by Warren Adler
"Okay, she was dumped. But this is beyond the pale."
"No it's not."
She tried to soak up the woman's humiliation, calculate the anger and thirst for vengeance. Unfortunately, she could not sustain the indignation. The woman was a damned fool to get mixed up with a married politician. Served her right. The sense of sisterhood faded. Helga was a diplomat's wife, for chrissakes, she knew the score.
"How was it done?" she asked. "The Dear-John?"
Suddenly Monte slapped his thigh. The noise startled her.
"A comedy of errors, Fi. Wrong all around. Bunkie Farrington was the messenger. I swear the morons are in charge. It was decided." He took his hands off the wheel to use them for emphasis. "I am equally at fault, knowing Sam's penchant for avoiding scenes. A sycophant panders, Fi. And it was I who said those immortal words: No more. Cut it clean, said Bunkie. He had done it before. He said he was good at it. It was the one time Sam should have done it himself."
"Real class," Fi said, disgusted.
"I think I could have stopped it. Now I pay. You are my ace card. No. My only card."
He pulled up in front of a townhouse. A man in a raincoat and hat sprung out of the shadows. She heard the click of car locks and the man came in the back door of the car.
"You remember Bunkie, Fi," Monte said. Fi turned and Bunkie grunted a response.
"Not my idea," he mumbled.
"Bunkie is hostile, Fi," Monte said.
"It grows," Bunkie said. "In this town, knowledge expands geometrically."
Monte drove toward the Potomac, ducked under the highway, then found a parking space on Main Avenue. The rain had thinned out the tourist traffic and the dinner crowd had not yet begun to descend on the wall-to-wall restaurants along the river. They sat in the car, motor running, the rain pelting the roof and windshield.
"We're all going to drown anyway," Bunkie said gloomily.
"It was Bunkie here who was the last of our group to see the lady."
"No big deal. We met for cocktails at the Ritz-Carlton. She was already primed. I merely read her the drill. She said she understood."
"She wasn't upset that the Senator wasn't there to convey the sad news?"
"She said she wished it would have gone that way, but that she understood. This is no kid. She's in the game. I told her the Senator was running for President, for crying out loud. She was a liability and she knew it. I told her the Senator was broken up about it, but had to make this decision. Went smooth as silk. She was cool."
"Just like that. No emotion?" Fiona asked.
"She's a diplomat's wife. She wasn't a receptionist or some dumb cunt in the typing pool. She had a mind."
"I'm glad one of you did," Monte muttered.
"We were clean on this. I did a surgeon's job. I know it."
"How do you read it then?" Fiona asked.
She had turned slightly in the front seat to see him, but his features were undefined. His shoulders moved, a gesture of frustration and confusion.
"She thought it over. Looked at what she had and what she had just lost, then just cut out. That's the only explanation that makes sense. Women do that. It's not rational. But they do it. I think she just got pissed off and cut out."
"Kessel said she took nothing except the clothes on her back. Nothing."
"No jewelry?" Fiona asked.
"Only what she was wearing," Monte said. "Nothing else. Sam said Kessel was emphatic about that and that was what was scaring the shit out of him."
"Maybe she wanted no part of anything," Bunkie suggested. "She wanted to break clean. It happens."
"Ever happened to you?" Fiona asked.
"Not quite that way. I rather shy away from emotional glue," Bunkie said. Bet you do, she thought. Cold-blooded bastard. She turned again to Monte.
"Kessel is dead-certain about her taking nothing?"
"I just told you," Bunkie interjected snidely. She ignored him. Monte looked at his watch.
"We'll know in ten more minutes. We're meeting the Ambassador."
"Monte thinks it's important that you two get acquainted," Bunkie said. He shot her a look heavy with sarcasm.
"You've done this little chore before?" Fiona asked Bunkie. "The bearer of bad news?"
"I've got a complicated job," he said morosely. They waited through the silence. "He's got this insatiable dick." More silence. "Shit. Yeah two three times. Only when they get serious or pushy."
"Did his wife know?" Fiona asked, her mind set in detective mode, mentally lining up the suspects. Force of habit, she told herself, amused with the idea.
"Know? Hard to say. She'd have to be there, wouldn't she?" Bunkie said. "Suspect? Goes with the territory. The fact is the Senator is a family guy."
"Mrs. Langford never raised the issue?"
"Not to me," Bunkie said. "I'd say though that he has plenty to spare."
"Plenty of what?" Fiona snapped.
"It can rise to any occasion," Bunkie sneered, as if his surrogate duties included the Senator's brag.
"So you also watch," Fiona said with obvious contempt.
When he didn't comment, Monte pulled the car away from the curb and started westward up Independence in the direction of the Washington Monument. It was slow going, the rush hour was in full bloom.
"I still don't know why we had to bring her into it," Bunkie said.
"She's a pro is why." Monte said. He patted Fiona on the thigh. "When you report someone missing what happens?"
"Goes into a data bank," Fiona began, explaining the process. "Available to one and all, up to and including the G-men."
"They ever find anyone?" Bunkie asked.
"Sometimes. Unfortunately, it takes more manpower than is ever available. It becomes a lesser police priority as time goes on." She thought suddenly of Betty Taylor's remains. "And harder to find them."
"In this case, the best course is to do nothing," Bunkie said. "That's my call on it from the beginning. The lady will turn up. She's probably already shacking up somewhere in Europe. I figure a woman with that kind of looks can find someone to stake her on a new wardrobe, some baubles, and the price of an air fare. The more I think about it, the more I say we're panicked for nothing."
Monte headed the car around the Lincoln Monument back up Twenty-third to Georgetown, then up Wisconsin Avenue, pulling into a Seven-Eleven parking lot. He did not turn off the motor and after a while another man jumped into the back seat.
"This is Detective Fiona FitzGerald," Monte said. "You remember her, Mr. Ambassador."
"I do," he muttered.
Turning, she could see him in the reflection of light from the neon Seven-Eleven sign. It cast a green pall over all of them, making them seem like frozen victims of some exotic catastrophe, like a poison gas attack.
"We've filled her in, Mr. Ambassador," Monte said.
"Nothing official?"
"Absolutely not, Mr. Ambassador," Monte said, cutting a glance at Fiona for confirmation. "She's merely acting as my friend and advisor."
"I feel ridiculous," the Ambassador said in his Austrian accent, speckled with British pronunciations.
"Her passport, Mr. Ambassador?" Fiona asked with some sense of urgency. "Is it still in your residence?"
"Yes," he said. "That was my first thought, too."
"He knows everything?" she asked Monte.
"Just about," Monte said. He turned toward the Ambassador. "We deemed the stakes too high for secrets." It was, she knew, an ambivalent word, with too many meanings for precision.
"So you see the problem here, Detective FitzGerald," the Ambassador said. She wanted to ask him deeply personal things like how he could ignore, and possibly sanction, his wife having a love affair with another man in their official circle.
It occurred to her that he might have actually encouraged the liaison for his own political reasons, as if the beautiful Helga were a kind of bribe, a sexual favor offered in exchange. For what, she wondered. Except for the Waldheim flap, Austria s
eemed so benign, so distant from American political machinations. Nevertheless, she made a mental note to find out what committees Sam Langford served on. Again she thought of the remains of Betty Taylor. Cates had spent the day on the Hill checking on the Committee that had employed the unfortunate woman.
"Detective FitzGerald has just explained to us, Mr. Ambassador, that any missing report would go into a data bank, accessible to any official group."
"Internationally as well?"
"Of course. In the case of your wife, Interpol will hop on it. Not that this means that anything will be done. Although in this case, the impetus will be there. For the press as well."
"It will be like being up against a firing squad," Bunkie muttered.
"Wonderful," the Ambassador said gloomily. He had lowered his head. Suddenly he looked up and turned to Bunkie. "For your Senator as well." In the darkness, she could see Bunkie's eyes, which seemed to suck the greenish light into them. It made him look ominous, hateful. Iago thwarted, she thought suddenly. His aura stank of resentment. Incompetent strangers, he must be thinking, had pissed on his dream.
"You never had words over this ... this affair ... with your wife?" Fiona asked.
"Angry words?"
Fiona nodded.
"No." He sighed. "We have a rather unique marriage."
"Did she have any other lovers?"
"I doubt it. She genuinely adored the Senator."
"She told you this?"
"Of course."
Gamey stuff, Fiona thought. Maybe it was a turn-on for both of them.
"Wasn't this ... politically speaking ... the affair itself ... dangerous?"
She marveled at his value system. Was it decadence or naiveté?
"One expects discretion in these things," he said simply. "It is the danger that provides the interest."
She stole a glance at Monte, whose eyes looked upward in exasperation.
"Did you know about Mr. Farrington's visit?" Fiona asked.
"Yes," the Ambassador said.
"Your wife told you?"
"Yes."
She turned to Bunkie.
"Did you know she told her husband?"
"Not until he told me," Bunkie said.
"Did the Senator know?"
"We keep him out of this," Bunkie said. He talked in the direction of Monte. "Leastwise you could have clued her in."
"The point is we, the Ambassador and us, are in it together," Monte explained. "Everything is on the table now."
"Allies for the common good," Fiona said, hoping her revulsion didn't show. Self-interest makes strange bedfellows, she knew. It was a cliché of the political life. Unfortunately the human side of it was repelling.
Helga's elegant question-mark posture materialized in her mind. She saw her bejeweled and graceful as she danced, melding into the body of Sam Langford, gliding with him in a sensual pas de deux. If it was love you wanted, lady, you should have steered clear, she told her silently, remembering her own titillation.
"Have you checked everywhere?" Fiona asked the Ambassador. "Friends? Relatives? Even acquaintances?"
"I have been on the phone for twenty-four hours. I've used every euphemism I know, stretching discretion to its furthest point. I have racked my brains for some sign of this action coming. Anything. There was simply nothing to predict this. No harsh words. No subtle hints. Yes, we went our separate ways. Our only rule was discretion. We understood our responsibilities completely. I am absolutely certain that Mr. Farrington's explanation was accepted with total understanding. We are quite mature about these things. The fact is that I'm baffled. She had no reason to disappear. Not on her own."
"When did you see her last?"
"I told you. Yesterday morning."
"When?"
"At breakfast."
"How was she dressed?"
"Her dressing gown."
"What did you talk about?"
He thought for a moment.
"Events of the day," the Ambassador said. "We read the papers at breakfast."
"How do you read them?"
She was trying to get a picture of that last moment of his observation.
"I start with the New York Times. She starts with the Washington Post. We sit in the breakfast room. Our cook serves us and leaves. We have a pleasant view of the garden through a bay window."
"Now you're getting it," Fiona said.
"What sections does she read first?"
"Style. Women love the style section. My wife is a social animal. She likes to read the party coverage, the reviews. I have to read the more serious material. The editorials, for example."
"Does she read the more serious material?"
"Not often."
"Is this important?" Bunkie asked.
"Probably. She is a trained interrogator," Monte said.
"I don't mind. Really," the Ambassador said. He was quiet for a moment and she let him think.
"I'm trying to get you to remember that last moment. What was on her mind?"
"Real estate," he said suddenly. "Real estate was on her mind. It is a topic of conversation in Washington, the value of real estate. The extraordinary appreciation. She was thinking of investing in real estate." He paused again. "Yes. She always read the classified for the real estate."
"Had she made any investments?"
"Actually, no. But she was interested. Occasionally she mentioned having gone to look at something." He shrugged. "You see, the wife of an Ambassador has a problem. She cannot work, except as a volunteer. In Austria she owned a fashion boutique, but sold it when we married. She liked the idea of travel, the diplomatic life, but she was an active woman. She had a head for business. Real estate interested her." He nodded. "Yes, I remember. She did read the real estate classified yesterday morning as well."
"And then?"
"I left the table, showered, dressed and went off to the Embassy."
"You never saw her again that day? Or spoke to her on the phone?"
"No. It was quite a busy day."
"You don't know where she went?"
"No. Nor did any of the servants."
"She didn't take the car?"
"No."
"Have you found her wallet? Do you know what she wore?"
"I did not find her wallet. And, frankly, I did not keep track of her clothes. She went out. That is evident. Then she disappeared."
She heard the rain dancing on the car roof, Monte breathing heavily beside her.
"Sometimes we never know what motivates people," Fiona said. "Even those we love most."
"I think she just got fed up about something," Bunkie interrupted, "and decided to jump ship. Maybe she had it up to here with everyone. With all of us. Maybe the only person she was comfortable with was herself. She'll either come back in her own time or she won't. Doesn't mean we have to call out the cavalry."
Despite her distaste for Bunkie, he appeared to have the most logical attitude on the subject. Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.
"Got the picture, Fi?" Monte asked.
Like a half-developed Polaroid, she thought. There were unseen complexities here. Wheels within wheels.
"Who else knew?" she asked. Kessel and Bunkie exchanged glances, revealing a commonality that had escaped her. Was it a subtle conspiracy? Or simply the kinship of fear? No explanation necessary. They knew what she meant.
"No one," the Ambassador said. "Only me."
"That's difficult to do," Fiona pressed. "People observe. They have eyes." She shot a glance at Bunkie. "Where did they see each other?"
"My place," Bunkie said.
"There are neighbors, repair people, delivery men."
"Is this relevant?" the Ambassador asked.
"I'm not sure."
"Then why ask?" Bunkie snarled.
"Because it's important," Monte snapped.
"Okay, you want to know," Bunkie said with exasperation. "We had this routine. I have one of these garages. Electronic doors. I picked h
er up in different places. I got this one-way reflective glass in my car. No one can see in. I just drove her into the garage. The Senator walked the two blocks. They did what they did and I picked her up and dropped her off."
She looked at Kessel, who showed no reaction.
"You really had it down," Fiona said with grudging admiration.
"Bunkie thinks of everything," Monte said with sarcasm.
"Politics teaches. Remember Gary Hart," Bunkie said.
"If it was such a good system why stop?" Fiona asked Bunkie, who ejected a bitter laugh.
"When the media turns on its brights, even the cockroaches scramble," Bunkie said. "Nobody's perfect. Everybody gets careless. Worse, they were beginning to have ideas."
"Romantic notions?"
"More or less."
"You saw that?"
"Part of the job," he said with surly arrogance.
Again she looked at Kessel. Again no reaction.
"And did you also see that?" she asked Kessel, only gently.
"She is a romantic," the Ambassador said. "But, above all, practical. She also understood the security aspects. I am certain she told no one."
"Surely they used the telephone," Fiona said. "Embassies are often tapped."
"We have a safe line," the Ambassador said, showing the briefest glimpse of international intrigue. It crossed her mind that perhaps the Ambassador and his lady had conspired in this for reasons that had more to do with the relations between governments than people. In that case others surely knew. Many others. Intelligence agencies and their ubiquitous agents. The CIA. Fantastic scenarios suggested themselves.
"Maybe your government was tapping," Fiona said.
"I am quite sophisticated about these matters, Detective FitzGerald." She saw his face flicker into a small smile. "Security is sometimes a double-edged sword for a diplomat. It can actually strengthen the ramparts of discretion. Mrs. Kessel was also sophisticated in this and I assure you that I had no knowledge of the mechanics of her liaisons. Nor would I inquire. She was free to indulge as long as it did not interfere with my mission or our marriage."
"Sounds like a conflict of terms," Fiona said.
"I know," the Ambassador answered. "But you would be surprised how common such arrangements are."
Not as much surprised as offended, she offered silently. By rights, considering her experiences with politics and the police and the social hurly-burly of the Washington high-life, she should have been more jaded, more cynical, more tolerant of such oblique values. It surprised her that she wasn't. Happily so, she told herself.