Senator Love (8 page)

"This is Detective Fiona FitzGerald," Monte said.
"You remember her, Mr. Ambassador."

"I do," he muttered.

Turning, she could see him in the reflection of light from
the neon Seven-Eleven sign. It cast a green pall over all of them, making them
seem like frozen victims of some exotic catastrophe, like a poison gas attack.

"We've filled her in, Mr. Ambassador," Monte
said.

"Nothing official?"

"Absolutely not, Mr. Ambassador," Monte said,
cutting a glance at Fiona for confirmation. "She's merely acting as my
friend and advisor."

"I feel ridiculous," the Ambassador said in his
Austrian accent, speckled with British pronunciations.

"Her passport, Mr. Ambassador?" Fiona asked with
some sense of urgency. "Is it still in your residence?"

"Yes," he said. "That was my first thought,
too."

"He knows everything?" she asked Monte.

"Just about," Monte said. He turned toward the
Ambassador. "We deemed the stakes too high for secrets." It was, she
knew, an ambivalent word, with too many meanings for precision.

"So you see the problem here, Detective
FitzGerald," the Ambassador said. She wanted to ask him deeply personal
things like how he could ignore, and possibly sanction, his wife having a love
affair with another man in their official circle.

It occurred to her that he might have actually encouraged
the liaison for his own political reasons, as if the beautiful Helga were a
kind of bribe, a sexual favor offered in exchange. For what, she wondered.
Except for the Waldheim flap, Austria seemed so benign, so distant from
American political machinations. Nevertheless, she made a mental note to find
out what committees Sam Langford served on. Again she thought of the remains of
Betty Taylor. Cates had spent the day on the Hill checking on the Committee
that had employed the unfortunate woman.

"Detective FitzGerald has just explained to us, Mr.
Ambassador, that any missing report would go into a data bank, accessible to
any official group."

"Internationally as well?"

"Of course. In the case of your wife, Interpol will
hop on it. Not that this means that anything will be done. Although in this
case, the impetus will be there. For the press as well."

"It will be like being up against a firing
squad," Bunkie muttered.

"Wonderful," the Ambassador said gloomily. He had
lowered his head. Suddenly he looked up and turned to Bunkie. "For your
Senator as well." In the darkness, she could see Bunkie's eyes, which
seemed to suck the greenish light into them. It made him look ominous, hateful.
Iago thwarted, she thought suddenly. His aura stank of resentment. Incompetent
strangers, he must be thinking, had pissed on his dream.

"You never had words over this ... this affair ...
with your wife?" Fiona asked.

"Angry words?"

Fiona nodded.

"No." He sighed. "We have a rather unique
marriage."

"Did she have any other lovers?"

"I doubt it. She genuinely adored the Senator."

"She told you this?"

"Of course."

Gamey stuff, Fiona thought. Maybe it was a turn-on for both
of them.

"Wasn't this ... politically speaking ... the affair
itself ... dangerous?"

She marveled at his value system. Was it decadence or
naiveté?

"One expects discretion in these things," he said
simply. "It is the danger that provides the interest."

She stole a glance at Monte, whose eyes looked upward in
exasperation.

"Did you know about Mr. Farrington's visit?"
Fiona asked.

"Yes," the Ambassador said.

"Your wife told you?"

"Yes."

She turned to Bunkie.

"Did you know she told her husband?"

"Not until he told me," Bunkie said.

"Did the Senator know?"

"We keep him out of this," Bunkie said. He talked
in the direction of Monte. "Leastwise you could have clued her in."

"The point is we, the Ambassador and us, are in it
together," Monte explained. "Everything is on the table now."

"Allies for the common good," Fiona said, hoping
her revulsion didn't show. Self-interest makes strange bedfellows, she knew. It
was a cliché of the political life. Unfortunately the human side of it was
repelling.

Helga's elegant question-mark posture materialized in her
mind. She saw her bejeweled and graceful as she danced, melding into the body
of Sam Langford, gliding with him in a sensual pas de deux. If it was love you
wanted, lady, you should have steered clear, she told her silently, remembering
her own titillation.

"Have you checked everywhere?" Fiona asked the
Ambassador. "Friends? Relatives? Even acquaintances?"

"I have been on the phone for twenty-four hours. I've
used every euphemism I know, stretching discretion to its furthest point. I
have racked my brains for some sign of this action coming. Anything. There was
simply nothing to predict this. No harsh words. No subtle hints. Yes, we went
our separate ways. Our only rule was discretion. We understood our
responsibilities completely. I am absolutely certain that Mr. Farrington's
explanation was accepted with total understanding. We are quite mature about
these things. The fact is that I'm baffled. She had no reason to disappear. Not
on her own."

"When did you see her last?"

"I told you. Yesterday morning."

"When?"

"At breakfast."

"How was she dressed?"

"Her dressing gown."

"What did you talk about?"

He thought for a moment.

"Events of the day," the Ambassador said.
"We read the papers at breakfast."

"How do you read them?"

She was trying to get a picture of that last moment of his
observation.

"I start with the
New York Times
. She starts
with the
Washington Post
. We sit in the breakfast room. Our cook serves
us and leaves. We have a pleasant view of the garden through a bay
window."

"Now you're getting it," Fiona said.

"What sections does she read first?"

"Style. Women love the style section. My wife is a
social animal. She likes to read the party coverage, the reviews. I have to
read the more serious material. The editorials, for example."

"Does she read the more serious material?"

"Not often."

"Is this important?" Bunkie asked.

"Probably. She is a trained interrogator," Monte
said.

"I don't mind. Really," the Ambassador said. He
was quiet for a moment and she let him think.

"I'm trying to get you to remember that last moment.
What was on her mind?"

"Real estate," he said suddenly. "Real
estate was on her mind. It is a topic of conversation in Washington, the value
of real estate. The extraordinary appreciation. She was thinking of investing
in real estate." He paused again. "Yes. She always read the
classified for the real estate."

"Had she made any investments?"

"Actually, no. But she was interested. Occasionally
she mentioned having gone to look at something." He shrugged. "You
see, the wife of an Ambassador has a problem. She cannot work, except as a
volunteer. In Austria she owned a fashion boutique, but sold it when we
married. She liked the idea of travel, the diplomatic life, but she was an
active woman. She had a head for business. Real estate interested her." He
nodded. "Yes, I remember. She did read the real estate classified
yesterday morning as well."

"And then?"

"I left the table, showered, dressed and went off to
the Embassy."

"You never saw her again that day? Or spoke to her on
the phone?"

"No. It was quite a busy day."

"You don't know where she went?"

"No. Nor did any of the servants."

"She didn't take the car?"

"No."

"Have you found her wallet? Do you know what she
wore?"

"I did not find her wallet. And, frankly, I did not
keep track of her clothes. She went out. That is evident. Then she
disappeared."

She heard the rain dancing on the car roof, Monte breathing
heavily beside her.

"Sometimes we never know what motivates people,"
Fiona said. "Even those we love most."

"I think she just got fed up about something,"
Bunkie interrupted, "and decided to jump ship. Maybe she had it up to here
with everyone. With all of us. Maybe the only person she was comfortable with
was herself. She'll either come back in her own time or she won't. Doesn't mean
we have to call out the cavalry."

Despite her distaste for Bunkie, he appeared to have the
most logical attitude on the subject. Never trouble trouble till trouble
troubles you.

"Got the picture, Fi?" Monte asked.

Like a half-developed Polaroid, she thought. There were
unseen complexities here. Wheels within wheels.

"Who else knew?" she asked. Kessel and Bunkie
exchanged glances, revealing a commonality that had escaped her. Was it a
subtle conspiracy? Or simply the kinship of fear? No explanation necessary. They
knew what she meant.

"No one," the Ambassador said. "Only
me."

"That's difficult to do," Fiona pressed.
"People observe. They have eyes." She shot a glance at Bunkie.
"Where did they see each other?"

"My place," Bunkie said.

"There are neighbors, repair people, delivery
men."

"Is this relevant?" the Ambassador asked.

"I'm not sure."

"Then why ask?" Bunkie snarled.

"Because it's important," Monte snapped.

"Okay, you want to know," Bunkie said with
exasperation. "We had this routine. I have one of these garages.
Electronic doors. I picked her up in different places. I got this one-way
reflective glass in my car. No one can see in. I just drove her into the
garage. The Senator walked the two blocks. They did what they did and I picked
her up and dropped her off."

She looked at Kessel, who showed no reaction.

"You really had it down," Fiona said with
grudging admiration.

"Bunkie thinks of everything," Monte said with
sarcasm.

"Politics teaches. Remember Gary Hart," Bunkie
said.

"If it was such a good system why stop?" Fiona
asked Bunkie, who ejected a bitter laugh.

"When the media turns on its brights, even the
cockroaches scramble," Bunkie said. "Nobody's perfect. Everybody gets
careless. Worse, they were beginning to have ideas."

"Romantic notions?"

"More or less."

"You saw that?"

"Part of the job," he said with surly arrogance.

Again she looked at Kessel. Again no reaction.

"And did you also see that?" she asked Kessel,
only gently.

"She is a romantic," the Ambassador said.
"But, above all, practical. She also understood the security aspects. I am
certain she told no one."

"Surely they used the telephone," Fiona said.
"Embassies are often tapped."

"We have a safe line," the Ambassador said,
showing the briefest glimpse of international intrigue. It crossed her mind
that perhaps the Ambassador and his lady had conspired in this for reasons that
had more to do with the relations between governments than people. In that case
others surely knew. Many others. Intelligence agencies and their ubiquitous
agents. The CIA. Fantastic scenarios suggested themselves.

"Maybe your government was tapping," Fiona said.

"I am quite sophisticated about these matters,
Detective FitzGerald." She saw his face flicker into a small smile.
"Security is sometimes a double-edged sword for a diplomat. It can
actually strengthen the ramparts of discretion. Mrs. Kessel was also
sophisticated in this and I assure you that I had no knowledge of the mechanics
of her liaisons. Nor would I inquire. She was free to indulge as long as it did
not interfere with my mission or our marriage."

"Sounds like a conflict of terms," Fiona said.

"I know," the Ambassador answered. "But you
would be surprised how common such arrangements are."

Not as much surprised as offended, she offered silently. By
rights, considering her experiences with politics and the police and the social
hurly-burly of the Washington high-life, she should have been more jaded, more
cynical, more tolerant of such oblique values. It surprised her that she
wasn't. Happily so, she told herself.

"What about Nell Langford?" she asked, wondering
how truly accepting Little Nell might be of such an arrangement.

"I told you. Nell suspected everyone. Came with the
turf," Bunkie said. "But she could never know. Not really know."
He paused and sucked in a deep breath. "What you see is what you
get."

There were reasons for these questions, she told herself,
although she resisted the full amplification to herself. Of course she knew
that she was triggering greater anxieties, perhaps preparing them for the
worst.

"So you're all saying that nobody other than you truly
knew the score?"

"Now you," Bunkie said.

Beside her, Monte stirred.

"So what do you think we should do, Fi?" he
asked.

"I know what you can't do," she said. She turned
to the Ambassador. "Aside from the emotional trauma, the not knowing, I
think the best course is to wait. No sense stirring the sleeping dogs."
She paused, letting the message sink in. Wait for what? they surely were
speculating. She had the answer to that, but she held off for the moment.

"We didn't need you to tell us that," Bunkie
said.

She looked at the Ambassador. "Ever happen
before?"

"Never."

"Is she the kind of woman who might do this ... well,
for the sake of annoyance?"

"No," the Ambassador shot back. "Not Helga.
She is not a woman who could indulge in recrimination."

"What about for fun? To tweak you all."

"Not Helga."

"Would Helga do anything if ... if she were
hurt?"

He made a strange sound, a kind of joyless laugh.