Reyes looked at the phone next to the bed but didn’t reach for it. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Get on the bed, get comfortable. Go on, Lalo. I want you to be comfortable.”
“Are you crazy or something?” Lalo said. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re one of the agents who talked to me after—”
“Right, after your pal Peter Müller was shot.”
“I already told you I didn’t have anything to do with that. Peter was—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. He was your lover. You get around, don’t you, Lalo?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your lovers, Müller, a congressman, who else?”
“You have no right asking me things like that.”
“I’ve got every right. What about Hawaii?”
“What about it?”
“You told me you’d lived there once. On Maui?”
“So what?”
“Who did you live with on Maui?”
“That’s my business.”
“I’m making it mine. You know a woman there, Morgana Skaggs, aka Kamea something or other?”
Brixton had no idea whether Reyes’s connection with Hawaii involved Congressman Skaggs’s daughter and Samuel Prisler, but he figured that as long as he had Reyes on the defensive, he might as well take a shot. It had worked more times than not when he was a cop in D.C. and Savannah.
The expression on Reyes’s face told Brixton that mentioning the Skaggs daughter’s name rang a bell.
“Yeah, you knew her,” Brixton said. “Let’s try another name. Samuel Prisler.”
Reyes picked up the phone. “Either you leave or I’m calling the police.”
Brixton responded by pulling his revolver from the holster in his armpit and pointing it at Reyes. He knew that he had stepped far over the line. Reyes had every right to bring charges against him, which would ensure the end of any job Brixton might ever want in law enforcement. But that was irrelevant. Everything was irrelevant except clearing his name and proving that Paul Skaggs had aided and abetted the suicide bombing.
Reyes lowered the phone with a trembling hand. “Don’t shoot, okay?” he said. “Please don’t shoot me.”
“Then tell me why you’re going to Hawaii.”
“I have … I have friends there.”
“Friends? In the Prisler cult?”
“I know people there but—”
“But what, Lalo? Who do you know on Maui?”
“Sam. I know Sam.”
“Sam. Sounds like you know him pretty well, calling him Sam.”
“He’s a … he’s a very fine man.”
“He sells weapons to terrorists and runs a cult. You call that a fine man?”
“What do you want from me?” Reyes asked. He was close to breaking down.
“Did you know Paul Skaggs?”
“Who?”
Brixton made a show of leveling his revolver at Reyes.
“You know damn well who I mean. Paul Skaggs. The congressman’s son, the guy I shot and killed after he helped blow up the café and my daughter. Stop playing games with me. I shot him and I wouldn’t mind doing the same to you.”
“I think I met him once or twice,” Reyes said.
“Where? In Prisler’s cult?”
Reyes nodded and sniffled.
“Tell me more about Prisler and his cult,” Brixton said. “And take your time. I’ve got all night.”
Reyes gave Brixton an abbreviated history of what he knew about Samuel Prisler, vague statements about how the cult provides a better lifestyle for its members, most of them young; how Prisler loves the members of the cult and makes better human beings of them; how the Skaggs daughter was a loyal member of the cult; and how Reyes wanted to leave Washington and all its nastiness to live a better life.
Brixton took it all in, uttering an occasional grunt and probing a halfhearted answer to simple questions. He brought the conversation to an end when he decided that he’d better leave and not run the risk that Reyes’s buddy with the drawl would decide to return with help.
When Reyes realized that Brixton was about to take off, he said in a stronger voice, “I resent this.”
Brixton slipped his revolver back in its holster and smiled. “And I resent having a daughter blown up, Mr. Reyes. Enjoy your trip to Hawaii, and be sure to take plenty of suntan lotion.”
CHAPTER
21
Brixton’s adrenaline flowed as he walked to where he’d parked his car on a side street off Dupont Circle. He knew that his unannounced visit had been impetuous at best, a dunderheaded move born of frustration. He had no right to have invaded the young Spaniard’s apartment or to have pulled a gun on him and demanded answers. It hadn’t accomplished much aside from knowing that Reyes had been a member of Prisler’s cult and was in the process of returning. But that left Brixton with more questions than answers.
How did Reyes’s involvement with Prisler’s cult link to the café bombing and Paul Skaggs? Or was there even a link? Brixton had only his own speculation, his own what-if scenarios as an answer. Could it be sheer coincidence that Reyes and Paul Skaggs just happened to have the Prisler cult in common? Brixton believed in coincidence, but there was a limit.
Were the recent murders of embassy employees connected in some way? The café had been a known hangout for State Department staffers. Had they been the targets of the suicide bomber? And what about the recent rash of murders of individual embassy employees? Brixton had initially believed that those killings were the work of homophobic whackos, and the possibility still existed. He reminded himself to check with Kogan to see whether the two latest victims, the Italian and French embassy staffers, were gay.
And now there was the suspicious death of Charlie McQuaid added to the mix. McQuaid had been murdered. Brixton was certain of that. Would McQuaid’s sister, Jeannette, tell the authorities that her brother no longer fished? Brixton doubted it. She had enough on her mind, losing a loving brother, and on top of that facing her own mortality. He decided he’d seek out someone at MPD who might be interested in pursuing McQuaid’s death as a possible homicide. From what he’d learned from the cops at the house, and from Jeannette McQuaid, the assumption—and that’s all it was, an assumption—was that the retired Justice Department lawyer had died as the result of a boating and fishing accident. Whoever had killed him had done a good job of covering his or her tracks, but that didn’t mean that the murder was foolproof. Anger welled as Brixton thought of McQuaid and his offer to help clear his name. Charlie McQuaid was a good and decent man; he deserved having light cast on the truth.
With these thoughts and others swirling in his mind like an out-of-control mental eddy, he stopped in front of a small bar and peered in the window. It was virtually empty; a couple sat at the bar, and only two tables were taken. Brixton entered, took a table as far away from others as possible, and continued his ruminations, hoping that the gin and McQuaid’s file folders and papers that he’d carried in with him would calm his jumbled brain and jump-start clearer thinking.
* * *
As Brixton nursed his drink and began reading, Annabel Smith was hosting the monthly book discussion group at the Smith’s Watergate apartment. That month’s assigned book was My Beloved World by Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor. The nine women, including Asal Banai, engaged in a lively discussion that sometimes broke down into political views, which Annabel did her best to avoid. Despite the sometimes sharp bantering, she judged the evening a success.
The group was winding up its debate when Annabel’s husband, Mac, walked in. He’d been to Ford’s Theatre, where he’d treated himself to its current production.
He’d vacated the apartment that evening because of Annabel’s book group. Mac encouraged his wife’s monthly involvement. She invariably came away from those confabs energized and filled with ideas. He, on the other hand, enjoyed spending a solo evening out, a spin on “Ladies’ Night Out,” except that it involved a man, and only
one—him. Mackensie and Annabel Lee Smith were deeply in love and savored time spent together. But they were also wise enough to know that having individual interests and spending time pursuing them solidified their commitment to each other.
He’d enjoyed dinner at BLT Steak, a block from Lafayette Square near the White House, one of his go-to restaurants when out on the town on his own. He arrived at Ford’s Theatre early and did what he always did when there, perused the remarkable array of artifacts in the small but nicely conceived museum that traced Lincoln’s presidency and included the actual derringer used by John Wilkes Booth to assassinate the president as he sat in the presidential box with his wife, as well as the actual clothing worn by the president on that fateful night. Annabel’s group was getting ready to leave when Mac returned home.
“Good discussion?” he asked as the women gathered their belongings.
“It was wonderful,” one said. “Justice Sotomayor is so self-effacing in the book.”
“Reading about her humble beginnings was inspirational,” said another.
“I’m just concerned about her leftist leanings,” said the staunch Republican woman in the group.
“I have the feeling that she’ll put aside politics when it comes to making decisions,” Mac offered. “At least, let’s hope she does.”
Asal Banai was the last to leave.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she told Annabel.
“My pleasure, Asal.”
“Have you heard from your friend, Mr. Brixton?” Asal asked.
“You talked to him earlier today, didn’t you, Mac?” Annabel said.
“Yes,” Mac said as he returned from the kitchen, where he’d carried dishes. “We’re going to the funeral home tomorrow.”
“It must be terrible having to arrange a funeral for a child,” Asal said. She saw Mac wince and remembered that he’d lost a son to a drunken driver on the Beltway.
“Robert has so many challenges,” Mac said. “Besides burying his daughter, he’s trying to prove that Congressman Skaggs’s son was involved in the café bombing, because Robert’s accused of gunning down the congressman’s son without justification. That’s a lot to juggle at one time.”
“Is he making any progress?” Asal asked casually.
“I think so. He told me on the phone that the son was given a traffic ticket shortly before the bombing. Seems he was driving a car belonging to another man.” He turned to Annabel. “What was that name I mentioned to you?
“I’m not sure. It sounded Middle Eastern.”
“Please give Robert my best when you see him,” Asal said.
“We certainly will,” said Annabel. “You never mentioned how things went when you had a drink with him after our dinner party.”
Asal was surprised that Annabel knew about that. She hadn’t mentioned it to them, but Brixton obviously had.
“Oh, yes, we had a drink. It was pleasant.”
“Robert can be abrasive at times,” Mac said through a laugh, “but he’s a really good guy. I admire him.”
He walked Asal to the elevator. “Any progress in your brother’s situation?” he asked as they waited for the car to arrive.
“Unfortunately no, but thank you for asking.”
“And your agency?”
There is always the problem with money, but we are working on it.”
When Mac returned to the apartment, Annabel said, “Asal was so moody tonight. I got the feeling that she has something weighty on her mind.”
“She asked about Robert,” Mac said. “Maybe their drink together sparked something.”
Annabel laughed. “He needs a new woman in his life with all he’s going through. It’s a shame that he and Flo Combes broke up. I liked her. She seemed to be able to handle his cynical view of life.”
“I’ve given up trying to understand romance, Annie,” Mac said, grabbing her and pressing a kiss to her neck. “The only romance I understand is ours.”
“Which is good enough for me. Let’s finish cleaning up and call it a night.”
“Get to bed, you mean.”
She smiled. “You’re very astute, Mackensie. You might have made a good lawyer.”
* * *
Asal Banai stood outside the Smith’s Watergate apartment building. She wanted to go home, but that wasn’t to be, at least for a while. The phone call she’d received earlier that day saw to that.
Resigned, she walked to the taxi stand that served guests of the Watergate Hotel and gave the driver an address on Thirty-first Street NW north of Georgetown. The house he pulled up in front of was Georgian in architecture, an imposing sight set back from the street on a hill. The front door was reached by climbing a steep set of steps. Spotlights illuminated the house’s front from half a dozen locations. A narrow driveway snaked its way along the side of the house and disappeared in back.
Asal paid the driver, drew a deep breath, and slowly began ascending the stairs. She was halfway up when a young man dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans appeared at the top. He’d been alerted by her image on one of two security cameras whose field of vision scanned the front of the property. Similar cameras secured the side and back of the house. “You are?” he asked.
“Asal Banai. Mr. Alvi is expecting me.”
Another young man opened the door and asked her to wait. “Mr. Alvi will be with you shortly.”
Asal hoped that her nervousness wasn’t too apparent. She’d practiced what she would say to Alvi from the moment she’d received his call late that morning requesting that she come to his home at eleven. No, it hadn’t been a request. It had been an order, politely delivered but unmistakable in its meaning. After receiving it she’d considered canceling her appearance at Annabel’s but had second thoughts. She knew that the book club would disband early enough for her to make the appointment on time, and she hoped the lively discussion would distract her from the dread she felt at being summoned.
She sat in a straight-backed chair in the expansive foyer decorated with garish Middle Eastern paintings and furniture, and fidgeted with her handbag until the second young man appeared and told her to follow him. They went up a circular staircase to the second level and into Alvi’s study, where the Iraqi sat behind a rococo desk with multiple sections of inlaid woods of different colors. Zafar Alvi was not handsome but he exuded the sort of self-confidence characteristic of more attractive men. His nose was large, deeply veined, and bulbous. His closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard was scraggly; it looked in some spots as though it refused to grow. What was left of his hair ran over his bald pate from side to side and was gelled down. He wore a red and brown button-down shirt, tan cardigan sweater, baggy tan slacks, and gray and red sneakers. Alvi’s reputation was not based on his fashion sense or looks. It was his wealth that fueled his charisma and supported multiple homes around the world, most of them in the Middle East.
* * *
Asal had met Alvi for the first time at a social gathering six months earlier. She’d certainly heard of him and knew the powerful position he held within Washington’s Arab-American community. But while Zafar Alvi was relatively high profile, there had always been an air of mystery about how he made his money. As a Sunni, it was assumed that he had lost considerable clout in the new Shiite Iraqi government, but rumors abounded about various business deals he had with the new leaders. There were also unsubstantiated charges that he was a financial supporter of and laundered money for rebel groups in Mali, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Somalia, and other hotbeds of discontent.
That introduction to Alvi had occurred during a particularly difficult time in Asal’s life. The Islamic Partnership was floundering; donations had dried up, and the group’s modest headquarters was behind in its rent. She’d fallen into an easy conversation with the powerful man and was aware that he was physically attracted to her. But her interest in him was anything but romantic. She saw in Zafar Alvi a financial lifeline.
Alvi took her to dinner the next night at a Middle Eastern
restaurant in which he enjoyed partial ownership. They dined alone in a small separate room with romantic lighting and music and a special menu served with flourish to Alvi and his guest. It was during that dinner that he asked her to provide a service to him. At first she thought that he might be propositioning her, but he quickly disabused her of that notion. He told her that he needed people within Washington’s Arab-American community whom he could trust to provide him with information about the goings-on, particularly political, of individuals he described as “enemies” and “potential enemies.”
Asal hesitated to commit herself at first, but by the time dessert was served and he’d offered a sizable amount of money for both the Islamic Partnership and herself, she agreed. After all, she reasoned, what could be wrong with simply telling him what certain people were doing in exchange for a generous fee?
But if she had reservations, there was another more compelling reason to become involved with him—her imprisoned brother in Baghdad. She’d told Alvi about the situation that night at dinner, and he’d suggested that he could use his influence to secure her brother’s freedom in exchange for her cooperation. The combination of money and the promise to intercede on her brother’s behalf was more than enough to secure Asal’s promise to keep him informed.
Asal had little contact with Alvi in the months that followed. Communication with him came through a man introduced only as Kahn, Alvi’s chief of staff. Their brief meetings were conducted in public places, a coffee shop, Union Station, and a park. It was like a cloak-and-dagger movie to her, which she found amusing. She had little to offer in exchange for the generous payments delivered by Alvi’s representative. Her work at the Islamic Partnership brought her into contact with many people in the Arab-American community, none of whom it seemed to her were involved in anything that would interest Alvi. Still, she passed along innocuous tidbits of information, most of them personal—a leader of the community cheating on his wife, or a woman making comments that could be construed as anti-Islam.
But that changed when she was ordered to meet with him one morning. He told her that he had become active in helping bring young worthy Middle Eastern men and women to the United States for a university education and wanted to work through the Islamic Partnership. Asal’s first reaction was positive. His involvement could expand the program and result in more young people benefiting. But once he’d begun to influence the project, she began hearing from Iraq that Alvi’s people had virtually taken over the program and were arranging for a select group of young students from various countries to enter the United States with visas arranged by Alvi’s colleagues. Losing control of the program dismayed Asal, and she raised her concerns with him. His answer was that unless he had control of the program, he would have no choice but to cease making payments to the Islamic Partnership. It was at that moment that Asal realized the penalties for agreeing to provide her reports to Alvi. She considered ending the arrangement. But after some soul searching, she decided that his money was more important to the partnership than her pride. Let him run the student program if it meant that much to him, she decided, and she continued passing along seemingly meaningless information about his alleged enemies.
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