Paramour (18 page)

"Do you often vacation alone?" he said, to change the subject.

"I've had tours of duty in Moscow, Berlin, and Sofia. Being under diplomatic cover I wasn't allowed to date any locals, and since the only men hanging around American embassies are horny eighteen-year-old Marine guards, yes, I did get used to being alone. Alone is a way of life for those of us in the Agency."

"I'm not trying to interrogate you."

"I know you're not."

Lingering after the meal, they chatted for a while and she seemed to relax. Avoiding the uncomfortable discussion of why they found themselves together, they chatted instead about Washington apartments, intelligence bureaucracies, art, and food. As they finally headed back into the exhibit hall, it occurred to Powers that they'd both gone out of their way to be considerate to each other. Taken with her grace and poise, he also realized that under other circumstances he would have made a full play for her. Not only was she attractive and intelligent, there was a wholesomeness, a feminine vulnerability about her, he found compelling.

Crossing under the trees on the way back to the hotel, Marilyn talked about her love for contemporary art. Listening without disagreeing, he had the strange, fleeting sensation that the two of them were completely alone in the world. He wondered if she felt the same way.

They entered the hotel lobby and crossed to the elevator.

"I'm going to change, then have dinner downtown at the Heilige Geist restaurant," she said as the elevator arrived. "I'll be leaving in about an hour." She stepped onto the elevator, turned to face the door, and winked at him: not a condescending wink but the gesture of a fellow professional who understood his position and sympathized.

He winked back. The elevator door closed.

Powers hurried to the hotel courtyard. A minute or so later, the light in her room went on and there was movement behind the sheer curtains. Thus verifying she'd actually gone to her room, he headed to his own room.

Powers needed a change of clothes. Figuring he could easily be back in the lobby before she left the hotel, he hurried to his room. Having shaved and showered at double time, as he used to do in army basic training at Fort Ord before the morning company formation or when trying to make the early baggage call when traveling with the President, he checked the window again. There was still movement behind the curtains in Marilyn's room.

He slapped on some after-shave lotion to refresh himself and dressed quickly. Pleased that the clothing he'd purchased, a white shirt and pleated trousers, shorts, T-shirt, and socks, fit well, he stood in front of the dresser mirror and combed his hair. He shrugged on his sport coat and stepped to the window.

The light in Marilyn's room was off.

He ran from his room and raced down the hall. Rather than wait for an elevator, he used the fire exit and descended three flights of the steps two at a time to the lobby. She wasn't there. He raced outside. Her rental car was still there.

Back in the lobby, he made another check: the dining room, bar, and gift shop. At a phone near the registration desk, he dialed her room number. It rang one, two, three, four times. His face felt flushed and a feeling of utter helplessness came over him as he realized that somehow she'd gotten away from him.

The elevator door opened. Marilyn stepped out.

He racked the phone and rushed to her.

"Where were you?" he said, regretting the words the moment they came out.

"I couldn't find you in the lobby, so I went to your room," she said diffidently.

"Uh ... we must have missed each other."

"You thought I ran away, didn't you?" she said with an amused smile.

"Now that you mention it, I did get a little shaky there for a minute."

"Jack, you may not have an eye for art, but I take back what I said earlier. You do have an imagination." She laughed as they walked out of the hotel.

****

TWELVE

The phone rang.

Landry reached automatically for the nightstand as he struggled to come awake. "Landry."

"This is Sullivan. Meet me at room 5412."

"Now?"

"I'll explain when you get here."

"Room 5412," Landry said, still fighting the effects of slumber. "That's a Roger." He climbed out of bed, dressed quickly, and, because he never left it in a hotel room, strapped on his gun.

Landry stepped off the elevator. Room 5412 was to the right. There was a uniformed Santa Monica policeman posted in the hallway and yellow evidence tape extending across the hall.

Landry's heart beat faster. He showed his Secret Service badge.

Sullivan came out of the room and ushered him inside. The body of a man was lying on the carpet just outside the bathroom. He was wearing a pin-striped sport shirt, navy blue shorts, and sneakers. There were two bloody spots in the middle of his chest. The rest of the room was a shambles, with dresser drawers overturned and the contents of a leather suitcase strewn about. In the bathroom, the contents of a leather toilet kit had been turned out onto the tile floor. There was the smell of men's cologne. On top of the dresser was a pipe and plastic tobacco pouch, a penknife, a pack of Breakwater Hotel matches, and a well-worn cross-draw pistol holster that looked like it might fit a .38 snub-nosed revolver.

A stocky, crew-cut oriental man holding a metal clipboard was standing over the body. Sullivan introduced him as Detective Fukuhara, Santa Monica Police.

"You recognize this guy?"

Landry leaned closer. The dead man's eyes were open. "Never seen him before in my life."

Fukuhara motioned to the holster. "With the President staying here at the hotel I figured he might be one of your people."

Sullivan cleared his throat. "The hotel manager is pulling the registration card."

"He checked in this afternoon: a Reston, Virginia, address. The name is Miller, Robert Miller. Name ring a bell?" Fukuhara said.

"Not with me," Sullivan said.

Miller, the CIA man Powers had told him about.
Landry shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"What do you think happened?" Landry said.

"Looks like the victim walked in on a hot prowl. There's a vacant room directly above this one on the floor above. I think the prowler dropped down onto the balcony and jimmied the sliding glass door. From the ransacking, it looks like he was in the act when the victim came back to the room. His valuables-wallet, gun, and wristwatch-are gone."

"Sorry we can't be of any help," Sullivan said.

"Sorry to wake you up."

Landry followed Sullivan out of the room. They ducked under the evidence tape and stepped onto the elevator. Sullivan pushed the button, and a car arrived about a minute later. They stepped
inside and the doors closed.

Sullivan was staring at the carpeted floor. "Powers said there was a Bob Miller on the CIA debriefing team at Rehoboth Beach."

"That was the name, all right. Bob Miller," Landry agreed.

"What the hell is a CIA agent doing here at this hotel?"

"Powers told me Miller had been nosing around at Marilyn Kasindorf's apartment."

"Something is going on at CIA," Sullivan said. "Something major."

"And my bet is Stryker's death has something to do with it."

"That remains to be seen. But I want you to maintain contact with Santa Monica PD on this homicide. Have someone from Protective Research follow up with the detective, stay on the case with him."

"Will do. "

The elevator came to a stop. The door opened and they stepped out.

"And there's something else I want you to do, Ken. This has to be on the QT. Have our agents keep their ears open around the House for any staff talk about what's going on in CIA, particularly any mention of the Special Projects Office. I want to know anything they hear."

Landry felt his heart quicken. He took a deep breath before speaking to mollify his tone. "We're playing with fire to start spying around the House."

"This isn't spying. This is gathering intelligence of what we hear during the normal routine of the day. There are strange things going on, and I want to know what the story is."

"It's going to be pretty hard for me to go to the men and ask them to start carrying tales after I've warned them all personally about talking out of turn about what they learn on the job."

"Look, goddammit, I'm just trying to protect the Service-to have some advance warning if something is coming our way. I don't need a lecture on what's in the White House Detail operations manual."

Landry nodded. "Are you going to brief the President?"

Sullivan rubbed his hands roughly over his face. "Yes," he said, letting his breath out. "And he's going to ask me what's going on. And I'm going to have to tell him I have no goddam idea."

"I wouldn't put anything past the CIA."

"On
the other hand, we shouldn't jump to conclusions. Maybe Miller had a legitimate reason for being here, and maybe he was just killed by a hotel burglar. After all, this is LA. Things happen. Hell, maybe the dead guy isn't the CIA Miller. Maybe he's some fucking shoe salesman from Kansas City,"

"You don't believe that and neither do I," Landry said.

Sullivan nodded. "I'll phone Powers and fill him in."

The Heilige Geist restaurant, located on a crowded cobblestone alley at the center of town near the Kassel train station, was sandwiched between a small bakery and a cutlery shop. The sign above its door was hand carved on a wooden plaque.

The interior of the place was lit by candles on tables, and the walls were crowded with shelves of steins, beer mugs, wood carvings, clocks, and other German kitsch. There were about twenty tables, only half of them occupied. A waiter who spoke fluent English led them to a table in the corner. After they were seated, Marilyn told him the place was listed in
Peter Wesselink's Travel Guide to Germany
as the best for the money in Kassel.

During dinner Marilyn talked of her childhood: moving from one army post to another. Her father had been a career army officer, and during their frequent military transfers she discovered an aptitude for learning foreign languages. When she graduated from Princeton, she was recruited for the CIA by one of her professors.

Powers found himself talking about his early years in the Secret Service, his assignments with Presidents Carter and Ford.

"Did you volunteer for this assignment?" she said.

"I guess you could say that."

"Funny. You don't seem like a climber."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"In the CIA, agents used for off-the-wall assignments are usually people on the verge of being promoted. Those who know a refusal might mean treading water for the remainder of one's career."

"How did you end up working in the White House?" Powers asked.

"There you go again."

"Pardon?"

"Turning the question back to me. I'm getting tired of doing all the talking, Jack."

"I'm not trying to make this difficult-"

"You're on duty and getting paid to be here. That's not difficult. Difficult isn't even being followed everywhere I go on vacation by a Secret Service agent. Difficult is having dinner with someone who won't talk."