Shadows and Lies (9 page)

Powers now focused on the job at hand. He did not take notes as he usually would at a crime scene but knew he'd recall later anything that was significant. He began with his nose and closed his eyes. In addition to the blood there was the lingering scent of fine cigar smoke and expensive perfume.

When he opened his eyes, he immediately noticed something that the search and ensuing mess had concealed. There had been a violent struggle in the living room. The blood pattern at the base of one wall suggested a knife attack, but not one by a pro.

In the kitchen Powers checked the knives. He had no idea what Marei owned, but there was no carving knife. The refrigerator door was open just as he had left it. Inside was a package of thinly sliced, very lean ham wrapped in butcher paper; two types of cheese, both white; four cartons of plain yogurt; skim milk; orange juice; Evian and Perrier water; coffee beans in a paper sack marked “Gourmet”; four eggs in a split paper carton; Dijon mustard; a partial loaf of twelve-grain bread; a half-eaten baguette rewrapped in paper; and a square slab of butter laying uncovered on a white porcelain dish. There were half a dozen pears and two apples but otherwise no produce. He closed the door lightly.

On the counter was a black
espresso
coffee machine for two and a French press coffee maker of red plastic and glass. In the cabinets he found more than twenty airline-size bottles of various French wines, the usual glasses and dishes, and American breakfast cereals, Raisin Bran and Cheerios. Obviously Marei had been influenced by her time in America. There were also a number of spices, several with which he was unacquainted, along with the usual staples. Below were three pots and an omelet pan.

Powers didn't know what to make of Alta. The steely reserve he had witnessed in the White House had developed holes by the time they met at the Tidal Basin. The dutiful automaton had actually shown signs of humanity. For all her toughness he had seen surprising vulnerability. But now she was poking around in the living room, not paying a lot of attention to his instructions to touch nothing.

Her coming here didn't make any sense to him, not after the lecture Becky had delivered earlier. He wondered if there was something special she had neglected to mention and for which she was now attempting to unobtrusively search.

The kitchen flowed into a dining area with a high end maple table and four matching chairs. Overhead was a gold colored lamp suspended from a chain, neither expensive nor cheap. The fine linen centerpiece was Portuguese and placed on it was expensive crystal. The President had said Marei's parents were rich. Obviously they helped their daughter out.

Powers returned to the living room and Alta stood watching him. The inlaid carpet there and throughout the apartment was a neutral beige. There was a large oriental rug of burgundy and purple which dominated the living room. It looked old and expensive. There were three oil paintings on the wall, two by painters he didn't recognize. The other said it was a Monet, and Powers could see nothing that made him think it was either a copy or forgery. It was a Parisian scene, a pleasant summer day in a park. The stereo was top of the line, matte black, very small with Bose speakers. The CD's were primarily Mozart and Bach, but there was also Beethoven, Debussy, Brahms and Ravel, the last containing the inevitable Bolero. He saw a box set of Edith Piaf and several CD's by Yves Montand. On the glass and gold framed coffee table was an ashtray designed for cigars. Discreetly placed at the end of the couch near the corner was a state-of-the-art air purifier.

The place had been wiped clean. There was no sign of a fingerprint on any of the surfaces where they were usually found. Despite the frenzy the room said occurred, someone had been very cool at one point.

Julie Marei had been a remarkably neat woman and that made the search that much easier, despite the chaos of the earlier searchers. But it was the same search that made his even simpler than it should have been. Everything Powers hoped for
–
papers, notes, journals – was already missing. Even the tape from the answering machine was gone. Only the videos in the living room remained and he suspected they were going to be just what their jackets claimed: mainstream films.

Despite the thoroughness of the earlier search and the fact that someone had taken the time to wipe the apartment for prints, there was an amateur feel about much of this. Powers had seen many scenes of violence, most by angry perpetrators, a few by pros. This had the primary feel of the amateur.

He paid particular attention to the line where the ceiling and walls met, and he checked any fixture positioned where a hidden camera lens would have a decent view.

An hour after they entered the apartment Powers decided it was pressing their luck to remain any longer. If a neighbor grew suspicious and called the Metropolitan Police, there'd be hell to pay.

He still had the bedroom to check. He noticed earlier that the furniture was expensive. Now he realized it was Louis XIV, intricately constructed and self-evidently originals. He had never seen anything like it outside of a museum. The bed was a small double, just big enough for two very friendly adults. He moved the tumbled mattress aside and searched the debris on the floor without success.

Powers recalled that royalty often had places of concealment built into the genuine article, somewhere to hide jewelry, but found none. The nightstand was last and was as barren of papers as the others. His fingers worked it through the kerchief from all angles. Nothing.

"Dan?" Alta was standing in the doorway, holding her brimming pillow case. "Did you find anything?"

"No. We need to leave. Take a look in the kitchen. Maybe you'll see something I missed."

Powers stood back and stared at the nightstand. Something wasn't right. Then he spotted it. He knelt down and removed the lower drawer. There was a covered space between it and the bottom of the nightstand. He pulled at the wooden facade. Up. Down. Left. Right. It slid out.

On his stomach he peered in with his pin light. No papers but instead a gun, a Walther PPK .380, the standard issue police handgun for many European police departments. He removed the weapon. Nothing else inside. He slid the front back in place and inserted the drawer. The clip in the gun was loaded and there was a cartridge in the chamber.

"I didn't see anything unusual in the kitchen. How about you?" Alta asked standing the other side of the bed where she couldn't see his hands.

"No," he said. "Let's get out of here." When she turned he placed the gun into his outer jacket pocket.

The White House, 11:38 p.m.

             
“
Why didn't you tell me?" Karp demanded, his voice a hoarse whisper. He felt as if he'd aged twenty years in the last five minutes.

"That's what I'm doing."

"Before. You should have discussed this with me before, not now! Have you any idea what you've done?"

Tufts drew himself up indignantly. "Heads of state have always held private communications, this is nothing new. You aren't thinking I should have used the State Department, are you?"

"Of course not. If you're going to tell me about this than do it. Don't just hint at it."

"Fuck you, Marty! Don't take that attitude with me. I'm the President of the goddamn United States!"

Karp rose. "All right then. If that's how it is. I'll leave this mess for you to clean up. Have a good evening."

Tufts stood in shock for only a second. "Now wait a minute! Just wait a goddamn minute here!!" He crossed to Karp. "Now stop it!" He seized the man and jerked him around bodily. "I'm sorry. Okay? Is that what you wanna hear? Then I'm sorry as hell. The fact is that I need you, you know that, and I shouldn't'av been like that. You're right. You need to know all about this. Sit down. Go ahead. God, you are a pain in the ass some times, Marty."

"Tell me."

The President poured another drink then removed a Havana cigar from the small humidor he kept in his lower desk drawer. The former President of Mexico had presented him with five hundred Cohiba Esplenditos. He cut the end then lit before answering. "That's why I was so upset earlier. I mean, Julie's a great kid and everything, but we all take our share of risks in life. Bad things happen to nice people every day. I feel really terrible that something's happened to her. Easily the greatest piece of ass on Earth. I'm gonna miss her, I can tell you." He took a puff then drew more deeply and spoke through the smoke. "It started just after the invasion. I was telling her what a son of a bitch Saddam was and how the A-rabs and French were a bunch of yellow bellies."

"You said you never discussed policy with her."

"Hell, that's not policy. That's fact. Anyway we got to talking. You know how it is after good sex. She was telling me she knew lots of nice A-rabs, that she lived in Beirut when she was little and her daddy did plenty of business in that part of the world. He'd even done construction in Iraq that the U.S. government paid for. That was when Iraq was fighting Iran. Anyway, she said she met Saddam once in Baghdad. She was still a teenager and her family was in Nicosia to visit family. Her daddy took her to Iraq so she could see it since he had a business meeting there. That was when I got the idea."

"What idea is that?"

"Well, we've got those airmen paraded in front of the television cameras every week. And that Wolf dame is killing me with her demand I give in just to get her husband back. Right after the invasion Saddam was bragging he had these nuclear bombs, remember? At the time we weren't so certain, and it really didn't matter just then, because it was going to take all summer to build a coalition and move enough forces to Saudi to get the job done. Then the fuckin' CIA tells me they think he's really got at least two bombs he bought from General Rudenko in Russia. Hell, that changed everything. The balance of terror isn't just for the big boys anymore. Besides, we're the only superpower left. Any country with the bomb and the balls to act, then threaten its use, is a player. How could I drive this guy out of Saudi and Kuwait? What Bush did was a piece of cake compared to what I'm facing. So I cut a deal. What else could I do?"

“Tell me."

"Julie said she believed she could see Saddam personally. Every month or so she flew to Athens. From there it was a short flight to Baghdad."

"Her father set it up. That means he knows," Karp said with a sinking heart.

"That’s right. She took a personal message from me. He answered. We've hammered out a deal here. There isn't gonna be any war." The President flashed what he often called on others “a shit-eating grin.
”
"Pretty neat I thought. No American boys are gonna be dying for rich A-rabs. Saddam's someone I can work with."

"How many letters did she take for you?"

"Four. I think it was four. Yeah, four."

"What's the deal?"

Tufts blew smoke at the ceiling. "Simple. I think you'll be able to see this my way. Just a matter of accepting reality and giving Saddam what he was after all along. He rattles his saber while we build up forces and I make a big show of standing up to aggression. You know what the dailies have been saying about my statesmanship marks ever since this mess started up. Then, after my re-election, we say we have proof he's got the atom bomb. So we negotiate, reluctantly, but then the peace and safety of the world is at stake so of course we have to talk. That's the only reasonable thing to do, right? Once we're finished with that, he pulls back from Saudi but, and here's the kicker, he gets to keep Kuwait. Hell, it used to be part of Iraq anyway so what's the big deal? You don't think those asshole Kuwaitis are any better to deal with than Saddam, do you? Shit, we need a strong Iraq to serve as buffer to Iran. It's the real threat in the Middle East. Least ways, that's what the fuckin' military is always telling me."

“What if she kept copies and had them in her apartment?"

"Yeah. What if?"

“What if she showed them to someone? They’d know what you were up to.”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“We can’t know for certain. The Brits and Saudis will be furious when they learn. The Kuwaitis will denounce you as a traitor. It’s not their style to organize death squads. They’d rather destroy you politically. The French will go ballistic. They’ve been hinting for months that you aren’t dealing honestly with them.”

“Fuck the Frogs. They’re so goddamn paranoid and stuck on themselves they always say someone’s betraying them. They’re usually right because they deserve it. But I get your point. She didn’t do it, Marty. She didn’t show ‘em to anyone. I just know.”

Tufts finished his drink and took a slow pull on the cigar. He leaned back in his chair and sent two rings of smoke towards the ceiling. "Powers has got to get those papers back, you understand? I want the tapes too, but I've
got
to have the papers in case she did copy ‘em, for personal reasons, you know? If this gets out..."

"You'll have to withdraw from the race after the show you've put up against Saddam. It will be a demonstrable a sham. If you are foolhardy enough to try and stick it out, the Kuwaitis will certainly launch a slick Madison Avenue campaign to vilify you. They’ve got deeper pockets than any other player in this. This is no time for partial measures. We need to get others on this.”

“Not yet, Marty. Let's give Powers a day here. He just got started. The cat's out of the bag and we need to see if he can shove it back. If not, Chesty and Lily can go to work. We aren't using any others. You understand? I'll take my risks with Chesty and I know I can trust Lily, but no one else."

"I guess that will have to do." Karp rose slowly. This new information was cycling through his brain almost visually. "Goodnight then."

"'Night, Marty. I don't think I'm gonna get any sleep. Too bad about Julie. I sure could use what she had right about now. She turned given’ French into a whole new dimension."

Karp closed the door.
That is the dumbest son of a bitch I've ever known,
he thought.

EIGHT

Georgetown, 12:44 a.m.

Before leaving the Burnside Apartments, Powers asked Alta to check outside. He took the moment to knock on Yvette Dorat's door. There was no answer.

As they walked to the BMW, Alta pulled the collar of her coat tight to her throat and braced herself against the swirling wind. Just as they reached the car, Powers left the curb to reach the passenger door. Just then he heard her scream. As he turned a man seized him from behind, placing his forearm across Powers' throat. They struggled awkwardly, dancing in short heavy steps as each sought to gain an advantage. Powers hooked his right foot behind the man's ankle and the two of them went down, hard, but it was Powers who landed on top. He heard the wind rush out of the man.

"Help me!!" Alta shouted. "Somebody help me!!!"

"Khalil," Power's man uttered in a strained voice, then slightly louder, "Khalil!"

Powers fumbled with his jacket for the gun. He managed to roll away from his attacker just in time to see Alta suddenly running around the car, her raincoat streaming behind, skirt hiked up her thighs, legs stretched out like a sprinter as she bolted across the street. She was pursued by a second man in a black raincoat who stopped in response to his name then turned his interest to Powers.

His hand found the barrel of the Walther in his pocket, but before Powers could turn the gun one handed and secure a useful grip, the man lying near him grabbed his arm and dragged him into an embrace. Alta's former assailant pulled a knife from his pocket and gave orders in a language that sounded very much like Arabic to Powers. The anticipation on his face said he was about to enjoy himself very much.

Powers punched his left elbow into the bridge of the nose of the man holding him. He grunted, lifted a hand to his face and pulled back. Powers rolled twice until the curb stopped him. He was facing the standing man as he groped for the gun again.

The approaching figure was tall and quite slender with a thick mustache. His black suit was rumpled and dusted with cigarette ash. But Powers was watching the knife which the man held like a pro as he moved quickly towards him. There was a shot and the man with the knife abruptly straightened, a look of utter astonishment spread across his face. A second shot sounded. He staggered to his knees, dropped the blade to the pavement, then pitched forward onto his face. His friend with the smashed nose squirreled off into the darkness.

Lily approached, his gun still in hand, hanging at his side. A small lazy tornado whirled down the narrow street, bits of debris and leaves twisting in its cone as it crossed his path. Lily kicked the knife away then rolled the man laying with the heel of his shoe. Satisfied, he slid the boxy automatic, a .45 Glock from the sound and look of it, inside his jacket. "You should leave before the police arrive," he said to Powers quietly, in a high pitched, sterile monotone. It was the first time he'd heard Lily's voice.

Powers was on his feet now. "I suppose thanks are in order."

Lily's chiseled face was as unmoved as if set in stone. "Get out of here before the other one finds his nerve or the police come." Lily turned and made the slightest gesture with his hand. Powers heard a car engine rev in the darkness.

"Are you all right?" Alta asked in an unnatural voice, as she approached from across the street, staring at the body in the narrow street then up at Lily standing patiently beside it. Her hair was disheveled, her blouse was nearly out of her skirt, the tan raincoat was badly smudged and the skin of her legs gaped at him through holes and rips in her nylons.

"Yes. You?"

"I'll live."

A gleaming blue Ford utility van with darkened glass pulled up, then stopped quickly beside Lily who yanked the side door open. In a single motion he lifted the body from the street, heaved it inside and followed himself, pulling the door shut as the van sped off.

Alta cocked her head towards the sound of a siren. "We have to leave." She glanced after the van, then opened the door to her car. He slid onto the passenger seat. As she drove off she asked in a distant voice, "Who were they do you think?"

"Arabs. I can't say whose."

She peered ahead at the street and concentrated on her driving for a moment. "You know what I think?" Her voice sounded tinny as if it were coming from a distance.

"What's that?"

"They were really after you. My guy never tried to hurt me and he went for you as soon as his friend was down."

Cleveland Park, 1:23 a.m
.
             

Alta opened the door, turned on the lights, then checked to be certain the windows were curtained. "If you'd like a drink, the bar is over there," she said to Powers gesturing vaguely towards the far wall. "I know I'm having one."

In the light, Powers saw that her glasses were bent and perched awkwardly on her face. There was a tear the length of her skirt and the elbow of her coat and jacket beneath were scraped away, exposing the smudged white of the blouse. Her hair looked as if she’d just awakened from bed.

"You're sure you're not injured?" Powers asked.

"Just bumps and bruises. I think I brought most of it on myself by fighting with him so much. His breath smelled like garlic. It was sickening. I'm cleaning up."