Murder in Foggy Bottom (17 page)

22

The Next Morning
The J. Edgar Hoover Building

“You’re confident about this?” Russell Templeton asked.

“Yes, sir,” Sydney Wingate, one of the Bureau’s handlers of special agents working undercover, responded.

FBI Director Templeton sat at a round table in his office with Wingate and with Joe Harris, head of the Bureau’s counterterrorism division. “Joseph?” Templeton said, looking at Harris, to whom Wingate reported.

“It looks solid,” Harris said. He consulted a computer printout. “We’ve had someone inside five—no, make that six militia groups. Recently, I’m talking about. These are the six our intelligence indicated were most active and likely to mount some sort of an attack in the near future. It’s a crapshoot, as you know. With more than five hundred identified hate groups in the country, and damn near fifteen hundred web sites, you hope you choose right. In this case, it looks like we did.”

“The Jasper Project.”

“Yes, sir. We got lucky in another way. They blew Scope’s cover a day ago. He’s fortunate to be alive. But he is alive—very much so—and got out of there with the goods.”

“Where is he?”

“We’ve got him secluded in Virginia, one of the safe houses,” Wingate said. “He’s finished his report, and I’ve seen the documentation he brought with him. He’s done a hell of a job.”

Templeton glanced at a paper on his desk and read aloud from it, paraphrasing: “Traxler, Donald, nickname ‘Skip,’ sixteen years’ service with the Bureau, plenty of commendations, nothing negative in his file. Divorced, no children, former wife with State Department, teaches part-time at GW. Worked undercover past eleven years, speaks fluent Spanish, passable German, psychological profiles negative.” He stopped reading and grimaced as something on the paper stopped him. “What’s this report from the psychiatrist?”

Wingate said, “Not too bad. It was after his last undercover assignment in New York. The debriefing psychiatrist passed him, but commented that he felt Traxler was prone to taking greater risks than prudent, and tended to be scornful of authority. Not an unusual profile for someone in his line of work. It’s high-risk to begin with.”

Templeton picked up another sheet of paper. “This shooting death of a member of the Jasper group— Traxler?”

“Yes, sir,” Wingate replied. “As I said, his cover was blown and he had to shoot his way out. They sent two men from the ranch after him. He killed one, disabled the other. Our agents in the area have things under control with local authorities. Assailant unknown. They won’t push it.”

“Will Jasper push it?”

“Unlikely. He’s already gotten the word out in the community that it was a hunting accident. Wouldn’t look too good to his followers that he had an FBI agent in his compound for almost six months and didn’t know it.”

Templeton sat back, rubbed his eyes, and took in Harris and Wingate. “Is Jasper and his organization national?”

“National?”

“Yes. The three aircraft downings occurred in three diverse geographical areas—New York, Idaho, California. They’ve got followers in all those places?”

“These militia groups are forming alliances every day, sir. The networks they’re establishing make them especially dangerous.”

“So we might be talking about groups other than Jasper’s.”

“Affirmative. But Jasper is the point man. Scope’s nailed that down.”

Templeton sighed. “All right,” he said. “If what Scope says is true, and if his proof holds up, I’ll take it to Justice. Until then, it stays strictly with us. No leaks. I want a personal briefing by Scope at three this afternoon, all of it laid on the table. Be here, too. Any questions?”

“Just one concern,” Harris said. “State has an operative in Moscow trying to run down the source of the missiles. Barton at State briefed me on him. Should we coordinate with them?”

“I don’t see why,” Templeton said. “If we’ve got the ones who used the missiles, how they got them is of secondary importance. I want an immediate mobilization order issued, all regional resources moved into place within striking distance of Jasper’s ranch. Quiet but fast. Get an authorization for aircraft, as many as we need, to move manpower and armaments out there, tactical units, the mobile communications center, firepower necessary to make damn sure it goes without a hitch.”

Harris ran his hand over his shaved head. “A little premature, sir, without Justice’s okay?”

“With what you’ve told me, getting the go-ahead from Justice won’t be a problem. Everybody wants action, including the White House
—especially
the White House. I want every scrap of intelligence we have on Jasper and his ranch, who’s there, what weapons they have, number of women and children—they have women and children, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” Harris said. “Everything you’re asking for is in Scope’s report. I’ll have it here by noon.”

“Good. No mistakes. This won’t be another Waco!”

23

That Same Day

“You’ve reached the public information office of the
Canadian embassy. No one is available to take your call
at the moment. Please leave your name, number at which
you can be reached, and a brief message, and your call
will be returned as soon as possible.”

“This is Joe Potamos from
The Washington Post.
I’m calling Mr. Thomas, Craig Thomas. Please have him return my call at his earliest convenience.” Potamos gave the numbers for both his Rosslyn apartment, and Roseann’s.

Potamos hung up, sat at the piano, and picked out “Chopsticks,” slowly, with his index finger. Roseann had left the apartment to meet with her agent; Potamos was due in a half hour for a story conference with Gil Gardello. He continued to doodle at the keys until he realized there wasn’t any way he could make the conference on time. He tried Craig Thomas’s number again before leaving but received the same recorded message.

“You be good,” he told Jumper, gently holding her snout and peering into her soulful brown eyes. He was out the door when he heard the phone ring, rushed back to the apartment, and snatched up the receiver.

“Joe, it’s Roseann. I wanted to remind you we’re having dinner tonight with Bill and Jane Mead.”

“Yeah, right. Thanks.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at a meeting?”

“I would be if I wasn’t on the phone with you.” He knew it was an edged comment the moment he said it, and apologized—into a dead phone.

Gardello’s story conference was in full swing when Potamos arrived at the
Post
’s Fifteenth Street headquarters, and he received a disgusted look as he joined the six other beat reporters in the cramped office. Potamos looked around. He was easily the oldest in the room, with the exception of Gardello, who was approximately his own age. Gardello outlined stories that were to be pursued over the coming days and assigned them to each individual reporter. The last assignment went to Potamos: Investigate reports of a growing rift between the District’s school board and the superintendent of schools.

Potamos said nothing while Gardello wrapped up the meeting with a moment’s pep talk on the importance of local news. Potamos was the first on his feet and was headed for the door when Gardello stopped him: “Stay a minute, Joe.”

“What’s up?” Potamos asked when the two were alone.

“You heard my assignment about the school board and super, right?”

“Right.”

“You have any problem with it?”

“Problem? No, I don’t have a problem.”

“You didn’t look especially interested.”

Potamos shrugged. “What do you want me to do, Gil, break out the champagne?”

“Sit down, Joe.”

“I have to get out of here,” Potamos said, “get cracking on the story, maybe do street interviews with kids, ask them how they feel, who they think is right, the superintendent or the board.”

“Sit down, Joe!”

Potamos slumped in a chair.

“I want you to listen to me, and listen hard. You are hanging on here by a thread, a goddamn thread. You are a disruptive force at the paper, and you’ve rubbed damn near everybody wrong, top to bottom. Lately, I’ve been spending more time than I want to saving your Greek ass, and I don’t like it. I’ve got better things to do. I’m all through warning you, Joe. Either straighten up and fly right, beginning with the school board story, or you’re not journalism, you’re history.”

“Okay. I’ll do the school story.”

Gardello’s tone softened. “I like you, Joe, I really do. You’ve got a lot of talent, lots of street smarts and good sense when somebody’s pulling your chain. But I can’t keep covering for you, damn it! What’s with this Canadian thing you’ve been chasing down?”

“What Canadian thing?”

“The guy who was murdered in the park. Wilcox. Jeremy Wilcox.”

“What about it?”

“You’ve been poking your nose into it even though I told you—what, a week ago?—to drop it.”

“Where do you hear that?”

“My boss, Joe, who got it from somebody she knows, only I don’t know who that somebody is and I don’t care. I
do
care that my boss cares, and wants the story to stay where it is, another unsolved DC murder.”

Potamos sat up straight and showed his first spark of interest since arriving. “Somebody’s putting the arm on this paper to drop it?”

Gardello swiveled in his chair and looked away.

Potamos chewed his cheek before saying, “Gil, if this is just another unsolved DC murder, why would someone care that I keep looking into it? On my own time, I might add.”

“I don’t care when you’re doing it, Joe, I’m telling you to stop.”

When Potamos didn’t respond, Gardello added, “I mean it.”

“Yeah, I know you do, and I appreciate everything you try to do for me. Okay, I’m off the case. Who cares that some Canuck trade rep gets whacked in a park? Not me. Anything else?”

“Somehow, I don’t get the feeling you’re totally sincere, Joe.”

“Sincere? My middle name. Thanks, Gil. I’ll keep you informed on the school board story.
Ciao.
”

Gardello watched through his glass door as Potamos left, made his way through the newsroom, stopped to exchange greetings with a few people, then disappeared in the direction of the elevators. The anger the editor had displayed during their brief meeting had been for show. What he’d really felt was sadness and frustration. The truth was, he liked Joe Potamos and wanted to save him from himself, keep him around, play some small role in resurrecting his career at the
Post.
It was a salvage job he wasn’t sure was possible, but he knew he’d keep at it until he succeeded, or Potamos went down in a flaming, self-induced crash.

Potamos stopped at his Rosslyn apartment to pick up some fresh clothes, then went to Roseann’s, where the answering machine was blinking; the digital readout indicated there were nine messages. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have bothered replaying them; virtually all would be for her. But he pushed PLAY and listened. The first seven calls were for Roseann. The eighth was a woman who asked for him.

“I’m calling Mr. Joseph Potamos. I would like very
much to speak with you. I presume you know what this
is about. I’ll try you again at another time.”

Potamos replayed the message. “Damn!” he muttered. Why didn’t she leave a number? She sounded Canadian, judging from her pronunciation of
about,
which became more nearly
aboot.
He called the number on Thomas’s business card again, received the same recorded message. He listened carefully to see if the woman’s voice on the embassy’s outgoing message was the same as on Roseann’s answering machine. He thought it was. He left a message. “This is Joe Potamos from the
Post.
I’m trying to reach Mr. Craig Thomas, or a woman who might have responded to my previous message. Please call me.”

Again he left both numbers.

He sat in front of the computer, pulled up a database he’d created of his Washington contacts, and scrolled to names from the District’s school system. The name of an administrator whom Potamos knew to be an alcoholic, and for whom he’d done favors in the past, appeared. Potamos jotted down his office and home numbers. He wasn’t in his office but he reached him at home.

“Walker, Joe Potamos from the
Post.
How are you?”

“All right.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About the hassle going on between the board and the superintendent.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Sure you do, Walker. Dinner? My treat.”

“I, ah—”

“You owe me, Walker.”

“I suppose so.”

Potamos made a date for them to meet at six at Martin’s Tavern in Georgetown, where the prices were low, the food good, and where they usually shaved the bill for him. He walked Jumper, splashed water on his face, wrote a fast note for Roseann saying he was out on an assignment, and left. He was determined to do a good job on the school story if only to get Gil Gardello off the hook with his boss, a driven woman with ambition in her veins and a heart made of brass. But as he rode in a cab to Georgetown’s oldest tavern, his thoughts turned to Canada and the small Foggy Bottom park in which Jeremy Wilcox had been murdered. A harmless-seeming man is murdered, a knife in his side, in a park. His job is innocuous enough, probably important, but one like a thousand others. Not much is known about the man, and it appears few will mourn him. There is heat on to close the books. But a human being remains dead, a knife user walks, and no one cares. Or no one has turned up yet who does.

Why hadn’t Thomas returned his call? The Canadian was the one who initiated contact through Roseann, said he wanted to talk to Joe.

Had Thomas taken Roseann to dinner because he wanted a line to Joe?

Who was the woman who called? Why hadn’t she left a number? Did
she
have the story Thomas had mentioned to Roseann?

And why was someone putting the arm on the paper to unpursue the Wilcox murder?

Walker Appleyard drank vodka with orange juice. Buying drinks for a guy with a drinking problem caused Potamos only minor and fleeting guilt. He was there to get a story, not play Bill W. When Appleyard finally opened up, Potamos had enough leads on what was happening inside the school board and in the superintendent’s office to form the basis for the story.

He raced back to Roseann’s apartment to see whether anyone had called him. No one had. The only message was a note from Roseann on the kitchen table:
At dinner
with Bill and Jane Mead. Hope you had a pleasant evening. Why don’t you and Jumper stay in Rosslyn tonight.
Witnessing her master’s murder might upset her. R.