carrying high-powered rifles with scopes and automatic weapons, flanked a dozen vehicles, including two armored personnel carriers with weaponry mounted above the bulletproof windshields. A three-bedroom RV, rented from a nearby recreational-vehicle rental company, had been established as a command center. Dozens of FBI agents wearing windbreakers bearing the agency’s seal in large letters on the back stood with other special agents in suits. The ranch was kept under constant surveillance through two large telescopes and binoculars. State police had been brought in to establish a perimeter behind which onlookers and the press were corralled.

Inside the main house, Zachary Jasper stood in the kitchen, phone in hand. On the other end of the line was the FBI’s Joe Harris, who’d flown to the scene to take personal charge of the operation. Standing next to him was a hostage negotiator who’d accompanied Harris from Washington.

“. . . and I’m telling you, Mr. Harris, you’ve got no right coming on this property, warrant or no warrant,” Jasper said in a measured voice. “You’re looking for a damn scapegoat because you’ve got nothing else on who shot those planes down.”

“Look, Mr. Jasper, you’re setting up an ugly situation here,” Harris said. “You’ve got innocent people in there who are going to get hurt if you don’t listen to reason.”

“That’s right, Mr. Harris, women and children in here who haven’t done a damn thing except stand up for their rights as free, white citizens of this country. And I’ll tell you this, sir. Every person here, right down to the youngest, is ready to fight for their birthright.”

The negotiator had been listening to the conversation on a set of earphones attached to the battery-powered phone Harris held. They looked at each other without expression before Harris said, “Mr. Jasper, I’m putting you on with Special Agent Simone.” He heard the click of the phone being replaced in its cradle.

“Keep trying,” Harris told Simone. “Keep calling until he picks up again.”

Harris entered the command center and used a direct line to Director Templeton’s Washington office. “It’s Harris, sir,” he said.

“What’s the status?”

“No movement yet. He’s holding firm but it’s early.”

“Is he just demonstrating bravado or does it look like he’s getting ready to defend the place?”

“Hard to say, sir. The surveillance agents report having seen men with weapons leave the main house and disappear into other areas of the ranch. We’ve established posts behind and to the sides of the ranch. They’re in position and have just started reporting their sightings.” He went on to recount his conversation with Jasper.

“Keep negotiating, Joe. I want to see this resolved peacefully.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The president wants it resolved peacefully.”

“We’re all in agreement on that, sir.”

President Ashmead met with his cabinet and select members of his inner circle in the Situation Room on the first floor of the White House. They were joined shortly after convening by FBI Director Templeton and State’s director of counterterrorism ops, Colonel Walter Barton, who arrived together. Ashmead sat stoically as National Security Advisor Tony Cammanati chaired the meeting, turning first to Templeton for an update on the Jasper ranch situation. Templeton reported what Joe Harris had told him from the scene. Others at the table asked questions of the FBI director, most focusing on whether the agency’s manpower and equipment were sufficient to conduct a swift, clean assault on the ranch, should that be necessary.

After everyone had had their say, the president asked Barton for a status report on State’s efforts in Moscow to trace the source of the missiles.

“That effort, Mr. President, is being coordinated through the CIA. It’s our people but they don’t report to us. Frankly, I find it an awkward situation and not terribly productive.”

Ashmead drummed his fingertips on a yellow pad. He’d heard it before, State’s complaints about the clumsy system of their operatives at embassies around the world reporting to CIA handlers back in Langley. He understood the concern. At the same time, it was a system in place long before he took possession of the White House, and he saw no reason to interfere with it. Secretary of State Rock had raised it with him a year ago, although she hadn’t lobbied for change, simply mentioned it during conversations about State’s internal structure and embassy operations, and what could be done to smooth out some rough edges.

Templeton offered, “Finding out who provided the missiles is, of course, extremely important, Mr. President, but it should not be the priority. As we’re all aware, missiles are for sale everywhere by underground arms dealers. What we’ve got to concentrate on is identifying those who would use them here in the United States and putting them out of business. Groups like the Jasper Project are always looking for ways to spill innocent blood and disrupt the country.”

There was obvious truth to what the FBI director said, although Ashmead also knew it was part of a continuing battle for dominance between the FBI, whose jurisdiction was domestic, and the Central Intelligence Agency, whose mandate was overseas. The seemingly constant, petty infighting between agencies and even among his own staff—everyone vying for attention and favor, at times putting those needs ahead of more vital national priorities—was an ongoing source of irritation for this hands-on president, whose patience with what he considered trivia could be as thin as tissue paper.

He was also aware that State’s Barton and the FBI’s Templeton had deliberately been kept out of the loop when it came to the State Department’s efforts in Moscow to trace the missiles to their source. Through personal, twice-daily phone briefings with Secretary Rock, or Ashmead’s special assistant, Mike McQuaid, he knew that a seasoned CIA operative named Max Pauling was working undercover in the Russian capital. He’d been told, too, that the CIA had dispatched a senior officer named Hoctor to manage Pauling’s effort through the embassy.

Secretary Rock’s purpose in flying to Moscow was officially billed as a goodwill trip to meet with the new minister of foreign affairs, Leonid Orlov, who’d replaced Igor Ivanov, with whom Rock had forged a particularly good relationship. In reality, she was there to assure senior Russian officials behind the scenes that the United States was not looking to make an international incident out of the discovery that the missiles had been Russian-made, and to ascertain what cooperation might be forthcoming from the Russian government in tracing them.

“We’re ready to go, Mr. President. All we need is for you to give the word,” Templeton said.

Ashmead turned to his attorney general. “Give it to me,” he said. “What’s your read on this?”

“We should establish a deadline for Jasper,” he replied, “and stick to it.”

Cammanati said, “There could be considerable political ramifications, Mr. President, if things go sour.”

“Those eighty-seven people in the airplanes who lost their lives weren’t thinking about politics,” Ashmead growled. “I’ve made my position clear to everyone involved, that I want a peaceful resolution, and continue to. But there comes a point when . . . There comes a point when the American people lose patience with killers like Jasper, and I lose patience, too. Give Jasper and his people forty-eight hours to come out peacefully. Use that time to try every negotiating trick in the book. But if that doesn’t work . . . Well, if negotiations fail at the end of forty-eight hours, do what you have to do, and use all necessary force to accomplish it.”