Murder on Embassy Row (7 page)

“Follow me,” Thorpe said as he pushed into the crowd and led them to a raised platform at the Massachusetts Avenue edge of the circular room. Embassy press secretary Jack Boyington repeated into a microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen,
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quiet down so that we may begin.” Next to him was Head of Chancery Nigel Barnsworth. They were flanked by embassy guards.

Thorpe indicated that Trottier and Morizio should step up on the platform. Morizio grabbed Trottier by the arm and said, “What’s going on?”

“I told you in the car it’s all been resolved. I’ll
handle any questions. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?”

“At the house. The missus and I would enjoy having you.”

“I’ve got a… well, I… that would be nice. Thank you.”

They mounted the platform and Morizio looked out at 300 faces. Sunlight through floor-to-ceiling yellow drapes cast shifting patterns over the assembled. Reporters jostled for position, and still-photographers spilled out of their designated area to stake out better shooting angles.

Morizio looked up and to his right at a large heraldic embroidery of a Scottish unicorn suspended from the ceiling by gold ropes, one of four such Queens’ Beastes in the room. He then shifted his attention to six embassy guards carrying automatic weapons who stood like statues on a narrow balcony above the TV cameras.

“P-l-e-a-s-e,” said Boyington.

The crowd fumbled and mumbled to a tentative stillness.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Boyington, “we appreciate having all of you here today. It was admittedly short notice, but events dictated that. At any rate, it is good of you to come. At this time I would like to introduce Head of Chancery Minister Nigel Barnsworth, who has an announcement to make to you. Minister Barnsworth.”

Morizio had been watching Barnsworth during the press secretary’s preliminary remarks. He was overtly nervous, and held a prepared statement in hands that trembled. He was to Morizio’s right, and Morizio fixated on the tic in his left eye, which became more pronounced with each passing moment.

Barnsworth stepped to the microphone, cleared his throat three times and said in a shaky voice, “Thank you for coming.”

“Was the ambassador poisoned?” a reporter shouted.

“Please, I have a statement to make,” Barnsworth said.

Boyington held up his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a most unfortunate situation here at Her Majesty’s mission to the United States,” said Barnsworth. “As you know, our esteemed ambassador, Geoffrey James, has expired.” A few reporters chuckled at his use of the word. Barnsworth’s face colored. He cleared his throat again and continued. “At first, it was thought that coronary failure had caused the death of Ambassador James. However, further study of this tragic matter has indicated differently.”

“Was he poisoned?”

“Please, allow me to continue. Those of you familiar with diplomatic law realize that events within a mission to any nation remain the sole purview of that mission. However, because of the circumstances surrounding the death of Ambassador James, this mission sought the help of its host country, the United States of America. An autopsy was performed on the ambassador by the excellent forensic division of the Washington Metropolitan Police Department. It was determined, as a result of that forensic exploration, that the cause of death was poison, to be more precise, a highly toxic and fast-acting poison called ricin.”

There was a flurry of activity in the room. A series of questions came from the floor, but Barnsworth shook his head and held up a hand. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to complete my statement.” When reporters continued to ask questions, Jack Boyington
took the microphone and announced that if order was not restored, the press conference would be terminated. That did it, and Barnsworth continued. “Obviously, this loss has been felt deeply within this mission, and within Great Britain. It is little consolation that the identity of this great man’s murderer is known.”

Again, a roar of comment and question.

Barnsworth ignored the disruption this time. He cleared his throat with surprising gusto, grasped the flexible mike stand and said loudly, “Geoffrey James, Her Majesty’s ambassador to the United States, was poisoned to death by one Nuri Hafez, an Iranian who had been rescued from Iran by the deceased ambassador, and who had served as his valet and chauffeur ever since. The evidence against Nuri Hafez is overwhelming and beyond debate, and an international warrant has been issued for his arrest.”

The questions erupted. “Where is he?”… “What’s his background?”… “Was the limousine found this morning at the Iranian Embassy connected with it?”

Barnsworth pressed on, and his words caused the reporters to cease their questioning. “A printed statement regarding the death of Ambassador James and background information on his murder has been prepared and is available for each of you at the conclusion of this conference. I would like to express Her Majesty’s profound appreciation for the invaluable aid and cooperation of the United States government, and for the same spirit of friendship and help from this city’s Metropolitan Police Department, Donald J. Trottier, chief of police, and Detective Captain Salvatore Morizio, coordinator of intracity security. Their contributions and professional excellence have been exemplary. That concludes my official statement.”

Press secretary Boyington took the microphone and
invited questions, then immediately turned it over to Trottier, who launched into answers that sounded more, to Morizio, like a campaign speech.

Morizio hopped down from the platform. “Can I help you?” Thorpe asked. Morizio shook his head and headed for the foyer where he cornered an embassy security guard. “Is Paul Pringle here?” he asked.

“Mr. Pringle? No, I can’t say I’ve seen him.”

“Thanks.”

Morizio crossed a corridor leading to the embassy’s main entrance and motioned to guards at a desk behind a series of sliding bulletproof doors. He waved his ID. After some scrutiny, a button was pushed and the doors slid open. “Captain Morizio, MPD,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Paul Pringle.”

“Pringle.” One of the guards consulted an internal directory. “Sorry, sir, Mr. Pringle is no longer with us.”

“That can’t be,” Morizio said. “He was here a few days ago.”

Another of the guards said pleasantly, “That he was, sir, but he’s been dispatched to special duty back home.”

“England?”

“Yes, sir, that is home.”

“Can you connect me with his office?”

The guard laughed. “He doesn’t have an office any longer.”

“Thanks,” said Morizio. “If Paul Pringle passes through on his way home, please give him this.” He took a business card from his pocket, scribbled on the back—“
Paul, please call
”—and handed it to the guard.

Morizio returned to the rotunda, which had emptied out considerably. Chief Trottier was still fielding questions. George Thorpe intercepted Morizio on his way to the platform. “Anything wrong, Captain?”

“Do you know the whereabouts of Paul Pringle?”

“Pringle? Can’t say that I’ve ever heard the name.”

“He worked in security here at the embassy.”

Thorpe shook his head. “That offer of a drink still holds.”

“I have something else to do,” Morizio said.

“Lucky man. Miss Lake?”

“I don’t like you, Thorpe.”

Thorpe laughed. “Pity. A drink might bring you around.”

“I doubt it.”

Thorpe belched, ran a large hand over his mouth, glared at Morizio and said, “Congratulations.”

“For what?”

“Doing such a splendid job in this messy case. Your chief has been praising you at every turn.”

Morizio looked up at Trottier, who’d answered his final question and was about to step down, then returned his attention to Thorpe, and said, “You buying?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Where?”

Thorpe rubbed his hands together and furrowed his brow. “I’m partial to Timberlake’s.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“I’ll wait.”

After confirming dinner at Trottier’s house and getting directions to it, Morizio called his office and was connected with Connie Lake. “How’d it go?” she asked.

“Smashingly.”

“You okay?”

“Tip-top. Look, Officer Lake, get yourself wired up and join me at Timberlake’s, on Connecticut.”

“Wired?”

“Yeah, but don’t check anything out of Surveillance.
Keep it simple, grab something from my apartment and be there in an hour.”

“Who are we seeing?”

“A representative of Her Majesty’s government.”

“Huh?”

“George Thorpe. He belches a lot but ignore it. Got to go. See you in an hour.”

Lake immediately left the office and drove to Morizio’s condominium in Arlington. She let herself in, went to the bedroom and opened the only one of three closets that was locked. Inside were shelves of electronic and photographic equipment—microphones of every description, including shotgun mikes, FM transmitting mikes, watches, tie tacs and earrings containing microphones; ultra-sensitive devices that picked up whispers through cinderblock walls, telephone taps, a microphone woven into a scarf and the newest addition to the collection, a subminiature microphone designed to be implanted in a tooth, provided a cooperative dentist could be found. There were recorders of varying sizes and shapes, blank tapes, miniature cameras and film, infrared lighting equipment and a video camera with a lens powerful enough to pick a bug off a branch at 500 yards. The collection represented one of Morizio’s many hobbies. Everything in the closet was available through MPD’s Surveillance Unit, but Morizio enjoyed having his own capability. Besides, anything electronic fascinated him. There was an amaranthine quality about gadgets that he felt was lacking in people, an honesty, a directness, predictability. You took care of equipment, kept it clean and serviced, and it would always be there for you, like a good dog.

Lake often kidded him about it, but over the course of their relationship she’d learned to share his appreciation of the myriad gadgets in the closet. He’d spent
hours teaching her how to use and service them. Morizio was a fanatic about the care of his collection of electronic gear—batteries always removed and stored in the refrigerator, tape heads cleaned and demagnetized at prescribed intervals, tapes thoroughly erased in a bulk eraser, rewound and stored outside the machines to avoid stretching, reel-to-reel tapes stored tails-out to avoid print-through and, most important, he thoroughly checked everything before taking it on a job.

Lake chose a small Sony cassette recorder attached to a VOX switch, which meant it would record only when there was someone speaking. The recorder’s internal mechanism had been modified to allow five hours of recording on a single side of the cassette. The microphone had been custom made by a small Virginia electronics firm that supplied exotic listening devices to police departments across the country. It would pick up hushed conversations across a large room even when inside a closed attaché case. She inserted batteries and a cassette, attached the microphone, and did a test. It worked perfectly. She slipped recorder and microphone into a pocket of her raincoat, reminded herself to turn it on before entering the tavern, and headed for Timberlake’s, a popular D.C. neighborhood pub.

Morizio and Thorpe were in a booth when she arrived. Morizio introduced Lake to the Englishman. “Ah, yes, Miss Lake,” Thorpe said, standing and extending his hand. “Or should I say
Officer
Lake?”

“Are we on duty?” she asked.

Morizio laughed, shook his head and said, “No, we’re not. Call her Connie, Mr. Thorpe.”

“And George will do for me,” Thorpe said as he helped her off with her coat. “Check it for you?” he asked.

“No, here is fine.” Thorpe hung it on the booth’s
upright nearest him. “Perfect placement,” Lake thought to herself as she sat next to Morizio, across from Thorpe.

Thorpe had a draft bitter in front of him, Morizio a bottle of Miller Lite. Lake ordered a white wine. The place had begun to fill up and the long bar was two deep. Thorpe raised his glass and said, “To you, Miss Lake. When Sal told me he’d invited you to join us, I was delighted.”

“To all of us,” she said, looking at Morizio.

They clinked glasses. Morizio said, “George and I were just getting to know each other, Connie. We’ve been involved, sort of, in this Geoffrey James thing and figured it was about time we knew who we were.”

Thorpe laughed, burped behind his hand, sipped his beer and said, “I was telling the captain a little about myself.”

“You were in Africa?” Morizio said.

“Yes, for six years, establishing trade agreements with African industrialists.”

“Must have been fascinating,” Lake said.

“More hot than fascinating, Connie. I’ve never been a fan of heat. It saps one. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m from Seattle,” she said. “It never gets too hot or too cold there. I like moderation.”

“In everything?”

“Usually. How long have you been here in the United States?”

Morizio sat back and drank his beer as Thorpe talked about his life as a trade representative for Great Britain. Twenty minutes later Thorpe said, “I’ve been going on forever, it seems. Time for another round and a little about you, Sal.”

They ordered. Morizio said. “There’s not much to tell about me, George. I suspect you know a great deal anyway, based upon comments you made earlier.”

“Earlier?”

“When we first met. I’m just a cop, a civil servant.” He told a little of his Boston family, his college days and what had led to his joining MPD. Thorpe listened quietly, his only reaction an occasional raise of an eyebrow, or a smile at a humorous aside. When Morizio was through, he looked at his watch. “I have a dinner date. I really have to go.”

Connie looked at him quizzically.

“Chief Trottier’s house. The missus is making me dinner.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Have you had dinner, Miss Lake?” Thorpe asked.

“No, I thought…”