Murder in Foggy Bottom (24 page)

Authors: Margaret Truman

Tags: #Fiction

BOOK: Murder in Foggy Bottom

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That Same Morning
Washington, DC

Potamos was still talking to Bellis on his cell phone when he and Roseann got out of the cab in front of CNN’s Washington studios on First Street NE. Bellis, a cordless phone to his ear, was waiting at the door when they arrived and quickly led them into the main studio, where a male and female anchor kept viewers abreast of what was happening at the Jasper ranch.

“Joe, if what you say is true, we’ve got a bombshell to report,” Bellis said after taking them into a small makeup room off the studio.

“Yeah, I know, and it’s an even bigger story if the feds go ahead and storm that ranch, blood and guts and all that, huh? How do we head that off?”

“You want to go on, tell the story? One of the anchors can interview you.”

Potamos looked to Roseann for her reaction. The broad grin on her face mirrored the excitement of the moment, and the pleasure of having him go out front, on television.

“Let’s go,” Bellis said. “Next commercial break, I’ll clue in the anchors.” He picked up a phone on the makeup table, dialed the control room, and told the executive producer of the segment being aired that Potamos had arrived, that the story had to be told, and that the entire CNN network should be alerted the interview was coming up and to clear the time.

Potamos suffered a moment of stage fright. Roseann sensed it and put her arm around his shoulder. “You’ll be great,” she said, kissing his cheek.

He checked for lipstick with his fingertips, said to Bellis, “Don’t I get made up?”

“It wouldn’t help,” Bellis said.

“Thanks,” Potamos said. “I’m ready.”

Secretary Rock had taken detailed notes during Max Pauling’s second recounting of events leading to the information he’d gathered from the Russian. Now, as she led her contingent into Main State, she mentally went over what she would say to the president. Members of her staff were in her outer office watching TV news coverage of the Blaine standoff when the Secretary arrived. Commercials were playing.

“New developments?” she asked.

“Looks like they’re getting ready to go in, Madam Secretary.”

She turned to her chief of staff, Eva Young. “Get me the president.”

As Eva entered the Secretary’s office to place the call, the face of one of CNN’s anchors filled the screen. The camera pulled back to reveal Joe Potamos sitting next to her.

“Welcome back to our continuing coverage of the dramatic events unfolding in Blaine, Washington, where a large force of FBI, ATF, and local law enforcement agents seem ready to storm the ranch owned by hate-group leader Zachary Jasper. Seated with me is
Washington
Post
reporter Joe Potamos, who has just returned from meeting with a man he claims can prove that the Jasper group was not involved with the fatal downing of three commuter aircraft more than three weeks ago. Mr. Potamos, welcome.”

“Yeah, thanks for having me.”

“Your appearance is last minute,” so I don’t have specific questions for you, she thought. “Suppose you start at the beginning and tell us what’s behind your claim that the Jasper Project was not tied to the missile attacks.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

Potamos looked frightened, and a little confused. Roseann, watching from the control room with Jim Bellis, made a fist and shut her eyes: Come on, Joe, do it! she said to herself.

“Well, it started when I was covering a murder here in DC, Foggy Bottom, in a small park across from the Lombardy Hotel. I saw right away that the deceased was Canadian because he had this tie on with little Canadian flags. Anyway, I was there with a buddy, a police lieutenant, homicide detective Pete Languth, and we were . . .”

“Is this being videotaped?” the secretary of state asked an aide.

“Not here, ma’am,” he replied. “The press center.”

Another aide started to speak but Max Pauling hushed her with a raised hand. For a moment, it didn’t seem real to him, hearing this reporter saying the same thing he’d been claiming, that the missiles came from Russia through Canada—and not to the Jasper Project but to a binational hate group located in Plattsburgh, New York, on the U.S.-Canadian border. Everyone stood transfixed as Potamos wove his tale, becoming more confident as he went, animation creeping into his voice, hands gesturing, pausing for slight dramatic effect. The anchor said little, asking only occasionally for more details.

“The president’s not available, Madam Secretary,” Eva Young said, rejoining the group.

“Not available?” Rock snapped. “I’m not some county chairman, or kook. Get Tony Cammanati, the first lady, anybody in the White House, and do it now!”

The interview, more a Potamos monologue, lasted seven uninterrupted minutes. A commercial for a depilatory abruptly replaced the two on the screen.

“Mr. Cammanati is on the line, Madam Secretary,” Eva Young announced. Rock entered her office and slammed the door.

National Security Advisor Tony Cammanati took Rock’s call in his private office in the White House. “Welcome back, Madam Secretary,” he said pleasantly.

“Thanks. Tony, have you heard what this reporter, Potamos, just said on CNN?”

“Yes, I did.”

“He corroborates what our undercover agent came up with in Moscow.”

Cammanati said nothing.

“Did you hear me, Tony? We now have it from two different sources,
very
different sources, that the Jasper Project was not behind the missile attacks.”

“We have it, Madam Secretary, from—”

“For God’s sake, Tony, it’s been years. Call me Lisa.” Cammanati’s laugh sounded forced. “We have it, Lisa, from two very tainted and suspect sources. As I understand it, your guy got it from a Russian thug, a mafioso or mafiotsky, or whatever the hell they’re called, and this reporter, Potamos, he’s—”

“He’s a journalist, Tony, with
The Washington Post.
”

“No, he’s not. We checked. He was fired. He’s also the one who punched George Alfred Bowen a few years back. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember that incident. Not a bad idea. This is the same one?”

“Yes, ma’am—Lisa, the same one. The point is—” The Secretary looked up at the TV set in her office. The federal and state forces were in place at the ranch. “—the president’s in an extremely difficult position, as I’m sure you can appreciate. He has solid evidence from a veteran FBI undercover agent who risked his life infiltrating the Jasper organization. You’re asking him to discard that source in favor of stories concocted by a Russian thug and a disgraced former reporter. Justice has signed off on the Bureau’s source and the action being contemplated. We’ve got Jasper shooting his own people, for crissake, a young woman trying to get the hell out of that snake pit. The families of the victims of the plane crashes are demanding a private meeting with the president. They want blood. So does the rest of the country.”

“Tony, I understand what you’re saying, and I do appreciate the decision the president has to make. But
two
sources
, Tony, no matter how sullied they might be— isn’t that reason enough to hold off for a time to get to the truth? What if these so-called tainted sources are right, and the FBI is wrong, and troops go in and kill Jasper and some of his people, including women and children? And do you know the political ramifications that will have for the administration?”

“Sure, I do. I also know that taking swift, decisive action will put to rest all the rumors and speculation about foreign powers being behind the missile attacks. Those missiles are throwing this nation into panic, Lisa, panic and terror and maybe chaos. All the terrorist attacks are coming to a head in this one episode.”

Rock’s sigh was loud enough for Cammanati to hear over the phone.

“I’ll talk to the president again, Lisa. That’s all I can promise.”

“And I appreciate it, Tony. Please let me know what he says.”

“I will. Glad to have you back.”

She slowly replaced the phone into its cradle, lowered her head, and closed her eyes. A wave of fatigue had suddenly overwhelmed her, as though the reserve energy tank on which she’d been running had been ruptured. But the television caused her head to snap up and her eyes to open wide. It started with a single report, loud, amplified by microphones picking up the sound, every sound. Then, multiple gunshots, rifles.

“They’re shooting at the troops,” Hoctor said from the other side of the door. “They’re going to make a fight out of it.”

The sound of a bigger weapon firing erupted like a volcano from the TV inside Rock’s office, something heavy and lethal. She watched as the tanks rolled up to the main gate of the ranch and stopped.

“Tear gas,” Rock muttered. “Where’s the tear gas?”

There was a lull in the sound. In the background, smoke spiraled up from a corner of the main house where the shell had hit. Two armed men who’d been near the gate suddenly turned and ran toward the house. A barrage of small-weapons fire crackled from the television speakers; one of the men could be seen falling to the ground; the other disappeared near the house.

“Good God,” Rock muttered as a reporter began describing the assault over a cacophony of guns being fired. Helicopters came in low over the compound, spraying it with machine-gun fire. Distorted commands through powered bullhorns added to the reporter’s audio scrim.

Wide-eyed witnesses on the other side of the door looked on with disbelief and morbid fascination: Pauling, Hoctor, McQuaid, and members of the Secretary’s staff.

Pauling walked slowly through the reception area, the broadcast sounds of the carnage in Blaine, Washington, fading behind him. He considered for a moment going to his office, or to the press room to watch other accounts of the action. Instead, he left the building, crossed Twenty-third Street to the Columbia Plaza apartment complex in which Jessica Mumford lived, sat at an outdoor table under an umbrella, and watched people come and go from the apartment building and the small shops strung along one side of the large, open space. A twin-engine commuter plane flew low over the courtyard on takeoff from National, and Pauling thought of his Cessna parked at the airport, ready to go, to take him away to anywhere except Washington, DC.

But a heavy reality set in. They’d be looking for him back at State. Heavy-legged, he retraced his steps.

As he did, FBI Director Russell Templeton concluded his conversation with the president of the United States and swiveled in his chair to face the dozen men in his office.

“The president,” he said, “has assured me he has initiated a total blackout on any information coming out of State about this so-called undercover investigator Pauling. But that doesn’t deal with that son-of-a-bitch newspaper reporter going public, on CNN, damn it! Pick him up, detain him. If there’s any truth to what he’s saying, he’s a material witness to a crime. And I want to know everything about him, every dirty magazine he’s ever read, every woman he’s ever slept with, how much he drinks, whether he uses dope, if he’s ever missed a child support payment to an ex-wife, ever kicked a dog or picked his nose in public
—everything!
”

He directed his final words at Sydney Wingate, the Elephant Man, Special Agent Donald “Skip” Traxler’s handler. “Where is Agent Traxler?” he asked.

“On leave, sir. You know he was—”

“What I know is that I’d like to talk to him again, and quick. This is going to blow up into a major scandal. We put somebody inside a hate group, he gets the goods on that group, and we do what we’re expected to do, take action. Then State sticks its nose where it doesn’t belong, helped by the CIA, of course, and they come up with a crazy story from a Russian con man. Worse, this jackass reporter gets himself on TV with another crazy story, gets his fifteen minutes of fame, and whips the public and the press into a further frenzy, with us on the receiving end of it—again, of course. Let’s cut the legs out from under this.”

Colonel Walter Barton was on the phone when Pauling walked into his office.

“What the hell is going on?” Barton snapped, placing his hand over the receiver.

Pauling sank into a chair. “What’s going on,” he said, “is one hell of a big mistake.”

“The Secretary’s office is on the line, looking for you.”

“Well, tell them they’ve found me.”

“Hoctor from CIA wants you, too.”

“It’s nice to be wanted—Colonel.”

“He’s here,” Barton said into the phone. “What? Yes, I’ll have him report there now.” He hung up.

“Where do I report first—or next, Colonel?” Pauling asked.

Barton ignored the sarcasm. “Get up to the Secretary’s office, on the double.”

“Sure.”

“You haven’t spoken to anyone outside of the chain of command, have you, the press, anybody like that?”

Pauling slowly shook his head as he pushed himself out of the chair and went to the door. He paused, his hand on the knob, and turned. “Know what just occurred to me?”

Barton stared at him.

“It just occurred to me, Colonel, that my source in Moscow says four missiles were sold to that group on the Canadian border in upstate New York.”

“And?”

“And, Colonel, only three of them have been used. Have a nice day.”

That Same Day
Washington, DC

Like millions of Americans—and countless viewers around the world—Mac and Annabel Smith sat for a time transfixed in front of their television set as the events in Blaine, Washington, played out in real time, a video war game with blood-and-flesh people and live rounds, Academy Award–worthy sound effects, the black hats and white hats pitted against each other as in a classic western, with occasional tension relief provided by commercials.

But the script failed to provide a seamless story line. There were too many back stories, as they say in Holly-wood, getting in the way of the main tale of good triumphing over evil, justice being served, the proverbial happy ending.

“Do you believe that
Post
reporter, Potamos, and his claims?” Annabel asked her husband.

“I don’t know, Annie. If he’s right, the FBI’s got a lot to explain.”

“They haven’t identified the undercover agent, have they?”

“No, and they won’t—unless, of course, some enterprising investigative reporter digs out his name.”

“I was thinking of Jess Mumford,” Annabel said.

“Her ex-husband, Skip—what is it, Traxler?”

“Uh huh. I’d hate to be in his position—the one who provided the information on the Jasper group, I mean— if they attacked the wrong people based on his faulty information.”

“That’d be a heavy weight to bear. Have you spoken with Jess lately?”

“No. Think I’ll call.”

She returned to the den a minute later. “Busy. I’ll try again.”

Annabel’s second call to Jessica Mumford’s apartment reached a clear line, but no answer. Jessica heard it ringing but didn’t move to pick up. The call she’d just completed had left her shaken.

“Ms. Mumford, this is FBI Special Agent Sydney Wingate,” he’d said.

“Yes?”

“I work closely with your former husband, Special Agent Traxler.”

“Has something happened to him?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, nothing like that. He’s been on extended leave and we need to speak with him on agency matters. I thought he might have been in contact with you.”

“With me? No, we haven’t spoken for . . . no, I haven’t heard from him.”

“If you should, Ms. Mumford, I’d appreciate a call.” He gave her his direct number at the Hoover Building.

“All right, although I doubt he’ll call me.”

“Thank you.”

The call itself was upsetting enough for Jessica. No one from the FBI had ever contacted her before concerning her former husband, and the inherent message wasn’t lost on her. She knew that agents of the FBI were never out of touch with their superiors,
never,
no matter where they were or the reason for being there.

Was Skip hurt and unable to contact the Bureau? Or dead, his cover blown and the victim of a group he’d infiltrated?

TV coverage of the assault on the Jasper ranch played in the background. She knew now that an FBI undercover agent had provided the information leading to the attack. Had Skip been that agent?

When will you ever learn? she asked herself, staring vacantly at the screen. When would she allow—indeed, insist—that her mind override her heart? Traxler, now Pauling, the two significant men in her life, restless and adventuresome, their passions inflamed more by danger than a kiss, off doing what they loved best and unconcerned that those who cared about them worried, speculated, chewed nails and ate too much out of anxiety. She knew—her
mind
knew—that to allow such men’s fire-eating, daredevil, flying-without-a-net existence to dominate the lives of those mired in more mundane lives back home was, if not futile, self-destructive. But tell that to the
heart.

She forced herself to disconnect from the TV by picking up some of the photographs Cindy had taken six months earlier, from the duplicate batch she’d given Jess as a gift, and examined them through the magnifying glass she kept for that purpose. The birds depicted in the shots were beautiful, but this particular photo didn’t contain brightly colored birds in their natural habitat. It was one of two Cindy had taken of the group of men in the valley on the U.S.-Canadian border. Jessica kept changing the position of the magnifying glass to make the figures as large as possible.

The ringing phone caused her to flinch. She took another look at the photo before going to the kitchen and answering.

“Jess, it’s Max.”

“Where are you?”

“In Washington.”

“When did you get back?”

“Today. I flew back with . . . it doesn’t matter. I’d like to see you.”

“Now?”

“Later today? Tonight?”

“Yes, of course. I have the day off, at least for now. Max, I’d like very much to see you.”

He managed a laugh. “I’m glad to hear that. Dinner?”

“Here at the apartment. There’s something I want to show you.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t go into it over the phone. What time?”

“I’m not sure. I’m at State, will be the rest of the day, maybe evening, too. I’ll call again when I know.”

“All right. Max, is the Jasper thing the reason you’re back?”

“Tonight, Jess. I have to go.”

She looked at the clock; tonight couldn’t arrive fast enough.

Joe Potamos and Roseann Blackburn were secluded in a small conference room a floor above the studio where he had just told the world that federal authorities were attacking the wrong hate group. His friend, Jim Bellis, fielded calls on the room’s only phone.

“Everybody and his brother want to interview you, Joe,” he said, “the nets, other cable operations. Geraldo, Brian Williams, Wallace, Jennings, everybody. We want you on in an hour, a special report built around you. They’re putting it together now. Tonight, you’re on Larry King, and another special right after Larry.”

Potamos put up his hand. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’m no TV star.”

“If it’s money you’re concerned about, don’t worry. That’s taken care of.”

“No, it’s not the money, Jim, it’s just that it didn’t change anything, did it? They’re still going ahead and blowing up that ranch. What’d they do, kill everybody there?”

“No confirmed casualty reports, Joe, but—”

“Jesus.”

“Joe,” Roseann said, “you can’t feel responsible for what happened. You did the best you could.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but—”

Bellis took another call, handed the phone to Potamos.

“Who is it?” Potamos asked.

“Your editor at the
Post.
Gardello, something like that.”

“Gil?”

“Joe, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing?”

“Now, at this very moment.”

“I’m catching my breath.”

“I want the story from you, Joe, all the space you want, all the help you need. And don’t throw back in my face that I fired you. You’re still on the payroll. Besides, like you said, you owe me for all the times I’ve covered for you.”

“Look, Gil, I’m in no mood to—”

The door opened and four men in dark suits were framed in the doorway.

“Can I help you?” Bellis asked.

“FBI. Mr. Potamos?” They entered the conference room.

Potamos looked up. “Yeah, I’m Joe Potamos.”

One of the agents showed his identification. “Please come with us, Mr. Potamos.”

“What for?” He spoke into the phone. “Gil, I gotta go.”

“Joe, listen to me—”

Potamos handed the phone to the lead agent. “It’s my editor at the
Post.
Tell him I can’t write the story because I’m otherwise occupied.”

The agent frowned, handed the phone back to Potamos, who hung up.

“Am I being arrested?” Potamos asked.

“No, sir, but we do want to talk with you.”