Murder on Embassy Row (17 page)

Connie undressed and slipped into a Black Watch plaid nightshirt. She untied a bow in her hair and brushed it out as she said, “It sure rules out passion, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“It couldn’t be spur-of-the-moment, that’s for sure.
You don’t just have ricin-laced artificial caviar lying around the way you do a gun or a kitchen knife.”

“Are you ruling out Marsha James?”

“No, I’m just saying that whoever did it planned it for a long time, took pains to put it together.”

Morizio said over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen, “I’m hungry. Want eggs?”

“Sure.”

They sat at the kitchen table and ate scrambled eggs and English muffins. Morizio had a glass of milk, Lake white wine. He asked, “How did you leave it with Dougherty?”

“I told her to do or say nothing until she heard from me. She agreed.”

“She can’t do that for long. Hell, she’s made a major discovery, good for the career. What do
we
do with it?”

“I just work here, boss.”

“In a pig’s…”

“Why don’t you just confront Chief Trottier with it, tell him what you know and insist on a further investigation.”

“He’d refuse. It’s still within the embassy, if that’s the way they want it. It might be different if it had to do with Paul’s murder but it doesn’t.”

She reached across the table and grabbed his wrist. “But wouldn’t they want to know how the British ambassador to the United States was murdered?”

Morizio sat back and placed his bare foot on her leg beneath the table. “No, they don’t want to know, and that’s what really gets to me. Somebody somewhere wants this buried and forgotten, no flowers on the grave, no perpetual burning light. Why, I don’t know, but it’s true. Will Jill Dougherty sit on it for long enough for us to get some answers?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll call a friend tomorrow who might be able to help. I’d like to talk to Nordkild again, too. I need a couple of days.”

“You don’t have them. The rest of the week is jammed, at least according to the calendar.”

“I’m sick. I’ve got enough sick leave stacked up to last a lifetime. Hold down the fort tomorrow, maybe the next day. We can’t let this go.”

“We?”

“Yeah, well… thanks for running over there.”

“There’s no way to push me away now, Captain. I’m hooked.”

“So am I, and I wish I weren’t.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Sal. You love it.”

“I want Paul Pringle’s killer. That’s all.”

“That’s enough. Let’s get some sleep. The eggs were good, a little overdone but passable.”

They went to the bedroom. As Morizio slipped out of his robe he said casually, “One of the eggs I used was synthetic.”

“That’s the way you plan to get rid of me?”

He smiled, climbed into bed next to her, and kissed her nose. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” she said.

Morizio left himself plenty of time to make the lunch date he’d set up with an old friend from his CIA days, Kenneth Donaldson. He made the call to Donaldson’s office from a booth outside Lake’s apartment. When Donaldson asked where he’d like to meet, Morizio said, “The Cafe Tatti, the McLean Mall. Noon?”

“I’ll be there,” said Donaldson.

Morizio took the George Washington Memorial Parkway along the Potomac, then switched to the Georgetown Pike until reaching the Virginia town of McLean. He parked in front of Tatti and waited until Donaldson drove up, parked, and was walking toward the tiny French restaurant. Morizio intercepted him on the sidewalk. “Hello, Ken, good to see you.”

“Same here, Sal.”

“Let’s take a ride. I made a reservation someplace else.”

Donaldson, who was sixty and scholarly, grinned and asked, “Who’s after you?”

“I paid my taxes so I know it’s not the IRS. Evans Farm okay?”

“Lunch in the country. Sounds delightful.”

Morizio took a roundabout route to Chain Bridge Road in McLean, where the inn stood on forty acres of rolling land; there were fruit trees, and dozens of grazing goats, sheep and quacking ducks. He checked his rearview mirror frequently, and didn’t actually approach the inn until he was certain no one was behind him. Donaldson observed quietly.

They entered the stone building, crossed a flagstone floor to the pub, and took seats at the bar. “I made a reservation inside,” Morizio said, “but we’re early. Besides, I could use a drink. I’ve got a bad cold.”

“You sound it,” Donaldson said. He ordered a perfect Old Fashioned for himself. Morizio had bourbon in a snifter and club soda on the side.

“Here’s to seeing you again, Sal,” Donaldson said. They touched glasses. “So can you tell me why all the evasiveness, or are we talking about the Redskins?”

“The Redskins for openers. Think they’ll do it this year?”

They kept to football for the duration of their drinks, then went to the main dining room where Morizio chose a table for two that was in front of a fireplace, and was a decent distance from adjacent tables. They ordered another round, got salads from a salad bar, tasted the spoon bread a waitress had placed on the table, and looked at each other.

Morizio hadn’t seen Ken Donaldson in awhile, almost a year he figured. They’d worked closely at the Central Intelligence Agency during Morizio’s two-year stint there. It was highly classified work that involved theoretical methods of disrupting a smaller nation’s cultural and economic patterns over a prolonged period of
time to create a better climate for overthrow. Morizio had found the work fascinating, but there wasn’t a night during those two years when he didn’t question his values. That’s why he resigned, not so much to join MPD but to stop questioning himself. It took up too much time.

Probably the greatest mitigating factor in his daily moral grapple was Ken Donaldson, who’d been a professor of sociology at Georgetown University for many years. He’d also been a paid, secret consultant to the CIA, commonly known as “the Company,” during his tenure at Georgetown. When his connection with the giant intelligence organization was revealed, along with others in similar positions at colleges around the country, the heat was on for him to resign. He did, and joined the Company full-time. Morizio and Donaldson became close, enough so for them to openly discuss Donaldson’s decision to leave academia for the clandestine life. “It was the honest thing to do,” Donaldson often said. “I was tired of the either-or lie that perpetrated the controversy—the University is ‘pure,’ the government is ‘evil.’ It was nonsense. There is no such thing as purity, at least not in institutions. Personal purity, perhaps, or I’d like to think so, but never when more than three people band together to create a thing, a Pentagon, a CIA, a Congress or a university. I decided to go where the evil was understood and admitted. As I said, Sal, it was the only honest thing to do.”

They used to debate it for hours, and while Morizio never completely bought Donaldson’s philosophies, he admired him for being introspective enough to ponder his life, and for his willingness to talk about it, never in public, of course, but privately, with friends, like Morizio.

Morizio also enjoyed Donaldson’s erudite manner,
wit, knowledge about myriad things and even his classically conservative style of dress—Brooks Brothers, from the skin out. This day he wore a herringbone jacket, blue cotton button-down shirt, and red paisley bow tie. His glasses were large and rimmed with tortoise shell. He was slender; his fingers were long and thin, like a pianist’s. He was bald, and allowed the white hair at his temples to grow a little too long and to go in its own direction, a vestige of his professorial days.

Donaldson brought up boxing. He was a devoted fight fan, an unlikely passion most people thought, for so educated and sensitive a man. “It’s the only true drama on television,” he told Morizio as they looked at menus, “two combatants facing each other in a defined area, a third man to impose some semblance of civilization and a specified amount of time to kill each other. Each man brings all his dreams and fears into that ring hoping his body will serve him well. Do you agree, Sal?”

Morizio, who’d been listening with one ear, looked up, nodded, said his father had been a fight fan, and asked what Donaldson was having.

“The Smithfield ham, what else.”

Morizio ordered a rare steak. When the waitress was gone from the table, he said to Donaldson, “I can’t tell you much, Ken, about what prompted me to call you, but I am asking you to tell me something.”

“Good,” Donaldson said. “I hate being told things I’m not supposed to know.”

“It’s… well, it’s delicate, and it’s a mess.”

“I assume it has to do with the death of Ambassador James.”

“Why assume that?”

“I’ve been following it. In fact, I meant to call you but never got around to it. I also read about the death of
Paul Pringle. He was your friend. You introduced me once.”

“I did?”

“Just in passing, at a party or something. The reason I’m assuming whatever problems you’re having has to do with the James murder is that Pringle’s demise made it two in a row from the British Embassy. Coincidence? What do you think?”

“I think not.”

“Of course. Now, what can I do for you?”

Morizio glanced around the dining room, which had begun to fill up. He leaned close to the table and said, “Are you still keeping up with the technology at the place?”

“Specifically?”

“What did we used to call it, ‘Neutralization and Elimination.’”

“We still do.”

“Anything new?”

“Always something new, Sal. You can’t spend millions in search of devices like that without having new discoveries pop up all day long, it seems. Which are you interested in?”

“Food. Methods of poison. Caviar.”

“Which took the life of Ambassador James.”

“Right. Know anything about synthetic caviar?”

He smiled.

“I’ve got a theory going, Ken. It goes this way. Whoever killed James used synthetic caviar eggs filled with ricin. That’s why it read in his body but not in lab tests on the food itself. Is that far-fetched?”

“No.”

Morizio knew Donaldson wouldn’t say more. He didn’t have to. Obviously, from the way Morizio read the reply it was a confirmation that the wing of the
Company devoted to developing exotic methods of neutralization and elimination of unwanted persons had added the phony fish eggs to its arsenal.

The waitress delivered their food and they started eating. Morizio sat back halfway through his steak and asked, “If my theory isn’t out of the ballpark, it leads me to another theory.”

“Which is?”

“That the product in question is probably more available than we might believe.” He told Donaldson of what he knew about the Russians developing the synthetic caviar and the Romanoff Company coming up with its own product to be used in the event the Russians put it on the market. He added that it seemed that people involved in caviar had probably had access to it from one source or another. He waited for a reaction.

“Sal,” Donaldson said, dabbing at his mouth with a white linen napkin, “if I were speculating what the source might have been, I’d look to the Russians. We’ve been amazingly effective in recent years receiving all sorts of forbidden products from abroad. The balance of payments has tipped in our favor.”

Morizio translated to himself. “The U.S. espionage network was doing its job, and synthetic caviar had been among those state secrets delivered to the Company through agents and paid informers.”

“It was good.” Donaldson said, referring to his empty plate. “Beautifully cured ham.”

“It was a good steak. Ken, another question.”

“Another theory?”

“No, a question. I’m under surveillance.”

“By whom?”

“I thought you might know.”

“Us? Nonsense. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you been indiscreet lately in your personal life?”

“I’m never indiscreet in my personal life.”

Donaldson laughed. “Maybe the FBI. Even with Hoover dead, they continue to want files on everybody in Washington.”

“No, it doesn’t smell FBI.” He considered telling Donaldson more about what had occurred but decided not to. They had hot deep dish apple crisp and coffee, argued over the bill (Morizio won) and left the Evans Farm Inn. They were almost to Morizio’s car when Donaldson touched his arm and led him toward a clump of leafless fruit trees. He stopped, turned, and said, “Your friend, Pringle, was our man in the British Embassy.”

“He was?”

“Yes. He was good, and well paid.”

“I’m surprised, Ken, really surprised. Paul was very loyal to Britain. At least he always seemed to be.”

“And he needed money which, as you know from your time with us, has always been the only acceptable motive for telling tales out of school. Besides, Great Britain is our best friend. He wasn’t there to steal nuclear secrets, just to let us know what was what, what decisions were in the works to give us some lead time.”

“I’ll have to let this sink in,” Morizio said.

“Of course.”

“I’m surprised at something else, Ken.”

“What’s that?”

“That you told me.”

Donaldson laughed and headed for the car. He said before opening the door, “The man’s dead, he’s been replaced, and you look and sound as though you need some help. Take me back to my car, Sal.”

Morizio didn’t tell Connie right away that he’d learned about Paul Pringle being on the Company payroll and working inside the British Embassy. He didn’t know how to process the information, and needed a little solo time to mull it over.

He also decided that despite Donaldson’s denial, it could well be that the Company had ordered the surveillance of him and Lake, and had killed Pringle. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone on the CIA payroll was “eliminated” by his own people. If that were so, Morizio’s probing into Pringle’s death could send CIA powers-to-be in search of some fast relief.

It could also put their lives on the line. That was the problem with organizations like the CIA. They operated under a heavy blanket of secrecy, free from scrutiny and with carte blanche to take matters into their own hands for whatever reasons they deemed palatable—national security, world order, emergency situations beyond the comprehension of ordinary folk. He believed Donaldson when he said he didn’t know anything
about CIA surveillance of him and Connie. There was no reason for him to know. Within the CIA were highly secret pockets of operations that functioned the way an embassy did in a foreign country, no explanations to anyone else, no justifying actions, no checks and balances. “The only check and balance in this town is Jack Anderson,” Morizio muttered to himself as he set up Rasputin for a match. He and Connie were staying at their respective apartments tonight. Sometimes you just had to be alone. They called each other a lot.