Murder on Embassy Row (34 page)

“The last one I’d call. All that’ll result in is George Thorpe arriving on the scene. Maybe it has to be Trottier.
Maybe we can strike a deal with him in return for Hafez.”

“I don’t want to betray him, Sal. We can’t do that.”

“I don’t either, Connie, but we can’t hide him forever. All I want is time to chase down the book Paul is supposed to have left for me.”

“Piccadilly?”

“I’ll start there. I thought of Abdu, but he’s a journalist. Paul never would have trusted him. If it isn’t Piccadilly, I’m lost. It’s the only link with Paul I can think of that he might have used. Jesus, I wish he hadn’t read so many spy novels. All he had to do was tell me.”

“He was afraid.”

“For good reason, I guess, judging from how he ended up.”

“So, who do we call when we get back?”

He said it through clenched teeth. “It has to be Trottier. I don’t see an alternative, unless what I come up with from Paul dictates something else. Let’s not call anybody until we get to that point.”

Hafez woke up and went to the lavatory. “How are you?” Connie asked as he returned to his seat.

“Fine,” he said softly. “Excuse me.” He disappeared behind the backrest.

Morizio looked at Lake. He leaned close and said, “Do you have any doubts about his coming back with us?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s so easy.”

“Not if you spent a night in a cold room like I did.”

“Ah, come on, Connie, I’m not minimizing that, and you know it. It’s just that… I was thinking of the cockroach theory.”

She screwed up her face.

“He’s coming with us because we
assume
he wants to clear his name and help us clear ours. What if there’s another motive?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have to go with what we have.”

“Yeah. I just wish I was sure what that was.”

***

Late that afternoon they arrived on time at New York’s Kennedy Airport and took a limousine to LaGuardia in time to catch the six o’clock shuttle to Washington. There’d been a tense moment at Kennedy Customs. The official took his time processing Hafez through Passport Control, checking the photograph against his face, slowly going through his passport’s pages, asking questions that Hafez answered calmly and to the official’s satisfaction. He waved him through. Then, the suitcase Morizio had given Hafez for appearance’s sake was thoroughly searched, every item of Morizio’s clothing removed and scrutinized, the bag’s lining carefully patted down. Morizio expected Hafez to be taken to a separate room for a personal search but it didn’t happen.

Morizio continued to be impressed with the young Arab’s demeanor. Nothing seemed to rattle him, the same tranquil expression stayed on his face whether he was sleeping or being interrogated. It wasn’t until they approached Washington in the Eastern 727 that Morizio discerned a hint of anxiety.

“What will we do?” Hafez asked Connie.

“In Washington?” She looked across Hafez at Morizio.

“Any ideas?” Morizio asked Hafez.

He shook his head, his eyelids coming down slowly over his big brown eyes, then raising. Nuri Hafez blinked slower than anyone Morizio had ever met.

“Your apartment?” Lake said. “Mine?”

“I don’t think so, not until it’s resolved. They might have slapped another bug in them and…”

“I know where the key to the Iranian Embassy is,” said Hafez.

“The Iranian Embassy? Might make sense, Sal,” Connie said.

“Yeah, not a bad idea,” Morizio said. “We won’t be there long, just until I can dig up what Paul left. All right, the Iranian Embassy it is. That’s okay with you?” he asked Hafez.

“I suggested it.”

“Yeah, you did.” Hafez’s manner irked Morizio but he didn’t say anything.

They walked through Washington’s National Airport, grabbed a cab, and Morizio gave the driver his address in Arlington. They went immediately to his basement garage and took his Chevy Cavalier to 3005 Massachusetts Avenue, the abandoned Iranian Embassy. Morizio waited for a lull in traffic, then drove down the driveway to the rear garages and parked behind them, out of sight from the road. The key to one of the back doors was beneath a large, heavy concrete planter. Hafez moved it aside, found the key, opened the door, reached to his left until coming up with a large flashlight, switched it on, and led Morizio and Lake through the dark interior until reaching a room in the middle of the building. “This is where I stayed,” he said. “There are no windows.”

“No windows?”

Hafez explained. “Security. It is where the most important meetings took place.”

Three of the walls were red and blue ceramic tiles depicting Islamic scenes. The fourth wall, a short one,
held a large fireplace. There were ashes in it. Split logs, kindling, and a pile of newspapers were on the hearth.

Morizio flipped a wall switch. “There is no electricity,” Hafez said. “I used the flashlight and the fire.”

“What about smoke?”

“No one seemed to notice it,” Hafez said.

“I’d love a fire,” Lake said. “It’s freezing in here.”

It was cold and damp. The building had been vacant for a long time. “No one will see a fire,” Hafez repeated.

“We’d have light, too,” Lake said.

Morizio thought about it for a minute, then said, “Okay. We won’t be here long anyway.”

Hafez made the fire, and the eruption of crackling orange flames provided instant warmth and light.

“I’m hungry,” Hafez said.

“So am I,” Morizio said, “but we’re not ordering in a pizza.” He motioned for Lake to leave the room with him, taking the flashlight and leading the way. When they were far enough away to not be heard, he said, “I’ve got to get over to Piccadilly. What do you think? Can we both go, or do you think he’ll bolt?”

“I don’t think he’d do that, Sal, but why take the chance?”

“Because I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone with him.”

She touched his cheek. “Sal, I’d feel the same way except that I’ve already been in a worse situation alone with him. I really believe he’s harmless, just wants this mess over with as much as we do. I’ll be all right, believe me.”

“I wish we had a weapon. I meant to get one from the apartment but completely forgot.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine. Just be quick. Do you think Johnny’s on duty?”

“If he’s not, I’ll find out where he lives.”

“We could wait until morning, go back to one of the apartments and get some sleep.”

“You could sleep?”

She smiled. “No.”

“I’ll hurry. Just watch out for yourself.”

“I will, don’t worry.” She closed the gap between them and embraced him, her lips finding his. They remained linked for a long time. When she pulled away she said, “I love you.”

“And I love you. Maybe it’ll all work out, huh?”

“Maybe. Let’s hope. Go on, get going.”

She accompanied him to the door and he handed her the flashlight. “See you,” he said.

“Yeah, see you.”

He drove as fast as he thought he could get away with to the Piccadilly Pub. It was a disturbing period of time alone in the car. He worried about Lake being with Hafez, worried about whether he’d be able to find what Pringle had left for him and, even, whether it would provide enough answers to resolve everything. He was also acutely aware of the reversal in his life. He’d always enjoyed being a cop, riding tall on the side of law and order, nothing to hide, nothing to fear. But now, as he backparked into an empty space near Chevy Chase Circle, he felt
guilty
. He was a suspended cop working outside the same system in which he’d been so comfortable all those years. He’d prowled around London and Copenhagen like a private detective, sneaked back into his own country hoping no one would recognize him and the international fugitive he was harboring, entered through back doors of an abandoned foreign embassy like a sneak thief. He drove slowly so as not to arouse suspicion of…
the police
.

Maybe even worse was the realization that there
didn’t seem to be anyone he could trust. They’d decided on Chief Trottier, but he represented only the best of a bad bunch. He felt very much alone, except for Lake. Thank God for her, he thought. He really did love her, need her, more than ever.

Morizio had expected Piccadilly to be relatively quiet. It was, after all, Thanksgiving, families at home eating turkey and watching football, which was what he wished he was doing.

He was wrong. Piccadilly was full, mostly young people. A game was on color TV. The hostess greeted him by name as he came through the big black double doors. He grunted in reply and looked through the arch to the bar. Johnny was there, chatting with customers. “Beautiful,” he said as he headed in that direction. He stopped, turned and went to the bookcase containing the old books. There wasn’t much light; he squatted and squinted as he tried to read the titles. Some were Paul Pringle’s. Which ones? He straightened up and went to the bar.

“Hello there,” Johnny said. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” Morizio said, sliding onto a stool.

“Martini, lager?”

“Gin, on the rocks. And Johnny, I’ve got to talk to you.”

“My pleasure.” He poured Morizio’s drink, placed it in front of him, leaned his tall, angular frame over elbows on the polished bar and said, “What’s up?”

Morizio glanced right and left—the couples on either side were engrossed in their own conversations—and said, “I just learned that Paul Pringle left me something very important. Do you have it?”

“Have what?” Johnny laughed.

“I don’t know. No, strike that. Look, he put some important papers in a book. I don’t know which book it
was, or where he left it, but I’m betting on you, or the pub.”

Johnny turned serious and rubbed his chin. A customer called for a refill but was waved away. “He gave me so many books, Captain.”

“He did?”

“Well, maybe not that many, but enough. He knows…
knew
I sort of like my history, and when he had too many for his shelves he gave them away.”

“I know that, Johnny. He gave me some, too, but this one is special. Let’s narrow it down. You remember when Ambassador James was murdered?”

“Sure. They still talk about it here. The date? I don’t…”

“November Fifth. Okay, did he give you any books after that?”

“He might have. Let me see… hmmmmm… hard to recall, Captain.” His face lighted up. “Oh, sure, of course he did. In fact, he said one of them was his particular favorite. That’s right. He told me that it’s one you’d especially like, too. He kidded about it, said you’d be mad he didn’t give it to you.”

Morizio drew a deep, relieved breath and tasted his drink. Johnny took care of other customers, then returned.

“What book was that?” Morizio asked.

“The Mexican War. You know how he loved that. I never could muster up much enthusiasm but…” He laughed. “Funny fellow, Paul, always saying this book was his favorite or that one. I didn’t take it too seriously.”

“What did you do with it?”

“The book?”

“All the ones he gave you after James died. How many were there?”

“A dozen, I suppose, maybe ten. I sold them.”

Somebody snapped a big, fat rubber band inside Morizio. He picked up his glass and drained it.

“It was after he died, Captain. The missus was on my back about having all those dusty relics around the house, like Paul’s wife did with him. I figured it didn’t matter anymore, so I boxed ’em all up and sold them.”

“Jesus.”

“The man was dead, Captain. Besides, better to have them where they were appreciated. That’s what Paul would have wanted.”

Morizio didn’t want to push Johnny into a defensive corner. He smiled, said. “Give me another drink, Johnny, but don’t go away.”

Five minutes later Morizio continued the conversation. “You say you sold them. Where, at a garage sale?” He hoped not.

“No. Can’t stand them damn things. I sold them to Goldberg, the book fellow. You’ve met him here.”

“Yeah, sure, the big guy. What’s his name, Ben?”

“Right. I told him I had all these books and he said he’d love to have them. He didn’t pay much, but you know how those people are. I brought them in one day, put them in the trunk of his car and he paid me.”

“How long ago?”

“A week, maybe, maybe less, maybe a few days more. Can’t be sure.”

“Goldberg’s shop’s in Georgetown, right?”

“I think so.”

“You don’t have a card, an address?”

“Sorry, Captain, I don’t.”

“All right. Thanks, Johnny.”

“That last one’s on me.”

“Good. See you later.” He laid a five dollar bill on the bar and headed for the public phone in the foyer. He went through the Yellow Pages until finding
Goldberg,
Benjamin—Rare Books
. He dialed the number and let it ring thirty times. Nothing. He wasn’t surprised. It was Thanksgiving, but you never knew about those book collectors. They kept strange hours, did strange things.

He checked the residential listing for Benjamin Goldberg. There were a bunch, but he found one with the same address as the bookstore, probably a brownstone with the shop down, the apartment up. He called the number. This time it was picked up on the sixth ring.

“Ben Goldberg?”

“At times. Who’s this?”

“Captain Salvatore Morizio, Washington Metropolitan Police Department. We’ve met at the Piccadilly Pub.”

“Sure. So formal. How are you, Sal?”

Goldberg had obviously remembered him a lot better than the other way around. “I’m fine, but I’ve got a big problem that you can help with.”

“You want Thanksgiving dinner? We’re just finishing but you’re welcome to come over.”

“No, I don’t want a meal Mr.… Ben. What I want are the books you bought about a week ago from Johnny, the bartender at the Piccadilly.”

“The shop’s closed.”

“Open it for me. It’s official, Ben, police business involving murder.”

“Who?”

“Yours if you don’t cooperate.”

“I get the feeling this is not as official as you say it is.”

“Feel what you will, I’m telling you this is important. Nothing to worry about from your end, but I need those books. They belonged to a friend of mine who was killed, Paul Pringle, and…”