Murder on Embassy Row

by Margaret Truman

  They agreed to meet at Lake’s apartment at six.

  Piccadilly was filling up fast when Morizio arrived at 12:30, mostly businessmen and government workers from the area. He perched on a corner barstool, greeted Johnny, ordered a Beefeater martini on the rocks. He watched Johnny work, a consummate pro, juggling a barrage of orders from waitresses at the service bar, taking care of customers at the bar, and keeping up with housekeeping, ringing sales on an ancient cash register, a captain of a small efficient ship in which every inch of space counted, every item in its proper place if it were to navigate the heavy seas of a brisk lunch trade.

  There was a lull; customers served, waitresses satisfied for the moment, glasses washed and stacked. Johnny, who was very tall and thin, and who wore tight black pants, a white shirt, and a clip-on black bow tie, came to Morizio’s end of the bar. “Well, Captain, how’s things?”

  “Not bad, Johnny. You?”

  “Never changes. Fill ’em up, wash ’em out.” He laughed, causing a prominent Adam’s apple to go into action. “Anything new about our friend?”

  “No, but I thought you might help.”

  “Not much for me to offer, Captain, except condolences. You two were good buddies, I know.”

  “Johnny, let me ask you something. They’ve accused Paul of using drugs. Did you ever see anything that would support that?”

  He rubbed his chin and looked toward the ceiling. “No, can’t say that I have. Not the type, if you know what I mean. Paul was… well, he enjoyed his ale and… Ooops, excuse me.” Three waitresses had suddenly appeared at the service bar and verbalized their orders simultaneously. It wouldn’t be easy talking to Johnny, never was with a busy bartender, and Morizio wondered whether he’d do better later that night. He was about to take a table when Johnny returned. “Drugs,” he said. “Nasty business, but not for him. I’d bet my tips on it.”

  “That’s the way I feel,” Morizio said.

  “I told the other guy the same thing yesterday.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The British investigator who was in asking about Paul. Big, burly fellow, pleasant. Put ’em away, too, he does, four bourbons while he sat here.” He laughed.

  “Thorpe,” Morizio thought. He asked.

  “Never got his last name, called himself George. Works for the British Embassy.”

  “Does he?”

  “Another, Captain?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Johnny refilled Morizio’s glass and took care of other customers. When he returned Morizio said, “This investigator from the Embassy, George, you said, what was he asking?”

  Johnny again assumed a thoughtful expression. “He just wanted to know about Paul when he was here, who he saw, hung around with. I mentioned you, as a matter of fact.”

  “Who else?”

  “His buddies. He had a lot of ’em as you know, and the Arab.”

  “What Arab?”

  “Big heavy guy, as big as the investigator. They used to meet up here, not a lot but sometimes. The Arab left a package for Paul with me now and then.”

  “You told the British Embassy investigator that?”

  “Sure. I do something wrong?”

  Morizio laughed. “Of course not. You don’t know the Arab’s name, do you?”

  Johnny shook his head and looked around to see if anyone needed another drink. He said to Morizio, “Paul just said he was a friend.” He chuckled. “The Arab drank pretty good, too. I thought Moslems didn’t drink.”

  “They don’t, unless there’s a reason.”

  “He must have had plenty of reasons, all right.”

  “Thanks,” Morizio said, tossing a ten dollar bill on the bar.

  “On me,” said Johnny.

  “The hell it is,” Morizio said. “You’ll get me suspended.”

  Morizio didn’t stay for lunch. He went to Fio’s on Northwest Sixteenth where he had homemade pasta in tomato sauce, a side order of oiled, garlicky vegetables, and a glass of wine. He wanted to talk to Connie but didn’t know where to reach her. He tried Shevlin Travel but they hadn’t seen her. He called the American Petroleum Institute and was told Miss Watson was out to lunch, probably with Connie, he thought. He fished out Sami Abdu’s card and called the number on it. No answer.

  The true fascination of his suspension started to set in. He wanted to go to his office at MPD but couldn’t. He’d lost his base, was hanging around trying to kill time. He considered going to a movie but knew he wouldn’t enjoy it. He ended up walking through the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum for an hour, then drove to Connie’s apartment where he let himself in, turned on TV, and watched an old movie, calling Abdu’s number at every commercial break.

  Connie walked in promptly at six. “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Paul used to meet Sami Abdu at Piccadilly,” he said, “and Abdu gave him packages. Thorpe was in there yesterday asking about Paul. The bartender told him about Abdu.”

  Lake sat on the couch and kicked off her shoes. “What do you make of it?” she asked.

  “I haven’t figured it out yet. I’ve been watching TV.”

  She smiled, came to him, and kissed his forehead. “Well,” she said, “I accomplished a lot. I had lunch with Georgia Watson. She’s on the case, promises to call me tomorrow with what she can find. And, my good friend, we are booked to London and Copenhagen.” She pulled two packets from her purse and handed them to him. He opened the one with his name on it and went through it. They were leaving the day after tomorrow, on Pan Am’s evening flight to London, and would connect three days later on SAS to Copenhagen. Their hotels in both cities were confirmed—the May Fair in London and the d’Angleterre in Copenhagen. He put everything on a table next to his chair, looked at Lake, frowned, picked up the airline ticket again, and examined it closely. “First class?” he said.

  “Yup. We are going first class, Captain.”

  “What are you, crazy? It’s a fortune.”

  “What better way to spend a fortune than on ourselves. Have you ever flown first class before?”

  “No, have you?”

  “No, and I’m very excited about it.”

  He sighed and sat back. “I don’t know, Connie,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “About… well, I feel as though I’m losing control over everything.” He told her about his anxiety that afternoon, not having an office to go to. “I almost went to a movie, in the afternoon of all things.”

  She laughed, sat on the chair’s arm and rubbed his neck. “I know, Sal, I know. That’s why we have to clear this up once and for all. I just think we might as well live well in the bargain. It’s the best revenge, isn’t it, living well?”

  “That’s what they say, but this might all be premature,” he said. “The reason for going to Copenhagen is to see Lindstrom. Maybe she’s not there. She travels a lot.”

  Lake smiled like a contented cat. “She’s there. I called, said I represented a catering house in suburban Washington and was considering making a trip to talk business with her. Her secretary—I suppose that’s who I talked to—she said ‘Ms. Lindstrom expects to be here for the rest of the month.’ See? Even that works out.”

  He grinned. “You’re all right, Lake.”

  “Even better than that, Morizio. I’m terrific. Now, what about Thorpe asking about Paul at Piccadilly?”

  “I’m assuming it was Thorpe. Johnny never got a name but said he called himself George, was British and big, drank a lot. Who else? I’ve been trying to call Abdu all afternoon but he’s been out.”

  “Try him again.”

  “Let’s just stop over there. I have his address.”

  “But if he’s not there…”

  “If he is, I’d just as soon see him face-to-face. I don’t want to be put off on the phone. I’ll go. You make dinner.”

  “Sure, and I’ll eat it alone. I’ll come with you, then you can buy me dinner someplace fancy to inaugurate our vacation.”
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  “You call this a vacation?”

  “I call it taking what I can get. Give me a minute to freshen up.”

  Sami Abdu lived in an older two-story house off Connecticut Avenue, close to the National Zoological Park. Morizio and Lake parked across the street. It was dark outside; light from every window in the house projected a yellow patchwork quilt on the sloping front lawn.

  “He’s home,” Morizio said.

  “Somebody’s home,” Lake said.

  They rang the bell. It was answered almost immediately by Abdu. He had the bug-eyed, sweaty look of someone who’d been interrupted in the midst of a nefarious act, or who’d just stumbled on a dead body. Either way, he was happy, even relieved at seeing Morizio. “Captain, come in, please come in.”

  Morizio started to introduce Connie but Abdu was too preoccupied to listen. He quickly led them along a hallway carpeted with layers of Oriental rugs to a small living room crowded with heavy furniture. It was in total disarray, papers and clothing strewn everywhere, tables upside down, drapes ripped from their rods. “Look,” Abdu said, spreading his arms wide to indicate the room. “They have been here.”

  “Who?” Lake asked.

  Abdu shrugged, picked up what was left of a red-and-white ceramic vase that had fallen to the floor and threw it against the couch. “Look what they’ve done to me.”

  “Somebody wants something you have pretty bad,” Morizio said. “What about the other rooms?”

  “The same.”

  Morizio thought Abdu was about to cry. He slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Let’s take a look.” Abdu was right. Every room in the house had been turned upside down, including the bathroom and kitchen. They returned to the living room. Lake and Morizio sat on a couch while Abdu paced the room, which wasn’t easy. He had to thread his way through furniture and debris.

  “All right, Mr. Abdu, what do you think they were after?”

  “How would I know?” he said, wringing his hands.

  “Is anything missing that you know of?” asked Lake.

  “No. There was money in the bedroom but it is still there. I have works of art they broke. Pigs.”

  “What about information, Mr. Abdu? Letters, research, stories you were working on?”

  Abdu thought for a moment. He sat heavily in a large upholstered armchair and shook his head. “There is nothing to interest anyone except me.”

  Morizio glanced at Connie before saying, “You fed a lot of information to Paul Pringle. What was it?”

  Abdu straightened and ran his hand over the front of his white silk shirt, his fingers fluffing a mass of black chest hair exposed through its unbuttoned top. He appeared to be offended at what Morizio had said, and confused. He adopted a haughty expression and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do, Mr. Abdu. You used to meet Pringle at a pub called Piccadilly, near Chevy Chase Circle on Connecticut Avenue.”

  Morizio and Lake waited for a response. The confusion increased on his face. “How do you know?” he asked weakly.

  “A lot of people told me. What did you and Paul Pringle meet for, Mr. Abdu? What did you give him when you met?”

  “Nothing.” His voice raised in pitch. “We were friends, that’s all. Friends.”

  “Let’s stop playing games,” Morizio said. “Look around you. You’re a marked man. Whoever broke in here knows what I know, that you were feeding information to Paul Pringle. Pringle’s dead, had his throat narrowed, his face bloodied, and enough heroin pumped into him to shut him down. You’re next.”

  It was chilly in the room. Two windows were partially open, and cold air poured through them. Abdu started to sweat, which spurred Morizio to continue. “Pringle was involved in some pretty heavy things, Abdu. The people he was involved with don’t play by the same rules you and I do. There are no rules, no niceties.” He thought of Thorpe. “It’s called the straight road philosophy. You get on it and reach your destination as fast and simply as possible. Something… someone gets in your way, you run them over, leave them spots on the road. Understand?”

  Abdu visibly was trying to collect his thoughts and to pull himself together. He ran his fingertips over his forehead, looked at the moisture on them, then forced a smile. “I am not being an hospitable host. A drink?” he asked.

  “Keep your drink,” Morizio snapped. “You’re a dead man, Abdu, and all the booze in the world won’t change that. There’s only one thing will, and that’s me. I can make you sure you live, or I can leave you out on the highway. Your choice.”

  Abdu looked at Morizio, then at Connie. He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What did I do?” he asked.

  “You tell us,” Connie said.

  “I did nothing. Pringle wanted to know certain things and I told him. Is that a crime?”

  “Depends,” Morizio said, “but it doesn’t matter. The important thing is to tell me what you told him and let me figure out a way to keep everybody’s skin in one piece. What did Pringle want to know?”

  “About Hafez.”

  “Nuri Hafez?”

  “Yes, and his family. I knew them in Iran.”

  “Yeah, you told me that.”

  “That’s all, Captain, nothing else. When Hafez came here to work with Ambassador James I became his friend. Does that make sense? We are Iranians in a foreign country. I helped him.”

  “How. What’d you do for him?”

  “Nothing specific. He had questions, problems, and he came to me.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Adjustment problems.”

  Morizio shook his head. “I don’t think you value your life very highly, Mr. Abdu.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re lying. You don’t believe me when I say that this mess you’re sitting in is only a warning. It doesn’t matter whether they found anything or not. What does matter, my friend, is what you know, what you told Pringle. He’s dead because of what he knew, and you’re next.”

  Morizio’s words moved Abdu physically, as though he’d poked him in the neck. Morizio narrowed his eyes and said in the concerned tones of a close friend, “Let me help you, Sami. I’m the only one who can. We’re narrowing in on who killed Ambassador James and Paul Pringle. We can make it right. Officer Lake here will back me up.”

  “Officer?” Abdu said. “You are a policeman?”

  “Woman,” Connie said, smiling.

  “Of course,” He stood and extended his hand. “My pleasure. Please excuse me.” He left the room.

  “Go with him,” Morizio told Lake. She did, and Morizio quickly moved through the living room, picking up papers from a desk, rummaging through a wastebasket. He had to assume that the information Pringle got from Abdu had to do with Pringle’s CIA role within the British Embassy. It could also have been for his own personal use, but Morizio doubted it. Somehow Abdu’s claim of simply being a friend to Hafez, one Iranian helping another, didn’t play for Morizio. There had to be more.

  When Connie and Abdu returned, Abdu was carrying a large water glass filled with whiskey. He extended it toward Morizio and said, “You are sure you want nothing?”

  “All I want is the truth, Mr. Abdu, so that no one else, starting with you, gets killed. How much did Pringle pay you for the information you gave him about Nuri Hafez?”

  “Not much.”

  Confirming that he’d been paid anything told Morizio that Pringle wanted the information for the CIA, not for his personal use. “A thousand a month?” Morizio said.

  Abdu laughed. “If it had been that much I would have given him more.”

  “How much?”

  “It depended. He paid me for each thing I told him, five hundred dollars here, a little more or less there.”

  “Did he tell you what he intended to do with it?”

  “No.” Abdu took a healthy swig from his glass and winced as the warm, brown alcohol hit his throat and stomach. Connie did, too, as she watch
ed him.

  “What did you tell him about Nuri Hafez?” Morizio asked.

  Abdu shrugged. “His family, what he does in the embassy.”

  “How would you know what he did in the embassy?” Lake asked.

  “He would tell me. We were friends.”

  “What’d he tell you?” asked Morizio.

  “That he… what does it matter?”

  “You’re a whore, Abdu,” Morizio said.

  “I resent that,” Abdu said.

  “You want me to pay you? You want five hundred dollars to tell me about Nuri Hafez like Pringle paid you? Jesus, I’m here to save your miserable life and you’re shaking me down.”

  “I said nothing.”

  “Good,” said Morizio. He turned to Lake, “Come on, let him sit in this mess and wait for the big guy with the steel wire.”

  “Wait.”

  Abdu sat in a chair, defeat on his face. “If I tell you,” he said, “can you promise me that you will protect me?”

  Morizio and Lake were both thinking of the same thing, of their suspensions. Connie said, “We’ll do everything we can.”

  “That is not a promise.”

  “It’s the closest thing you have to a promise, Abdu.”

  Abdu finished what was in his glass, looked around his living room and grimaced. “Nuri had business with the ambassador.” He said it so softly that Lake and Morizio had to ask him to repeat it, which he did.

  “What sort of business?” Morizio asked.

  “Caviar,” Abdu said.

  “Smuggling?” Connie asked.

  “Yes. Nuri and his brother made a deal with a fishing combine in Iran. Instead of caviar being supplied to the Ayatollah’s fishing minister, it was sent directly out of Iran. The fishermen were paid ten times what the government would pay them. Everyone took a risk. To be caught doing such a thing would mean death, but the rewards were large enough.”

  “Wait a minute,” Morizio said. “Are you saying that the British ambassador to the United States, Geoffrey James, was in on this?”

  Abdu looked at the floor. “Yes,” he said.

  “They split the profits?” asked Lake.