Murder at the Opera (13 page)

“Thank you, no,” M.T. said. “Nasty habit. You should give it up for your health, Ghaleb.”

“Cuban,” Rihnai said, lighting the cigar. “The best. I get them in the Canadian shipments.”

M.T. laughed. “I’ve always enjoyed the story about President Kennedy, who enjoyed Cuban cigars. When he knew he’d be signing into law a ban on importing all things Cuban, including cigars, he dispatched his press secretary—Salinger, I think it was—to buy every Cuban cigar he could find. Delivered five hundred or so to the president.”

If Rihnai found humor in the anecdote, he didn’t display it. He drew on his cigar, sending a plume of blue smoke in his handler’s direction, and drank more Scotch.

“I always find it interesting,” M.T. said, “that even the most devout Muslims enjoy whiskey under the right circumstances.”

Rihnai ignored the comment and finished what was in his glass. He slid the empty glass in front of the Brit, who refilled it.

“So, tell me what you’ve heard, Ghaleb. I assume it comes from your newfound Iraqi chum.”

“Yes.”

“Glad to hear it. It’s costing us a bloody fortune providing you with cover. The pencil-pushers have been complaining. Frankly, Ghaleb, they’re close to shutting down your operation.”

“That would be a mistake,” Rihnai said.

“I’m afraid that’s not for you, or me, to decide. So, tell me why we meet here at this ungodly hour.” He pushed a button on the recorder.

Rihnai spent the next half hour telling the Englishman what he’d learned from the Iraqi. M.T. said nothing during the monologue. When Rihnai was finished, he was asked, “You have faith in your friend’s account of things?”

“Of course. He met with his brother only days ago in Baghdad. His brother has worked himself up in the organization there. He now holds an important position in the insurgency. He is close to the top.”

“Hmmm,” M.T. said, pushing his chair back on the planked floor and crossing his legs. He smiled. “If what you tell me bears fruit, Ghaleb, I’d bloody well say the money has been well spent. Anything else?”

“I need to leave Jordan.”

“Oh?”

“I believe I have exhausted my effectiveness here.”

“I’d say your effectiveness, as you call it, is just beginning. Having this link to your informant’s brother in Baghdad can be of continuing importance.”

Rihnai shook his head. “It is over,” he said. “I want to go back to the States.”

M.T. sighed deeply and extended his hands in a gesture of futility. “It’s not my call, Ghaleb.”

“Then speak with someone who can arrange it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll need extra money.”

M.T. nodded.

After a final refill, Rihnai announced that he was leaving.

“Stay in touch, Ghaleb,” M.T. said, walking him to the door. “Here.” He handed Rihnai an envelope. “A small bonus for you. Good work.”

Rihnai exited the building, got on his bike, and headed for home on the dark, lonely road. It had started to drizzle; he cursed getting wet, his shirt beginning to stick to his back. Had the road not consisted of myriad turns, many of them hairpins, he might have become aware of the small, black European sedan that had fallen in behind him, its lights off, the two men in the front seat saying nothing to each other as they maintained a respectable distance from the bike rider. Rihnai, bone-tired, remained oblivious to their presence all the way to the street on which his apartment was located. By the time he’d dismounted the bike, he was soaked to the skin, rivulets running from his hair down his cheeks and over his nose.

He’d pulled keys from his pocket and was opening the downstairs door when he first became aware of the car, which moved slowly and quietly over the rutted concrete road. It took him a few seconds to react to the vehicle’s lights not being on. By the time he did, the car had pulled to within a few feet of him, and the man in the passenger seat opened fire, four shots in all, each striking their intended target, Ghaleb Rihnai—three in the abdomen and one in the right eye, taking off the side of his head and sending him spinning down, face-first, into a puddle.

FOURTEEN

R
ay Pawkins watched the six o’clock news on his fifty-two-inch TV. Like most Washingtonians, the Secretary of Homeland Security’s announcement that the terrorist alert level had been raised caught his attention. Not that it mattered, he knew. Nothing would change. People would go about their daily routines whether the Homeland Security popsicle was green, yellow, or orange. Sure, people would be a little more alert, eyeing dark-skinned men or women wearing winter coats in the heat of summer, or knapsacks on the floor outside a phone booth while its owner made a call. But in real terms, it would be life as usual. As far as Pawkins was concerned, the terrorists needn’t bother with ever again physically attacking America to accomplish their goal of bringing it to its knees. Each time the alert level went up, millions of dollars were consumed responding to the rumor. They could bankrupt the country without lifting a finger again except to occasionally “chat” among themselves.

But one thing the secretary said had piqued Pawkins’ interest. The elevated alert was restricted to Washington. This latest threat, real or imagined, had focused on D.C., which surprised Pawkins. No city in the country was more secure these days than the nation’s capital. There were concrete barriers everywhere, and streets that were even remotely proximate to the White House had been closed. Fly a mile off course in a Piper Cub and on your wingtips you had two F-16s with orders to shoot you down if you didn’t tune to the right radio frequency and set down pronto. Sure, you could always knock off a congressman or senator. They were everywhere. Get one to come to dinner at a marginal restaurant with faded color photos of its dishes in the window, and food poisoning would do the trick. Wait until an elected official crossed the street and gun it. Not hard to knock off a member of Congress, or thousands of other government workers who represented the country. But that would be small potatoes for any self-respecting terrorist. You had to get more yield, which meant multiple deaths, or an attack upon someone of
real
importance. The president? Fat chance. He had more security surrounding him than a hip-hop star.

Thinking of the president brought a smile to Pawkins’ lips. The last president to attend a Washington National Opera performance at the Kennedy Center prior to the current one had been Ronald Reagan. Detractors claimed he went only because he enjoyed dressing up in a tuxedo, but that was only partisan conjecture.

To the surprise of many, the man occupying the White House these days, Arthur Montgomery, was a regular at performances when he was in town. Whether he, like Reagan, truly enjoyed those evenings was anyone’s guess. The first lady, Pamela Montgomery, had enthusiastically supported the Lyric Opera of Chicago when her husband was mayor of that city, and later governor of the state, and she’d championed the Washington National Opera shortly after they’d settled in the White House. Did the president revel in the magnificent productions on the Kennedy Center stage, or did he have to fight to stay awake? It didn’t matter. He showed up on his resplendent wife’s arm, and that was good enough. They would, according to an announcement from the White House, attend the opening night of
Tosca.

Pawkins looked at his watch. He was due for the seven o’clock rehearsal.

He’d spent part of the afternoon there chatting with an old friend, who escorted him back up to where Charise Lee’s body had been found.

“Who ever comes up here?” he’d asked, examining the perimeter of the space far above where the audience would sit during a performance.

“Damn near no one” was the response.

“Which means that whoever killed her knew of this space,” Pawkins murmured, “and how to get up here.”

“Or maybe somebody showed him,” his friend offered.

Two people involved? Unlikely. But it could be.
Pawkins looked up from where the body had been. “Somebody who worked here at the Center?”

“Don’t look at me, man.”

Pawkins straightened. “Who else would know about this place except for someone who worked here backstage?”

His friend shrugged. “You done here?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m done. Thanks for bringing me.”

“Gives me the creeps,” said his friend as they began their descent to the stage. “Pretty young kid like that, her whole life ahead of her.”

“Maybe she should have picked her friends better,” Pawkins said.

“You figure it was somebody she knew?”

“It usually is. But in this case? I don’t know. Could have been some horny grip or lighting tech who found her too attractive.”

“You really think that’s what happened?”

“No, but you rule out nothing. A stranger would have strangled her, not stabbed in her chest and then have had the wherewithal to plug the wound.”

“Jesus.”

“
He
wouldn’t have approved,” Pawkins said as they reached the stage and stood near the computer where the lighting director plied her trade during performances. “I owe you.”

“Anytime, Ray. Hey, you’re in the show coming up, right?”

“
Tosca.
Tell me something, you work with all the shows that come in here, right?”

“Right.”

“Not just the Washington Opera.”

“Right again. Road shows of musicals, ballet, concerts, whatever comes along.”

“What about the people from the Opera?”

“What about ’em?”

“Are they more difficult to work with than others?”

His friend laughed. “Funny you should ask that. I was telling my wife the other night that the opera people are just about the easiest to get along with, a lot easier than traveling celebrities. Some of
them
give me a royal pain in the keister.”

Pawkins also laughed. “That goes for directors like Anthony Zambrano, too?”

“Well, he’s another story. See you around, Ray. How’s retirement?”

“Tiring.”

While Pawkins readied to head out for a quick dinner and the rehearsal, theatrical agent Philip Melincamp waited impatiently for his partner, Zöe Baltsa, to show up at A.V. Ristorante Italiano on New York Avenue. Besides serving well-cooked Italian food since 1949, it was the only restaurant in the District with an all-opera jukebox. Melincamp plugged in coins and the voice of soprano Galina Vishnevskaya singing an aria from Mussorgsky’s
Boris Godunov
wheezed from the old box. Listening to Vishnevskaya reminded him of when she and her husband, Rostropovitch, had left the Soviet Union and blasted the Communist government in her autobiography, naming names of snitches in high places, including the famous mezzo Obratzsova. All of opera’s drama wasn’t on the stage.

The music helped soothe his frazzled nerves, and his anger at his partner’s lateness. She was always late, it seemed, bursting onto the scene full of flowery excuses and affected charm.

He looked at his glass of house red and checked his watch. At times like this he wished he hadn’t taken Zöe as a partner. When he had put aside his qualms, it was because he didn’t see any viable choice. He was low on funds, rent was due, his wardrobe had slid into shabby, and his credit cards were at their limits. Along came Zöe, fresh from a divorce from a wealthy titan of Canadian industry who’d paid whatever it took to get rid of her. This slight disagreement had made her rich, and in search of something to do with her newfound wealth and freedom.