Murder in Foggy Bottom (25 page)

Part Four

37

That Same Day
Washington, DC

Fifteen minutes after returning to State, Pauling was summoned by Colonel Barton to a conference room across from Secretary Rock’s office suite. Present were Mike McQuaid; the CIA’s Tom Hoctor; an undersecretary of state for Russian affairs, Stuart Zweibel; and assistant secretary for public affairs, Phil Wick. Conversation ceased when Pauling entered the room, the sudden silence unsettling. Barton pointed to a chair and Pauling took it. Everyone was in a suit, with the exception of Barton, who wore his full military uniform; Pauling still wore the jeans, navy-blue T-shirt, sneakers, and photojournalist’s vest he’d worn when meeting Misha Glinskaya.

“Max,” Barton said, “we’re all aware you’ve been through a tough couple of days. I want you to know how appreciative everyone is of your dedication to your assignment and the professional way in which you carried it out.”

Pauling grimaced and recrossed his legs. Platitudes from Barton were never either spontaneous or sincere, in Pauling’s experience, and he wondered when the “first say something good” portion of the meeting would shift to the hard stuff.

Barton continued. “As you know, Max, the events of the past few hours have created a sensitive situation for everyone involved. Do you know this reporter, Joseph Potamos?”

“No, sir,” Pauling said.

“But your report supports, in some ways, what he’s claiming.”

“Which might give it additional credence,” Pauling replied.

Barton’s reaction to Pauling’s quick analysis was an almost indiscernible pursing of his lips and a small movement of his shoulders, as though to subtly redistribute parts of his body.

McQuaid used the lull to inject himself into the conversation. “Mr. Pauling, the reporter, Potamos, is being interviewed by the FBI as we speak. Obviously, it would be imprudent to reach a decision before all the facts are known. In order for this unfortunate episode to receive a fair hearing, it’s critically important that all information, from any source, be confined to those charged with getting at the truth.”

McQuaid’s expression said he expected an affirmative response from Pauling. He received nothing.

“Perhaps Assistant Secretary Wick will be able to better explain,” Barton said, looking to Wick, who straightened from the slouch he’d been in and locked eyes with Pauling.

“Mr. Pauling, as of this moment, no one outside this agency knows about your claims that the Jasper Project was not behind the missile attacks on the aircraft. That’s good, and we intend to keep it that way until there’s been ample opportunity to evaluate what you say—in a formal, official way, I mean.”

“That reporter sure poked holes in that plan, didn’t he?” Pauling said.

“I’m sure the Bureau will get to the bottom of his claims,” Zweibel, the Russian expert, said.

McQuaid chimed in: “In the meantime, Mr. Pauling, the president has issued a firm and unambiguous directive: There is to be no public discussion of any aspect of State’s involvement until all the facts are known. Do you have any questions about that?”

“Sure,” Pauling said, “but I doubt if I’ll get any answers here.” He looked at Hoctor, whose wan smile was that of a parent exhibiting patience with a petulant child.

Barton said, “Max, as I said at the start of this meeting, you’ve done an outstanding job. Of course, I never doubted for a minute that you would. I’m relieving you of your duties here at State, for an indeterminate period of time. Give you a chance to rest up and get over the ordeal you’ve been through. I understand there was gunfire involved. We’re all thankful you managed to come through it unscathed.”

Pauling remained stoic, expressionless.

Tom Hoctor, who’d been silent, now spoke. “You’re coming home, Max, back to the Farm. Do some instructing on covert operations, slide back into the Puzzle Palace’s way of doing things.” “The Farm” was slang for the CIA’s training facilities on a handsome estate two hours south of Washington; the Puzzle Palace, CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

Pauling considered challenging the decision to transfer him back to the Central Intelligence Agency. He didn’t, for two reasons. First, he’d be happy to get away from State and Colonel Walter Barton. Second, it would have been a wasted exercise. Besides, it might simplify his life, reporting to people at the agency to which he was actually assigned.

Barton stood, came around the table, and extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working with a consummate professional, Max. Don’t worry about paperwork. I’ll take care of everything. I wish you well.”

Pauling gave a limp handshake, said nothing.

“Let’s go, Max,” Hoctor said, smiling. “Good to have you back in the fold.”

Hoctor and Pauling waited until the others had left the room.

“I’m going to my apartment, Tom,” Pauling said. “I need a shower.”

“Is that an editorial comment?”

“No. When do I report?”

“Immediately.”

“In a day or two?”

“Max, let’s take a walk.”

They exited onto C Street, went to the corner, and headed up Twenty-third, passing Jessica Mumford’s apartment building on their left. Pauling looked across the street and wondered what she was doing at the moment, whether he should simply tell Hoctor that his girlfriend lived there and that he was going to see her. He decided against it. He had questions, and Hoctor presumably had answers.

Hoctor talked about everything but the meeting from which they’d just come, the events of the past twenty-four hours, and the imbroglio that had developed over the deadly assault on the Jasper ranch. When they came abreast of a Chinese restaurant, the Magic Gourd, Hoctor asked, “Drink, Max?”

“Sure, and something to eat. I just remembered I’m hungry.”

The restaurant was empty and they took a booth near the front window. Pauling ordered a beer and a platter of firecracker shrimp, Hoctor a white wine and hot-and-sour soup. The small man, Pauling’s CIA mentor and friend, watched as Pauling concentrated his attention out the window to the street, body tense, fatigue adding extra crevices to an already craggy face.

Hoctor broke the silence. “Max,” he said, “you obviously understand what that meeting was all about.”

Pauling slowly turned to face him. “Yeah, I think I do. This whole thing is going to be kept under wraps, spun like cotton candy until you can’t see the core for the candy. And that means keeping my mouth shut, saying nothing, as though Moscow didn’t happen.”

“But not forever, Max. Look, I’m not a fan of Ashmead’s administration and policies, but I do understand the ramifications involved here. The Bureau has egg all over its face if they moved on the wrong people based upon an undercover agent’s reports. Not that I care a hell of a lot about whether the FBI has to squirm a little. But they need time to figure it out, come up with a game plan. And, my friend, there is always the possibility that this Scope was right, and you and the reporter are wrong.”

“Scope?”

“The Bureau’s undercover agent’s code name.”

“Oh.”

Hoctor picked up on Pauling’s expression of recognition. “You know something about it, Max?”

“What? No. You were saying they, meaning the FBI and the administration, need time to sort it out. Fine. Just as long as I’m out of it.”

“You are that, Max, out of it. You come back to Langley for a few days, then head for the Farm. I never could see you in State. Not your sort of people. Diplomacy’s never been your strong suit.”

“I’ll need a few days before reporting.”

Hoctor’s look of displeasure spanned the table. “I’m to get you back to Langley posthaste, Max.”

“To keep me mummified.”

Hoctor nodded and rubbed at his drooping right eye.

“Sorry, Tom, but I’ve got things to clean up here before I go anywhere.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a lady I’d like to see, and a plane I’d like to get some time in.”

“Fly it to Langley, keep it there. I’ll go with you.”

“Maybe I will. The shrimp are good. Sure you don’t want one?”

“No. Enough spice for one day. Max, if I cut you some slack, give you a day here in DC, do I have your word that you’ll lay low, speak with no one about what happened?”

“The press, you mean? No fear of that. The networks are getting rich off it. Nothing like a little carnage to kick up ratings.”

“Tell you what,” Hoctor said, motioning for a check and pulling out his wallet. “Go see your lady friend, take a shower, have a good dinner, make love, go out to the airport and pat your plane on the nose, and meet me tomorrow at six at the Westin, on M. Have your bag packed. Know where it is?”

“The Westin? Pretty fancy. Sure it’s government issue?” Pauling said, patting Hoctor on the back as they stood on Twenty-third Street. “Thanks, Tom. See you at six.”

Hoctor started to leave, but Pauling stopped him by calling his name. Hoctor retraced his steps.

“Did you kill Bill Lerner?” Pauling asked casually, as though questioning whether Hoctor had seen a popular movie.

Hoctor hesitated before answering. When he did, Pauling searched his face for a sign that what he said was truthful.

“He had enemies, Max.”

“Enemies?”

“Russians he became involved with through Elena.”

“You knew about her?”

“Yes. His superior chose to ignore their relationship, but others in the embassy didn’t. He posed quite a dilemma, Max. There was plenty of talk at Langley about how to handle the situation. I don’t think they ever came to a resolution, but now they don’t have to. He was in deep, as I understand it, with some banker types, one in particular named Miziyano.”

Pauling didn’t signify that he knew who Hoctor was talking about. “In deep?” he said.

“I don’t know the details, Max, just that it seems Lerner was building a nest egg by doing favors for this Miziyano. He must not have done enough of them. Powerful, isn’t it, the love of a woman? A shame that people in Lerner’s position—my position or yours, for that matter—can’t fall in love with the enemy. Some of them are more appealing than our own.”

“Elena Alekseyevna wasn’t the enemy, Tom. She loved Bill.”

“And he loved her—too much.”

“It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”

“I wouldn’t know, Max. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you tomorrow. Discuss what’s transpired with no one, and that includes this female friend of yours.”

“Don’t worry, Tom, the last thing I want to talk about with her is what happened.”

Pauling watched Hoctor walk away, saunter, actually, as though he held a closed umbrella and was strolling a boulevard or boardwalk. It struck Pauling that despite years of working for and with Thomas Hoctor, Pauling didn’t know the little CIA operative at all. Maybe that was the prime requisite for being in their business, being unfathomable to even your closest friends.

Had Hoctor killed Bill Lerner?

Would he ever know the answer?

When Hoctor was out of sight, Pauling pressed his elbows against the pockets of his vest, feeling the Austrian Glock 17 semi-automatic in the pocket on the right, the two small glass ampules of prussic acid and their spring-loaded activating devices in a left. He’d forgotten he still had them until sitting in the meeting at State. Having flown back on Secretary Rock’s private aircraft, and being ushered into Main State as part of her contingent, precluded having to go through the usual metal detectors.

Should I walk back to Columbia Plaza and pop in on Jessica? he asked himself. His answer was to wave down a cruising cab and direct the driver to his apartment in Crystal City, across the Potomac from the District.

38

That Same Day
Washington, DC

Joe Potamos burst through the door from the J. Edgar Hoover Building like a man who’d just been released from prison. In a sense, he had been.

At first, the FBI agents interrogating him were pleasant and polite, even went so far as to congratulate him on his journalistic skills and the scoop he reported on CNN. But when it came to the point where they wanted the name of the man he’d gone to interview in Burlington, Vermont, and he refused to give it, the atmosphere in the room had changed from compatible to confrontational.

“Look, Potamos,” the lead interrogator, one of six agents in the cramped room, said, “you stated on TV that you got this story from somebody in Burlington. Obviously, this person was involved with the Jeremy Wilcox who was killed here in DC, an employee of the Canadian embassy. Why don’t you just make everybody’s life easy and tell us who he is?”

Potamos had deliberately not mentioned Craig Thomas or Connie Vail during his on-camera performance, and he wasn’t about to give them up now. “That’s privileged information,” he said. “Shield law.”

“Ever hear of national security?” another agent asked. “Ever hear of patriotism?”

“Patriotism?” Potamos repeated, snickering. “I figure being patriotic means telling the truth to the American people, no matter who’s in front of the fan when the goop hits. Look, I’d like to leave. I came here voluntarily, didn’t give you any hassle. But unless you’re arresting me for sedition or espionage or for being unpatriotic, I’m out of here.”

Potamos stood. The lead agent ordered him to sit.

“I want a lawyer,” Potamos said.

“You don’t need one,” the lead agent said. “You haven’t been charged with anything.” He nodded at another agent, who left the room.

The door opened and FBI Director Templeton stepped into the room. Potamos recognized him immediately.

“Mr. Potamos, Russell Templeton,” the director said, smiling and shaking Potamos’s hand. “Please, sit.”

Potamos’s surprise at being confronted by Templeton was fleeting. “I was just leaving,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”

“Please, Mr. Potamos,” Templeton said, “sit down and hear me out. I promise it will only take a few minutes. Strictly off the record. When I’m finished, you can leave and go about your business.”

Potamos resumed his seat and Templeton stood over him. The director was taller than he appeared to be on television, and looked older than his reported age of forty-seven. A nice-looking guy, Potamos thought, as the director started speaking in a measured, calm tone.

“You’re aware, Mr. Potamos, that the claims you’ve made on TV are in direct conflict with the information that led to the attack today on the Jasper Project.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You cite information obtained from people you refuse to name, yet expect us to assign more weight to your sources than the ones we’ve relied upon.”

Potamos shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. “Look, Director, all I know is what I was told by people who are credible to me. I don’t know who gave you your information about that nut Jasper and his cult—an undercover agent, right?—but it seems to me that you should at least be open to the possibility you and your agents made a mistake out at that ranch. Now, with all due respect, sir, I have a story to write, and I know you have a lot of work to do to sort out this mess. Why don’t we just get on with our jobs and—”

“Mr. Potamos, I am asking you, as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, to withhold any stories or future TV appearances until I’m able to do exactly what you suggest, ‘sort out this mess.’ I assure you that if you agree to help me and the Bureau with this small favor, we’ll work closely with you to ensure that you receive exclusive information, before any of your colleagues do. You can build on your scoop with validated information from the Federal Bureau of Investigation itself.”

His expression said he’d just made an offer Potamos couldn’t refuse.

Potamos stood. “Thanks for the offer,” he said, “but I think I’ll pass. Nice meeting you, sir. Keep up the good work.”

His first steps to the door were tentative; would they stop him? They didn’t. He left the room, fought the urge to run, made his way down to the ground floor, and exited onto Pennsylvania Avenue, where he hailed a cab. Ten minutes later he was running up the stairs to Roseann’s apartment. She was on the phone when he entered.

“Hold on,” she said, “he just walked in.”

“Who is it?” he asked, noticing a pile of papers torn from a small pad with names and phone numbers written on them.

“It’s Gil Gardello,” she said.

Potamos took the phone from her.

“The story,” Gardello said. “What happened at the FBI?”

“Nothing. We broke bread and swapped recipes.”

“Stay there, Joe. I’m on my way.”

“Don’t bother, Gil, I—”

The click of the phone being hung up was like the snap of a bullwhip in Potamos’s ear.

“Joe,” Roseann said, “all these messages are for you. The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

He quickly scanned the slips of paper. “What’s this one?” he asked, handing it to her. “There’s no name.”

“Oh, my flight information. Bill Walters called. He’s booked me into the Cedars in Pennsylvania, outside Pittsburgh.”

“When?”

“Tonight. A fancy dinner for a bunch of big shots, government and business types. The money’s great, triple scale, and all expenses.”

“Tonight?”

“I’m subbing. That’s why it’s last minute.”

“I thought maybe—”

“What?”

“I thought maybe you’d be around with all this craziness going on.”

“Oh, Joe,” she said, kissing him, “I’ll be back later tonight. The job’s two hours. Fly there on a puddle jumper—only an hour flight—do my thing, hop the last plane back to DC tonight. Come with me, Joe. Get away for a few hours.”

“Nah, can’t. I’ve got all these TV shows to do tonight.”

“You’re going to do them?”

“Yeah. I’d better start calling everybody back.”

“And I have to get ready. I leave for the airport in a couple of hours.”

Potamos nodded and started dialing a number.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“I’m really proud of you.”

“Are you? Good. I’m proud of you, too. Go on, get your act together.” He smiled as he finished dialing and waited for the Larry King show to answer.

He’d just confirmed to King’s producer that he would show up that evening when Gil Gardello arrived.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” Potamos said.

“Joe, listen to me. I’m sorry about what happened earlier. I said you were fired to wake you up, that’s all, get you to realize you were skating on thin ice. Bowen’s been after management to can you ever since you popped him, and I’ve been going through hoops to keep you around. You’re still a reporter for the
Post.
You’re no TV star, for crissake. You’re a print journalist and a damn good one. You’re onto a big story, Joe, and like I said, the world is yours, all the support you need, unlimited expense account, researchers, whatever you need.”

Potamos said nothing.

“There’ll probably be a book, too, Joe, with a big advance,” Gardello said. “Do a tour, talk shows, book signings.”

Potamos saw that Roseann was standing in the bedroom doorway, a quizzical look on her face.

“And,” Gardello said, his voice emphasizing that what he was about to say next was especially important, “George Alfred Bowen is already grousing about you having this story. Follow up on it with me and you’ll hurt him a lot worse than a punch in the nose.”

“Do it, Joe,” Roseann said.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.” To Gardello he said, “But I do it my way, on my schedule.”

“Of course, Joe. That’s the way it’ll be.”

“Great.” He turned to the bedroom. “Hey, Rosie, you’re goin’ to miss me on Larry King.”

“Program the VCR.”

Potamos looked at Gardello and grinned. “ ‘Program the VCR.’ You know how to do that?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

“You can get a tape from the show,” Roseann said, emerging from the bedroom dressed in a black cocktail dress and carrying a small carry-on bag. “How do I look?”

“Sensational,” Gardello said, meaning it.

Potamos explained where she was going and turned on the TV set. His interview with CNN was being replayed. Potamos turned in his director’s chair and asked, “Do you think I should wear a blue shirt tonight, maybe get a haircut, a trim, before the King show?”

Her answer was to lean over the back of the chair, hug him, and say, “You look perfect the way you are, my handsome Greek.” She straightened up. “Have to run. I’ll be back by midnight. Nice to see you again, Gil.”

“Same here. Play good.”

“I’ll try.”

And she was gone.