Murder on Embassy Row (6 page)

Jones stood in the garage and pondered the situation. There was no reason for a limousine from the British Embassy to be there. The Iranian Embassy had been vacant for years. All abandoned cars had been towed away. Jones looked to where he’d left his patrol car running and debated whether to call in or to give his report in person. Calling in would mean staying there—and he was already a few minutes past quitting time. Willard Jones always had trouble making decisions. This time, the decision was taken out of his hands. A man stepped into the garage through a door shrouded in shadow, came up behind Jones, and brought a tire iron down on his neck. Jones’s head snapped back and his pupils disappeared behind his eyelids. A rush of air exploded from his lungs and filled the garage with an anguished, breathy scream. He pitched forward over the limousine’s hood, his fingers grasping the smooth black metal as he slowly slid back toward the floor. By the time he reached it he was unconscious.

His attacker grabbed Jones’s feet and dragged him into a corner of the garage, went inside the embassy, and returned moments later carrying two black leather satchels. He took keys from his pocket and climbed behind the wheel of the limo, shook his head, got out, put the keys on the seat, left the garage, pulled down the overhead door, and quickly walked to Massachusetts Avenue. The sun was higher and traffic had begun to build. He went right, passed the three-story white Embassy of South Africa and stopped in front of a park across from the British Embassy. He climbed a slight rise to where the heavily wooded park began. There
was a wooden bench, and a sign that read:
NORMANSTONE TRAIL—TRAIL MAINTAINED BY THE POTOMAC-APPALACHIAN TRAIL CLUB
. An arrow pointed toward the British Embassy and indicated that Wisconsin Avenue was one kilometer in that direction. An arrow pointing into the park was followed by
ROCK CREEK, 1k
. He cast a final look at the British Embassy, then disappeared into the woods. A short time later he emerged on Rock Creek Drive, hailed a passing taxi, and told the driver, “Union Station.”

Exterminators were at MPD when Morizio and Lake arrived that morning. Roaches had invaded the building weeks ago, but it had taken that long for money to be transferred from one fund to a new one whose file folder read:
EMERGENCY FUMIGATION
.

“This place stinks,” Morizio said as he hung his blue suit jacket on a clothes tree in his office, slipped behind his desk, and glanced through a long memo.

“I’ll give you a report on that meeting I went to on Capitol security,” Lake said.

“Yeah, good,” Morizio said, not looking up.

“Sal.”

“What?” He looked at her.

She blew him a kiss.

“Do the report.”

His phone rang and she picked it up. “Oh, hi, Jake,” she said. “Hold on.” She handed the phone to Morizio.

“Hello, Jake. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve had an incident at the Iranian Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue. One of our men, Willard Jones,
was assaulted in a garage there. Somebody hit him with a tire iron. He’s critical at D.C. General.”

“The Iranian Embassy? It’s been closed for years.”

“There’s more. In the garage where we found him is a limo belonging to the British Embassy.”

“Yeah.” Morizio sat back and sighed.

“You don’t sound surprised, Sal.”

“Sure I am, Jake, it’s just that…” He was guilty about not having shared with Feinstein what he’d learned earlier about the missing valet and limo. “Any idea why a British limo would be at the abandoned Iranian Embassy?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Any idea who hit your man?”

“No. You have any thoughts?”

Morizio shook his head, then realized Feinstein couldn’t see him. “Not off the top of my head, Jake.”

“Well, it’s your problem now, Sal.”

“Maybe.”

“He’s loose in D.C. That’s MPD business.”

“Let me do some checking. I’ll call you later.”

He hung up and filled in Lake, whose first words were, “The valet? What’s his name?”

“Hafez. Nuri Hafez.” Morizio dialed Chief Trottier’s number. “Captain Morizio here,” he told Trottier’s secretary. Trottier came right on the line. “Chief, I’ve got to see you right away.”

“On the British matter?”

“Right.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“Lots. Can I come up?”

“Not now. Make it an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Morizio told Lake, “Get over to the Iranian Embassy. Do it quietly, just be there.”

“What should I do when I get there?”

“Nothing, just don’t let anything disappear. If the press is around, keep your mouth shut. You’re there on routine business. Keep in touch.”

An hour later Morizio sat across the desk from Donald J. Trottier, who was in dress uniform in anticipation of an awards luncheon. He was slightly shorter than Morizio and had recently put on weight, which caused his uniform to bulge. Bald, but with fringes of gray hair, he wore a thin black mustache which Morizio knew he touched up. Morizio started to tell him what had happened but was interrupted three times by telephone calls. “Can you kill that for ten minutes?” Morizio asked after the third call, pointing to the phone.

Trottier didn’t like it but said, “All right, Sal.” He told his secretary to hold all calls. “Now, what’s so urgent?”

Morizio, conscious of the need to be quick, said in a series of staccato sentences, “One of State’s security men was attacked last night at the Iranian Embassy… they found a British Embassy limo in a garage there… I know that Geoffrey James’s Iranian valet—a guy named Nuri Hafez—disappeared the night of the death, along with the limo… I also know that…”

“How do you know about this valet and the limo?”

“I can’t say, I just know.”

“That’s a hell of a thing.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I’m the chief of police. I’m…”

“You’re my boss, I know that. I held back for good reason. But now…”

“I find this unsettling, Captain, that one of my men would withhold such information. It could be vital.”

“Of course it’s vital…
sir
. What I want to know is why the British Embassy kept it secret.”

“Evidently, it didn’t. You knew.”

“And now you know, but why has it been hushed up?”

“Who says it has?”

“Hasn’t it? What would you call it?”

“I’d call it the prerogative of the British Embassy. The death occurred on its property and involved one of its people. That means we stay out unless we’re invited in.”

Morizio felt anger percolating. He’d worked for years to bring into check what was a naturally volatile temper, but there were times when he lost the battle and he was afraid this might be one of them. He took a deep breath, changed position in his chair, and said calmly and slowly, “I understand, sir, that this is British business under Vienna, 167, but we now have on the loose, in Washington, D.C., someone who has assaulted a security officer from the State Department. He’s in critical condition. Not only that, I attended a meeting yesterday—with your blessing—with Dr. Gibronski and the Englishman, Thorpe, about this case. I’ve been told by you to keep you informed. I’ve been told…”

“You’ve been told, Captain Morizio, to do nothing without specific orders from Dr. Gibronski and George Thorpe. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it will be unless you hear differently from me. Understood?”

Morizio stood and went to the window, again to buy time against lashing out. He leaned on a sill that contained heat and air-conditioning and said, “Do I ignore this assault?”

“Yes. I would suggest you follow—to the letter—the protocol that’s been established. Call George Thorpe, tell him what you’ve told me, and ask for his instructions. Excuse me, Captain, I have other pressing matters.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Son of a bitch,” Morizio muttered loudly as he went down a back stairwell to the communications center where he was told they’d just delivered carbons of wire dispatches to his office. He looked at the originals—stories of the assault on Willard Jones and of the discovery of the limousine at the Iranian Embassy.

Lake was on the line when he returned to his office. George Thorpe was there in person. “Excuse me,” Morizio told Thorpe as he picked up the phone. “What’s the situation, Officer Lake?” he asked.

“Officer…? Someone’s there. Okay, Captain, it’s confusing. The press are all over the place. Jake Feinstein is here. So are two units from Tactical. They want to know what the protocol is.”

“Put the officer-in-charge on.”

An officer with a husky voice came on the two-way. “Seal off the area,” said Morizio, “and do it up at street level. Set up a normal crime-scene situation—barriers, shift guards, the usual. And put Officer Lake back on.”

“Yes, sir?” she said briskly.

“When you’re satisfied it’s secure, report back here.”

“Yes, sir.” Even brisker.

Thorpe had been standing just inside the door. He’d lighted a cigar and had allowed the ash to grow to a precarious length.

“Ashtray?” Morizio asked as he hung up.

The ash fell to the green carpet. “Oh, my,” Thorpe said.

“It’s good for the fibers,” Morizio said.

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Thorpe said as he dragged a shoe over the ashes and came to Morizio’s desk.

“What now?” Morizio asked.

“Pardon?”

“I’m supposed to take orders from you.”

“From what I’ve been observing, Captain, you’ve forgotten that.”

“Do you want to run this department, Mr. Thorpe? Do you want to set up security—or a lack of it—at the scene of a crime?”

Thorpe ignored the pique in Morizio’s voice. He pulled a chair close to the desk, settled his large frame into it, and leaned toward Morizio. He was wearing the same brown tweed suit he’d worn at Gibronski’s office—and the same tie. His white shirt was shiny and had a white-on-white pattern in it. “Are we alone?” Thorpe asked.

Morizio blinked and looked around the room.

“
Really
alone, Captain, and I do not appreciate feeble attempts at humor.”

“Get to the point, Mr. Thorpe.”

“And you drop the façade of the tough, hard-boiled American
cop
, Captain Morizio. You’ve entered another league and are about to…” His voice had the tensile strength of steel. Now he smiled, sat back, puffed on his cigar, and said softly, “…about to strike out. Baseball.”

Morizio smiled, too. “Yeah, I know. I’m a fan.”

“Really? For whom do you root?”

“The Red Sox.”

“Boston. I’ve never been able to muster enthusiasm for the game—or the city. They’re both dreadfully slow.”

“You like the fast lane, Mr. Thorpe?”

“At times. It’s akin to sex. There are times when the slow and comfortable approach is pleasant, but then there are times when…”

“Why are you here?”

“To see that you don’t exceed your ego boundaries.”

“What does that mean?”

“A psychology major?”

“Sociology.”

“Oh yes, quite. It’s Officer Lake who majored in psychology.”

“Are you trying to impress me that you’ve done your homework about me?” Before Thorpe could respond, Morizio said, “And why would you bother, about me or Officer Lake?”

Thorpe smiled and flicked his ash into a dented metal ashtray on the desk. “I admire a discreet man,” he said.

“Meaning what?”

“Insisting upon calling one’s lover ‘
Officer
Lake.’”

Morizio wanted to come across the desk at him but told himself not only would it be embarrassing, he’d be attacking his superior. “What do you want?” he asked.

Thorpe belched, excused himself, and vigorously ground out the cigar in the ashtray. “Captain Morizio,” he said as he stood and walked to the door, “what should have been a simple diplomatic death has been unnecessarily complicated.”

“By me?”

“In a sense, but more at the feet of your free press and those who suffer a loss of their
ego boundaries
.”

Morizio wondered whether he was referring to leaks within the British Embassy, specifically Paul Pringle. He sat with a blank expression on his face and an urge to spit, preferably in the direction of the hulk in the brown tweed suit.

Thorpe said, “There will be a press conference this afternoon in the rotunda of the British Embassy. Your Chief Trottier will be there and he requests your attendance.”

“I just left him. He didn’t mention it.”

“He just found out about it, Captain. It’s at three. I’ll see you then.”

“Maybe.”

“No, Captain, you’ll be there—at three.” The hard edge was back. Then a deliberate softening once again. “By the way, I am sorry.”

“For what?”

“For your Red Sox not having an especially fulfilling season.”

“Rice had a good year.”

“Rice. Oh yes, the Negro outfielder. I suppose he did.”

It took Morizio ten minutes to calm down. When he did he called Chief Trottier’s office. He was put through immediately. “I’m calling about the three o’clock press conference at the British Embassy,” he said.

“Yes, Captain, I expect you to be there. There’ll be a major announcement regarding Ambassador James’s death. You’re to say nothing. I’ll handle any questions.”

“Can I ask, sir, why I’m to be there with a gag on my mouth?”

“Because you are one person, Captain Morizio, and your sensitivities are irrelevant compared to affairs of state in which two major nations must resolve a difficult situation. You know, Captain, I took the time after you left to review your background. I’m beginning to wonder whether putting you in the delicate job of intracity coordinator of security was an appropriate decision. You certainly have the degrees—and your years with the Army and the CIA are impressive—but degrees and past performances don’t always accurately predict a man’s future performance.”

“I suppose they don’t, sir.”

“Three o’clock. Let’s go together. My car will be in front at two forty-five.”

“Yes, sir.”

Morizio hung up and kicked a metal trash basket across the room. He was still limping when he arrived in front of MPD headquarters at a quarter of three.

George Thorpe was waiting in the foyer of the British Embassy’s rotunda when Morizio and Trottier arrived. Dozens of uniformed and armed embassy security personnel, augmented by 100 members of the State Department’s security force, checked IDs before allowing anyone inside the rotunda, a large, two-story circular glass building that looked from the outside like an afterthought to the embassy complex.