Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [33]
PART
TWO
CHAPTER 11
On most summer days, Washington, D.C., is as miserably hot and humid as Savannah. But on this day it was as though a large dome had been placed over the city built on a swamp and someone had switched on a gigantic air-conditioning unit. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees and the humidity was low. The sky was cobalt blue—like a fall sky—and the brisk breeze from the northwest was invigorating.
A perfect day for sightseeing.
The tour guide of a double-decker, open-top sightseeing bus parked in front of Union Station stood by the door and greeted passengers who’d paid for a tour of the city, including a man in his late thirties with a pencil mustache, who used a thin walking stick with a gnarled head. Aside from his cane, Emile Silva looked like any other tourist—chino pants, white sneakers, and a white shirt worn loose.
“Good morning,” the guide said pleasantly.
“Good morning to you, sir,” Silva replied, equally as pleasantly, “a perfect day for a tour.” The guide accepted his prepaid ticket and watched him slowly, presumably painfully, climb the stairs one at a time to the open upper level, where he took a seat behind a couple who spoke to each other in a combination of Kurdish and English.
Silva looked down to where a dozen high school students led by their teacher came from Union Station and milled about until their tickets were collected and they were allowed to board.
“All right, everyone,” the tour guide said as the driver started the engine, “off we go. We’ll be stopping at the sites listed in your brochures and you’ll have time to get off and take all the pictures you want before we proceed to the next stop. Please stay in your seats while we’re moving for your safety and comfort.”
The bus pulled away and the tour guide started his spiel about Washington and the many landmarks they’d be passing. Silva heard the comments but wasn’t particularly interested in them. He’d recently taken this tour twice with different drivers and guides, so he knew in advance what would be said. That left him free to focus his attention on others on the bus, particularly the couple in front of him, who demonstrated enthusiasm at what they were seeing.
The couple and most of the other tourists got off the bus at the U.S. Capitol to take photographs of the imposing structure, particularly the almost twenty-foot-tall statue of a woman, Freedom, that sits atop the building’s nine-million-pound cast-iron dome. Some of the young people on the tour were too busy horsing around to pay attention to what the guide said about the Capitol, and Silva viewed them with disgust.
With everyone back onboard, the trip continued—Washington’s compact Chinatown, Ford’s Theatre, where Lincoln had been assassinated by John Wilkes Booth, the monuments to the Korean, Vietnam, and Second World wars, and the Holocaust Museum. Some of his fellow tourists lingered at those locations, knowing they could board another passing bus at any time. Silva remained in his seat.
But when they reached Washington Harbour, a riverside complex of restaurants, shops, an office building, a condominium, and an inviting promenade that offered panoramic views of the river, Silva got up, stretched and yawned, and hobbled down the stairs, leaning on his cane. The Kurdish couple headed straight for the promenade and stood looking out over the river and its boat traffic. Silva came up next to the man, a burly fellow wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. His wife wore a colorful, long-sleeved velveteen outfit that ran straight from her neck to her ankles; a “lira belt” fashioned of coins strung together provided a waistline.
“It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?” Silva commented.
“Oh, yes,” the wife said.
“Your first visit?” Silva asked.
The husband nodded.
“How long will you be staying?” Silva asked, following the line of usual questions asked of tourists.
“One more week,” the husband replied.
“You’re from…?”
“We are Kurds, the northern part of Iraq,” the husband said.
Silva had inched closer until his hip touched the husband