Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  “I hope you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” Brixton told her before entering the terminal.

  “I am only sorry about what happened to Mr. Portland,” the Nigerian said. “I hope that you and your friend will come back one day,” Jeffy said.

  “I’d like that very much,” said Brixton. “Oh, before I forget.” He reached into a tote bag that contained Portland’s belongings and withdrew the three Pamas handguns she had given them. “Here,” he said. “You take them. I don’t need them anymore. Besides, they won’t allow them on the plane.”

  “They will be here for you when you return,” Jeffy said.

  “I know that David owes you money,” Brixton said. “I have your card and will find a way to pay you.”

  “It is not necessary,” she said, checking her watch. “I must go now. Travel safe, Mr. Brixton.” She shook hands with Brixton and Chambers, got in the van, and drove away.

  “That’s one hell of a woman,” Brixton said to Chambers.

  “Someone I’ll never forget,” Chambers said. “Tough as nails and beautiful, too.”

  Although the contentious relationship between Brixton and Chambers hadn’t thawed, Portland’s death served to mitigate Brixton’s negative view of the former D.C. cop. They’d shared a traumatic experience, a memory that both men would carry with them forever.

  When they arrived in Washington a mortician who’d been engaged before their arrival was on hand to take possession of Portland’s body. “What funeral plans have been made?” he asked Brixton.

  “There aren’t any plans yet,” Brixton replied. “I’m sure that his former wife will want to take charge of his remains. She’ll be in touch with you. She lives here in D.C.”

  Brixton had intended to call Elizabeth Sims from Africa to inform her of David’s death, but he resisted the urge. Somehow, it seemed too callous and impersonal to break the news to her long distance, and he decided to wait until he was back in Washington. The bracelet that Portland had given him was in his pocket and seemed to weigh far more than it actually did; he found himself constantly fondling it. It had meant so much to Portland.

  He and Chambers left the terminal in D.C. and joined a line of people waiting for cabs. Brixton had considered calling Mac and Annabel Smith to let them know that he’d be arriving but decided not to. He needed time for himself when he got back, a chance to go to his apartment and decompress.

  “Where are you headed?” Brixton asked.

  “Home,” Chambers said. “I’ll have to spend time at the law firm to wrap up details of my leaving. I’m sure it won’t be pleasant.” He’d told Brixton during their flights about the role that Cale, Watson and Warnowski had played in trying to whitewash XCAL and SureSafe in the killing of Trevor Portland, and how Walter Cale had dispatched him to London to try to neutralize Portland’s quest for justice.

  “You’re better off away from them,” Brixton offered.

  “I feel the same way,” said Chambers. “Do me a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “You said you’d be getting together with Elizabeth to give her the bracelet and tell her how David died.”

  “I don’t look forward to it.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. Look, please tell her for me that I’m sorry about what happened to David, and that I’m thinking of her.”

  Brixton caught the catch in Chambers’s throat. He smiled and slapped him on the back. “I’m happy to do it, Cameron, but maybe you should call and tell her yourself.”

  “I will at some point.” He shook his head. “The truth is I’ve had a crush on Elizabeth Sims from the first day I met her.”

  “‘A crush’?” Brixton said, laughing. “I haven’t heard anyone say that in a long time.”

  “Pathetic, huh?”

  “No, not pathetic, Cameron. Human. It’s just being human. I’ve had a few crushes myself.”

  The next vacant cab pulled up.

  “You take it,” Brixton said.

  Chambers opened the taxi’s door but paused before getting in. “I know how much you were against me coming with you and David to Nigeria, but I’m glad I did. I learned something about myself and want you to know that I appreciated the opportunity. You and David made quite a team.”

  Brixton watched Chambers’s taxi get swallowed by the traffic.

  The cab that Brixton took delivered him to the apartment he shared with Flo Combes. He’d tried to block her from his thoughts over the past few days, but now that he was there the reality of her absence hit him hard. He went in the kitchen and looked at her travel itinerary, which was secured to the refrigerator door by two small decorative magnets. She was due back the following day. They hadn’t spoken since she left for Los Angeles, and no arrangements had been made for him to meet her plane. He poured two fingers of scotch, sat at the kitchen table, dialed her cell number, and braced for what he was certain would be a cold welcome.

  “Flo? It’s Robert.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “The apartment. I just got back.”

  “You’re—you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier, but cell service in Nigeria isn’t the best and—well, I was busy, too. How are you? How’s the fashion show going?”

  “It’s been wonderful. I’ve met some great designers and will have a terrific new line to show in the shop. Is David with you?”

  “No, David is—David is dead, Flo.”

  She gasped. “Oh, no. My God. What happened?”

  He gave her a capsulated version of the events leading up to Portland being shot. “I’ll tell you more when you get back tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “Robert, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, Flo, just a little shaken by what went down in Nigeria. I have to call David’s ex-wife, Elizabeth. She doesn’t know.”

  “Can you wait until I’m back?” she asked. “We can do it together. It might be easier on you that way and—”

  “No, I have to get it over with. I’ll be okay.”

  “Why don’t you call Mac and Annabel and see if they can go with you?”

  “Maybe I will,” he said, not intending to. “Look, Flo, I’m sorry the way things fell the day you left. I should have told you the minute I decided to travel with David and—”

  “It’s okay, Robert. I understand. I really do. Please take care of yourself until I get back. You’ve been through an ordeal.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, “and you enjoy your last day in L.A. Just don’t let any sleazy Hollywood agent get you to sign a long-term movie contract.”

  “Very funny, Robert. I love you. I miss you. Take care.”

  He made himself crackers and cheese to go with the scotch and summoned the courage to call Elizabeth Sims. He first tried the law firm of Cale, Watson and Warnowski. The woman who answered tersely informed him that Ms. Sims was not available.

  “She’s busy?”

  “She isn’t here.”

  “Lucky her. Thanks.”

  He called her home number.

  “Hello?”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Robert Brixton, David’s friend.”

  “Oh, hello. You and David are back from Nigeria?”

  “Yes, but … You see—”

  “Has something happened to David?”

  “He’s dead, Elizabeth. He was shot and killed in Nigeria.”

  There was a long silence on her end, followed by uncontrolled sobbing. Brixton waited until her emotions had ebbed before saying, “I hate to be the one to have to tell you this. Look, could we get together? I can be anywhere you say, your place, mine, a bar, restaurant, you name it.”

  She fought to compose herself. “Could you come here?” she said. “I’m afraid I’ll make a scene in a public place.”

  “Sure.”

  She gave him her address and ten minutes later he was on h
is way.

  CHAPTER

  68

  Liz Sims was dressed in a teal sweat suit when Brixton arrived. She’d pulled herself together, and he saw that she’d applied fresh makeup. She greeted him at the door and led him into the living room.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “Are you having one?” he asked.

  She pointed to a half-consumed glass of an amber liquid on a coffee table.

  “Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to drink alone.”

  They settled on a couch in front of a picture window that afforded a view of downtown Washington.

  “Sorry I’m the bearer of bad news,” Brixton said.

  “I understand,” she said. “I know how close you and David were.”

  “He was a special guy.”

  She drew a breath before asking, “How did he die?”

  Brixton, too, inhaled before launching into the story of how Portland had been gunned down on the dock in the Niger Delta. Elizabeth listened quietly, never interrupting to ask for a clarification or to comment on what he’d said. It took Brixton fifteen minutes to provide all the background.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “And the security man that David went to Nigeria to confront, Fournier? Was he also killed?” she said.

  “Yeah, but not by David.”

  “Did David have a chance to question Fournier before he died about who gave the order to shoot Trevor?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And?” she said.

  “It was the British guy in London, the chairman of XCAL, Manford Penny. He’s got a ‘Sir’ in front of his name.”

  Elizabeth’s expression turned hard. “That bastard,” she said.

  Brixton reached in his pocket and pulled out the bracelet that Trevor’s grandmother had given him, and that had set into motion everything that had occurred over the past few days. He handed it to Elizabeth.

  “Trevor’s bracelet,” she said, twisting it in her fingers.

  “David gave it to me as he was dying,” Brixton said. “He told me to be sure that you got it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, slipping it onto her slender wrist. “I’ll wear it everywhere I go.”

  She refreshed her drink; Brixton declined her offer.

  “So,” he said, “how are things in the D.C. legal world?”

  She returned to the couch, pressed her lips together, and said, “Everything is fine, I suppose, but I’m not part of it any longer.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve resigned from the firm.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I love the law, Robert, always have. I just don’t like the games the firm has been playing with XCAL, SureSafe, and Trevor’s murder.”

  “Gutsy move. You were a rising star. David was proud of you.”

  “David would agree with my decision,” she said. “You knew him as well as anyone. He didn’t have patience with BS.”

  Brixton laughed. “That’s an understatement,” he said.

  “I’ll be moving to Boston,” she said. “There’s an attorney I graduated with who’s established a firm there. It’s small, of course, but I’m looking forward to small. My dad has cancer and is undergoing treatments. I’d like to be closer to him.”

  “I wish him well,” Brixton said.

  They spent another half hour talking about David and those aspects of him that they’d admired and enjoyed. Finally, Brixton stood, thanked her for letting him share thoughts about David, and promised to stay in touch. He drove back to his apartment and called Mac and Annabel Smith at their Watergate apartment.

  “Welcome home,” Mac said. “How was Nigeria?”

  Brixton told him about Portland’s death and what had led up to it.

  “That’s a hell of a story, Robert,” said Smith. “I’m sorry about David.”

  “Yeah, I am, too. Flo comes home tomorrow. I was wondering whether you and Annie can put up with a last-minute dinner guest tonight.”

  “If his name is Robert Brixton he’s always welcome. Be here in an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER

  69

  Brixton slept soundly after dinner with the Smiths. He got up later than usual the following morning, enjoyed a large breakfast at a favorite coffee shop, and waded into a collection of unanswered correspondence that had arrived during his absence. His receptionist, Mrs. Warden, had separated it into individual piles based upon subject matter, and had left a stack of phone messages written in her precise hand.

  He ordered lunch in and ate in his office before heading for the airport to meet Flo’s flight from Los Angeles. It was on time, and collecting her checked luggage went smoothly.

  “It is so good to see you,” Brixton said after they’d settled in his Subaru and were headed back to the District.

  “I’ve been worried about you the entire trip, Robert. Nigeria! I read while you were away that it’s considered one of the most dangerous places in the world to visit.”

  “Worse than the streets of our nation’s capital?” he asked.

  She hit his arm. “Don’t make light of it. You could have been killed—like David.”

  “It wasn’t my time,” he said. “I had a nice visit with the Smiths last night. They want us for dinner this week.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He read a magazine in the living room while Flo unpacked. When she joined him from the kitchen she carried a tray of snacks, two glasses, and a bottle of white wine she’d opened. They toasted her return, and his, too.

  “I’m glad your trip was successful,” he said, raising his glass.

  “And I’m glad you’re back safe, although the news about David is terrible. I’m so sorry. I know you’ve lost a good friend.”

  “Yeah, I miss him a lot. It’s good of Elizabeth to arrange for him to be buried in her family’s plot in Massachusetts. He’ll be with his son again.” He looked away from her and became reflective. “I don’t know how David would view it, but I’m glad he wasn’t the one to kill Fournier. Better that one of the rebels did. At least David didn’t die a murderer.”

  “But the Frenchman did. He’d murdered David’s son.”

  “Yeah. Justice was served, I guess. It’s good that David knew before he died that Fournier was killed. Maybe it brought him some peace of mind.”

  “What did Mac say last night about that client of his, the son whose father committed suicide after falling for a Nigerian money scam?” Flo asked.

  “Just that the son, Anthony Borilli, has decided not to pursue any legal action. It was a losing proposition for everybody. That phony Nigerian charitable organization, Bright Horizons, packed up in the middle of the night and closed its doors. Mac thought that he might be able to bring a suit against it on Borilli’s behalf, but that was a long shot at best. Nothing changes where Nigeria is concerned. They’ll keep pumping oil out of the ground, the execs and government bigwigs will continue to get rich, the poor natives will keep on suffering, and there’ll always be people who’ll buy into the Nigerian financial scams. Same old, same old, Nigerian-style.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about that, Robert.”

  “I know. I just wish there was. The only thing that came out of this past week was David’s death.”

  “It wasn’t worth it,” she said.

  “Yeah, except maybe David wouldn’t view it that way. Even though he didn’t get to personally pull the trigger on Fournier, he got his revenge.” He grunted. “Will Sayers gets something out of it, too. I called Will and told him everything that had happened while we were in Nigeria. He can use it in the book he’s writing.”

  “What are we doing for dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m in the mood for Chinese,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. “I was afraid you’d want to go to some exotic African restaurant.”

  She stood and started to carry the tray inside.

  “I want to run something
past you,” he said.

  She resumed her seat.

  “I got to travel to London thanks to David Portland, but all I saw was his apartment—they call it a flat there—Heathrow Airport, and David’s favorite pub. I was thinking that we should plan a trip there, you know, the two of us, take a week and enjoy ourselves.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “What a nice idea,” she said. “I’m ready to go whenever you say.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’d really enjoy seeing more of London than I did this past week. Besides, there’s some business I need to take care of.”

  She looked at him quizzically, head cocked. “Business? What business?”

  “Not a big deal. I promised David that I’d look up a guy there.”

  “What guy?”

  Brixton’s shrug was deliberately nonchalant. “His name’s Penny, Manford Penny. Sir Manford Penny.”

  “Who’s he? He sounds important, like a member of Parliament.”

  “He’s a big-shot businessman. Not important. I just want to keep my promise to David.” He got up, grabbed Flo’s hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Come on,” he said. “Time for some wonton soup and Peking duck. It’s good to be home, Flo. It’s really good to be home.”

  BY MARGARET TRUMAN

  Souvenir

  White House Pets

  Harry S. Truman

  Women of Courage

  Letters from Father: The Truman Family’s

  Personal Correspondence

  Bess W. Truman

  Where the Buck Stops: The Personal and Private Writings of Harry S. Truman

  First Ladies

  The President’s House: A First Daughter Shares the History and Secrets of the World’s Most Famous Home