Murder in Foggy Bottom (8 page)

9

Late Afternoon That Same Day
Washington, DC

Jessica kicked off her shoes as she came through the door of her apartment and dropped her heavy briefcase on her way to the bedroom. She quickly got out of her pale yellow linen suit, mauve blouse, slip, and panty hose, pulled on a crinkled purple-and-pink lightweight jogging suit, and went to the second bedroom, which functioned as a home office. The digital readout on her answering machine indicated two messages. She listened to the first: “Jess, it’s Cindy. I’m in shock over what’s happened to those planes. You must be, too. Give me a call when you get in. Dying to talk about this weekend. Weather’s supposed to be magnificent.”

Jessica returned the call.

“You’re back,” her friend said. “Your teaching day?”

“Yup, although I didn’t get much teaching done. All they wanted to talk about were the aviation accidents.”

“Accidents?” Cindy said. “Try murder.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Some sick fiends shot them down with missiles.”

“About this weekend, Cindy, I’ll have to play it by ear.”

“Because of the missiles?”

“Yeah, because of the missiles. We’re on twenty-four-hour call.”

“You’ve
got
to make it, Jess. Perfect weather. It’s rained the past two weekends. Horace called me last night. He was out at the Maryland shore yesterday and says he saw a least bittern.”

“Really? That’s an unusual sighting, almost as unusual as the piping plover.”

“I won’t take no for an answer about the weekend, Jess. Everyone’s going to be there.”

“I’ll try, Cindy. Have to run. Other calls to return.”

Jessica leaned back in her office chair and allowed her gaze to play over the wall above the desk. It was covered with color pictures of birds she’d photographed on ornithologic trips over the years. An inveterate bird-watcher and, in recent years, photographer, she had been searching for rare species since she was a teen growing up with her parents and two brothers in New Hampshire. Hers was, as her mother often said, a “bird-friendly home”—a half-dozen feeders hung from nearby trees, and an especially large one was suspended right outside the kitchen window. Jessica watched the comings and goings of dozens of varieties of birds the way other teens watched television, fascinated with their habits and mannerisms, their alertness, their distinctive songs and sounds, and the frantic flapping of wings when vying for perch space.

In springtime, the birdhouses her father built became homes for new families of birds—wrens and finches and English sparrows. Once, a nesting pair of Baltimore orioles, who’d ventured farther north than Jessica’s well-worn bird book said was normal, arrived and built their drooping nest in a large elm in the backyard. Jessica spent hours watching them create their home and feed their young, carefully noting everything through powerful binoculars bought for her as a birthday present.

She’d carried her love of birds into her adult life, finding time at college to spend days in the fields and woods, binoculars and camera ever-present around her neck, her bird book (a new one given to her as a high school graduation gift) in the large pocket of a safari jacket she always wore when enjoying her hobby. There was a time when she considered pursuing a career in biology or ornithology, but a parallel fascination with geography, history, and current events tipped the scale in favor of an undergraduate degree in history, a master’s in diplomacy, and a serious stab at a Ph.D. in international relations; she was a thesis away from being granted it.

These days, working and living in Washington, DC, her most treasured personal time was spent out of the city searching for birds she’d not spotted before and that would be checked off in her book (another new one as a college graduation present). And there were trips to other parts of the country with a national bird-watching group to which she belonged.

The unpleasant realization that she would not be out with her friends that weekend caused her to frown as she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice and turned on a small TV set on the counter. It was tuned to CNN; the FBI press conference had just begun. The agency’s director, a former judge who didn’t look old enough to head the nation’s preeminent law enforcement agency, was introduced and stepped to the cluster of microphones. He spoke bluntly and without emotion.

“This morning, three civilian airliners crashed in three different parts of the country. It is an unprecedented event in the history of domestic commercial aviation. The crashes occurred in New York, California, and Idaho. A full and thorough investigation by all involved agencies is under way to determine the causes of these crashes. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is working closely with officials from the National Transportation Safety Board in this effort.

“As is generally the case in the early stages of such an investigation, unsubstantiated rumors are floated, and unsupported conclusions are reached before the facts are brought to light. Every lead, no matter how seemingly insignificant, will be examined, and every avenue of investigation, involving every appropriate investigatory agency, will be pursued.

“Thank you.”

Reporters hurled a barrage of questions as the director stepped away from the mikes. His place was taken by a public affairs spokesman: “Please understand that because the investigation is in such an early stage, it would be inappropriate to attempt to answer your questions at this time.”

One especially loud reporter shouted, “Why is the FBI holding this press conference and not the NTSB?”

The Bureau spokesman stopped, turned, seemed about to reply, then left the platform, trailed by a cacophony of other questions.

Jessica snapped off the set. The answer was obvious: It must have already been established that criminal acts were involved in the plane crashes. That put the Bureau squarely in charge.

She went to the living room, stretched out on the couch, and closed her eyes. The ringing phone woke her.

“Hello?”

“Jessica? I was getting worried about you.”

“Why?”

“I left a message. When you didn’t call I—”

“Mea culpa. I got your message and forgot to call back. I was watching the FBI press conference.”

“So was I. I’ve been in meetings about it.”

“I don’t wonder. What’s new?”

“Nothing you haven’t heard on TV. Look, I’m heading out of town in a few days, not sure how long I’ll be away. How about dinner tonight?”

“I’m on call, but there’s always my trusty beeper, provided the restaurant hasn’t banned them along with cell phones.”

“In DC? Nah. Primi Piatti? Seven?”

“Sounds good. Where are you going?”

“I’ll fill you in at dinner. Seen any new birds lately?”

“I’ll save that for dinner, too.”

Celia Watson sat sobbing on a couch in the living room of the home she’d shared for more than thirty years with her husband, Wally—she preferred to call him Walter and always had—and their two daughters and a son. The call informing her that her husband had, in fact, been among the fatalities on the plane that crashed outside Westchester County airport had come only five minutes ago. It perhaps shouldn’t have been such a shock for her. She knew he was scheduled to catch that particular flight because he’d called from the airport. But there was always that chance, wasn’t there, that something had caused him to miss the flight? She’d heard stories like that before.

But while there had been time to accept the likelihood that he’d gone down with the plane, hearing it officially was very different. She cried into her twenty-year-old son’s shoulder, saying over and over, “Why, why, why?”

Joe Potamos had been called by his editor on his cell phone once the names of passengers on the downed Dash 8 had been released and told to get to the Watson home for a statement. He sat in his car for a long time in front of the nicely maintained middle-class house on a pretty street in northern Virginia. He considered calling Gardello back at the
Post
and telling him he wasn’t about to ask any widow how she felt about her husband burning up in a plane crash. But that would have been impetuous; one of the things his anger management counselor kept repeating was that Potamos had to gain control of his hasty nature.

He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a remote truck from a TV station pull up, which prompted him to get out of the car, go up the walkway bordered by pansies and impatiens and marigolds, pause at the door, then knock. A young man answered.

“Look,” Potamos said, “I’m really sorry to intrude on you and the family in this moment of intense grief and pain, but I’m Joe Potamos from the
Post
and I was wondering whether you or Mrs. Watson would like to make a statement.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” the son said.

“Hey, I know this is an imposition but I’m just doing my job. What’s the . . . what’s the mood here?”

“You creep, you sadistic son of a bitch,” the son said, and slammed the door in Potamos’s face.

He returned to his car, started it, thought, Sometimes I hate this job. But it’s nice to be hated. He mouthed an opening line to the story: “The mood at the Watson family’s home was joyous and happy, like a celebration. ‘We finally got rid of the fat, old bastard, and can live like kings off the insurance.’ ”

Bile stung his throat. He spit out the window, pulled away, and headed back to the District.

“. . . and so Jessica was waiting for a cab and I drove her home.”

Mac Smith was with his wife, Annabel, on the terrace of their Watergate apartment. The sun was setting over the Potomac, creating a warm orange glow to the end of a sunny yet emotionally gray day in the nation’s capital. Their Great Dane, Rufus, slept at their feet.

“How is she?” Annabel asked, sipping from the Gibson Mac had made.

“Seemed fine. We talked about the plane crashes and this rumor about missiles bringing them down.”

“Still just rumor? I haven’t caught up on the news.”

“Evidently.”

“I like Jessica,” Annabel said. “Shame how her marriage to that FBI guy worked out, or didn’t. I wonder if she ever sees him.”

“Not something I’d ask,” said Mac. “Probably not. He was an undercover specialist, remember?”

“Sure, I do. The last time I saw her, which was a month ago or so, she said she was seeing someone from the State Department.”

“Work is the best place to meet someone, they say.”

“We didn’t meet at work.”

He chuckled. “Probably wouldn’t have liked each other if we had. When you told me you were a lawyer, too, at that embassy party, I thought, What a shame.”

“Why?”

“I never liked lawyers.”

“I’m glad you didn’t hold it against me.”

“So am I. Besides, you weren’t like most lawyers. Is Jessica still roaming the hills and meadows?”

“Yes. She talked about birds a lot more than the guy from State she’s seeing. It’s such a passion with her.”

“Maybe that’s what happened with her first marriage. It’s not that passion is for the birds, but maybe she felt too much passion for them, not enough for her husband.”

“Mac, that’s unworthy of you.”

“Just speculating. Another drink?”

“Thanks, no. Oh, look.” She pointed at a bird that flew by the terrace. “How pretty. I’m crazy about birds.”

“Don’t start.”

She giggled and squeezed his hand. “You’re the only bird I care about. You’re like a . . . like a cardinal.”

“Not an old crow?”

“Or an eagle. What do I remind you of ?”

“A . . . I don’t know much about birds. But you’re a . . . a . . . a canary. A flamingo. A beautiful robin. Ready for dinner?”

“Yes. The drink was excellent. What are you in the mood for?”

“Duck? Quail? Pheasant under glass?”

“Pasta.”

“Sold. Let’s go.”

10

That Night
Washington, DC

Jessica arrived at Primi Piatti early; she was early to most appointments.

“Ah, Ms. Mumford,” said the maître d’, “what a pleasure to see you again.” He led her through the large, Art Deco room to a table for two in a far corner, held out her chair, and asked if she’d like a drink while waiting for her dinner companion.

“A Negroni, dry, please.”

“The usual,” the maître d’ said.

Jessica laughed. “I didn’t realize I’d ordered enough Negronis here for it to be the
usual.
”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course not,” she said, waving her hand. “I just found it amusing.”

A few years ago, “the usual” for her would have been an extra-dry martini, straight up. But after spending a week in Florence and being introduced to the Negroni— a martini with the pleasantly bitter taste of the aperitif Campari—she’d ordered them ever since.

She tasted her drink and looked at her watch. He was late; no surprise. He’d made the reservation for seven; it was a quarter past. Then, she saw him enter. Escorted to the table by the maître d’, Max Pauling leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, slipped into the chair opposite, and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

“For you, this is early,” she said pleasantly.

“Having your usual?” He nodded at the drink.

“Yes,” she said, thinking: I give up. “They’re good here. The splash of club soda in summer makes a difference.”

“So you always say.”

Pauling ordered a Bloody Mary without the vodka—a “Virgin Mary” in America, a “Bloody Shame” in England.

“On the wagon?” she asked.

“For tonight. Hate to dull the senses when I’m with you.”

They raised their glasses and touched rims.

Pauling took her in and liked what he saw, as he always did. He considered Jessica Mumford a strikingly beautiful woman, although such an evaluation, he knew, was highly personal, the eye of the beholder and all that.

He’d first seen her a year ago across the John Quincy Adams State Drawing Room, one of several opulent diplomatic reception rooms on the eighth floor of the State Department. The rooms, wonderfully handsome compared with the building as a whole, house one of the nation’s greatest collections of American antiques and antiques accessories, valued at more than $50 million. The rooms’ perpetual renovation and the addition of rare items were funded by wealthy members of State’s Fine Arts Committee. A paid curator manages what is, in reality, a museum.

Pauling had been back from Moscow only a few months and was still getting his bearings at State when he attended the reception for the new Russian minister-counselor of trade assigned to their embassy. He didn’t know many people, and spent the first half hour browsing the room’s treasures under the watchful eye of a dozen uniformed security guards—a precious Philadelphia highboy, yellow-and-red-damask-covered eighteenth-century furniture, rare Oriental rugs, and three huge crystal chandeliers. He’d stopped to listen to what the string quartet was playing—a Russian piece he’d heard at Moscow concerts, a Borodin theme based upon an Asian melody?— when he saw a woman talking with a trio of Russian diplomats wearing dark suits and dark expressions. He was instantly attracted to her, a visceral reaction; she was an inch taller than the men surrounding her, with blond-and-silver hair worn short and wet, high cheekbones, a nose long and fine and slightly arched, a clean purity to her profile. He wouldn’t have moved to her if she hadn’t glanced across the room and locked eyes with him, as though sending a signal that an overture would not be dismissed, provided it was an intelligent one. Not a woman who suffered fools easily, Pauling thought, but this fool will try, as he navigated knots of people and stopped a dozen feet from her and the Russians. She graciously concluded her conversation and came directly to him.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she said, a smile passing across her lovely face. “Buy me a drink?”

“The price is right,” he said.

“A Negroni,” she said. “Dry.”

“You like to challenge bartenders?”

“I
love
to challenge bartenders, and others,” she replied.

Drinks in hand, they moved to a relatively quiet corner of the room.

“I’m Max Pauling,” he said.

“I’m Jessica Mumford. You work at State?”

“I think so. I’ve been here a month.”

“What division?”

“Counterterrorism, Russian desk.”

“You work for Barton then.”

“
Colonel
Barton.”

She winced. “Yes,
Colonel
Barton. Where did you come from?”

“Moscow. I was with the embassy, a trade rep.”

Her expression said she knew what he really did in Russia.

“You?” he asked.

“An analyst, Russian section. I also teach at GW.”

“Took some courses there before I went to Moscow.”

“Not one of mine.”

“No. I would have remembered . . . you.”

“Especially if I’d flunked you.”

“I’m not used to failing.”

“No, I don’t imagine you are.”

As they spoke, he found himself intrigued with her manner. There was an unmistakable near-arrogance, although a better term might be confidence, and lots of it. At the same time, there seemed to be a playfulness behind her questions and comments, testing him, putting him on trial; conviction or acquittal, he knew, wouldn’t be long in coming. He decided to preempt being flunked.

“Want to get out of here and go somewhere for dinner?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what, my choice of restaurant?”

“Depends on whether there’s a Mrs. Pauling at home thinking her husband’s working late.”

“There isn’t. Is there a Mr. Mumford doing the same?”

“No.”

“Then we’ve cleared the hurdles. French? Italian?”

“British, some German on my mother’s side.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant. Steak. I’m in the mood.”

“Morton’s?”

“I’m beginning to like you—Max.”

That was eight months ago. There had been plenty of dinners, and an occasional weekend away in the country when she wasn’t chasing the elusive prize bird with her friends, whom Max considered flaky but nice enough. He’d declined invitations to join the club. His bird was his Cessna 172, which he flew most weekends, even enticing Jessica to go up with him a few times.

“Your pleasure?” he asked after they’d gone through the motions of examining Primi Piatti’s menu.

“Red snapper,” she told the waiter, “grilled thoroughly.”

“Ossobuco,” Pauling said.

“So, where are you going?” she asked after they’d chosen a wine.

“Moscow.”

Her naturally arched eyebrows went up even higher. “The planes today?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Why am I going to Moscow? Colonel Barton told me to.”

“Because the missiles were probably Russian.”

He smiled. “You have sources.”

“Of course. Barton told my boss.”

“Loose lips sink ships.”

“Ashmead is speaking tonight.”

“I know. He had a meeting at six. The secretary was going to it.”

“What will you do in Moscow, Max?”

“Try to find out who handed over the missiles and in whose hands they ended up, provided they really were Russian. Actually, Barton told me to just be there in case I’m needed.”

She fell silent.

“Hear anything from your ex?” Pauling asked as their salad dishes were cleared.

“Skip? Scope?”

“ ‘Scope’?”

“That’s a code name Skip used years ago when he was working undercover.” She laughed gently. “Better than ‘Meathead,’ which I sometimes called him. Have I heard from him lately? No. He’s probably in disguise, working underground somewhere.” Her former husband, Donald, or “Skip,” Traxler, was an FBI special agent who’d spent most of his career with the Bureau working in a special covert operations unit.

Pauling laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Something you said shortly after we met. You said the problem with the marriage was that Skip worked under too many of the wrong covers.”

“Did I say that? It’s true. Of course, there was more to it than uncovering other women. His machoness—is there such a word? There should be—I wasn’t a willing contributor to his machoness.”

“You were too strong a woman.”

“I was not a subservient woman.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Besides, we weren’t cut from the James Carville–Mary Matalin mold. Skip’s a raving right-wing conservative. Maybe you’ve also noticed I’m more of a knee-jerk-liberal model.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m surprised the marriage lasted as long as it did, almost two years. Out of that time we were together, maybe, two months. It could have ended on our wedding night. When are you leaving?”

“A few days, but I’ll be out of town before I head for Moscow.”

“Oh? Where?”

His answer was to ignore the question, no surprise to Jessica. It was always that way with the men in her life—mysterious trips, questions ignored, living in the shadows.

“How’s
your
ex-spouse?” she asked.

“Fine. The boys are getting older, almost young men now. Doris is dating a nice accountant. Coffee? Dessert?”

“There’s no accounting for taste. Probably a good idea. Let’s go back and have a going-away party for you, but not too late. I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a busy one.”

“I’ll set my wrist alarm.”

“Have I bruised your machoness?”

“Bruise me anywhere you want, Ms. Mumford.”

Later that night, after he’d left her apartment, she lay awake in bed for a long time smelling him, feeling the cool dampness of the sheets where their sweat had pooled, enjoying the slight soreness between her thighs.

But her thoughts weren’t unmixed.

She’d fallen in love with Skip Traxler, the handsome, young FBI special agent who lived his penumbral life on the edge, always in the shadows, always away on some assignment he couldn’t discuss with her, and probably wouldn’t have even if he could. She never knew who would walk through the door when he returned from an undercover assignment: the idealistic special agent, or “one of them,” a man acting and thinking like the lowlife he’d infiltrated, an actor unable to get out of the role upon leaving the stage after a performance. She knew that was common with all law enforcement people who went underground to get the goods on the bad guys. The Bureau had a special psychological unit specifically to help agents in that situation. A nice idea, having a shrink handy when your husband emerged from the nether lands acting like a Mafia capo or Arab wheeler-dealer. Maybe she should have seen a shrink, too. Once, when he’d come home after spending two months with an Irish gang in New York, his demeanor for weeks was distant and cold, frightening in its intensity. He’d been given the customary leave after emerging from underground— “decompression time,” it was called—and spent it looking like the gang member he’d become, never even attempting to shed that guise and return to being Special Agent Traxler—until he received orders to report to Quantico for three weeks of special training. She was glad to see Skip go that time, relieved that his menacing presence had been removed from her life if only for three weeks.
Menacing.
Her fear of her husband grew each time they were together, an unstated, unsettling threat he exuded without acting it out with her, laying dormant like water close to the boiling point, simmering, never bubbling over but the hissing and steam offering evidence that it was there.

The divorce was easily accomplished, uncontested, no kids to fight over, separate bank accounts that stayed that way, divvy up the cars, sell him her half share in the West Virginia cabin they’d bought as a vacation retreat, sign the papers, I wish you well. No happiness that her first marriage was short-lived and over quickly, but a profound sense of relief in its place.

Now, it was Max Pauling in her life, and bed, ex-CIA operative in Moscow, independent to a fault, good-looking and rugged and manly without flaunting it, going back to his sub-rosa life in Moscow for God knows how long, living dangerously and loving it, loving it more than her, she knew.

Why am I drawn to such men? she wondered as a jet from Reagan National screamed over the apartment building, causing her to flinch. She sometimes knew the answer, although was reluctant to admit it even to herself. The fact was, she lived what she considered a dull life, desk-bound and classroom-bound, spicing it up by pursuing little winged creatures and marking them off in the latest edition of
Birds of North America,
analyzing information at State each day that had been gathered by more adventuresome souls.

The pension. Was that all there was to look forward to? There were worse things—or were there?

The phone rang.

“Jess, things are heating up here. We need you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Forty minutes later she was at her desk reading secured reports from the embassy in Moscow regarding the Russian government’s reaction to the initial charge that the missiles had been manufactured there. Dry words on dry paper. Indignant reactions by Russian officials, transcripts of Russian radio and television broadcasts, newspaper stories, long, verbose analyses from embassy “experts”—plenty of material to wade through. It was her job to read them once, twice, then read them through again, trying to discover any clues in what was said or, just as important, not said, and to write up her discoveries, speculations, insights into brief, pithy reports and, sometimes, longer analyses. She was good at this, reading between the lines, and behind them, and she knew it, which didn’t help when the paper traffic turned from stream into flood at times like this.

“Coffee?” she was asked by a colleague.

“Thanks, yes,” Jessica said, “God yes,” wishing she were back in Primi Piatti working on a second Negroni.