Murder at Union Station (4 page)

His customer, a tall, slender, light-skinned black man dressed impeccably in a well-tailored tan suit, white shirt, and muted patterned green tie, and carrying a tan trench coat over his arm, had immediately pulled out a pair of half-glasses and opened a newspaper; no historical chitchat with this dude, Jenks knew. The man’s shoes were expensive two-toned leather, pointy and with perforations across the toe. Jenks pegged him as an outlander, a visitor to D.C., his judgment helped by the
New York Times
in the man’s hands.

The customer looked up occasionally from the newspaper to check the arrivals board.

“Meeting somebody?” Jenks asked as he put the finishing touches on the mirror shine he’d accomplished with his polish and brushes and rags.

“No. What do I owe you?”

Uppity,
Jenks thought.
Probably owns a couple of slums.
“Six dollars, sir,” he said.

The man stood, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Jenks went to give him change, but he’d already walked away in the direction of gate A-8, where the Metroliner from New York’s Penn Station would be arriving.

“What he give you, man, four bucks?” asked a younger bootblack who’d watched the transaction.

“Yeah. Sometimes you can’t figure a man up front, you know? Sometimes the really talky ones stiff you.”

“I’d like to catch me about ten or twenty a those today,” the younger man said with a laugh.

Jenks ignored him and watched his generous customer saunter toward the arrival gates. What’s he all about? he wondered. Then passersby diverted his attention. That was one of the pleasures of shining in Union Station. Seventy thousand people passed through every day, a fascinating parade of humanity, and Joe Jenks had a front-row seat.

“You available?” a casually dressed white man asked.

“Yes, sir, jump right up in the chair.”

“Been working here long?”

“Three years,” Jenks said, pulling out the appropriate polishes.

“What’s the best restaurant?”

“Oh, now, let me see. Lotsa good ones. Got about fifty casual places, you know, and seven or eight places for finer dining. You know, gourmet-type food. Back when it opened, there was the Savarin Restaurant, where . . . ”

SIX

A
s Joe Jenks shined shoes in Union Station, dispensing historical insights to his customers, business as usual was being conducted in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. President Teddy Roosevelt created the FBI in 1908 to fight political corruption. Fortunately, the federal law enforcement agency eventually went on to focus on more manageable crime.

This day, a meeting took place in a secure room in the rear of the unlovely beige concrete Hoover Building, dedicated in 1975 and immediately branded a prime example of the architectural school known as New Brutalism. Two of the three men in the meeting were FBI special agents. The third, Timothy Stripling, had been a CIA operative, or still was; it was hard to know with such men, who spent their professional lives functioning in the shadows. Chain of command could seldom be applied to people like Stripling. He was one of many who worked for that gray entity known as the government, his various official titles not necessarily indicating his true affiliations.

“Where was he last seen?” Stripling was of medium build, medium height, moderately balding, almost nondescript. He was so average-looking that he didn’t stand out in or out of a crowd.

“Tel Aviv,” an agent answered.

“So much for the world-renowned crack Israeli Mosad,” the other agent said.

“They’re certain he’s left the city?” Stripling asked.

“They are now. A little late at the switch. When we heard he might be coming here—your people told us that—we set up surveillance through the Mosad. But—”

“My people?” Stripling said, smiling.

“Yeah. Over at the Company.”

“My former employer,” Stripling said. “You know why I’m here. You know who I’m working this for.
Your
leader.”

He’d received a call at home from Mark Roper, his last boss before he had officially retired from the CIA.

“Wake you?” Roper asked.

“No. It’s eight-thirty. I’ve been up for hours.”

Roper chuckled. “Now that you’re a man of leisure, I figured you might be catching up on all the sleep I caused you to lose over the past year.”

“You only thought I lost sleep, Mark. I took more naps on the job than you knew. What’s up?”

“I thought you might be interested in some freelance work. Supplement the pension.”

Stripling cradled the cordless phone between shoulder and ear, poured fresh coffee into his cup, and resumed his chair at the kitchen table in his Foggy Bottom town house. He was honest when he said he’d been up for hours, only he hadn’t bothered getting dressed. He wore a robe over his pajamas, and slippers. The morning paper sat half read on the table.

“What’s it pay?” he asked. “Minimum wage?”

“Slightly better. How’s your love life?”

Stripling grimaced and looked out the window onto E Street N.W. Unlike those in colder climates who fall into a February depression and hibernate, Washingtonians tend to have the same reaction in summer. Heat and humidity fray tempers and wilt the psyche. This late July day promised to wilt even the heartiest of souls.

Roper’s question about Stripling’s love life had various meanings, Stripling knew. Because he’d never married, there was the natural unreasonable speculation. There had been women in his life, plenty of them, but none had stuck. The truth was, he enjoyed female companionship but only in short bursts; he had limited patience with relationships that lingered beyond the initial phase. He knew what was behind Roper’s question and ignored it. Under Roper’s affable facade was a nasty disposition that he put to good use when wanting to get beneath someone’s skin.

“Tell me more about this freelance assignment,” Stripling said.

Three hours later, dressed in a lightweight blue suit, white shirt, and gray tie, he sat with a deputy attorney general in the Department of Justice building at Constitution Avenue and Tenth Street N.W. The middle-aged woman, whose dress and hairstyle reminded Stripling of actresses in the Hope-Crosby road movies of the forties, briefed him on what the attorney general expected. Stripling masked his annoyance at her tone. He was Tim, she was Mrs. Klaus; she never referred to her boss by name, always as the attorney general, never as Wayne Garson or Wayne or Mr. Garson or Garson.

“Tim, the attorney general expects you to—”

He noted on her ID tag that her first name was Gertrude, and called her that when they parted. She didn’t look pleased. The hell with her, he thought as he walked from Justice to the Hoover Building, where the next meeting was scheduled. By the time he got there, his shirt and pants felt like they were glued to him, and the building’s efficient air-conditioning turned everything clammy against his skin. He was not in a good mood.

“So let me ask you something,” Stripling said to the two FBI agents in the room. “Why the interest in this guy Russo? What is he, a terrorist?”

A smile crossed one of the agent’s faces. “The president might think so,” he said.

Stripling started to ask another question but was cut off. “Look, Tim, we’re not sure what this is all about. Need to know. What we
do
know is that Garson wants to know where this Mr. Louis Russo is.”

“Why the assumption he’s headed this way?” Stripling asked.

Shrugs.

“You said Parmele might consider him a terrorist,” Stripling said. “Why?”

“Like we said, Tim, it’s strictly need to know.”

Sure, Stripling thought. You just happened to mention that the president had some interest in Mr. Russo, but you don’t know why. Sure.

A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of an aide carrying a sheet of paper, which she handed to one of the agents. He put on his glasses, read it, and handed it to Stripling.

“Barcelona, then to Newark on Delta,” Stripling said, reading from the sheet. “Nothing after that. Maybe he has relatives in New Jersey. New Jersey has a few Italians.”

“We’re convinced he’s on his way here,” an agent said. “U.S. Air shuttle? Amtrak? Doesn’t need a reservation on either one. Look, Tim, we’re supposed to not be involved in this. Officially, that is. The attorney general wants it kept outside the Bureau, which is why you’re here. We don’t know much about you except that you were covert with the Company, and Garson arranged for you to get involved through somebody over there.”

“And all I have to do is find this Russo—if he
is
headed for Washington—and keep tabs on him. Right?”

“That’s pretty much it. Here.”

Stripling was handed a manila file folder. Inside was a black-and-white photograph. A small white label at the bottom of the picture had the name Louis Russo printed on it, and the date 1991.

“How old was he when this was taken?” Stripling asked.

“Not sure” was the reply.

Stripling was handed a slip of paper. Written on it was a phone number with a 212 area code, and the name Courtney Tresh.

“Who’s he?” Stripling asked.

“She. NYPD. She can give you some background. Say you’re from the Liberty Press.”

“Liberty Press?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why don’t
you
call her?” Stripling asked.

“Like we said, Garson wants us out of it.”

Stripling again consulted the sheet of paper. “According to this, Russo should have landed at Newark hours ago. Hell, if he is coming to Washington, he’s probably here by now.”

One of the agents pulled a cell phone from a briefcase at his feet and gave it to Stripling.

“No, thanks, I have my own,” Stripling said.

“Use this one,” he was told. “We’ve got the number programmed in the computer. We’ll get in touch if we come up with anything that might be of help to you. Don’t call us. We’ll call you. Thanks for coming in.”

Stripling was to the door when one of the agents said, “The attorney general won’t be happy if you don’t find Russo.”

“The attorney general. Garson, you mean.”

When Stripling was gone, one of the agents asked the other, “Do you know any more than you let on about why the AG is so interested in Russo?”

“No. But you can bet that for Garson to take a personal interest,
his
boss has one, too.”

SEVEN

D
amn!”

Rich Marienthal shifted into neutral and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Damn! What the hell is going on?”

“Must be an accident,” Kathryn Jalick said from the passenger seat of the Subaru Outback.

Marienthal and Kathryn had been stalled in traffic for twenty minutes on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church, Virginia, and Washington, only a few miles from D.C. They’d driven to Falls Church the previous day to attend the funeral of one of Kathryn’s aunts. The post-funeral gathering was held at the home of one of the deceased’s sons, a retired FBI agent who lived in the Falls Church area and who urged Rich and Kathryn to stay over. Marienthal balked at the suggestion, but Kathryn, pleased to be with family she seldom saw, prevailed.