There were times, although not many, when he wondered whether his decision to go after the money and ignore the fact that Pawkins had killed Aaron Musinski was immoral. Marc Josephson liked to think of himself as a moral man, although he tended to define it in a highly personal way, as most people do. The letters of Leon Blum that Josephson had once purchased and resold from his shop provided one of many rationalizations: “I have often thought morality may perhaps consist solely in the courage of making a choice.”
And I’ve made a choice, Josephson thought, his conscience salved.
Too, there was his relationship with Aaron Musinski to consider. He didn’t wish a premature death for any human being, especially at the hands of a brutal assailant. But he had to admit—to himself only of course—that Aaron Musinski had been a thoroughly despicable man. God, how he disliked him on a personal level, his arrogance and pomposity, his crudeness and insensitivity. There were times when Josephson had secretly wished the famed musicologist dead. He’d suffered Musinski’s insults and bad temper because the man was a genius. Besides, he was someone who had accepted him, Marc Anthony Josephson, into his professional sphere and was willing to share in whatever spoils might come from their explorations into artifacts from years gone by. He had no illusions about the willingness of Musinski to include him. It wasn’t that Aaron had been a generous man. Far from it. But Musinski had been well aware that Josephson had access to many people in the British Isles who might lead them to treasures, particularly the Mozart-Haydn string quartets for which Musinski had been searching for years. How ironic that it took none of his British contacts to ultimately find the scores. There they were on a table with old newspapers and magazines, damp from the morning dew, yellowed, edges curled, on the verge of starting someone’s fireplace to ward off the chill.
He barely slept that night, so consumed was he with the need to right a wrong and to be given what was, after all, his due. He and Musinski had been partners. Without him—he had led them to that London suburb on that fateful weekend and was the first to have spotted the papers on the table—the scores would never have been found. Close friends—he didn’t have many—told him he’d become obsessed with recouping the money. Who were they to analyze his needs? Engaging Poindexter and his agency had cost him his life savings. The shop no longer supported him; his greedy landlord had tripled the rent in recent years. Yes, his dedication—his obsession—to find the scores and the money had diverted much of his attention from the shop and its business. But what was fair was, after all, only fair. That money was rightfully his.
At five the next morning, he again sat at the window, looking out over Washington. He’d made another decision while lying in bed. He had to be more aggressive. Was Smith going to act on his behalf? He needed an answer now.
Waiting until the Smiths might be awake and out of bed seemed an eternity. At seven, he called.
“Hello?” Smith said.
“It’s Marc Josephson, Mac. I trust I didn’t awaken you and your wife.”
“Not at all. We’ve been up for an hour. Sleep well?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I did not.”
“Strange beds. I always have trouble my first night in a hotel.”
“It wasn’t that,” said Josephson. “Have you decided?”
“Decided what?”
“To confront Pawkins about the money.”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, Marc, and Annabel and I discussed it last night. You’ve asked for my opinion, which I’m happy to give you. You have no option but to contact the local authorities and present your evidence to them. I can give you the name of someone to—”
“I don’t want to go to the police.”
“But you should.”
“I came to you for help,” Josephson said, aware that his voice was getting higher and more strident as his frustration bubbled to the surface.
“I’m aware of that,” said Smith, “but I’m afraid the only help I can offer is to give you my best counsel. What you’re alleging is a police matter. You’re talking about the theft of valuable items, and possibly that the person who took them is a murderer. This isn’t a situation calling for a private negotiation. You have an obligation to see that justice is done. I realize that the money is important to you, but that’s something to be dealt with later.”
Josephson’s voice now became a screech. “What sort of an attorney are you!” he demanded. “What sort of a man are you?”
Smith did not reply.
“I engaged you to handle this for me and—”
“Hold on a second, Marc,” Smith said. “You haven’t engaged me for anything. You called and asked to meet with me. We met. I listened. If what you claim is valid, you have an obligation to—”
The sound of the handset being slammed down reverberated in Smith’s ear.
“I’ll be damned,” he said into the dead phone.
Annabel came from the bathroom. “Who called?” she asked.
“Josephson. I think the man is unbalanced.” He recounted the conversation.
“I’d say you’re right,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s right. Let’s see if Josephson takes my advice and goes to the police.”
“How will we know if he does?”
“I’ll give him a day or two and ask him.”
“What about Ray?”
“We’ll let that play out for a couple of days, too. I’d better shower and get moving.”
She grabbed the sleeve of his robe. “Mac,” she said.
“What?”
“I’m terribly uncomfortable having him working for us at WNO. And you have the tech rehearsal tonight. Frankly, I’m not anxious to be around him.”
“There’s nothing to be concerned about, Annie. He doesn’t know we know. Better to keep it that way, at least for now.”
A kiss and he was gone, the bathroom door closing behind him.
The last time Ray Pawkins had spoken with Marc Josephson was six months after the murder of Dr. Aaron Musinski, almost six years ago. He’d taken the call at MPD, where he was still a detective.
Josephson had introduced himself as a professional colleague of Musinski. He owned, he said, a shop in the Mayfair section of London dedicated to rare manuscripts, art, and musical scores. He was, he said, terribly dismayed at the death of his colleague and friend, and wondered whether Pawkins could shed some light on the circumstances surrounding Musinski’s murder.
Pawkins had said he wasn’t at liberty to discuss an ongoing case, but would be glad to take Josephson’s phone number and call once he was free to release information. That prompted Josephson to thank the detective for his courtesies, and to ask about the disposition of Musinski’s personal effects.
“His niece, a Ms. Felicia James, has taken control of Dr. Musinski’s assets. She’s his next of kin.”
“Yes, I know of her,” Josephson said. “Let me be candid, Detective Pawkins. Dr. Musinski and I were involved for many years in searching out rare musical manuscripts written by Mozart in collaboration with Joseph Haydn. They were string quartets.”
“Well,” Pawkins said, “I wouldn’t know about such things. As I said, once we concluded our investigation at Dr. Musinski’s house, Ms. James took control of anything that was in it. Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you.”
“I’ve spoken with Ms. James,” Josephson said. “She tells me that those musical scores had been in her uncle’s home but disappeared shortly after his murder.”
“Look,” Pawkins said, “I’m a Homicide detective, not a music critic. I don’t know anything about string quartets by Mozart and…who?”
“Joseph Haydn. I understand this is not your area of expertise, but I just thought you might have some information that would be helpful to me. You see, those scores are worth a great deal of money. Dr. Musinski had taken them with him when he returned to Washington from London,
to begin the authenticating process. They’ve simply vanished into thin air.”
“I doubt if they vanished into thin air, as you put it. Whoever killed Dr. Musinski undoubtedly took them,” Pawkins said. “Maybe that’s why he was murdered.”
“Precisely my thought,” Josephson said. “Well, sir, I’ve already taken too much of your time. Thank you.”
This second call from Marc Josephson woke Pawkins.
“Mr. Raymond Pawkins?”
“Yeah.”
He looked over at the clock. Seven thirty. He’d been out late, hadn’t gotten home until three. He’d been at a birthday party at a friend’s apartment off Dupont Circle. His friend, whose birthday it was, had lived with his gay partner for the past twenty years and was part of a small circle of opera-loving friends. They’d consumed large quantities of wine, good wine—his friend had impeccable taste in almost everything, his collection of CDs rivaling Pawkins’. They’d listened to the complete recordings of Alban Berg’s twelve-tone Lulu, with a spectacular performance by Teresa Stratas playing the amoral slut Lulu, who corrupts every man she meets until getting her comeuppance at the end from none other than Jack the Ripper; and to the Angel recording of Jules Massenet’s Werther, with stirring performances by the lyric tenor Alfredo Kraus and the late Tatiana Troyanos, who played the doomed Charlotte. A spirited argument broke out among the fifteen guests about the significance of Werther in today’s society, with no clear-cut winner.
Pawkins’ head throbbed as he pushed himself up in the bed and held the receiver to his ear.
“This is Marc Josephson.”
“Who?”
“Marc Josephson. You don’t remember me?”
“Obviously I don’t. Oh, wait a minute. Yeah. You were in business with Musinski.”
“We were colleagues, Mr. Pawkins. I would like to speak with you in person.”
“About what?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If you want to know how the investigation is going, you can call Detective Berry at MPD.”
“I’m not here to speak with any detective, Mr. Pawkins,” Josephson said, fighting to keep his voice under control. “I wish to speak with you!”
“Where are you?”
“I am here in Washington.”
“Yeah, well, I’m really busy and—”
“You remember Mr. Georges Saibrón, of course,” Josephson said.
The mention of the Frenchman’s name caused Pawkins to swing his legs off the side of the bed and to focus more on the call.
“Mr. Pawkins? Are you there?”
“I don’t know anybody named Saibrón.”
“Oh, yes you do. And you know about your bank account in the islands and—”
“What the hell do you want, Josephson?”
“I want my money, Mr. Pawkins.”
“What money?”
“Don’t force me to go to the authorities, Mr. Pawkins. I have all the evidence.”
“Look, Josephson, I…All right, I’ll meet with you. But I’m telling you, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I’m staying at the Watergate Hotel, and will be here for two more days. Come to my room this afternoon.”
“I can’t today. It’ll have to be tomorrow.”
Josephson’s voice raised an octave. “Don’t put me off, Pawkins. I want to see you today!”
Pawkins waited a beat before saying, “All right. What time?”
“Four o’clock. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“And Mr. Pawkins, should Mr. or Mrs. Mackensie Smith call, please inform them that they no longer represent me. Good day.”
Pawkins slipped the cordless phone back into its bedside cradle and went to his elaborate study, where he turned on the computer. He went to “My Favorites” and clicked on Google. It took only a few minutes to find a photograph of Josephson from one of the interviews he gave to British media. Pawkins studied it, turned off the computer, and put a CD into the changer, Verdi’s Otello, featuring opera’s greatest modern Otello, Plácido Domingo. Music always helped him think.
He sank into a red leather recliner and processed what had just transpired on the phone. Josephson sounded ancient, his voice feeble. He said he had “evidence.” What evidence could he possibly have? Whatever it was, Pawkins could handle it, and him, the old Englishman.
Mackensie and Annabel Smith were another matter.
THIRTY-TWO
This morning was not unlike most other mornings for Joseph Browning III.
He awoke before sunrise and took a cup of coffee and the newspaper to the small brick patio outside the kitchen of the Alexandria, Virginia, home he shared with Christine, his wife of thirty-two years. He’d been a Washington bureaucrat for twenty-seven of those years. Possessing a freshly minted Yale law degree, he’d gravitated to the nation’s capital as a young attorney for the Department of the Interior before progressing through a succession of jobs, each with a higher GS rating and increasingly involving intelligence functions—State, Justice, the FAA, and now the Department of Homeland Security (DHS). Cynics might view his career as one in which he was incapable of holding a steady job. But Joe knew better. Surviving changing administrations was a talent unto itself, and Browning took pride in still being gainfully employed after seeing a string of presidents join the ranks of the unemployed.
The summons to assume a post at the newly created DHS represented, at least to family and friends, an important step up in his career. The safety and security of the United States of America, and the fate of its citizens, necessarily took center stage after 9/11. Being in the forefront of protecting the republic would be a heady experience, one that he’d attack with purpose and dedication.
But as DHS morphed into a larger and more unwieldy entity, assimilating twenty-two separate intelligence agencies under its umbrella, he found his enthusiasm waning. It wasn’t that DHS’s stated mission of protecting America had dimmed. Far from it. It was the way that mission was becoming increasingly compromised. This took some of the spark out of getting up in the morning, donning a cape and shield, and doing battle with the terrorists who’d so callously wiped out more than three thousand innocent American lives.
He’d ended up second in command of DHS’s Information Analysis and Infrastructure Protection Directorate (IAIPD), which was to coordinate interagency counterterrorism efforts with members of the “Big 15,” the fifteen major agencies comprising the U.S. Intelligence Community (IC)—the FBI; the CIA; the Defense Department’s National Security Agency (NSA), National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA), and Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA); the State’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research (INR); the intelligence agencies of the army, navy, air force, and marines; as well as lesser known, shadowy, and seldom understood intelligence agencies, such as the Counterintelligence Field Activity (CIFA), the Defense Airborne Reconnaissance Office (DARO), the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board (PFIAB), the President’s Intelligence Oversight Board (IOB), the Pentagon Force Protection Agency (PFPA), and the intelligence community’s internal overseer, the Defense Security Service (DSS). Add to that jumble of acronyms the newly formed Terrorist Threat Integration Center (TTIC), a CIA task force of analysts with plans to integrate with the CIA’s Counterterrorist Center (CTC) and the FBI’s counterterrorism division; plus the latest, the Office of the National Counterintelligence Executive (NCIX)—and Lord knew how many others that had sprung up under the now wider national security umbrella (even Browning didn’t know, and he was an insider). Intelligence reports were modified for distribution to local law enforcement agencies around the country, including Washington’s police department.
This had spawned another acronym among Browning and his colleagues, spoken only in private: BON, “Bureau of Noncoordination.”
The truth was, Browning had learned that, despite all the promises, all the lofty rhetoric, and all the potential of creating a Departmen
t of Homeland Security as the first line of defense against further terrorist attacks—and despite the acknowledgment that a failure of sharing information had played a major role in the September 11 attacks—these agencies, and more, simply would not cooperate, and refused to cede turf and budgets, no matter how high the stakes for the nation and its trusting citizens.
Which was why Browning, in concert with his superior and others at DHS, had elected lately to deal directly with the British and Canadian intelligence services and not funnel such sources as Milton Crowley through the CIA and FBI. Crowley was but one of many sources whom Browning and his people had begun to deal with directly. The FBI had forged an agreement with DHS under which it was required only to provide the agency with summaries of its intelligence gathering, not the raw material. The FBI had hired two hundred new agents to do nothing but wade through hundreds of thousands of recorded phone calls and computer intercepts under the Patriot Act, using “trap-and-trace” surveillance techniques favored by the NSA. In addition, the FBI itself had begun monitoring the web-surfing habits of Internet users, resulting in thousands of “captures” that also needed to be analyzed each day.
Meanwhile, the CIA had long ago abandoned its mandate to conduct operations only outside the country, and had launched an aggressive campaign of domestic spying and eavesdropping on Americans.
This all resulted in a massive intake of information, most of it useless, but which had to be analyzed nonetheless.
Intelligence gathered by the FBI remained in the House That Hoover Built until someone got around to writing a report to send it to the Department of Homeland Security.
The CIA’s treasure trove of intercepted communications remained in Langley, its importance to national security left in the hands of those who’d obtained it.
And information that a Toronto talent agency, Melicamp-Baltsa, might be sympathetic to terrorist aims, joined thousands of other bits of information that was eventually shared with the FBI.
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