Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [39]
“We’ve been tracking him since he arrived in the States,” the CIA representative said. “What was the purpose of his trip?”
“He was here at State’s invitation,” the handler explained. “We were hoping to help nurture a different perspective on his part.”
“He was loose in the city,” the CIA agent said.
“His choice,” replied his handler. “He said that he and his wife wanted to spend time exploring the city. We worked with the Kurdistan embassy to schedule their trip, got them sightseeing and theater tickets. It’s not like he was in any danger. Nobody knew who he was, just another foreigner exploring D.C.”
The second CIA agent raised his eyebrows. “It looks like somebody knew who he was,” he said curtly. “The hospital and MPD are treating it as a suspicious death. We hear that the doctor in charge of the case even mentioned the possibility of ricin poisoning.”
That bit of news brought a momentary halt to the conversation.
“Does the embassy know that?”
Mutki’s handler at State answered, “We’re meeting with them at noon. Hopefully we can keep this under wraps until an autopsy determines how he died.”
“Lots of luck,” the CIA agent said.
“We’ve had a few media queries,” the representative from State said. “We’re working on a response now.”
“Ricin? Jesus! If it’s true, the Iraqi government is going to have the spotlight trained on it big-time.”
“The White House?” a CIA agent asked. “Have they been informed?”
State nodded. “Of course. The president is calling the Kurdish prime minister later today.”
“To say what?”
“To say how sorry he is that one of their leading journalists has died.”
“How sorry is he?”
“Let’s not be cynical. The president didn’t like what Matki was writing and broadcasting, but—”
“Forget I said that.”
“Ricin! Don’t tell me it’s another umbrella attack,” said the older of the CIA agents.
“It’s all speculation at this juncture,” said State.
That’s the way it was left—for the moment. The two CIA agents departed the meeting and headed back to CIA headquarters at Langley.
“We need someone present at the autopsy,” the older agent said. “Get one of our cleared docs to sit in on it.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Everything’s a problem,” was his older colleague’s terse reply.
• • •
At noon that day, Dexter met with a man at a local McDonald’s.
“Has Emile left yet?” Dexter was asked.
“He’s flying out tonight.”
“Cancel the trip.”
Dexter looked up from the cheeseburger he’d just picked up.
“We need a low profile for a while. Keep Emile here. I’ll let you know when it’s time to activate him again.”
“All right,” Dexter said and took a bite of his burger.
CHAPTER 14
Dexter called Silva’s cell phone to inform him that his overseas mission had been scrapped. Silva took the call at his mother’s house in suburban Virginia, where he’d arrived earlier that afternoon. He regularly visited her, sometimes as often as four or five times a week. She wasn’t well. She suffered from congestive heart failure, emphysema, and diabetes; a portable oxygen tank was kept close to her side. Emile was her only child. She’d given birth to him at the age of forty-three, a year before her husband died in a hunting accident.
“Who was that?” she asked from her favorite living room chair after he’d ended his call.
“The office.”
“Where is your office?” she asked.
He smiled, sat on a hassock at her feet, and patted her gnarled hand. “You always ask me that, Ma-ma, and I always tell you that I have many offices. I’m a consultant. I go from office to office. I was supposed to fly somewhere tonight but that trip has been postponed.” He gave her his widest smile. “That’s good news because it means I can spend more time with you.”
“That will be nice,” she said in a weak voice. “You never come and stay long.”
“Now don’t say that, Ma-ma. Sometimes my business takes me away from home but I always rush back to see you. I brought you your favorite soup.”
“What kind?”
“Oh, Ma-ma, you know what your favorite soup is, crab chowder. I’ll heat it up for you