Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [9]
“My former employer,” Stripling said. “You know why I’m here. You know who I’m working this for. Your leader.”
He’d received a call at home from Mark Roper, his last boss before he had officially retired from the CIA.
“Wake you?” Roper asked.
“No. It’s eight-thirty. I’ve been up for hours.”
Roper chuckled. “Now that you’re a man of leisure, I figured you might be catching up on all the sleep I caused you to lose over the past year.”
“You only thought I lost sleep, Mark. I took more naps on the job than you knew. What’s up?”
“I thought you might be interested in some freelance work. Supplement the pension.”
Stripling cradled the cordless phone between shoulder and ear, poured fresh coffee into his cup, and resumed his chair at the kitchen table in his Foggy Bottom town house. He was honest when he said he’d been up for hours, only he hadn’t bothered getting dressed. He wore a robe over his pajamas, and slippers. The morning paper sat half read on the table.
“What’s it pay?” he asked. “Minimum wage?”
“Slightly better. How’s your love life?”
Stripling grimaced and looked out the window onto E Street N.W. Unlike those in colder climates who fall into a February depression and hibernate, Washingtonians tend to have the same reaction in summer. Heat and humidity fray tempers and wilt the psyche. This late July day promised to wilt even the heartiest of souls.
Roper’s question about Stripling’s love life had various meanings, Stripling knew. Because he’d never married, there was the natural unreasonable speculation. There had been women in his life, plenty of them, but none had stuck. The truth was, he enjoyed female companionship but only in short bursts; he had limited patience with relationships that lingered beyond the initial phase. He knew what was behind Roper’s question and ignored it. Under Roper’s affable facade was a nasty disposition that he put to good use when wanting to get beneath someone’s skin.
“Tell me more about this freelance assignment,” Stripling said.
Three hours later, dressed in a lightweight blue suit, white shirt, and gray tie, he sat with a deputy attorney general in the Department of Justice building at Constitution Avenue and Tenth Street N.W. The middle-aged woman, whose dress and hairstyle reminded Stripling of actresses in the Hope-Crosby road movies of the forties, briefed him on what the attorney general expected. Stripling masked his annoyance at her tone. He was Tim, she was Mrs. Klaus; she never referred to her boss by name, always as the attorney general, never as Wayne Garson or Wayne or Mr. Garson or Garson.
“Tim, the attorney general expects you to—”
He noted on her ID tag that her first name was Gertrude, and called her that when they parted. She didn’t look pleased. The hell with her, he thought as he walked from Justice to the Hoover Building, where the next meeting was scheduled. By the time he got there, his shirt and pants felt like they were glued to him, and the building’s efficient air-conditioning turned everything clammy against his skin. He was not in a good mood.
“So let me ask you something,” Stripling said to the two FBI agents in the room. “Why the interest in this guy Russo? What is he, a terrorist?”
A smile crossed one of the agent’s faces. “The president might think so,” he said.
Stripling started to ask another question but was cut off. “Look, Tim, we’re not sure what this is all about. Need to know. What we do know is that Garson wants to know where this Mr. Louis Russo is.”
“Why the assumption he’s headed this way?” Stripling asked.
Shrugs.
“You said Parmele might consider him a terrorist,” Stripling said. “Why?”
“Like we said, Tim, it’s strictly need to know.”
Sure, Stripling thought. You just happened to mention that the president had some interest in Mr. Russo, but you don’t know why. Sure.
A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of an aide carrying a sheet of paper, which she handed to one of the agents. He put on his glasses, read it, and handed it to Stripling.
“Barcelona, then to Newark on Delta,