Murder on Embassy Row (28 page)

“Nigel Barnsworth is Bryan’s father.”

“The assistant ambassador?”

“Head of chancery,” she corrected.

“Whatever,” he said, drawing a breath and leaning back against the seat. “Okay,” he said, “tell me this. Did it have any bearing on either the murder of Ambassador James or Paul Pringle?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see how. I was simply told to manage certain bank accounts and to disperse funds from them. One was a monthly check to Harriet Worth.”

“You did that from the embassy in Washington?”

“Yes.”

“And you still do it here?”

“Yes.”

“What bank?”

“A small bank here in London. We worked through Barclay’s in the States.”

“Did the ambassador have something to do with this London bank?”

“He was on its board.”

“Did he know about Barnsworth and Harriet?”

“Yes.”

“And he approved the process.”

“Process?”

“The situation you just described.”

“Evidently.”

Morizio chewed his cheek. He was hungry, and his stomach growled. “You said you managed certain bank accounts. More than one. What were the others?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have responsibilities. Do you have responsibilities? Do you have things you mustn’t divulge to outsiders?”

“Of course, but things happen to change the rules. Murder’s one of them.”

“For you, perhaps, not necessarily for me.”

“Because you were involved?”

“Involved? In murder? You’re daft.”

“And getting daftier every minute.” He wanted her to smile. She didn’t.

A museum guard walked past the car and glanced inside. Morizio nodded at him. He kept walking. Morizio said to Callender, “Tell me about Ambassador James’s oil company.”

Callender furrowed her brow and shrugged. “I told Miss Lake what I knew, which was practically nothing.”

“You didn’t get involved in its operation?”

“No.”

“Why has it been shut down instead of sold?”

She seemed surprised that he knew, asked where he’d heard it.

“From good sources within the oil industry, and from Marsha James.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and it bothers me. Supposedly it was a going business, making millions. He dies and leaves it in his will to his wife. What does she do? Instead of running with it she walks away, doesn’t even sell it.”

“There was nothing to sell,” Callender said so softly that Morizio asked her to repeat it. “There was nothing to sell. The company was built on certain contacts Ambassador James had made. When he was gone, those contacts were lost. There was nothing tangible to sell, no tankers, no refineries, not even a desk or chair.”

“Why couldn’t Mrs. James keep up the contacts? What about his partners, the Scotsman, Ferguson?”

“If you believe anything, Mr. Morizio, believe me when I say I knew nothing about the company.”

“Let me throw out a couple of other names. Nuri Hafez, George Thorpe.”

“What about Nuri Hafez? He’s dead. He killed the ambassador and paid for it. As far as Mr. Thorpe is concerned, best to let that lie. He’s a very important person in the employ of the Crown.”

“He tells me he represents trade and business interests.”

“That is my understanding.”

“What else?”

“About him? Believe me again when I say I know nothing more than what I’ve just said. I know he’s held in high regard at the Home Office, and whenever he visited the embassy he was treated like a V.I.P.”

“He was close to the ambassador?”

“Yes, although they were not close friends. It was all official business, as I understand it.”

Morizio sensed he was letting her get away. She’d slipped into an ‘I don’t know anything’ routine. He added a rough edge to his voice as he asked, “What about the ambassador’s will? What did he leave his wife besides the oil company?”

“Very little. He didn’t have much aside from the oil venture. Oh, he wasn’t a pauper. He had his business interests here in Britain and he was highly respected within the business community, but the major money had always been hers.”

“Marsha James’s?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, she…” She turned away from him and started tapping her foot again.

“Unfortunately what?”

“It’s none of my business, or yours.”

“Don’t pull back now, Miss Callender. Trust me, help me understand.”

“It isn’t anything terribly revelatory. Mrs. James’s family money had run low. He… the ambassador had invested a good deal of it in ventures that were not successful, aside from the oil company.”

Morizio thought for a moment, then said, “He didn’t do very well by his wife, did he? He loses her money, finally starts a business that succeeds but is of no value to her when he dies. What’s she going to do?”

Callender let out a sarcastic laugh. “She’s been taken care of. No need to worry about Mrs. James.”

“How?”

“The British civil service takes very good care of its own. I should know. I see that she receives her check every month.”

“You? Why you? Why isn’t her pension paid by the government?”

“It is, but I administer that account.”

“Like the Barnsworth account for Harriet Worth.”

“Yes, I suppose. Because of everything that occurred at the embassy in Washington, a separate set of accounts was established. It’s my new job, one I’d like not to lose because of you, Mr. Morizio.”

“You won’t lose anything because of me.”

“If anyone knew I’d talked to you…”

“They won’t, as long as you keep talking to me. How much does Mrs. James get?”

“A large sum.”

“Every month.”

“Yes.”

“For the rest of her life.”

“Until I’m told not to send it.”

“As long as she keeps getting money, you have a job.”

“Perhaps. I hope it works out that way.”

“They pay you good?”

“Quite.”

“More than you were making before?”

“That’s personal.”

“Sure. How much to Mrs. James?”

“I won’t answer that. I’m certain her pension is public knowledge. The sum is not.”

“I’ll check through my contacts at Scotland Yard and your home office.”

“You said you wouldn’t do anything to…”

“Save me the time and trouble. How much? Skip the pounds, give it to me in dollars.”

“A quarter of a million dollars a year.”

He whistled.

“I should get back.”

“Sure.” She started the engine. “By the way,” he said, “you have a nice family. I like them.”

“I love them. They’re very proud of me.”

“So I gathered.”

“I’d like them to remain so.”

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“You tell me.”

“You have nothing to worry about. Anything else you can tell me?”

She shook her head. “Actually, I feel better about this.”

“About talking to me?”

“Yes. Nothing I’ve told you is a deep, dark secret. I was afraid I’d say something wrong, share a secret I shouldn’t, but the fact is I don’t know any secrets.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Should I come in?” he asked when they reached her house. “I was invited to lunch.”

“I prefer that you not. Please understand.”

“Sure. Thank your parents for me.”

“Yes. I’ll say you had to catch a plane.”

She got out of the car and started toward the front door, stopped, turned, and said, “Don’t ever come here again.” She ran the rest of the way to the house.

***

He had a banger and a beer at a pub on the way back to London, returned the rented car with profound relief after narrowly avoiding two potential accidents, and took a taxi to the May Fair. He tried Lake at the d’Angleterre; no answer in her room. He left a message that he’d called and would call again, packed his things in anticipation of checking out and took a taxi to the
London Times
’ offices where, with some friendly help from a librarian, he read back issues that dealt with Geoffrey James and his days as ambassador to Iran. He was totally engrossed in it and was surprised when he looked at his watch and saw it was a few minutes past five. He’d booked SAS’s last flight to Copenhagen, which left Heathrow Airport at nine. He put away the notes he’d made, thanked the librarian and used his telephone credit card to call Lake from a booth on New Bond Street. She still wasn’t there. He had two drinks at the May Fair bar, a quiet dinner in the restaurant, checked out, and was on his way to the airport at eight.

“Enjoy your visit?” the driver asked.

“Yeah, very much,” Morizio answered. He was sad that he was leaving. “I intend to come back soon,” he told the driver.

“That’s good,” said the driver.

“This was business,” Morizio said. “Next time it’ll be for pleasure.”

A harried waiter in a tuxedo at Els Restaurant served Connie Lake her dessert, three kinds of sherbet garnished with slices of fruit. Els was a favorite spot with Copenhagen natives, small, inexpensive, and good. Lake wouldn’t have known about it except for her dinner companion, Mark Rosner.

She’d decided to make contact with him again after talking to Inga Lindstrom. Knowing where the caviar was delivered was one thing, having easy access to it was another. She wanted to be with someone who could point the way and clear any barriers. She would have preferred Erl Rekstad (and knew Morizio would, too), but was reluctant to call him. Maybe his wife would answer. Besides, he was too close to Lindstrom if only by virtue of physical proximity.

Rosner was easy. She called his room, reminded him of his dinner invitation, and… well, there they were at Els.

“Satisfied?” Rosner asked.

“Very. The food was excellent.”

“And no tourists. Ready for the lowlife?”

Lake laughed. “Is it that bad?” she asked.

He shook his head and laughed, too. “No, but there is a certain forbidden quality to it. Funny, right after the hostages were taken and Iranian caviar dried up in the States, I received a call from a friend in Paris. He told me that ‘good stuff’ would be arriving in Copenhagen and that I should be on hand. I laughed at him, but I couldn’t resist seeing what it was all about. I flew here and met this skinny Iranian wearing a U of Penn tee-shirt, sneakers, and jeans. I didn’t trust him and made him open every can he was selling. It was all excellent quality caviar, the best. I had two hundred thousand in cash with me and I gave it to him. The next time I came back, about three months later, he was in a three-piece suit and had a blonde Danish bimbo on his arm. We’ve been doing business ever since.”

“What a marvelous story,” Lake said, thinking of Nuri Hafez. “I can’t wait to see it in person.”

He laughed. “It’s not like a movie, Connie, where sinister characters stand in alleys while a drop is made. It used to be like that but not anymore. It’s all in the open, like a flea market. The boats come in, we check our shipments, hand over the cash, and enjoy the rest of the evening. It’s pretty boring, but it’s still a good excuse to come to Copenhagen every three months.”

“Let’s go,” she said.

He helped her on with her coat and they stepped out onto Skrandboulevarden. The mild November weather had continued; it was like an early spring night. Rosner hailed a cab and told the driver, “Overgaden, Christianshavn.”

The temperate night had lured hundreds of people out of their homes and into the streets of Christianshavn. An accordion player entertained a cluster of people on
one corner, a wizened old man manipulated hand puppets on another. Men and women grouped together in cafes, their laughter spilling out into the long narrow street and across the canal. Boats tied to either side were filled with bodies and beer, and the heavy sweet odor of marijuana hung over certain ones.

“What now?” Connie asked after Rosner had paid the driver.

“We have a drink and wait. We have to end up over there, but there’s no sense in standing around.” He pointed directly across the canal where a few people had gathered.

He led her to a small restaurant and they took stools at the bar, near the front window. He ordered a Tuborg, she a glass of akvavit. Rosner waved to a table of men at the rear of the restaurant.

“Buyers?” Lake asked.

“Uh huh. The handsome guy in the vested blue suit is a competitor from New York. The little one with the funny mustache is from Los Angeles. I don’t recognize the third one.”

“And they’ve come all the way to Denmark for caviar,” Lake said.

“All the way for
money
,” Rosner said, sipping his beer. “These Iranians are delivering the best. How they get it out of Iran is beyond me, but they do, and we turn a big profit back home.”

A limousine pulled up in front, an elderly man got out, entered the restaurant, spotted Rosner, and said, “
Bon soir
, Rosner.”

“
Bon soir
, Henri,” Rosner said. The man gave Connie an admiring look before going to the table and joining the others. Rosner said to her, “He’s from Paris. Funny old guy. He damn near came to blows once with a German over a batch of caviar, right here
on the docks.” He chuckled. “It’s not gold but it comes close, black gold.”

Lake called the d’Angleterre from a booth near the bar. “Have I any messages?” she asked. The operator told her of Morizio’s call. “Mr. Morizio will be arriving tonight,” Connie said. “Please see that he has a key to my room, 102, and ask him to wait for me. I should be there by eleven.”

The men from the table left together and climbed into the Frenchman’s limo. Rosner finished his beer and said to Connie, “Let’s go. Time to do business. By the way, don’t be offended if I don’t introduce anyone to you. They can be a little paranoid. Just stick close to me and take it in.”

They walked down Overgaden to where Torvegade spanned the canal, crossed, and doubled back along the strip of warehouses on the Overgaden neden Vandet side. By the time they arrived there were a dozen well-dressed men waiting for caviar. Three young Arab men wearing jeans, sneakers, and windbreakers sat with their feet dangling from the dock. Two gray vans approached, stopped and their young Arab drivers turned off the headlights and joined their friends. One lighted a joint and passed it around.