Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [101]
Hoctor broke the silence. “Max,” he said, “you obviously understand what that meeting was all about.”
Pauling slowly turned to face him. “Yeah, I think I do. This whole thing is going to be kept under wraps, spun like cotton candy until you can’t see the core for the candy. And that means keeping my mouth shut, saying nothing, as though Moscow didn’t happen.”
“But not forever, Max. Look, I’m not a fan of Ashmead’s administration and policies, but I do understand the ramifications involved here. The Bureau has egg all over its face if they moved on the wrong people based upon an undercover agent’s reports. Not that I care a hell of a lot about whether the FBI has to squirm a little. But they need time to figure it out, come up with a game plan. And, my friend, there is always the possibility that this Scope was right, and you and the reporter are wrong.”
“Scope?”
“The Bureau’s undercover agent’s code name.”
“Oh.”
Hoctor picked up on Pauling’s expression of recognition. “You know something about it, Max?”
“What? No. You were saying they, meaning the FBI and the administration, need time to sort it out. Fine. Just as long as I’m out of it.”
“You are that, Max, out of it. You come back to Langley for a few days, then head for the Farm. I never could see you in State. Not your sort of people. Diplomacy’s never been your strong suit.”
“I’ll need a few days before reporting.”
Hoctor’s look of displeasure spanned the table. “I’m to get you back to Langley posthaste, Max.”
“To keep me mummified.”
Hoctor nodded and rubbed at his drooping right eye.
“Sorry, Tom, but I’ve got things to clean up here before I go anywhere.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a lady I’d like to see, and a plane I’d like to get some time in.”
“Fly it to Langley, keep it there. I’ll go with you.”
“Maybe I will. The shrimp are good. Sure you don’t want one?”
“No. Enough spice for one day. Max, if I cut you some slack, give you a day here in DC, do I have your word that you’ll lay low, speak with no one about what happened?”
“The press, you mean? No fear of that. The networks are getting rich off it. Nothing like a little carnage to kick up ratings.”
“Tell you what,” Hoctor said, motioning for a check and pulling out his wallet. “Go see your lady friend, take a shower, have a good dinner, make love, go out to the airport and pat your plane on the nose, and meet me tomorrow at six at the Westin, on M. Have your bag packed. Know where it is?”
“The Westin? Pretty fancy. Sure it’s government issue?” Pauling said, patting Hoctor on the back as they stood on Twenty-third Street. “Thanks, Tom. See you at six.”
Hoctor started to leave, but Pauling stopped him by calling his name. Hoctor retraced his steps.
“Did you kill Bill Lerner?” Pauling asked casually, as though questioning whether Hoctor had seen a popular movie.
Hoctor hesitated before answering. When he did, Pauling searched his face for a sign that what he said was truthful.
“He had enemies, Max.”
“Enemies?”
“Russians he became involved with through Elena.”
“You knew about her?”
“Yes. His superior chose to ignore their relationship, but others in the embassy didn’t. He posed quite a dilemma, Max. There was plenty of talk at Langley about how to handle the situation. I don’t think they ever came to a resolution, but now they don’t have to. He was in deep, as I understand it, with some banker types, one in particular named Miziyano.”
Pauling didn’t signify that he knew who Hoctor was talking about. “In deep?” he said.
“I don’t know the details, Max, just that it seems Lerner was building a nest egg by doing favors for this Miziyano. He must not have done enough of them. Powerful, isn’t it, the love of a woman? A shame that people in Lerner’s position—my position or