The Kills (39 page)

"That
was easy to do?"

"Well,
Farouk considered the Roosevelt family the royalty of the U.S. That was part of
his access. And also Roosevelt had a guy on his staff who had an inside
track."

"What
do you mean?"

"Kermit
Roosevelt brought with him as an aide a young Foreign Service officer who had
served in the thirties as Farouk's tutor-a brilliant guy who spoke six or seven
languages and knew more world history-"

Mike
Chapman filled in the blanks, letting out a low whistle. "Victor
Vallis."

"That's
exactly right," said Lori. "I didn't realize the CIA would have been
so cooperative and given you so much information."

Not to
worry, I thought. You called that one right. The fact that we knew an
occasional name or fact seemed to encourage her to trust us with more details.

"Apparently,
the king was very fond of Victor from the old days-they were practically the
same age, and he treated his old tutor like a brother. Gave him the run of the
palace."

"Knowing
he was CIA?"

"Oh,
no. Believing that he just held some low-level post, the kind a
tutor-cum-grad-student would land the first few times out. This Vallis fellow
lived virtually inside the royal quarters, had an apartment of his own
there."

"Talk
about access and opportunity," Mercer said.

"So
the CIA," I asked, "did they support Farouk's reign?"

Lori
Alvino shook her head. "Not for long. FDR had two goals. He needed Egypt
as a democratic stronghold in the Middle East, since the rest of the region was
so susceptible to communism. And he was among the first to recognize the
importance of Arab oil to fuel the American economy. Farouk? He was a loose
cannon, and the Americans realized they couldn't control him."

"So
the U.S. funded the Egyptian coup? We backed General Nasser and Anwar
Sadat?"

She
pursed her lips. "Not with guns and tanks and planes. Simply with the
promise that if their coup was successful, the Americans would not step in to
save the king."

"And
when the time came?"

"Nasser's
rebels took over the Egyptian army, closed the airfields so Farouk couldn't
escape on one of his private planes, and held his royal yacht in dry dock. The
king himself called the embassy to get Truman to intercede on his behalf-by
then FDR was long dead-but the president refused to do it. His enemies sent him
off into exile-with seventy pieces of luggage rumored to be packed with gold
ingots and hidden jewels. The Americans never lifted a hand to help King
Farouk."

"But
the rebels let him live," Mike said.

"Nasser
was no fool. He didn't want to risk a civil war, or make Farouk a martyr by killing
him," Lori said.

"Do
the math," Mike said. "Farouk had a five-hundred-room palace,
chock-full of priceless treasures. Best guess is he beats it out of town with
all those suitcases and pockets full of goodies. The rest that got left
behind-maybe four hundred rooms' worth of stuff-who got it all?"

Lori
shrugged. "Some of it was auctioned by Sotheby's. Some of it was taken by
the rebel soldiers-all his great racehorses-and everything from his cigar
collection to some of his pornography showed up at Nasser's headquarters."

"The
CIA was in on that?" I asked.

"At
some levels, sure. The stories were legendary. Somebody seen sipping a martini
at Shepheard's Bar in Cairo, pulling out a cigarette lighter with Farouk's
initials; or a young agent coming home to the States with a unique assortment
of Confederate coins, which happened to have been a hallmark of the king's
collection-that kind of thing."

"Nobody
called on the carpet for any of it?"

"Hard
to do. Most of them would just say the items had been a gift from the king.
Awfully tough to prove otherwise, after time went by."

"And
Victor Vallis, any stories about him, about what he took out of the
palace?"

"Odd
guy, the tutor. Didn't seem to be interested in all the glitz around him. He
was a scholar. Nobody worried about what he took, because he asked first."

"Asked
what?"

"He
wanted letters, correspondence, government missives. He was a paper man.
Probably could have filled his shoes with gold, too, but apparently he didn't.
Said he was going to write a book about Farouk, but I'm not sure he ever did.
He moved out of the palace days after the king went into exile, and Nasser let
him take boxes of documents with him, assuming the CIA was glad to see the old
boy out of the country, too."

Mercer was
still puzzling over all the names involved. "Harry Strait," he asked,
"was he with the CIA?"

"Oh,
no. One of our own. The very best. I'm sure Mr. Stark told you what an amazing
job Harry did getting back the stray Double Eagles. Pure Secret Service."

"Did
he have a son?"

"Harry?
Never married. One of those guys whose whole life was the service."

"You've
been very gracious with your information, Lori," I said. I didn't want to
reveal to her how tight the CIA had been in response to our efforts to get files
on Vallis, Tripping, and Strait. But a deposed Egyptian king was a different
story. "It's hard to imagine that half a century after this coup, the CIA
still considers Farouk's files a matter of national security, isn't it? It's
been hard to get the facts we need on all this."

"Ten
years in exile, doin' as the Romans do," Mike said. "Wine, women, and
song. Fat and happy. Has his last supper, smokes a big fat cigar, and then
croaks at the dinner table. When you think of the fates of a lot of
monarchs-from the guillotine to the firing squad-all in all, not a bad way for
the king to die."

"That's
just the official version, Mike," Lori Alvino told him. "That's the
way the newspapers played it. The fact is, Mr. Homicide Detective, King Farouk
was murdered."

"What
the Romans needed, Mike, was a good homicide cop," Lori said. "They
rolled over on this one, big-time."

He was
standing at the window, looking at the traffic going eastbound over the
Brooklyn Bridge. I knew what he was thinking, because I was trying to make the
same kinds of connections. What was it that linked the unnatural death of an
Egyptian king in Rome back in 1965 to the murders in New York City, in the last
few days, of a Harlem dancer and the daughter of a former CIA operative?
"How'd it happen?" Mike asked.

"Most
of what you know from history books and old newspaper stories is true. The man
weighed almost four hundred pounds. He smoked like a fiend, and took medication
for high blood pressure. Went out for dinner at a fancy restaurant, in full
view of a big crowd."

"Something
on the menu he wasn't expecting?"

"Let
me remember," she said. "I think he had a dozen oysters, a nice rich
lobster Newburg, followed by roast baby lamb, with about six side dishes, and
flaming crêpe suzettes for dessert. He lit up his Havana, and in front of
a roomful of spectators, his head fell onto the table and he dropped
dead."

"Cause
of death at autopsy?"

"What
autopsy?" Lori Alvino asked. "That's the whole point. Nobody ordered
an autopsy. The king died of excess, they said at the time. A cerebral
hemorrhage. It seemed so obvious that people didn't question it."

"But
in fact?" Mercer asked.

Lori
Alvino rested her chin in her hands, propped up by her elbows, telling us what
she knew was in the official files. "There's a poison called alacontin.
Ever hear of it?"

None of
us had.

"Tasteless,
odorless. Causes cardiac arrest immediately, but wouldn't show up in an
autopsy."

"Why
not?"

"Ask
your docs how the drug works. I just read the reports, I don't do the
forensics."

"No,
I mean why no autopsy?" I asked.

"On
the orders of the Italian Secret Service."

"There's
an Italian Secret Service?" Mike asked. "That's got to be as
effective as the Swiss navy."

"Easy,
Detective," Lori said. "I've got paisans over there."

"Now
we're talking 1965," Mercer said. "Who wanted Farouk dead at that
point? He'd been in exile for more than ten years by then."

"Pick
your leaders. Some say the poisoner was working for the Egyptians. In a decade,
Nasser had gone from being a dashing rebel to a socialist dictator. Loyal
Egyptians talked of restoring the monarchy, bringing home the exiled leader.
Farouk's death would have been a gift to Nasser from his supporters."

"Who
else?"

"The
Americans, of course. And the English," Lori said. I reminded myself that
Peter Robelon's father had also been a British agent in Europe during that
period.

"Why
them? Why us?"

"Because
things had not gone as planned with Nasser. Our CIA and the British
intelligence agency thought, quite wrongly, that the young general was going to
be more malleable than Farouk had been. But he wasn't."

"Then
why would
we
hurt Farouk?"

"A
lot of government people thought, at the time, that Nasser would be ousted and
the Egyptian monarchy would be restored. The Brits wanted their old outpost
again in Cairo."

"So
why not put a king back on the throne, and control him?" I asked.

"You
got it. But Farouk hadn't worked the first time around. Now he was older, still
very undisciplined, and totally unacceptable to the Western leaders. His son,
however, was the perfect candidate."

Of
course, I remembered. After Farouk had lost interest in Queenie, he had sired a
son with his young second wife.

"The
boy was only a teenager, so he would need guidance from the British and
American delegations, they figured. And he'd be very appealing to the Egyptian
masses as a return of the last ruling dynasty. The U.S. could prop him up on
the throne and we'd all be back in business."

"So
Farouk's death could have been a first step in our Allied plan to regain
control of the territory, rather than a gift to Nasser from his own
followers?"

"It
works either way," Lori said.

"So
now, Farouk is killed, in Rome," Mercer said. "And what became of all
the treasures he had taken there?"

Lori
Alvino didn't answer.

"C'mon,
Lori, too late to stop talking to us now," Mike said. "The CIA?"

"Or
the British Secret Service. Or even the Italian Secret Service. There were
enough slices of Farouk's pie for everyone to get a handful."

"I'm
thinking," Mike said, "about how that Double Eagle got to Egypt in
the first place."

"What
do you mean?" I asked.

"In
a diplomatic pouch. What could be a more foolproof way to move something
valuable around the continent, or between continents? Who would know what's
inside the little bag? What if the Double Eagle also left Italy in a government
pouch?"

"I
hate to remind you two," Mercer said. "But the coin that Mr. Stark
sold in 2002 was the only one left like it in the entire world."

"That's
the one I'm talking about, too," Mike said. "The one Farouk had since
1944-the one in Stark's auction in 2002. What are our choices? The king left it
in Egypt when he was deposed, then someone found it and sold it to the British
dealer. Lori here says that's not likely."

He looked
to her for a sign of agreement and he got it.

"An
American CIA agent sat on the nest in Cairo, after the fat man fled," Mike
went on. "Someone who knew where to locate the coin, someone who had
access to the palace. Other people forgot about the little piece of gold over
time, because of all the turmoil in the region, and eventually our guy brought
it out on the black market."

Lori
picked up on the possibilities. "Maybe the Italian authorities who cleaned
out his apartment in Rome found the coin. Maybe even the British agents, who
continued to keep a close watch on him all his life. Lots of people have
theories about the whereabouts of the precious little object for the fifty
years it was missing, but the fact is that no one knows for sure."

I glanced
at my watch, as the sky darkened over the East River. "I'm sorry to break
this up. It's been most useful for us. I'm afraid I'm taking a couple of days
off, and I've got a flight to catch out of La Guardia."

"Let
me know what you need, Alex," Lori said. "Nobody's going to open
those CIA files of Farouk's anytime soon. There was too much backstabbing and
betrayal in play. None of the officials looks good, in hindsight."

We
thanked her for the time and information, and I called a car service to meet me
outside the building and drive me to the airport.

The three
of us were talking over each other as we stepped into the elevator. Fortunately
for us, no one else was aboard.

"McQueen
Ransome, Paige Vallis, Andrew Tripping," I said, listing off some of the
cast of characters. "They're all tied up with Farouk or the Middle
East."

"You
got Paige's father, Robelon's father, some nutcase calling himself Harry
Strait," Mike added. "
Bam.
More
Farouk."

I went
on. "Graham Hoyt fancies himself a collector, on a smaller scale than
Farouk, but with obvious delusions of grandeur. Spike Logan gained the
confidence of Queenie-enough to wind up with a few expensive gifts that he knew
came from Farouk, and a penchant to go hunting for more after she died."

"Nobody,"
I said softly, "nobody can really tell us how many Double Eagles were
stolen. Ten? That's only the best guess. That's only the ones that were
identified and recovered."

"You're
dreaming big, blondie. And you're missing the point. Even so, even if you found
a dozen of them on the floor of Queenie's closet, they were never monetized.
Worthless. They're not legal. You heard Bernard Stark. You can't even get
twenty bucks for them. Only the one that was auctioned in 2002 was monetized
for Farouk."

"But
the killer might not know that," I said.

"Yeah,
but-"

"Just
suppose, Mike. If I heard that a Double Eagle sold for seven million dollars,
and I knew where to find another piece that was identical to it, it would never
occur to me that it wasn't a legitimate coin. Maybe I'd still move heaven and
earth to get my greedy little hands on one."

The car
service driver was outside the building, flashers blinking, with the company
name and car number displayed on a plate in the windshield.

"Why'd
you call for this? I would have driven you to the airport," Mike said.

"I
took you away from Val long enough last night. You don't need to chauffeur me
around. Call me if anything breaks, guys, okay? I'll be home by the
weekend."

I got in
the car, slammed the door, and sat back for the slow trip over the bridge and
out the BQE to La Guardia.

"U.S.
Airways terminal, please."

"What
time's your flight, lady?"

"Six-fifteen."

"You
live dangerously. Cutting it mighty close. I'll do my best."

When I
reached the check-in counter it was almost six o'clock. I showed my photo ID
and e-ticket. "We've had some weather delays, ma'am. Your aircraft is
coming in from Pittsburgh a bit late. We won't be boarding for another
hour."

"How
does it look on the Vineyard end?"

The small
airfield on the Vineyard gets socked in regularly, subject to all the weather
variables of an island surrounded by both cold ocean waters and warmer bays.
You couldn't be a Vineyarder if you were unable to cope with the likelihood of
getting stranded at an airport because of summer fog or winter storms.

"They've
got a minimum ceiling now," she said. "If the visibility holds,
you'll get in fine. Stick around the boarding area. They'll try to turn the
plane around pretty quickly."

I went
through security and down the concourse to the departure gate. There were only
three other passengers waiting for the nineteen-seat Beechcraft. I looked for a
quiet place from which to make a call and settled into a corner with my cell
phone.

I checked
my office for messages, and my home machine as well. Jake had called both
places, trying to find out whether I was holding to my plan of flying to the
country. Assistants had phoned in updates of the cases on which they were
working, and friends had left snippets of social gossip to lighten my spirits.
The last voice mail, only fifteen minutes earlier, was from Will Nedim. He had
finished his first interview with Tiffany Gatts.

"Will?
It's Alex. I'm calling from the airport, on my cell. Can you hear me?"

"So
far, so good."

"Everything
go as planned with Tiffany? You run into any problems?"

"She's
a piece of work, Alex. But I guess you knew that."

"Happy
to leave her in your lap. I've got all the aggravation I need right now. Did
you get anything from her?"

"I
think she's ready to roll over and give up the boyfriend, Kevin Bessemer."

"That's
a huge step. How'd you get her there?" I asked.

"Don't
give me any of the credit. She hates being in the slammer. She's only sixteen,
remember? It doesn't exactly seem fair to her that it was Kevin's idea to go
break into Queenie's apartment, and now he's running around free, while she's
locked up behind bars."

"Does
she know where Kevin is?"

"She's
not sure. He hasn't signed up for visiting hours yet, so except for her mama's
hand-holding, it's lonely in the jailhouse. There's a piece of Tiffany that
wants to Tammy Wynette him," Will said. "Stand by her man and all
that. But her resolve is definitely weakening, and it isn't helped any by the
fact that two of the other prisoners beat the crap out of her the other day
because she wanted to watch Oprah while they were tuned in to Judge Judy."

"How
about specifics, Will? Did you try to squeeze her on what she and Kevin did to
Queenie, and why they killed her?"

"I've
seen you interrogate teenage girls, Alex, and maybe I'm just not as tough on
them as you can be. But I'm leaning toward believing her."

"About
what?" I asked.

"Tiffany
is absolutely adamant that McQueen Ransome was already dead when they got to
the apartment. I couldn't budge her from that story no matter which way I came
at her. She describes exactly how the old lady looked when they went in, how
the drawers were pulled out of the dressers and cabinets, with her belongings
all messed up."

I didn't
speak.

"Don't
be pissed off at me, Alex. Doesn't what the kid says mean anything?"

"That's
certainly the way Queenie's body-and the apartment-looked when Tiffany left it.
Whether that's what she walked into, I guess time will tell. Did she admit
stealing anything?"

"Well,
the fur coat."

Good job,
Will. It would be hard to lose that larceny count at a trial. "Anything
else?"

"She
said Kevin found some things on the floor that were silver and had initials on
them. Like cigarette lighters and tie clips. There were a lot of old
snapshots-Tiffany said they were 'pictures of naked ladies.' Kevin helped
himself to those."

So much
for the pornographic photos. "But she didn't pick anything up?"

"Said
she scooped up some coins from the closet floor, but they all had foreign
writing on them that she couldn't understand, so she just dropped them back on
the floor where they had been. Didn't think she could spend them on Adam
Clayton Powell Boulevard. And one other photograph she said that must have
fallen off the night table, right next to Queenie's body."

"What
did she do with that?" I asked.

"Tiffany
thought she had it in her pocketbook when she got locked up. Thinks the police
gave the bag to her mother when she came to the station house after the
arrest."

"Does
it sound like a photo of anything we need?"

"Nah.
She can't even explain why she took it. It's the deceased-McQueen Ransome-and a
young boy. Like an adolescent. Tiffany called him 'a little white boy.' She
thought he looked real pretty."

"Could
be Queenie and her son, Fabian. She had lots of pictures of him in the apartment.
Guess we ought to get it if we can, to corroborate her story. And to make sure
we didn't miss anything else in the handbag. Give Helena Lisi a call and ask
her to have Mrs. Gatts bring it in," I said.

"I
forgot to tell you yesterday. You know, when I was talking to you while Mr.
Battaglia was in your office? I could tell you were trying to get me off the
phone," Will said with a nervous giggle. "Helena Lisi doesn't
represent Tiffany anymore."

"Well,
lucky you. That should make your life easier. Who's her new lawyer?"

"Josh
Braydon."

"Big
step up. Maybe you'll get some real cooperation now. Did Lisi put up a fight
when the family fired her?" I asked. "Hope she got her money up
front. Mrs. Gatts is in for quite a struggle if she thinks Helena Lisi won't
kick back and scream for her retainer."