“I’m okay. My knee’s acting up, but otherwise okay.”
“The usual?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The bartender delivered Brixton’s cold, dry martini, shaken and served with a lemon twist, and said, “I’ve been reading about you and that bombing. I was really sorry to hear about your daughter.”
“Thanks,” Brixton said. He tasted the drink and said, “Perfection!”
“What I’d like to know is why Congressman Skaggs’s kid was there with that suicide bomber.”
“You and me both,” Brixton said.
The bartender sensed that Brixton wasn’t in the mood to discuss it and moved away to the other end of the bar, leaving his customer to enjoy his drink—and to ponder the jumbled bits of information he’d received and how they fit together—if they even did.
Before his suspension, he’d come to the conclusion that SITQUAL’s primary mission was to make it look as though the State Department was serious about protecting the foreign diplomatic corps that calls Washington, D.C., its home away from home. Not that adding a dozen agents was impressive. DSS already had more than two thousand agents dispersed throughout the world, protecting the secretary of state and America’s diplomatic contingent in every nation in which State had a presence. The uniformed division of the Secret Service also played a role in providing security for visiting dignitaries, as did the Washington MPD and the Capitol Hill Police. SITQUAL had been lauded to D.C.’s foreign embassies as an elite organization whose only purpose was to enhance protection for the embassies and their people. But from what Brixton had experienced, SITQUAL was more like a small-town police department, rescuing stranded cats from trees and breaking up late-night parties that got too noisy for the neighbors. Or for investigating purse snatchings and biased graffiti.
But the stakes had obviously grown bigger.
Until now he’d felt that the Germans were wrong in trying to link the two deaths of its embassy people. A couple of their people get murdered, one in New York, the other in Washington, and they’re about to declare war. He’d been convinced that Peter Müller had been the victim of a shooter who was out to kill a homosexual, and maybe Adelina Dabrowski’s murder was for the same twisted reason. Then again, her death could have been nothing more than a sexual assault gone bad, the work of a whack job who got into her apartment by pretending to be there to repair her air-conditioning. Her sexual orientation might not have meant anything to a rapist who saw a pretty girl and decided to attack her.
What it had come down to for Brixton was that those two disparate acts of violence didn’t justify the German government trying to link them to some sort of terrorist plot.
But now that had changed.
Apart from Peter Müller, Adelina Dabrowski, and the dead German in New York City, there was now the Italian embassy staffer named Conti, and this most recent murder of someone from the French embassy. Was the Frenchman a homosexual? The newspaper report of Conti’s murder had said that he’d eaten alone in a restaurant before venturing into the park, and had been a lover of art. Did that mean anything? Were these murders because of the victims’ sexual orientation?
Brixton no longer thought so.
They were all employed by foreign embassies in Washington, D.C. That had to mean something.
Like parts of a large jigsaw puzzle, other bits of information occupied his thoughts as he sipped his martini and turned each item around in his mind, trying to make it fit into the picture.
Will Sayers had mentioned a pending homosexual scandal involving Congressman Ken Wisher and that a possible sexual partner of the congressman was Eduardo “Lalo” Reyes, Peter Müller’s lover. When Brixton and Donna Salvos interviewed Reyes, he’d mentioned that among the places he’d lived was Hawaii. Not that that meant anything in and of itself. Lots of people lived in Hawaii. But Reyes, an embassy staffer himself, was involved with one of the embassy staffers who’d been killed, and Brixton made a mental note to take a stab at talking to the young Spaniard again.
Having stopped in to see Mike Kogan paid off in some new information about Paul Skaggs and his movements prior to the bombing. Brixton now knew that Skaggs had returned to Washington via New York City and had most likely traveled between New York and D.C. in someone’s car. Had this man, Zafar Alvi, provided the transportation? The congressman’s son was obviously Alvi’s friend; he’d been given Alvi’s car to tool around Washington in. Zafar Alvi was Middle Eastern. Who was he? Was he involved in some way in planning and carrying out the bombing in the café? There was nothing tangible to say that he was, but it was a question that Brixton had to answer.
Having been put in touch with a retired Justice Department attorney was a bit of good fortune. Charlie McQuaid obviously knew as much as there was to know about Samuel Prisler, his cult, and his arms dealings with terrorists. There was nothing to tie Prisler to the bombing, though, and Brixton knew it. But as he finished his drink, he became more convinced than ever that there had to be a connection. Paul Skaggs had lived on Prisler’s compound prior to returning to Washington and aiding in the bombing. His sister had lived and worked with Prisler for years. Prisler was suspected of being an arms dealer who sold to terrorists.
There had to be a connection.
He was tempted to order a second drink but conquered the impulse. Ever since Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) launched its public-awareness campaign, he’d starting walking away from bars before ordering another. He thought of Mac Smith having lost his wife and son to a drunk driver and shared his anger at the lenient sentence the driver had received. Besides, he didn’t need a DWI. Bad for the image of a dedicated representative of the United States government.
When he and Asal Banai had parted company after their drink together, she’d given him her phone number. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed it.
“Robert Brixton here. Hope I’m not disturbing anything important.”
“Oh, hello, Robert. No, nothing important. I’m reading an excellent book about how the battle of Fallujah in Iraq was fought. It was such a peaceful city until the fighting began. Most of the city was destroyed.”
“‘War is hell.’ Somebody said that.”
“One of your Civil War generals, I believe. General Sherman?”
“Yeah, it was probably him. Doesn’t matter who said it, it’s true. I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight. I know this is last minute but…”
Her laugh was warm and inviting. “You’ve saved me from having to eat leftovers. I would love to have dinner with you.”
“Great. Any suggestions?”
“Since I’m in Foggy Bottom, not far from your State Department, I recommend the Founding Farmers restaurant on Pennsylvania. It’s very good. I go there often for salads.”
“A half hour?”
“That will be fine. It’s between Nineteenth and Twentieth Streets.”
“I’ll find it, Ms. Banai.”
“But I’ll only come if you call me Asal.”
“It’s a deal.”
Just don’t call me Bobby, he thought as he ended the call, paid his tab, got in his car, and drove across the Arlington Memorial Bridge into the District.
CHAPTER
17
Brixton was on edge when he drove to the restaurant. He was still getting calls from the media, each fueling his irritation. It wasn’t that he resented reporters doing their job. He’d come to the conclusion during his tenure in Washington, D.C., that the media was probably the only true check-and-balance on government. Its frequent excesses were dismaying, of course, but at least someone was looking into what the government was doing without their reelection chances dictating their views and decisions. But the constant bird-dogging by the press—and the reporters asking the same questions over and over even though he’d just answered them—tried the little patience he had left.
The relaxing evening he looked forward to with Asal Banai kept getting pushed to the back of his mind by recent events. H
e dreaded Janet’s funeral—what father wouldn’t?—but it was complicated by the horrible way that she’d died. He’d have to look down at the closed casket and envision her smiling face, lip ring and all, her verve for life, her determination to find her own way (with occasional help from Daddy). Too, there was the strained relationship with Marylee. What would her new husband, Miles Lashka, have to say at the funeral? Maybe he, her natural father, should have planned to speak. Too late now. Besides, public speaking ranked right up there along with weddings with loud, obnoxious DJs as situations to avoid. He also felt a modicum of guilt for not having insisted on being part of making the funeral arrangements. But he also knew that it was best to stay out of Marylee’s way. Her anger at what had happened was also directed at him; his jaded approach to life, death, and religious rites wouldn’t have been appreciated.
He was juggling the new information he’d recently learned from Mike Kogan, Willis Sayers, and Charles McQuaid as he found a parking spot a block away and walked into the restaurant. For a moment he had regretted having made the date with Asal. But seeing her seated at the table, the lighting casting her in a flattering light, a wide smile on her face, mitigated any previous unpleasant thoughts.
“I’m not late, am I?” he asked as he took the chair opposite her.
She looked at her watch. “Right on time,” she said. “Did you have trouble parking?”
“No. I never do. I was born with a gene that always seems to find a parking space.”
“I wish I had that gene.”
“No you don’t. It also assures that somebody will dent my car or knock the side-view mirror cockeyed.”
She laughed softly.
“You look exhausted,” she said.
“Do I? Yeah, I guess I am.”
It wasn’t a sleepy tired. He didn’t need a nap to recharge his batteries, wasn’t sleep deprived. What he did need was to rewind the clock to the time just before he’d made the date with his daughter. If he’d been a motion-picture director, he would have left all the film shot from that moment to the present on the cutting-room floor. Failing that, he would at least feel whole again if he could confront the suicide bomber and Congressman Skaggs’s son, ask them questions, maybe gain some understanding of why they did what they did. Of course, he also knew that unlike some people who lose a loved one to a shooter, deranged or not, he wouldn’t be content to just ask questions. He’d have to strike out at them. He admired those who could display compassion for murderer and victim alike, but he wasn’t there yet, probably never would be. Finding answers from Paul Skaggs and the woman he’d abetted was impossible, of course. What was done was done. Robert Brixton might feel exhausted for the rest of his life.
“What you’re going through must really take its toll,” Asal said, seeming to read his mind.
“I try not to admit it,” he said, “but I’m not always successful. Enough of this. I see that you have a head start on me.”
She smiled and picked up her glass of white wine. “I arrived early,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He motioned for a waitress and ordered his martini.
“What is new about the congressman’s son?” she asked, after he’d been served and they’d touched the rims of their glasses.
“Not much,” he replied. He wanted to share what he’d recently learned with someone, and Asal’s openness and encouraging smile prompted him to do that. But he held back. Instead, he asked something he’d thought about while driving there. “You read that the young woman who blew up the café was here from Pakistan on a student visa.”
“Yes.”
“A phony one. How does that work? You told me that one of the things your organization does is to arrange for students from the Middle East to come here to study.”
“That’s right, although it’s not the only thing we do.”
“No, I’m sure it’s not. You bring students here only from Iraq?”
“No.”
“Other Arab countries, like—I don’t know—Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Pakistan, places like that?”
Her smile faded. “They aren’t all Arabs,” she said, “but they are from that part of the world. Yes, we arrange for them to come from other Middle Eastern countries, like Pakistan.”
“I’m just wondering how somebody like this young kid gets a set of bogus papers that are good enough to enter the country. She gets here and disappears. How does that happen?”
“I don’t have an answer for that, Robert,” she said, and sipped her wine.
He shook his head and drank, too. “Who checks on these foreign students?” he asked. “How does the process work overseas? Who makes sure that they’re legit? How does your organization know that a student you sponsor isn’t coming here to kill Americans?”
Her sigh said that she wasn’t pleased with the direction the conversation was taking.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” he said defensively. “Maybe your people in those countries do a good job screening young applicants, and I’m sure that you and your agency are careful about who gets entry visas. But I’ve been gathering information all day, Asal. I need all the info I can get.”
“I understand,” she said and handed him the menu that had been placed on the table.
“What do you suggest?” he asked, aware that she’d deliberately shifted gears.
“I usually have the Late Harvest salad,” she said.
Brixton wasn’t a salad guy, at least not as a main course. He told the waitress what Asal had ordered, and chose a Southern Fried Chicken salad for him. “I never had fried chicken in a salad,” he said smiling; he wanted to break the tension that had developed over the past few minutes.
“So,” he said, “how was your day?”
“Busy, and it isn’t over. I have a meeting to attend after dinner.”
Brixton wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed that they wouldn’t be able to extend the evening or relieved. While he was attracted to Asal Banai, he was too battered by conflicting emotions and figments of information, none of which added up to anything definitive, to contemplate romance.
Their meals arrived, and they ate in silence aside from an occasional “How’s your salad?” or “This is good.” The truth was that he’d lost his appetite and looked forward to when they would leave.
She sensed his mood.
“I wasn’t upset about you asking how students get here under false pretenses,” she said. “I know that you are looking for answers. I assure you that the students we help come here to the United States to study are carefully vetted.”
He was glad she’d brought them back to the subject.
“I don’t doubt that,” he said, “but maybe you can help me understand. I’m still considered a murderer of an innocent young man who also happens to be the son of a powerful congressman.”
She took a few bites of her salad before saying, “The young Pakistani woman who blew up the café—and your daughter—wasn’t one of our students. The minute she was identified in the press, we checked. We’d never heard of her.”
Brixton nodded, patted his mouth with his napkin, and pushed his half-eaten salad away. “Do you know anything about a man in Hawaii named Samuel Prisler?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Just somebody I’ve been told about. There’s another guy I’ve got to track down.”
“Who is that?”
“His name is Alvi. I have his first name.” He pulled out the slip of paper Kogan had given him. Zafar Alvi.”
She stared blankly at him.
“The congressman’s kid, Paul Skaggs, was driving this guy’s car here in D.C. before the bombing. His name is Middle Eastern.”
She said nothing and took a bite of salad.
“You’ve never heard of him?”
“No. Why should I have?”
“That’s strange,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’m told he’s a pretty well-known guy in Arab-American circles.
I just figured that—”
“You just figured that because I am an Arab American I know every other Arab American in Washington, D.C.” Her tone now had a slight edge.
Things were spiraling out of hand.
Brixton forced a laugh. “I’ve never been known for subtlety,” he said. “That’s another gene I have. When I was on the PD, I was always the bad cop. Whoever I was partnering with was the good cop—smooth, trustworthy, things like that. Me? I always said what was on my mind.”
“Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” she said.
“It can be, like tonight. I’m looking for answers from everybody, including you.”
“Maybe especially me,” she said. “When you are with me you see someone whose people have done this terrible thing to you. I understand that, but it doesn’t help you.” She looked at her watch. “I must get to my meeting.”
As he paid the bill, she said, “You know, Robert, you may never get the answers you want.”
She’d said what he’d been thinking all along but hadn’t admitted it to himself. Hearing the words was hard to take.
He drove her to a small office building not far from the restaurant.
“Sorry I ruined dinner,” he said as they sat in the car.
“You didn’t, Robert, but until you’ve achieved some closure, it is best that we not see each other again.”
“Look, if I’ve offended you, I apologize.”
“Am I offended?” she said. “I suppose I am. Because a few of my people do horrific things, I am looked at with suspicion.”
“‘Suspicion’? I don’t suspect you of anything.”
“Perhaps suspicion is the wrong word. But I am one of them. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice.”
“My daughter’s wake is tomorrow,” he said bluntly.
“I don’t envy you.”
“It’s at the funeral home. Closed casket.” He looked away, then back at her. “I’d like to see you again,” he said. “Maybe when the funeral is over I can think more clearly.”
She opened the door.
“Is there anything new about your brother?” he asked.
Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder Page 15