Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [97]
Had Russo told the truth when he claimed to have assassinated the Chilean dictator at the behest of the CIA, on orders from its chief, Adam Parmele? It didn’t seem to matter anymore whether Russo had lied or not. His story was between the covers of a book, to be read and judged by all those who plunked down their money in bookstores or online.
His mind cleared in synchronization with the increasing brightness outside. His options narrowed to one, it seemed. The book would make its way without his help. There would be no public appearances, no signings, no interviews in which he’d have to justify what he’d written. And there would be no hearings, certainly not involving him. The tapes were his and would remain his. One day, maybe, he’d destroy them.
He looked into the living room where the large canvas shoulder bag containing the tapes and other research materials rested against a chair. Trash them now, he told himself. Burn them, or go out and find a Dumpster. Pull the tapes from their cassette cases and cut them into strips, make confetti of them. Find a big magnet and run it over them, scrambling Russo’s words, true or false.
But the clarity that had made a temporary stop in the kitchen was obscured again by uncertainty. He couldn’t destroy what he’d worked so hard to possess. He stood, feeling very old as he did, and walked slowly into the cramped room that would be his bedroom, at least for that day. Fully clothed, he fell on the bed, drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and was asleep within seconds.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Mullin’s head had fallen forward to his chest when a sharp tap on his window snapped him to consciousness. He looked up into the face of a uniformed police officer and rolled down the window, allowing wind-driven rain to splash against his face.
“You sick or something?” the cop asked.
“Sick? Nah.”
“Then move it. This is a no-parking zone.”
Mullin reached into his jacket pocket. The cop touched his holster, but Mullin quickly produced his shield.
“You on assignment?” the cop asked.
“Yeah. Thanks for stopping by.”
The officer had no sooner walked away than Mullin saw Stripling pull up on the opposite side of the street, half a block down from the hotel. Stripling locked the car, ran down the street, and entered the hotel. Mullin looked around the interior of his vehicle. Why was there never an umbrella when you needed one? There were half a dozen back in the apartment. He spotted a beat-up NY Yankees baseball cap on the backseat, twisted with difficulty to grab it, slammed it on his head, and went to Stripling’s car. He looked up and down the street before trying the front passenger door. Locked. He leaned close to the tinted windows and attempted to see inside, but saw only indistinguishable images. Concerned that Stripling and Sasha might leave the hotel and come to the car, he retreated to his own vehicle. He wished he’d picked up a newspaper or magazine, something to kill the time. He hadn’t read a book in years.
He tuned the radio to all-news WTOP, where an announcer intoned that the stormy weather was expected to end by late afternoon, with another heat wave to push its way into the area the next day. Commercials followed. Then the day’s top stories were repeated.
“This is Dave Stewart with an update on the breaking story involving the Mafia’s alleged role in the assassination more than twenty years ago of Chilean dictator Constantine Eliana. A soon-to-be-published book by Washington writer Richard Marienthal claims that the assassination in 1985 was carried out under a contract given a New York Mafia family by the Central Intelligence Agency. The allegation comes from Louis Russo, the Mafia member who claims to have pulled the trigger in that assassination, and who himself was murdered in Union Station only days ago. Russo, who had traveled here to Washington from Israel, where he’d been living under the federal witness protection program, was to have testified at a hearing conducted by Alaska Senator