Murder on Embassy Row (15 page)

He returned the antibugging device to Surveillance, then went to a local greasy spoon for coffee. He told her that from now on she was to stay away from anything having to do with Geoffrey James and Paul Pringle.

“I’m already in up to my throat,” she said.

“But it hasn’t reached the nose and mouth yet.”

“What about you, Sal? You should get out, too. Maybe if we just forget it from now on nobody will care.”

“Maybe, but I can’t walk away, Connie. I just don’t want you hurt.”

“Can I make that decision?”

“Could I stop you? Sure, I can. I’m your boss. You do what I tell you to do.”

“All right, then give me a direct order.”

“You’ve got it.”

She stirred the muddy bottom of her cup, laid the spoon on the Formica tabletop, and said, “I’ve learned a lot from you, Captain Morizio.”

“Good.”

“Yup, I sure have, and one of the lessons you’ve taught me is that sometimes people have to disobey orders for their soul.”

“Don’t give me a hard time, Connie.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Come on, I have a meeting to go to.”

“So do I,” he said as they walked to the cashier’s desk. “There’s a semiannual luncheon of the Washington, D.C. Diplomatic Gourmet Society. Geoffrey James was a past president. They’re tasting caviar, and foie gras.”

“Sal,” she said, holding out her upturned hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Stay away.”

“Not this gourmet. I love caviar and foie gras.”

“You hate them both,” she said as they stepped out to the sidewalk.

“I’ve developed a taste. Besides, I should keep in touch with the nation’s capital’s diplomatic corps. It’s my job to protect them.”

“Send me,” she said, laughing for the first time since the previous day. “I really like caviar and foie gras.”

“Get a bologna sandwich for lunch. I’ll see you later.”

The meeting of the Washington, D.C. Diplomatic Gourmet Society was held in a private room at the Watergate Hotel. Morizio took with him two uniformed members of his force; might as well make the visit look official.

He approached a woman seated outside the function room. She was tall, slender, and well dressed, about fifty he judged, one of a legion of Washington women who pass their days at social events. He introduced himself and asked who was in charge.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

Morizio smiled. “No, ma’am, just routine.”

“You’d better see Mr. Nordkild,” she said. “He’s inside. Would you like me to take you to him?”

“No, I know him. Thanks anyway.” He told his men to take up positions in the small reception area and went in search of Nordkild.

It was early; the affair wasn’t scheduled to start until noon and it was quarter of twelve. A few guests were gathered around an elaborately set horseshoe of tables. A small bar was in a corner. They were out of central casting,
Morizio thought, diplomats through and through, suits dark and immaculately tailored, shoes shined but not too glossy, drinks held as though the glasses were natural extensions of their arms. Berge Nordkild was not cut out of the same mold, however, although his clothing was obviously expensive. That was the problem with being overweight, Morizio mused. No matter how much you spent for a suit it never looked right. Nordkild might have shelled out big money for the suit he wore but it still looked like something Pinky Lee might have worn. It had very wide lapels, was doublebreasted and was a greenish plaid that could have caused seasickness if you stared at it long enough.

“Mr. Nordkild, could I speak with you for a minute?” Morizio said.

Nordkild, whose back was to Morizio as he accepted a drink from a black bartender, turned, squinted, and said, “Captain Morizio, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Drink?”

“Sure. I have a lousy head cold.”

Nordkild laughed, sending his suit into a green tidal wave. “Nothing like good whiskey for what ails you. Scotch?”

“Yeah, that’ll be fine.”

They walked to an unoccupied corner of the room where a folding screen shielded serving pieces and glassware from the guests. Morizio said, “I have a couple of uniformed officers outside.” He tasted his drink and said, “Beats penicillin. Look, the reason I brought them is that with all the recent threats against diplomatic personnel around the world, we’ve decided to beef up security whenever a group of diplomats like this gets together. Better safe than sorry.”

“Has there been a threat against us today, a bomb?”

“No, just preventative medicine.” He grinned and sipped more Scotch.

“As you wish, Captain,” said Nordkild. “Will you be staying?”

“I hadn’t planned on it but I will, if it’s okay with you.”

“Love to have you, as I’m sure the members of the club will feel. Actually, I am not a member of this special group, but I do cater their meetings. I’m an honorary member of sorts, a diplomat without passport.”

“But good caviar gets you through Customs.”

“Exactly.”

Nordkild twisted the ends of his mustache and said, “I assure you you’ll find the quality of today’s caviar superior to what we had at our lunch, and the foie gras is absolutely spectacular. Come refill your glass and I’ll introduce you around.”

“I know a lot of these people,” Morizio said as he followed Nordkild to the bar. “My job.”

“Of course, but some are undoubtedly strangers. Frankly, we end up with too many lower level embassy personnel and their female guests, usually secretaries they’re trying to impress for obvious reasons.”

Morizio laughed and looked around the room. More guests had arrived, some of whom were not quite so clearly cut from the diplomatic cloth, and who gave credence to what Nordkild had said. One, in particular, captured his attention, a short, stocky Arab dressed in an ill-fitting gray wool suit. He’d already heaped his plate with caviar, foie gras, and other delicacies from the table. Morizio had assumed there’d be some sort of ritual to the tasting, an order of events, but the Arab proved him wrong. Obviously, the name of the game was to eat as fast and as much as you could. He
mentioned it to Nordkild, who replied, “We call these gatherings tastings, but in reality they are nothing more than an excuse to fill bellies with expensive food. Besides, labeling these gatherings ‘tastings’ make the members feel like gourmets. They like that.”

Morizio appreciated Nordkild’s candor and cynicism. He asked who the Arab was.

“Sami Abdu,” Nordkild said. “He was a journalist in Iran until the Ayatollah took over. He was lucky to escape with his head, as I understand it.”

Morizio recognized Abdu’s name from the guest list of James’s party. He told Nordkild, “I’ve heard of him. I’d like to meet him. He’s supposed to have some good stories about Iran.”

“Then allow me to introduce you,” said Nordkild. “By the way, Captain, anything new on your investigation of Ambassador James’s death?”

“Nope, not a thing.”

“I was shocked to read about the brutal murder of that fellow from the embassy, Pringle. That was his name, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you think there is any connection between the two deaths?”

“We looked into that but came up a cropper. Evidently, they were two totally unrelated incidents.”

“I suppose that’s good from your perspective.”

“Yeah, having a conspiracy on our hands would complicate things.”

Nordkild introduced Morizio to Abdu, then excused himself. Abdu suggested that Morizio get food before it disappeared, which made Morizio smile. If the food were going to disappear, it would be into the Abdu’s stomach. He was already on his second overflowing plate.

Morizio went to the table and chose what he thought he could get down—tiny shrimp in a green sauce, thinly sliced Scottish salmon with capers and onion, wedges of toast intended for use with caviar, and just enough caviar and foie gras to make it look as though he was “with it.” He rejoined Abdu and said, “I understand you’re lucky to be standing here.”

The Arab raised his eyebrows.

“The situation in Iran. My friends tell me you were lucky to get out alive.”

“Oh, yes, that is true, but it is far enough in the past for me to have forgotten about it.”

“Sorry I brought it up,” Morizio said. He tasted his food, then said, “I’m sure you’ve kept up with the murder of Ambassador James.”

“Yes, I read about it, and some of my press colleagues discuss it from time to time. Are you the officer in charge of that investigation?”

Morizio shook his head. “No, MPD has no official connection with the case. It happened in an embassy, which makes it strictly embassy business.”

Abdu shrugged and took a large forkful of foie gras. “It depends upon how an embassy views it, does it not? When the Russian was found hanged in his embassy, they called your police force and invited you to investigate.”

“That’s right, but every embassy handles things differently. The British chose not to.” Again, Morizio asked himself why it hadn’t. He said, “I became fascinated with Ambassador James’s Iranian valet, Nuri Hafez. You’re Iranian, Mr. Abdu. What do you think about Hafez being arrested in Iran and facing a trial there for James’s murder?”

Abdu ran his fingers over pockmarked skin while thinking of an answer. Finally, he said, “I would not
want to be in that young man’s shoes. The Ayatollah doesn’t care about the death of a British Ambassador, but he must make a show. He will behead him.”

“I don’t believe he’s there.”

“Hafez? In Iran? Why do you question it?”

“Why don’t you?”

Abdu chewed his cheek and suppressed a grin. “I suppose because I choose to believe rather than to question?”

“A journalist?”

“A survivor.”

“Will Hafez have a trial?”

“Of course not. If the Ayatollah wishes to make a gesture to the Western world by executing Nuri Hafez, then that is what he will do. The Iranian way of life is different from Washington, D.C.” He wiped up the last few grains of caviar from his plate, licked his lips, and said, “You must try the pressed sevruga, Captain. The berries that are damaged during processing are compressed into caviar jelly. Many gourmets consider it the finest, and I list myself among them. It is, after all, the same caviar but in a different form. It spreads so nicely on the toast.”

Morizio went to the table and looked into a bowl of pressed caviar. It looked to him like blackberry jam. He smeared some on a triangle of toast while Abdu filled his plate to the edges. Morizio asked, “Do you know anything about Nuri Hafez’s background?”

“I knew his family in Iran.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Nuri was the black sheep of the family. He went to work for the British Embassy and had little to do with his family after that except for his older brother, Ahmad.”

Morizio stopped eating and looked at Abdu. “You sound as though you knew the family pretty well.”

“Oh, yes, although I lost touch with them toward the end. This must have been a terrible blow to them, to have their youngest son arrested for murder. We are a proud people, Captain, and this is a disgrace that the family will never overcome.”

“Did you know anything about Nuri’s dealings with Ambassador James?”

“No, only that he had become… how shall we say it… ‘indispensable’?…”

“To the ambassador?”

“Yes. He was a very ambitious young man.”

Morizio had the feeling that Abdu knew more about Nuri Hafez than he was willing to divulge. He put down his plate, finished his Scotch, and said to Abdu, “Another drink?”

“I am a Moslem,” Abdu said.

Morizio looked at the glass Abdu held. It contained ice and an amber liquid. Abdu noticed his interest in the glass, smiled and said, “The Moslem is not only devoted to his God, he has learned over the centuries to adapt in order to survive. Were it not quite so cold in my new country, and did I not feel a flu coming on, I would never allow whiskey to pass my lips. But…” A bigger smile this time. “To your health, Captain.” He finished his drink.

“Only for medicinal purposes,” Morizio said.

“Exactly.”

Nordkild, accompanied by two men, joined Abdu and Morizio. Morizio knew one of them, Boris Kaldar, the third-ranking diplomat at the Soviet Union’s embassy in Washington. Kaldar recognized Morizio and shook his hand warmly. Morizio had always liked Kaldar. He was his embassy’s security coordinator and had met
with Morizio on a number of occasions. Kaldar’s colleagues at the embassy were, in Morizio’s judgment, cold and hard, stereotypes of Russian men in high position. Not Kaldar. He was in the sixties but looked younger. He was about Morizio’s height and had a body of an athlete, someone who kept in good condition. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his gray pinstripe suit was carefully tailored to define the contours of his body. His face was long and narrow. He had high cheekbones, a thin nose, and blue eyes that seemed perpetually bemused. He spoke perfect English, and Morizio recalled what a good storyteller he was, enjoying long, intricate jokes that poked fun at diplomatic and governmental bureaucracy. The last time they met was when a young Russian embassy employee was found hanged inside the embassy, and Morizio had accompanied a team of detectives from MPD. The Russians, heavily shrouded in secrecy, had invited them in because of a death while the British, America’s best friend, had not.

The other man with Nordkild was Elgin Harris, the Canadian ambassador to the United States. Harris was tall, angular, and reserved, a Geoffrey James type.

“Excellent caviar, Berge,” Kaldar said to Nordkild.

“Could it be anything but excellent, Comrade Boris?” Nordkild said, chuckling. “It is, after all, Russian.”

Sami Abdu said, “Or Iranian in Russian tins.”

Kaldar laughed. “A nasty rumor created by the disgruntled Iranian caviar industry.” He gently slapped Abdu on the back, and the pained expression on the Iranian’s face indicated his displeasure. Kaldar said, “You couldn’t sell your caviar here after you took the American hostages, and you couldn’t stand the thought of only Russian caviar on American plates, to say
nothing of no American money in your pockets.” He winked at Morizio.