“And there’s the funeral,” Ruth said to her lap.
“The National Cathedral,” Gibbs said.
“And a special memorial service in the Capitol. Statuary Hall, most likely,” Mondrian said.
“That would be nice. Paul would have … liked that.”
“Have you heard from Mr. Brazier?” Gibbs asked.
“Warren? No. Not yet. He’s probably out of the country.”
“He’s here in Washington,” Gibbs said, hoping it didn’t sound as though he was challenging her.
“Then I’m sure he’ll be calling soon,” Ruth said.
Gibbs and Mondrian looked at each other before Gibbs spoke. “Ruth, did Paul say anything lately about his relationship with Brazier?”
Her cocked head said she wondered why the question had been asked.
“They’d been working closely on legislation in the economic policy and trade subcommittee,” said Gibbs. “There’s scuttlebutt; they had a falling out over it.”
This time, Ruth’s laugh came through. “Scuttlebutt? In Washington, D.C.? I can’t believe it.”
The men laughed gently.
“I’ve heard rumors that Paul was murdered.”
Another glance between Gibbs and Mondrian. No comment.
“I don’t believe he killed himself. It wasn’t Paul. You asked about Warren. The answer is no. I don’t know of any rift between them.”
But then the conversation she’d had with her husband the night before came back to her:
HE: “I met with Warren this afternoon.”
SHE: “Oh? A problem?”
HE: “Yes.… I told him I was backing off on the Russian Trade and Investment Bill.”
SHE: “Isn’t that the bill you said a few months ago was the most important Russian trade bill in your career?”
HE: “Yeah. I said that. And it would be. But there’s something about it that’s … wrong. Warren’s staff keeps pushing for amendments to it that—well, frankly, that would distort its original intent.…”
SHE: “Was he angry?”
HE: “He was angry before I even told him.…”
And Paul had told her the president wanted him to pull back on any legislation involving Warren Brazier until the conclusion of the confirmation hearings.
She made a decision on the spot not to mention that conversation. She’d been in Washington, had been around government long enough, if only as a leading congressman’s wife, to have developed the inherent, reflexive sense to think before speaking to anyone in an official capacity. Paul had been fond of quoting from a song to make that point, a blues tune by the pianist and singer Mose Allison: “Your mind is on vacation, your mouth is working overtime.” He even sang it on occasion when in a scampish mood at parties, and given an extra bourbon and soda.
“The president called,” Ruth said.
“I know,” said Gibbs. “They were good friends.”
“Mutually respectful,” Ruth said. “Paul really believed in Joe Scott. The day of his inauguration, Paul was happier than I’ve ever seen him. He really felt Joe was the right person to lead the country.”
“He was right,” Gibbs said.
“When will they search the house?” she asked.
“They wanted to do it today,” Mondrian said. “We convinced them it would be barbaric to do that to the family.”
Ruth sighed. “No more barbaric than Paul being dead. He did not commit suicide!”
“That will be determined at the autopsy, Ruth,” Mondrian said.
Martin Latham opened the door and said, “Mac Smith and his wife are here.”
Mac and Annabel stood at the entrance to the living room. Ruth approached them, arms outstretched.
“I’m so sorry,” Annabel said, embracing her.
“A terrible shock,” Mac said. “How are you holding up?”
“Best we can, Mac. Come in. There’s coffee and Danish. The bar is open. Paul would have wanted me to be the perfect hostess, no matter what the circumstance. A requisite for a congressman’s wife.”
They followed her into the large room, where others greeted them. New arrivals streamed into the house. Ruth shut drapes against the harsh lights from TV crews outside.
Mac and Annabel had coffee. As they sipped, Mac stuck out his hand to intercept Bob Mondrian on his way across the room. “A word?” Mac said.
“Sure.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Okay.”
Mondrian led Mac to the porch, which was empty. Alone, door closed, Mondrian said, “Ruth’s doing pretty well. Martin and Molly, too. Priscilla’s on a ship, but she’ll be home in a couple of days.”
“Bob, I have to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Where’s Marge Edwards?”
“Marge? I—she’s home, I suppose.”
“She wasn’t at the office this morning.”
“No, she wasn’t. I never even thought about that in the confusion. Why do you ask? Is there a problem?”
“There may be. Look, Bob, I have to do something I always dislike when others do it. I was told something today about Marge by someone whose identity I can’t reveal. I don’t know whether it’s true or not, and I’m not asking you for verification. But I’m compelled to bring it up.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Not as serious as Paul’s death, but damned unpleasant for Ruth and the kids.”
“I’m listening.”
“Marge was about to level a charge of sexual harassment against Paul.”
If Smith’s flat statement had an impact on Latham’s chief of staff, his broad face didn’t reflect it. He stared at Mac with unblinking eyes.
“Were you aware of this?” Smith asked.
“No.”
“No hint of it? You and Marge work closely together.”
“If I knew anything about it, I would have acted immediately.” He scowled. “You aren’t suggesting I knew about it and did nothing, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Assuming there’s any validity to it.”
“Yes. There’s only the assumption. But let’s say there is truth to what I was told. Let’s say Marge did intend to bring such a charge against Paul. Have you ever witnessed anything that might give credence to her claim?”
He guffawed. “Of course not. Paul is—was—the classic straight arrow. Office hanky-panky? Fanny-patting? ‘Gimme a kiss’ by the watercooler? Come on, Mac. Paul Latham was the consummate gentleman, maybe not always when taking on another member of Congress, or an administration, but always the gentleman in his personal life.”
“Of course, that’s my read, too,” Smith said. “Still, I had to bring it up with you. I’d like to talk to Marge before this rumor grows legs. You assumed she was at home. Can we give her a call?”
“Sure, only …”
“Only what?”
“Only I think it would be inappropriate to make that call from here. Ruth. The kids.”
Smith nodded. “You’re right. Annabel and I will be leaving soon. I tried Marge from home a few hours ago. There was no answer. I’ll try again.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“No. Heard anything on the autopsy?”
“Nope. Ruth’s convinced he didn’t kill himself. I agree.”
“If he didn’t—”
“Yeah. If he didn’t. Thanks for bringing up this Marge thing, Mac. Sorry if I reacted badly at first. It’s so ludicrous, it’s almost laughable.”
They were unsmiling as they prepared to leave the porch.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mondrian said. “If there is any truth to what you’ve told me, that Marge was considering making a ridiculous charge like this against Paul, it could only be because she’s so damned unstable.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” Smith said.
“Some day I’ll fill you in. This isn’t the time.”
Mac and Annabel left the house at nine. He tried Marge Edwards’s numb
er several times from home, to no avail.
Annabel had held off asking her husband what he and Mondrian discussed. She knew, of course, why Mac had cornered Latham’s COS; he’d told her about Jessica Belle’s allegation the moment he returned home from Rosslyn. Now, she asked.
He recounted the conversation with Mondrian.
“And?” she said when he’d finished.
“I can’t help but be concerned, Annie. There’s no reason for Jessica to have told me about it, other than being sincerely worried about the negative impact it might have on the Scott administration. Paul dies of a gunshot wound, and Marge can’t be reached. Mondrian lays on me the idea that Marge is unstable. Is that true, or is it spin control in the event Marge was intending to charge Paul? Yeah, I’m concerned. It would devastate Ruth.”
“But now that Paul is dead,” Annabel said, “there’s no reason for Marge to make such a charge. Is there? I mean, if she intended it to derail his confirmation—and that’s assuming she ever intended anything—that goal is not to be gained any longer.”
“True. But maybe she wasn’t intending it to spike his confirmation. Maybe she really believes she’s been a victim of sexual harassment, has some noble purpose for making it public.”
“You know what, Mac?”
“What?”
“Here we are talking as though Jessica was right, that Marge did intend to bring such a charge. We’re giving it legs.”
Smith smiled. “Exactly what I told Mondrian I wanted to avoid. And that’s what we’d better try and do before it takes off at a sprint.”
The last person left the Latham house at midnight. Friends had offered to stay with Ruth and her two children, but she declined. “I think we’ll do better if we can just be together alone,” she told those who offered. They understood, having spent the night projecting themselves into her shoes.
Martin turned on the television, leaving Ruth to sit with Molly in the young girl’s bedroom. They said nothing for a while, content to sit quietly and chew on their individual thoughts. It was Molly who broke the silence.
“Daddy didn’t kill himself, did he?”
“We’ll know that in a day or so,” Ruth replied. “But no, I do not think he did.”
“I mean, why would he? Everything was going great.” She sat up on her bed, more animated. “He was going to be secretary of state. And he knew we loved him. Didn’t he?”
This time, it was Molly’s turn to comfort her mother, who broke down and sobbed softly.
“Didn’t he know that?” Molly repeated.
“Of course he did, Molly. And we know he didn’t kill himself. Someone—someone shot him. God.”
“Who?” Molly asked.
“I don’t know, Rabbit. Some evil, warped person. But they’ll find out. In the meantime, we have to be as strong as Daddy would want us to be. We have to be dignified, and celebrate the wonderful life we’ve had with him. And that means we all need to get our sleep.”
She hugged her daughter, running her hand through her silky blond hair. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too, Mom. I even love Martin.”
They both laughed quietly. Ruth said, “Martin just has trouble accepting our love. But down deep he loves this family as much as you and I do. Good night, sweetie. It’ll be a tough day tomorrow.”
As Ruth Latham went to the door, she noticed a package wrapped in brown paper and string on Molly’s dresser. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Oh, that? Just some books Dad gave me to read.”
“Well, you won’t be reading much for a few days. But once you’re back in the page dorm, you’ll have time to read again. Night.”
She closed the door to Molly’s bedroom, leaned against the wall, and wrapped her arms about herself to stem the shaking.
It had been murder. Her husband, Paul Latham, congressman from California, lover, father, companion, had been taken from them by another human being.
A murderer.
That realization doubled her over, and sent her to the bathroom, where she fell to her knees in front of the toilet.
17
Anatoly Alekseyev’s mood hadn’t improved since being designated tour guide and baby-sitter for the three young Russians who’d flown into Washington with former KGB general Aleksandr Patiashvili.
After leaving Brazier’s Washington offices, he’d driven them to where they were staying, the Holiday Inn on Capitol Hill, and waited in the lobby while they freshened up. They came down and said they were in the mood for seafood, so he took them for dinner to the appropriately touristy Hogate’s, on the District’s southwest waterfront.
Now, it was close to midnight. Alekseyev had wanted to drop them back at the hotel after dinner, but two of them, already tipsy from vodka consumed during dinner, insisted upon going to an American disco. Anatoly pointed out that discos were no longer the rage in America, which didn’t dissuade them; they were popular in Russia. He decided on Georgetown’s Deja Vu, one of many popular hangouts for Washington’s young professionals, and where he often ended up after a night of pub crawling.
Deja Vu was crowded, as usual, and the rock music was played loud. They found space at the bar and ordered more vodichka, “darling little water” in Russian.
Alekseyev had twice excused himself during dinner at Hogate’s to make phone calls. And he excused himself at Deja Vu for the same purpose.
He rejoined the three at the bar and tried to participate in their drunken conversation. It wasn’t easy. The two outgoing members of the group had grown increasingly boisterous and aggressive with young women seated next to them, fueled by the seemingly unending shots of vodka they’d downed. Alekseyev was uncomfortable with their behavior, and wished he’d taken them to a bar where he wasn’t known. Too late for that. Getting them to leave took center stage.
He found an ally in the third member of the trio, Yvgeny Fodorov. Fodorov was obviously one of those people for whom alcohol generated depression, perhaps even anger, certainly not expansiveness. Unlike his flamboyant friends, Yvgeny had sunk deeper into morose drunkenness, his thin, sallow face set in a perpetual scowl, corners of his mouth drawn down, eyes watery from the alcohol.
“Hey, you all right?” Anatoly asked him.
“Nyet. I want to leave.”
Alekseyev laughed. “Good. So do I.” He slapped Yvgeny on the back and said to the others, “Come on, my friends, let’s go.”
They agreed to leave, but only if Anatoly would join them for a final drink at the hotel. “Okay,” he said. Anything to get them out of Deja Vu.
The bar at the Holiday Inn was closed, but Alekseyev knew one a block away that would be open.
“Nyet,” Yvgeny said as they left the lobby. “I am going to bed.”
Alekseyev envied him.
Later, at the bar, a quiet, neighborhood place with swing era big-band music coming softly from a jukebox, the two young Russians, new to Washington, quieted down considerably, to Anatoly’s relief. Although they continued to drink, they seemed to sober up to some extent, and talk turned to topics other than sex and drinking—dusha a dushe, heart-to-heart talk.
“So, what do you do for Brazier Industries?” Alekseyev asked.
“Finance,” one said. “Dealing with Russian banks.”
“You?” Alekseyev asked the other.
“The same. The Central Bank must do something to avoid a liquidity crisis. We’re trying to influence the bankers in this direction.” He snickered. “The old man, Brazier, is going nuts, huh, trying to deal with Yeltsin and his cronies?” He lowered his voice as though to pass on a confidence. “You know what? He wants to buy Sidanco.”
“Oh?” said Alekseyev.
“Da.”
“I would have known,” Anatoly said. “It produces oil. My area.”
A loud laugh this time. “Why should you know? No one knows what the next person is doing in this company. Am I right?”
His friend agreed.
“Da. He wants t
o buy Sidanco, but the government auction—some auction—the rules mean that only Oneximbank can buy it. Some auction, huh?”
“Some auction,” Alekseyev agreed. He wasn’t anxious to get into a lengthy debate over auctions, or banks, or anything, for that matter. Not at that hour.
He changed the subject. “What about Yvgeny?” he asked.
The two looked at each other and laughed. “The fag?” one said.
“Weird,” said the other.
“What does he do for Brazier?” Alekseyev asked.
They shrugged. One said, “I asked him on the flight. He said he worked for security. I think it was the only thing he said the whole trip.”
“Security,” the other said scornfully. “We have more security than anything else. They’re everywhere. Like the KGB, huh? Idiots!”
“He doesn’t look like a security man to me,” Alekseyev said, putting money on the bar and standing. “Tomorrow at seven.” He checked his watch. “Almost two. Come on, or we’ll be here all night.”
He walked them back to the hotel, got in his car, and drove to his apartment.
Across town, in the Holiday Inn on Capitol Hill, Yvgeny Fodorov was too busy to think of sleep.
There had been an envelope in his room when he arrived after their night out. He opened it and removed the airline ticket it contained, the note, and the five hundred dollars in American money, which he put in his wallet.
The ticket was for the Delta Shuttle from Washington’s National Airport to New York’s LaGuardia.
The note, written in Russian, instructed him to take the first flight the following morning, and to contact a person in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, whose phone number was included.
The final line of the note was: You are to stay there until contacted. Everything you need will be supplied.
The note wasn’t signed.
Fodorov paced the room. Every light burned brightly; the television was on, loud. His mind raced. So much had happened to him in such a short period of time.
Yvgeny Fodorov’s mother, Vani, had stipulated in her will that she was to be cremated, and that there was to be no religious service. Instead, she asked that her closest friends gather in a favorite restaurant, and eat and drink in her memory. She earmarked a small sum from her estate to pay for this.
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